Work Text:
One
Shane shuts down his work laptop, shrugs on his nicest suit jacket and collects his things. He lets his team know he’s heading out and he’ll likely go straight home, so he’ll see whoever comes into the office in the morning.
The cemetery isn’t far from City Hall, and the car park is practically deserted as he finds a spot and reverses in. He checks that his tie is suitably straight before crossing the tarmac and stepping into the lobby.
He introduces himself to the funeral director, explains he’s covering for Julie as the municipal representation, and is thanked for coming. They wait together for another few minutes until the official start time, but given this is a municipal-funded funeral for the deceased, having no family or friends come forward or found via the usual investigation to claim them, Shane doesn’t expect to see anyone else.
He’s surprised when the soft rumble of a low-slung sports car echoes across the car park. The silence feels louder as it cuts off, and Ilya Rozanov - Ottawa’s hockey team’s star centre, openly queer and loved for bringing the Championship cup to the city for the first time last season - climbs out, all long limbs and liquid grace. Shane’s not entirely sure he’s not hallucinating.
“Henry,” the hockey player greets the funeral director stiffly as he walks into the building, the faint smell of tobacco clinging to his well-fitting black suit as his presence seems to fill the room.
“Good to see you, Rozanov,” the funeral director replies, “Thank you for coming, as always.”
Expression tight, Rozanov nods, turns to Shane with a frown.
“Shane Hollander,” Shane introduces himself, holding out a hand for a handshake. “I’m the municipal representative.”
“Julie is okay?”
“She’s fine,” Shane reassures him. “Just enjoying a couple of weeks leave with her kids.”
Rozanov nods again, eyes softening briefly before hardening again as the funeral director begins to lead the way through to the grounds, where the grave has been freshly dug at the end of the cemetery and the groundskeeper waits for them.
Shane has no clue why Ilya Rozanov is here, standing stoically by the graveside with his head bowed low, but he pushes the millions of questions down and focuses on the ceremony instead. It’s short, simple but moving, and Shane bows his head to offer his respects as the director says his final words and the coffin is lowered into the ground.
Rozanov disappears as Shane follows the funeral director back in to sign off the last bits of paperwork needed. He can’t quite find the right way to ask why the hockey player had been here, and drives out of the now-empty car park with the questions running circles in his head.
Two
Shane returns to the cemetery two weeks later for another municipal funeral.
Julie had supposed to come back to work, but her son had broken his leg, so she’s working from home for the immediate future to care for him and Shane had volunteered to cover any funerals again until she was able to return fully.
She’d thanked him gratefully, and when asked about Rozanov had told Shane that “he just started turning up a few months ago. We advertise some of the funerals in the newsletters and obituaries, in case anyone recognises the name and wants to come and say goodbye, but not sure what drives Rozanov to come.”
The curiosity burns, the question floating to the surface every time he watches a hockey match, sees Rozanov tear away from the opposing teams, slam an opponent into the boards or score an impressive goal. What was this man doing at a funeral for someone he didn’t know?
Shane doesn’t know, but there’s an away game in Tampa today so he doubts he'll see Rozanov today.
He’s proven right, and the ceremony is as simple but moving as before, and he thanks Henry as he signs the paperwork and heads back to the office.
Three
He gets the chance to speak to Rozanov at the third funeral Shane attends. Rozanov had been there before Shane this time, standing at the graveside with a sad twist to the side of his mouth, murmuring something softly in Russian after the ceremony as Shane follows Henry back inside for yet more paperwork.
Rozanov is still outside, though, when he reemerges into the overcast afternoon light, sitting on a bench at the edge of the cemetery with a cigarette burning lightly between two fingers.
“Mind if I sit?” Shane asks quietly, and gets a nod as Rozanov exhales smoke and shifts a knee to make more room.
“Julie is not back yet?”
“Her son broke his leg,” Shane tells him. “She’s working from home until he’s mobile and can look after himself.”
“Ah,” Rozanov nods softly.
“Can I- would you mind if I asked you… why do you come? You don’t know any of these people, I assume.”
Shane watches Rozanov as the athlete stares out over the grass, fingers tapping lightly at his knee as he purses his lips.
“I do not think anyone should be buried alone,” Rozanov eventually says quietly, the weight of a heavy emotion Shane doesn’t fully understand pulling at each word. “We are all alone, in the end, yes? But I… I would not want to be buried alone, and so what else can I do?”
Shane’s heart thumps heavily in his chest, admiration and empathy and grief all tugging at the organ.
“It’s very good of you,” he offers, just as quietly.
Rozanov sneers lightly, “I do not do it to be good,” he replies, and Shane realises he’s misspoken, or pushed at a sore spot he hadn't meant to. “It is selfish, that I come to this like- like it will stop me from being buried alone.”
Shane wants to say a lot to that like; 'you’re a famous hockey player, you’ll have loads of people at your funeral' or 'but surely you’ve got friends and family?' But in a moment of tactfulness he bites the words back and thinks it through instead.
“Even so,” he finally replies, “it’s a nice thing to do. Selfish reasons or not, it doesn’t detract from the fact I think that your presence is a comfort, whether their spirit or ghost or whatever you believe is around to know it or not.”
Rozanov takes another drag of his cigarette and shrugs carelessly. “Okay.”
Shane’s not sure he’s got through to him, but can’t see another way to do so and pushes himself to his feet.
“I’ll be covering for Julie a while yet, so maybe see you around,” he offers as casually as he can, and heads for his car before Rozanov can reply.
Four
“Shane,” Rozanov greets him two weeks later.
“Rozanov.”
“Ilya, please,” Ilya corrects him gently as they follow Henry through to the cemetery, the route now feeling familiar.
“How are you? That was a nasty check last night.”
“Ah, just bruises,” Ilya waves him off, but there’s something a little wary in his eyes as he watches Shane. “You watched?”
“I’m from Ottawa, hockey’s in my blood,” Shane replies with a shrug. “I played a lot when I was younger, but had a bad shoulder injury in my early teens and the chances of going down the hockey route professionally shot down to basically next to zero, so. I still play recreationally, and watch the MLH games, of course.”
“Right,” Ilya replies softly, but the wariness has subsided and he stands close enough that their shoulders brush as they step up to the graveside, the line of him warm and solid even through both sets of suit fabrics.
Henry leads them through the ceremony as usual, and Shane exits having completed the paperwork to see Ilya on the bench again.
Shane sits next to him. There’s blue skies today, the warmth of the late-afternoon sunbeams cutting across Ilya’s face and making blond curls glow. Shane leans back, relaxes into the bench, feels tiredness creep up on him. It’s been a long few weeks of work, on top of covering other bits and pieces for Julie in the office, and he’s looking forward to the weekend starting tomorrow.
“You ever come to games?” Ilya asks him out of nowhere, and Shane glances over at him.
“Sometimes,” he replies slowly. “When I can get tickets.”
“I get friends and family seats, if you wanted,” Ilya offers, and Shane blinks at him.
“We’re friends?”
Ilya shrugs carelessly again. “As much as two people who go to lonely funerals together can be, I guess.”
Shane huffs a little laugh - that’s not a sentence he’d ever expect to hear, but he’s secretly a little pleased at the sentiment.
“Maybe,” he replies. “I don’t want to take advantage.”
“If I am offering, is not taking advantage,” Ilya rolls his eyes.
“Still,” Shane shrugs. “I’m not sure if it’s a… conflict of interest.”
“Why?”
“I am a government employee. We’re not allowed to accept gifts and things, there’s a lot of rules and policies around it and this I think would skirt the line.”
“What would make it more acceptable, then?”
Shane blinks at Ilya.
“You really want me to come?”
Ilya exhales heavily, rolls his eyes again. “Yes, Shane. I would not offer if I did not want you there.”
“But-”
“Ugh,” Ilya sighs again, leans forward to rub a hand down his face. “Shane. I did not want to do this here, because it’s a fucking cemetery. But I am interested in you, yes? I think you are pretty, and I would like to get to know you more, outside of this,” he gestures back to the lines of graves behind them. “If you came to game, I could see you after. Maybe get drinks, or something?”
“Oh.” Shane feels like he’s been pushed backwards into an empty grave, winded as he hits the dirt six feet down.
“I, um, I’d like that,” he accepts, heart racing again in his chest. “Sorry. Yes. Please.”
“Yes? Okay,” Ilya’s eyes bore into his, and Shane can’t stop the smile from creeping up his face.
“I, um, think you’re really pretty too, for the record.”
Ilya laughs a soft, sharp laugh, and shakes his head briefly, fondness flickering across his face.
“Okay. You have your phone? Give.”
Shane hands it over unlocked, watches as Ilya sets up a new contact and then calls himself.
“I will call you to arrange tickets later, yes?”
“Okay,” Shane nods, heart still rabbiting in his chest as Ilya stands, leans down and presses a quick kiss to Shane’s cheek. As he’s reeling from that, Ilya offers a flash of a grin and turns to head for the obnoxious orange sports car a few spaces down.
“Bye, Shane.”
“Bye, Ilya,” Shane calls back, heart stirring with anticipation and the beginnings, he's pretty sure, of love.