Archive of Our Own

2022

Ilya Rozanov dies on a Tuesday. 

One year into their marriage and time pas ses sweet and sticky like molasses. Wake up together, eat breakfast together, have coffee together, shower together, train together. Summer turns to winter turns to summer again and they wake up in the cottage with their limbs tangled. Each day better than the last, and even better the next. 

Shane still hasn’t gotten used to this: knowing that every morning he will wake up with his husband’s solid body pressed against him. Usually Ilya is half on top of Shane, hand on his chest, face nestled in his neck. This morning he’s behind him with an arm thrown over his waist and his nose resting on Shane’s broad shoulder. Morning sunlight streams through the windows where they left the blinds open the night before. He’s not sure whose exhibitionist streak they were fulfilling but he has no complaints. It’s early; not early enough to go back to sleep, but too soon to emerge from their warm bed. So he lies on his side and feels his husband breathe against his skin and smiles a contented little smile. Satiated and sleep-heavy he matches his breathing to Ilya’s and revels in the small 

He gets fidgety after twenty minutes, making micro adjustments in bed and nudging Ilya awake by mistake. His husband groans and presses even closer, like he’s trying to get under Shane’s skin and burrow for warmth. 

“Morning,” Shane murmurs. Ilya replies with a grunt and a kiss to his shoulder. Then another, and another, and he’s peppering kisses down Shane’s spine and they’re both awake now. 

“Good morning,” Ilya purrs, and Shane rolls his eyes without malice. He turns over to face Ilya and tugs his husband’s hair to meet his eyes. Ilya lets out an exaggerated moan that Shane silences with a kiss.

“Nice way to wake up,” Shane says, and Ilya beams with pride. Husbandly duties still bring a grin to his face. Shane can’t judge: his fingers buzz with excitement when he sets out two plates for breakfast and brews enough coffee for two mugs. Even at five in the morning when Ilya is buried under a duvet and Shane is heading out for a run, knowing someone else will be there when he gets back warms him from the inside out. They never have to be alone again. 

They get up slowly and bask in a morning where there is nothing to do. Off season has its perks: slowing down, breathing, taking time to relearn the contours of each other’s bodies as though they have changed since the last time they tried. Ilya shaved his playoff beard the day before, and Shane pouted all evening until his husband rubbed his smooth cheeks against Shane’s inner thighs and sucked kisses into the tender skin there. Without the beard Ilya looks younger. All soft skin and sharp cheekbones and big blue eyes, like he’s still seventeen and in direct contravention of the no smoking sign. 

Coffee brewing, Ilya slices bread for toast and fries eggs on the gas hob. He looks at home in the kitchen now, so different from the first time he crossed the cottage threshold and shattered every pretense of casualness. Shane chops up fruit and adds creamer and sugar to Ilya’s mug. He pulls out bacon and leaves it next to Ilya knowing his husband will grab it without looking and throw it in the pan. They have breakfast down to an art these days. Same with lunch, and dinner, and every routine that makes up their life together. 

The eggs spit and hiss; Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist. He kisses the nape of his neck and turns to press his cheek into Ilya’s muscular back, feeling the tension drop. A possessive thrill runs through him to know that only he can do that. Only he can melt the stress out of Ilya and let him soften, dropping his on ice persona and just being Ilya Hollander-Rozanov. No one else gets this version of his husband. 

They have breakfast outside as the sun casts dappled light over the lake. They talk about nothing, making stupid comments and planning their day, laughter breaking the morning quiet. They chat about something inconsequential Shane read in the news, and a book Ilya wants to read. They have three weeks at the cottage before any media commitments off the back of the Centaur’s remarkable season. No Stanley Cup, but a damn good run. A run to be proud of and they did it together. Playing on different lines but still telepathically linked, communicating silently and predicting the other’s movement. It’s as easy as breathing. They edge closer until they can tangle their fingers together and press kisses to the other’s knuckles, and they talk about everything and nothing. It’s just like every other morning together, until it’s not. 

Later, Shane will wrack his brain for what they spoke about in their last hours together. He will frantically try and remember each tangent, looking for a hint that things were going to go so terribly wrong. If there was something he missed, something he should have noticed, a way to stop what happened and fix it. 

When he realises there was nothing he could have done to change it, he will keep trying to remember the last good day, to find a way to live in that moment forever, when the dawn was breaking and his husband was warm and solid beside him. 

2022

Morning turns into afternoon and they waste the day swimming in the lake and basking in the sun. Shane’s back is aching like it always does after a long hard playoff run. He lies on his front on the dock and lets Ilya rub oil into his skin. Strong fingers pushing and pulling his muscles back into place. Any remaining tension bleeds out until he’s a puddle of Shane Hollander goo on the floor and he lets his husband tug him to his feet. He’s pliant and relaxed but doesn’t hesitate to grab Ilya’s hand and drag him back into the house. 

“Need you to fuck me,” he whispers, and Ilya groans and presses him against the window. One hand grasps his chin to tilt his face upwards and press their lips together. Shane grins into the kiss and nips at Ilya’s bottom lip, relishing in the moan he draws out. He winds a hand into the blonde curls and tugs, hard enough to hurt deliciously. Ilya reaches a hand down to grab at his ass.

They make it to the bedroom and Shane shoves Ilya backwards to climb on top of him. Thighs bracketing Ilya’s hips he tugs his shirt off and leans in to lick down Ilya’s chest and nip at the space under his collarbone. Ilya groans and it rumbles through Shane’s whole body. Arms wrap around Shane’s waist and suddenly he’s in motion as Ilya flips them over to pull off Shane’s shorts and wrap a hand around the base of his cock, kissing his inner thighs and whispering in Russian. The touch is electric and Shane bucks against his hand. He’s about to tug his husband in for a kiss when Ilya fumbles and staggers back. 

“Baby?” Shane asks, but Ilya doesn’t hear him. His eyes are glazed and unfocused. He slumps off of Shane and lands on his back against the bed. 

Shane moves like lightning: he’s the fastest on the ice but even faster here, leaning over Ilya to cup his face. Tapping his cheek he starts to talk, but Ilya is dazed and looking around frantically. 

“What’s wrong? Ilya? What’s wrong?” Shane keeps stroking Ilya’s cheek, keeps shaking his husband, a firm grip on his shoulders. 

Ilya snaps out of his daze in a panic and fumbles to grab Shane’s arms. 

“Don’t feel good. I don’t feel right, Shane,” he gasps out, and Shane keeps a hand on Ilya’s cheek and looks him over for any obvious injuries or signs of distress. What did they tell him in the first aid briefing? Airway, breathing-

“Shane!” Ilya shouts, voice tense and stricken with panic. And Shane can see why, because Ilya’s hand is crumbling to dust in front of his eyes. 

“What the fuck? Ilya, what the fuck?” Ilya doesn’t answer. He’s breathing too fast, looking around frantically like there’s something in the room that can stop this happening. But there’s nothing, and the disintegration takes his forearm too, and all the while he’s staring at Shane with big wet eyes filled with terror. 

“Shane,” he gasps out, and Shane tries to hold him together. Tries to keep him tethered here, because if he holds on tight enough Ilya will coalesce back together and they can fix this- “Shane!” Ilya’s left hand grabs Shane’s face, tugs him close. He hadn’t realised he had looked away, too busy staring at the place where Ilya’s leg once was. Ilya just yanks him closer until their foreheads press together. Shane fights: he needs his phone, he has to call someone, he has to call his mom, he has to find someone who knows what to do-

“No, no,” he ekes out, and when he sees his husband’s face he stops trying to pull away. 

Ilya’s eyes full of tears, his lip quivering, so scared, pale with shock and confusion. He feels the absence where Ilya’s other leg would be. In his gut, certainty heavy like a stone that there is nothing he can do to stop this.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya chokes out, and Shane wants to scream, does scream, howls so loudly his parents must hear it up the road. But he can’t succumb yet. Not while Ilya is looking at him with so much fear and his last movements are pulling Shane as close as he can. Trying to hold on a little longer. Shane grips Ilya’s face and stares into his eyes, unblinking. Drinking in every microexpression he can soak up.

“No, I love you, I love you, I love you, no.” Shane keeps saying it. Watches the tension drain from Ilya’s face, his eyebrows soften, the panic in his eyes thaw momentarily. He keeps saying it as the familiar planes of Ilya’s chest turn to ash and fall away. He keeps saying it as his husband crumbles into a fine dust and leaves nothing behind, not even his ring, nothing to prove he was even there at all. 

2027

Ilya Rozanov returns on a Tuesday (he thinks). 

He gasps and blinks his eyes open. He is lying on a cushioned surface and when his head stops spinning he recognises the wood-pannelled ceiling of their room at the cottage. He struggles to sit up, limbs uncoordinated and shaky. It’s like he’s fallen asleep and cut off the circulation to his whole body. Maybe Shane had to carry him from the sofa again because he fell asleep watching reality TV. He should break that habit now. But it’s off season, and he’s at the cottage, and all he has to worry about it savouring each moment with Shane -

Fuck. Shane. Where the fuck is Shane?

He remembers his husband shouting his name. Hands grasping his face and trying to tether him to the moment as his limbs felt less and less like his own. A howl of anguish like Shane had been shot. Fumbling, he sits up, looking around the room for the familiar presence of Shane Hollander. In crowded rooms, in halls full of people, on the ice, in the stands, Ilya could find Shane anywhere. But he is completely alone in the bedroom. 

It could only have been a few seconds. Ilya wracks his brains but he can only remember closing his eyes and waking up here all over again. Like falling asleep. He rubs his eyes as if it will bring him clarity. When it doesn’t, he stands up and kicks the skirting board. It doesn’t make him feel better, but at least he knows his limbs are solid again.

Something stops him from leaving the room. It’s stuffy, air stale and hot. It looks exactly like it did when he last saw it. The same pile of clothes by the bed, the same water bottle on the nightstand, the same book with a receipt tucked in the same page where Shane put it down last night. 

The only thing difference, he realises, is the photos. Usually the room is covered in framed photos, propped up on the chest of drawers and the desk and the windowledge. As soon as their self-imposed photo prohibition ceased, they took full advantage. Shots of Shane asleep in his glasses. Of Ilya laughing, head thrown back, face buried in Anya’s fur. And so many of them together, kissing and hugging and leaning on one another. Yuna always took pictures when they weren’t looking, capturing all the mundane ways they moulded into one another. Hands intertwined, ankles hooked together, heads on shoulders. Fingers digging into sides to make the other jump. Secret jokes. 

The cottage was filled with photos. Their bedroom was comparatively tame. But even so, Ilya notices that every photo frame is face down and covered in a layer of dust. 

2022

Yuna nearly takes the door of its hinges when she arrives. David helps, scrabbling in his bag for the spare key while his wife pounds on the door through sobs. They sped over, making the fifteen minute drive in five, thankful that so few people trek out this far. David’s hands are shaking when he pulls out the familiar fob, a novelty one Shane picked up somewhere down south on a roadie. He wraps an arm around Yuna and she sags into his side when he finally gets the key in the lock and twists. 

“Shane! Ilya!” They yell as they crash through the door. Each empty room they pass just makes their panic stronger. Where the hell are their sons? 

It’s Yuna who hears him. She grabs David and drags him up the stairs, into the bedroom, and lets out a broken cry when she sees Shane kneeling on the bed, grasping at the covers and shaking with full body sobs. 

“Shane,” she cries, and she runs to him, but stops just before making contact. What can she say? What can make this better? 

Shane turns to face her, dark eyes red and lip trembling. He doesn’t speak, just shakes his head and Yuna knows what to do. She rushes forward and pulls him into her arms. Sobs wrack his body and soon David joins, trying to hold them both together. 

They stay like that for an hour. Any time they try to move, Shane shakes his head and grips the bedsheets like there’s a trace of Ilya he can hold onto. The news said there was nothing left behind of anyone who disappeared, but Shane can’t know that, won’t have heard anything from the outside world. So they stay where they are and keep holding their remaining son. 

2027

Why would Shane hide the photos? Maybe there was an earthquake that knocked them down. Do they get earthquakes out here? Shane never mentioned it, and it would definitely have come up, because Shane loves to tell him interesting things about wherever they were, and Ilya thinks everything Shane says is interesting. 

He runs a finger through the thick layer of dust covering the frames. It isn’t fresh. At his father’s funeral, they went to the family home and saw a fresh coating of dust settled on Grigori’s room, thin and easy to wipe clean. This looks like the layers of grey detritus that settled over Irina’s things as they went untouched for a decade. Each year that no one claimed them came with another sign of neglect. But they have a cleaner when they’re not at the cottage, and they keep to a mostly-strict routine of dusting, because at the end of the day they are athletes and have more important things to do (like ravishing each other on every surface of the house). 

He needs to call Shane. Shane will explain. Even if he can’t explain, he’ll say something, and hearing his husband’s voice will be enough. 

His phone is missing. The spare charger David got them as a gag gift is still nestled in the bedside cabinet, but without a phone to charge it is useless. Ilya resolves to go downstairs and figure out what the hell is going on. If he remembers right, last time he saw Shane, he was-

He was turning into dust. Which is impossible. So he was going mad, which isn’t much better. Call Shane. Call Shane, listen to his voice, then call Yuna, who will know what to do. 

When he steps out of the room, he is met with a piercing scream and a body colliding into him. 

2022 

Fifty percent of the population disappeared. That included Ilya Rozanov, and a handful of the Centaurs, and a few Montreal Metros, and Ilya Rozanov, and no one else in the Hollander-Rozanov family, which seems like total bullshit. 

Shane sits on the sofa of his parent’s cottage, wrapped in a blanket that does nothing to stop his shivering. He wraps his hands around a mug of tea, the only thing he can stomach. He tried soup this morning and threw it straight back up. His mom gives him worried looks and plies him with crackers and plain toast but it all ends up swirling down the drain. 

It’s been a week. Or maybe two. Maybe three: he wouldn’t know. He replays the morning and searches for a sign that Ilya was going to disappear. His phone buzzes next to him. Three days ago (or maybe five, or maybe that morning) he hurled it against the wall when another text came through asking him if he was okay. The only person he wants to talk to turned into dust between his fingers. He wonders what Ilya would have to say about all this mess.

No one knows what to do. In the wake of the Snap, chaos reigns. Loved ones demand answers. Politicians fail to give answers. The remaining Avengers deliver press conferences and then fade from public life. Hockey is suspended, because fifty percent of the NHL has disappeared and even Crowell can’t muster enough rookies to fill in the gaps. People wonder whether to host a funeral. Can you bury someone who left nothing behind?

Shane doesn’t think about any of that. He sits on the sofa, he brushes his teeth, he eats and throws it back up, he cries so hard that he heaves, he goes to bed. Rinse, repeat. The days blur together into a grey haze. His mom sits next to him on the sofa and doesn’t pry. Just holds his hand and strokes his hair. It almost feels like Ilya, if he closes his eyes and forgets that Ilya is gone. 

He finds himself reaching for his coffee mug, because Ilya always leaves it within arms reach when he looks a little tired, and he’s tired all the time now. His hand hits empty air. When he wakes up he goes to press a kiss to Ilya’s head because he always frowns in his sleep and it gives him a headache. But the space next to him in bed is cold. 

Yuna keeps the media at bay. You’d think their numbers being depleted by half would slow them down, but the opposite is true. As a posthumous tribute to departed colleagues, tabloid journalists and paparazzis double down on their stories. They email Shane for a comment. They call him to see what he has to say about his husband being ‘snapped’. They contact Ilya’s family, Cliff, the Centaurs. Yuna yanks his phone out of his hands when she sees a draft reply:

go and fuck yuorselvs you miserable pieces of shit. My husband is gone and you want a fcuknig comment. lose this email and kill yours-

The screen is cracked; he can see his mom’s editorial eye take out the curses but keep the sentiment. It warms him momentarily. Then the cold creeps back in and he resumes staring at the wall.

No one is allowed in their bedroom at the cottage. The first time his parents leave him alone at their house, just long enough to get groceries, he jumps in the car and drives straight to the cottage, standing stock still and looking into the bedroom. He can’t cross the threshold. Not when Ilya’s shirt is crumpled on the floor next to the bed and his mug is on the bedside table. He sweeps his gaze across the room and sees no physical trace of Ilya. His eyes land on a photo from their wedding. 

Ilya is wrapped around Shane, resting his head on Shane’s shoulder from behind. Shane is grinning, easy and relaxed, turning to press a kiss to Ilya’s cheek. On their clasped hands, a twin pair of rings gleaming in the flash. Their shirts are rumpled from a quick trip back to the cottage to see how long they could sneak away unnoticed. Just long enough. Back on the dancefloor and they can’t keep their hands off each other, and every time they make eye contact they start grinning again, so wide it hurts. 

He’s moving before his brain catches up. He hurls the photo at the wall, hard enough to shatter the glass so it rains down on the bed like diamonds. He picks up another photo and does the same. The noise breaks through the fog that still hangs over him and muffles everything, so he keeps doing it - grabbing a frame, hurling it, letting it shatter. 

One of them in the lake, shoving each other under with wild abandon, heads thrown back as they cackle. He's yelling something at Ilya, calling him a dick as he tries to dunk his husband’s head of lovely blonde curls under the surface of the water. Hayden took that one, laughing so hard he nearly peed, which he immediately regretted telling Ilya: in Ilya's defence, chirping was his love language and Hayden made it so easy.

He keeps throwing. Glass like a carpet on the floor glinting in the dusk.

They're on their honeymoon in this one, in the villa they rented, Shane kissing Ilya's cheek and Ilya grinning like the sun. He's glowing with happiness, radioactive. They spent two glorious weeks under the hot Spanish sun, drinking tinto de verano and playing cards and fucking. They danced under strobe lights in nightclubs and kiss the sweat off each other’s necks and swim in the sea. They do nothing for days, until Shane gets that itch again and starts waking Ilya up for sunrise hikes. Those photos are in the living room, the two of them cast in golden hour glow, and Shane wants to smash those too.

His parents find him in the bedroom, prostrate at the foot of the bed. They haul him into the car and David holds him while Yuna sweeps up the broken glass and places the frames face down. The pictures are mostly intact, but she can’t bear to leave them like this, not when Ilya is grinning at her in bright technicolour. 

2027

He wants to jump back, but the body hitting him clings on. He moves a hand to touch their back and is hit with a wave of familiar perfume: jasmine, light and floral, the same one Shane bought Yuna with his pocket money when he was eleven and that she has worn ever since. When he looks up, David is watching him, face pale. He pets Yuna’s hair and when she pulls back her face is covered in snot and she starts crying again when they make eye contact. He tries to smile at her and that sets David off, wrapping Ilya in a tight hug and laughing breathily. 

“You’re here,” Yuna murmurs, like she can’t believe it. Ilya wonders if he should not believe it either. 

“I’m here,” he confirms, sensing that the Hollanders need to hear it. “Where is Shane?” Yuna’s eyes water again and Ilya wonders if he said the wrong thing. Then he starts to panic, because where is Shane? 

“Yuna, where is Shane? Is he okay?” Yuna nods frantically and David pulls Ilya through the house, moving them to the sofa. 

“He’s on his way, honey. He’s in Toronto, but he’s coming.”

Okay. Shane is coming, so everything will be okay. He takes a breath and looks between his in-laws, taking in their red eyes and dishevelled appearances. They look like they sprung out of bed and came here straight away. They look older, too, though his mother told him it was not polite to point that out. But there are new streaks of grey in Yuna’s dark hair, and David’s forehead carries more lines, and they both look smaller.

“What happened?” Yuna and David look at each other, trying to find the right words. They do the same couple-telepathy as Shane and Ilya. God, he misses Shane. Which is weird, because he saw him ten minutes ago. 

“Ilya…” David starts, then trails off. Yuna reaches out to grip his hand and hers looks more fragile than he remembers. The skin is a little thinner, more translucent, blue-green veins visible below her knuckles.

“I was- something happened to me. It wasn’t good. I was- dust?” He tries to put the pieces together in his mind but he keeps drawing a blank. David’s eyes start watering again, but he steels himself in a gesture that is so Shane-like it makes Ilya’s chest ache with longing. 

“You died. You turned to dust and you died.” Yuna’s words hang in the air. No one knows what to say so they sit in silence. 

That can’t be true, because Ilya is very much alive, and he has had his fair share of concussions but he knows firsthand that dead people don’t come back. 

“What?” His heartbeat quickens. Yuna nods and grips his hand in both of hers.

“Something happened, and half the world turned to dust. No one knew what was going on, we came here straight away and you were-” she stops and chokes on her words. Ilya knows the feeling. 

He remembers his limbs tingling. He remembers feeling lightheaded, like a migraine aura, starting to panic because it wasn’t going away. He remembers grabbing Shane, pulling him in, holding on to anchor himself to the present because Shane won’t let anything happen to him. Shane screaming, Shane crying, Shane frantically telling him he loves him. Shane watching him die. 

“Where is Shane? Is he okay?” David nods and that appeases Ilya for a moment. 

“He’s fine- he’s alive. He’s coming here, but he’s stuck in Toronto and no one can get a flight so he’s driving. It could be a while.” Ilya nods. Shane is okay. Shane is okay. 

“How did he get to Toronto? Is like six hours away no? He was here this morning,” Ilya asks, confused, and somehow this makes Yuna and David tear up again, because no matter what he does Ilya can’t say the right thing today. 

“Ilya. You didn’t disappear this morning,” Yuna says, voice shaky, “you disappeared five years ago.”

2022 

They plan a funeral for Ilya. It takes a while to arrange, because half the population is planning funerals, so they decide to do something small at the cottage. There’s nothing to bury anyway.

Shane is catatonic through the planning. He okays the guest list. He puts on a black suit and a tie (he never ties his own ties anymore, Ilya always does it for him so he can tug him forward for a kiss) and steps out to the dock to see approximately fifty percent of their friends and loved ones gathered. A sea of black mourning garb and teary faces. Walking to the front row he takes a seat between Yuna and David, hoping they can hold him up. When he passes the Pikes, Hayden squeezes his hand. It’s only after he sits down that he realises there is a space next to Jade where her twin should be sat. He bites down a sob. 

People speak about Ilya and Shane is ashamed that he doesn’t listen. Cliff stands at the lectern and describes meeting seventeen year old shithead Ilya Rozanov. He watched him grow into a man, a husband, and he could not have been prouder. He is so loved, Shane thinks, as Yuna talks about how lucky she is to have gained such a wonderful son-in-law, and David reminisces on hours spent doing puzzles and drinking Russian vodka. 

Then it’s Shane’s turn. The writing is smudged from constant fidgeting. He stands up but can’t look at the crowd of mourners. Can’t see Cliff frowning so he doesn’t cry. Can’t see Troy Barrett wilting without Harris. Definitely can’t see Lisa Hayes fidgeting with her wedding ring, noting the absence of her husband. He catches a glimpse of the bereft Pike family and his stomach lurches.

Instead he fixes his gaze on the cottage. On the window where Ilya would wave to him as he did his yoga on the dock. If he closed his eyes, he thought he could open them and see his husband grinning from the house, wiggling his eyebrows as he ogled Shane’s downward dog. He’d flip him off but hurry back inside and they would have all the time in the world, all the time they had lost, making up for it tenfold now. 

He starts to speak. 

“Hi. You probably know me, if you’re here, but I’m Shane. Ilya’s husband. Er, we got married a year ago, right here.

Ilya is the love of my life. I’ve spent more time loving him than I have doing anything else, and I think I got pretty good at it. Not as good as him though.

He loved everyone here so much. He was so bright and so beautiful. He, erm, shit, sorry. I don’t think anyone else knew me as well as he did. We had a lot of time together, but it was never enough. I always wanted more. I was greedy with him. I could have just sat and watched him forever. 

We- we had a whole plan to spend the rest of our lives together. I was always chasing more time with him, we would drive between Ottawa and Montreal like five times a month to steal some time. There was no one else I wanted to do nothing with as much as him. 

He loved it here. Said he wanted to relax with me, and we could do that out here. Like, he used to fling himself off the dock and get water everywhere and I complained all the time but he knew I didn’t mean it. 

I would do anything for more days with him, to have him back. I wish I’d got him sooner, hadn’t been such a fucki- such a coward. We wasted so much time. I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here.”

People clap, but Shane can’t hear anything over the buzzing in his ears. The paper with his eulogy on is pilling, all crumpled and sodden from tears and clammy hands. He balls it up and stuffs it in his suit pocket. 

Later they have nibbles and Shane thinks about how Ilya would be so pissed off to see a paltry spread at his funeral. He would have had it catered by McDonalds if he could. Rose stands next to him in the kitchen and says nothing. It’s nice to have her close, never feeling the need to comment. These days life is an endless parade of funerals and celebrations of life. Ilya would hate it. 

Kip Grady passes him on the way out of the bathroom. His shoulders are hunched and his face downcast. Shane remembers hearing that both his parents disappeared in the snap. He tries to shoot him a sympathetic smile and it seems to land. Then he watches Kip return to Scott’s side and fold in next to him. No excessive PDA or overly touchy affection but it still stings like a knife to the gut. The easy affection and solid presence makes the half eaten sausage roll turn to ash in Shane’s mouth. He looks away, only to meet Hayden’s eyes, and suddenly the weight of all the grief in this house is too much. It's going to crush them all. 

As quietly as he can he slips outside. His feet carry him to the lakeside, where water laps over his formal shoes and makes his socks wet. Gross, sure, but better than feeling nothing at all. A lone loon calls out across the vast expanse of water. If Ilya was here Shane would call back; he loved trying to get Shane to teach him the bird’s call, hands cupped over his mouth, laughing too hard to blow out the air. Shane would declare that Ilya was not chosen by the loons, so he couldn't talk to them, and he'd poke Ilya's side and Ilya would pout and they would laugh so loud that the loons freaked out and flew away which made Ilya panic-

He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out the speech. Not what he was looking for: his fingers finally grip Ilya’s secret packet of Marlboros that he kept for emergencies. Since they got married he had only smoked two. 

“Hollander, you wear me out with insane sex. I need full lung capacity to keep up.” Shane shoves his shoulder but keeps their hands entwined. 

“Damn right. There are so many positions we haven’t tried, and if you die before we do I’ll be so fucking pissed.” He’s joking, but not really. Ilya dying is unthinkable. They'll die at the exact same time, because how else could it end?

He snuck the lighter out of Ilya’s other secret hiding place two weeks ago. Cheap purple plastic with Bic embossed on the side, the lever worn from use. Even when he stopped smoking Ilya still liked to flick the flame on and off to watch it dance. Shane has never smoked before. He’s never even lit a cigarette. He holds it between two fingers the same way Ilya used to and watches the paper catch alight. Pulling it to his lips he inhales deeply and splutters out a cough. It burns his throat. Jesus, that's rancid. All cloying and hot. How did Ilya smoke these?

All in the past tense. Ilya won’t ever smoke another cigarette: Shane would do anything to nag his husband and smell the nasty residue of tobacco on his breath. He’ll never complain again, he swears it, if he can just have Ilya back. He’ll smoke Marlboro Reds every day for the rest of his short life if he can spend it with Ilya. 

He manages to choke down a full cigarette. Eyes watering from tears or smoke he stares out at the lake and the crumpled speech next to him. No one comes looking for him. They can all see his hunched figure from the floor to ceiling windows. He leaves the rest in the pack and stares out at the sun as it sets beyond the horizon, holding onto the burn in his chest as a sign that he’s still alive.

2027

Ilya’s ears are ringing. Yuna and David shoot him concerned looks. Maybe Ashton Kutcher will jump out and surprise him with a prank. Haha, he’ll laugh, and then chew Shane out later for setting up something so cruel. Maybe they’ll get on Punk’d. 

No one is laughing. 

“I don’t- that can’t be right.” He shakes his head but David speaks before he can continue. 

“I’m so sorry, kiddo. It’s been five years. We didn’t think you’d ever come back. It’s a fucking miracle,” he says, and usually Yuna is the one cursing, so Ilya can tell this is real. He has missed five years of his life. Life has continued and he has blinked in and out. Like a ghost, haunting this house, except he can’t remember a thing about it. 

“I lost five years,” he says, not quite a question. He sags against the sofa and David stands up, going to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Yuna stays seated, running a hand over Ilya’s shoulder, petting his hair, trying to anchor him into the present, as if he’ll slip away again and lose another few years for good measure. 

“And Shane…” He doesn’t know how to ask. Does he expect Shane to have waited, stayed in mourning for the rest of his life? A mean, shrivelled up part of him screams yes. That he would have waited. Which isn’t true, he knows it, because he would not have survived long after Shane. But he wouldn’t want that for his husband. He wants him to be happy. He wants him to be happy more than anything, but he wants them to be happy together. 

So he doesn’t ask. He takes the tea when David offers it, and goes over the conversation in his head, realising that neither David nor Yuna had mentioned why Shane was in Toronto. Maybe they don't want to tell him, because Shane is not in Toronto by himself. Someone warm and breathing who didn’t crumble into dust. Someone fully formed without the Sword of Damocles of dementia and depression that dangles over Ilya’s head.

No wonder the pictures were face down. If Shane has moved on, he wouldn’t keep the photos of Ilya up to torment his new lover. Five years is a long time.

2022

The days drag by like tar. Thick and suffocating. Shane is finally off suicide watch and his parents let him go back home. He can’t go to the cottage: the place is bursting at the seams with memories of Ilya. Their house in Ottawa is the same. Ilya’s presence haunts every room. No part of Shane’s life is free from his husband’s imprints.

He ends up at his apartment in Montreal. It had been on the market for a while, but newlywed bliss stopped them making progress on the sale. Times like this, he wishes he kept the sex condo, but even that has Ilya’s fingerprints all over it. There’s nowhere in the world that he can go without catching himself turning to talk to his husband. Montreal apartment will have to do. 

Yuna and David call in every week. His mom texts him with updates, pictures of food, videos of animals. Every funny picture has his thumb hovering over the share button to send it to Ilya, who loved all animal videos and was forever sharing them with the caption 'us!!'. He sends emoji responses so they know he is still alive. He functions like he isn’t: small meals, long hours of sleep followed by days of restless mania. He dreams of Ilya alive and resplendent, painted in golds and yellows by the sun. He dreams of Ilya dying, frightened, disappearing. Sometimes he dreams that all of this is a dream, and wakes up reaching for a warm solid body only to be met with the cold left side of the bed. 

Playoffs are cancelled. Shane greets the news with equal parts fury and relief: fury that the one thing he had left to connect him to Ilya is gone, relief that he won’t have to will himself out of bed and onto the ice. 

Soon it’s been two months since The Snap. Yuna and David come to his apartment once a week, and find him in the same position each time: curled up in bed staring at the wall. He screens his calls only to decline them all. He answers Hayden, when he phones, because Hayden’s grief looks somewhat similar to his own. Life-ruining and all-encompassing. 

Rose texts him weekly. She is good at varying the date and time to make it look random, but Shane knows she is checking in to make sure he is still alive. He doesn’t hear from Svetlana, because Svetlana turned to dust two months ago. Must have been going around. 

Two months becomes three. The NHL announces that the upcoming hockey season is cancelled. Unfortunately fifty percent of the ticket-purchasing public has disintegrated. Shane greets the news with apathy and goes back to bed. The only person he wants to talk to about hockey is Ilya. The only person he wants to talk to about anything is Ilya. 

Thirteen weeks after Ilya dies, Shane gets out of bed. He stretches his legs and stumbles to the shower. Cranking the water as hot as it can go he lets it pummel his bare back and breathes in steam. The sticky film on his skin melts down the drain. He spares a glance at his reflection and regrets it. Jesus, he looks awful. All sallow skin and limp hair and bloodshot eyes. A bitter flash of hurt twinges in his stomach when he remembers that there is no one he needs to worry about looking nice for. 

It takes so much effort to tug on his clothes. Every time he looks at the bed he’s overcome with the urge to burrow back under the covers. Somehow he resists. 

His eyes light on the door to the roof of his apartment building. Not for the first time he is overcome with a desire to fling himself onto the busy thoroughfare that runs past his window. Ruin someone else’s day with his misery and finally feel something. His feet are moving before his brain catches up and when he blinks it’s in the cool morning sun that bathes Montreal in golden light. The crisp air contrasts the stagnation in his apartment and as he often does he wonders what Ilya would think about all this. He would have liked the view up here.

Standing at the edge he feels vertigo kick in and his stomach roils. It’s a long way down, probably long enough to die. He imagines careening through the air and the wind beating his face. He imagines reaching terminal velocity and splattering on the pavement. It’s enough to make him close his eyes and sit down on the rooftop. 

Probably a bad idea to be up here by himself. He grabs his phone and sends the text he’s been putting off for the past two weeks. 

11:28am

You: can I come over? I miss you. 

Hayden: please. we r home all day

Bright sunlight makes him wince and screw up his eyes as he heads to the car. Boring, sensible car, he hears Ilya’s voice teasing, blowing a raspberry and flopping his head back against the headrest to signify his disdain for Shane’s Jeep. How did he spend so long driving without a steady hand resting on his thigh? And how does he go back now he’s had a taste?

The drive to Hayden’s is familiar. Thank God, because Shane is on autopilot the whole way. He makes it there unscathed and knocks on his best friend’s door, only to be greeted by three knee-high children who shout “Uncle Shane!” so loudly he almost winces. 

“Hey, guys,” he chokes out, dropping to one knee so they can throw their arms around him. Jade is quieter than usual, withdrawn, lonely without her shadow. He squeezes her extra tight and runs a hand over her back. 

Hayden and Jackie greet him when he stands, shutting the door and shuffling into the living room with Amber and Arthur still clinging to him. Jade drifts back to her mom, huddling into her side. 

Face to face with Hayden for the first time since the funeral. What the hell does he say? Both their lives have been torn apart. He’s here to sift through the wreckage. 

Luckily he doesn’t have to say anything, because Hayden throws his arms around him and squeezes, comforting counterpressure to soothe the soul. Jackie laughs and joins in, and he could stay here forever, warm and safe and pretending for a moment that Ilya is about to jump in and complete the hug with a chirp at Hayden and a pinch of Shane’s ass. 

“What a mess,” Jackie murmurs, “what a terrible, terrible mess.” 

2027

Ilya has been resurrected for one hour when he thinks to ask about his phone. Five years of no screen time - Galina will be so proud. 

“Oh, I think it’s back home. I’m sorry honey, I didn’t even think. We kind of just - drove.” Yuna smiles sheepishly and Ilya shakes his head. 

“No, don’t worry. It was just for Candy Crush. They probably have new levels now.” David snorts and Ilya is delighted to see a grin split Yuna’s face, still wet with tears but shoulders now shaking with laughs. She buries her head in his shoulder and squeezes his arm like she’s reassuring herself he’s still there. 

Back home. So Yuna and David have his phone. Do they have all his things? Had Shane not wanted to throw them out? Did he pick up a t-shirt and hold it to his face to catch a whiff of Ilya’s aftershave in the weeks after he was gone?

He wants Shane so badly it hurts. Anxiety sits heavy on his chest. Tight and claustrophobic. Shane is coming, he reassures himself, Shane is coming to see him. Shane wouldn’t drive all this way to see someone he didn’t still care about. But five years is a very long time, and lots of things can change. 

David has made a second round of tea. He hovers by the sofa to make sure Ilya drinks it. Ilya hates this herbal tea, thinks it’s sickly and cloying. He finishes the cup and nods his thanks to his father-in-law, who is still panicking and soothing himself the only way he knows how, by providing beverages. 

“Maybe something stronger?” He suggests, pointing to the sideboard where he knows they keep the good vodka. Through the glass cupboard door he sees strangely empty shelves. David shoots Yuna a panicked look. 

She has always been quick on her feet. “Why don’t we stick with tea? And I think there’s ice cream in the freezer.” It’s pointed enough that David scurries to the kitchen and Ilya hears the freezer open and the kettle flick on again. More herbal tea. And where the hell is the vodka he keeps for special occasions? Surely his miraculous resurrection is a good enough reason to break the seal. 

Yuna notices his confusion. “We don’t really keep alcohol here. But David can pick some up, when Shane gets here.” Will Shane’s arrival be an occasion that merits a stiff drink? Does his new partner abstain from all earthly pleasures, knowing none can compare to the sight of Shane Hollander spread out beneath-

A third mug of tea lands on the coffee table. He drinks it and it settles like lead in his stomach. 

2023

Christmas is a miserable affair. No one feels particularly festive, so David suggests they order KFC. Shane wants to protest: Ilya loves Christmas, loves decorating and cooking and singing Christmas carols and wrapping presents to look like something else entirely. One year he got Shane a pair of fancy noise-cancelling headphones and used three rolls of wrapping paper to make it look like a skateboard. But Ilya’s not here, so what’s the fucking point?

They share drumsticks and fries and Shane can’t even bring himself to worry about his diet. He eats so little every other day that one fried indulgence won’t make much difference. 

He can’t stand to be in the city for New Years. Not when people will be festive and fireworks will dazzle the crowds and Ilya isn’t there to be his midnight kiss. They only had four, in all the years of being something. Yuna seems to predict this. They drive up to the cottage and make use of the guest bedrooms so Shane won’t have to see the master bed still made up like the day it all went wrong.

His parents head over to their own cottage to collect some spare bedding. It takes them twenty three minutes. In that time, Shane cracks open Ilya’s fanciest Russian vodka and downs three glasses before throwing up in the kitchen sink. Forehead pressed against cold metal he closes his eyes and thinks of Ilya’s warm hands and toothy smile. It’s enough to send him back to the living room for another couple of glasses. 

Resting his back against the couch he lets his head lol and his eyes close. Warm vodka sinks into the rug and dampens his pants leg. Nauseous and tearful he curls in on himself, shrinking away from the too-bright light that Ilya would have known to turn down. It’s blissful to forget, just for a moment, how completely fucking alone he is now.

“Shane, buddy, hold on.” 

David’s hands manoeuvring him to bed wake him up. He’s stripped down to his t-shirt and wearing some old sweatpants, being tucked in like a little kid all over again.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles, lips loose and heavy with liquor. David shushes him, running a hand over his hair and pressing a kiss to his head.

“It’s okay, kiddo. It’s okay. Just sleep.”

Downstairs, Yuna systematically empties each bottle down the sink and scrubs puke off the hardware. With each movement she chokes down another sob, then heads upstairs to sit vigil by Shane’s bed, in case he aspirates on his own vomit. Happy fucking New Year.

2027

Yuna’s phone is ringing. She shoots Ilya an apologetic look before picking up, and Ilya knows immediately who is on the other line. 

“Mrs Hollander, is Ilya with you? Is he okay?” American accent with lilting Russian vowels. He’s reaching for the phone as soon as it is proffered, jamming it against his ear. 

“Sveta? Sveta, what the fuck is going on?” Sveta laughs, all jarring and manic. 

“I’ve been calling for an hour! All the phone lines are overloaded. Looks like we can’t be killed. I always thought that was the case.” 

Ilya laughs too, then his eyes well up and he realises too late that he is crying again. “Are you okay? Where are you?” 

“Boston,” Sveta answers, “same place I was an hour ago. But apparently not.” They laugh again, David and Yuna’s faces a picture of concern, especially as the conversation morphs into Russian when English becomes too difficult to parse. 

“Is your husband there?” Svetlana asks, and Ilya goes cold all over. Is he still Shane’s husband? At what point does a marriage dissolve when one party is dead? It hadn’t taken his father long to find someone new when Irina died. Her side of the bed was barely cold.

“He’s in Toronto. But he’s coming here.” A hum from Svetlana. 

“Send a picture, when he’s there. Silver fox Hollander. I bet five years were good to him,” she purrs, and Ilya manages a snort of laughter.

“I love you, Ilyusha. I’ll come and see you, once things settle down here. I’m so glad you’re not dead.” She chokes up and he wishes more than anything that she was here and within hugging distance.

“Love you too. Call me as soon as you can.”

He hands the phone back to Yuna, who seems genuinely overjoyed to hear from Svetlana. David has finally stopped torturing the kettle and comes back to the living room to take a seat on the armchair. Yuna is still talking and David takes the opportunity to put a hand on Ilya’s arm.

“We’re so glad you’re back. It’s been - you don’t know how much we’ve missed you.” He can hazard a guess, so he clasps a hand over David’s and squeezes tight. 

2024

Two years and he’s back on the ice. Hayden has taken an extended leave of absence, negotiated in the weeks following the announcement that NHL matches would recommence now things were back to some semblance of normal. 

Shane is staying with his parents while he works up the courage to go back to the home he shared with Ilya. Commuting from Montreal is unfeasible and his parents still don’t feel great about leaving him by himself. So Shane is curled up to fit in his childhood single bed, staring up at a poster of the Ottawa Centaurs mascot and a collection of youth hockey trophies his parents couldn’t bear to part with. 

First practice back is a nightmare. The locker room is stilted like never before: more like the Metros than the friendly Centaurs he’s come to love. A member of the social media team came by to ask if anyone wanted to post a comeback message, and Bood had to usher them out when Barrett went completely white. The teething problems only get worse. 

Half the roster is new rookies, making Luca Haas’s absence feel all the more stark. They’re good kids, but Shane can barely look at them, too busy staring at the empty space where Ilya would usually sit. The departed players’ lockers were emptied last year, and all their belongings sent to their next of kin. All that means is Shane has another unopened box of things to pointedly ignore. 

When they hit the ice, it’s a revelation. Shane kept up his skating but this is something else. Ice under blade, he’s flying, soaring round the rink, everything a blur, whirring in his ears, cutting sharp lines until he skids to a stop with practiced ease. The others are doing the same, but he feels a little smug to see that none are as fast as him. 

They play their first match in a month. Enough time for Bood to whip them into shape, the ‘A’ upgraded to a ‘C’. He called Shane in a panic two nights ago, sick at stepping into Ilya’s role.

“I don’t think I can do it. I can’t be Rozanov. I miss him too fucking much.”

Speak for yourself, Shane thinks.

“You don’t have to be. You have to be Bood, because that’s exactly what Ilya would have wanted. He’d be really proud. I know it.” And he does know it. He doesn’t like to speak to his husband’s wishes: what he would have wanted, what he would have said, what he would have done. But this he does know. 

“Thanks, man. You’re gonna be an amazing A. He always said you were coming for my letter.” They laugh, and for once it doesn’t feel so hollow.

So he steps back on the ice and does his stretches in an arena that feels conspicuously emptier than usual. When they play the montage of tributes to lost players and staff, his thousand-yard stare bores a hole in the wall. When Ilya’s face pops up on screen, holding the Centaurs’ first Stanley Cup in who-knows-how long, he lets his watery eyes spill over and makes no move to wipe them away. This one’s for you, baby, he thinks as he wins the face off and hurtles over the ice. They’re all for you. 

2027

Three hours have gone by. Ilya is getting twitchy from sitting still so long. Five years have flown by and none of it shows on his body. His limbs buzz with the urge to start running and he jumps to his feet. Immediately Yuna and David jolt and stare at him.

“Are you okay?” Yuna asks, voice laced with panic. Ilya nods and gives her a sheepish smile. 

“Yes, sorry. I should shower,” he explains, heading to the bathroom. The stairs creak a little from disuse. It looks like Shane hasn’t visited for a while.

Ilya leans his body weight against the sink and stares at his reflection. Completely unchanged. No sign that five years have passed. If Yuna and David hadn’t come by, he would have no idea that anything strange had occurred. 

He turns to dial as hot as he can make it, slipping into the shower and ignoring the layer of dust settled over the toiletries. His heart rate ticks up as he remembers threading his fingers through Shane’s hair and pushing him to his knees on the tiled floor. Only yesterday for Ilya: he still feels the familiar pressure of Shane’s hot mouth against his cock. Would Shane remember it as clearly? He shakes his head to try and dislodge the thought of his husband on his knees for someone else. Shane has had five years to build a new life, with no indication that Ilya would ever come back. And Shane is so easy to love. Ilya knows first hand how natural loving Shane feels. Who could resist - certainly not Ilya.

He stays under the spray until the water runs cold, and keeps standing there as the icy droplets pound against his back. His eyes are burning but as long as he stays in the bathroom, he won’t have to ask Yuna and David the question that will ruin his life. 

Eventually he steps out and pats himself dry. Looking in the mirror his eyes smart and burn as he takes in his thirty one year old body. Five years, and he still looks the same, and Shane isn’t here, and how could he ever expect his wonderful husband to spend the rest of his life alone on the off chance that Ilya would rematerialise? Four hours since Ilya saw Shane and he misses him so much it aches. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would not have lasted five years.

2025

“Shane Hollander-Rozanov, if you are on a motorbike we are going to be having words-” 

He winces when Yuna enters the garage. She’s dropping off dinner, which she does a few times a month, ever since The Snap happened and Shane went six weeks unable to keep down solid food. He knows that his mom still sees the pallid hollows of his cheeks and he would eat anything she borught to stop her lower lip trembling at the memory.

He props the bike on the kickstand and smiles sheepishly at Yuna, tucking the helmet under his arm. She stares at him aghast. No one’s mother is overjoyed to see them weaving down an Ottawa road on a fire hydrant red Ducati. 

“Hey, mom,” he replies, holding out an arm for a hug. She ignores his embrace and pokes a finger into his chest. 

“Since when do you ride a motorbike? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” 

“I’ve been taking lessons! I have my license. Also, I’ve been driving for eighteen years.” It doesn’t do much good, but Yuna drops her finger and shakes her head. 

“Could you please get a hobby that doesn’t risk a TBI? Just for my sake. You could try knitting.” Yuna tries to frown, but she can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Shane hangs up his jacket and takes the tupperware from her, opening the backdoor to let her inside.

He flicks the kettle on and pulls out the weird herbal tea she likes and he tolerates. Brewing two cups, he tucks the food into his fridge Tetris-style and sits next to his mom. It’s nice to fish out two mugs and not have to put one back, confronted by desparate loneliness. Anya curls up at his feet and takes the chill off from the hardwood floor. 

“Sorry I didn’t tell you. I swear I’m careful,” he tries to reassure his mom. Yuna sips her tea and smiles sadly. 

“I’m used to it by now. Is it his?” Shane nods. 

“Reminds me of him. You know he sold his cars to start the Foundation?” Yuna does know this, but she won’t pass up an opportunity to talk about Ilya, even after three years.

“He’d be so smug to see you riding it. Hollander, you are daredevil now!” She adopts a terrible Russian accent for the last sentence and Shane smiles. Sometimes he can talk about Ilya without breaking down: today is one of those days. 

“It’s nice,” he says, “makes me feel closer to him. And it was just gathering dust in the garage.” 

He doesn’t tell Yuna that when he first saw it in amongst the tools and old furniture boxes he cried for hours. He rested his head against the leather seat and wondered if any particles of Ilya could still be found on the fabric. If there was any trace left of his husband in the world that wasn’t confined to photos and the clothes still hanging in the wardrobe. If he could reconstruct Ilya from flecks of dust and skin. 

When he finally bit the bullet and searched for motorcycle lesson Ottawa (after googling motorcycle crashes Ottawa and motorcycle injuries and what is red mist and ilya rozanov motorbike pics close up) he had already made up his mind to sell the fucking thing after giving it one try. 

Sat on the bike he felt the wind against his face, biting and grounding in equal measure. His stomach swooped and his hands shook and it was the most alive he’d felt in years. As soon as he straddled the seat he understood why his husband had whooped with joy when he rode this thing. So he kept going back, getting his license, careening round Ottawa’s hairpin bends and not stopping until his legs cramped and the sun set. It was nice to feel something other than empty, even for a little while. 

2027 

Downstairs, Yuna is trying to call Shane. If he’s driving, he should be able to answer, but the phone lines across the country are overburdened with loving reunions. Ilya takes laps around the cottage, refamiliarising himself with the rooms he saw four hours ago and the five years of accumulated neglect. Everything is roughly where he remembers: closets stuffed with linen, towels piled up in the bathrooms, books lining the same shelves. His secret cigarette stash is gone. 

He crosses back into the master bedroom. Aside from the hidden photos, everything looks exactly as it did when Ilya died. It’s odd to think of his own death: he remembers how it felt to crumble into nothingness. Like his limbs were falling asleep. No pain, but pure panic shooting through his veins. And he remembers the abject horror on Shane’s face and he held on tight and begged Ilya not to go. The memory of his husband’s anguished shouts is agonising, so he shakes his head to try and clear the sound. It doesn’t work. 

Four hours and he’s losing his mind with want. Shane survived five years of this, but it already feels insurmountable. Ilya slumps down at the foot of the bed and threads his fingers through his hair, tugging sharply to ground himself. In the corner, his discarded clothes are in exactly the same place he left them the night before. He spins his wedding ring on his hand and wonders if Shane will be wearing his. If across the country he can feel Ilya’s pulse through the band of metal and knows that he has come home. 

Standing suddenly, he straightens the comforter and pillows and moves Shane’s hockey book back onto the shelf. It slides into place and fits with ease. No sign that half a decade has passed it by. He thinks about his whole life, divided neatly into Before Shane and After Shane. Before Shane is a blur, strobe lights and the slam of a stick striking a puck and a hand striking his cheek. His mother’s pale prone form on the bed. Training, saving, knowing he had one shot to get out of Russia and if he blew it, he was fucked. 

After Shane is bliss. Not all of it: so much wasted time, so much unnecessary heart ache. Shane leaving a Vegas hotel room, unkissed. Shane pale and panicked as he eats Ilya’s tuna melt and runs away. Watching Shane go down on the ice. Calling him to hear his voice, licking and sucking at sweat-damp skin, following him into the cottage, to Canada, following him anywhere. His whole life built around loving this man. Now he wonders if he can ever slot back into that place. Maybe Shane has gone somewhere Ilya cannot reach. He’s thinking too much and it is making him nauseous: he rushes downstairs where David and Yuna pretend not to have been talking about him, in their polite Canadian way. 

2026

The bar throbs, pumping bass and overlapping chatter. From his vantage point at the bar he can keep an eye on errant rookies as they flirt and dance and drink. It should be a somber affair, losing out on the Stanley Cup, Shane and Troy sitting like sentinels at the bar to contrast any rookie feeling a little too hopped up on booze and adrenaline. But there’s a lot to celebrate: Bood is killing it as Captain, their lines are gelling, they’ve made it through another playoffs run without any injuries that can’t be fixed with a few sessions of physio. And half their team hasn’t turned to dust, which these days counts as a win. 

Troy nudges Shane and points to his left. A fresh ginger ale sits next to his empty can - he mostly avoids booze these days. Too close to his side is a warm body, grinning and putting their lips to his ear to be heard. 

“Hey,” the stranger shouts, “you’re way too handsome to look so down. You a Cens fan?” Shane would laugh but this person is getting somehow even closer. He gives a nod of thanks for the drink and replies. 

“Yeah. Bummer about the Stanley.” The stranger hums sympathetically. They rest a hand on the back of Shane’s chair. 

“Could be worse! We were shit a few years back. Here,” they pull out their phone and navigate to the contacts page, “put your number in. I’d like to cheer you up.”

Shane’s forced smile is straining his face. He leans away from the man, closer to Troy, and pushes the phone away.

“I’m married. Have a good night.” Thankfully the stranger gets the hint and backs away, shoulders slumped. Shane cracks open the ginger ale anyway. He fixes his stare on the rainbow of bottles stacked on the barback. Troy’s stare is burning a hole in the side of his head. 

“What?” He snaps, regretting the acidic tone as soon as he says it. Troy isn’t put off.

“Nothing. You okay?” Shane shrugs. It’s not the first time someone has hit on him. A few times people have tried to broach the subject of dating, and he’s shut them down with a simple I’m married. 

“Fine. Just tired. I’m gonna go back to the hotel.” He pays his tab and drops a few bills in the tip jar. Troy follows suit and Shane is grateful for the solidarity. They nod to Bood and Chouinard who are wrangling some rookies into a cab. They’ve got it under control.

The night air is balmy, quiet once they leave the bar behind. Five minutes walk to the hotel and Shane can burrow under the covers and forget the slimy feeling of someone thinking he’s single. A few years ago Ilya would have been wrapped around him at the bar, leaving no room for doubt that Shane Hollander was a taken man. Now all he has is a wedding ring with no counterpart.

“My mom asked if I was gonna start dating last week. I didn’t handle it as well as you,” Troy admits sheepishly. Shane nudges their shoulders together and stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m too tired from playoffs to start hitting strangers. Give me a few days to recover.” They walk in companionable silence back to the hotel. Troy is a man of few words and Shane couldn’t be more grateful. Parting ways at their respective rooms, Troy steels himself and calls out to Shane. 

“Do you think it gets easier?” Isn’t that the million dollar question. Shane shrugs. 

“I fucking hope so, Barrett.”

It doesn’t. He looks in the mirror while he brushes his teeth and sees new lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. A reminder that he is getting older. A reminder that Ilya is not.

Shane falls asleep clutching Ilya’s chain in his left hand. Not for the first time, he thanks God that he insisted on cleaning it the night before The Snap. Maybe that was a consolation prize for taking his husband. He’d trade it in an instant, but the prongs press into his palm comfortingly as he drifts into uneasy sleep.

2027

Shane must be two hours away by now. With Ilya’s permission, Yuna has started fielding messages, everyone desperate to get in touch with him now he’s returned. Any other day he would be preening under the proof of care. But the only person he really wants to hear from still hasn’t called his mom, and Ilya isn’t sure what to make of that.

“He’ll be here soon,” David says to no one in particular. Ilya nods blithely but says nothing. Jesus, has it really only been four hours since he came back to life? It seemed a lot more thrilling when Lazarus did it. Ilya just feels tired. His whole body reconstituted from nothing and he just wants a nap. 

The Centaurs are overjoyed at his return. Yuna manages to pick up a text from Bood, and one from Troy, and an incoherent string of French-German-English messages from Luca Haas. Everyone joyfully celebrating their returns. No one mentions Shane, which adds fuel to Ilya’s growing sense of dread. Yuna is still calling him, but no joy: Shane is unreachable. Is he trying to break the news to his new partner that the baggage from his past has returned to haunt him? What an uncharitable thing to think about his husband. Shane is not callous. Shane is good and kind and loved him, once, even if it was five years ago and he has a new life and a new person taking Ilya’s space in their bed. They could be friends one day. Even the thought makes Ilya scoff. 

If he has to hear Shane’s voicemail one more time, he’ll punch something, so he tells Yuna he will make them all a cup of tea, which seems to soothe her. He flicks the kettle on and scrounges up some instant coffee from the back of the cupboard. When he re-enters the living room Yuna’s phone is switched off and she’s staring at him with a piercing gaze that is all Shane Hollander and makes Ilya’s stomach churn. 

2027

Shane wakes up to screaming outside. 

He leaps out of bed to look out the window. He doesn’t splurge frequently but this hotel is in a nice part of Toronto, so it’s an unexpected wake up call. If someone is being murdered, he should put his hockey strength to good use and intervene. 

The scream dies out and is replaced by sobbing. That’s worse right? He’s pulling on his trainers when he clocks that the person is not crying in fear. Through tears he can make out half of a phone call - I love you, I love you, holy shit, I’m coming. 

Huh. Weird. He takes his shoes off and heads to the bathroom to scrub the crusty feeling out of his mouth. Last night’s clothes are folded on the armchair in the corner, ready for a quick change to head back to Ottawa after lunch. The Irina Foundation’s campaign shoot with Fabian Salah was sure to pull in donations, but he doesn’t relish the trip. Still. Five hours back home and he should be back in time to collect Anya and call Rose, who’s filming another terrible blockbuster (“It funds the indie stuff, so I guess I should be grateful, but I’m so sick of being painted blue. Stop laughing, asshole, it’s not funny! It’s in my pores for weeks!”).

His phone is vibrating itself off the nightstand. He picks it up and checks the caller - Mom. She will usually text before calling, so maybe it’s important. Hopefully nothing is wrong with Anya: she had a vet appointment last week and everything was fine, but Shane can’t help but worry. He worries a lot, these days, always trying to cling to things so they don’t dissolve between his fingers.

“Hey, mom. You okay?”

Yuna doesn’t say anything. A loud sob escapes her mouth and he can hear what must be his dad crashing around in the background, talking to himself. 

“Have you seen the news?” She asks, frantic. Shane shakes his head then realises she can’t see him. 

“No? What’s happening? Are you okay? Is dad okay?” His mom is laughing and crying at the same time. It sounds like she’s moving, and he hears the car door slam and the engine revving. 

“We’re going to the cottage. Shane, they’re all back, everyone that disappeared. Everyone’s come back.”

He drops his phone. Suddenly lightheaded he sits down on the end of the bed and puts his head between his knees. Tries all the breathing exercises his therapist taught him, none of which really work, so he gives up and grabs the phone again. His voice is wrecked, pulled taut.

“What? Mom, are you sure? He’s okay?” 

Between sobs she replies. 

“Yeah, baby, we’re sure. We’re going to find Ilya now. He’s back. You have to get here. Oh God, you won’t be able to get a flight-” he’s already moving, shoving things into his suitcase and flinging himself out the door and downstairs. He throws his key on the desk but the receptionist doesn’t even look up, too busy staring shellshocked at his phone screen where someone is waving to him over FaceTime. 

“I’m coming,” Shane shouts down the phone, sprinting to the car park, “tell him I’m coming.”

Toronto is carnage. All over the city people are honking and screeching and jumping out of cars to reunite with loved ones and pull disoriented people out of the way of bikes. Shane wishes he could share the joy, but if one more person enters this traffic jam and keeps him from getting home, he is going to kill a pedestrian and then Ilya will have to visit him in jail and he won’t get to touch his husband because he’ll be stuck behind bulletproof glass- 

His heart is racing. Cold sweat breaks out all over his body. Ilya, alive. Ilya, breathing. Ilya, back. How had he not noticed as soon as he woke up? Why didn’t his body register the shift in the air - everything falling back into place. He needs to be home. 

He lays on the horn as someone cuts in. The traffic is interminable, moving like glue, he’s never going to get there like this. He slams his head against the steering wheel and lets out a string of curses. 

He lasts another ten minutes in the traffic before he swears and pulls over. Up ahead, a beacon of glowing fluorescents declares that he is approaching Bob’s Bikes and Motors, a definitely legitimate business and not a mirage from his hysterical mind. He parks on the curb and looks around for traffic wardens. Fuck it, he can pay the fine. They can strip the car for parts for all he cares. He shoves his phone in his bag: he’s going home. 

2027

Ilya is going to ask. If he finds out now that Shane has moved on, he will have two hours to get his shit together and steel himself for their reunion. He can do it. All he has to do is open his mouth and ask. He will accept it with grace and slink off to the bedroom to pack his things. Just fucking ask, he thinks. Yuna isn’t cruel: she’ll tell him straight. 

“Yuna,” he starts, “Shane is-” 

The door slams open. He knows who it is immediately, because he recognises everything about Shane Hollander, how he clears his throat, how sniffles when he won’t admit he has a cold, how his feet scuff the floor when he tries to walk and take off his shoes at the same time. 

Shane is here. Shane should still be two hours away but he’s here, in the cottage, crossing the threshold, dropping his bag in the hall and kicking the door shut, stumbling into the living room. Ilya leaps up from the sofa.

An invisible force punches him in the gut. It takes everything he has not to double over. Shane, standing in front of him, hair longer, face a little more lined, eyes wide and frantic. Shane breathing like he’s run a marathon. Shane, Shane, Shane. His Shane. 

Neither one of them speaks. Shane just stares at him, gaping like a fish, jaw hanging open. Close your mouth, you’re catching crows, Ilya would say, and Shane would slam his mouth shut and glare until Ilya nuzzled in to press apologetic kisses to his neck. 

“Hi,” he says, because he can’t think of anything better. Shane just keeps staring. 

2027

There are too many steps up to the cottage. Shane is tripping over his feet trying to get there in time, Bob’s rental motorbike lying pitifully on its side on the driveway. Sorry Bob, he thinks, and suddenly he’s at the cottage door and jamming the key in the lock. His parents’ car is parked outside so he knows he didn’t hallucinate their earlier conversation. With the wind in his ears he was sufficiently distracted as he made the drive from Toronto in record time. Maybe later he could look at Guinness and see if there was an established time for the journey: never hurts to set another record. 

He throws his bag down in the hall and skids on the hardwood floor, sleek under his socks. His parents’ shoes are askew by the stairs, so they were clearly in a rush just like him. Desperate to get to Ilya, to see him in the flesh. Grip him so tightly that their fingers fuse to his skin and he can never shake them off. 

He rounds the corner and there are three figures by the sofa, but he only cares about one. 

Ilya is stood there in the same clothes he died in. 

His husband looks just like he did five years ago, and no memory and photo Shane has poured overcan compare to Ilya here, alive, breathing. 

“Hi,” Ilya says, sheepish, and it’s like they’re seventeen again and freezing in the Saskatchewan winter. They’re seventeen and twenty and twenty five and thirty one and only Shane is thirty six, which he suddenly feels self conscious about. So much time has passed and it’s all etched on his face and the planes of his chest and the way his stomach has softened a little and the dappled white in his hair. And Ilya looks just the same as he did before he crumbled into dust and Shane lost him for what should have been forever.

He doesn’t move because he can’t: legs frozen to the floor, heavy as lead. If he touches Ilya right now he might disappear and Shane knows he won’t survive it a second time, barely survived the first. I just got you back, don’t go again. So he stands stock still and stares at Ilya who stares back. 

2027

Shane stands in front of him. A new Shane, different, older, still just as lovely, even windswept and tear stained. This is the Shane he knows. He is a world-renowned expert in Shane Hollander-Rozanov, a cartographer of every stretch mark and freckle. Has someone else taken his place to learn what makes Shane tick? 

Five hours apart and Ilya can barely resist jumping his husband. His limbs buzz with want but he holds back. Shane has gloves on so Ilya can’t get a good look at his hands to spot a ring. He wants, and wants, and wants, and stays completely still because as soon as he moves, it’s over. He's always been so good at wanting without taking.

Shane is doing the same. His eyes flit all over Ilya trying to catalogue him and check for signs of disintegration. Yuna and David have stepped to the side, leaning on each other and not even pretending to hide their tears. Please, Ilya thinks, please don’t tell me it’s over. I just got back. Then his eyes drop to the open neck of Shane’s jacket. He’s bundled into a parka to beat the frigid Ottawa air. The collar of his shirt is visible under the fleecy down. And a glimmer of gold stands out from his skin. The three horizontal prongs of Irina’s cross stark against flesh. Oh, that’s mine. You’re mine. Are you still mine?

The drop of Ilya’s gaze makes Shane move. He’s running at Ilya and throwing his arms around his neck with such force that they both fall back onto the couch, and Shane is heaving with heartwrenching sobs that Ilya feels all the way down to his toes. Flooding him with love he's kept contained.

“You’re here,” he cries, burrowing into Ilya’s hold. Ilya just squeezes him tighter. It hurts; his vice-like grip matches Shane’s. They don’t ease up, even as Shane pulls back a fraction so he can look at Ilya’s face. He moves a hand to Ilya’s cheek and tangles the other in his hair to cup the back of his skull.

Up close Ilya sees that Shane wears half a decade well. Tasteful little crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Ilya reckons he must have collected more freckles too, dappled on the bridge of his nose. He’ll count them later. 

“Moya lyubov,” he whispers. Shane sobs again and presses their foreheads together. 

“I love you.” Ilya wants to reply but he doesn’t get the chance: Shane kisses him with so much love that he loses his breath and sees stars. Shane pushes closer and Ilya lets him. An atom's width apart is too much. Shane, shaking with sobs that turn to laughter, hysterical with relief.

When they break apart it’s to gasp for air, eyes wet and breath hitching. Ilya cups Shane’s face and runs his thumbs across his cheekbones, taking it all in. Shane can’t look away. He stubbornly refuses to blink: he won’t miss another second.

2027

“Ya tebya lyublyu. I love you, my Shane, I love you.” Shane's face crumples again again and Ilya follows suit. Shane nuzzles closer and buries his face in Ilya’s neck. He breathes in deeply and his husband smells the same, pine scented like the bottles of three-in-one shower gel Shane threw away five years ago and then bought religiously every month afterwards.

When he gets his breath back he goes in for another kiss. So long since he was this close to anyone and he wants to burrow under Ilya’s skin and never let him go. Ilya would let him. He knows Yuna and David are watching and he can’t bring himself to give a shit. Not when Ilya is alive underneath him. Every time he moves Shane follows. He’ll follow him anywhere. 

They stay like that until their limbs stiffen and for even longer afterwards. Trading kisses and clinging to each other. “Baby,” Shane whispers, pressing kisses against every inch of skin he can find: Ilya’s forehead, his eyelids, his nose, his philtrum, his chin. All smooth and pale and alive. Ilya smiles and catches his lip between his teeth, rubbing their noses together. They should get up and check their phones. Shane sits back and Ilya whines, following after him, only for Shane to unclasp the cross around his neck and return it to its rightful place. His fingers tremble as he fiddles with the clasp. But then it's back where it belongs, sitting above Ilya’s heart. He drops his forehead and rests it against Ilya’s chest to hear the rhythmic thump and remind himself that this is real. It’s not a dream, like those awful dreams Shane never stopped having, because in those Ilya always crumbled away before Shane could get to him. Now he’s solid under his hands. 

Eventually they get too uncomfortable and renegotiate their position against the couch cushions. They end up sprawled out with Ilya half-slumped in Shane’s lap, still staring in disbelief at each other. Yuna and David join them with a tight hug. His parents are crying and so is his husband and Shane is weeping too: so long since they all smiled at the same time. When his parents leave, it is with a promise to come back tomorrow and a request to call them as soon as they wake up. Before they go, David takes out his phone and snaps a photo of the pair curled into each other on the sofa. “Proof of life,” he explains, shuffling out to the car with another squeeze of his sons’ shoulders. 

And then they are alone. All alone in the quiet cottage, where Shane has not set foot for who knows how long. Too many memories: they would have crushed him. Now Ilya is here to share the weight. 

“I love you,” he whispers again, in case Ilya has forgotten. Ilya kisses him hard and clasps their hands together, brushing his lips over Shane's knuckles and focusing on the band of metal around his ring finger.

“I love you too. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to leave you.” It’s enough to break his heart. Instead he stands up and pulls Ilya up the stairs, stopping by the window to take in this image: his lovely husband, alive and breathing, cast in golden light from the setting sun. All he’s ever wanted. 

They fumble their way into the bedroom and Shane shoves him back down onto the mattress. Clothes are cast aside. Ilya’s broad chest flecked with hair, crucifix sitting proud in the centre. Shane wants to devour him. He straddles his husband and drags his teeth across Ilya’s skin, fumbling with his sweatpants to tug them off. Stripped to his boxers he is struck by how unchanged Ilya is. No indication that he has ever been gone. 

Ilya’s eyes are dark with want. He zeroes in on Shane’s crotch, covered by his boxers, and moves to tug him free. Eyes on the prize he spits on his hand and reaches down to grip Shane’s length. Shane knows he won’t last long. It’s been years and he’s bursting at the seams with want, sticky and cloying. 

“Please, Ilya, fuck me,” he groans, and Ilya nearly blows right there at the lust in his voice. Instead he flips them over and manoeuvres Shane to lie on his front, running long fingers up his spine. A few new stretch marks that he can kiss. He licks a stripe over Shane’s hole just to watch his husband tremble. The pucker he knows so well is familiar after all this time. He reaches for the lube, still tucked away in the bedside table. Pressing his lips to Shane’s ear he reaches down and starts to enter him, just one finger, caressing his rim with tantalisingly gentle touches. 

“How long has it been since you had a cock inside you?” Shane stiffens under him.

2027

“How long has it been since you had a cock inside you?” Ilya pants into Shane’s ear. This is usually the kind of thing that makes Shane’s toes curl and his hole clench, hot and tight. But this time Shane stops dead and tenses like he’s preparing for a fight. 

He turns to look over his shoulder. His eyes are dark but not with lust. “What the fuck are you talking about? Didn’t they tell you? You were gone for five fucking years.” He chokes up at the end. “I thought they told you.”

Ilya extricates his finger from Shane mournfully. They manoeuvre to face each other: Shane rests a hand on Ilya’s face and looks at him with big wet eyes. “They told me. I thought - I didn’t-” Now Shane is welling up, shaking his head in panic. 

“You think I found someone else to fuck me? To replace you?” His voice grows strained and Ilya shakes his head frantically. 

“No, malysh. But five years is a long time. I was scared, when they told me.” He searches for words but comes up empty. Shane’s face drops and he moves to straddle Ilya, hovering above him so their foreheads press together. Up close Ilya can see those long five years etched deep on his husband. The ageing, yes, but the grief too, weighing him down.  

“It was a really fucking long time,” Shane starts, “to miss you. But I never stopped. I didn’t move on. There was no one else, not even for a second. Just you. Okay?” Wordless Ilya nods and Shane is leaning down to press their lips together. When they pull apart Shane tugs him closer and cups his cheeks. It is only when Shane starts to wipe his face that Ilya realises he is crying again. He’ll be a dried up husk tomorrow. He gets tomorrow with Shane.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry,” Shane shakes his head and kisses Ilya’s brow. Once he starts sobbing he can’t stop. All the fear bleeds out of him and pools on the floor between them, wet and quivering. The thought of Shane leaving him behind, finding someone new. Knowing that his husband waited five years. He’s not sure which one is worse. Shane’s devotion slices through him and wrings his insides, flooding him with love. Shane pets his hair and pulls him to rest on top of him. The position lets Ilya press their chests together, looking up at Shane with big wet eyes.

“I love you. I would wait forever. You’re all I want, okay?” Ilya just nods and burrows further into Shane, letting him stroke his hair and run his hands over his back. 

“I’m sorry I left. I never wanted to. I was so fucking scared, no one said anything but it was five years and I didn’t know if you would still want me,” he trails off, and feels the vibration of the whine Shane lets out. 

He just keeps touching Ilya’s back and pulling him closer, dropping kisses to his hair and breathing in his scent. “Baby. I never want to spend another second away from you. I love you so fucking much.” 

“Fuck, I need to smoke. This is too much. You are killing me, malysh.” Ilya mumbles his words into Shane's skin. Shane punches his shoulder and Ilya laughs. 

“No fucking way. You’re gonna live forever. I’ve decided. Besides, I smoked all your secret cigarettes.” Ilya gasps, leaning back to look Shane in the eyes. 

“I disappear for five years and you become a chainsmoker! Who are you?” Laughing, Shane tugs on his curls, and Ilya nuzzles against his palm. 

“I’m your husband. Always. Ya tebya lyublyu,” he says, pushing in ever closer to Ilya who doesn’t seem to mind, readjusting his hold. 

He presses his lips to Shane’s cheek. “Moya lyubov.” He pauses and adds, “Your accent is better. You’ve been practicing. What else am I going to learn about you?”

Shane thinks of the Ducati in the garage in Montreal, and the motorbike carelessly cast outside on the driveway. Ilya will go nuts when he finds out. Probably insist on fucking him in the leathers. He hums with satisfaction. So much time to find out everything about each other all over again.

They fall asleep curled together. Ilya’s back to his chest, Shane wraps his arms around his husband to hover over his heart. He barely sleeps: just feels the thump of Ilya’s blood pumping through his body, alive and whole and not going anywhere.

He wakes up with his heart racing. What a cruel dream, and it felt so real too. When he turns to bury his face in his pillow, he yelps in surprise to find a head of curly blonde hair smushed against the fabric. Heart racing, he sits up and flicks the bedside lamp on and Ilya groans, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

“Shane, is so early-” Before he can finish his sentence, Shane is wrapped around him, octopus-like, limbs akimbo. He takes a big deep breath of Ilya and his sleep-warm skin. Ilya doesn’t speak, but he manoeuvres them so Shane can curl into him and cling on like a limpet. He strokes his hair and drops kisses onto his forehead until his husband’s breathing evens out and he drifts off to sleep. Ilya stays awake; he runs his hand up and down Shane’s spine, listening to him breathe, matching their inhales and exhales so if you listened real close, you wouldn’t be able to pick them apart.

Somewhere in Ottawa, Harris Drover is welcomed back to a raucous family gathering and two weeping parents. Troy Barrett is curled up against him, hand resting at the juncture of his neck and shoulder where blood pulses through his arteries. Harris doesn't like anyone touching his chest scar and Troy needs to ground himself with the feeling of life, so they make do. Lisa Hayes is showering her husband in kisses and wiping her tears only to start sobbing all over again when Wyatt smiles and runs his fingers through her hair. Somewhere in Montreal a wrecked Hayden grips his daughter almost tight enough to hurt and Ruby realises with derision that she is now the youngest in the family. Jackie Pike pets her little girl's hair and strokes her pale little cheek. Somewhere, Svetlana is entering Canadian airspace with her thumb hovering over Ilya's contact and her phone vibrating with messages of love and shock. She replies to them slowly and grins when Rose Landry appears on her screen. In New York, Kip is curled up with his parents and Scott is relishing in not having lost another family.

And somewhere in Lanaudière, Ilya Rozanov slots back into Shane's life like he never left, because he didn't, not really, not when he's loved so thoroughly and certainly not when Shane Hollander has spent all this time anchoring him to reality. Shane's world is cast in technicolor again and it's like waking up from a horrible dream only to realise you're right where you want to be and you can finally catch your breath. It's like coming home.