Archive of Our Own

It was only when Shane rested his head against the cool glass of the window that it occurred to him he hadn’t checked his phone since before the game.

It had always been something of a relief, the way his mind drove out all other thoughts when he played. The anxious chatter, his forever companion, subdued in those moments where there was no room for anything except the sharp sound of blades on ice and a relentless focus on his next move. Shane sometimes, in his own head, likened it to tuning into a different frequency. Something would click into place, and the rest of the world would fade away. 

Today was different, certainly. He had expected it to be. Regardless of what other people might think of him, he wasn’t actually a robot. The frayed edges of his fight with Ilya had left him a little more raw, a little less able to flip the switch. An insistent voice, tugging at the back of his mind, refusing to disappear the way it was supposed to. 

Maybe that was why they lost – maybe, if Shane had been focused, if he had been better – 

“Would you relax?”

The voice came from behind him. Shane didn’t have to turn to know it was Hayden and, pressing his face ever harder against the glass, chose to ignore him instead. For that, he got a light thump on the back of the head, Hayden’s hand cuffing the crown of his head and pushing. 

“Ow,” Shane said, grumpy.

“Oh, fuck off, that didn’t hurt,” Hayden said. “You need to lighten up, Shane. We’re bound to lose sometimes.”

“I know,” Shane said – and he did, of course. But also, he wanted to win, always. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” Hayden repeated dryly. “Okay.”

Shane went back to ignoring him. He could admit to himself that it wasn’t just the sting of losing that was bothering him. His mind wandered back to Ilya, as it so often did. He thought of his phone, tucked away in his bag, and his fingers itched to pick it up, to call him. But even if Shane wasn’t currently in a bus crammed full of his loud, snoopy teammates, he still might hesitate. Just for a moment. 

He was glad he’d been able to talk to Ilya a few days before, so their fight over Christmas wasn’t just sitting, rotting away in the pit of his stomach. Ilya knew Shane was sorry, and that they needed to sit and have a real conversation. 

Shane had been relieved – thank god, he still wants me – but in the intervening days, the same thought kept cropping up. While he showered, ate, traveled, and, yes, played:

What now?

That was the question Shane didn’t have the answer to. Even if he was slower to the point than most people – nuance and subtlety were not his strong suits – he knew Ilya was getting sick of keeping their relationship a secret. 

No, that wasn’t the right phrase. He wasn’t getting sick of it – it was killing him. Ilya was a sunflower, withering away in the shade.

Then what? Shane’s brain prompted him. His teeth clicked together. Shane knew, if he looked too closely, what the answer was. If the secret was killing Ilya, then it shouldn’t be a secret anymore. 

Coming out.

Two words, like lead in his chest. He tried to imagine it, standing in a press junket, microphones shoved in his face – the strangely powerful smell of foam that always seemed to turn his stomach – while he tells them, I’m gay, yeah, and you know Ilya Rozanov? Yes, the very same – yes, the one I’m famously in a decade-long rivalry with – yeah, can you believe we like to suck each other’s – 

He couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through him. 

Shane turned back to one of his other trusty stand-bys, berating himself. He told himself it was stupid to be so afraid. Worse than stupid, it was cowardly. 

But then… then his anxious imagination would zoom into overdrive, helpfully supplying a wealth of scenarios to keep his stomach in knots. Opposing teams gagging at the sight of him, throwing far worse than chirps at him on the ice. Complaints made to management about having to share a locker room with a fag. Being hauled into the Commissioner’s office to explain to a panel of nameless, faceless suits why he thought it was okay to disrupt their season, just what did he have to say for himself? 

Twenty years of relentless, unending pressure and sacrifice. Years of his parents’ savings and free time, their dreams for him. Every bit of himself that he had poured into this beautiful, infuriating game. The pain and – his stomach twisted – the joy. The freedom he felt on the ice… before Ilya, it was the one place on earth where he felt like himself. Hockey was a part of him, built into the very infrastructure of his life. Take it out, and what would be left?

A dull ache started up behind his eyes again. Shane pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping to dispel some of the pressure.

It’s 2021, he argued with himself. It wouldn’t be like that. 

But what if it is?

His train of thought was abruptly interrupted by an outbreak of chatter and gasps rippling through the bus. Like a falling row of dominoes, he watched as pairs of hands pulled off headphones, dove into pockets to pull out phones, grabbed at each other’s shoulders. 

Shane wondered idly what had happened. Maybe there was some new torrid scandal that had just come to light – the professional hockey world was small, and news traveled fast. Just last month, the center for San Francisco’s wife had been pictured getting rowdy in a male strip club. Shane hadn’t looked at the photo, but it had caused quite a stir. Richardson’s phone had been passed around the locker room, his teammates crowding around, laughing loudly. 

It only occurred to Shane after he’d gotten home that maybe he should have said something, tried to stop them from sharing the picture. But he’d also known, deep down, that he wouldn’t have. His imagination, always so keen to offer up the worst possible scenario, painted him a pretty picture of what could have come next: What, golden boy is too pure and innocent to look at some tits? Or just because you’re a fag you expect us all to be?

Whatever the news was today, Shane was probably equally disinterested in getting involved. 

Or – wait, why was JJ clapping a hand over his mouth? Why was someone shouting, “holy fucking shit”? Why was the entire fourth line bowing their heads together to read something on King’s tablet?

Shane looked around – all his teammates seemed to have grouped off, no one paying him any mind. With a building sense of unease, Shane pulled his duffel bag off the ground and onto his lap. He had one hand rummaging around the side pocket, feeling for his phone when he felt Hayden drop into the seat next to him.

“Hayden,” he said, distractedly, not even looking at him, “what’s going on?”

He had just managed to grasp his phone when Hayden clamped one hand on his elbow, stilling his arm.

“No,” said Hayden, his voice firm and quiet. “Drop your phone, Shane.”

Shane turned to look at him now. Hayden was staring straight ahead, his eyes locked out of the window where the bus was turning into the hotel parking lot. His face was set, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“Hayden?” Shane hated how strained his voice sounded. He asked again, “what’s going on?”

Hayden didn’t answer his question, and instead said, “get up, Shane. We’re here. Let’s go inside.”

They were the first ones up, Hayden physically pulling Shane to his feet before the bus even fully stopped. He started dragging Shane off the bus, kneeing their teammates out of the way when necessary. Shane could feel his adrenaline start to spike, his breathing quickening as he stumbled over his feet. He heard snippets of voices as they went. 

“Can’t fucking believe this.”

“Apparently the whole thing caught fire –”

“The Centaurs –”

Shane’s brain momentarily went offline, his vision blurring. Agonizing seconds passed, and then his mind started up again in a frantic whir.

The Centaurs. The Centaurs. The Centaurs. 

The whole thing caught fire.

“Hayden,” Shane said again. His hands were trembling now. “Hayden, what about the Centaurs?”

“Let’s go inside,” Hayden said, still looking straight ahead. His hand was still fixed on Shane’s elbow, and they were now crossing the parking lot in long strides.

“I heard King say something about the Centaurs,” Shane said. “Why is he talking about them?” Thoughts spun out in his mind rapidly, unspooling in every direction, twisting and pulling him towards an untold number of possibilities. Frantically, Shane groped for one that felt safe, that made him feel like the very ground under his feet wasn’t falling away. “Did they – what, did they win?” 

In the most logical corner of his brain, Shane knew there was no chance that something as simple as winning a game – even for a team as low-ranked as the Centaurs – would explode into the frenzy he’d just witnessed. But it wasn’t the logical part of his brain that was in charge now. No, Shane was melting into a version of himself that would have previously been unrecognizable. If he’d been asked that morning, Shane would have felt confident that he knew the contours of anxiety and panic intimately, each sharp corner of it familiar to him.

He’d been wrong. He hadn’t known true fear until now.

Wild, all-consuming panic lapped at him, crawling over his skin, burrowing into his stomach, chewing at his brain. His teeth were chattering and his clothes suddenly felt two sizes too small. His lungs seemed to tighten in his chest, and he heard himself – as if he was standing outside his body – taking shallow, gasping breaths. Hayden seemed to sense it, and his hand moved from Shane’s elbow to wrap around his back, lifting his arm to hitch himself under Shane’s armpit like a human crutch, keeping Shane upright.

Desperate to regain control, he dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, thinking, praying, everything is okay. The Centaurs are okay. Ilya is okay.

The next thing he knew, Shane was crossing the threshold of his hotel room, being guided to the bed.

Hayden had both hands on him now, bracketing Shane on both sides by the elbows. The door shut behind them and Shane, pliant and dazed, felt himself being lowered onto the bed. Hayden crouched in front of him. Shane flinched at the sight of Hayden’s face, drained of color and a muscle clicking in his jaw.

“Shane,” said Hayden. He took a deep breath, seeming to steel himself. “There was an accident –”

Shane thought he might black out with fear. He wasn’t sure how he could even hear Hayden over the buzzing in his ears. But, suddenly, Shane was very sure he did not want to hear the next words out of Hayden’s mouth.

“No,” Shane interrupted him wildly. “No, Hayden – no, I don’t want to – I don’t want to talk about this – stop, please.”

“Shane,” Hayden’s voice was thin, but determined. “Please –”

“No, Hayden, I said stop,” Shane’s voice rose nearly to a shout. “I don’t want to talk to you – leave, now, I need to – I’m going to call Ilya.”

“Shane –”

“I have to talk to Ilya,” Shane gasped. His head was pounding, but now the overriding compulsion to get to his phone – to call Ilya – was overwhelming. Hayden still hadn’t let go, still wouldn’t let him reach his phone. Why didn’t Hayden understand Shane needed to call him? “Ilya will explain – it’s fine, I just need to talk to him and everything will be fine.”

“Shane, please,” Hayden’s voice shook, and a few tears rolled down his cheek. Shane felt a horrifying sense of revulsion at his tears. Why was Hayden crying? Why won’t he let Shane go? Shane felt an awful urge to slap him. “I need to tell you – I need to be the one who tells you –”

“Shut up.”

“There was an accident with the Centaurs plane,” Hayden plowed ahead, choking the words out through shaky breaths. “It caught fire in the air. It crashed –”

“I fucking said shut up.”

“The reports say there are no survivors.” The last words seemed to be forced out of Hayden’s mouth against his will. 

The urge to hit Hayden had faded, replaced by the hysterical impulse to laugh. Shane shook his head, stubborn and sure.

“You’re wrong,” he scoffed. The sound he released wasn’t quite a laugh, dry and angry. “That didn’t happen. Ilya was on that plane. He – he texted me on the way to the airport – he was on that plane.”

“I – I know, Shane, I’m so –”

“It can’t be –” Shane was frustrated now. He had to make Hayden understand. Why wasn’t he listening? “Ilya is fine. Nothing happened to him – if it had, someone would have… they would have had to tell me, someone would have called me –”

“I don’t –” Hayden sounded like he wanted very much to not have to say this, “no one knows to call you,” he finished, his voice soft. Shane had heard him use that voice on Amber when he would rock her to sleep.

Shane’s defenses were crumbling, one by one.

“Ilya wouldn’t leave,” Shane said. There it was – his last, best defense. He knew his boyfriend, and his boyfriend loved him. Loved him more than anything, and, as Shane had been so recently reminded (his stomach contracted painfully), would sacrifice anything to be with him. “Ilya wouldn’t do that to me.”

At this, all fight seemed to seep out of Hayden’s body, his eyes wide and pitiful. Shane hated to see it, hated him for his pity. He wrested himself out of Hayden’s hands and reached mindlessly for his phone.

“I’ll show you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Ilya is fine. He’s probably waiting to hear from me.”

Shane unlocked his phone and blinked at what looked like hundreds of notifications on his screen. He went first to his texts – nothing from Ilya. He then went to his call log, scrolling past dozens of missed calls from just the last thirty minutes from his mom, his dad, Farah, Rose, Jackie… where was Ilya? Why hadn’t he called? Shane felt a wave of anger, furious at Ilya for letting him feel so afraid. He should have called.

He clicked on Ilya’s name.

I will never listen to your voicemail.

Again.

I will never listen to your voicemail. 

Again, and again, and again.

Shane looked back at the wall of notifications, eyes scanning for – he wasn’t sure, just something that told him his life hadn’t just ended.

Shane, honey, we love you. Please call me. We need to know you’re safe. From his mom.

Your mom and I are here for you. Call us please. From his dad.

From Rose, a stream of messages: I’m so fucking sorry. Everything is going to be okay. Just hold on, Shane. I’m flying to Ottawa tonight. I’ll be at your parents house in a few hours to wait for you.

“Hayden.”

Shane didn’t recognize his own voice. It sounded weak and far away, like a voice echoing from another room.

“I’m here, buddy, I’m here.”

“Hayden,” he said again. The panic was rapidly burning away, leaving in its wake only black, sick, horrid pain. The pain unfurled in his chest, first, and Shane thought – hoped, perhaps – that he was having a heart attack. His chest ached horribly, contracting, choking him. “No,” Shane gasped. He might have screamed. “This can’t be happening.”

At this, Hayden leaned forward, clutching at his best friend. His head bumped up against Shane’s neck and his arms circled him, holding tightly, his fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders. The ruthless fire of pain ripped its way through Shane, and his body caved inwards as he started to convulse with sobs. 

Hayden stayed, even though his calves must have been burning and a steady flow of tears and snot built up on his shoulder. He rocked Shane back and forth, one hand moved to hold the back of his neck. He released Shane only to lunge for the metal trash can when it became clear Shane needed it. Hayden shifted next to him then, one hand on his back while Shane vomited up the contents of his stomach, and continued gagging until there was only bile left.

Shane sobbed into the trash can, the putrid stench of his own vomit perversely satisfying him. This is what I deserve. This voice was new. It wasn’t the stringent, anxious voice. This was nasty, and hateful and Shane drank it all in greedily, sinking his teeth into it.

All he wanted was to love me, and I couldn’t even give him that.

He died sad, and lonely, and it was all my fault.

He probably died ashamed of me, wishing he’d never met me. 

Then, with a sharp, sickening clarity.

All this for a stupid, fucking game.

Yes, Shane had worked hard for his hockey career. And with a successful career came things he could lose. Money, he thought grimly, I have plenty of money. How much money did I need? He thought of the fame, and his reputation, and shame flooded him. I was scared to be known for loving him. For loving Ilya. The person in this world most deserving of love.

All for a game. Shane put on a silly outfit and picked up a stick and got paid to put a puck in a net. That was what he thought was worth trading a real life with Ilya for. He was handed the gift of Ilya’s love and he threw it away.

Ilya is dead. The voice screamed it at him. Ilya is dead. Ilya is dead. Ilya is dead. And Shane knew, with a terrible sense of prescience, it would eat away at him until there was nothing left, feasting on every corner and crevice of his life, turning it to dust. Soon he would be nothing but the blank space that once held a man who loved Ilya Rozanov.

Shane retched again, hunched over the bin, but there was nothing left to resurface. Hayden’s hand moved gently up and down his back. 

Several long minutes – or possibly several hours – passed where Shane could do nothing but grip his sweaty fingers onto the trash can in his lap and feel the tremors pass violently through his body. Eventually, he became dimly aware that Hayden was speaking quietly into the phone. 

“I’ve got him,” his voice was steadier now, even though there were still tracks of tears running down his cheeks, “no, don’t come here. Shane needs to get home, right now,” Hayden glanced down at Shane, who was now resting one sweaty, red cheek on the lip of the bin, “I’ll get him home, I swear.”

The tears in Shane’s eyes now collected against his nose, rolling over and down his temple. Mucus dripped steadily out of his nose and there were traces of vomit at the corners of his mouth. Shane had never been more disgusting, and there was not even a shred of him left that cared.

“I can try,” Hayden whispered into the phone. He looked at Shane now, leaning down to try to lock into Shane’s glazed over eyes. “Buddy… your mom wants to talk to you.”

Shane couldn’t summon the energy to respond.

“I know it’s hard,” Hayden clenched his teeth for a moment, forced a deep breath, and continued, “And I’m so, so sorry. We all love you. Your parents are so worried about you – your mom, she’s desperate just to hear your voice. Just for a second, man, please.”

Shane turned his face so he could go back to dry–heaving in the bin. But after a few seconds, before he lost all capacity for speech again, he stuck out his hand. The pain slicing through his body had not lessened – actually, it was only getting worse. But he clung to the thought of his mom’s voice like a lifeline. He wrenched his head up and pressed the phone to his wet face.

“Mom?”

“Oh,” came a desperate, devastated gasp. “Shane, baby – I’m here. Dad and I are here. You’re coming home, okay? You’re going to be home very soon.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but what came out was a wail, sharp with grief.

“I know, honey.” Yuna was crying, that was obvious. “My baby, I know. We’re going,” another gasp, “we’re going to get you through this. I promise, Shane. Are you hearing me?”

It took Shane several tries, but between his stuttered sobs he managed to say, “yeah, mom, I hear you.”

“Shane,” his dad now, “Shane, we love you. We love you so much.”

Hayden seemed concerned now that Shane’s keening cries, which were growing steadily louder again, would push his parents over the edge of despair. He gingerly pulled the phone out of his hand and, with a few more soft words into the receiver, hung up the call.

Seemingly hoping the rounds of retching had subsided, Hayden took the trash can away. He guided Shane down onto the bed, so he was lying on his side. He then turned to the bathroom. Shane heard the sound of running water – and, if he had any room left for rational thought, he would have been embarrassed at the sound of Hayden cleaning his vomit – and finally returned with a warm, damp wash cloth.

Carefully, and so softly, Hayden wiped where tears, snot and vomit had stained Shane’s face. He had a determined, focused expression, and Shane felt another wave of shame.

“I’m sorry, Hayden,” whispered Shane. Shane didn’t deserve Hayden’s kindness, not after what he had done to Ilya. He didn’t deserve anything good, anymore.

“Don’t you apologize,” Hayden said quietly, but fiercely. “You’re my best friend. And we’re going to get you through this.”

Through this. Through what? The pain, the grief, the abrupt rearranging of Shane’s entire life? To what end, Shane wondered. To a life stitched entirely of broken hopes and empty promises. A yawning future, blank and joyless without Ilya.

“I’m going to pack your bag,” said Hayden. “And I have to go get my stuff. There’s a flight leaving for Ottawa tonight, in a few hours. We’re going home.”

Shane nodded, but it was meaningless to him. His home was lying in a pile of ashes in Florida.

He heard the door click behind Hayden. Fresh, clean tears dripped onto the pillow, and Shane hoped Hayden never returned.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he felt his phone vibrate next to him. He assumed Hayden had already been in touch with the handful of people who knew enough to worry about Shane right now, and hated whoever was calling. He rolled over onto his other side.

The phone buzzed again, grating on Shane’s fried nerves. He kicked it onto the floor.

It continued to vibrate, now rattling against the hardwood floor. It felt like it was knocking directly against Shane’s skull.

The door creaked open again. Hayden was back, rolling his suitcase behind him.

“Will you get that to shut up?” Shane asked flatly. He tasted the salt of his own tears on his lips.

A few hurried steps, and the scrape of Hayden’s nails against the floor. The buzzing was still going off.

“I said turn it off,” Shane snapped. “Make it fucking stop.” He whipped his head around angrily to see Hayden frozen next to the bed, eyes transfixed on the screen in front of him. 

“What,” Shane puffed an angry, wet scoff, “some fucking journalist or something? Tell them to fuck off.”

Hayden’s face snapped back to Shane, looking dazed.

“Yeah, just – one second, okay? One second.”

He rushed out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Shane could hear the vibrations of his voice on the other side of the door, but couldn’t make out any precise words. Or he just couldn’t be bothered to listen closely enough to understand.

That was until he heard a very loud, very clear, “Jesus fucking Christ!”

In normal circumstances, Shane might have been curious to know what would elicit a reaction like that from Hayden. But now, it was beyond his ability to care. Maybe something had leaked about Ilya’s and his relationship. Good, he thought. I want them to know. I want them all to know.

Hayden threw the door back open, the door swinging back and hitting the wall in his enthusiasm. Shane startled, his red eyes meeting Hayden’s.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” he said breathlessly, hurrying over to his bedside. “Shane – Shane, you won’t believe –”

“What the fuck, Hayden,” Shane said weakly. “I can’t take anything else.”

“No, Shane, you have to – just, well, I think maybe you should hear for yourself.”

He thrust the phone in Shane’s hand, and nodded encouragingly. Cautiously, he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Shane,” came a man’s voice on the other end. The voice was a fragile, thin thing. Shaking and raspy, like it had just come up for air. 

It was also dangerously familiar. 

“What is this,” Shane whispered. 

“Moya lyubov,” the man was crying. “Shane, sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I don’t understand,” Shane said stupidly. He looked at Hayden, who had a tremulous smile on his face. “What’s going on?”

“It’s real,” said Hayden, “it’s him.”

Shane looked at him blankly, his mouth open.

“Shane, please tell me that you’re okay,” the voice – a voice that sounded so much like Ilya – begged.

“I don’t understand,” Shane breathed. “What the fuck is going on?” 

“It’s me, it’s Ilya, sweetheart.”

The cogs in Shane’s head moved painfully slowly, but his body had already started to react. He sat up abruptly, and his hands gripped the phone ever tighter, pressing it against his face forcefully, as though that would bring the voice closer to him. The thrum of adrenaline started to pick up again, and he could hear the rush of blood in his ears.

“Ilya?” he said in a whisper, barely daring to say his name aloud in the fear it was all a strange, terrible dream.

“Yes, moya lyubov, I’m here,” he said again. “I’m here, Shane. I’m okay.”

“How – how is this possible?”

“Is just,” a shaky breath, “a freak thing – I did not get on the plane. And Luca, too. We did not get on the plane.”

“You didn’t get on the plane,” the words escaped him without him even realizing it. Ilya didn’t get on the plane. “But why? You messaged me, said you were on the way to the airport.”

“I know,” Ilya said. He sounded wrecked. “I was supposed to be. I was about to board, and then Luca realized he did not have his passport. He had to go back to get it and I,” another deep breath, his tone stunned, like he couldn’t believe what he was saying, “I did not want him to have to travel alone. So I offered to stay back with him.”

“Fuck, Ilya.”

Now that he had started, it seemed he wanted to get the whole story out. 

“There was a commercial flight we could take an hour or something later, so we rushed back to his house to get it. We got back to the airport just in time.”

“You took a different flight.” Shane felt lightheaded. “You – why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

Shane was distantly aware he wasn’t being very fair. On a normal day, grabbing a later flight would not be something mandatory to tell each other. But, well, Shane wasn’t presently interested in being fair.

“I’m sorry, Shane, I didn’t even think – we were moving so fast, and when we got to the airport we basically just walked right onto the plane. There was no wifi on flight, and I was asleep, anyways, we had – had no idea –”

Ilya broke off then, and the sounds of his cries cut through Shane.

“Ilya, baby,” Shane whimpered.

“I didn’t realize anything was wrong until they make announcement – say the plane had to be – what is word – had to change city?”

“Diverted?” Shane supplied automatically.

“Diverted, yes. Plane gets diverted and we get off in,” Ilya paused, and Shane hears his voice directed elsewhere, “where are we?” and comes back to Shane to say, “Jacksonville. Some city in Florida, apparently. I am in airport here now.”

Somehow, Shane had gotten this far into the conversation without tears. The shock of Ilya’s voice had electrified him, but for whatever reason, the mental picture of Ilya now – folded over in some uncomfortable, plastic chair in a fluorescently lit airport, exhausted and in shock but very alive – is what tips him over the edge.

“Oh, fuck, Ilya,” he gasped, the dam broken. The tears arrived violently and all at once. “Fuck, you’re alive.”

A dry, shocked puff of air something akin to a laugh.

“Yes,” Ilya said, sounding just as stunned, “I’m alive.”

“Thank god,” Shane cried, hunched over, breathing harshly into the phone, “fuck, baby, thank god, thank fucking god, you’re alive.” He thought his breathing might be crossing the threshold into hyperventilating.

“Shh, moya lyubov,” Ilya shushed him gently, even though his own voice was still shaking. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. In slow… yes, like that…”

For the next few minutes, Shane focused on nothing but the soft whispers in his ear, Ilya speaking mostly in Russian, saying not much at all but somehow everything Shane needed to hear. The tears, so very different from before, run freely, and the phone is pressed so hard against his ear it starts to hurt.

“Shane.” His voice is the sweetest thing Shane’s ever heard. “Tell me you are okay.”

Shane can’t quite manage a smile, but with one hand over his eyes, he felt some of the tension release, his shoulders dropping. “Okay… okay enough. Hearing you now. But Ilya, please,” Shane struggles to hold onto his fragile composure, “I can’t ever lose you. I can’t feel that again.” 

“I am sorry I scared you.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Shane, his eyes closed. In truth, he’s not sure he could ever get across to Ilya the hell this night had been. A night that felt like a year. A night that he felt in his very bones, one that he thought he might never fully recover from. 

They listened to each other breathe for a while.

“But, Ilya,” Shane said, coming somewhat back to himself, finally, “baby… I’m so sorry. You… your –”

“Yes.” The word is heavy with grief. “My team – my friends…”

“I’ve been so selfish,” Shane said, “thinking about myself –”

“You are not selfish,” Ilya cut him off. “If it had been me, in your place… I do not think I would survive it, Shane. Not even for a second.”

Shane gave a hefty sniff. “Baby, now you need to tell me… well, you don’t need to tell me you’re okay, right now.”

“I am not okay.”

“No,” Shane rushed to say. “Of course not. But I’m here, Ilya. We’ll be together soon, okay? Just hold on for me, Ilya.”

“Okay,” Ilya said quietly after a moment’s pause. “For you, Shane.”

_______________________________

Hayden had been imbued with a new rush of energy. Delivering Shane to his shaken but alive boyfriend being by far a better task than delivering him to his grave, he takes it on with great enthusiasm.

“I called your parents, as well, and messaged Rose” he said, throwing Shane’s belongings into his suitcase, “it was a bit harder to convince them without Ilya on the line, but I didn’t want them to spend a second longer than they had to thinking Ilya was dead.”

“I think,” Ilya’s voice came through the speakerphone, Shane having steadfastly refused to hang up to this point, “I will call them before I board my flight.” His grounded flight was returning to Ottawa, and taking any passengers wishing to return with it. Ilya would be back within hours; Luca, the only other surviving member of the team, had already boarded a flight to take him to his frantic family in Switzerland. “That way they can hear from me directly before I have to turn my phone back off. I need to call Svetlana as well – she got a text but that has not satisfied her.”

Shane felt an unpleasant rush of terror at the thought of Ilya being unreachable again, on another plane, but said instead, “yeah… yeah, of course. Call them, but just… send me a message as you board, please?”

“I will, sweetheart. I love you very much. You know this, yes?”

He feels a pang of despair at the idea that he might never have heard Ilya tell him he loved him again. He swallows through the lump in his throat, thinking that he must be close to exhausting the limit of how many tears one person could shed in an evening.

“Yes, I know. And I love you very, very much too.”

“Ah, you think you can beat me with an extra ‘very’, but you cannot, because I love you infinity much.”

A wet chuckle escapes Shane. “We will be together in a few hours,” his heart clenches at the thought, “and we will see then who loves the other person more.”

“Hm, yes,” he said, “we will. And it will be me.”

Shane smiled, but didn't hang up. He can’t seem to hang up first.

“Bye, moya lyubov. See you soon.”

Shane had enough sense not to wish him a safe flight, saying instead, “See you soon.”

_________________________________________

By the time the fresh Ottawa snow is crunching under Shane’s feet, it is nearly three in the morning. The taxi is idling in the driveway, and Shane feels physically, mentally and emotionally beaten down, but in those last steps up to his parents door – where they agreed to meet after a very firm, insistent message from Yuna – an upswell of energy reaches him with the thought of Ilya on the other side of the door.

Hayden is next to him, having insisted on bringing up Shane’s bag. He’d insisted on doing everything, actually, from checking them in, to hunting down a “Shane-approved” meal to scarf down before boarding, even not-so-subtly sweet talking the flight attendant into bringing him a pair of the good earplugs, which he unceremoniously shoved into Shane’s ears as a baby screamed behind him (threatening Shane’s perilously fragile mental state). Shane is also vaguely aware of the fact that between Hayden and Yuna, someone is calling his coach, or their agents, or… well, something. He’s not concerned about it.

Before Shane slotted his key into the doorknob, he turned to look Hayden square in the face. There, he saw lines of exhaustion by his eyes, which were bloodshot and watery. He had a faint wrinkle in between his eyebrows from the focused, set expression on his face most of the night. He saw, also, the traces of unbridled relief that had colored his face since the moment he barged back into Shane’s hotel room, waving his phone around with the manic energy that comes from finding out your best friend’s boyfriend is back from the dead.

“Hayden?”

“Yeah, bud?”

Shane opened his mouth to speak but, words failing him, launched himself at Hayden instead. He swayed back slightly, steadying himself before patting Shane on the back.

“Thank you,” Shane choked out. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Hayden didn’t respond for a few seconds. Shane wondered if maybe he’d started crying again, but then he said in a gruff voice, “I would say ‘anytime’ but let’s hope to fuck this never happens again, yeah?”

This shocked a little laugh out of Shane as he stepped back. “Definitely.”

“But for real,” Hayden’s smile faded a bit, “you’re family, Shane. I’m always here for you – and… and for Ilya.”

Shane smiled. “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

Hayden groaned, “Jesus, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

They’re interrupted by the door swinging open and then – well, then it’s just Ilya.

Ilya’s lips at his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids. Ilya’s smell in his nose, sweat and musk. Ilya’s hands running along his sides, his back, into his hair. Ilya’s voice in his ear, whispering, moya lyubov, my sweetheart, my baby.

And there is Shane, gasping for it, desperate for it, drinking him into his every pore. He can hardly stand, can no longer control his limbs. He just stands there and takes it, allowing Ilya to invade his every sense.

“Ilya, baby.” It’s all he can say.

It’s when Ilya pressed his lips on Shane’s and licks into his mouth that Hayden clears his throat awkwardly. Ilya reluctantly took a miniscule step away from Shane, though it looked like it cost him a great effort.

“I’m going to go, but just, uh… yeah, I’m really glad to see you, Rozanov.”

Ilya surveys him carefully. Shane holds his breath. 

“Go?” Ilya said. “No, Pike, you cannot go.”

Hayden raises his eyebrows. “Just to a hotel nearby, I’m going to get the train up to Montreal tomorrow.”

“No,” Ilya said simply. 

“And why not?” Hayden looks suspicious, like he would not put it past Ilya to tease him even on this day, the very worst of days.

“Because it is three in the morning,” Ilya said, with just a touch of exasperation. “You are very tired, and there is a perfectly good couch waiting in here for you. Also there is an army of tiny Pikes arriving at this house tomorrow, and I think it is only fair their dad is here to watch them, because Shane and I will be very busy.”

“Army of – what, my kids –?”

“Yes, do you know any other Pike armies?” Ilya is teasing, but only very gently, a hint of a smile on his face. “It turns out your wife likes me very much, and has insisted on coming to see me.” 

“Oh – well, that’s good –”

“Plus, Rose is already here,” Ilya continued. “We might as well have a full house.”

Ilya smiled at Hayden then, a real one, and nodded into the house. Shane watched him carefully – he wasn’t thinking, now, just of Hayden and the near-miraculous warmth Ilya was showing him. He saw instead the dark circles under his eyes like bruises. He heard the slight waver in his voice, and his hand, squeezing Shane’s, was trembling. 

Shane opened his mouth to say something – maybe to ask Ilya if he was okay, despite the ridiculousness of the question – but when Ilya turned back to him, Shane got the overwhelming sense that Ilya needed this. Some sense of normalcy, for however long they could make it last. Even if it was only a few minutes more.

“Let’s get inside,” said Shane, tugging on Ilya’s hand while Hayden rushed to grab his bags and pay the taxi driver. “It’s freezing out here.”

They ended up stuck in the entrance hall for twenty full minutes. His mom is on Shane the moment he stepped through the door, holding him tightly and pressing a kiss to his cheek. She swayed back and forth as the minutes ticked by. He saw over her shoulder his dad standing with one arm around Ilya, his eyes shining.

“I’m okay, mom,” he said in a low voice. “It’s okay.”

“I know,” she sniffed. “My boys… I have my boys back. You’re both here.”

Tears pricked at Shane’s eyes again. In his grief, he hadn’t considered what his parents were going through. Losing one son, while terrified out of their minds for the other. His eyes met Ilya’s.

“Don’t look at me,” he said, holding his hands up. “The hug she gave me lasted 45 minutes, this one is all you.”

Yuna let out a wet laugh against Shane’s neck.

“I’ll hug both of you for however long I want, and you won’t do a damn thing about it.”

Ilya’s eyes softened. “We wouldn’t dare.”

Rose was waiting patiently – or, by the looks of her bobbing on the balls of her feet, not–so–patiently, behind Yuna. When Shane’s mom finally released him, turning back to Ilya to pat him gently on the face (Shane hears her whisper to herself, “my babies,” and wants to cry again), Rose finally got her turn.

“Jesus, babe,” she murmured, arms wrapped around him. “Some fucking night, right?”

“Some fucking night,” Shane agreed.

“You doing okay?”

“Well,” he hesitated. “Better than… better than I would have been, obviously, if… well, you know…”

“Yeah,” she said gently, “I know.”

Shane’s mouth twisted as he watched Ilya give Hayden a short but firm hug. He heard Ilya say, “thank you, Pike. You are good friend to him. The best, possibly, except for me,” and Hayden gave him a half–hearted shove back and said, “all I’m saying is that I’m glad you’re not dead – it’s a low bar.” They started to wrestle over Shane’s luggage, tripping up the stairs as they went, his parents trailing after them.

“But,” Rose prompted him, “it will be hard for him,” she nods towards Ilya’s back. “He’s got a road ahead of him.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighs. “I just wish I could protect him from all of this. That I could wrap him in a bubble where nothing bad can touch him.”

“If only,” she said sadly.

“So… what do I do?” Shane looked at her helplessly, then said, “sorry, it’s hardly fair to expect you to have the answer for,” he waves his hand, “all of this.” 

Rose snorts, “yeah, sorry babe, this one might be over my head a bit.”

“You mean you don’t know what to do when your boyfriend’s entire life implodes and nearly everyone he knows dies in one day?” The words came out harsh, and she looked taken aback for a moment.

“Sorry,” Shane said through clenched teeth, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I’m just a bit…”

“Overwhelmed?”

“Yeah,” he said with a wry laugh. “Yeah, overwhelmed… I just wish… I don’t know. I feel like I could use a bit of divine intervention here, you know?”

A long pause, then, “I think you may have used up all your divine intervention for one day,” she said quietly.

Shane blinked. Once, as it hit him, and then a few more times, to brush the tears away.

“I’m sorry, Shane –”

“No,” said Shane, “you’re right. I’m so – so fucking grateful. I can’t even describe…” he took a shuddering breath. “In those moments, I would have given fucking anything to have him back. And then… I did, somehow. And now I just can’t fuck it up.”

“You won’t,” said Rose, sounding more confident than Shane felt. She rested a hand on his arm. “You take it one day at a time. You love him, and you let him love you. And you lean on the people around you,” she said, gesturing around her. “You both are going to need your people. Especially Ilya.”

Ilya reappeared at the foot of the stairs, having apparently lost the battle to bring up the bags – or maybe he just abandoned Hayden to deal with his own suitcase, which he was now lugging into the living room. 

“We will have to split between this house and mine,” Ilya said, “when the Pike kids arrive.”

“What about Svetlana?” Shane asked suddenly, the idea striking him.

Ilya looked confused. “What about her?”

“Have her come too,” Shane explains. “She must be desperate to see you.”

“Yes, but,” Ilya hesitated, “you know she does not know about us? Or, at least, she does not know who Jane is.”

“Then tell her,” Shane said firmly.

“What?”

“Tell her,” Shane repeated. “Tell her now, tonight. She can be here by the end of the day.”

“Shane – are you sure? I don’t have to –”

“I’ve never been so sure,” he said. “Send her a message now, I bet she’s awake.”

A stunned, small smile emerged. “Yes,” Ilya said, sounding a bit dazed. “Yes, okay, I will tell her. Might be too much information for one night but she will deal…” He stumbled away. Rose gave Shane an approving pat on the arm.

In the end, Svetlana is not only unsurprised, but said, “you think I do not know Jane is Shane Hollander? Ilya, you know I am much smarter than you. Near death experience does not give you an excuse to insult me.” By the end of the call, Svetlana is booked onto a noon flight from Boston.

_________________________________________________________

Shane and Ilya were laying down in Shane’s childhood bedroom, facing each other. If it weren’t mid-winter, it would be close enough to dawn that light would soon be creeping through the window. As it was, they still had a few hours left of shadows and moonshine, cocooned under a quilt, a warm pocket of shared breaths, roaming lips and trembling, clutching grasps.

Shane was now tracing one finger up the line of Ilya’s jaw, across his cheekbone and down to the tip of his nose. He counted his eyelashes and cataloged every shade of blue in his eyes. There were tears there, again, and Shane swiped his thumb over the gathering wetness, rubbing them away softly.

Ilya kept his eyes steady on Shane’s face.

“Please don’t ever leave me,” Shane murmured, thumb still stroking Ilya’s cheek. 

A moment passed, and then another. Ilya’s nose crinkled a little, and his mouth pulled tight.

“Okay,” he whispered back eventually, “I won’t.”

“I mean it,” Shane’s voice, though still quiet, was fierce, “I can’t lose you, Ilya, ever.” 

When Ilya nodded, Shane said, “I know it’s going to be hard,” Ilya turned his face into Shane’s hand, “but I’m right here with you. Always.”

Ilya sniffed, rubbing his face against Shane’s hand. 

“What now?” asked Ilya.

There it was again, that question. But it was different, now. A couple weeks ago, they had been arguing about how Ilya had sacrificed to move to a lesser team. Now he had no team at all. Ilya had tried to tell him how lonely he was. Now, those burgeoning threads of friendship, the kindness and warmth Ilya had sought and so painstakingly found, were turned to ash. 

“I don’t know,” Shane admitted. He ached for Ilya, and his armed moved without even thinking, reaching for him, pulling him into his chest.

“All my friends…”  

“I know, baby,” Shane said, holding him close enough to feel his heart beating, “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t think it has really hit me yet.”

“I think you’re right,” Shane said slowly, wracking his shattered brain, wanting to say the right thing. “But it will.”

Shane could feel Ilya breathing, moisture building on his neck.

Ilya’s voice was small when he spoke again. “I’m scared.”

This time, Shane took only a second before he responded, deciding he just had to trust himself to be the person Ilya needed now.

“I’m scared too,” Shane admitted. “I’m fucking terrified.” He looked down to see Ilya’s eyes, serious and searching, fixed on him. “I’m scared for you. I know this is gonna hurt. And I would do anything to – I don’t know, take all the pain away, somehow. I would, if I could. You know that, right?” Ilya took a breath, and nodded. Shane rested a hand on his cheek. “But, Ilya… I know, now, that nothing – absolutely nothing matters more to me than you. So whatever comes next, we do it together. If it takes months, or years, or fucking decades to figure it out, I don’t care, as long as I have you with me.”

“Shane,” Ilya gasped, pressing his face into his neck, clutching at him. 

“I’ve got you,” said Shane, lips against his temple. “And you have me, Ilya. You have me, for as long as you want me. Forever.”

Minutes passed, the snuffling against Shane’s neck gradually growing quieter as he trailed his fingers through beautiful, golden curls. His hand drifted down to Ilya’s back, tracing constellations in his skin, the very ones he’d traveled so many times and had believed, for one terrible, grisly night, he would never travel again. 

“Okay,” Ilya said wetly, pulling back enough for their eyes to meet.

“Okay?”

“You said I have you for as long as I want, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll take forever, then.”

Shane smiled.

“Forever, then.”