Work Text:
Montreal - December 2017
Shane continuously bumps into Ilya in a drunken attempt to dance with him. It's nothing suggestive, really, he's only trying to play around with Ilya like he might with his friends. It's also pretty dark on the dance floor, so Shane might not notice exactly where his feet are landing.
He's mouthing along to a song from a year before they met, probably, and - they really have known each other for a while. It's a pop and R&B song, and even in his gone state, Shane sings a portion of the song almost flawlessly. Well, his words are slurred - but he knows what lyrics he's trying to say, even if Ilya can barely make them out.
He begins laughing at Shane's shameless love for this song. He's never seen him this excited about music, let alone in front of a crowd. It is endearing when Shane is so outgoing in public, possibly because it is so rare. Ilya can tell Shane doesn't care for anything right now except taking the night on exactly how he wants to.
He knocks into Ilya again, pushing him a step back, not purposefully. Ilya is still laughing, and he steps closer to Shane again, putting just the right amount of distance between them. He grabs Shane's shoulders and widens his eyes to dramatize his own delivery of the next few lines of the song. Shane lets out a giggle, probably at the fact that Ilya knows the chorus, because it was overplayed at one point.
In another second, Shane's excitedly pushing away from Ilya's hands on his shoulders and spinning in a circle. When he's facing Ilya again, he grabs his forearms to flail them around.
Ilya feels his smile spread, a little helplessly, before he can hide it. "You are terrible dancer," he says.
"What?" Shane asks, and taps a finger to his ear.
Ilya's smile slowly widens into something more playful. "Terrible dancing."
Shane's jaw hangs open, then he scoffs and pushes Ilya by the chest. "Fuck off!"
"No, Shane, but it is amazing to watch," says Ilya.
"Shut up," says Shane. He clearly doesn't mean the words, because he looks at Ilya with glistening eyes that wait for a response.
"This is why you play hockey."
"Asshole," says Shane, but he's laughing, and the sound floods Ilya's ears and warms his chest.
Ilya is suddenly aware of how much closer they've gotten, and he leans back a little. He doesn't let his smile fall, but he knows that if Shane weren't as drunk as he is, he would prefer Ilya's choice to move away.
Ilya eyes the room in a search for the rest of Shane's team, and he doesn't notice anyone around. While he's relieved that they didn't see anything - even though it's dark, and it was nothing suspicious, but it would likely raise a few eyebrows if they'd been watching Ilya and Shane dancing by themselves - he is also anxious to find them. Montreal won tonight, so they're out celebrating, but they do have a game tomorrow against Boston. Shane is pretty plastered, and he should probably head back to his apartment soon.
"Wish I could really dance with you," Shane says closer to Ilya's ear. There's a longing in his voice that twists Ilya's stomach. He wishes for that as well. Though of course they can do this alone, and they have done this alone, he wishes they could experience the joy of being ridiculous together in public and ignoring what anyone else thinks.
"I know," says Ilya. "Me too."
Shane's eyes are halfway open, and he's smiling sloppily at Ilya like his cheeks don't have proper motor skills at the moment. Then he stumbles a little.
"Okay," says Ilya. "Let's get you home."
"What?" Shane asks, stepping back from him and stumbling again. "No! I'm having fun!"
Ilya flaunts his crooked smile, because he knows it is infamous to Shane. "Too much fun," he says. He knows that Shane will thank him in the morning for getting him back at a semi-reasonable time. Shane will be in a terrible mood tomorrow if 1. he's hungover; 2. he loses; and 3. he loses to Ilya.
Shane protests with a scrunch of his nose and a glare through his eyebrows. "Well, you're no fun," he says.
"Just not true," says Ilya, flashing another smile. "Come on."
He pats Shane on the shoulder blade a few times, urging him to follow. Shane trails behind Ilya on their way across the dance floor and downstairs.
When they get to the main room on the lower floor, Ilya asks, without turning around, "Where do you think Pike is?"
He doesn't get a reply, so he spins, ready to tease Shane just to make him laugh again and put him in a better mood, but - he doesn't see Shane.
He had just been behind Ilya. He was right there when they were walking down the steps.
Ilya frantically glances around, then bolts to the closest bar. He is desperately hoping that Shane just walked away to grab another drink. The idea gets less and less likely as Ilya keeps searching.
He quickly brings out his phone and calls Shane. Each time it rings and rings until voicemail. Ilya must call Shane eight times.
11:51 p.m.
Ilya
Where are you?
I am very worried
Please answer me
Not mad
Ilya looks up from his phone. Finally, he sees a familiar face. It's not Shane, but rather Shane's best friend, and it might be the first time Ilya has felt relief upon the sight of him, but of course it's Pike he has to join forces with.
"God fucking dammit," Ilya mutters to himself. "Pike!"
He starts to run over, and he might be a little drunker than he thought, because his feet aren't going in the right spots.
Pike is just turning around when Ilya reaches him, and Ilya's out of breath because he's so worried. He quickly darts his eyes around, hoping Shane had found his friend and decided to head over to him, but Shane is still nowhere in sight.
In Russian, Ilya says, "This is bad."
Pike, clearly hammered, blinks at him a few times. "What?"
"Is - uh--?" Ilya has to stop himself from saying Shane's first name. "Is Hollander here?"
"Rozanov?"
"God, you are drunk. Yes, me. Is Hollander here?"
Pike looks like he's thinking about it. Then he says, "No," and Ilya feels the nerves in his stomach flip. "I think he went upstairs earlier. Why?" Pike blinks. "Why are you even out? We have a game tomorrow."
"Could ask you the same," says Ilya, because that is the least necessary question to ever be asked right now.
"Okay," says Pike. His voice is even, and Ilya wishes he felt any sort of that stability right now. But he's drunk, and his boyfriend is nowhere to be seen.
He wants to tell Pike everything, because he is so desperate, and beggars really can't be choosers but - he can't do that to Shane. He wouldn't do that to Shane.
Ilya puts on his best calm act and forces his voice to steady. "All right," he says. "He took my wallet earlier." Ilya quickly thinks of another lie. "Said I owed him a drink for tripping him last time we played."
Pike's eyebrows knit. "What? That's not like Shane," he says, and for goodness' sake, when did he start thinking clearly enough to process that?
Ilya rubs the lower half of his face restlessly. "Yeah - well--" Another lie, come on, come on - "I heard someone say he was not answering his phone."
"Who?"
Ilya wants to throw something.
"Someone on your team! I don't know! Boiziau?"
At Ilya's outburst, Pike is no longer suspicious, and concern overtakes his eyes. "Oh - shit," he says. "Okay, I'll go look for him. Don't worry, Rozanov, you'll still be able to try to beat him tomorrow."
Ilya does not care about any of that right now. Not their rivalry, not his reputation.
"I will come with," says Ilya. His decisiveness must carry enough confidence, because Pike doesn't question it.
They search the bar twice, then let the bouncers and bartenders know to keep an eye out for Shane. Pike gives the manager his phone number in case Shane shows back up, and without hesitation, Ilya is grabbing the phone and putting his own number in too.
"Why are you...?" Pike asks.
"What if one of our phones dies?" says Ilya. He had not thought of that before. He just wanted to know for sure if Shane was found. "Better to have two."
"Oh. Yeah," says Pike. "That's true."
"Come on," says Ilya.
Outside, they search around the the bar parking lot and in the woodsy area behind it. They each call out Shane's name - and Ilya no longer cares if he uses his first name here and there.
They must look for Shane for over forty-five minutes. Eventually, they make their way back to the parking lot, and Pike takes a seat on one of the wheel stops.
Ilya has the urge to try Shane's phone again. "Can you call him?" he asks Pike.
"Yeah, I'll try," says Pike. He brings out his phone and it only rings for a moment before he is sent to voicemail. All right, so Shane has his phone, at least. But he's ignoring Ilya - he pretended like he didn't know Ilya was calling him earlier. Or maybe he didn't, Ilya really can't say. But it is something to note that he purposefully declines Pike's call instead of letting it ring.
"He sent me to voicemail!" says Pike, as if Ilya didn't know that. Pike's scoff is incredulous. "Asshole," he says to his phone. "I'm worried about you."
At that, Pike's phone dings and Ilya has to hold himself back from snatching it.
Pike looks just as eager to see the message, but then he frowns and sucks in a breath. "Shit."
"What? What?"
Pike looks up and shakes his head slightly. "Sorry - it's just my wife. She's asking if I'll be home soon."
"Wife?" Ilya asks, because it would be strange if he remembered that fact about Pike. He only remembers because Shane talks about it.
"Yes - Jackie. I really wasn't planning to go out, but she told me I should." He begins typing, and after a moment, it looks like he realizes something. "Fuck! She definitely wouldn't want me to be away overnight, though. Shit."
"Okay. We look until one, then you go home. Normal time to come back from bar," says Ilya.
"Yeah, but what if we don't find him?"
On what must be a cue, Pike's phone goes off again. Ilya taps his fingers against his thigh impatiently, wishing he had the telepathy to see exactly the messages Pike is receiving.
"It's Shane," Pike says, but he sounds a little uneasy. "I think he's really drunk."
"Give," says Ilya. His voice is low and attempting confidence to keep subtle.
"Uh, okay." Pike hands his phone to Ilya.
12:39 a.m.
Shane
Hi
I'm having fun
So leave me alloneeee
Text yiu later :)
Love you buddy!
Ilya swallows the feeling that he might get sick. He quickly takes a breath to steady himself and hands the phone back to Pike. He can't believe that Shane is ignoring him - that Shane is quote unquote, having fun, without him. Of course he's can have fun without Ilya, but why didn't he just invite him along?
Maybe he thought Ilya would bring him home. Which he was going to, but - ugh. Shane is so stubborn.
"Having fun?" Ilya asks, because he really doesn't have many other words that wouldn't give him and Shane away.
"Lily's in town," Pike says. "She's this Boston girl and--" he pauses, then eyes Ilya for a moment. "And, uh... I think he was gonna meet up with her tonight. I don't know. Yeah. Hm."
Ilya only lifts an eyebrow at him, because it seems like even Pike doesn't know what he's saying.
"Never mind. He's probably... well, maybe he did meet up with her?"
"You make no sense," says Ilya, because he doesn't understand why Pike is phrasing his statements as a question. Pike must not either.
Pike's lips rolls together for a moment. "He's - well, he's having fun, so, I guess he's okay. Right?"
Ilya looks down. Even though he knows Shane is having a good time, he also wants to get him home safe. He won't stop until he finds him, Pike with him or not.
"He is very drunk still, yes?" says Ilya.
"Yeah. You're right. Let me - let me text him back."
Shane responds almost immediately, and luckily, Pike shows Ilya the messages before he has to ask again.
12:40 a.m.
Hayden
Hey Shane, love you too man.
Are you with Lily?
12:41 a.m.
Shane
No but still havin fun
See you tomorroww
"Ask where he is," says Ilya.
Pike types the question on his phone, sends it, and then they wait.
And they wait. Until ten minutes pass, and no response comes from Shane.
Ilya tries not to pace. Instead, he taps his foot against the ground and tries to think of anywhere Shane could be that is fun - to Shane, anyway.
He's brought out of his thoughts by Pike standing. He seems to have sobered up, and Ilya has too. Pike looks him in the eye when he says, "You can go home, you know. He'll eventually get back to me."
Ilya can't roll his eyes, because of course Pike would offer that. He doesn't know that Ilya can't and won't go home until Shane is with him.
"We should go with original plan. Look until one, then you go home to your wife."
"Okay," says Pike. He doesn't question it.
They walk around town, scoping out other bars and fast food places down each street they turn. Shane is nowhere to be found, and it's getting harder for Ilya to breathe each second.
They exit the last bar in a mile radius and Pike makes his way to the curb. He takes a seat and shows Ilya the time on his phone. "It's one fifteen," he says.
"Go home. Order ride," says Ilya.
"Yeah. I think I'll go back and get a ride with the guys. I wonder how they all haven't noticed that Shane and I are gone."
"They were trashed," says Ilya. "Disgustingly drunk."
Pike actually laughs. "You're right."
"We have all been there," says Ilya, and he tries not to think about how Shane is currently.
"True. Okay." Pike is quiet. He gives Ilya a once-over. Ilya stiffens. "Do you want to trade numbers?"
"You have wife, no?" Ilya tries to joke. Pike chuckles, but not for very long. They're both overwhelmed with worry. "Yes," Ilya eventually says. Pike hands him his phone, and Ilya inputs the digits. Then they swap. "Tell me if he texts."
Pike looks at him for a moment, then nods. "Yeah. Will do, Rozanov. You should go home. Game tomorrow and all," says Pike, and he stands. His words are fleeting, because Ilya knows he will not be doing that.
He nods, anyway. "I'm blocking your number as soon as I find Shane," he says, and his heart races for a moment at the way he phrased that - that he, himself, will still be looking for Shane.
Pike only rolls his eyes. "Fuck you, Rozanov. See you tomorrow."
"Unfortunately."
Pike turns around and gives him an inappropriate finger. "Jesus, it's freezing," he mutters as he's walking the other way. Ilya quickly laughs, because, yeah, Shane really did pick the worst night to have them searching outside for him.
Ilya shoves his hands inside his long sleeves and sits for a little while, head rested in his arms atop his knees. He evens his breathing, convincing himself that Shane is smart and responsible, even when he's drunk.
Ilya checks his phone again, trying to retain that composure when he sees nothing from Shane.
"No, no, no. No way!" A man's hushed voice is saying from behind Ilya in a Quebecois accent. He ignores it, trying not to eavesdrop.
"That's definitely him," says a woman, in a non-Quebecois accent.
Ilya abandons his plan to not eavesdrop.
"You think?"
"I can tell! Dude, come on, we've gotta talk to him."
Within a second, he hears footsteps right behind him. A tap on his shoulder, and he's craning his head around.
"Yes?" He asks.
"Rozanov? Holy shit, it is you!"
Ilya's tongue slides between his lips, wetting them. "What? You are fan?"
The two glance at each other and laugh. "No, I mean - not really. You are a great player, but Montreal for life, you know," says the man with the Quebecois accent. He flips his backwards hat around to reveal the Montreal symbol. Ilya notices the woman's sweatshirt displaying the same logo.
"I do not know," he says, and he honestly admires that they didn't cower their loyalty at the sight of an iconic player. They tell him that he's going to 'get crushed' by his own boyfriend's team tomorrow - not that they know that. The mention of Shane only reminds him that he's still not answered.
Ilya waits for them to finish their next sentiment before he cuts the conversation short. He doesn't mind talking to them, but he's got more important matters on his mind. "Got to go. Game tomorrow."
"Right! Get ready to have your ass handed to you by Hollander!"
And Ilya laughs, insanely hard, at the irony.
They laugh with him, clearly confused but still enjoying the moment. Eventually, Ilya wills his laughter away, though it was nice to have some relief.
"Get home safe," he tells them, because apparently he is bearing his nicer side to everyone now. Maybe Shane brought it out of him permanently. It's not the worst thing in the world.
The worst thing in the world is the worry he's unable to shake right now.
He starts jogging down the street, looking every which way. He eventually finds a dim-lit dive restaurant. He can make out a small bar in the corner, but there is no one sitting there. Only one person is inside, and he can barely see the figure.
The restaurant is clearly closed, but Ilya has no care for that at the moment. It's not like what he's looking for is a meal.
He knocks on the glass, but the person inside ignores him. So he knocks again. And again. Until he's banging a little too hard.
Finally, the person turns and walks to the door. It's a young woman, whose tired eyes bore into him as she unlocks the door. She pushes it open slightly. "Can I help you?"
Ilya huffs out his disappointment. "Have you seen a man walk by? Very drunk man," Ilya says, trying. She blinks. "Shane Hollander. Do you know him?"
"No. There are a lot of drunk men who come by here."
Ilya chews on his lip, distress ramping through his limbs. "He has dark hair. Japanese and Canadian. Nice. Very sweet."
The woman shakes her head at first, but then her eyes light up ever-so-slightly. She looks up at Ilya. "Maybe," she says.
Ilya gives her a look of bewilderment. "What you mean, 'maybe'?" He asks, his words ringing loud with frustration.
She glares. "Yes, I did see a man who looked like that, and he was wasted. He was very nice. Came by about an hour or so ago and asked for water."
Ilya breathes out. Okay, so Shane had some water. It must have sobered him up at least a little. That's a start. "Did you talk to him? Where did he go? Do you know?"
"Uh, no," she says. "Is he all right?"
"He left bar. Wandered off. He says he is okay, but I cannot find him," Ilya says. The girl only watches him with her mouth slightly open, like she has something to say but not the right words. Ilya wouldn't know what to respond with either if he was in her position. "Thanks, anyway."
"Yeah. He left alone, I think," she says. "That's all I remember."
Ilya frowns at the reminder that Shane is alone. Great.
His heart picks up pace, and the thump begins to pound in his ears. "Got it. Good night," he says.
"I'll make sure he stays here if he comes back," she says.
"Thanks. Bye."
Ilya walks away, now concerned - on top of everything else - that Shane is alone, because Shane is not super independent. He is very sensible, but he does not do well when he is left to his own devices. At least not usually. He has trouble with his thoughts sometimes, Ilya knows that. He lives that. Especially lately, though, Shane has been on edge - incredibly anxious, because they almost got caught a few weeks ago. Pike - stupid Pike - had come to Shane's hotel room in Boston because he was stupidly lonely and missing his usual roommate. Shane freaked out, and he's been cautious since.
Until tonight. Ilya met up with him and suggested they let loose at this party, and Shane figured maybe it was better to get drunk and relax than let his anxiety fester until he was panicking before the game tomorrow - but maybe it wasn't the best idea in hindsight. Clearly, Shane wanted to forget everything for the night.
Ilya just really doesn't want Shane to have to go through any sort of turmoil alone.
He opens his phone. Still nothing, but he decides to try again anyway. Shane lets the phone ring all the way once more, and Ilya feels his throat tighten.
1:27 a.m.
Ilya
Where are you?
He scrubs his face viciously while he stares down at his messages to Shane. He isn't able to focus on anything else.
Which is the reason the wind is knocked out of him when a drunken man crashes into him, toppling him to the ground.
"What the--?"
"Holy shit - I am so sorry!" A woman yells. "Fucking - get up, you idiot," she says to the man on top of Ilya, then yanks him off.
Ilya sits up and brushes himself off. He can feel the tiny rocks from the paved sidewalk all over the back of his legs. "The fuck was that?"
"I'm sorry," the woman says again. "He's such a dumbass when he's drunk."
"Fuck you, Rozanov," the man says to him, a drunken slur wildly apparent in his cadence.
Ilya huffs out a laugh, having figured out why he was attacked. It was a heckling. "Oh, so you are Montreal fan?" Ilya notices the '24' on his jersey.
"I would die for Hollander," says the man, and he's so drunk that it's laughable. But Ilya can't make himself laugh, because he is preoccupied with how much he agrees. The words reach him in a heavy gust of cold wind. It takes him a moment to recover.
"Yeah, well, get ready for tomorrow when I beat him."
"Ha!" the man says, then his knees wobble. "Ha! Not what he told me! He said Montreal's demolishing Boston."
Ilya allows himself a chuckle, but then the words click. Shane told this man that? Himself?
"You saw Hollander?" Ilya asks, trying to sound casual.
"We did," says the woman. "He was very drunk. But also very fun." She smiles. "And good at gambling."
"God, so good," the man says with an annoyed fondness. Ilya should be jealous of how much this man loves Shane, but he knows no one out there loves Shane like he does himself.
"Interesting," says Ilya. Secretly, he is rejoicing. Gambling can be fun - maybe that's the fun Shane was referring to. He tries to think of a way to ask where this gambling ring might be. "You guys go there a lot?"
"Fuck you, Rozanov! You're not gambling at my spot," the man mumbles.
Ilya blinks. So much for that.
Then the woman laughs. "It's this guy's apartment in the basement of this jewelry repair place up the road. You have to go around back." She tells him the address. "They might not let you play, though. Die-hard Montreal fans in there."
"Hm. Sounds nice," says Ilya. He stands. "I'll leave you to... well, that," he says to the woman and gestures to the man she's attempting to hold up on his feet.
"Rozanov, fuck you!"
Ilya laughs, delighted as he walks up the street. His eyes land on the sea of intoxicated Montreal fans stumbling around the streets, all in a group or with someone by their side.
He wishes Shane was by his side right now.
The jewelry repairer's sneaks up on him before he knows it, and he's looking around to see where he could find a way to the back. He figures he might as well try to open the door, which is to no avail.
He concludes that the only way to the back door is through the alley off to the side. How inviting.
The murky water from the sloshy snow puddle off to the side splashes and soaks Ilya's socks through his sturdy, thick boots - or so he thought they were. There goes the almost four hundred dollars he spent on them.
He curses in Russian and stomps further down the moonlit alley.
Shane is really going to owe him.
Maybe he will win the money back with his newfound gambling skills.
Ilya runs the rest of the way, dodging bouts of snow until he rounds the back wall. He spots the door immediately. There's a sign on it with a picture of an orange striped cat and text that reads Have you seen me? Ilya avoids hitting it when he pounds on the door with both of his fists.
The door creaks, and he's faced with an older man who has sparse gray hairs on the top of his head. He asks Ilya something in French.
Ilya blinks, then curses. "May I?" he asks, not answering whatever the man had said. He waves his hand in the direction of the stairs behind him.
"Password?"
Ilya groans. "There is no password!" He lets out a breath, frustrated. "I just have to find someone - really quickly. Can I look? Or can you tell me if he is in there?"
The man shifts his weight from one foot to the other, considering Ilya's offer. "Who?"
"Do you know Shane Hollander?"
The man nods his head, and blinks, a little drunkenly. "Yes, of course. Hockey player. I don't watch, though."
"Great. So can I look, then?" Ilya asks. He is very antsy.
"Ouin," says the man after a moment. He lets go of the door and begins to walk down the steps. Ilya grabs onto the door to keep it from shutting, slips inside, and follows.
Downstairs, he is met with drunken laughter and rage - probably from winning and losing, respectively. He quickly scans the room for Shane. Not sitting anywhere here.
The older man says something in French to everyone, then repeats it again in English. "He is looking for his friend."
At the sound of the word friend, Ilya's brain short circuits. He quickly jumps in. "Not friend. Shane Hollander. Is he here?"
"What the fuck? That's Rozanov!" someone immediately yells, pointing out a particularity that truly could not matter right less right now.
"What do you want with Hollander? Gonna mess him up before the game so he can't play? That's cheap, Rozanov!"
"Nah. Rozanov is an asshole on the ice, but he's still a fair player at heart," says someone sensible.
"Okay. So no Hollander?" Ilya asks.
"No," someone else says. "He left over an hour ago. He said he was going to warm up or something. Probably went home. Don't blame him - it's cold as shit down here."
Ilya swallows, digesting this. He thought he was so close. He thought he was going to waltz in, find Shane, play a few rounds of poker - or whatever the hell these guys are into - and then they could both make the excuse that they have a game tomorrow and leave.
Another man chimes in. "Yeah, and I had him autograph my pair of skates, but he took them with him," he says. "I don't even mind. I hope he likes them."
The crowd around the table all let out adoring chuckles, and Ilya laughs along, able to hide his uneasiness. "Right." He doesn't want to, but he knows he has to at least attempt to stay for a bit. Otherwise, he will give away that he is looking for Shane for reasons he cannot share. "Heard he was here. Thought I could maybe kick his ass in cards. Can I still play with you loser Canadians?"
"Get the fuck out of here, Rozanov!" someone's yelling, but everyone else is laughing. Luckily, Canadians can take jokes, and even if one-hundred percent of the population that watches hockey despises who Ilya is on the ice, most can still respect him as a person.
He is relieved that they don't want him to stay. "Night. Enjoy winning now. Cannot say the same for tomorrow," he says. He turns for the steps, laughing at the fiery reactions from everyone, then tells the older man who let him in to have a nice night.
When he gets outside, he recalls the interaction for any idea of where Shane could be. He said he was going to warm up. Probably went home.
It's possible. Ilya thinks Shane would've have called him by now to invite him over if he had been back home, but maybe Shane really is upset with him.
He isn't sure why.
1:45 a.m.
Ilya
Are you home?
He doesn't stare at his screen in wait of an answer, because he needs to find Shane. Now.
He notices that the alley backs up to a neighborhood, and figures he'll start there. He thinks it's a shortcut back to Shane's, anyway. He cuts through the trees and is met with the road, and a moment later, a hiss from an animal. It makes him flinch. He seriously doesn't understand why Shane likes cats so much. At least it wasn't a wolf - which is definitely what Canadians are pretending are loons, or whatever the fuck birds are that howl.
He stares at the cat, processing its orange coloring. And stripes. And - is that the cat from the picture on the lost sign? He shuts his eyes, willing this to just be a hallucination so he can forget about it and be on his merry way.
When he opens his eyes, the cat is still there.
He curses and swoops it into his arms. He runs back to the alley door of the jewelry repairer's, and thinks about leaving the cat with the men inside, but he's afraid that they're too drunk and will forget about it. So, he rereads the sign, types the owner's phone number into his phone, and presses the call button.
The person declines the call after the first ring. Ilya yells at his phone. The cat looks up at him with precious eyes. He sighs, and plugs the address into his GPS.
The house is in the neighborhood where he had just been, so he fixes his grip on the cat to bring it closer and trudges through the trees once again.
With his other hand, he dials Shane's number. Of course - voicemail. He decides to leave one.
"Hey," he says. "I am looking for you. But something came up, so I will be a little while. Please tell me if you need me now." He pauses and tries to keep his voice steady. "I love you."
He doesn't care who hears it.
He hangs up the phone and glances at his GPS again. The cat's owner lives on this road about a quarter mile in. He picks up his pace, and pets the cat so it doesn't squirm away. It is a very calm cat, surprisingly. Ilya wishes he felt the same.
He's at the house about ten minutes later, and leaves a few brief knocks on the door. He waits, and waits, and knocks more. No answer. He tries calling again.
"Are you the asshole who's knocking on my door right now? At almost two in the morning?"
"I have your cat," says Ilya.
"Oh, my gosh! Mango! You found Mango?"
"If Mango is cat's name, then yes."
The person hangs up and Ilya hears footsteps rushing down a flight of stairs. The door swings open and the woman is desperately apologizing to him. "She's been missing for almost a week. You are not an asshole! You are amazing."
"Yeah, yeah. Here is Mango," he says, and hands off the cat. He can't help but give Mango a smile when he notices she's looking right at him.
"Usually, she just goes to the park down the street." The lady points in the direction of the park. "But she always comes back. I couldn't find her there. I searched for an hour the other day. I got scared that she was trapped under the ice when the pond froze over," the woman tells him.
Ilya's mind starts racing. Frozen pond. Canadians love frozen ponds. They frequently play hockey on them.
"You're welcome. Good night," he says to the woman, then adds, "Good night, Mango."
When he hears the door close, he sprints for the park.
It's a long shot, but it wouldn't be unlike Shane to be found on the ice somewhere, especially if he took a pair of skates with him earlier.
Ilya notices the sign for the park after a good two minutes of intense running, and looks all around for any sign of a pond. He goes every which way until he comes across two shadows. He makes his way over to them, but tries not to be obvious about approaching them.
The two women are soaking wet.
He ruffles his hair and puts on his best Canadian accent so they don't realize who he is. "Have you seen anyone around here? Police check up. Making sure everyone is home safe," he says. He sounds Russian still, but it's not his usual, distinct voice.
One of them shivers. "We fell in! The ice broke."
And at that, Ilya can feel his heart pound throughout every inch of his body. His skin turns cold and the hairs on his neck lift. What if Shane had been on it...? He was so drunk, Ilya doesn't know if he could swim properly in that state.
"Okay, well get home and dry off, then," he says, and the shake in his voice is evident, but the women don't seem to notice. "I'll go look around."
He begins running again. He runs around every inch of the park until he notices a pond.
This one is frozen over, still.
And there's a figure flying around it, swirling like a real skater.
Ilya, out of breath, walks closer. He notices how thick this pond's ice is, which calms his nerves, and he's able to relax entirely when he sees Shane's smiling face.
Shane's eyes are closed as he glides along the smooth ice with what must be the skates he accidentally stole, and he holds a giant stick, pretending he is playing hockey. Ilya sits down on the grass at the edge of the pond. He can't believe Shane loves hockey this much that he would skate around on a pond in the middle of the night.
When he has a game tomorrow.
Ilya decides he'll let Shane enjoy himself for a while. He is sure Shane is still drunk - the water bottle Shane presumably got earlier is nearly full still. It rests next to his bag, which is discarded off in the grass with his phone tucked inside. His phone that he hasn't been answering. Ilya remembers that Shane is probably upset with him, for who knows what reason.
Shane knows what reason.
They need to talk.
Ilya stands and takes a hesitant step onto the ice. He's never liked the feeling of being on ice without skates. It makes him so uneasy - so uncomfortable and scared of falling.
He looks up at Shane again, and puts his other foot on the ice. "Shane!"
Shane opens his eyes and startles, then falls onto his back. The stick he was holding slides across the ice, and Ilya's heart races. Without a second thought, he throws his boots off so he doesn't slip as easily, and rushes over to Shane. When he reaches him, he engulfs Shane in a hug.
"Shane, are you okay?"
"Ilya?"
Ilya nods against the top of Shane's head.
"Nuts," Shane mumbles, his voice quiet against the cold wind. He is still very drunk. Clearly, because he fell, and on top of that, he barely had any of that water from earlier. Ilya doesn't care about any of that, though. All he cares is that Shane is safe.
He wraps Shane tighter in his arms. "Sweetheart," he whispers. "Yes, me."
Shane starts heaving, which Ilya is entirely unprepared for. He lifts Shane's face by his chin and notices the few tear droplets that have trickled from his eyes. Ilya quickly wipes them.
"Shane," Ilya says. "What is wrong?"
Shane wriggles his face away from Ilya's hand, avoiding his eyes. Ilya quickly grabs his face again with both hands, holding his cheeks in place. Shane still doesn't look him in the eye.
"Shane."
"I'm scared. I'm freaking out."
Ilya lets out a shaky breath. He figured Shane was having a bout of nerves - his anxiety really had been through the roof lately. "Here, we can go back to grass, yes?" Ilya asks, and is untying the skates before he can answer. Shane doesn't protest as Ilya puts the skates on his own feet.
"These are huge," says Ilya. "No wonder you fell on your ass." In one motion, he stands and helps lift Shane by the waist. When they're both upright, he turns his back to Shane and gestures for him to hop on. Shane jumps on his back, and Ilya feels him melt into his neck.
Ilya starts skating, stops to pick up his boots, and when they're back on the ground, he asks, "Are you scared because you lost all your money gambling?"
Shane's head jerks in his direction. "What - how do you even know about that? What?"
Ilya lifts his head as he unties the skates. "I am good at finding you, yes?"
Shane lets out a short laugh, then sniffs. "Yeah. You are."
Ilya remains quiet for a moment. He brushes his thumb along Shane's forearm to his side, relishing the touch - the feeling of having Shane in his presence again.
He isn't sure where to start with everything that's happened. He finally settles on, "Why are you upset?"
"I was trying to have fun," says Shane. "You ruined it."
Ilya laughs, because drunk Shane sounds like he's throwing a temper tantrum, and he finds it endearing. "I ruined it?"
"Yes! You were gonna send me home because I was doing too much. It just reminded me that we can't be out. That someone can catch us at any second," Shane says. Then he sits up. "I'm gonna puke."
"Shane - okay, okay," Ilya says. "Over here." He turns Shane so that he's sitting on his knees. "Is okay," he says, because Shane is making sounds of discomfort.
"This is why I don't drink before games!"
"No, you don't drink because you are obsessed with electrolytes."
Shane huffs out a short laugh, which lifts Ilya's smile. In the next second, Shane lets out a pitiful whimper, and retches into the grass. Ilya rubs his back and gives a kiss to his hair. He holds him for a few minutes, then grabs the water from next to Shane's bag and hands it to him.
"Thanks," Shane says, his voice a pure rasp. He seems to have sobered up a bit.
Ilya nods against Shane's shoulder. "Of course."
"I love you." He hears the words from Shane, which never fail to spark a fiery jolt, coupled with a sense of peace in his heart.
Ilya places a gentle kiss on his cheek. "I love you too."
"I'm sorry," Shane says. Ilya can hear that he's holding back tears. "I never meant to make you come looking for me."
"Shane," says Ilya.
"Yeah?"
"Is okay."
"Okay."
"I am just happy you are with me."
"I'm happy I'm with you too," Shane says. And even after the worry Ilya had felt earlier, he is absolutely sure now that Shane means what he says. "I love you so much. Thank you for coming to get me. I would've called you back."
"Why were you ignoring me? You answer Pike, but not me?"
"Fuck," says Shane in a mutter. "You were with Hayden?"
"Yes."
Shane turns his head back towards Ilya's for only a moment before he's looking straight ahead again. "I was upset because I thought you were trying to get me to stop dancing with you."
Ilya shakes his head. He understands now, and turns Shane around to face towards him. "No. Not at all," says Ilya. "I loved it, but you were so drunk. And we have game, so I thought you would want to rest."
Shane's eyes soften with each of Ilya's words. "Jesus, I'm an idiot."
"No, just drunk," says Ilya. "Special occasion to be idiot, my myel."
Shane pushes his shoulder. "Fuck off. What is that one?"
"Pavement…," Ilya says, and he's not sure why he knows the word pavement but not myеl in English. "Pavement pen."
Endearment glistens in Shane's eyes, and he slowly smiles. "What?"
Ilya grabs a stick from the side of him. He waves it around in a motion that is meant to capture drawing. He narrows his eyes to rack his brain. "Sidewalk. You draw with it."
Shane has gone into a fit of laughter. "Chalk," he says. "I'm a dusty piece of chalk?"
"Coming for Scott Hunter's game," says Ilya.
"Fuck off!"
Ilya smiles, knowing that fondness dwells in Shane's words because he loves Ilya. Shane loves him so deeply, and unconditionally, and it must scare him sometimes. Shane probably doesn't fully understand it himself, Ilya can't imagine him being forced to try to explain it to anyone else.
Ilya's eyes melt, starting to mist as he stares wistfully at the man next to him. "I know you are scared of us being caught," says Ilya, eventually. "We will just be extra careful. Okay? We will be careful until we are ready."
Shane looks a little surprised. "Right," he says. A little smile appears on his face. "Until we're ready."
Ilya hands him the water bottle. "Yes. Now rinse out your mouth so I can kiss you."
Shane laughs, then obliges. While he's sloshing around the water, he holds out his hand towards his bag and points to his phone.
Ilya hands it to him, then pats the pair of skates next to Shane's bag. "Maybe we should take these back to that gambling leader--"
Shane spits out the water unexpectedly, and it sprays everywhere. Most of it lands all over Ilya.
"The fuck was that?!" Ilya asks.
"It's two-thirty?"
"Yes, Shane. You realize why I was so worried now?"
Shane pouts. "I am so sorry."
"Yeah? Make it up to me. And not with your dirty gambling money," says Ilya. "You owe me new boots. These are wet."
Shane only looks at him with a lopsided grin. "Yeah, there's this thing called water, and when you step in it--"
Ilya knocks him onto his back and leans over him, feigning an angry growl. "Your fault."
Shane's smile grows. He glances between Ilya's eyes and his lips. "My fault."
Because no one is around, Ilya catches Shane's lips in a tender kiss, then another. "By the way," he says. "Montreal fans all want to fuck you. God, such ass kissers. They suck."