Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Protective Shane Hollander, Threats of Violence, Death Threats, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, This will have a little bit of action because the plot needed satisfaction but mostly just angst, Angst and Feels, Fluff and Angst, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Passively Suicidal Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Takes Care of Ilya Rozanov, pre-tuna melt

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Heated Rivalry - But Make It a Procedural TV Show Universe

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-31 Completed: 2026-04-08 Words: 19,887 Chapters: 6/6

cross your thoughtless heart

Summary

“Is that it?” Ilya ask dryly at the exact same time.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Rozanov?” Shane snaps, still feeling his heart in his ears. “Is that not bad enough for you?!”

“Some people burn dolls, some people shoot them,” he has the gall to shrug. “I get threats like that all the time. No big deal.”

“Yeah, well, I get them too, asshole, so I know this isn’t normal. It is a big deal.”

Or:

In the middle of a Montreal vs Boston game a threat against Ilya Rozanov becomes a security concern… and Shane Hollander kinda loses it. Just a little. In his defense, he’s pretty justified to be worried, okay? He is NOT overreacting.

Notes

So who is here for another procedural-inspired fic where hockey players play a totally unrealistic part in crime fighting?? Electric boogaloo or whatever the kids say.

This will be almost as unrealistic as my fairly optimist chapter count. Probably. Just let your disbelief at the door with your shoes and enjoy the ride!!

Chapter 1: cautions issued, he stood

Some days, Shane Hollander wonders what his life would be like if he had an office job. A normal job. If he woke up early, commuted to an office with amicable bland coworkers, typed up some emails, maybe filled some spreadsheets, then went home, hit the gym, had a hearty meal and went to bed. He thinks he’d be good at it. He imagines what life would feel like if a regular work day didn’t include getting his ribs bruised by a two-hundred pound man slamming him against the boards, running out of breath to the point he can barely breathe and dealing with a few hundred overly-excited people yelling at the top of their lungs around him. But days like this, as he leaves the ice after scoring a goal against Boston at the very end of the second period, he knows he could never be anything other than a hockey player. He just loves it too much. And while another job might have been simpler, he couldn’t have loved it more than he loves this game. 

And then, there’s the Rozanov of it all.

If Shane worked a normal job, he might have seen him on tv or in a perfume add or promoting some fancy stupid car. He might have even had a crush on him. He would have never known. He would have lived his entire life thinking desire, pleasure and want were things people just made up. He wouldn’t have know what it’s like to be unmade by another body, to crave another body, to dream of hands and lips and a cock that can make him forget his own name. And he wouldn’t know what it’s like to face an equal in the ice, to be pushed to his best, to find joy in the fight.

The look on Rozanov’s eyes as they both skate off the ice, each with a goal under their belt and with hunger for more… he wouldn’t change the world for it.

Shane is so far gone into his thoughts that he almost misses the fact that it’s been too long. The locker room’s buzzy energy has died down and Theriault still hasn’t appeared to give them his review, to yell at them, to demand more. He grabs his phone from his cubby to check the time and catches a message:

Lily: Wtf are they waiting for?

He frowns, wondering if his locker room is still waiting for them too. He doesn’t reply, though. They have a strict rule not to text each other during games. He’ll  yell at him over it later.

Then he catches the time and his frown deepens. It’s been too long. He sends a glance towards Hayden. His friend arches both eyebrows. Shane shrugs. Twenty minutes late. The air in the locker room is beginning to grow stale, tense with the waning adrenaline of over a dozen men eager to get back out there. This can’t be normal.

Something’s wrong.

Just as he’s about to cave in and text Ilya back, Theriault arrives. Shane can practically feel the collective sigh of relief that crosses the locker room as everyone breathes. But then the coach’s eyes find him and he tenses again.

“Hollander. A word. Leave the skates.”

Without saying much more, he steps out. Hayden sends him another look, but Shane shrugs again. He unlaces his skates as quickly as he can and rushes out, feeling every fiber in his muscles wound up into a tense knot.

“What’s going on?” Shane asks, as Theriault leads him across the hallways of the Bell Centre.

His coach doesn’t reply. Fuck.

They turn to the left and are met by Ilya Rozanov and his coach, LeClair, who falls into pace with Theriault without a word.

Shane risks a glance at Rozanov, who is already staring at him with piercing blue eyes. If Shane hopes to get answers from him, he is immediately disappointed to find his own questions reflected on his face. Mainly: what the hell is going on?

He shakes his head slightly, communicating he has no idea, then fixes his eyes forward again, in case someone turns and catches them gazing into each other’s eyes. Not that that was what he was doing.

Still, part of his brain is already reeling.

They know. They must know. Why else would they call us both? Why else wouldn’t they say anything? Where are they taking us? Oh god, this is it, isn’t it? This is over. They know. They will call us out on it. It’s all over. Oh god. I’m not ready for it to be over. Not like this.

Rozanov’s knuckles brush his. Shane jumps, turning to him. Ilya’s eyes pin him again, but there’s no question now. Shane knows that look. He has seen it in bed before. It’s the are you okay? look. It’s the I’ve got you look. And fuck him because it works. A single look from Ilya settles the worst of his nerves. Because if this is happening, he isn’t facing it alone.

Eventually, they reach one of the big meeting rooms. Not the kind they use for the team, but a nice one usually saved for fancy businessmen and brand deals. Inside there are two men and a woman. All three in business casual clothes, with very serious expressions.

“Mister Hollander, Mister Rozanov, thank you for joining us.”

Shane feels like his legs might give in from under him.

“What is going on?” Ilya demands, and Shane doesn’t miss the way his body angles slightly between him the rest of the room.

“We are sorry to bring you in like this, but there has been a security concern. We thought both of you, as team captains, should be made aware.”

Shane tries his best not to let his relief show.

Okay. With that out of the way, he can think. He can do this. He can be a captain.

“Alright,” he steps forward, crossing his arms and squaring next to Rozanov, “what’s going on?”

One of the men, a redhead with dark brown eyes, takes a step forward with a laptop in his hands.

“There’s been a threat in the past hour. We have cause to believe it poses a legitimate concern to the well being of one of the players. Specifically you, Mister Rozanov.”

Shane’s head snaps to look at Ilya and before he can even think about it he blurts out: “what?!”

Ilya doesn’t look at him. His face is still set on the man, jaw clenched and eyes hard. Shane turns back to the strangers, ready to demand answers. But, before he can, the man presses play on a video.

There’s a man on a field with a black ski mask over his face. He is holding some kind of big automatic gun in both hands. Whoever is holding the camera turns and points it to the other side of the field, where a straw figure, closer to a scarecrow than a doll, with a black Rozanov jersey is set on a wooden stick. Then, with a deafening rattle, bullets start tearing into it. Straw and fabric explode in the air.

(That’s not what Shane sees. What he sees is the man next to him, with his windswept hair and his bright blue eyes, getting torn apart, body shaking with the force of each impact, blood splattering across the dark fabric of his jersey, until he falls backwards, death before his body even hits the floor, warm hands and soft lips and booming laughter all ripped from the world for good.)

The video ends.

Shane’s limbs feel cold.

Something cracks inside him.

“What the fuck?!” He gasps.

“Is that it?” Ilya ask dryly at the exact same time.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Rozanov?” Shane snaps, still feeling his heart in his ears. “Is that not bad enough for you?!”

“Some people burn dolls, some people shoot them,” he has the gall to shrug. “I get threats like that all the time. No big deal.”

“Yeah, well, I get them too, asshole, so I know this isn’t normal. It is a big deal.”

Something crosses Ilya’s face but it’s there and gone for a second before his expression settles on annoyance. “Fucking relax, Hollander. Is probably just angry fan that knows we are gonna beat you.”

“An angry fan with an automatic gun, Rozanov!”

Someone clears their throat. Shane turns to them, feeling murderous, but then it dawns on him they are not alone. They can see them. And Shane, well, maybe he got a bit too into Ilya’s space. He takes a step back, forcing his shoulders down into a more settled position.

“Like we said,” the woman begins, looking absolutely done with both of them, “we have reasons to believe this is a security concern. The video was posted automatically an hour ago. We are trying to trace whoever posted it but it’s been harder than we expected. And… there was a manifesto.”

“A what?” Ilya frowns, sounding impatient.

“A long… explanation of why they wanted to kill you. And how it would be done here, during your visit to Montreal.”

Shane feels sick. He needs to read that manifesto and at the same time wants to have nothing to do with it. He just wants it to disappear.

“What were the reasons?” Rozanov demands.

“Mostly being a Russian agent trying to destabilize the west from within. Accusations of communism, espionage, something about Rasputin and unnatural sexual tendencies. Honestly, it got pretty rambling after a while. Didn’t make much sense,” the red head man shrugs, but he closes the laptop and does not show them the text itself.

“Anyway,” the woman interjects again. “We have been discussing further steps.”

“We are cancelling the game,” Shane says.

“What?” Rozanov gaps at him. As if that was the shocker.

“We are not playing while some psycho wants to gun you down, Rozanov!”

“Hollander, you don’t get to-”

“Oh, I do. So don’t you-”

“Gentlemen! We didn’t call you here to ask for your opinion,” the third man finally talks. He is tall and broad, but his features are the bland kind of pleasant that would slip your mind the second you weren’t looking at him. “This has already been decided. Hollander is right. We are not continuing the game.”

“But-”

“I’m sorry, Mister Rozanov, but it’s not just you who would be at risk if we keep the game going. We cannot risk an active fire situation with the crowd or the rest of your teams out there, can we?”

That, miraculously, seems to shut Ilya up.

“So what’s the plan?” Shane demands.

The man fixates his heavy eyes on him, clearly annoyed. This is a man used to be in charge, Shane realizes, doesn’t like to be questioned. His first instinct, as usual, is to apologize for overstepping and back down. He doesn’t. If Ilya is in danger, Shane needs to —has to— know how to stop it. The man sighs, with something that isn’t quite defeat but resignation.

“Our officers are already working on quietly evacuating the crowds. We told them there might be a gas leak.”

“Management won’t like that,” Theriault huffs.

Shane wants to strangle him. Who fucking cares.

“Too bad,” the man deadpans.

“What about Rozanov,” Shane redirects, impatient.

“He and the rest of both teams are to stay here until the building is secure.”

“So we are all just sitting like ducks?” Ilya arches both eyebrows, not sounding concerned so much as amused. “Very nice.”

“There already was a crowd outside during the game. With everyone leaving, they will be gathering by the doors wanting to at least get a glimpse at the players, and that’s not accounting for angry mobs that might be upset that the game has been called off.”

“So we are trapped in here?” Shane’s voice slips slightly, anxiousness creeping in.

“Not for long,” the woman says in a tone that clearly means to be soothing. “Our riot control officers are on the way. It might take them a couple hours, but we will clear them out of the perimeter.”

“Fans will not like that either,” Rozanov shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You will see more dolls burning before the night is over. And then you will freak out about all of them.”

“This isn’t funny,” Shane snaps, eyeing him quickly before turning to the officers.

They must be officers or CSIS, though that might be a bit too much. Then again, Ilya is an American player and a Russian citizen. Maybe the Canadian Intelligence is worried about repercussions if something happens to him.

Good. They should add Shane to their list of concerns.

“What then?”

“Then,” the dark eyed man continues, “you can leave. Our team will have secured the Bears’ hotel by then. You will get a police escort to it and to the airport tomorrow. And we will position officers in the hotel-“

“No.”

Every eye in the room lands on him. Shane breathes in deeply, fighting the need to run, to hide, to fucking apologize again.

You’re drawing too much attention to yourself, an acidic voice whispers in the back of his head, where his skull meets his spine. They will see. They will know. You are risking it all, and for what? Because you are scared?

“No?” The man who hasn’t even given them his name repeats slowly.

Shane shifts his weight and very pointedly doesn’t look at Ilya as he says:

“No. If this is really… if the threat is real, they will know what bus Rozanov is on and what hotel his team is staying at. Hell, by now, they could have his fucking hotel room already before your guys secured the place.” Shane does, for ompletely unrelated reasons. “A hotel that is, by the way, still filled with other guests who would be, at best, in danger of getting caught in the crossfire and, at worst, the psychos coming after him. So no, that plan won’t work.”

“So what do you suggest?” The man asks, a little too mildly.

He holds their attention. Fuck it. He is Yuna Hollander’s son. He knows a shitty plan when he sees one, he has spent most of his life looking at every situation as a collection of terrible awful possible outcomes and carefully (cowardly) sidestepping them. He can do this.

“I will not have the captain of the Boston Bears die in my fucking city. He will stay with me.”

More than one mouth, Rozanov’s included, opens to argue. He holds one palm up calmly and it magically works to shut everyone up.

“I am not… unfamiliar with this kind of threats. Rozanov and I have a similar status as public figures and our following is passionate. I have taken the proper security measures to ensure my safety. I live inside a gated community, in a well guarded and very private building with heavy surveillance. Plus, it will be easier for your guys to keep an eye on a single building floor than an entire hotel.”

Shane keeps his eyes on the man who seems to be in charge. He feels curious, angry, confused eyes boring into him from every corner of the room.

“We will have to review the security measures of your building,” is the woman who speaks, finally. And- oh, she’s the one calling the shots.

Shane turns his full attention to her.

“I will give you the contact of our security chief. He’s thorough. My mother vetted him.”

“We’ll see,” the woman says, tersely. “Please wait outside gentlemen. We need a word with your coaches before you go back to your teams.”

Shane finally chances a glance at Theriault. He’s glad he didn’t before. The way he’s looking at him, full of vitriol, makes him want to bury his head in the ground and die. It’s clear he finds Shane reaction embarrassing or ridiculous or… or something far more dangerous. Shane ducks his head and exits the room, closely followed by Ilya.

The door closes behind them.

Shane leans his back against the wall opposite to the door and closes his eyes. Whatever steely resolve had taken over his spine earlier now dissolves into anxiousness and exhaustion. He presses his head against the wall and closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing.

“What do you think you’re doing, Hollander?”

Shane takes one more deep breath before looking back. He hadn’t forgotten that Ilya was here. He has never been able to ignore Ilya Rozanov’s presence. No matter how hard he tries.

“Waiting,” Shane says.

Ilya’s eyes narrow. “Don’t play games. In there. You did not have to- why did you do that? The hotel would be fine.”

“It wouldn’t be safe.”

“It’s perfectly safe!” Ilya flings his arms around. They are both a little ridiculous, still in their full equipment sans skates. Shane wonders if their pads are bulletproof. Judging by the bruising on his ribs, he doubts it. “It’s just stupid prank video, Hollander. Stupid fans angry because they know I will beat your ass tonight and want to ruin it.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Whoever actually kills me, I’d like to think they’d be smart enough to not post about it before the job is done.”

“What do you mean, ‘whoever’?” Shane arches his eyebrows, straightening up.

“You, for example. You wouldn’t be so stupid.”

“Of course not,” Shane huffs, unable to help a laugh. “They’d never find your body.”

Ilya grins like he’s won something. Shane rolls his eyes.

“You are ridiculous. Would it kill you to take this seriously?”

“You seem to think it will kill me if I do not.”

Shane’s mood sours again all at once. His shoulders drop, suddenly feeling the weight of the day, the equipment, the game, the video. The fucking video.

So he plays dirty. He looks up at Rozanov and says the one thing he knows will work:

“Please.” Like he is begging for his cock in his mouth. Like he is begging to be fucked. Like he is begging to be unmade. “Rozanov, please. It’s just one night. I’m sure you can put up with me for a single night, don’t you? We might even have some things in common.”

And there it is, the promise. Shane is literally whoring himself out, selling his body, for a chance to keep this man safe (as if he’d ever needed a reason, as if he wouldn’t happily do it freely for as long as he can).

“Dirty move,” Ilya whispers, his voice doesn’t carry down the hall. It’s only here, floating between them. “Cheating isn’t nice. I’ll make you pay for it. Later.”

Shane wonders if Ilya is also half hard under his equipment. He is certainly thankful for the bulkiness of his.

“Deal,” he replies bravely, raising his chin with a challenge.

Ilya’s eyes are dark, dangerous in a way that makes Shane’s entire body buzz with anticipation. But whatever he was about to say dies when the door behind him opens and they both automatically take half a step away from each other.

Their coaches walk out, both scowling. They are followed by the woman.

“Talk to your teams, let them know the game is cancelled over security concerns. You can tell them what the threat is, but the least details you give them might be for the best. We are trying to keep this under wraps at the time being.”

Shane wants to complain that they haven’t been given any details. Not really. But before he can open his mouth her eyes are on him:

“When you are done, Mister Hollander, I would like a word with your chief of security.”

A tiny knot inside the mess that is his chest untangles at that. Good. Good. If they let him keep Ilya with him, make sure he is alive and safe, then maybe he won’t lose his fucking mind.

“Of course.”

“And, Mister Rozanov, please try to take this seriously. It will make all of our jobs easier.”

“Yes. Wouldn’t want to make your work harder,” Ilya says, with the perfect amount of sarcasm.

Shane represses the need to elbow him in the ribs.

“Behave, Rozanov. I’m not looking for a new Center this late in the season,” LeClaire groans, gently pushing Ilya along the corridor.

As they walk away, Shane and Theriault follow.

“What the hell was that about?” His coach hisses. “I don’t need you sticking out your neck for fucking Rozanov.”

Shane clenches his jaw and looks at the man. It would be bad form to punch his coach.

“You don’t want the PR mess if he dies in our city. And neither does the board of directors. You can tell them they are welcome.”

“Don’t be fucking clever, Hollander. If this backfires, it’s on you.”

Shane doesn’t reply. There isn’t much to say. If this goes wrong, truly wrong, he knows the only price he isn’t willing to pay.

Chapter 2: locked me up in towers

Chapter Summary

“I’m just trying to understand why my best friend is putting his fucking life on the line for a guy we hate!” Hayden insists, standing up and pacing the room. “Please, make me understand.”

“You do know I don’t hate him, right?” Shane finally says.

Hayden frowns at him. “What? Yeah, you do.”

Chapter Notes

To absolutely nobody’s surprise I’ve started dividing chapters already because my initial count was wayyy too optimistic for all I wanna do in this fic (mainly banter, angst, and Shane stressing out about his man being so flippant about the whole ordeal).

So you get this chapter which is kinda transitory but with a lot of banter, and we can get the night at Shane’s place next ;)

“So let me get this straight,” Hayden says, pulling his hoodie over his head and shoving his arms in a little too aggressively, “not only are you going against Theriault and probably the fucking police or something, but you’re doing all this, sticking your neck out, and possibly putting yourself in the crosshairs of some crazy gunman for Ilya fucking Rozanov of all people?”

“Uh, yeah,” Shane keeps his eyes on his feet, as if his laces needed his utmost attention.

“And you are doing this because it’s… good PR?”

“Well, it would be bad PR to have him killed in our home turf,” he deadpans.

“Shane!”

He takes a deep breath and sits up. The locker room is mostly empty. Half the guys hadn’t even showered, too paranoid that when hell inevitably broke loose it would catch them butt naked and slippery. By now, most have dutifully lined up on the hallway, waiting for the all-clear to rush to their cars and get out of here and back home as soon as possible. They will leave before the Bears do, one team at a time to keep the police’s attention undivided.

Only Shane and Hayden remain in the locker room. Which is why Shane had taken the opportunity to share a few more details with his best friend before they left. He is kinda regretting it right now.

“I’m just trying to understand why my best friend is putting his fucking life on the line for a guy we hate!” Hayden insists, standing up and pacing the room. “Please, make me understand.”

“You do know I don’t hate him, right?” Shane finally says.

Hayden frowns at him. “What? Yeah, you do.”

“I don’t, Hayd. This- the whole… rivalry thing, that’s the League’s marketing. Good promo shit or whatever. Doesn’t mean I hate Rozanov.”

“But he’s such a dick!”

“Yeah.”

“So why are you dying for a dick!?”

It’s a pretty nice dick, Shane is tempted to say. Large, heavy, and god does he know how to use it. I would happily die for it.

Probably not the right answer.

“Is it really so hard to believe I don’t want the guy dead?” He asks instead, and he can’t help how the question weights in his chest. If Hayden can’t even accept that, how could Shane ever tell him the truth of it all?

He watches his friend’s shoulders sag as he comes back to sit by his side.

“No. I mean… not really. You’re too nice. Best guy I know. So I guess it makes sense that you’d rise up to the occasion or whatever,” Hayden sighs, running a hand through his dirty hair. “I’m just… worried, I guess. I don’t want you to ‘nice guy’ yourself into a dangerous situation for anyone else. Specially someone not fucking worth it.”

“He’s… not so bad. Definitely worth the risk.”

Hayden eyes him, but he doesn’t look angry anymore. It’s more like he is trying to peer into Shane’s brain to make sense of it.

“Fine. I trust you. Just… just don’t do anything stupid, okay? You see some wacko with a gun, you run the other way, yes? Promise.”

“I really don’t think-“

“Promise, Shane. I’m not telling my kids their favorite uncle is dead.”

That makes his stomach drop. Sometimes he forgets that so much of how Hayden sees the world has changed since he looks at it with the eyes of a father.

“I promise, okay,” he says, grabbing his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. I’m just letting him stay the night because it’s safer than a hotel. That’s all.”

Hayden’s eyes are a little too shiny but he nods, seemingly satisfied.

“I should get going,” he sighs.

Shane’s heart twist suddenly.

“Text me when you get home?” He asks, standing up. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. But… just let me know you’re okay when you get to Jackie and the kids, alright?”

“Sure thing, bud. You too. I’ll be checking on you later so you better reply, or I’ll come get you.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna risk your neck now? Very hypocritical of you, Pike.”

Hayden laughs, half-heartedly. “Of course, man, but that’s different. You’re my best friend.”

Shane shakes his head and smiles fondly.

“Go home, man. It’s gonna be okay.”

With one last sullen look, as if he was picturing Shane with one foot on the grave, Hayden finally leaves. Shane leans back against his cubby with a heavy sigh.

He really hopes Hayden is just overreacting.

After every one of his teammates has made the trip to their car and left the rink safely, Shane walks over to the Bears locker room.

The energy there is different. Montreal’s team had been tense, itching to get away, but mostly annoyed at the whole ordeal. Boston’s tension is far more contained, vibrating with a low murmur through the walls.

They’d talked it over with the officers (agents??) and agreed it was best if Ilya and Shane got out before the Bears did. It would be suspicious for Shane to stay behind after both teams had already left, and if anything went wrong it was best not to get stuck here without a backup vehicle.

“Hey, Hollander,” Marlow greets him at the door, “Rozy’s just finishing his shower. Should be out in a couple minutes.”

So Ilya hadn’t been worried about the ‘naked and slippery’ thing. Of course not.

“He’s taking his sweet time,” Shane grumbles, crossing his arms.

“That’s on us,” Marlow shrugs. “We said he should be last, so we could, you know, keep watch in the meantime.”

That’s… not a bad idea. Shane feels something in his chest expand, grateful that Ilya has a team willing to put themselves in the line of fire for him even when he won’t take this seriously.

“So,” Marlow shifts his weight, “I gotta ask. Why are you doing this?”

Shane rolls his eyes. The fucking rivalry. He’s so done with it all.

“Why don’t I want another player violently murdered? Jeez, Marlow, I don’t know.”

The man arches his eyebrows, clearly taken aback, before he barks a laugh.

“Relax, Hollander. I’m not saying you’d let him, like, get killed on purpose or anything. But all this… it’s a lot. I get it. I was just surprised.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shane’s short nails dig slightly into his forearms. “I’m just letting him stay over. That all.”

“If you say so. Look, what I’m trying to say is… just thank you for looking after our captain, I guess.”

“He’s not making it fucking easy,” Shane huffs, attempting to deflect with humor. The joke lands flat.

“Don’t take it personally. Rozy’s just not good at being taken care of. You should’ve seen him last time he got sick, nearly bit my hand off for trying to give him fucking cough drops.”

Shane laughs and shakes his head. He realizes, belatedly, that his expression might be too openly fond. He quickly schools his features.

“Well, he can complain all he wants, but I’m not letting him get fucking killed on my watch.”

Marlow blinks. Then says, “alright, I believe you.”

“Good.”

“Marlow, stop talking to my bodyguard,” Rozanov emerges from the locker room, looking refreshed and relaxed, like he’s going to a fucking photo shoot or the club or something.

The need to touch him, bite him, lick him is very strong. Too strong. Shane’s fingers dig deeper into his skin.

“I’m not your fucking bodyguard.”

“You are here to protect me, yes? Mister serious security detail. Looks like bodyguard to me.”

Shane turns his eyes to Marlow. “I know I just promised I wouldn’t let anyone kill him, but I might have to do it myself.”

“Please don’t kill him,” the man laughs.

“No promises.”

“Enough talk about killing, please, you are all so boring and serious. C’mon, Hollander, take me to prison.”

“It’s not prison, it’s my house.”

“No, it’s prison. You are locking me away like pretty princess in tower.”

“You’re an asshole,” Shane sighs. “Let’s go.”

Ilya and Marlow hug. Bear hug in every sense of the word. They pat each other’s backs a little too hard, then pull back forcefully. Shane watches the whole interaction biting the inside of his cheeks. He thinks of Hayden’s worry. Cliff’s must be even worse.

“I’ve got him,” he assures him one last time before he grabs Ilya by the arm and forces him down the hallway.

The touch scalds him. He lets go quickly before his body gets other ideas.

The two men and the woman wait for them at the back door that leads to the players’ private parking lot. It’s underground, pretty well guarded and practically empty by now, so Shane is pretty sure it’s safe. Regardless, he is well aware of how stiff his posture is, how tense his face must look, how he can’t quite master his steps to fall into a natural pace like it doesn’t see as if he’s rushing. He crosses the few meters alone, hopes in and drives back to the entrance feeling his pulse in every inch of his body. The two men accompany Rozanov across the small distance between the door and Shane’s car. He gets in the backseat, sprawling himself across the seat so that he won’t be visible through the back windows. The door slams shot and Shane sends the two agents-officers-whatever one last look before he drives off.

He locks the doors just as he is hitting the street.

After about five minutes, Ilya sits up.

“Stay down,” Shane’s hisses watching him through the rear view mirror.

Ilya moves to the floor in between the front and back seats and pokes his head between the front seats.

“I am down.”

Shane rolls his eyes.

“Why are you diving like grandma?”

“I’m not.”

“You are! So slow. I thought you were getaway car.”

“This is less suspicious. I don’t wanna look like I am hiding anything.”

“But you’re hiding me.”

What else is new? Shane sighs.

“This is safe.”

“Oh my god, Hollander, this is worst runaway ever. You would make terrible criminal.”

“I’d be a great criminal,” Shane huffs. “Being loud and suspicious is how you get caught.”

“Only you would make crime boring,” Ilya grumbles.

He’s quiet for about three minutes.

“Where are we going?”

Shane chances a quick glance at him over his shoulder.

“My place. You know this.”

“I thought you just said that. I thought we were going to the other place. You know… the building.”

Shane cringes slightly. He did think about it. Briefly.

“Rozanov, I’m not taking you to a place you have literally called a ‘murder building’ while someone is actually trying to murder you.”

“No one is trying to murder me, Hollander, I told you it’s just stupid video!”

“And a manifesto!”

“Is just words. Anyone can post words on the Internet. You are the one making big deal about it.”

“Well, sorry that I don’t want you to fucking die!” Shane snaps, and regrets it immediately.

It feels like a confession of some sort. It shouldn’t. Of course he doesn’t want Rozanov to die. They might antagonize each their half the time, and they might be nothing to each other beyond a casual fuck, but he thinks it’s a given that he would at least care if something happened to him. The fact he’s doing all this is proof of it, isn’t it? But still… he feels exposed after saying it. Like he showed more than he meant to.

Ilya is quiet for what feels like too long. Shane finally gives in.

“I did think about it. The building, I mean,” he says, “after all, the whole point is that it’s safe and private. They wouldn’t be able to find you there. But then I thought if something bad happened and no one knew where you were… besides, you’re not wrong to call it a murder building, it’d be like the perfect place to kill you away from witnesses and shit. So no. My place is safe, I’ve got good security. It makes more sense. And it was easier to convince them this way. The building would’ve required to sneak you out of the hotel and that’s… well, too much.”

“So this is what it takes to see your home,” Ilya says, “literal life or death situation.”

Shane decides not to acknowledge it because he has been very carefully not even letting himself think about the fact that this is the first time Ilya Rozanov will see his apartment. After nearly six years of hooking up. After knowing each other so intimately since they were almost kids. Did Shane pick up his plates after breakfast this morning? Did he forget to put away his laundry? Did he buy groceries? He has the uncomfortable feeling that as soon as Ilya sees his house he will know him in a new way, that he will literally see inside Shane and discover something… something that he isn’t even sure he’s hiding.

Somehow, thinking about the actual life threatening situation at hand feels easier.

“Also, I didn’t feel like taking the police to our building,” he says.

“What police?”

“They are following us,” Shane says, glancing back through the rear view mirror. “Behind the blue van. Black car. That’s the guys from the rink.”

“You sure?” Ilya asks and, for the first time, his voice betrays nerves, like he suspects whoever is in that car could actually be the people that mean him harm.

“Yes. We talked about it back at the rink. They didn’t take a patrol, didn’t want to draw attention since this whole deal is so no one knows where you’re staying. But they wanted to make sure we made it safely.”

“Incredible,” Ilya settles his chin between the armrests, “you have found people even more paranoid than you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Must be record.”

“Maybe I would make a great secret agent,” Shane smirks.

“They weren’t secret agents. Just… security or intelligence. Whatever. And you can’t be a great agent and a great criminal, Hollander. Is cheating.”

“It’s strategic.”

“Rule following goodie-two-shoes agent by day and rebel bad boy by night, uh?” Ilya’s voice suddenly gains a sultry cadence, growing thick like honey in a way that has Shane gripping the stirring wheel harder to avoid squirming. “Breaking the law, being bad, sneaking around to fuck the enemy.”

“Shut up.” Shane’s voice almost cracks. Almost.

“No, this is more fun,” Ilya looks up at him from where he is perched between the seats. “I like it better than the bodyguard.”

“Well, you are not getting either,” Shane says, voice clipped and shoulders tense as they approach a guarded gate. “We are here.”

Ilya perks up, looking at the gates and the security guard.

“Take a seat. You are gonna weird him out,” Shane says without looking away from Louis, who is already approaching with his usually affable smile.

“Not exactly the scary security type,” Ilya comments, as he moves to one of the seats, like Shane is nothing but his Uber driver. “Very Canadian guard.”

If Shane gets this man alive through the night, he is definitely going to kill him himself later.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya is kinda getting into this, at least for the role play.

In my defense it’s nearly impossible to write these characters without them constantly wanting to rip each other’s clothes off. It’s just biblically accurate for them.

Chapter 3: and i tried to warn you about them

Chapter Summary

“Hollander, I can hear your thoughts.”

“What?”

“You’re worrying loudly. You have to relax.”

Shane sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t. It’s just… I can’t, okay? Those two guys, they feel dangerous.”

Chapter Notes

Finally they are alone!! And we know what happens when they are alone ;) Also who wanted some yearning? I’ve got plenty to spare for these two.

Two sets of equipment bags drop heavily next to his door. One suitcase. Two pairs of shoes.

“You weren’t kidding about your security,” Rozanov sighs, taking his beanie off. “This place is like a bank. Or a museum from a movie.”

“It’s pretty standard for people like us,” Shane shrugs.

“I am people like us, Hollander. You have seen my house. I don’t have that many locks and guards and security cameras.”

“Well, maybe you should,” Shane says, his voice heavier than he intended.

He is trying very hard not to think about what’s going to happen when Ilya goes back to Boston, how exposed he will be to anyone wanting to harm him.

“Is not very private.”

“All the guards have signed NDA and the security cameras are in a closed network with the security company but… yeah.”

“Not good for sneaking people in,” Rozanov gives him a pointed look.

Shane hopes it means that he gets it. That he understands, at least partially, why the building was a necessity in the first place.

“Too much surveillance can feel like a prison.”

“It’s not a prison, it’s my home,” Shane snaps.

He knows, logically, how hard this must all be for Rozanov. It must be frustrating and constricting and scary… especially for someone as loud and carefree as him. He’s allowed to be testy about it. But, selfishly, Shane doesn’t want Ilya Rozanov to feel trapped in his house. He wants him to like it.

Shane walks in first and watches as Ilya slowly takes the place in. He takes his time, stopping at every framed artsy picture that Shane didn’t pick, hasn’t looked at twice, at the comfortable and functional furniture in his living room, which Shane did choose specifically for its comfort for naps or long hours watching tape and game reruns. Ilya saunters over to the open kitchen, eyes trailing every inch of it like he’s measuring the place for a heist of his own. Maybe they are taking the whole criminal/agent thing a little too far.

Watching him soothes an unknown ache in Shane’s chest. It hurts, like stretching a muscle after it’s been cramped for too long. It hits him all at once just how long he has wanted to have Ilya Rozanov in his home, to watch him exist in his space, see him touch his things, show him what his life is like in between their stolen hours. He hadn’t even realized.

Shane moves to the kitchen, trying to make himself busy to keep his eyes from trailing Ilya. He grabs a ginger ale from the fridge, opens it and takes a sip, leaning back against the counter.

“So,” Ilya says, suddenly very close.

Shane looks up to find Ilya crowding him. His heart speeds up immediately, his body reacting on its own accord to the closeness. He throws his head back, angles himself open in a way that would be fucking embarrassing with anyone else.

“We can’t,” he whispers.

Rozanov leans in and kisses right behind his ear, sending shivers down Shane’s spine.

“Why not?” He whispers. “Do you know how long I have wanted to have you like this? Here?”

He isn’t sure what hits him harder: Ilya’s desire or the admission that he has been thinking about this too.

“The cops are outside.”

“You think they have x-ray vision?” Ilya’s laugh rumbles against his throat. His teeth grace the skin over his yugular.

“If something happens-“

“We are safe here, yes? You said so.”

Shane pulls back to complain about Rozanov using his own argument against him, but before he can get a word out his mouth his caught. Shane’s lips part, giving in to muscle memory and desire as his body heats under Rozanov’s demanding touch.

“Bedroom?” Rozanov groans.

“Up the stairs. Down the hallway,” Shane provides without even putting up a fight.

Strong hands grip his hips and begin leading him backwards, without even breaking the kiss. Shane stumbles up the stairs, already working on taking off his clothes, on undressing Ilya. By the time they reach the bedroom they are both mostly undressed except for their underwear.

Shane turns them around, pushes Ilya into the bed and pauses.

About a month ago, he babysat Hayden’s twins. He read them a story about a dragon who was so greedy he had hoard every treasure in the kingdom in his lair. Back then, he’d wondered why a dragon would want all that treasure. What for. Greed never made sense to him. Until now.

Now, looking at Ilya Rozanov laying in his bed, with the body of a Greek god and that goddamn cocky smile and bright blue eyes, brazing in his sheets and hungry… god, Shane might never want to let him go.

He falls to his knees between Rozanov’s thighs and swallows him whole, letting his tongue and his lips greedily explore his cock. The sounds he makes in return, uncontrolled and wild, make Shane so hard against his briefs he’s momentarily afraid he’s gonna come again just from this. But he pushes through, grabbing Rozanov’s ass, abs, chest, touching him all as his head bobs faster and faster.

“Fuck, Hollander, I’m-“

He doesn’t stop. He knows already he won’t relax enough to have Rozanov fuck him tonight, the sense of dread too big, the chances of getting caught in a vulnerable position too high. Tonight, he’s happy to take the man in his mouth and he intends to worship him fully. When Ilya comes, Shane swallows it whole (which he doesn’t usually do but tonight a little deranged part of his brain wants to have Ilya inside him, closer, skin deep, in his gut… and another part doesn’t want to get the bed sheets dirty).

When Rozanov’s hips stop jerking, Shane pulls back and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Ilya’s eyes are still on him, still hungry.

“Such a good boy,” he rasps, making Shane’s entire body preen and shiver with pleasure.

Rozanov reaches for him with both hands and Shane climbs on the bed, on top of him, letting his body slide against his for a slow kiss. His cock is so hard it hurts as it rubs between them. Long strong fingers trace the back of this thighs and take a hold of his ass, possessively grabbing both cheeks as he deepens the kiss. Then, he pulls, bringing Shane upwards until he’s straddling Rozanov’s shoulders. Shane barely has a moment to brace himself before Rozanov is tugging his boxers down and taking him in his mouth.

With a grunt, Shane falls forward, grabbing onto the headboard with both hands as Ilya’s tongue plays with his length, kissing and licking and slowly taking him in. Ilya’s hands wrap around his writs, tugging against Shane’s back. Without support, he falls face-first against the pillow. The lack of leverage leaves him at the mercy of Ilya’s eager mouth as the man deep throat’s him with ridiculous ease.

He feels deliciously helpless. Not trapped, but held. Contained by Rozanov’s arms and hands and mouth after feeling like he’s going to fall apart for hours if he were to lose this, lose him.

When Shane’s hips attempt to thrust, Ilya changes his hold, grabbing both of his wrists with a single hand as the other steadies his hip. Absolutely helpless, Shane muffles a moan against the pillow, as Ilya guides him into a painfully slow pace, pulling him out of his mouth almost completely, then taking him in again inch by inch. Shane has the delirious mental image of Ilya eating his dick like a popsicle and it makes him whimper pathetically.

Ilya holds him harder.

“Fuck, Rozanov, I can’t-“ he groans, then whimpers again when his cock is left untouched for an instant. He’s held there, at the edge.

“Hmm?” The vibration of his voice alone, with his lips still touching the head of his cock unmakes what’s left of his sanity.

“Please.”

And Ilya, bless him, gives it to him, taking him deep and quickly and enthusiastically until Shane is coming down his throat, a scream muffled against his deep navy blue pillowcase.

He rolls off Rozanov with a breathless laugh, presses a hand to the man’s chest just because he isn’t quite ready to lose the contact. Rozanov grabs his wrist and holds it there too. It’s dangerously close to a handhold. It’s been a weird day.

They stay like that for a while. Shane kinda loses sense of time. But he eventually, inevitably, comes to.

“You wanna shower or should I?” He asks.

“You go. I’ll just clean myself,” Rozanov says, sounding sleepy.

Shane sits up, letting go, and gets into the shower.

Halfway through shampooing, his brain starts working on terrible bloody scenarios in which someone breaks into his house while he’s in there, in which Ilya is in danger and alone, in which he comes out still wet and warm only to find a bullet-torn body in his bed. He is out of the water in under two minutes and only half dries himself before shoving on a pair of sweatpants. Ilya is no longer in bed when he comes out. His heart speeds up like he’s on the treadmill as he stumbles downstairs, body numb, head going too fast, too loud, too panicked with what he might-

Ilya is standing in his kitchen. He’s wearing pajama pants, humming as he boils something. Shane’s heart doesn’t quite slow down, but his chest feels a little gooey at the sight. He feels equally happy and sad for a second, like he’s looking at something he cannot have, like someone is dangling water in front of him in the middle of the desert, like he might die if he can only get this once.

“What are you doing?”

“Dinner,” Ilya answers simply.

Shane approaches, peeks into the boiling water. “Pasta?”

“Carbonara. You have a lot of eggs. And bacon. That was surprise.”

“It’s turkey bacon.”

“Less surprise.”

“I, hum, that’s not really in my meal plan tonight. But if you want it, I could just have some salad or-“

“No, Hollander. I am making you pasta.”

Making you. Oh.

“But-“

“Hollander. You are taking me in, keeping me safe, yes? Can I just make you dinner?”

The goo inside him melts even more.

“Okay.”

“Your phone has been buzzing.”

Shane frowns, going to check it. Shit.

Hayden: Hey, man. I’m home.

Hayden: U make it okay?

Hayden: Shane?

Hayden: Dude.

Hayden: Shane. I’m gonna kill you.

[Missed call from Hayden]

[Missed call from Hayden]

Hayden: dude answer or I’m coming

Hayden: okay fine I’m coming

Shane presses the call button immediately. It rings once.

“Shane?!”

“Sorry, sorry, I was in the shower.”

“You motherfucker.”

“I know, I know, Hayd. I’m sorry,” Shane sighs, ignoring the amused look Ilya is sending him. “We made it alright. I just… I forgot. With everything going on,” he says, lamely, hoping the excuse will be enough.

“Jesus Christ, dude. I swear I was about to go get you or something. I was trying to think of how I was gonna explain to Jackie that I was probably just driving to like a deadly situation or some shit.”

“Did you come up with a good explanation?”

“One that didn’t end with me locked inside the house at knife point? No.”

Shane laughs. “I really am sorry I scared you, man.”

“It’s alright, buddy,” Hayden sighs, and Shane can practically feel him deflate on the other end of the line. “How’s Rozanov behaving? If he’s being an asshole on top of all this, I swear…”

“Actually, he’s cooking dinner.”

“He’s what?”

Shane probably shouldn’t say it. It feels dangerous, like he is betraying in someway the true nature of… whatever Rozanov and him are. But he’s just so tired of everyone expecting them to hate each other. Is it really so terrible if he lets his best friend see a small glimpse of this side of the man he’s been seeing in secret forever?

“Yeah. Some sort of thank you gesture. But he’s making me skip my meal plan, so maybe it’s all part of a very complicated plan to sabotage me.”

Ilya turns at that and points an accusatory wooden spoon at him. Shane grins back.

“That’s… nice, I think,” Hayden sounds confused. “I mean, if he can get you to eat carbs I will forgive him for this whole mess.”

“You know it’s not his fault.”

“You don’t know that. He’s just so… Rozanov. Maybe he pissed someone off. Someone dangerous.”

Shane deflates. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

“Shit. Sorry. I didn’t wanna scare you. I’m sure it’s gonna be fine, bud. You just stay safe and don’t go, like, jumping in front of any bullets or anything, okay? He’ll leave tomorrow and it’ll be Boston’s problem.”

“Right. Okay. I… I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure thing, buddy. Jackie and the girls say hi.”

“Say hi back from me.”

“Love you, man.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Shane ends the call and stares at his phone.

He shouldn’t…

He searches the video.

It’s nauseatingly easy to find. He turns the volume down and repeats it. Again, and again, and again, like maybe if he looks at it enough times his brain will accept that it’s just some cruel joke, like he will stop picturing it happening for real. He loses track of time until Ilya is setting a plate in front of him.

Shane looks up, blinking back to reality. Rozanov looks concerned, which is an odd look for him.

“Stop watching that,” he says, taking the phone away from his hand. “Eat.”

Shane doesn’t even complain. His brain is too full of noise to articulate what he is feeling. Ilya sits next to him, wolfing big spoonfuls of pasta like he’s starved.

“Hollander, I can hear your thoughts.”

“What?”

“You’re worrying loudly. You have to relax.”

Shane sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t. It’s just… I can’t, okay? Those two guys, they feel dangerous.”

“Two guys?”

“Well, the one with the gun and the video guy.”

Ilya frowns. “They are three.”

“What? How do you- do you know who they are?” Shane stares wide eyed.

Could Ilya actually have done something to piss off someone dangerous? Like the mafia? Or some drug dealers? Shit. Shit.

“No. Is from video?” Ilya rolls his eyes, grabbing Shane’s phone. He unlocks it (Shane makes a mental note to change his password) and shows him the video again, pausing in a specific frame after the shootout. “Here, see. The man is smiling at someone else. Not camera man, someone else behind him.”

Shane grabs the phone and replays the moment three times. “Shit. You’re right. We should tell the police.”

“I assume they know,” Ilya shrugs.

“Rozanov! Why can’t you take this seriously?!”

“These guys are very stupid, Hollander. They are not problem. The way they hold the gun, the way they shoot at everywhere… they are not, like, trained, you know?”

“No! How would I- how do you know that?”

Ilya stabs his plate and starts slowly twisting spaghetti. He looks very focused all of the sudden. Shane keeps staring.

“My father is police. My brother too. He would take us to the academy, show us how to shoot. We saw police and soldiers. Disciplined people. Good shooters. These guys… they are not that. Amateurs.”

Shane breathes slowly. This is the most Rozanov has ever told him about his family or his childhood. The way he talks about it, he is not sure those are happy memories. He wants to ask more, but he is afraid to push too far. So he focuses on the matter at hand:

“Amateurs can be dangerous.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to live scared just because someone hates me. I don’t want to give them that power over me. You should not either.”

Shane wants to say that he doesn’t get to do that, that if Rozanov’s life is in the line he doesn’t think he can look the other way. To him, not having control is what would be giving them power and, historically, there is only one person who he is willing to do that for.

“Eat,” Rozanov says. “You can’t survive on dick only.”

Shane barks a laugh and elbows him. “Asshole.”

“Yes, that’s good part of diet too.”

Still laughing, Shane digs into his pasta. It’s fucking delicious.

Shane wakes up to still warm bloody sheets. He turns to find unblinking blue eyes staring at him. Not at him. Gone.

Shane actually wakes up with a scream still in his throat, face wet with tears, hands shaking. He turns, terrified and desperate, and finds a steady body next to him. Ilya is sitting up too, bringing a hand up to his shoulder to steady him.

“Hollander?”

Shane wants to throw himself at him, wrap his body around his chest like a bulletproof vest, feel his heartbeat against his own.

“I’m okay,” he says instead, voice cracking.

“What was it?”

He looks at him.

“If you say it out loud it’s less scary. Is what my mother said.”

Maybe it’s because Ilya used past tense to talk about his mom, or because it’s the second time tonight that he volunteers information about his family, or because sleeping in the same bed —actually sleeping— gives Shane a false sense of intimacy, but he believes him.

“I just- I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up to your body full of, like, bullets or something. Like- like if I am asleep you’re gonna get killed and I’m just gonna fucking sleep through it.”

“Hollander, even if you are a heavy sleeper I am sure you would wake up from the noise of a gunshot.”

“What?”

“You would not sleep through it.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“Just saying.”

Shane feels the irrational need to defend his subconscious.

“There are, like, guns with silencers and shit.”

“You watch too many movies, Hollander.”

“I almost never-“

“And I told you these guys are not so professional. They had very loud automatic gun. Not silencer.”

“Great, then maybe they’ll just kill is both at once.”

That’s oddly comforting in an extremely morbid way. But Shane would rather not wake up if the alternative is waking to a world without Ilya Rozanov.

And that’s a thought he’s not looking at too closely right now.

“Hollander, don’t-“

“I’m gonna make some tea,” Shane pushes off the bed and stomps downstairs, angry at Ilya for taking this lightly, angry at his mind for torturing him, angry at himself for leaving the bed when he for once gets to indulge in Ilya’s presence for longer than an hour or two.

Shane puts the kettle on, then sits on the kitchen island and stares at his security cameras on his phone. There’s nothing very interesting in them. No movement. He isn’t sure he finds it reassuring.

He hears Ilya come downstairs and sit on a stool next to him. Embarrassment curls in his gut.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I know I’m probably just overreacting.”

“No, I-“ Ilya starts, then pauses. Shane waits, lets him find whatever words are eluding him. “Just because I am not scared, it doesn’t mean you can’t be. That was unfair of me.”

Shane finally looks at him. He looks tired, probably just as much as Shane feels.

“It’s been a long day. I’m sorry for waking you.”

“Stop apologizing, Hollander.”

They fall into an easy silence until the kettle starts whistling. Shane pours two cups of chamomile tea and hands one to Rozanov.

“Earlier today,” the man says, holding the cup between his hands, “you said you get these threats too, but I have never seen them burn your dolls before.”

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t mean, like, literally the same.”

“What did you mean?”

“Just… the normal kind of threats, you know? I mean, not that it’s normal, but for people like us.”

“Cocksuckers?”

“What? No. No! Jeez. I mean, like, famous people and world class athletes, I guess.”

“So what threats do you get? We have stablished is not the same.”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“I’m curious. You have lots of security. You say I should get it too. Why?”

Shane sighs heavily. He really doesn’t like talking about these things, but Rozanov’s had a terrible day on that regard himself. So maybe he just needs to know that Shane gets it.

“I mean, I guess there was like the normal kinda shit when I was younger. Not, like, threats threats. Just some of the other players saying shit on the ice, or in the locker room. Some parents too. They’d say shit about how they should break my legs or my neck, take me out so their kids would get more time on the ice.”

“You were a kid?”

“Yeah, like, twelve or something. But it never really got bad. They were just saying shit. Then, I guess, after the junior Olympics some people had a bone to pick with me for the whole losing to you thing. We got some letters on the mail. Most were just angry people but some got… graphic. My mom reported it to the police and all, but they never found who sent them. It eventually died down. Until the draft. I guess I just wasn’t used to the amount of attention I was getting. There was always one or two weird things in the fan mail. Fans from other teams that wanted to run me over, fans from our team that wanted to kill me for a loss or like… some guys actually literally said they wanted to kidnap me or something. It was weird.”

Rozanov is still looking at him intensely. Shane takes the silence as prompting.

“It just… I guess none of that really justifies the whole security thing but then there were a couple things. Like the time a guy broke into my parents’ house.” Rozanov stares at him wide eyed. “No, nothing happened! There was no one home. I mean, I guess he wanted to like grab stuff from my childhood bedroom or something, but our neighbor called it in. I just- I couldn’t stop thinking what would’ve happened if my parents had been home.” He hates the way his voice shakes. “I had them stay with me for a few days until we set their security system. I mean, my place was already… well, this one. Safe. I’d had a few people trying to break into my old apartment before, but it was mostly just like some crazy drunk girls, or some guy that just really wanted an autograph, and the kidnapping threats never really got too serious. They caught the guy before he could really do anything. But… yeah. That’s about it.”

“Oh,” Rozanov says. “I see.”

“See what?” Shane frowns.

Ilya takes a moment again. Shane waits. It’s not an easy topic, it’s late, they are tired, Shane can’t imagine having this conversation in a second language. Finally, he says:

“I think… I did not know that for you this threats are different.”

“Different how?”

“Real,” Ilya says seriously. “You have had threats for long time, and some have happened. I did not understand.”

Neither does Shane, honestly. Ilya sighs and shifts slightly, until their arms are pressing together from elbow to shoulder.

“I see the video, and I see stupid people saying stupid things because they are angry or drunk or bitter. But you see it, and you know sometimes these people are actually dangerous. They try to do the thing. That’s why you are more… careful. With this.”

“Oh,” it’s Shane’s turn to say. “Yeah. I guess.”

”I understand now.”

”Okay.”

They fase back into silence after that, sipping tea together.

“Hollander,” Ilya says when their cups are almost empty. “I wanted to say… thank you, for wanting to take care of me today. I know I make it hard, but-“

“You don’t,” Shane grabs Ilya’s wrist. It’s a bold move, it surprises even him, but he hates the idea that Ilya could think that taking care of him is a chore. “I’m happy to do it. I mean… I’m not happy it happened but I’m glad I could help you. Try to keep you safe. Even if nothing really happened.”

Ilya looks at Shane’s hand on his wrist, then at him. He leans in and kisses him.

It’s just a kiss.

They’ve kissed a million times at this point.

It’s never meant anything. Or… it’s never been supposed to mean anything. Maybe Shane was wrong about that too.

But this kiss. This one definitely means something. It’s a loaded gun.

“Come back to bed,” Ilya whispers.

This is dangerous.

“Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

Yes I did steal those awful childhood stories about kids and parents threatening SydCros because he’s so talented. It felt like something Shane would’ve felt with 100% (and it’s appalling for real). Also, as someone who has had some scary stuff happen to their family when it comes to violence and house break-ins I thought it was important to give Shane proper context. He isn’t paranoid, he is reacting to his reality (and Ilya is in denial).

Also not updating the chapter count yet but I’m starting to think I might need to add an epilogue. We’ll see.

Chapter 4: and when the sky rains fire on you

Chapter Summary

There is probably a world out there in which Shane Hollander isn’t brave. A world in which he doesn’t approach the raising Russian star center to introduce himself out of the blue at seventeen. A world in which he doesn’t give him his room number after the CCM photo shoot. A world in which he doesn’t exchange phone numbers with Lily. A world in which he doesn’t keep choosing to risk his entire career over one more night in his rival’s arms. A world in which he sees danger coming for Ilya Rozanov and he doesn’t run straight into the crossfire without thinking. This isn’t that world.

Chapter Notes

Heads-up for trigger warnings.

(Spoilers)

Trigger warnings for gun violence in this chapter and active fire situations in public spaces which I know can be triggering for ppl who live in violence-prone countries.
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Shane Hollander wakes up to the sound of Ilya Rozanov snoring next to him. After last night’s scare, the sound is comforting. A low constant rumble.

It’s not too loud. I suppose I could get used to it.

Shane is, thankfully, still too sleepy to overanalyze that thought. Slowly he becomes aware of other things, like the way his fingers are brushing against Rozanov’s warm skin, either his arm or his back, somewhere he can feel his pulse, or how Rozanov’s ankle is tangled with his, like he’s a balloon that would’ve floated away without a tether.

Maybe there is a world in which he gets to have this more than once.

That’s when his alarm goes off and the dream ends.

Usually, he would go for a run, make himself a smoothie and an omelette and go through his emails before practice. Instead, he shakes Ilya awake, gets dressed and makes a big pot of coffee while the other man groans and grumbles his way out of bed. He’s just pouring both their cups when his phone starts buzzing with an unknown caller.

He frowns at it for a couple seconds, debating, before he picks up.

“Hello?”

“Mister Hollander. Good, you’re awake,” the voice on the other side of the line is familiar. It belongs to the redhead guy from yesterday.

“How did you get this number?”

“We are the CSIS.”

“Right,” he says.

Well, that’s one question answered. A million more unlocked. Like why do the Canadian Security Intelligence Services care so much about Ilya Rozanov’s life. Speaking of which, Ilya walks down stairs and makes eye contact with him. There’s a question there that Shane doesn’t know how to answer.

“As you’re aware, the Boston team’s plane is set to leave in about two hours. We have a car outside your apartment, we can take Mister Rozanov to the airport ourselves. His team will already be there.”

“No,” Shane frowns. “No need. I- I’ll drive him.”

Ilya arches his eyebrows.

“We do believe it’ll be safer for Mister Rozanov to drive with us.”

“Tough shit,” he says, and bites back the need to apologize immediately. “You can follow us again, be a security detail or whatever. But I’m taking my responsibility as Montreal Captain seriously and delivering him to the airport myself.”

He can tell that Ilya is fighting back laughter.

“Mister Hollander,” he clearly hears the condescension in his tone, “we appreciate your offer to take Mister Rozanov in for the night, it was a very secure alternative for him. However, we believe it’s in his best interest-“

“Okay, so I’ll come with.”

“What?”

“I’ll just come with you to drop him off. It’s a… sportsmanship thing, okay?” Shane rubs at his temple, scrambling to improvise. “It’d look bad if I washed my hands of the Boston captain in the homestretch. I intend to see this through to the final horn.”

Ilya really looks like he’s holding back laughter now. Shane kicks him softly. Maybe the hockey terms aren’t the smartest but it’s all he has and he suspects these people already see him as an idiot jock anyway. Maybe this will convince them that he’s too stubborn or stupid to back down.

“Okay,” the man sighs. “You can come.”

Shane’s entire body sags with relief.

“Great. We’ll be downstairs in ten minutes.”

When he hangs up, Ilya is smirking. “Sportsmanship? You campaigning for the Lady Byng, Hollander?”

“Fuck off,” he groans, downing his coffee in to big gulps. “It worked.”

“It is nice that you want to come, but I don’t think there is much you could do if shit happened,” Rozanov sighs, sipping from his cup calmly.

Shane winces. “I know. I just-“

“I appreciate the intention,” Rozanov assures him quickly. “I am just being a realist.”

I could take a bullet for you. I think I would. I am scared shitless by the fact that I most definitely would. But losing you is scarier. And I’ll have to freak out about the whole thing later.

“I just don’t like not knowing,” he shrugs. “If I come and see you get on that plane, I guess I’ll feel better.”

“Okay,” Ilya nods slowly. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

They collect their things in silence. Shane mourns a little while Ilya sends the apartment one long final look. Maybe after this whole ordeal Shane can use it as an excuse, house him next time they play in town under the guise of security. Or maybe they can just say they became friends overnight. Or maybe, well, his cottage has considerably less security…

Alright. He’s getting a bit ahead of himself. One step at the time.

The two men from yesterday are waiting for them in the car. They are dressed in the exact same clothes, must have spent the night keeping watch here. Shane feels a little bad for them.

“Morning,” he says, sliding in after Ilya in the back seat.

He catches the eyes of both men in the rear view mirror, both pairs of eyes darkened with lack of sleep. Feeling a little guilty over how uncooperative he’s been so far, he hands them each a travel mug with coffee. It was Rozanov’s idea. It’d surprised Shane, though it probably shouldn’t, the Russian had always had a way with people that he lacked.

The tension in the car lessens slightly as both men wordlessly accept the hot drinks. Ilya sends him a smug look. Shane rolls his eyes and fights the smile tugging at his lips.

The drive is quiet. A stupid, senseless, part of Shane wants to reach across the backseat and hold Ilya’s hand. To reassure him. To reassure himself. He digs his fingers into his thighs and looks out the window instead, mentally tracing their path to the airport. It’s familiar; he’s gone a thousand times for games or for business. Today it feels too short, too quick.

By the time they make it to the airport parking lot, Shane’s heart is pounding so hard that he suspects everyone else in the car can hear it. They park three rows away from the entrance.

The engine stops and Shane’s stomach drops.

The Bears bus is already parked by the drop off area. The rest of Ilya’s team are unloading their bags, chatting excitedly. It hits him like a ton of bricks that there is no good reason for him to accompany him inside. He has the agents and his team. Shane’s part is over.

He didn’t say goodbye. He forgot. He should’ve taken a moment, back at his place, when they were still alone. He should’ve kissed him one last time, just in case. He should’ve said- said something, in case he doesn’t get the chance again.

Don’t think that. It’ll be fine. He will be fine. 

They walk around the car. Ilya opens the trunk and pulls out his equipment bag with one hand, swinging it over his shoulder, and his suitcase with another. He has a gray tuque over his blonde curls and a pair of sunglasses. He looks beautiful and indestructible, like a golden god.

“I guess you’re good to go,” Shane says, hating every word. He puts a hand out. “Be safe, Rozanov.”

Ilya huffs, a smirk quirking a corner of his mouth as he lets go of his luggage to shake Shane’s hand.

“Thank you for everything, Hollander. I am sure it would be very boring for you if you lost only good rival in league.”

“Asshole,” he says affectionately.

Ilya’s thumb brushes over the back of his hand quickly. A small reassurance.

“Yes, famously so. Good at pissing people off, yes? But is just that. They can’t get rid of me so easily.” Which is probably an attempt at comfort. Ilya’s promise that he’s gonna be fine. “Neither can you.”

Good, he wants to say. Instead, Shane laughs, rolling his eyes, and lets go.

That was a normal hand shake. Totally not too long.

The agents approach then too and shake Shane’s hand quickly, sharply.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Hollander,” says the big man.

“We are big fans,” adds, a little shyly, the redhead.

“Uh… thank you. No problem. Uh, good luck,” he manages, shoving his hands back in his pockets.

Ilya sends him that devilish smile one last time one as he grabs his luggage again. Shane wants to kiss him so badly, it feels like dying.

And off they go.

Shane stands in the parking lot, watching Ilya flanked by two men who are far less physically impressive than him, and has the distinct feeling that something is being tugged out of his chest.

It’s gonna be fine.

Ilya meets his teammates with a wide smile and laughter. Shane can’t make out what they are saying but their voice carry through the parking lot. He’s okay. He’s surrounded by people that care about him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Hayden: Hey

Hayden: just checking in

Hayden: how’s the Rozanov thing going

Shane looks up just as Ilya starts walking in through the glass doors, followed by his team and still flanked by the agents.

Shane: all good

Shane: just dropping him off at the airport

He should probably get an Uber back home. No point in riding with these agents. He’s not even sure if they’d take him home now. It’s not exactly in their job description.

Hayden: great!

Hayden: glad its over

Hayden: Jackie was kinda freaked out

Shane is about to reply when something tugs at him. It’s sort of like when he is in the ice and he can feel an opening coming, like his body knows how to recognize the pattern before his brain does, like some invisible alarm is pulling at his attention. Instinct.

He looks up. The glass doors just closed behind the Bears. Maybe it wasn’t-

Everyone, every single person inside the terminal, ducks at the same time.

Something like a broken car engine rattles loudly. Like a million balloons being popped at once.

Three or four people rush running through the glass doors but everyone else just drops flat on the floor. Except for the two agents who are grabbing Ilya by his jacket and dragging him somewhere to the left, where he disappears from sight.

No. Please, no.

There is probably a world out there in which Shane Hollander isn’t brave. A world in which he doesn’t approach the raising Russian star center to introduce himself out of the blue at seventeen. A world in which he doesn’t give him his room number after the CCM photo shoot. A world in which he doesn’t exchange phone numbers with Lily. A world in which he doesn’t keep choosing to risk his entire career over one more night in his rival’s arms. A world in which he sees danger coming for Ilya Rozanov and he doesn’t run straight into the crossfire without thinking. This isn’t that world.

Shane runs at full speed. Every mile in the trade mill, every sprint, every training session falls short in comparison. He gets to the glass doors and slides between them sideways, unwilling to wait for them to fully open. Inside, there’s chaos. People screaming and crying and sobbing.

Ilya. Where’s Ilya?

Shane turns just in time to see a head poke from behind the second floor’s railing, holding something that looks black and heavy. He has the nonsensical conviction that it’s fake, a toy, a prop from a movie, right before the unmistakable deafening rattle of gunfire makes him flinch.

On Shane’s left, through the eco, he hears shouts that aren’t terrified but angry, commanding. He turns and sees the two agents ducked behind a huge cement planter, guns in hand, braving the onslaught of bullets around them.

Next to them is Ilya. He’s sitting low against the planter, his back pressed against it, his eyes shut, his hands covering his ears. He looks young, and small, and terrified.

Two, maybe three, seconds have passed since Shane stepped inside the airport. The agents fire back at the ski mask guy, who pauses his shooting to take cover behind the railing.

Shane takes one step towards Ilya before something yanks him backwards with enough force to make him fall on his ass. He scrambles and turns, scared and ready to fight for his life, when he finds Marlow holding on to a fistful of his clothes.

“Hollander, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Stay low!” He hisses, letting go.

Shane looks to his right and finds most of Boston’s team laying flat on their bellies, hands over their heads. They’ve found refuge in the McDonald’s, hiding behind the counter or crawling under the tables fixed to the floor. Shane adjusts his body to lay low like them, feeling his heart thunder, but his eyes inevitably find Ilya again.

He needs to get to him. Why? What for? Who fucking cares? Shane only knows that he can’t stay here, safely tucked away, while Ilya is in danger.

The gunfire restarts. Shane looks up at the gunman. No, gunmen. Two of them shooting at the agents who have taken cover again. Ilya has opened his eyes and is looking around, eyes wide and desperate like a hunted animal.

Something is wrong.

Shane tries to shake off the feeling. Of course something is wrong. Everything is. They are in the middle of a shoot out.

No. Something is off.

It nags at him. And it’s, again, that familiar feeling from the ice, when his body senses a play a millisecond before his mind catches up.

Shane army crawls (more like shimmies) forward until he can poke his head around the corner of the McDonald’s countertop and get a bit more of his bearings. There’s people on the floor everywhere, behind other planters, under cafe tables, curled up against walls or behind their luggage. Shane hopes they are all just taking cover, that no one is shot or hurt or dead, but he knows chances for that are slim.

His eyes find Ilya again. He is too far away. Shane can’t run all that distance without making himself an easy target begging for a stray bullet. There is a souvenir shop on the other side of the glass doors. If he makes it that far, he could duck behind their- well, the shopfront is all glass too, so it wouldn’t be much help, but if he could jump over the counter…

Something catches his eye. Movement. Far away, past Ilya and the agents, a man with a baseball cap stands up. Shane’s first thought is worry. If the guy is trying to make a run for it he will never make it (never mind that it was kinda sort of what Shane was about to do too). But then the unease from earlier returns tenfold. The man isn’t running. He is moving slowly, deliberately.

Two gunmen.

It’s three.

Ilya said. Three.

The agents are too busy shooting. The noise is deafening. Ilya has his eyes closed again like he can escape reality.

Shane should shout, should stand up and run towards them, he should do something… but if he does he is terrified that the man will make his move, that Shane will precipitate events. That he will get Ilya killed.

He doesn’t know what to do. He isn’t trained for this.

In another world, maybe. In an alternate reality like Ilya and him were joking about last night. He wishes now he was a secret agent or a criminal or, hell, just someone with minimum knowledge about what to do in this situation because all he knows, all he really knows, is that he is about to watch the man he loves die and he’s got… nothing.

He’s nothing.

He’s a jock, a clown who puts on a show for a million people every other night because he’s good on the ice and with a stick. He’s not even that big, that good at fighting, not enough to do what he’d want right now and throw himself against the man who is still moving forward undetected. Because all Shane Hollander has is balance, stamina and… freakishly good hand-eye coordination.

Okay.

Okay.

Shane looks around and finds, abandoned halfway between the doors and the McDonalds, the Boston Bears’ equipment bags. Before common sense has a chance to catch up with him, he gets on his feet and runs.

Marlow calls his name, his voice between a hiss and a shout, mostly lost in the thundering echo of the bullets.

Shane slides to a stop when he reaches Ilya’s bag. He recognizes it because it has that stupid bear sticker that looks just like his tattoo, he has seen it so many times in so many different hotel rooms. He knows Ilya travels with a puck. He calls it a lucky puck even if he isn’t superstitious. It’s from their game at the junior Olympics. The year they met. He just carries it around to taunt Shane with it every so often.

The sticks aren’t hard either. He knows hockey teams well enough to know there’s always someone too precious about their equipment to let it be sent via charter by the staff. He knows hockey. If nothing else, he knows hockey players.

Three sticks taped together lay on the floor. He rips the tape so desperately one of his nails bleeds, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s counting seconds in his head. Timer running out. One last goal. The most important one of his entire life.

He grabs the stick in his bloodied hands and looks up just as the man is closing in on Ilya. Ilya who finally looks up and sees the threat a second too late. The man pulls a hand to the back of his belt.

Shane aims for his face.

It’s a dirty shot. One he would never take on the ice. His aim is perfect.

The hit lands with a sickening crack.

Ilya watches the man fall backward, the gun clatter to the floor, then turns and his eyes meet Shane standing there, stick in hand.

For a moment, there is silence in the airport. The entire world seems to pause. There’s only them. Then the shooting starts again.

The glass doors behind Shane shatter.

“Shit!”

He runs forward, towards Ilya, trying to keep his head down, but then the souvenir shopfront window explodes into a million shards of glass and there’s a sharp pain on his side. All Shane can do is drop to the floor, flat on his belly, covering his head with both hands as the bullets continue flying.

Someone shouts his name. It sounds like Ilya. It can’t be. He never calls him by his first name.

Shane looks up, finds blue eyes locked on him. Filled with terror. Shane just stares. If it’s the last thing he does, he wants to look at Ilya Rozanov’s beautiful face and somehow reassure him the everything will be okay.

Ilya tries to run to him. The big agent tackles him to the ground. Rozanov fights like a caged animal, with fire like Shane has never seen before, not even in the worst brawls on the ice, but the man is trained far beyond what either Ilya or Shane are, athletes or not, and he holds him there, on the ground, as his partner shoots cover fire. 

Good. Ilya is safe. That’s good.

Shane thinks of his mom and his dad and how hurt they will be if he dies here. Like this. The violent stain it will leave in their lives forever. Fuck, how is Hayden gonna tell his kids? What will the team think? What will be left of him in this world? A couple hockey records, two cups, he’ll be a forgotten memory by the time the next talented kid shows up. And Ilya… Ilya will be alone at the top. He will leave Ilya alone. 

Selfishly, he prefers that outcome to the alternative. To losing Ilya. He’s never been good at losing.

So he keeps his eyes up, trained on Ilya as they both lay on the floor, and he hopes that whatever happens next lets him leave this world knowing Ilya is still in it.

Chapter End Notes

Okay so… first of all. Dont kill me.

This fic has been very chill so far and it was about time we had some drama.

But I promised a happy ending and I will deliver.

We just need to let them hang in the tense moment for a bit.

But really, again this is mostly about me having to cut my og idea for the chapter in 2 for length’s sake. I will have the other half (which might already be the epilogue or not idk yet) very soon.

Also, did I realize too late that the three agents and the three gun men could make everything with the police far more suspicious? Yup. Accidental red herring lol but I kinda dig it.

Also, like I said on Twitter, Shane straight up saying “no” to what’s basically Canadian gubernamental intelligence forces (and fighting the need to apologize for it) is such a delight for me.

ANYWAY, I hope the action in this scene wasn’t too confusing. I had the lay out of the scenario super clear in my head but I’m not sure how clearly it translated in writing. Regardless, action scenes are a favorite of mine so this was a joy to write. I just hope it’s a fun read too!!!

Also, yes, I just had a hockey player take down a gunman with a puck. It’s called whimsy ✨

You should come talk to me in Twitter (@pamericachavez) or Tumblr (@princessamericachavez).

But also drop a comment here? I love reading yall in between updates!!

Chapter 5: spread my wings like a parachute

Chapter Summary

“What the fuck where you thinking?” Ilya reaches him and stops inches away, his hands hovering by Shane’s hips. His eyes are hard, still wild. “What the fuck was that?!”

“A fucking great shot!” Shane replies, heated, but it only lasts a second because Ilya is here, unharmed, alive. Minutes ago he thought he would lose him forever. He’s okay.

Chapter Notes

It feels like forever. Like a thousand little eternities all tucked into one. Every second stretching with the echo of a bullet somewhere, every instant charged with the possibility that it might be the last.

And then, the shooting stops.

A chorus of loud angry voices breaks into the airport. Shane doesn’t dare move until a pair of dark boots stops in front of him. Whoever it is, kneels and says, in a gentle voice: “Sir? Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

Finally, Shane looks up and sees a woman with dark brown bangs and sun-kissed skin looking down at him. Her uniform says ‘paramedic’. Oh, oh thank god.

“Yeah, I think so, I-“ his voice trembles so much it’s hard to get words out.

“Alright, it’s okay. My name is Maddie. I’m a paramedic. What’s yours?”

“Shane.”

“Okay, Shane. Everything’s gonna be alright. I’m gonna roll you over to take a look, okay?”

“Okay.”

The woman helps him roll until he’s laying in his back. He feels the press of small pieces of glass under him. She makes some routine questions he’s heard before after a hit on the ice. Her eyes scan him from head to toe and pause on his side, where the sharp sting of pain was earlier. She moves away his jacket and pulls up his shirt.

“That’s one nasty cut you’ve got there, Shane,” she says. “Probably from all this glass. But it doesn’t look too deep. You might need a couple stitches but that’s probably about it.”

Oh. Oh, thank god. Shane thought he’d gotten shot. He feels a surge of embarrassment mixed with the relief but then Maddie is saying: “okay, let’s see if we can get you on your feet, eh? I’m sorry but most of our stretches are being used right now so-“

“No, I’m- I’m good. I think I can stand,” Shane says, letting her help him to his feet.

His side burns at the movement, the bloodied clothes clinging awkwardly to his skin, but he’s had far worse hits on the ice.

Just as he’s getting his bearings, a hurricane collides with him.

“Hollander!” Ilya yells, marching towards Maddie and him with big strides.

Two paramedics try to stop him to check him over and are promptly shoved aside, like they are rookies on the ice facing the Russian nightmare for the first time. Maddie bravely tries to stand between them, one hand on Shane’s chest, one held out to Rozanov’s.

“It’s okay,” Shane says, pulling her arm down. “He’s… it’s okay.”

“What the fuck where you thinking?” Ilya reaches him and stops inches away, his hands hovering by Shane’s hips. His eyes are hard, still wild. “What the fuck was that?!”

“A fucking great shot!” Shane replies, heated, but it only lasts a second because Ilya is here, unharmed, alive. Minutes ago he thought he would lose him forever. He’s okay.

Oh, thank god, he’s okay.

Unfortunately, when that thought hits it lands with the weight of all the terror of the past twelve hours. The world spins, then sways like someone’s pulled the rug from under him. He doesn’t realize that his legs have buckled until a pair of strong steady hands catches him.

“Shane?!” Ilya’s voice is so soft when he says his first name, even when tainted with panic. “What’s wrong? Is he hurt? What’s happening?”

“Let’s sit him down over here,” Maddie’s voice is still calm as she maneuvers them both towards a bench a couple feet away.

Shane tries to maintain some dignity but the nausea is too bad to do anything except let himself be led. Ilya sits him down, not letting go of his shoulders. He crouches between Shane’s legs, closer than they have ever been in public.

“What is wrong? Is the bleeding? Is he okay?”

“The wound isn’t bleeding too bad and there doesn’t seem to be any indication of internal bleeding or concussion,” she replies, voice still surprisingly calm. “He’s probably crashing down from the adrenaline. It’s okay.”

Oh, that makes sense.

Shane tries to focus on Ilya’s face, even as the image swirls and doubles.

“Ilya, I’m fine. I’m f- fuuuuuuuck,” he frees himself from his hands and turns around just in time to bury his head inside a trash can and puke his guts out. “Shit,” he groans, feeling tears prickle his eyes with embarrassment and pain from his wound just as another wave of nausea has him puking bile. Good thing he didn’t eat breakfast.

“Shane,” he feels a hand pull his hair back away from his face, another rubbing circles around his back. “Is okay. You are okay.”

Shane heaves a couple more times before his can speak.

“Did you get checked out?”

“What?”

“Did you- did the paramedics- are you okay?” He gasps, fighting to speak without throwing up again.

“I am okay.”

“But did they- Maddie? Can- can you check him over.”

“I am fine, Hollander.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov, they were shooting at you not me!” Shane chances a glare over his shoulder and it’s the wrong move. Immediately the nausea comes back and he has to bend over the trashcan again. “Shit. Just- please.”

“Ilya, right?” Maddie says softly. “How about I check you out while Shane gets his bearings?”

Ilya’s hands still stay on him for a second or two before he lets go. Shane inwardly mourns losing his touch, but takes the time to ground himself. He focuses on his breathing (four in, four out), on what he can see (thankfully it’s too early for the trashcan to be too full), on what he can smell (no, let’s don’t). He mostly listens to Ilya patiently answering Maddie’s question while she probably examines him. There’s other voices far away, sobbing and screaming and yelling and calling names desperately. Shane lets himself cry a little in his undignified position until a hand touches his back gently.

He straightens up and finds Ilya there. He didn’t feel him stand up, but he must have because now he’s holding out a water bottle for him. It’s cold.

“Where did you get that?” Shane asks, voice hoarse.

“Souvenir shop.”

“You stole it?!”

“I left money on counter. Hollander, will you just take it and drink?”

Sheepishly, Shane does as he is told. Ilya sits next to him.

“Better?”

Shane nods, clearing his throat.

“Yeah. Sorry about… that.”

Ilya just turns to him and gives him a flat look. But Shane knows him. It isn’t actually detached or annoyed. There’s something behind his eyes that he is keeping a tight hold on. Later, it seems to promise. It’s the kind of look that begs for a close door so they can properly speak. Or… touch.

For now, though, they will have to wait.

“Maddie said to wait. She will take you to ambulance to get stitches but she had other people to tend to.”

Shane nods, feeling embarrassment well up inside him all over again. There’s probably people shot out there, people dead, or seriously injured. He can’t be making people waste time because he got an upset tummy after surviving this shit show.

Ilya and Shane sit there in silence, not even touching, just breathing, until Maddie returns.

“Hey, Shane, are you feeling better?” She asks, sweetly. “Ready to get that cut checked out? It’ll be quick, like I said. Maybe a couple stitches but we should be able to get you good to go without needing a ride to the ER. Probably for the best, they are gonna have their hands full.”

“Right. Yeah. No, I mean, I’m sure there’s a lot of people much worse. I’m sorry for-“

“Christ, Hollander, stop apologizing,” Ilya stands up and offers a hand to help him to his feet.

Shane takes it and is lifted with gentleness Ilya only ever shows in the bedroom sometimes. It feels ill fitting out here in the real world.

As they make their way out of the airport, Shane takes in the scene. Several SWAT vans, police cars and ambulances are parked across the drop-off area of the parking lot. More are coming in. People are being moved either on stretchers or on their own two feet like him. Some police officers are coming in and out while others stand guard.

The strangest thing is the sun in the sky, still low and barely rising. It can’t have been more than an hour since Ilya and him got here. It felt like a lifetime.

“Cap!” A voice calls from behind them. “Rozy!”

Ilya doesn’t let go of Shane as they both turn to find the Bears entire team bundled together near their bus, looking pale and lost. Ilya tenses, jaw clenched as he motions to keep moving towards the ambulance. Shane plants his feet.

“You should go with them,” he says. And when he sees the conflict in his eyes he adds: “They are your team, they are scared, they need their captain.”

Ilya’s mouth presses into a thin line as his eyes bore into him. He swallows, looking pained.

“Rozy!” Marlow is approaching.

“Rozanov, go. I’m not going anywhere until I get patched up.”

“I’ve got him,” Maddie says, small and fierce.

Ilya takes a deep breath, then his face morphs again into something more familiar. His hand squeezes Shane’s elbow once before he turns away and approaches his teammate.

“Fucks sake, Marly, stop screaming. I am coming. You are being so needy, this why your girl dumped you?”

“Fuck you, Cap! I thought you were toast back there!” Marlow sounds shaky and happy and entirely too unbothered by Ilya trying to be an asshole.

Maddie sends Shane a curious look. He just shrugs and pushes them on to the ambulance.

The stitches are surprisingly quick. Maddie gives him some local anesthesia and gets to work with a steady hand and a level of focus Shane can’t help but deeply respect.

“I gotta get back inside, see if anyone else needs help,” she says when she’s done. “Are you good here until your guy comes back?”

“He’s not my-“

She gives him a look. Fuck.

“Yeah. I’m good. I can wait for my friend.”

He’s not sure if she buys it but she nods and leaves, taking her medical bag with her. Shane sighs and enjoys the quiet for about two seconds before his phone starts buzzing.

He pulls it out and notices the screen is cracked. Shit. Then he sees who is calling: Hayden. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Hay-“

“Shane! Holly shit. Holly shit, dude. Oh god, I’m so glad to hear your voice, man. Are you okay? They said- in the news they-“

“I’m okay. I’m fine, Hayden, breathe.”

“I kept trying to call you,” his best friend’s voice is shaking. He sounds like he’s crying. “The call wouldn’t go through. And then I saw the news. And I couldn’t reach you. Fuck. I thought-“

“Hayden, seriously, man, breathe, please. I’m okay.”

“Fuck. What happened?”

“I-“ Shane stumbles. “I don’t know. Someone was shooting inside the airport. At Rozanov. It was bad.”

“Shit! Is he…?”

“No! No, he’s okay. Ily- Rozanov is okay. As far as I can tell so are the rest of the Bears. I don’t know. There’s some people hurt, and… and I don’t know if someone died but… but the people we know are okay… I think.”

“Okay. Okay. Fuck. That’s… shit, man. Are you okay?”

He’s knows by his friend’s inflection what he mean this time.

“I’m… alright. I think. In shock”

I can’t believe I ran into active fire. I can’t believe I got shot at. I can’t believe I shot a fucking puck at someone aiming a gun at Ilya Rozanov. I can’t believe I almost died and I can’t believe I didn’t. And most of all I can’t believe how lucky I am that I didn’t lose Ilya back there.

“Do you want me to come get you?”

Does he? Shane bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. If Hayden shows up… well, it would be comforting for sure, but it would also destroy any chance for Shane to talk to Ilya before he leaves. And he can’t have that. Not right now.

“No. Thanks but I still gotta talk to the agents and then I just wanna go home and, like, chill, you know? I’m not sure I’m ready for company right now.”

“Yeah, okay, no, I get it. Sure. I, uh, I can swing by tomorrow, though. Maybe we can just hang out a little?”

Oh, he sounds wrecked.

“Yeah, of course. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. I’m just- I’m glad you’re okay, Shane.”

“Thanks, Hayden. Love you.”

“You too, man.”

Shane hangs up and looks at his phone. He has a message from his mom in their family group chat. A link to a CNN news alert about the shooting in the Montreal airport.

Mom: This is awful. Do we know if everyone is okay? Shane, have they told you anything? I’m glad the game was called last night…

Right. Shit. He’s kinda taken advantage of the fact that his parents are on a trip to New York to avoid filling them in on any details of the situation beyond the game getting cancelled over security concerns. He’s gonna have to tell them the truth eventually, though. God, he hopes they never find out… about, well, all of this.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when someone approaches him. It’s the woman, the agent from the rink. Her dark curly hair is pulled up into a tight clean ponytail, she’s still in her smart business casual suit, but she’s wearing sneakers. Somehow, that practical detail is what makes Shane feel more at ease.

“Mister Hollander,” she greets him.

“Ma’am,” he replies. “I never got your name.”

“Agent Kate Molina. I’m-“

“CSIS, yes, your colleague mentioned,” Shane sighs. “Why the fuck is CSIS responding to threats at a hockey player? I mean, it’s a security concern for sure but not exactly national security.”

“Given what happened here today, I’d argue it very much is a national security concern.”

“But you were on the case already. Since the video,” he pushes.

“Mister Hollander, I’m sorry, but I can’t give you details about-“

“Fuck that!” Shane snaps. “Sorry. I just- Look we just got fucking shot at, Rozanov almost dies, I just took a fucking guy out with a fucking puck, I- I just need to know what the fuck is going on here before I lose my mind or- or become even more paranoid about this whole thing.”

Shane all but collapses, resting his head in his hands. Thank god he was already sitting down on the ambulance’s floor or this would be even more mortifying.

“You didn’t take him out,” she says finally.

“What?” He looks up.

“The gunman. At least not yet. He’s in surgery for jaw reconstruction and half his cheek is fractured too. They are waiting for CT results as we speak but… he’s alive for now.”

Oh. Oh, god. Shane didn’t realize how badly this was weighting on him until it was lifted. His head falls again between his hands. “Okay. Okay. Good.”

Agent Molina gives him a sympathetic hum. He thinks she’s gonna leave for sure, let him panic alone. Instead she relents:

“Don’t feel too guilty. This men… they are dangerous. We have been tracking their group for a while. They aren’t quite a terrorist organization yet, but they were getting there. Grassroots extreme right, racist… I would say nationalists, but they’ve been moving across American and Canadian borders for a while. Hard to tell what they consider their country. We’ve been working with the FBI for a while trying to track them down but our American colleagues have been… ineffective so far. When we got the news about this threat, well, we knew it was our best shot at getting one of their cells.”

Shane lifts his head and stares at her. Her words settle in him like lead. He replays the last twelve hours with this knowledge and reaches the same awful conclusion. Every other feeling in his chest burst into flames, consumed by rage.

“You knew this would happen! You- you used him as bait!” He jumps to his feet, stepping up to her. “He’s not a fucking piece of meat. He’s my-“

And, even through the anger, he stumbles. My what? My rival? My lover? My heart? Mine. Mine mine mine. He is mine.

“He’s- He’s a fucking person!”

Molina at least has the decency to look a little sorry.

“Mister Hollander,” she says, “we didn’t know this would happen. We were ready to intercept them at the hockey game, but when it became clear it would not take place there we prepared for Mister Rozanov’s hotel. That plan… changed.”

“You expected them to come to my house?!”

“We were confident in your security system. And there were no threats in either location. We started to believe they’d been deterred or that the threats were null. But we still had a security detail nearby, luckily.”

“Luckily,” Shane replies, tone glacial.

“I assure you, we had no indication that the airport could be a high risk. Every intel indicated they intended to leave the country after the fact, so this must have been a last ditch effort. They changed plans, improvised, which is good.”

“Luckily,” Shane deadpans again. He takes a deep breath, tries to reign his anger in. He pinches his brow. “So… now what?”

“Now, we need to regroup, take statements and hopefully get useful information out of them. And we… we might need Mister Rozanov to stay in town for a few days.”

Shane blinks. “A few days.”

“Right. We thought maybe, you wouldn’t mind having him around a few days more.”

Shane looks at her, trying for dear life to keep his face blank. He thinks he’s doing a good job when Rozanov appears next to him and says, frowning:

“Hollander, what is wrong?”

Fuck.

He looks at him and fear must be clear on his face because Ilya’s face morphs and he turns to Molina, his body angling slightly between them. Shane grabs his arm, though he isn’t sure if he’s trying to restrain him or anchor himself.

Agent Kate Molina’s face is the mask of cordiality as she looks up at an angry Ilya Rozanov. “I was just telling Mister Hollander you might have to stay with him for a few days more. A week or so, I think, while we settle this down.”

Ilya turns to Shane. He looks… worried. No, hurt. And, too late, Shane realizes he might think his conflict is reluctance. Fuck. Ilya turns to the agent.

“I can stay in hotel.”

“No!” Shane jumps, too loud, too fast, too transparent. His hand on Ilya’s elbow tightens. “No. I- I mean, if he can- if he wants to, I would- I’d like to… he can stay with me. If he…”

Ilya turns to him again. “Yes.”

“Yes. Okay, yes. I- Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She actually smiles. “You know, Hollander, the guys are big fans. I just know that they will not shut up about that wrist shot.”

“Oh. I- I didn’t-“

“I am sure Hollander can get them tickets for next game. Maybe against Boston too, to say sorry about broken nose.”

“What broken nose?” Shane turns frowning. 

Ilya shrugs, not looking apologetic at all.

“Yeah. Tickets,” Shane says. “I can. Sure.”

Molina smiles, looking at them. Shane can’t help himself.

“But how did you-“

“I am very good at my job. And very discreet. We will be in touch with both of you in a couple days to get your statements and any further questions. Good day,” she walks away.

Ilya turns to him, frowning slightly. Shane feels his heart twist with hope and longing. They are here. They are alive.

“You wanna get out of here?”

Ilya smiles. In that soft way the rest of the world doesn’t get to see.

“Yes. Let me talk to the team. Then, yes, Hollander, I wanna go home with you.”

Chapter End Notes

To absolutely no one’s surprise we have added one chapter. Consider it an epilogue, now that the plot is mostly out of the way and these two finally FINALLY get to talk about why went down.

Thank you to everyone who’s been along for the ride!!!

Chapter 6: i’m the life you chose

Chapter Summary

“Hollander,” he says.

“Marlow,” he replies in kind, wondering if he’s about to get another pseudo-shovel talk.

“You’re a fucking madman,” the Bear’s Alternate says then, his face breaking into a huge smile. “But that shot was a thing of beauty. Thanks for keeping your word,” he offers his hand.

Shane takes it, blinking a little bit in shock. “Uh, yeah. No problem. Happy to.”

Chapter Notes

It takes them longer to leave the airport than they expected. Shane stands awkwardly to the side while Ilya talks to his team and his coach, explaining not only that he’ll be needing to stay in Montreal for a few days but that he will be staying at Shane fucking Hollander’s house.

All along, the Boston crew just stares at Shane. It’s not how they usually look at him before or after games, not even how they look at him in other events. It’s… maybe not friendly. Half look scared and half look just curious. Shane would prefer if they all just stopped looking.

When Ilya is finally done, he comes over flanked by Cliff Marlow, who looks almost like a bodyguard half a step behind.

“Hollander,” he says.

“Marlow,” he replies in kind, wondering if he’s about to get another pseudo-shovel talk.

“You’re a fucking madman,” the Bear’s Alternate says then, his face breaking into a huge smile. “But that shot was a thing of beauty. Thanks for keeping your word,” he offers his hand.

Shane takes it, blinking a little bit in shock. “Uh, yeah. No problem. Happy to.”

He mentally slaps himself. What kinda answer is that?!

“Okay, Marly, that’s enough awkward handshake, let my bodyguard go.”

“Still not your bodyguard,” Shane says, trying to hide the fact that Ilya calling him “his” anything is enough to make him blush.

“Landlord then. Mister landlord,” Ilya says, eyes shining with the memory of his teasing in their past encounters.

If Shane doesn’t get out of here fast he’s gonna get a hard-on in front of Marlow. Cliff at least laughs, unaware of anything.

“Stop making the man regret saving your life Rozy.”

“He will regret it next time I beat him on the ice.”

“Alright, that’s enough. Let’s go,” Shane roll his eyes. “Take care, Marlow. You and the team. Have a safe journey home.”

“You too, Holly. Don’t let him get on your nerves.”

“Me?!” Ilya pretends to be shocked. “Never!”

Shane shakes his head, waves goodbye to Marlow (which is, again, painfully awkward since they are standing right in front of each other) and turns to walk away. Ilya, thankfully, falls into pace with him.

“You regret saving me yet?” He teases, grinning.

Shane wants to lie, to say he does, but he can’t find it in himself to. Not even as a joke. Instead he just grumbles, “asshole,” an orders an Uber.

When they get to his house, exhaustion starts catching up to Shane. Ilya drops his bags by the entrance while he checks his locks and gives one last look to his security cameras.

It’s only been four hours since they left in the morning. It feels like forever.

“I will cook some lunch,” Ilya announces with ease, already walking to the kitchen with familiarity that makes Shane’s heart twitch.

Years they’ve spent sneaking in and out of hotel rooms and empty buildings and now, after a day, Ilya is just moving around his house with ease, like he belongs here.

“What do you want?” Ilya asks, turning to him.

“I’m…” Shane shakes his head. “I don’t think I can eat right now.”

“You are still nauseous?”

“A little. I wanna brush my teeth and maybe take a shower. But you go ahead,” he says, already climbing up stairs.

“You want company in the shower?” Ilya asks.

And what the hell is Shane supposed to say except “fuck, yeah.”

Good thing that Shane brushed his teeth before they climbed in the shower because kissing Ilya under the warm stream is like heaven after the fucking nightmare this day has been. His hands are greedy, trailing along Ilya’s body like he could memorize him (again), feeling the heat of his skin, the speed of his pulse, the taste of his wet muscles.

Ilya drops on his knees with even more eagerness than usual, hurriedly, like if he doesn’t get Shane’s cock in his mouth he will miss his chance. His hands roam around his torso until his they find the stitches on his side. The tips of his fingers trace carefully around the wound, contrasting against Ilya’s hungry mouth that takes and takes and takes until Shane can barely stand. Shane is more than happy to crouch down and rest his shaky legs as he takes Ilya in his mouth next, letting him hold to his hair and guide his pace until he’s muttering Russian under his breath, with Shane’s last name peppered between words he cannot understand.

After, clean and relaxed, Ilya coaxes Shane into having a tuna melt and a beer. Usually, Shane would never eat like this or drink alcohol in the middle of the season, but today has been A Fucking Day so he can make an exception. The way Ilya’s hungry eyes sparkle as he finishes it all sure are worth it too.

They agree on avoiding the news for the time being, neither of them in the mood to think about the whole morning incident for now, and they know any games today are likely to mention it too, so they settle for a not so friendly game of virtual MLH which devolves into them wrestling each other on the couch, which of course ends with Shane blowing Ilya and coming nearly on touched just at the sight of Ilya Rozanov sprawled and his on his couch.

Shane refuses to let Ilya do all the cooking, hates that it feels as if Ilya was trying to pay him back somehow by taking care of him, but he knows his regular diet isn’t entirely enticing for him, so he defrosts a plate of his dad’s chicken Parmesan that his parents dropped off the last time they were in town. His dad told him to save it for a special occasion. Shane thinks surviving a death threat probably qualifies. He tries not to think about everything he isn’t telling his parents, about yesterday, about today, but also about Ilya and the past several years.

Ilya devours the chicken while Shane eats one of his meal-prepped salads.

By unspoken mutual agreement, they climb into bed early, where Ilya takes his fucking sweet time unraveling Shane with his mouth and his hands and his cock, with laser focused dedication. Shane falls apart loudly, desperately, begging and panting. All the tight control he’s tried to keep a grip on the past two days completely gone. Ilya collapses on top of him, panting, heart racing, sweating and gorgeous and Shane knows, without a doubt, he’d risk death for him a million times more.

Shane wakes up to an empty bed in the middle of the night. Like most nights. But tonight it feels wrong deep in his bones.

He puts on a shirt and sweatpants before climbing downstairs and finds Ilya sitting on the couch. He’s just staring at nothing, still like a statue.

“Rozanov?” He calls, approaching carefully, feeling like a sudden movement might make the Russian bolt.

Ilya looks up at him, face ghastly and eyes distant.

“Sorry,” his voice sounds a little choked. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” Shane sits next to him. “What’s wrong?”

Ilya looks away, body tense and hunched like he’s shielding himself from something. It breaks Shane’s heart.

“Hey,” he says, softly, holding Ilya’s jaw and making him turn towards him. The tenderness of the gesture feels natural even if they’ve never really been like this with each other before. Shane can’t imagine treating him with anything other than care right now. “Hey. Today was a lot. It was fucking terrifying.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Ilya says, not meeting his eyes.

Shane remembers him, sitting on the floor, eyes closed, hands over his ears. He’d looked so small, so young. It’d reminded him of the day they met, years ago. Just a boy far from home.

“Yes, you were,” Shane says, trying his hardest to make it clear in his voice that he isn’t judging. “You’d be a fucking idiot not to be. It’s okay.”

Ilya finally looks up at him. “I wasn’t afraid… at first. I was angry that they want to scare me and annoyed that they make you so upset, but I wasn’t really afraid for me. But then when it- I realized I don’t want to go. I thought I wouldn’t care,” his voice cracks, like it’s a terrible awful crime he is confessing.

Shane does the only thing he can, he wraps his arms around Ilya Rozanov and holds him tightly.

“It’s okay. You are okay, Ilya” he whispers, tugging him into his chest. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says against his shirt.

“No. Don’t. I’m here. You’re safe. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Shane can tell immediately by the way Ilya’s entire body tenses in his arms.

“Fucking hell, Hollander. You can’t- you don’t get to fucking say that,” Ilya growls, pulling back to glare at him.

The fire in his eyes makes Shane pull back too.

“What?”

“You fucking heard me. That shit you pulled today. You can’t just- you can’t protect me.”

“Yes, I fucking can!” Shane stands up to put distance between them, feeling betrayed. “I can’t believe this. You’re mad at me?”

“Of course I’m fucking mad, Hollander! You are hypocrite!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb, you know!” Ilya stands up too. “You say ‘be careful, Ilya’, ‘don’t put yourself in danger, Ilya’, ‘take guns seriously, Ilya’, then you fucking go and run into fire!”

“You were in there!” Shane screams, feeling his eyes fill with hot tears out of sheer frustration. “What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Not that! Not run inside! Not shoot a puck at the guy like it is just game on the ice-“

“He was trying to kill you!”

“So what? You just decide to give them new target instead?!”

“Yes!” Shane explodes and it’s insane, he knows it, and it’s not what his plan had been back there but he refuses to back down at this point. “If it will stop them from shooting at you, then yes!”

“You cannot do this, Hollander!” Ilya takes a step forward, arms outstretched like he wants to grab Shane by the shoulders… or strangle him. “They started shooting at you! They shot and you fell and I thought you were fucking dead, Shane!”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know! But you still- what the fuck were you thinking?! You are so smart, so Mister Careful, why the fuck would you do something so goddamn stupid and-“

“Because I fucking love you and I couldn’t let you die!”

Fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, god.

Shane brings his shaking hands up to his hair, to pull at it, to shield himself behind his arms. Ilya just stares, breathing heavily. Shane turns around to hide his face, to avoid looking at Ilya as realization hits, as everything they have carefully set into place for years comes crumbling down because Shane couldn’t keep his stupid fucking heart under control.

“Hollander…” Ilya calls.

“No,” he groans shakily. He isn’t ready for it to be over.

“Shane.”

A pair of gentle hands force him to turn around. Shane keeps his arms up around his face like that can comfort him. His eyes are still closed. Ilya might get to look at his face but Shane is too scared to face him yet.

“I’m not sorry,” Shane whispers. For loving you. For saying it. For saving your life. Fuck it, he is many things, but he isn’t really sorry.

“Look at me,” Ilya asks. It’s not an order, it sounds like a plea. “Shane, look at me.”

And fuck him. What else can he do? Shane opens his eyes, finds the same pair of blue irises me he was willing to die looking into this morning. Ilya’s face is scared, like he is facing the gunman again.

“I’m not sorry,” Shane repeats, voice wavering and tears falling down his cheeks now.

Ilya brings both hands up to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing away his tears, and Shane is terrified of what that gentleness promises. Because it can’t be. Not in this world.

“I love you too.”

And then Ilya kisses him soundly, deeply, all giving without demand. It’s the same loaded gun kiss from last night. It’s saying the same thing… but now Shane knows the words.

His trembling hands come up to hold on to Ilya’s neck and pull him in closer as his lips part for each other, opening and deepening the kiss with growing hunger. It’s messy and salty with tears and perfect. They finally pull away breathless and wrung out. Both shaking.

Shane looks at Ilya, taking in his face, the way his eyes look even bluer after crying, even in the dark, his swollen lips still pink after the kiss, his slightly furrowed brow. The whole time, Ilya is looking back, with an intense expression like he wants to memorize his face too. Then he pulls Shane tightly against his chest and wraps his arms around him. Ilya’s shoulders finally relax, melting into the hug. Shane focused on the steady beat of his heart.

“I love you,” Ilya says again, his breath tickling Shane’s neck. He sounds choked. “I thought today that I would never get to tell you. That you would die because of me and I’d never-“

Shane’s heart shatters. He tightens his hold of Ilya, digging his fingers into the back of his tank top.

“It wasn’t your fault. Nothing that happened today was your fault.”

Ilya sighs, rocking him gently. “You scared me most today. Was the worst part.”

“I know,” Shane says, pressing a peck to Ilya’s shoulder. “Me too. I thought I’d be too late. That he’d kill you and there’d be nothing I could do. I’ve never been so scared in my fucking life.”

Ilya pulls back again, just enough to look down at Shane’s face. He brings a hand to his cheek.

“You saved my life,” he says softly. “You already did. From the day I met you.”

“Fuck. You can’t just say things like that.”

Ilya’s face twists, hurt for a second, or maybe scared. Shane brings his left hand up to hold Ilya’s hand where it is cupping his face before he can retract it.

“It’s too romantic,” he explains. “I don’t think my heart can take it.”

“Your heart is very strong. It can take anything.”

“Not losing you. I don’t think I could take that. Anything else, maybe. But these past two days, I’ve-“ his voice trails off, unable to explain the nightmare that it’s been fearing for Ilya’s life.

“Yes. I understand now. I think I would be same if they threatened you. Maybe worse. Maybe I would have tried to find them and kill them myself.”

Shane laughs weakly.

“Is no joke. I am Russian. I know people. And I… I am not brave like you. I would do it because I would be too afraid.”

“You are brave too,” Shane says and he stands on his toes to press a kiss to Ilya’s cheek. Getting to do something as simple as that feels like a privilege. “But it’s okay to be afraid. Maybe we can both do both.”

Ilya nods solemnly. “We can be brave chickens.”

Shane bursts out laughing and Ilya smiles until his eyes crinkle.

“You’re an idiot,” Shane says fondly. “We should try to sleep. I don’t think I can take any more intense emotions today.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, then pulls him up easily into his arms.

“What are you-“ Shane instinctively wraps his legs around his waist.

“Taking you too bed. You are hurt. I get to carry you.”

“Ilya, I can walk. I’ve been on my feet all day.”

“Exactly. We fix that now.”

Shane laughs and shakes his head at his ridiculous… what? Lover? Boyfriend? He isn’t sure right now. But he knows he is his. His.

Ilya carefully drops Shane on the mattress, then climbs on top of him, peppering kisses to his face, his neck and his shoulders until they are both wrapped in each other’s arms, foreheads pressed together.

“I love you,” Shane whispers. Just because he can.

“I love you more,” Ilya smiles, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Not everything has to be a competition,” Shane grumbles. “But I win this one. I love you more.”

“I broke a guy’s nose for you today!”

“And I broke a guy’s entire face!”

“Oh my god, Hollander, you will never let me forget that, will you?” Ilya groans but Shane can see that he is still smiling.

“Never. Don’t lie, you thought it was hot.”

“Yes,” Ilya shrugs easily. “What do you think I was thinking about when I make you come today? I think of you, all heroic and stupid, standing there in danger just saving my life with a puck. I think, that is Shane fucking Hollander, hockey legend, anti terrorist hero, and I am making him moan like a little needy slut just for me.”

Fuck. Shane is hard already against him. Ilya wraps a hand around his cock and starts lazily stroking him as he kisses his neck. Shane closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the moment, into Ilya, into the knowledge that they have time for this, days. Years, maybe, a hopeful voice whispers in the back of his head. Forever.

He’s too far gone to even hear the buzzing of his phone on the night stand.

Hayden: holy shit someone leaked the security cameras from the attack today

Hayden: just heads up in case you go on Twitter or something

Hayden: which you never do anyway

Hayden: but jic

Mom: http://www.cnn.com/breaking-news/montreals-shane-hollander-takes-down-terrorist-with-impressive…

Mom: Shane Hollander

Mom: Call me right now

Hayden: Dude

Hayden: DUDE

Hayden: is this you?!

Hayden: hollanderairportwristshot.gif

Hayden: SHANE WTF

Chapter End Notes

and it’s dooooooooone (please read this in Dr. Frankenstein’s voice)

Woof this fic really took over my brain this week

I hope yall had fun and enjoyed the ride. And I hope you find this super tooth rotting sweet ending satisfying after the ordeal the boys just went through

This chapter could basically be summed as: how many times can Ilya try to distract himself and Shane with sex before they have an actual conversation? The number could’ve been much higher but they are tired after the last 24hrs they’ve had.

Also sorry for leaving Yuna’s reaction as a cliff hanger but just having to think about the actual conversation Shane will have to have with his parents gave me second hand anxiety.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who’s been along for the ride for your lovely comments. I cannot begin to express how much they mean to me. I kept refreshing my email like a little maniac looking for that dopamine shot that is knowing you guys were having as much fun as me!

If you liked the whole thriller crime vibes in this you can check out my Shane gets kidnapped fic: what’s gonna be left of the world (if you’re not in it)

Should I just make this a collection where I put Shane and Ilya in procedural situations like they exist in the same TV land as Criminal Minds, Castle and Bones? Maybe I will. Stay tuned to see if my brain provides another convoluted plot!

Okay that’s enough note.

Stay whimsical babes ✨