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Someone, Ilya decides, as he stares up at the deep red lettering of Hilltop Fun Center, is going to die.
“You sure you want to do this, Cap?” Wyatt asks, as if he doesn't have two shimmering streaks of still-wet eye black smeared across his cheekbones. His teeth are bared, and Ilya is consumed—not for the first time—by how much he loves Wyatt Hayes and his willingness to commit. From being a brick wall in goal to aiding him with the rescue of his beloved husband, Wyatt has always been there for him. “Looks like it'll be dangerous.”
“Shane has been kidnapped,” he says, as the minivan that Bood drives screeches into the parking lot and another car full of teammates spills out onto the cracked pavement. “Danger is nothing when it comes to saving him.”
“Dude, that would almost be romantic if you didn't sound like you were gonna kill someone,” LaPointe says from his spot at Ilya's elbow, rocking back on his heels and whistling. He'd won the rock-paper-scissors fight of the rooks for being Ilya's passenger princess in his Seneca Blue Lotus, and is under promise to not whine about having to ride in the trunk on the way back—Shane will be Ilya's rightful passenger princess once they've stolen him back. “Damn, maybe I should try being bisexual again.”
“You try it like once every six months,” Troy mutters grumpily, annoyed at the order Ilya had issued about splitting him and Harris up for the ride over. He had listened regardless, something that makes Ilya's heart grow three sizes, before it remembers that Shane has been kidnapped and shrivels back up. “Either grow up or stop pulling Haasy aside to make out with him.”
“Roz, Troy's being biphobic again,” LaPointe whines, as if Ilya has any focus to spare instead of cleverly mapping out the easiest way in to infiltrate. This place has only one set of double doors—which means the only way in is through the goddamn front door. He can tell that the perpetrators of this crime have thought this through. It'd be almost impressive if it weren't so fucking devastating. “And—fuck, is that Harris? Shit, he's gonna put me on blast again for being mercurial or some shit.”
“LP,” Ilya says, with as much gravitas as he can muster. He can't believe the sun is still shining on such a terrible, wretched day. He is being so fucking brave right now, and his rookie won't stop using words like mercurial. Ilya doesn't even want to know what it means. Shane knows, though, he's certain. His whole heart aches. He wants his husband back. “Please shut the hell up. We have a rescue to mount.”
“Oh fuck,” LaPointe says, wincing. He tugs his baseball cap off and runs a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “My b, Cap, seriously.”
Ilya whistles, just as sharp and loud as he does on the ice, and finds that the ease with which they circle up settles some of his nerves. Some.
“My husband,” he begins, when the group of them has settled into a haphazard ring; the rookies' pointy elbows contained, with Harris and Troy arm and arm. He can't look at them for too long, or his heart will go out at the memory of what once was, at what he once had. “Has been stolen from our marital bed.” He pauses, nodding at the loud gasp Bood lets out, ignoring the muffled snort that comes from Dykstra. “I know, I know—it is a senseless act of violence committed by a man consumed with the most evil emotion there is.”
He pauses, waiting.
“Homophobia?” Luca asks, his voice lilting into the odd quietness of nine fully grown men trying to be silent.
“No,” Ilya says, as his eyes drift across the parking lot to settle on a familiar grey sedan. Baby on Board!, a bumper sticker proclaims, despite the fact that there are, truthfully, no babies in the car anymore. “Worse.” He shakes his head. “Jealousy.”
Wind whistles through the parking lot ominously. The only thing more cinematic would be if lightning struck, but Ilya knows that'd be ridiculous. It's 3 pm on a bright August Tuesday. It would have to be an act of god.
Still, Ilya waits for another beat, just to be sure.
“So,” Harris says. He already sounds exhausted. Ilya can relate; his whole body goes woozy every time he thinks about Shane being stolen. “Uh. What's the—what's the plan?”
Ilya pulls himself up and tries to wipe some of the sorrow from his face. “We go in,” he says firmly, meeting their eyes. “We kick ass. We take names. We save my husband from the viciousness of his kidnappers, who are surely feeding him pizza and ice cream, with no thought of his delicate insides.” He nods, just once. “If anyone asks or tries to stop you, you tell them Rozanov sent you, and then you get the fuck out of there, yes? I cannot be rescuing the rescuers.”
Young snaps a lazy salute, Luca following suit with much more genuineness. No one else so much as twitches.
“Cap, what if he's tied up and can't come with us?” Bergie asks, frowning at the anthill next to him, but seemingly unperturbed by the flood of ants crawling over the tips of his Converse. “And, like, I don't really want to tackle him and carry him out if he's got, like, Stockholm syndrome.”
Ilya inhales. He exhales.
“I did not want you to find out this way,” he says gravely, feeling the weight of all their attention snap to his skin. “But Shane already has Stockholm syndrome.” He shakes his head, his mouth flat, his eyes flinty. “He is working on overcoming it,” he says, and doesn't add in the specifics of the reward system Ilya's slowly been implementing for every time he blows off one of his ex-teammates/Ilya-guesses-they-could-be-friends-maybe-but-that-seems-a-little-fake-to-him-because-they-are-losers-and-Shane-is-perfection friends to hang out in bed with him. So far, it's been a roaring success. “But if you find him, you yell for me.” He rolls his shoulders and slides his sunglasses on in a flourish he would deny practicing for the end of time. “If you call, I will come.”
For a moment, no one breathes.
“Holy shit,” Young says, nothing but pure appreciation in his voice. “I think I could run through a wall right now. It wouldn't even hurt, I just know it.”
Ilya stabs a finger towards him. “And I did not even say the other part—the first person to Shane gets ten thousand dollars.”
The already silent parking lot somehow gets even quieter.
“Wait,” Harris says, blinking at him. “Like, like for real?”
Ilya nods, peering at him over the edge of his sunglasses. “I do not joke,” he says, and does not wait for one of them to accuse him of lying. “Not about Shane. Not about his safety.”
“Oh, fuck,” LaPointe hollers, wheeling for the door, and like the spell Ilya cast has been broken, the rest of them spin on their heels and bolt.
Ilya sighs, reaching down to twist his wedding band just once. “Do not worry, lyubimyj,” he murmurs, his gait smoothing into something predatory and a little profane. He can't help it at this point—thinking about Shane just does it for him. “We will save you.” He pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and smirks, uncaring that he's speaking to a nearly empty parking lot. “I promise.”
By the time he makes his way in, the Centaurs have already disappeared into the empty, echoing warehouse of games.
It's clever, Ilya guesses, to rent the place out. Lots of nooks and crannies to explore. The noise of a struggle could easily be hidden behind the explosions and clatter of arcade games, shouting for attention.
He doesn't bother searching near any of them.
No, he's aware of where the kidnappers would keep Shane, where they would trap him to play their sick and twisted mind games. He knows the one place—aside from the Go Kart track, which he can spot Bergie and Young investigating very thoroughly through the back doors—that would both soothe and annoy Shane—the perfect place to trap him.
He spins on his heel, glancing up at the bright sign, the televisions flickering with previous high scores, the names of warriors and losers long since past drifting across the screen.
HPike35 spills across the board, his score of 70 sitting next to his designation of last place. Above him, SHollander sits with 210, and Ilya can feel the stirring of pride rising from within.
He tamps down on his excitement and flicks his sunglasses up, stepping into the briefing room.
He doesn't need to log his name to win.
Of course, it wouldn't be super sporting without it, so moments later, BestHockeyPl rolls across the screen, and now, Ilya is ready to be the fucking best laser tagger this world has ever seen.
He half-heartedly pays attention to the videotape of the person briefing them on the rules, mostly focusing on strapping himself into a vest, and then practicing his quick draw until his hand feels nearly empty without a plastic gun in his palm.
Looks like you've got this down! The woman on the screen says cheerfully. Now, don't forget, the most important thing is to have fun!
“Oh, don't worry,” Ilya says, as the door unlocks with a faint hiss, swinging open to reveal a shadow-filled room, low fog drifting through, the faint echo of a yell bouncing off the walls until Ilya can't pinpoint where it came from. Some loud, fast-paced remix of a song is playing, all the words stripped free until it's nothing but a wall of sound. He grins, yanking his gun out of his holster. “I will not forget.”
He steps through the doorway on light feet, his whole face set in concentration as he slinks through the shadows. He keeps his laser gun up, held like he's seen cop shows hold them—which is truly just holding it at chest level with two hands.
Something rustles, and Ilya eases his back against the wall, breathing shallowly. God, but this is nerve-wracking. He feels almost dizzy with how close Shane is.
Something rustles even louder, coming from overhead, and Ilya tilts his head back to find Bood crawling across the top of the maze, his mouth drawn.
“No sign yet, Cap,” he whispers, and Ilya doesn't even want to know how the fuck Bood got on top of the maze, even as his heart breaks again from the sheer amount of love his team has for him and Shane. “But, we'll find him, Roz. I can feel it.”
Ilya nods, trying his best to convey pride and honor and the relentless awe that this is fucking life now, that he gets to drag his teammates out to rescue his goddamn husband, and that they'll genuinely help him.
An explosion of noise echoes off the walls, and both Ilya and Bood whip towards the sound of Hayden Pike's excited yelp.
“Wait,” his voice bounces across the room. “You're not Shane, you're—oh, God. Barrett? What the fuck are—oh, shit.”
Involuntarily, Ilya starts to smile. He just loves the sound of ruining Pike's day.
“No, no, no—” Pike starts up, and Ilya makes eye contact with Bood, nodding as he gestures for them to split up. “Not you too, Hayes.”
Troy and Wyatt finding Pike is only half the battle. The inconsequential battle. Ilya pauses as he scurries through a doorway, his eyes skimming over his options. Pike really isn't a battle. He's just—he's an obstacle.
The sound of footsteps on carpet drag him out of his reverie, sending his mind jolting as his fingers rest over the trigger. Shit, he needs to get his fucking head in the game and find Shane.
He nods to himself and darts to the left, pressing back against the wall as Harris stumbles by, completely unaware of how close he had come to getting lasered.
Everyone here should be grateful that Ilya is tamping down his urge to go on a rampage. It's really only the thought of getting Shane that's keeping his gun lowered.
Ilya freezes at the touch of a gun to the small of his back.
“Alright,” the most gorgeous voice in the whole world says. All of Ilya's fear dissolves like sugar on his tongue at the quiet steadiness in Shane's voice. Fuck, but he is so attractive when he's competent—a true burden Ilya has to bear when Shane is good at everything. God, he loves his fucking husband. “Turn around. Slowly.”
Ilya swoons, helpless to obey, as he spins, his face split into a broad grin.
“Solnyshko,” he says, watching as Shane's face flickers through bewildered confusion to settle onto something that’s a little bit apprehensive and still full of love. “Thank god you are okay.”
Shane blinks at him, cocking his head. He looks like he can't quite figure out if Ilya is a mirage or not; Ilya knows the feeling after missing Shane so badly his whole body aches. Even now, as he stares at his husband, he keeps thinking that he'll be stolen away again. “Ilya? What the fuck are you—”
“Oh my god,” Pike wails in the distance. There's a shockingly loud thump, before his voice rises again, wavering over the thrumming beat that’s spilling through the speakers. “Is the whole fucking team here?”
Shane pauses, and Ilya can feel his grin get even bigger.
“Ilya,” he says slowly, as if he's sounding out his words. “Why is the whole team here?”
Ilya rolls his eyes, sheathing his gun. “It's not the whole team,” he says. “Pike exaggerates. It's just the babies. And Troy and Harris. And Wyatt. And Bood and Dykstra.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “And me—oh! And you.”
Shane's nose scrunches the way it always does when he's finding Ilya to be adorable and doesn't want to admit it. It's a familiar look; one Ilya has gotten nearly every day they've lived together.
“That's a good amount of the team,” Shane says, dropping his gun. He groans when Ilya darts in to pepper kisses across his face, even as his whole face slides into a smile. “Ilya, c'mon, I saw you like what, eight hours ago? You're acting as if I went to war.”
Ilya pulls back, settling his hands on Shane's shoulders. “You did go to war, lyubimyj,” he says seriously. “And every moment without you is agony.”
Shane's eyes dart across his face, searching for sincerity, and Ilya lets him look his fill, content to wait. He jokes about many things, it's true, but not this—not his utter obsession with Shane.
“Oh,” he murmurs, tenderness cracking through. “I thought—yeah. Me too, baby.”
Ilya nods once, fairly certain he cannot say anything more along this line of thinking without bursting into tears (embarrassing) or throwing Shane down and having his way with him (hot, but no one here deserves to hear or see him like that, and the carpet is fucking disgusting).
Shane reaches up and smooths a thumb over Ilya's cheekbone. “Why don't you call off our teammates and we get the hell out of here?” he murmurs. “I've missed you.”
Vindication, Ilya decides, right then and there, is one of the best-tasting things he's ever had—second only to the taste of Shane.
“I've secured the package,” he hollers, tilting his head back so he isn't screaming in Shane's face. “Centaurs, roll out!”
“Dude,” Wyatt yells back, clearly thrilled. He’s a little hard to hear over the sound of someone groaning, but Ilya appreciates the effort. “Transformers reference? Nice!”
“You're gonna pay for this,” Pike yelps as the groans sputter to a stop. Ilya's not entirely sure why the fuck he thinks he was invited to the conversation. He's certainly not a Centaur. “Rozanov, when I get my hands on—” His voice cuts out, and Ilya can only imagine what they've used to gag him. He hopes, uncharitably, that it's nasty. He needs to pay for what he's done.
“C'mon,” Shane says, tangling their fingers together. He seems remarkably unconcerned with whatever is happening with Pike, and Ilya feels his heart grow three sizes. “Let's go.”
Shane leads them through the maze with uncanny ease, and Ilya doesn't even try to hide his adoration. His Shane is so fucking smart.
They spill out into the lobby, after yanking their vests off and hanging them back up as the rest of the team trickles out one after another.
Troy and Harris exit first, hand in hand, looking rather smug.
“I shot him,” Harris says, a wider grin than Ilya expects on his face. “Pike, I mean. I shot Troy, too, but he forgives me.” He looks down at his free hand, flexing it with all the eagerness of a henchman who's just realized he's destined to be a villain too. Ilya can’t wait to be one of Harris’ henchmen. “It felt… really good.”
Troy snorts, but doesn't say anything against him, instead shrugging when Ilya glances at him. “I think Wyatt and Bood are dragging Pike out together,” he offers, his mouth kicking into a wider grin when Shane muffles a laugh behind his hand. Ilya glances at him, only to find him failing to keep a straight face. “LP said something about kissing and Haasy again when he darted by me, so who knows what the two of them are up to.”
Ilya groans, rolling his eyes. “They are always kissing these days,” he mutters. “No one wants to yearn these days.”
Shane elbows him in the side, his mouth curling up into a faint smile. “Let them have it,” he says. “Sometimes we want it to be easier for our teammates, not harder.”
Ilya blows a raspberry at him, only to cut himself off when Luca and LP stumble out of the doors, rumpled and laughing.
“Oh,” Luca says, stilling, before his cheeks flare a bright, cherry red. “Oh no.”
“Oh, yes,” Ilya says, crossing his arms. They’re lucky Shane has been found safe and sound, because otherwise Ilya would be losing it. How could there ever be time for love in such a tragedy of Ilya missing Shane’s perfect face? “I ask you to find your stepfather—”
“I am not Luca’s stepfather,” Shane says indignantly, only to pause when Luca’s face crumples slightly. “Or, sorry—do you want me to be?”
Luca shrugs, shuffling. “It is nice to have family here,” he says shyly, as LaPointe hooks a finger in his belt loop. “Roz has been very welcoming.” He holds his hands up, shaking his head. “You do not have to do anything you don’t want to, Shane Hollander.”
Shane blinks rapidly, and Ilya can tell that he’s recalibrating. “If I’m going to be your… stepdad,” he settles on. “Please just call me Shane. Or Hollander. Or hell, we can workshop a nickname.”
Luca brightens, nodding shyly. “I’d like that,” he mutters, and lets LP tug him out of the way.
“You will be such a good step-papa,” Ilya murmurs, squeezing his hand. “Everyone will be so jealous of Haasy for having such good dads.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he mutters, but Ilya can see the pleased curve of his mouth. “Thanks, though.”
He shrugs. “Nothing to thank me for, when it’s the truth, sweetheart.”
Whatever Shane plans to say next falters as Bood and Wyatt burst through the doors, dragging a strapped-in Hayden Pike between them.
“Shane,” Pike gasps, his eyes bright with fear. He wiggles in the strange bindings they’ve trapped him in, and Ilya realizes that they’re the fucking laser tag vests somehow finagled to bind him. “You gotta help me.”
Ilya clings to Shane’s hand when he starts forward. “Ah,” he says softly, as the rest of them quiet down, drawing in to watch. “Shane cannot help you now, Pike, not after what you’ve done.”
Pike laughs hysterically, wiggling into a sitting position, his back settling against Wyatt’s legs. “Dude, c’mon, you can’t—this is crazy.” He bobs his head, clearly trying to gesture. “What the actual fuck is happening right now?”
“We’re saving Shane!” LaPointe says, stabbing a finger at him. “After you kidnapped him.”
“Hang on,” Shane says. “What?”
Pike blinks at him, his brows drawing together. “I didn’t—this wasn’t—Shane was invited to this. This isn’t—he chose—” He pauses, his head jerking around to stare at Shane. “Buddy, you chose this, right? I haven’t like somehow forced you into this, have I?”
“Uh,” Shane says. “What is happening right now?”
“We all knew that you had an obligation here,” Harris says. “That very special, come meet the legend Shane Hollander, that you helped put on with the Metros as a last hurrah. But Ilya said that you needed rescuing, because you were being held against your will at the afterparty.”
For a moment, everyone is silent before Pike groans, hanging his head. “Dude,” he mutters. “If you didn’t want to stay late, you could’ve just said.”
Shane shifts, his cheeks flushing. “Oh.”
Ilya huffs, throwing an arm around him. “He is a polite Canadian boy, Pike,” he says sternly. “You should know this by now.”
“Sorry, I’m still a little confused, beyond the embarrassment,” Shane says, blinking at all of them. “But can I ask—what the hell? Why is, like, half the team here?”
Ilya frowns. “You asked to be rescued, and you did not think I would bring reinforcements?”
“All I said,” Shane says, after a beat, his brows drawing up, “is please come pick me up, Hayden and I are playing laser tag.”
Ilya waits, but Shane seems content to leave it at that, despite the outing of his real feelings.
“Malysh, you forgot the part of, and he's really bad at it and won't let me go until he beats me, crying emoji, fire emoji, sunglasses emoji, Hayden Pike is a loser emoji,” Ilya supplies easily, grinning at the noise of rage Pike makes from his place, still trussed up at Wyatt's feet. “It's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to lie.”
“I literally didn't send a single one of those emojis,’ Shane says flatly, but Ilya can see the twinkle in his eyes and knows that he would have, if he had thought about it, or even been able to. Every year, Ilya sends in a request for Loser Hayden Pike emoji, and every year, he gets back some variation of please stop contacting us, we do not know or care who Hayden Pike is, and it just warms Ilya's cold, dead heart.
“I think Cap probably felt the vibes,” LaPointe says, nodding sagely when everyone glances at him. “Sort of like when he said Bergie had the energy of a depleted balloon. It's like, oh shit, he really does have the energy of a depleted balloon.”
“Dude,” Pike says, staring at Dykstra. “Have some self-respect.”
There’s a moment of silence before Young and Bergie amble back in from the Go Kart track, Young chattering cheerfully as Bergie nods every so often. He somehow has acquired a tiny flower that he's mournfully plucking the petals from.
“Hang on,” Dykstra says, sounding a little enraged as he points at Bergie. “You think I'm the depleted balloon energy guy?” He points even harder as Bergie sighs, collapsing in on himself, just a little, as if the weight of the world has hit him a little harder than usual. “That's Bergie, dipshit.”
“Jesus,” Pike says after a ten-second pause. “Yeah, okay. That's my bad. You're like a sad cowboy. Bergie is definitely a depleted balloon.”
“I'm not fucking sad,” Dykstra says, stamping his foot. Ilya wishes he were wearing his cowboy hat—a thought he’s never had before—if only for how hilarious it’d be. “I just have a resting sad face, Jesus Christ.”
“Is that what it is?” Luca asks wonderingly. Ilya can't blame him—god knows that he thought Dykstra was horribly sad during their first year playing together. The way he always seems to sigh deeply before turning on his country music didn't help. It just added to the feeling that he was torturing himself deliberately. “I didn't know it was an actual diagnosed condition.’
“Christ, you guys are fucking weirdos,” Pike says, but he's grinning a little as he says it, so Ilya will let him live. For now. If Luca's face so much as twitches into a frown, Ilya is going to ruin Pike's life. That feeling only grows as he twists to glance at Shane. “You sure you want to join this team?”
Everyone's eyes land on Shane, even Ilya's.
For a moment, even though they've talked about it extensively, Ilya wonders, does he?
“Hayd,” Shane says, crouching down to meet his eyes, “We haven't even played a game together yet, and they mounted a full-scale rescue operation under the banner of my name.” He pauses, and Ilya can't tell if that’s a good thing or bad in his eyes. “Of fucking course, I want to join this team.”
“Moy lyubimyj,” Ilya says, his voice soppy with emotion before the team starts to cheer, as if only now it's hit them that they get to keep Shane.
Shane laughs, bright and beautiful, even as his cheeks flush.
“Well, shit,” Pike says, as Wyatt ducks down to undo the insanity of the vests that he's been strapped into as a holding mechanism. “Guess that's fair.”
Shane nods, pushing himself back up to his full height, and doesn't even sway as Ilya launches himself at his back, draping himself obnoxiously over his shoulders.
“I love you,” Ilya murmurs into his ear as they watch the rest of their team slowly help Wyatt unstrap Pike. “I'm glad you texted me for your needed saving.”
Shane laughs again, but it's a softer, lighter sound, one just for them. “Of course I called you,” he says, and gently knocks their heads together. “Who else would I call?”
Ilya hums and just squeezes him tighter, contentment filling his veins.
“Hang on,” Troy says, as they spill out into the parking lot, the sun still shining, the birds chirping. Pike had only needed a little bit of help once his arms were free—thank god. Even Ilya had started to think he was more pitiful than usual as he flopped around on the musty carpet. “Who the hell gets the ten thousand dollars?”
Shane halts, dragging everyone to a stop. “Ten thousand dollars?” he asks, his voice uncertain. “For what?”
Wyatt snorts. “I'm not gonna criticize the man who's maybe giving me ten thousand dollars, but Roz decided that we all needed even more insane amounts of motivation—never mind the fact that we'd already pulled up here and were ready to go to war.”
“It was overkill,” Young agrees, grinning widely. “Since, you know, we all wanted to destroy Hayden Pike.”
“Dude,” Hayden says, and when Ilya glances over, he looks utterly exhausted. “What the hell did I do?”
“Exist.”
“Stole Hollander.”
“Irritated Roz.”
“Made Cap upset.”
“You're a Metro,” Luca offers, shrinking back at the eagerness of everyone to holler about how much Montreal sucks.
Ilya claps his hands, silencing the echoing agreements. “You kidnapped Shane,” he says, shaking his head. “Your number one crime is stealing him from me and thinking you could get away with it.”
“It's not stealing—” Pike starts, before LaPointe snorts.
“What's this guy's deal?” he mutters, rolling his eyes and jerking his thumb in Pike's direction.
Young laughs, echoing his motion. "Get a load of this guy—you can tell he thinks he deserves to live.”
Ilya grins, broad and pleased and thrilled. “Ten thousand dollars for everyone,” he announces, and ignores the way Shane thumps him hard on the shoulder. “For being the best teammates there are.”
“Ilya,” Shane starts, faint laughter in his voice. “I don't know if—”
Ilya reaches out and drags him into his arms. “Don't worry, solnyshko,” he murmurs, as someone starts chanting Hollanov, everyone else dissolving into excited chatter, aside from Pike, who groans loudly. “I would pay the price a thousand times over if I could save you again.”
“Ilya, that isn't very financially respons—”
Ilya cuts him off with a kiss, dipping him backwards in the warm, buttery sunshine. Shane tries to speak, but Ilya just keeps kissing him, until he melts.
“Jesus,” someone says, sounding oddly delighted. “This is totally what practices are gonna be like from now on, aren't they?”
Shane detaches from his mouth enough to pant out, “Don't be jealous,” and Ilya is so consumed with love that he could die from it.
“I love you,” he whispers into Shane's mouth, and grins at the feeling of I love you, too, you weirdo being whispered right back.