Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Can Fight, Shane Hollander Is a Menace, Violence, Guns, Witness Protection, Let’s pretend I know something about how the mob works, Organized Crime, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, BAMF Shane Hollander, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, Supportive Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova Friendship, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova Friendship, POV Alternating, Love Confessions, No beta we die like Shane Hollander’s comphet

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of Heated Rivalry - But Make It a Procedural TV Show Universe

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-19 Completed: 2026-07-12 Words: 43,222 Chapters: 18/18

hold me tight (or don’t)

Summary

Lily: Sorry, I didn’t get to say goodbye

Shane had found the message sweet despite his disappointment. Now it just feels… ominous.

That’s usually the point when Shane has to get out of bed and pace around his bedroom and remind himself that, if Ilya is ghosting him (he is not, he’s not, he’s not), then he is also ghosting the rest of the fucking world. Because that is the thing that truly, really, terrifies him.

No one has heard of Ilya Rozanov in nearly three weeks.

Shane hasn’t been getting much sleep lately.

Or:

After Tampa. Things between Shane and Ilya are finally starting to look stable… until Ilya drops off the face of the Earth with little warning. Shane spirals (a lot) and decides he’s going to find his man if it’s the last thing he does.

Notes

Chapter 1: i woke up, no luck

Chapter Notes

Well, hello!!!

Welcome back to the Procedural TV plot shenanigans.

This time around, we move forward in the timeline to post-Rose Landry times but BEFORE the cottage invitation (for extra yearning and angst, because what’s worse than maybe losing the love of your life JUST when you’ve figured your feelings out?)

The tags have spoilers so be warned.

This one might need an extra shot of suspension of disbelief as we pretend I have ANY idea how the American judiciary system works. But more on that later.

For now, please make sure to grab a big cup of whimsy, leave any expectations of realism at the door and come solve a mystery with a bunch of hockey players waaaaay in over their heads.

Shane Hollander is not being ghosted.

He holds on to this belief with absolutely no proof except for the unshakeable faith he has put in one loud-mouthed Russian since he was eighteen.

It wouldn’t be the first time, a cruel voice reminds him deep at night, when the darkness strips down his walls to poke at his fears. The six months after the Olympics are a wound that only half healed, an ugly scar roughly patched together by a kissless night in Las Vegas.

But that was before. That was Rozanov.

This is Ilya.

Ilya who sat next to him on the beach in Tampa, their fingers grazing each other in the most exhilarating way. Ilya who cried in a hotel bedroom while Shane held him, wishing he could heal all the hurt his family has caused him. Ilya who then fucked him like he was pouring his soul into it and later said his first name reverently.

He said you can’t be anything, the voice insists, twisting the knife. You scared him away. He doesn’t want you.

But Shane closes his eyes and thinks of the last game against Boston, which was after Tampa. He thinks of visiting Ilya’s house again and lounging together in bed, talking and laughing and pretty much cuddling.

But he didn’t tell you to come after, did he? After the game. He didn’t want more. He already had what he wanted. That was enough.

All Shane got was a 5:00 am text, probably sent after Ilya had spent the night out celebrating with his team:

Lily: Sorry, I didn’t get to say goodbye

Shane had found the message sweet despite his disappointment. Now it just feels… ominous.

That’s usually the point when Shane has to get out of bed and pace around his bedroom and remind himself that, if Ilya is ghosting him (he is not, he’s not, he’s not), then he is also ghosting the rest of the fucking world. Because that is the thing that truly, really, terrifies him.

No one has heard of Ilya Rozanov in nearly three weeks.

Shane hasn’t been getting much sleep lately.

“Did you hear about Rozanov?”

That’s how it starts. Simple news: Ilya didn’t fly with the rest of the Raiders to Nashville. Rumors start immediately. Is he sick? (He isn’t). Is he hurt? (He didn’t seem so). Is he okay? (God, he fucking hopes so).

Jane: Are you okay?

A day and a half later, as soon as he is home alone, he tries calling. It goes straight to voicemail.

Shane isn’t deterred. The next day he tries again.

Jane: hey everything alright?
Jane: sorry for calling
Jane: I’m just worried
Jane: let me know ur ok?

A week later, there is nothing. The Raiders post one vague statement about Rozanov missing the next few games due to ‘personal reasons’. Next few games. How many is that?

Jane: hey is everything okay?
Jane: shit, your dad?

But there are no reports of anything, not of Rozanov’s family or of Ilya in Russia. And the Raiders don’t give a clear timeline for Ilya’s return. And Shane is losing his fucking mind. He tries to call three more times, unsuccessfully. He texts again. He is being pathetic, he knows, he doesn’t care.

Jane: see you tonight?

By the time they reach Boston for their next game, he isn’t even surprised when the Raiders’ lineup doesn’t include their Captain.

Shane is really, really, losing his fucking mind.

“Hey, man,” Hayden shuffles closer to him in the visitors locker room. Shane can’t stop looking at his phone, willing it to buzz with a text from Lily. “You alright?”

“Yes,” Shane says.

“You just look… off,” Hayden half winces. “And, like, I know you’ve always been a little intense when we play Boston but… this feel like something else. Is it about Rozanov?”

Shane’s eyes dart up and meet his best friend’s worried gaze. There is a millisecond in which Shane has to battle agains years of panic and nightmares, to stop cataloguing every single worst-case scenario where Hayden Pike suddenly knows about his years-long secret relationship with his biggest rival, and manage a sound that vaguely resembles a word: “what?”

“It’s just… I don’t know, maybe the whole him being gone has gotten to your head? With the rivalry and shit. I know you’ve always taken that stuff seriously. I don’t know. Is it weird, playing Boston without him? Is that it?”

Shane swallows back something that could be relief or tears.

“Yeah, it- It won’t be the same,” he says, honestly.

“Yeah, figured,” Hayden sighs. “But, hey, just because none of the guys out there can match you, doesn’t mean we have to go easy on them, right?” He tries for a smile.

Shane nods, smiling back. This he can do, at least. Hockey. He taps his fist against Hayden’s and leaves his phone in his cubby, praying it will hold answers by the third period.

When he meets Cliff Marleau at center ice, they share one single respectful nod before bending down for the face-off. He misses Ilya, he misses Ilya, he misses Ilya.

“Ready to lose, Hollander?” Marleau says with a smirk.

Shane levels him with his flattest unimpressed look. And says, with more contempt than he intended: “You are not him.”

He wins the face-off.

Everything feels off, even on the ice. Boston clearly hasn’t adjusted well to their leader’s absence. The Metros aren’t much better, too used to letting Shane and Ilya take center stage in games like this. Meanwhile, Shane is angry and laser-focused on the game (the only time he can really stop worrying over Ilya). It’s only because of this stubborn focus that he manages to just barely dodge Cliff Marleau, who is inches away from bulldozing him on open ice. That was a close one.

They demolish Boston.

Shane has never felt emptier after a victory.

There are still no new texts when he walks out of the ice, panting, exhausted and with adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He’s starting to get angry at this whole thing. And his teammates can tell. He barely speaks in the locker room, he showers in record time and gets dressed so quickly he almost puts on his sneakers on the wrong foot.

“Hey, man…” Hayden approaches him like he’s a wild animal that will pounce on him at any given second.

“I’m not going with the team. I’ll take an Uber,” Shane says.

This, surprisingly, seems to appease Hayden, who gives him a knowing smile: “Boston Lily?”

Whatever face Shane makes must give him away, because his best friend looks worried again in a blink. “Shit, everything alright?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know,” Shane says, again trying for sincerity to mask what he is trying to hide. You are terrible liar, Hollander, Ilya would smirk. God, he misses him. “I’ll text you later.”

Before Hayden can voice any more misplaced worries, Shane struts out of the locker room… just in time to find Cliff Marleau heading out.

“Hey, Marleau!” He calls, speeding up.

The Raider turns, looking around as if Shane could be calling for anyone other than him (even if Shane did just use his name). He wonders idly if Ilya’s teammate has taken one too many hits to the head.

“Hey, Hollander,” he finally says, when he reaches the obvious conclusion that he is being addressed. “Good game tonight.”

“Yeah, you too,” Shane says.

“Don’t lie, we were rough out there. What, without Rozy and all…”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” Shane says, latching on to it. “What’s the deal with Rozanov?”

He sees the moment Marleau’s face shutters. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit, he’s been gone for weeks,” Shane fires back. “What’s going on?”

“I said nothing, Hollander, drop it,” Marleau is already walking away.

“Is he hurt? Is he alright?” Shane chases after him.

“Look, man, I know you two are, like, intense about this whole rivalry thing, okay?” He says, surprisingly echoing Hayden’s earlier statement. “And that’s fine by me, I respect that. Rozy seems to like it. But this is personal, so just stay out of it.”

He starts walking away again. This is, usually, when Shane would let it go. Out of caution or politeness. But not tonight. Tonight he’s like a shark that just smelt blood in the water. And he’s been starving for weeks.

“So you do know what happened,” he accuses. “What’s is it? Is it him? Is it his family? Where is he?”

“I told you to knock it off, Hollander, it’s none of your business!” Marleau turns and shoves Shane away.

Cliff Marleau isn’t a small man by any means. He might play wing with Ilya but he’s always been something closer to an enforcer. Shane shoves him back with both hands, hard enough to make him bounce off the wall.

“Fuck you, it is my business!” He yells.

“Why the fuck do you care?!” Marleau huffs, looking like he’s gearing up for a fight on the ice.

“Because-“ fuck. “Because I do, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

This is going nowhere. He’s getting no answers. He’s going to have to leave this city in less than twelve hours and he will still have no fucking clue of what’s going on with Ilya, if he is okay, if he needs him. So Shane does something a little stupid. He lets some of his cards show.

“Look, man, I’ve known the guy since we were seventeen, okay? World’s Juniors. We were drafted together. The League keeps shoving us at each other because it sells fucking tickets. Is it really so hard to believe that after all these years I- I respect him, I care about him?”

“So what? You are, like, friends? But you hate each other. You never even talk except for chirping.”

“We are… close, okay? But, like I said, the League needs us to be enemies. So it’s just… on the down low.”

“Rozy never said-“

“Yeah, that’s the idea. Look, look,” Shane runs a hand through his hair. He’s getting desperate now. “You don’t have to tell me, like, specifics, okay? Just, like, where is he? Is he alright?”

“I don’t know.”

Oh, that’s somehow worse.

“What?” Shane’s face twists like he’s been punched. “How can you not know? He’s your best friend! Did he tell- did he say anything? To your coach?”

Marleau shakes his head. “Not to coach. LeClaire is fucking pissed about it. But he did…”

“What?” Shane prompts.

“Look, Hollander, I don’t know much, okay? He came to see me the other day, after our game against you guys. It was… fuck, it was late, or early I guess, I don’t know. And he looked shaken. Nervous, jittery. Fuck, I thought he’d gotten a chick knocked up or something,” he huffs a laugh.

Shane’s insides twist into a painful knot. “Did he?”

Marleau shrugs. “He just said he had to leave town for a while. He didn’t know how long. He said to tell Coach and the boys he’s sorry, that he’ll explain when he’s back. And then he got weird, told me not to talk much about him and to not tell anyone about his girl.”

“His…” Shane blinks, feeling like the floor is about to cave in under him.

“This Montreal girl he’s been on and off with for years,” Marleau waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t know what she’s got to do with any of this. Kinda think maybe they eloped or something and that’s why he was being weird, but who fucking knows.”

Shane makes a mental note that Marleau just did every single thing that Ilya told him not to do. But he isn’t complaining.

“He’s not- I know her. Or, well, know of her. He isn’t with her,” Shane says.

“You do?”

Shane ignores the clear suspicion in Marleau’s eyes. Something new is looming now in his stomach. Ilya scared and jittery, saying goodbye to his best friend, asking him not to mention someone —not to mention Shane specifically. He has the sudden horrible fear that the sword that’s been hanging over their heads this whole time might have finally fallen.

“Did he- did he have to go back to Russia?”

Do they know? Did they force him? Is he in prison? Is he dead?

“I don’t know.”

“Fuck.”

“What?” Marleau blinks.

“Did he take his passport? Did he pack for it?”

Maybe he ran away. Before Russia could catch him.

“How would I-“

Shane is already leaving, striding towards the doors with singleminded focus.

“Hol- Hollander, hey, where the fuck are you going?” Marleau catches up to him and pulls him back by the arm.

Shane meets his eyes, feeling clearly how determination smothers every other fear inside him… and what’s left of his common sense.

“To his place. Just wanna know he’s alright.”

“He’s not there.”

“But there’s gotta be something…”

“You’re gonna fucking break into his house? What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t just-“

“It’s not breaking in if he gave me the code to his front door,” Shane frees his arm.

“He… gave you his code?”

He wants me there. He said so.

“I already told you. We are closer than people know. Now fuck off, Marleau,” he snaps. Then winces at himself. “And, uh, thank you.”

“Yeah, no,” the man steps around to block Shane’s path again. “I’m sorry. I’m not letting you just walk into my best friend’s house alone. That’s not happening.”

Shane opens his mouth to protest, or rip him a new one, when he says:

“I’ll drive you.”

“What?”

“Look, Hollander, as much as you’re a fucking terror on the ice, I know you’re mostly a stand-up guy, okay? But you and Roz have always been kinda weird about each other, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t just fucking trust you to waltz into his place like it’s whatever. Now, I’ve played against you enough times to know there’s probably no stopping you, but I’m gonna keep an eye on you and, once you’re done, you’re gonna go with your team and leave this alone. Got it?”

Shane quickly weighs his options. There aren’t many. It’s probably this or having Marleau call the cops on him an make this entire mess worse. Shane hates being strong armed (except for one very specific person). But there’s no third alternative. He’s not dropping this until he knows Ilya is okay. He just doesn’t have it in him.

“Fine,” he adjusts his gym bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Chapter End Notes

It’s Shane’s turn in the “unlikely duo” ride!!!

Chapter 2: confidants but never friends

Chapter Summary

“Rozanov?” He calls, loud and firm, as he kicks his shoes off. If Ilya is here, at least he will give him a heads-up, try not to catch him by surprise.

There is no answer. Shane’s heart deflates like a balloon set lose.

Then, there’s a noise from the living room. His heart swells again. Shane is running before he knows it.

Chapter Notes

Absolutely hilarious how much faith you’ve all got on these two getting shit done ngl

Shane sits inside Cliff Marleau’s absolutely ridiculous sports car and is immediately hit by a wave of longing for Ilya Rozanov. Which is stupid, because he has never been in a car with Ilya, any kind of car but specially not a fancy sports car, nor would he want to be in one of his stupid cars (he has, however, on occasion fantasized about getting fucked on top of one of them, but that’s beside the point).

Marleau drives quietly, occasionally grumbling to himself about other drivers around him being fucking assholes, so Shane’s mind (unfortunately) has time to spiral.

What is he doing? Why is he even going to Ilya’s house? With his best friend?! What if Ilya is home? How will Shane even justify this? If Ilya is home and Shane shows up with Cliff Marleau and he realizes that Shane has jeopardized their secret, he will surely be fucking furious. There’s so much at stake for Ilya. Coming out would literally put his life in danger. Russia looms over him with the threat of deportation, prison, torture, death.

And what, Hollander, he can imagine his anger, booming voice piercing through his defenses, you thought just because I don’t reply to your boring texts for three weeks you have a right to blow up my life? So fucking needy. You’re selfish. Not everything is about you.

Shane digs his fingers into his thighs, trying to ground himself. He is not overreacting. He is worried. He is allowed to be worried. If Ilya didn’t want him to worry, he should’ve answered his fucking phone.

What if Ilya is in trouble? What if he is hurt? What if he… fell and broke both legs and couldn’t call for help? (Okay, maybe not likely). What if he is sick and too stubborn to ask for help? (Shane will look after him). What if he has some terrible disease no one knows about b (Shane will drag his ass to the best hospitals in the world until the leading experts find a cure). What if he has been fucking kidnapped by fucking Russian agents for hooking up with Shane? (He will pull on all of his wealth and whatever influence he has and get his mom to hire the best international lawyers in the world until he gets Ilya back home, this home).

What if Ilya is fine and Shane is overreacting?

By the time they reach Ilya’s place, Shane’s jaw hurts from clenching so much.

“We are here,” Marleau announces.

Shane rolls his eyes and bites back the need to say, yes, I know.

They reach the door. Shane enters the code. Marleau looks surprised. Shane rolls his eyes again.

“Rozanov?” He calls, loud and firm, as he kicks his shoes off. If Ilya is here, at least he will give him a heads-up, try not to catch him by surprise.

There is no answer. Shane’s heart deflates like a balloon set lose.

Then, there’s a noise from the living room. His heart swells again. Shane is running before he knows it.

“Ilya? Ilya!” he turns the corner, feeling hope bloom in him, filled with relief and joy (and a little bit of anger) when-

His socks slip on the floor as he skids to a halt. The only reason he doesn’t fall on his ass is because he’s a damn good skater.

“What the-” he huffs, looking at the gorgeous woman standing in the dark, in the middle of Ilya’s living room. Her brown skin, her silky curls, her big brown eyes, full lips, perfect curves. “Oh. S-Sorry, you- Who are you?”

“Svetlana?” Cliff says behind him.

There’s this girl, I like her very much. Svetlana.

Shane might just die. It would probably hurt less.

“Marly,” she blinks back at them, looking equally surprised. “And… Shane Hollander.”

The way she says his name sends a shiver down his spine. She says it like she knows him. Not as a fan, not as a stranger. She looks at them both, expecting answers probably. Shane can’t find his voice, he is too busy picking up the scattered pieces of his heart.

“Svetlana, what are you doing here?” Marleau steps forward until he’s by Shane’s side. “Is Rozy here? You with him?”

“No,” Svetlana sighs. “He’s not. He hasn’t said anything or replied to any of my messages,” she says, her voice lightly accented, a softer version of Ilya’s thick gorgeous pronunciation. “I thought he might show up tonight, to play against… you,” her piercing eyes land on Shane. “He’d never miss it.”

“But he did,” Shane says, pathetically.

“Yes. So I am worried,” Svetlana frowns, walking closer to them. Shane has the ridiculous urge to walk backwards, away from her, but his feet are nailed to the floor. “I’m guessing you are too?”

“I just…” Shane is struggling to breathe.

Ilya isn’t here. His… friend? girlfriend? Svetlana is also worried about him. Heartbreak aside, this is bad. This is… Ilya could still be in trouble. And that possibility is loud enough to drown the rest of the noise filling Shane’s brain, for now.

“Do you know something?” Shane manages to step forward. “Did he- did he say something? Did he… Is he in Russia?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to quiver at the word.

Her eyes narrow for a second, then she deflates.

“No, he’s not.”

“You’re sure?” Marleau steps closer too. “That’s usually the only time he goes radio silent like this.”

“I am sure,” she says, with a huff. “His brother keeps blowing up my phone, asking for him.”

“What the fuck does Alexei want?” Shane bites, his anger happy to find an enemy.

Marleau’s head turns towards him so fast that he might give himself another concussion. Shane keeps his eyes on Svetlana, who breathes deeply before her lips curl into a snarl:

“Money. And he keeps demanding to talk to him, says he needs to go home.”

“In the middle of the season?” Shane frowns. Fuck, his father. Ilya wouldn’t abandon him, no matter how bad he is. “But he didn’t go back? Are you sure?”

Svetlana raises her hand, holding a little square object in his hand. “Not without his passport.”

“Fuck,” Shane runs his hands through his hair, pacing. “Fuck! Then where the fuck is he?”

“I don’t know,” Svetlana sighs, walking back to the living room and dropping on the couch. Not on the spot where Ilya usually sits, but right next to it.

Marleau comes over and sits on the opposite side of Ilya’s empty spot.

“Did he come see you?” He says.

“Yes.”

Shane stops pacing.

“He was… scared. Like I haven’t seen since we were kids. I thought…” her eyes find Shane.

A cold dreadful certainty drips down his limbs.

“He said he had to go away for a while,” she says. “He promised he’d be back, and that he’d explain everything when he did. Then he told me not to speak about him with anyone and…” Her eyes meet Shane’s. “To not mention Jane.”

She knows.

Every single fear Shane has ever spun and swallowed up since he was a teenager comes back, crawling up his throat, dizzying and bitter.

She knows. She knows. She knows. Someone knows. Someone other than Rose and Ilya knows. A stranger knows.

And then, sharper, brighter, something worse. The worst fear: she knows about Ilya too.

“You can’t… please.”

“I would never,” Svetlana says, slowly, every word deliberate.

And Shane believes her. Ilya said she’s his oldest friend, that they love each other. Relief and jealousy war inside him like wolves. Relief wins, for now. He nods.

“What’s going on?” Marleau looks between them, face twisted. “Hollander, you know something?”

Shane, deliriously, looks at Svetlana, of all people, for reassurance. She nods once, steady. He shakes his head, terrified.

“Hollander,” Svetlana says. “Shane. Is okay. Ilya trusted us both enough to come say something before he disappeared,” she gestures to Marleau. “Cliff looks after him, on and off the ice.”

Marleau barks a laugh.

“Yeah, can’t tell you the amount of times I had to bail him out, or drag him from a fight. Man has a talent for trouble. Not that you’d understand, Hollander, you’ve probably never stepped out of line once in your life, but Rozy… man, it’s like he wants to raise hell sometimes and burn with it. Someone’s gotta look after him.”

Marleau sounds fond. The warmth of it endears Shane immediately. To him and to Svetlana. If nothing else, the idea that Ilya has had people looking after him all along, when his own family has been haunting him all these years, eases an ache he hadn’t even acknowledged in him. He isn’t alone.

“That’s why he came to you,” Shane sighs. “When he was scared. Whatever this is about, he came to you two.”

“And charged us with protecting Jane with our silence,” Svetlana says, softly. “Both of us.”

“Fuck,” Shane breathes out.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Marleau shakes his head. “What’s all this got to do with Rozy’s girl? Or Hollander?”

Shane and Svetlana share a look. And Shane decides that if Ilya can put himself in their hands… then they already hold his fate, too.

“I am the, uh, girl from Montreal.”

“What?”

“Ilya and I, we are… we have been for years… he’s my… we are…”

“Sleeping together,” Svetlana supplies, like she is the native English speaker.

“Oh, fuuuuuuuuck,” Marleau throws his head back. “Fucking hell, Rozy. I thought maybe, but… you?!” He looks back at him.

“Me,” Shane says, pathetically, because he doesn’t understand it either.

Not that it matters, probably. Not that it’s anything. But it does, it is, to him.

“Okay,” Marleau drawls, sounding unsure.

“No one can know,” Shane jumps in. “It’s not safe for him. Russia. They would-”

“Hey, hey, shit. I wouldn’t say anything. Fuck, I wouldn’t do that to Rozy. To either of you.”

“I know, Marly,” Shane says. Not on purpose, he adds inwardly, remembering that Marleau’s lose lips are kinda what landed them both here tonight.

“Okay,” Svetlana sighs, she stands up, turns on the lamps in the living room and forces them all to face each other fully. “Now what?”

“Now,” Shane says, feeling steadier than he has in weeks, “we find out why Ilya left, and we get him back.”

“You are sure he’s in trouble?” Marly rubs a hand over his face.

“I just have a bad feeling about all this,” Shane admits. “The caginess, the warnings… something has to have happened. He was fine last time I saw him.”

“The game?” Marleau huffs. “Yeah, he was fine. Better than he had been at the beginning of the season. Fuck, he was in a good mood and all.”

“I, uh, I meant before. When we…”

“Before you played each other?” Marleau’s eyes open comically large. “Fuck, Hollander, you dog.”

“Fuck off,” Shane rolls his eyes but he can feel himself blush. Svetlana is watching him closely, he can tell. “The point is that something must have happened between that and him coming to your place in the middle of the night to say goodbye. If we figure out what he did in those hours, maybe we can find out what happened, or where he went.”

“So what, Hollander, you wanna play detectives?”

“I wanna fucking find him!” Shane jumps to his feet. “He’s somewhere out there, he can’t have fucking vanished from the face of the Earth, and something scared him. He might need help. So, yeah, Marly, I fucking do!”

“Jeez, relax, man. I was just asking…”

“I can see why he likes you,” Svetlana says, lips curving in a smile that promises trouble. “Let’s find our boy.”

Chapter End Notes

Surprise!!! It’s not an unlikely buddy cop duo… it’s an unlikely buddy cop TRIO.

I am sure Shane will deal in a very healthy way with all of this :)

Also, just fyi, I am aware that the game last chapter should’ve been in Montreal, not Boston, but we are ignoring it :)

Also, did anyone catch the fact that Shane should’ve gotten demolished by Marly last chapter? Congrats! You avoid the concussion and broken collarbone but now you can’t find the love of your life!!

Chapter 3: no longer comatose

Chapter Summary

Interlude #1: in the middle of fucking nowhere

Chapter Notes

TW: mentions of death, suicide and suicidal ideation (nothing too graphic or dark but just in case).

Ilya thinks about death some times. Maybe more often than it’s strictly normal. Or healthy.

Sometimes, he thinks about the death of people he loves, of what it would feel like to have them ripped off his life, like a tooth or a limb, never to recover. He lost his mother like that, unexpectedly and definitively, and ever since then he has never been able to shake off the certainty that it can (and most certainly will) happen again.

Other days, he thinks about how his loved ones would handle his own death. He wonders about the shape and size of the space he would leave behind, how they’d heal around it like a closing wound, how their routines would shift in his absence until the wrinkles of his demise were carefully smoothed. And then, time would go on, grief forgotten, Ilya Rozanov nothing but a bittersweet memory of a man who burned bright and briefly.

And then, on days when he is feeling particularly morbid, he thinks about his death from his own perspective. Everything just stopping. Laugher, anger, tears, kisses… all over. The noise of the world, its horrors and delights, gone for good. In his worst days, he thinks it must be peaceful, to just stop… but even then, even at his lowest, he remembers two things: firstly, the pain of being left behind and how he would never want to put the few people that care about him through it; secondly, that it would get boring, fast. An eternity of nothing.

(It’s, perhaps, not the healthiest reason to stay alive, fear of boredom, so Ilya focuses on the opposite side of the coin, on the things that make him not-bored while alive: playing Hockey, loud music, kissing Shane Hollander, laughing with his team, making Shane Hollander angry like a little kitten, dancing with Svetlana, pictures of dogs, the promise of another game against Montreal, little kids that wanna be like him when they grow up, good greasy hungover breakfasts, fast cars, the sounds Hollander does when he is fucking him, the way he says his name reverently, freckles, brown eyes, ice-cold vodka, blowjobs…)

The point is that Ilya has thought a lot about a world without him, weighing the pros and cons of it all… and now he is more of less experiencing it. And he hates it.

He misses his house, his team, his life. He is bored out of his fucking mind. He wakes up early morning and glares at the ceiling for hours, knowing the day stretches before him without much to offer. He watches games, scrolls through Twitter in an old brick of a phone, eats, sleeps some more, stares out the window, plays games on his phone until he’s too tired to keep his eyes open.

Wash, rinse, fucking repeat.

Today is different, though. Today is special. Today, Boston plays Montreal.

Ilya sits down and for two and a half hours lives vicariously through the screen. He holds his breath as Shane zigzags between his teammates, he yells at them to change strategies, to defend better against Hollander’s relentless attacks, he fully yells and gets on his feet when Shane and Marly almost collide, he yells at the referee like he’s on the ice. He hasn’t felt this alive in weeks.

And then it’s over.

It’s not enough. It’s not fucking enough. He wants to rally his team and rise their moral after the loss, he wants to go out with them to drink and forget, he wants to get Hollander in his bed and fuck him until he is undone, begging and pleading and desperate, both as a prize and as reparations for his victory. He wants to lay in bed with Shane after, like they did last time, and make him laugh.

Instead, he is stuck here, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Alone. Or, almost.

“I want to go out,” he says to Jackson, who is sitting at the dining table, reading his fifth thriller this month.

“No,” he says, not even looking up.

“Why not?” Ilya bristles.

“You know why, Rozanov.”

Ilya crosses his arms and leans on the arch that separates the dinning room and the living room.

“You don’t think is more strange that we are just two young men stuck here together for three weeks?” He pushes. “People will think we are busy sucking each other off.”

At that, Jackson puts the book down and looks up, one eyebrow arched. “You got a problem with that?”

Ilya blinks, looking at him carefully as the few things he has learned about the man slowly fit into a new puzzle. Curious. He meets the man’s firm gaze with renewed respect by his refusal to back down in the face of a hockey player with one of the most violent reputations in the league.

“No. I don’t,” he says finally, slowly and earnestly. Hoping it conveys enough truth. “But the people in Fuckass No Where, Oklahoma might. We are supposed to be here on… weather research, yes? Two young men, in the middle of who knows where, would go out to have drink on Friday night, no?”

Jackson narrows his eyes at him. Ilya can tell he is tempted. He fights back a smirk, knowing smugness would not help him. Finally, he says:

“One drink.”

Jackson has a single beer, then sticks to water. Ilya has three beers, two glasses of god-awful American vodka and a tequila shot. He flirts with two girls at the bar until their boyfriends (or siblings, hard to tell) come collect them sending him murderous looks. He sits with Jackson in the corner booth nursing a third vodka he can’t even bring himself to taste and mopes drunkenly.

“We are out. This is what you wanted,” Jackson reminds him.

“Yes, but you are being boring.”

“I am being responsible.”

Ilya smiles, warmth curling inside him. “He would like you.”

“Who?”

“Or maybe not,” he goes on, “maybe you would be too similar. But his boring is different, is better. I like it.”

“Friend of yours?” Jackson tilts his head.

“No, no,” Ilya laughs shaking his head. “Not friend, no. I mean, a little more lately, maybe. But no. Is… different.”

“Different,” Jackson considers, sipping his sparkling water. “You must miss him.”

“Yes, but is not new. I always miss him. Tonight maybe more,” Ilya sighs.

Jackson hums and nods, as if he understands. Ilya doubts he does. No one does. No one will ever know.

They stumble back to the house earlier than Ilya would usually consider dignified leaving a bar. He falls on his bed and jerks off thinking of Shane Hollander’s mouth, of the night they should be having right now. Any night lost with him is a tragedy, with how spare their time together is, but this one particularly weights on him like an anvil. After Tampa, he’s felt starved, desperate for the other man’s presence. It’s like a dam of desire (neediness) opened inside him. The weeks between their games that used to be bearable are suddenly agonizing. They text more often, even if Ilya has to fight back the urge to just text him all the fucking time. But even that isn’t enough. He wants Shane Hollander to himself all the time, in all the ways imaginable, in all the ways he cannot have him. Ilya cums moaning a wishful “Shane” and falls asleep soiled and lonely.

He wakes up hungover, sticky and feeling even more miserable than the day before. Again, he stares at the ceiling for a long, long time, wallowing in his misery until the smell of coffee draws him out of bed. He quickly cleans himself up before walking downstairs, giving Jackson a single nod before he plugs his phone on the counter.

Ilya nurses his cup of coffee and wonders how long will his life be reduced to this endless cycle of nothingness. If there is any upside, he supposes, to witnessing what his life without him looks like, and what an eternity of emptiness entails, is that any temptation to leave it all behind has been mostly squashed away.

He wants to go back. He wants his life. He wants to live it.

But right now, he can’t. He doesn’t even have the choice.

Dramatic irony. He feels like he is stuck inside one of those Russian tragedies he would read years ago, while trapped in a house he hated, dreaming of the life he now has.

Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck it all.

Ilya turns on his phone, hoping for a distraction, and finds it almost immediately when the first tweet appears on his screen:

@ESPN_News
Sources report Shane Hollander did not fly back to MTL with team after Boston game last night . Unclear whether he will play Monday game.

What the actual fuck?

Chapter End Notes

Short glimpse of a frustrated Ilya Rozanov in the wild before we return to the Boston shenanigans.

Bonus procedural trivia: Anyone can tell who Jackson is? 👀

Chapter 4: i took too many hits off this memory

Chapter Summary

The three of them stand in silence looking at the board. Shane feels like they’d make terrible detectives.

“Okay, so we are missing a lot of information. Obviously,” Shane says.

Chapter Notes

This detective shenanigans kinda kicked my ass guys!!! We are going full procedural vibes this time with a side of crime but yall are really gonna have to pretend any of this makes any sense.

Also kudos to everyone that guessed Jackson West!

It’s Marleau’s idea to bring out Ilya’s whiteboard.

“Rozy pulls it out sometimes, before big games, so the team can talk strategy and shit,” he yells from across the house as he wheels it in.

Shane is about to say out loud how impressed he is that Rozanov does strategy meetings at all, until he sees the board. There are dicks drawn all over it, the top right corner has a beerpong score, someone (Ilya most likely) wrote a list of chirp ideas, there’s a surprisingly accurate caricature of Comeau on the bottom left. That last bit is Shane’s first clue that the board must be from a Boston vs Montreal game.

And then he looks at the main part of the board, with several rink diagrams. It takes only one look to see the way Ilya’s brain works, how most of the gameplay centers around Shane, about blocking Shane, stopping Shane, cornering Shane so that he cannot score (that’s fair, if Shane was playing against himself he would do the same, their gameplay really needs balancing). Shane follows the carefully drawn lines of the possible paths he might take, how his defense might cover him, and how Ilya might catch up and take the puck from him. It’s brilliant (even if Shane’s already thinking of all the ways he would skate out of Rozanov’s plans). But it’s all there, right there. Move and countermove.

Shane is mortifyingly turned on.

It’s not just the hockey of it all (although, yes, hockey is a big part of it) but the confirmation of Ilya being as obsessed with Shane as Shane has been with him since they were seventeen. The idea of Ilya knowing him so well to accurately predict his gameplay, of Ilya thinking about ways of beating him in his spare time, of looking forward to their games as much as Shane does. Ilya thinking about him, in any way, when they aren’t together is just… exhilarating.

Svetlana is right. Ilya wouldn’t have missed tonight’s game.

“Are you seriously trying to steal strategy right now, Hollander?” Marly snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Fuck off.” He goes to use his sleeve to erase the board. Then, thinks better of it and grabs a kitchen rag to do it.

What if you are erasing the last traces of Ilya you’ll ever have? The treacherous voice whispers in the back of his mind. Shane tells it to shut the fuck up. He makes a timeline. It’s not exactly impressive.

8:00 pm to 10:00 pm: Game
.
.
.
.
.
.
3:50 am to 4:20 am: Svetlana’s
4:45 am to 5:00 am: Cliff’s
5:05 am: text to Shane

“What did the text say?” Svetlana asks.

“Sorry, I didn’t get to say goodbye,” Shane says, automatically. And now when the words register again, it feels like being punched in the gut. “Fuck,” he hisses.

The three of them stand in silence looking at the board. Shane feels like they’d make terrible detectives.

“Okay, so we are missing a lot of information. Obviously,” Shane says. “Marly, you guys won the game that night.”

“Damn right we did!”

“We just kicked your asses tonight!”

“Can you two focus?” Svetlana snaps.

“Sorry,” Shane says, at the same time as Marly. “Okay, so, did you go out to celebrate? Where did you go? How long did you stay out?”

“We went to Night Icon,” Marly shrugs. “We usually party there, but Rozy left early. He always does when we play Mo- oh, fuck. Seriously?”

“Yes,” Shane rolls his eyes.

“It’s a miracle you are all blind,” Svetlana deadpans, side-eyeing Marly. “Wait, Hollander, you said you didn’t see him.”

“I didn’t, he- he never texted me to meet up,” Shane says.

Why didn’t he? Why did he leave early? Was he with someone else? Was he with someone here, hours after Shane and him-

“Well, if it wasn’t you, who called him?”

“Called him?”

“Yeah, Rozy got a call at like one in the morning and said he had to leave. He took off alone.”

Shane dutifully notes down:

1:00am: call?

“Has anyone seen his phone?”

“Is not here,” Svetlana sighs, standing up. “I looked everywhere. I was looking to see if he left… a letter or something.”

“A letter?” Shane blinks. That sounds too old fashioned for Ilya, who loves every single gadget he can gets his hands on, the most expensive the better. “Oh, fuck. Wait.”

Shane runs to the bedroom, followed closely by Ilya’s friends (he has a wild strange moment of discomfort where he wants to kick them out of it, as if it was his) and rushes over to Ilya’s bedside table where, yes!

“His plane-movie iPad?” Marly blinks. “Wait, how the fuck do you know his passcode?”

“Same as his phone,” Shane says automatically.

They’d traded them years ago, after Shane’d had a nightmare in which he ended up in a coma after a game and there was no one who could erase the evidence of their affair off his phone before his parents found it. Ilya had laughed himself hoarse at Shane’s biggest worry being being outed while in a literal coma instead of the coma itself, but then had graciously offered to do the phone cleanup himself if it ever came to it. Then, he’d offered Shane his own password, in case Shane wanted to erase his phone’s data someday too if anything happened to Ilya. The thought of having to do that, because Ilya was too hurt or gone, had made Shane nauseous but he’d promised he would. To keep them both safe. Safely in a coma, Ilya had rolled his eyes.

He offers none of this information to the other two. They already know too much for his liking. Instead he says:

“Rozanov backs everything up in his iCloud. So maybe I can… fuck.”

There’s nothing there. His entire texting history has been deleted. Which is good, safe, but also fucking useless. The only messages are Jane’s latest:

Jane: Are you okay?

[Missed call from: Jane]

Jane: hey everything alright?


Jane: sorry for calling


Jane: I’m just worried


Jane: let me know ur ok?

Jane: hey is everything okay?


Jane: shit, your dad?

[(3) Missed called from: Jane]

Jane: see you tonight?

Shane swallows down his own embarrassment. There’s also five missed calls from his coach, three from unknown numbers with other area codes and thirty seven missed calls from a Russian number, the name written in Cyrillic. He shows it to Svetlana.

“Alexei,” she mutters. “He’s been insufferable, but it didn’t sound like he knew where Ilya is.”

“Call history is scrubbed clean too,” Shane sighs. “No way to know who the hell called him. But, I don’t know, maybe… maybe someone saw his car, or- or something…”

“Nah, man, Rozy wouldn’t drink and drive. I mean, he did for a while, last year, we had to hold a fucking intervention and all, but other than that he’s always been good at it. Pretty sure he got an Uber that day.”

Shane takes note of some of that information to worry over it later and forces himself to focus on the immediately important part:

“An Uber. Oh, fuck, Marly, you genius!”

And sure enough, there it is, in the apps Previous Rides history. Their first, honest to god, lead.

“What the fuck was Rozy doing here?”

Shane looks at the crappy sports pub near the docks, with barely a couple cars parked outside despite it being a Friday game night.

“I’m guessing this isn’t your usual after-game haunt?” Svetlana says, her voice dripping as much contempt as Shane feels.

“Didn’t even know this part of town had any bars.”

“Well, here’s where the Uber dropped Rozanov,” Shane steps forward.

Inside, the place is dimly lit, with a wooden bar, old stuffy looking booths and a few round tables, there’s two televisions in the corners, playing tonight’s game’s highlights on mute while soft music plays in the background. He takes in the barman, a couple drunk guys sitting at a booth and an older guy nursing a beer at the bar’s far edge, his eyes bouncing from the screens to a notebook in his hand. This place is fucking dead.

Shane thinks this is the kind of place where he would enjoy celebrating a game win even if the rest of his teammates would consider it dreadfully boring. But he likes it… until he notices the overwhelming amount of Boston Raiders memorabilia covering the walls.

“Maybe you should have stayed outside,” Cliff whispers, badly.

“Yeah, not a chance,” Shane forces himself to push forward into the bar.

He has been the top player in the league since his rookie season. He has exactly one very enthusiastic fan base and a myriad of even more dedicated haters. He is used to it. He kinda likes it. Their hatred is a medal, confirmation that he is The Fucking Best. It’s one of the things he would never, ever, admit to out loud… and that only Ilya could ever possibly understand about him.

“Hey, can I have a-“

“I ain’t serving shit to Shane fucking Hollander,” the barman says.

Shane huffs, ducking his head to hide a smile.

“C’mon, man, it’s been a long night,” Marleau says with what Shane supposes is his best interpretation of Ilya’s charm. “Why don’t you put me and my, uh, guy here a pint?”

“I ain’t pouring you fucking shit after that game! What the fuck was that defense, man? You let him score a fucking hat trick in our own goddamn city!” The guy yells, gesturing wildly at the screens. “Fucking embarrassing. You, sweetheart,” he points to Svetlana, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

Svetlana smiles, leans over the bar seductively, and says: “How about you get me a whiskey, double, and you get the boys here a pint each, so they’ve got something to wash down that terrible game. Both of them.”

“Hey, I scored a hat trick!” Shane can’t help it.

“You could’ve scored more. Without Rozanov there, the defense kept leaving an opening to chase after you and you kept playing as if you expected him to jump over the boards at any second instead of adapting to the new line.”

Shane opens up his mouth, then closes it again. He had been hoping for Ilya to appear until the game started but after he’d- fuck, he’d been thinking about him, adapting his game play around his absence instead of adapting to the people who were in the ice.

The barman barks a laugh and pours her a whiskey. Shane is no expert but he’s pretty sure that’s more than a double. Then, he pours Marleau a too foamy beer. He arches his eyebrows at Shane, defiantly.

Shane has decided that getting a drink is not worth the trouble. Svetlana and Marly having one is good enough, all they need is to take a look around and ask questions. To the… well, four people here. Not much to go on.

“Jimmy, just pour the kid a fucking drink,” the old guy says, not looking up from his notebook.

“But, Bobby, he’s the enemy! He’s-“

“He played his game, he played it well. He earned a pint tonight.”

Grumbling, Jimmy grabs a glass.

“I- Actually, a ginger ale would-“

“Fuck off. I ain’t giving Shane Hollander a fucking soda,” he snaps, pouring Shane a proper pint and slamming it in front of him.

“Okay,” Shane says quietly, taking it.

He sends Svetlana and Marly a look. Maybe they were right. Maybe Shane being here isn’t the most productive idea.

“Actually, I’m… gonna use the bathroom real quick,” he mumbles, quickly shuffling away.

The bathroom is gross and small and dark. And it definitely smells like someone’s been puking their guts out in it recently (a smell Shane is regrettably familiar with from part outings with the boys). Shane opens up his phone, with the sudden urge to text Ilya. Which is pointless. But he wants to say: You’re never going to believe where I am. Or wow they really hate me in your city? Or maybe, more urgently, I wish you were here right now. He does neither. He does find a text from Hayden:

Hayden: Hey man, everything ok?
Hayden:it’s not like you to miss curfew

Wow, he really acts like your mother, he can imagine Ilya saying.

Shane: just out with some friends

Hayden: Lily’s friends?

Shane: something like that
Shane: don’t wait up

Hayden: fine
Hayden: I’ll cover for you
Hayden: have fun 😏

Shane sighs, shaking his head, washes his hands just in case he touched anything, and walks back out.

It looks like he was right about his presence being an issue, because now Svetlana and Marly are talking to Jimmy the barman, who seems more at ease, a little starstruck with both of them. Shane, not used to feeling this invisible, decides to take this chance. He grabs his beer from earlier, still untouched, and slides it to the side, back to the guy who is still dutifully checking his notebook.

“Uh, Bobby, right?” he says. “Are you the owner?”

“My brother is. I just keep the books.”

“Important work,” Shane says, honestly. “Just wanted to say thank you for earlier.”

“Eh,” Bobby waves a dismissive hand. “These young kids, they’ve grown up watching you guys play. They are too used to it.”

Shane thinks that’s a little unfair. He is pretty sure that Jimmy is older than him.

“I remember what it was like, y’know, before you and that Rozanov kid came around. No one was talking about hockey anymore and, if they were, they weren’t talking about Boston. We were so shit, they weren’t even talking about us!”

“I remember,” Shane chuckles. “Didn’t have the heart to tell Rozanov he’d been drafted into a dying team.”

“Watch it, kid. Montreal wasn’t really making anyone’s betting pool either.”

Shane laughs harder now and gives a conceding nod.

“Anyway, kids nowadays think we are some sort of ancestral enemies, but that’s only because you two brought the fire back. And good fucking hockey. Real stakes! It’s good for business.”

“Yeah, I bet good games are better to fill the bar, eh? People buy more drinks.”

Bobby’s eyes narrow, like he’s reading Shane, then he laughs, in that way people do when Shane is missing something obvious. It grates him a little, even if he can tell there’s no malice behind it.

“Sure, kid,” he shakes his head. “Thing is, people get it in their head that the war continues outside of the rink. But I’m guessing if you’re here hanging out with a Raider, you must be alright… for a Metro.”

Shane wonders if the reaction would be the same if he was here with Ilya rather than Cliff Marleau. Suddenly he longs for it, desperately: to be seen with Ilya, casually, anywhere.

“Uh, yeah we- we get along well enough,” Shane nods. “Off the ice at least.”

Bobby laughs again.

“So,” Shane tries and fails to sound casual, “do you get a lot of, uh, hockey players here?”

“Heh, not really,” Bobby shrugs, taking a sip of his whiskey. “But we’ve had a few lately.”

“Yeah?” Shane grabs his beer just to keep himself from grabbing the man by the lapels of his grey suit and shake him.

“Yeah, few younger players have been hanging around, and we had fucking Rozanov here a few weeks ago.”

Ilya. Ilya was here. He was right here that night. (Shane knew. He knew. But just hearing it confirmed is like a breath of fresh air).

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. He got a warmer welcome than your friend, probably because he’d just beaten you guys.”

“Barely,” Shane grumbles, low enough for Bobby to ignore apparently.

“Good kid. Nicer than he seems, too. Even took time to sign his jersey on the way out.”

Shane follows Bobby’s eyes and finds the jersey hanging behind the bar. A place of honor. Ilya’s unmistakable handwriting signing his name over the 81 across the back (even if the lines are a little shaky, maybe he was drunk… could that have something to do with whatever happened?).

“That’s nice,” Shane agrees. “Was he… was he here alone?”

“No, no. I mean, he came here alone, but he was meeting someone. Some guy, very athletic, can’t remember his name but he’s been here before a couple times. They didn’t stay long, though. Left together almost immediately.”

Shane forgets how to breathe.

You knew this. This isn’t new. What did you expect? Why did you think it would be different after Tampa?

And then, something else:

But Ilya is still missing. Why? Did something happen? Did that… did that guy hurt him somehow? The idea lodges into Shane’s chest, deeper than any other fear. He feels something inside him combust like a forest fire.

Before he can say anything, like demand who the fuck this other guy is, a big hand claps him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Holzy, you good to go?”

Shane wants to say ‘no’, he wants to stay here until he extracts more information out of everyone in this bar. But he knows that’s not an option. So he nods, shakes Bobby’s hand, downs his beer (suspecting it’d be rude not to) and follows Cliff out. Svetlana is already out there, smoking a cigarette.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Shane says, automatically. “It’s bad for you.”

She turns and watches him the way she’s been doing all night, like she’s measuring him up for either a nice suit or a coffin.

“So you’re the reason he quit.”

“He did?”

“He was trying to,” she shrugs, taking another drag.

For a moment, Shane’s heart melts. Then he remembers.

“He was here that night, signed their jersey and all. Bobby said he left with… some guy.”

“Yeah, that tracks with the story Jimmy heard,” Marly runs a hand through his hair. “Apparently he wasn’t working here that night, but his sister was.”

“We are lucky she had a crush on them,” Svetlana smirks. “She gave a pretty accurate description.”

Shane isn’t sure he wants to know. “Yeah?”

“Oh, hell yeah, down to the last detail,” barks a laugh, shaking his head. “Now, at least it makes sense. Question is why the hell was Coney calling Rozy to meet here in the first place.”

“Coney?”

“Our rookie? Finn O’Connor. He’s always getting in trouble but Ilya’s had a soft spot for the kid ever since he joined the team this year. Went all papa bear on him.”

A rookie.

Oh. Oh, Ilya you fucking softie. What did you get yourself into?

Chapter End Notes

At this point Shane accidentally charming criminals is its own cinematic universe lmfao

Svetlana was looking for a letter of a very specific kind :( She’s the only one with that context at this point. (Also I do not have enough hockey knowledge to make her sound technical and correct please bare with me)

Shane’s insecurities are kicking his ass but he’s fighting back with all he’s got.

Cliff is just having the weirdest night of his fucking life.

Chapter 5: i’m past the limit

Chapter Summary

“Family emergency?” Theriault frowns at him the next morning. “You’ve got fucking family in Boston?”

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

Chapter Notes

Well we’ve finally reached the first chapter where I had to restructure my original outline a little bit but so far we are staying at 15 chapters (pray it stays that way!!)

“Okay, so where do we find this kid?” Shane asks, already pulling out his phone to find the route.

“Wherever there’s booze and trouble. But I don’t think we’ll catch him tonight. He’ll be passed out drunk by now.”

“Oh,” Shane frowns. “Right. Okay, so tomorrow we can find him and-“

“Maybe it should just be Cliff,” Svetlana says, voice surprisingly gentle.

“What? No. Why?”

“Holzy, don’t take this the wrong way but, do you plan on telling Coney about you and Rozy?”

“No fucking way.”

“Right, so maybe he might be a little confused about why the captain of the Montreal Metros is asking about his captain,” Svetlana says.

“It is confusing,” Marly nods.

Shane opens up his mouth, closes it again. Anger and frustration swell in his chest, he looks at them both, furious, looking for a fight, for the argument to keep his foot in. Finds none.

“Fuck.” He bites. “Fuck! Okay. Fine.”

A hand lands on his shoulder and he startles when he realizes it’s Svetlana looking at him with can only be pity.

“You did good, Hollander. It will be okay.”

“Did good?” Shane reels back, frowning at her. “I’m not done. I’ll pick my stuff up from the hotel and I meet up with you two tomorrow, after Marleau’s talked to the rookie.” Only after the fact does he realize he’s using his captain voice, but, fuck it, he’s not getting benched.

“You have a game in two days,” Svetlana points out. “Ilya’s been away for weeks.”

“Exactly,” Shane says firmly. “If he’s in trouble, he has been for a while. This is time sensitive.”

“Why? Why now?” Marleau frowns.

“Because I didn’t know he was in trouble before. Now I do. Any more questions?” He demands, a little curtly.

They both stare at him. The waves crash against the dock. Somewhere a car or a motorcycle roars way louder than has to be strictly necessary.

“Phone,” Svetlana demands, extending a hand towards him.

With the strangest sense of dejavú, Shane unlocks his phone and hands it over. Svetlana types something, then hands the phone over to Cliff.

“What?”

“Add your number. Send yourself a text.”

“Oh!”

Shane accepts his phone back when it’s done.

“We will text you when Cliff is done, and we can meet at Ilya’s place.”

Oh, thank god.

“Right. Okay. Thank you.”

“You sure about this, Hollander?” Marly frowns.

Shane knows what he means. Shane not flying back with his team will make noise. Shane possibly missing a game will make noise. Shane asking about Rozanov around town will make noise.

But Shane’s heart hears another question: are you sure about him?

“I am.”

Cliff nods. Svetlana, for the first time tonight, smiles —a true smile and not whatever seductive trick he flashed Jimmy earlier.

“Let’s find him before Monday. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you mop the floor with Toronto.”

Shane barks a laugh. Something clicks in his head: this isn’t the girl that sleeps with Ilya sometimes, this is Ilya’s best friend.

(And if he has to accept the former to keep Ilya in his life, he can. He will. Eventually.)

“Family emergency?” Theriault frowns at him the next morning. “You’ve got fucking family in Boston?”

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Always. Ask the guys, I never go out with them when we play here.”

“You never said.”

“It’s private information. I do not have to disclose it.”

Theriault works his jaw, clearly fuming, but Shane reread his contract last night and made sure it was all up to code. Besides, he knows, same as Shane does, that for the past several years he has never taken personal days off, not even optional skates, barely any sick days.

“Should I tell management we won’t be counting with you on Monday?” Theriault asks, tersely. Shane knows him well enough to recognize a veiled threat behind his tone. The powers that be won’t like that.

“I don’t know yet but I will let you know with as much forewarning as possible.”

“Forewarning,” his coach scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fucking rich of you, Hollander.”

Shane decides it’s better to be done now. So he nods, offers a hand that goes unshaken and walks out of the room. He finds Hayden waiting outside, leaning against the opposite hallway wall. His eyes are heavy with concern.

“Everything good?”

“I don’t know,” Shane admits. “I hope so.”

“Lily?”

Shane nods, swallowing hard. He wishes he could tell Hayden, that he could open up like he did with Marly and Svetlana, but he had no choice with them. Here it feels like betraying a secret that isn’t his. And still, fuck, he needs his best friend’s support. So he nods and hopes it conveys a lot more than he can say.

“Oh, man.” Hayden hugs him, squeezing hard. “Anything you need, man. You tell me.”

“Thanks, Hayd.”

JJ takes it well, he’s a romantic after all. The rest of the team grumble about the lengths people go to for a piece of ass. Shane bites back the urge to tell them exactly how far he would go for this specific ass (and dick).

Shane goes down with the rest of them to the lobby, reluctant to let go of his captain duties until the very last moment. He is walking with Hayden and JJ to the bus when a voice calls his name, not with the usual excitement or starstruck awe that he’s reluctantly grown used to. No, his name is called with authority.

“Yes?” He turns, to find a man walking up to him with long purposeful strides.

Automatically, as if they were on the ice, Hayden and JJ close ranks in front of him, ready to intercept the threat.

“Detective Tim Ryan, Boston PD,” the man flashes a badge. “A word?”

His friends turn to him with identical expressions of shock.

“Capitane?” JJ whispers, giving Shane a look that implies that if he needs help running away, burning evidence or burying a body, he will help.

Hayden, quietly mouths: “what the fuck?”

“It’s okay,” Shane taps them both on the shoulder. “You two get going or you’re gonna miss your plane.”

Hayden’s eyebrows draw together. JJ looks ready to argue. Shane gives them a single look, a nod... And they relent. As a Captain, he values that trust. As a friend, even more so.

His friends leave, reluctantly, and Shane finally turns his attention to the Detective Ryan. The man is handsome, clean cut, almost military, but he has a bit of that wild energy that everyone in this city, Ilya included, seems to share.

“Detective,” Shane offers a hand.

“Pleasure, Mister Hollander. Wish I could say I’m a fan, but…” he winces.

“Raiders fan, I assume,” Shane smiles politely.

“My old man would disown me otherwise,” Ryan flashes a smile. “But I know good player when I see one. Specially one that’s given us so much trouble.”

“I’ll take the compliment. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I just wanted a quick word with you. Heard you were at Sally’s last night. By the docks.”

“I was,” Shane gets the feeling there’d be no point denying it. “Had a drink with a couple friends.”

“That’s a curious choice.”

“Yeah. Raiders bar, I know. One of the owners had to intervene just to get me a drink,” Shane grins.

Ryan barks a laugh, but the amusement is short lived. “I can imagine, but I meant that part of town. It’s… not exactly the kind of place frequented by professional athletes.”

Shane clenches his jaw to keep from saying that Rozanov was there too. So maybe the guy just has faulty information.

“Yeah?” He says.

“Yes. You see,” Detective Ryan leans closer, as if he was sharing a secret, “my bosses would have my neck if I had someone of your caliber get, well, in trouble just because they wandered into the wrong place.”

“In trouble,” Shane replies slowly, feeling his pulse quicken a little. “Why would going to a bar get me in trouble.”

Why did it get Ilya in trouble?

“Let’s say it’s run by a… powerful family. The kind that the likes of you, good ol’Canadian boy, wouldn’t wanna be mixed up with.”

Shane frowns, openly confused. Bobby seemed perfectly nice. Sure, the bartender was a bit standoffish but surely not enough to have a cop intervene.

“Because they are… Irish?”

The detective looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“Let’s just say, it’d be better if you and your friends didn’t visit again. And, trust me, you don’t wanna be asking them questions.”

“Who said anything about questions?” Shane blinks.

“No one,” the detective corrects quickly. “I’m just saying. Thought I’d give you a heads up. Y’know, since you’re not from around here.”

“Right,” Shane says slowly, still not entirely catching on. “Well, thanks, I guess, for going through the trouble.”

“Heard you’re staying in town a couple days, so it seemed worth the effort. Just to be safe.”

It should probably make him more paranoid that the cops know he’s staying in town, but he’s Shane Hollander after all. He’s used to his life being public knowledge. Well, most of it. Except for a very important detail.

“Okay,” Shane says. “Thanks.”

The detective pats his shoulder. “Good talk.”

Shane just stays there, dumbfounded, until his phone buzzes in his back pocket.

Marleau: talked to coney
Marleau: c u at caps

Later, as he Ubers to Ilya’s he uses the time to google the bar from last night along side the words ‘Irish’ and ‘family’.

“Holy shit.”

Well, fuck.

Chapter 6: it sharpens me like a knife

Chapter Summary

“Okay. So between two and four, what the hell was he doing?”

“Hell if I know,” Marly says.

“No idea,” Svetlana says at the same time.

Chapter Notes

Some detective trio shenanigans

“That bar belonged to the fucking Irish mafia!” Shane says, as a way of greeting, as he opens the door of Ilya’s house. He leaves it open for Cliff and paces back inside. “How the hell did we not notice?”

“We? Hollander. I thought it was very fucking obvious.“

“What?! How?” Shane turns, blinks at him. Doesn’t wait for an answer. “Whatever. That’s not the- why was Ilya in a fucking mafia bar in the first place? Is he- is he, like, in trouble with them? Are they asking him for money or something? Do you think they hurt him? Fuck. Fuck!”

“Holzy, man, you gotta chill.”

Shane takes a step forward, ready to tell Marleau exactly where he can stick that suggestion, when Svetlana intervenes:

“What did the rookie say?”

She’s sitting on a barstool at the kitchen counter, with a cup of coffee clutched delicately in her manicured hands. She’d come in, familiar and comfortable, and made herself a pot of coffee, with an ease that Shane had never felt at Ilya’s and that made his stomach twist with distaste (jealousy). She’d offered him a cup, which he’d turned down in favor of tea (luckily, Ilya seems to be well stocked in his favorite brand, who knew).

“Coney says he has no fucking clue what happened,” Marly sighs, dropping on the stool opposite to her. “But he thinks that something must have.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Shane leans on the counter, closing the triangle. “Why was he in a fucking mafia bar in the first place?”

“Because the kid grew up here,” he says. “Coney had a… complicated childhood. Kinda fell with the wrong crew for a while until scouts found him. I don’t think he was ever… in in, but we all knew he had a past. It’s probably why Cap was so protective of him.”

Shane can see it clearly. Ilya, for all his tough exterior, is a bleeding heart. He would’ve seen a kid, young and lost and hurt by the world, and decided it’s his responsibility to save him.

“Anyway, he says an old friend wanted to take him out to celebrate our win against Montreal that night. They went out drinking downtown, then the friend said he had to ‘run an errand’ by the docks and dragged Coney to Sally’s. Now, Coney knew enough about that world to realize what that place was, unlike Holzy.”

“Fuck off.”

“And kinda freaked out. So he called Cap, said he was drunk and afraid that his friend would get him in trouble and have him kicked out of the team. So of course Rozy came to the fucking rescue.”

“That makes sense,” Svetlana nods, “but doesn’t explain why he went on the run after. If something happened, wouldn’t the kid be on the run too?”

“Rozanov wouldn’t have left him behind to save himself,” Shane says.

“Exactly.”

“That’s the thing. Coney has no idea what happened, but he swears something did. See, Coney was afraid he’d throw up on Rozy, so he went to the bathroom before they left and puked his guts out while he went out for a smoke. And then, when Rozy came back in to get him he looked… bad. Fucking scared. It freaked the kid out.”

“What was he scared of?” Shane ask, feeling his chest hammer double time.

“No clue. Rozy dragged Coney out of there, shoved him into a cab and told him not to ever tell a fucking soul that either of them had been at Sally’s that night.”

“Which he just did,” Shane points out, appalled by how fucking bad everyone in the Raiders seems to be at keeping their mouth shut.

“Only because I am very persuasive,” Marly shrugs.

“Sure.”

“So what happened?” Svetlana frowns. “Between Ilya arriving and telling the rookie to go home?”

“Fuck if I know. Coney had no idea either.”

“Great,” Shane huffs.

He stands up, marches up to the board and writes down the new information.

“What time did the rookie get the cab?”

“He said he was home before two. Swore it. So at some point before that, I guess.”

8:00 pm to 10:00 pm: Game
11:00pm to 1:00 am: party with team (call rookie)
1:00 am to 1:40am(ish): Sally’s. What happened?
2:00 am to 3:40 am: ??????
3:50 am to 4:20 am: Svetlana’s
4:45 am to 5:00 am: Cliff’s
5:05 am: text to Shane

“Okay, so what happened between two and four?” Svetlana says, coming to stand next to him.

“Four?”

“I am rounding up,” she rolls her eyes.

“Ah.” He doesn’t mean to, but he knows he sounds like Ilya when her mouth quirks a little.

The three of them stare at the board.

“Okay. So between two and four, what the hell was he doing?”

“Hell if I know,” Marly says.

“No idea,” Svetlana says at the same time.

Well, this is great.

Marleau shoves two frozen pizzas in the oven. Shane rummages Ilya’s fridge for every vegetable he can find. There’s no luck with whole rice or quinoa but he finds pasta and tuna cans. He toses himself a cold salad while his stomach rumbles at the smell of pepperoni. They eat in silence.

Shane frowns at the board. It’s too empty. They should have more information by now. He steps up to the it and writes:

Sally’s
Irish mafia?
Bobby?
Coney
Ilya (signs jersey)
What happened?

He stares at the words intensely for a couple minutes until something emerges from the depths of his memory:

“The police know something.”

“Wha- oh, fuck!” Marleau, who was apparently bending down to fill the dishwasher, hits his head against an open cupboard. He winces, looking at Shane. “What?”

“The police. There was a cop this morning at the hotel.”

“What?” Svetlana approaches. “You didn’t say.”

“I… I forgot. With the whole mafia thing,” Shane feels himself blush. “It was… well, weird. This guy came up to me when the rest of the team was getting on the bus. Detective Ryan. Tim Ryan. He said he heard I was staying in town, which is weird because only my team knew. And the airline people, I guess. Anyway, he also knew that we’d been to Sally’s last night. He said something weird, like he was trying to warn me off, let me know that place is trouble.”

“Why would a cop care about warning you off?” Svetlana hisses.

“That’s my point. It felt off. It’s almost like… like he knew that we were looking for Rozanov. Like he wanted me to back off.”

“Well, fuck that,” Marly says.

“Yeah,” Shane nods, as he goes back to the board:

Police
D. Tim Ryan
Knows??
Warning to back off

“Weird,” Svetlana says.

Shane turns and finds her perched on the couch’s armrest, furiously typing on her phone.

“What is?”

“Well, I assumed this guy, if he was telling you about the Irish mafia, he must be from, like, Narcotics or Major Crimes.”

“He’s not?”

“He works Homicide.”

“What,” Shane’s voice feels small as it leaves his chest.

The edges of his vision darken.

Homicide. But that would mean-

He can’t be.

He can’t.

Shane cannot believe in a universe in which Ilya Rozanov is dead. Killed. Murdered. Dead. Gone. Gone. Gone forever.

“Hollander.”

Shane can’t breathe. He can’t think. It feels like the world has narrowed down around him, like a cage closing. An empty cage. An empty universe. Without Ilya’s powerful sunlight in it.

He doesn’t know when or how something hits the back of his knees, but he’s suddenly sitting, bent over, resting his head between his legs.

“Hollander, breathe.”

The wrong voice. The wrong touch on his back. Oh god. Oh, fuck. Ilya.

“Hollander, hey!”

“Shane!”

Hollander, you’re having panic attack. Shane closes his eyes, chases that voice like a drowning man dragging his body across the scorching desert for a sip of water. Breathe, Hollander. Is okay. Breathe.

Someone’s speaking Russian. His eyes look up to find Svetlana, whispering things he doesn’t understand. She’s leaning over him, running her fingers across his back in confusingly familiar patterns.

“He is dead?” He asks, looking up at her, holding back tears.

“No.”

“No?”

“Hollander, we both saw him, after Sally’s. He came to my house, to Cliff’s, he texted you. He was alive. Scared, but alive.”

Shane shakes his head. “But he was- it’s like he was saying goodbye. What if he knew. What if they-“

“If the police knew, if they were investigating… that, it would be all over the news. We would know. This is Boston. Sports gossip doesn’t stay secret for long. If the police knew, a statement would be made, or the press would know by now. Someone would know.”

Shane draws in a shaky breath.

“Jesus Christ, Holzy,” Marly says from somewhere to the right. Svetlana glares up at him. “This is Rozy we are taking about. He’s not going down without a fucking fight.”

“Cliff don’t you have evening practice?” Svetlana says.

“Fuck. Yeah, I do. But-“

“Go. We can talk later.”

Shane’s eyes are locked in his hands, but he suspects there’s some sort of silent communication going on between them. This happens to him more often than he would like. His parents, his friends, his teammates. It’s like everyone else is constantly sharing a secret message, a code he doesn’t know. Only one person has ever made him feel like he truly understood. And now he’s lost him.

“Okay,” Marleau says, finally. “Yeah. I’ll come around later. See ya, Holzy.”

There’s steps, a door opening and closing. Then silence. It would be a relief, but Svetlana is still there.

“You didn’t sleep last night.”

“Hm?” He looks up at her, confused.

“You look like hell. You need a nap.”

“I’m good.”

“You are exhausted. Ilya would tell you the same, probably. ‘Hollander, you look like shit.’,” she drops her voice and thickens her accent in a surprisingly accurate imitation. “‘This is no help. Sleep now. Then we play detectives.’.”

Shane laughs, feeling his chest twist.

“That’s terrible.”

“Is accurate.”

“Ilya’s never had trouble making me lose sleep.”

Shane says it. Then realizes what he just said. He looks at Svetlana, panicked, stuck in that shameful horror for a long moment until she barks a laugh, loud and explosive.

“Of course he doesn’t. God, you are funnier than I thought. I can see why he likes you. I bet you make him lose sleep too.”

Shane feels his face burn. He wishes it’d be enough to incinerate him in the spot.

“I- We-“ and then something loosens in his chest, the same way it did with Rose. He’s never talked about him before. Not with anyone who knew. Not with anyone who knew him. “He’s better than dreaming.”

“Oh, lord, never tell him that. He will be insufferable,” she grins.

“Already is. I kinda like it that way.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Terrible. Both of you. I should have known he would find someone who was just as much of a menace as him.”

Shane grins. He has an impulse to tell her that Ilya hadn’t ‘found’ anything, that they aren’t a thing, that he made it clear they can’t ever be one… but he kinda likes to let himself savor the fantasy for now, that what she’s saying is true.

“Do you want to sleep here or in the bed?”

“What?” He blinks.

“I was serious. Nap, Hollander.”

“But I don’t-“

“I don’t care. You want to help, your brain has to be fresh. This? Panic. It won’t help Ilya. So sleep.”

Shane wants to argue some more but suddenly he can feel the past several hours of worry weighting on him.

“Shit. Fine. Okay. Just for an hour,” he grumbles, falling back and curling onto his side on the couch.

“Sure.”

“Wake me up.”

Shane wakes up four hours later, alone in Ilya Rozanov’s house. There’s a note on the coffee table in front of him, in surprisingly inelegant handwriting:

Sorry. You looked like you needed the rest. I will text you if we know something new. -Sveta

He sighs, shakes his head and stands up. He look at the empty house that has grown silent and dark around him. Hungry, he finally gives in and nibs at the remains of Marleau’s pizza as he opens the fridge. It’s stocked full with ginger ale.

Oh.

Fuck.

His eyes fill with tears and, with no one around to hide from, he lets them fall freely, droplets landing between his bare feet. Shane hangs his head low, shoulders shaking with sobs, until the fridge’s alarm makes it past the ringing in his ears.

Enough.

Shane grabs a can and slams the door shot, letting the house’s darkness envelop him once more. He cleans his face, roughly, and glares at the emptiness around him like Rozanov is standing there, shielded by the shadows.

“You don’t get to fucking do this, Ilya. I’m not done with you yet. We are not done.”

Single-minded. Laser-focused. Driven. Stubborn. He’s been called a million things in his life. All meaning the same: that he goes for what he wants, that he is relentless, ruthless. And he has wanted a lot of things in his life: to be better, to be the best, to be a professional hockey player, to win a Stanley Cup, two Stanley cups, to prove to everyone that he belongs at the top.

He has wanted a lot of things.

He has only loved one.

And the moment, months ago, when he let himself acknowledge it, it was like the dam of all of his desire and want burst open, flooding sense and reason, drowning doubts, smothering his fears. He feels the push harder than ever before.

Shane Hollander hasn’t given up on a single thing in his life. He’s not about to give up on the man he loves.

Chapter End Notes

Shane is really going through it :(

But hey, Sveta and Shane bonding!!! And we are getting closer to the whole picture…

Chapter 7: i’m just kinda too froze

Chapter Summary

Interlude #2: still in the middle of fucking nowhere

Chapter Notes

Heads up for some graphic violence, mentions of violence and mentions of suicide

In Ilya Rozanov’s defense he has always been obsessed with Shane Hollander. This isn’t necessarily new.

At seventeen, before he had ever seen his freckles up close, he had already spent several weeks watching tape of his games, again and again and again. It was professional interest, a competitive instinct, the need to best him no matter what. (It was, he can admit now, after many years of fucking him, an embarrassing teen crush.)

It didn’t get better after meeting him, after playing against him, after brushing his skin for the first time in an empty hotel gym. It got worse after the first time he kissed him. Slowly, stealthily, thoughts of Shane Hollander began to sneak up on him between their games, when he had no need or right to think of him, to wish to speak to him, to long for his attention. It’d become a problem. By the time Rose Landry appeared in the picture, Ilya was an adept Shane Hollander stalker, with the feral obsessive need only known to teenage girls.

And then, Shane had to go and say “I don’t think I can keep pretending I don’t like you” and he’d bared his heart open and vulnerable for Ilya to crush with the same courage he made himself pliant and easy in bed (and Ilya, who could never put himself in another’s hands with so much trust, admired and treasured that bravery). Shane had looked him in the eye and told him he wanted Ilya. In some way, in some still-unspoken capacity. But he wanted Ilya. He wants Ilya. And ever since that night, after he was held and caressed and kissed like he was something precious, Ilya’s obsession skyrocketed into a concerning level of need.

And then he’d gone and fucked it all up.

But that’s not the point. Not right now. The point is that this isn’t new, it isn’t strange, it isn’t really concerning for him to spend twenty-four hours down a Shane Hollander rabbit hole.

He rewatches the game, keeping a close eye on him (he did the first time too) and confirms his initial assessment that he hadn’t sustained any injury (despite that close call with Marly), that he doesn’t look sick, that he’s okay. The only difference is how intensely he plays, how distant he seems. It’s off for Shane, especially for a Boston game. Ilya sees the Rozanov shaped hole in the game, the way Shane’s eyes look for him, expecting someone at his toes when there is no one truly able to catch him.

(Who are you without me to challenge you? Who would I be without you? Ilya is afraid to find out.)

The point is Shane isn’t hurt. This isn’t the reason for him to stay behind. Then why?

Ilya digs the rabbit hole further with a series of increasingly embarrassing Google searches:

Shane Hollander injury
Shane Hollander hurt
Shane Hollander sick
Why did Shane Hollander stay in Boston
Shane Hollander family Boston
Yuna Hollander Boston
David Hollander Boston
Shane Hollander Boston Hospital
Shane Hollander club Boston
Shane Hollander Boston
Shane Hollander Ilya Rozanov compilation
Shane Hollander party
Shane Hollander kiss
Shane Hollander Rose Landry
Rose Landry
Rose Landry Boston
Shane Hollander gay (that one is a shit hole)
Shane Hollander gay proof (reassuringly empty)
Shane Hollander underwear (sue him)
Shane Hollander Calvin Klein (he’s just a man)
Shane Hollander naked (no luck)

Five hours, two orgasms and a pounding headache later, Ilya decides that’s probably enough. It isn’t, not really, his curiosity has slowly morphed into anxiety with the lack of answers, but if he lets himself sink further into this spiral he will not be able to claw his way out, and his situation is dire enough as it is. If he lets the grayness creep in, he might find it impossible to go on.

So he pushes himself off the bed, changes into workout clothes and marches downstairs, going straight for the door.

“Hey!” Jackson stands up from the couch, holding a finger in between the pages of his new thriller novel. “Where the hell are you going?”

“For a run.”

“You can’t just go off alone, man. You know this.”

“Am I arrested?”

“What?”

“This is house arrest?”

“You know it’s not!” Jackson rolls his eyes. “You gotta stop acting like I’m keeping you trapped here against your will, Rozanov.”

“I am trapped!”

“For your own safety. You know it. You agreed to it.”

“I agreed to save my life. This is not life. This is jail.”

Jackson pinches the bridge of his nose, throwing his head back. “I literally just let you go out to the bar last night. Which was very risky, by the way.”

“Let me go out,” Ilya repeats, despondently. “Very nice jailer.”

“Jesus Christ. You know what I mean. God, you’re insufferable.”

“Yes, because I am trapped in this fucking shoebox! How long? Is been weeks! Do we have to stay here more time? Months? Years?!”

“I don’t know,” Jackson says, terribly honest. “Maybe. We have no way to know. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, I’m sorry too,” Ilya sighs. “You are stuck here with me.”

“It’s my job. I knew what I was getting myself into.”

“Well, I didn’t,” he says miserably.

Jackson walks away, and Ilya feels himself about to crash, until the man grabs his bookmark and carefully shoves it inside his novel. “Just let me change. I’ll go with you.”

“Yes!” Ilya pumps his fist. “Thank you! Thank you! I will get you all the season tickets you want. Best seats. VIP lounge.”

“I’m more of a football guy,” Jackson smirks. “You wouldn’t happen to have Pat’s tickets, would you?”

“And here I thought we could be friends.”

It’s incredibly frustrating, Ilya thinks, that he likes Jackson so much. They could actually be friends, or a fun hookup to fill the time (he suspects). But officer Jackson West isn’t the person he wants fuck, he’s not the person he wants to be trapped with for weeks, he’s not the person he wants to play house with, he’s not even the person he wants to go on a run with. He has known for a while, but has been sure since Tampa that no one else will do.

Shane Hollander has ruined Ilya for anyone else. And that’s fine by Ilya.

Or it would be.

If he wasn’t fucking stuck here.

The run does little to help his mood. As soon as he falls into a rhythm, his mind begins to wander, tracing back the steps that landed him in a place where, quoting Detective Ryan, he’s more likely to find tornadoes than hockey fans.

He reaches the same conclusion he did that night: he never should’ve taken Coney’s call (even if he knows there is no way he wouldn’t have).

Ilya had resented missing out on Hollander time for the rookie, sure, but he’d been lucky enough to have Shane all for himself that morning and had been sure that, if this didn’t take too long, he could still talk him into coming to his place despite the late hour. But no. Instead, Ilya’d ended up in a fucking Irish mafia bar, worrying about what kind of shit the kid had gotten himself into. He’d tried to play it cool, smile to the bartender, sign his jersey, pretend he had no clue what kind of place this was as he made his way to the far left booth where his stupid rook was anxiously peeling pistachios, and had been for a while judging by the small mountain of peels next to his empty pint.

For a moment, he’d been relived to see that Coney was only drunk but still smart enough to know better than to stay in a place like this. Ilya had been proud of him, for calling, for asking for help, for prioritizing his career (and his life). He couldn’t blame him for being scared, the place had a tension to it that had immediately put Ilya on edge. So much so that he’d needed a smoke (despite having promised himself he’d quit and knowing that Shane would bitch about it later).

And he’d gone.

To have that fucking cigarette.

(Shane would be so smug about it, if he ever found out that it was all because he couldn’t resist the need to smoke. I told you those would kill you, he’d say. And even if Ilya pointed out that it wasn’t a matter of tobacco or cancer but about bad timing, he knows Shane would still take it as a win.)

It was just bad luck. Ilya had nearly finished the cigarette when he heard the scream and, like a fucking idiot, he walked towards it, hoping to help. He’d rounded the corner behind the bar, towards the docks, and found the silhouettes of four men cut against the reflection of the moon against the dark water. Two had been standing a few feet away, one big and steady, another clearly anxious. Ilya hadn’t paid too much attention to them at the time, immediately drawn to the other two: because one of them was killing the other. He couldn’t see the wire from afar, but he could see the struggle. One of them, on his knees, fought uselessly to free himself, letting out desperate animal noises. The other, big and burly, on his feet, pulled harder and harder.

Ilya had just watched, feeling his blood run cold with horror and fear.

Stay still, every fiber in his body had said, don’t move or you’ll be next. Don’t move. Don’t move. This can’t be real. Don’t move.

It’d lasted an eternity. Horrible agonizing seconds, until his brain rebooted and told him to get a grip. Someone was dying. In front of him. And he was just watching.

Do something, you fucking coward!

Three things had happened then, nearly at once: Ilya had taken a step forward, the man’s body had collapsed to the floor, and the unmistakable sound of a glass bottle being kicked had echoed through the night.

Three heads had turned towards him and in the moonlight he’d seen their faces clearly: a graying and elegantly dressed man, a kid that couldn’t be older than nineteen, and the big burly killer with a nasty scar across his cheek and a nose shaped like a sweet potato. He’d still been protected by the building’s shadows, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough to hide his presence. Not really.

Ilya’d rushed back inside, all notion of foolish bravery forgotten. Coney was just stepping out of the bathroom when he grabbed him by the Boston Raiders hoodie and dragged him all the way out of there.

His brain was running a million miles an hour. He’d just witnessed a murder. The man from the docks was dead. And the people that had done it had seen him. Well, maybe not entirely, maybe they couldn’t recognize him, but this struck him as the kind of place with a very particular and very specific clientele. Coney and him stuck out like a sore thumb. Maybe Coney not so much. He was Irish after all, he apparently grew up around some of these people. He might be safe. Ilya, on the other hand, was a six foot tall Russian that had just signed a fucking jersey with his name on it. He was fucked. Beyond fucked. But maybe the kid didn’t have to be.

“Listen to me, O’Connor. You tell no one we were here tonight, okay? If someone asks, you left immediately. You never saw me. You didn’t see anything. You understand?”

The kid was smart enough to at least grasp something must have happened, particularly in a place like this. That or Ilya’s fear was showing clearly on his face, because Coney paled and nodded. “Y-yes, Cap.”

“Good. Now go home and keep your fucking head down for a few days. Yes?”

A shaky nod. It would have to do. Ilya shoved the taxi door closed and watched him go. Then he walked several blocks on the opposite direction, deeper into the city and away from the docks before hailing another cab for himself to the closest police precinct.

Ilya’s memories of the rest of the night are vague. He remembers uttering the words “I would like to report a murder” and the windowless room in which they made him recount every detail about the fact twice. Then, the bomb:

“The man you just described is Elija Walsh. He’s a hired assassin for the O’Brien clan.”

“You know him. So you can arrest him.”

Detective Tim Ryan had shaken his head.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Walsh is very well protected. He has powerful friends. He’s Thomas O’Brien’s right hand. Thomas is the eldest brother, head of the family,” Detective Ryan had explained, probably noticing Ilya’s confusion. “He’s a powerful and violent man. With many friends, and deep pockets.”

“So what? You just let him kill people?!”

“No, we build a case. We have been building a case. One that could bring him and, hopefully, Thomas O’Brien to justice. But-“

“What?”

“We don’t have any witnesses. Not anymore.”

Something about those words sank like a stone inside Ilya. He’d felt cold all of the sudden. “He kills them.”

“Yes. He makes it look like an accident or a suicide but… there is a pattern.”

“Then I will not be witness,” Ilya had said, standing up. “I am sorry. I cannot-“

“I’m afraid it might be too late, Mister Rozanov. If he has seen your face, if there is any way for him to recognize you…”

“But there is chance he didn’t. Maybe I take my chances. If you want me to take stand, then I am really fucked.”

Detective Ryan had looked at him with pity. It should’ve made Ilya angrier, but instead it deeply terrified him.

“You can take your chances, it’s your right, but… I need to warn you, it wouldn’t just be you.”

“What?”

“Walsh has a… modus operandi, so to speak. I don’t know if it’s his way to be throughout, to make sure you haven’t told anyone, or if it’s an intimidation tactic, to warn off any other possible witnesses. All we know is that the pattern holds.”

“What pattern?”

“It’s not just the witnesses, Mister Rozanov. It’s their family, friends, loved ones. He likes the slate clean.”

Ilya’s legs had given up at that point, he’d dropped back on the chair and burrowed his head in his hands, swearing in Russian under his breath, a long and mournful litany.

“We can put you in Witness Protection. The trial will be soon. Just a few months.”

“And then what? The fucking Irish Boston mafia will still kill me!”

“Not necessarily. Thomas’ younger brother, Robert, he is not a vengeful man. He’s definitely smarter about not making big waves. Less… prone to violence as a solving method. I can’t tell for sure, but with his brother out of the picture you might be able to come back home. Maybe. It’s the best I can offer. That or permanent relocation.”

“I am very famous. Even temporarily disappearing is… unlikely.”

“I am well aware of your fame, Mister Rozanov. I’m a big fan. But I am sure we can find you a place where you can lay low. Hockey isn’t really everyone’s thing, not like it’s in Boston. There are places that won’t bat an eye at an unfamiliar face… specially not during tornado season.”

“During what?”

And so, now he is Sergei Gorki, a Russian meteorologist studying American tornadoes with his research partner (who is totally and absolutely not an undercover cop). And meanwhile, Shane fucking Hollander is apparently staying in Boston, without him, for no reason at all.

And it’s stupid, so fucking stupid, because absolutely no one knows about them, about what Shane is to him… but he can’t shake off the fear that he’ll be in danger in the city. Leaving Svetlana and the team had been hard enough, he’d had to convince himself that they’d be safe as long as he wasn’t close, but adding Hollander to the mix was making his stomach hurt. He’d be safe, right? He wouldn’t do anything stupid. How would he even know where to look? No. Shane was too cautious for that, too smart. Whatever reason he has to be in Boston must be personal and important enough to miss a game. Heaven knows Shane has never compromised hockey for Ilya. No reason for things to change now (except Tampa, but Ilya doesn’t even let himself consider it).

Jackson stops on his tracks and points at something in the distance. Ilya follows his gaze, and sees a fine vertical line in the distance. A fucking tornado.

“We should go back, take shelter,” Jackson says.

“Is very far.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“We are being terrible weather scientists,” Ilya snorts, but he turns around, lightly jogging back towards town.

Jackson falls into step with him.

“Maybe we should drive around tomorrow, make it look like we are chasing storms,” Jackson says.

“Maybe we should chase one for real,” Ilya grins.

“God, what is it with hockey players and trouble? It’s like you can’t help it. Not even the Canadians!”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, just something my boss said.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Ilya is about to insist, to demand answers, when the town’s tornado warning reaches them.

“Fuck.”

They both break into a sprint back to the house, where they close windows and doors and huddle down in the basement, waiting out the disaster in tense silence. It’s all Ilya can do now. Wait it out. It still feels wrong. But what’s he going to do? Fight the storm alone?

The tornado misses them. Barely. They spend the night in the shelter just in case.

In his dreams, Ilya is frozen, watching a man die by the docks. The man has dark hair and freckles. And he can’t do anything to save him.

Chapter End Notes

Big shout out to the, like, three people that had 100% guessed what happened that night!!!

Chapter 8: another day goes by

Chapter Summary

“You look like hell, though. I think I told you to sleep.”

“I did. I took a nap.”

“That was yesterday.”

“I’ve been busy.” Shane shrugs.

Chapter Notes

Some more detectiving because I do love a good murder board

There’s a noise by the front door.

Shane freezes like a deer in headlights, then hops over the couch’s arm wrest and around the wall towards the kitchen, where he’s pretty sure he’s hidden from whoever’s slowly, calmly, making his way down the hallway and towards the living room. His heart is pounding a million miles an hour. Luckily, panic doesn’t quite hit him yet. Adrenaline, blessed familiar friend, courses through his brain and makes everything else quiet down… like it only happens on the ice or in Ilya’s arms. Shane feels oddly in calm, detached.

The steps pause by the living room. Fuck. Fuck! He should’ve taken the white board with him, but that would’ve taken too long and made too much noise and, it’s really just good strategy to prioritize survival over discretion.

Speaking of survival. Quietly as possible, Shane tiptoes to the counter and pulls out a big ass kitchen knife from Ilya’s rack. It’s a surprisingly nice knife, big, sharp, looks profesional.

Does Rozanov actually know how to cook?

Mafia.

Focus.

Shane breathes deeply and takes three slow steps, bare feet soundless against the wooden floors as he prepares to round the corner and-

“Jesus, Hollander, did you not sleep?”

“Svetlana?” Shane sighs, fucking relived that he doesn’t have to fight for his life against some mafia assassin, he walks out to find her standing in front of the white board, which he has improved considerably in the past few hours.

She turns to him, looks down at the knife, then back at his face with an eyebrow arched.

“Uh, hum… sorry. Just…”

“Paranoid. But smart,” she smirks at him. “You look like hell, though. I think I told you to sleep.”

“I did. I took a nap.”

“That was yesterday.”

“I’ve been busy.” Shane shrugs, leaving the knife on the coffee table as he approaches her.

Svetlana’s eyes trail the white board. “I can see that.”

Shane has filled the board with annotations and news articles (unbelievably Ilya owns a printer).

“I don’t know how useful it is. I just tracked down the information of past Irish mafia activity in Boston. Since the nineties. Looks like there’ve been quite a few power changes. Not a lot of official information, obviously, but the crime journalists kinda signal it because shit gets… bloody. Particularly lately, with the death of George O’Brien. He’s supposed to be the head of the family or whatever. Or… was. Most people assume his son, Thomas, took over after. There’s been a lot of mob related deaths since then. Suicides or accidents but… too many, too convenient. George’s old right hand, some people in high places with ties to them, some crooked cops. It’s like Thomas’s been cleaning house while he takes over.”

“And you learned all this from the internet?” Svetlana looks at him. “Yesterday you couldn’t recognize an Irish mafia front while standing in it.”

“Before yesterday, I didn’t need to. This is just like watching tape. There’s a strategy, something going on. I just had to know what I was looking for.”

“And what is it?”

Ilya. Whatever happened to him. Whatever scared him into running. Whatever I need to fix to get him back.

“I don’t know yet. But if it’s connected to Rozanov and Sally’s, I suppose we can trace it back somehow.”

Shane points at the Boston map he found in Ilya’s clearly underused studio. It’s dated 2010 and has Welcome To The Raiders written in the back. He has circled in pencil the area by the docks with the bar. A smaller radius for the time distance he figures Ilya can have walked forth and back while O’Connor was in the bathroom and a much larger (too large) one for the area he might have covered in the two hours were they lost his track. Which reminds him:

“Where’s your place? And Marleau’s do you know?”

Svetlana presses her finger to two specific points in the city map.

“Why do you know Marleau’s?”

“Had to pick Ilya once, a couple months ago. He was too drunk to drive.”

Shane hums. As much of a party animal that Ilya claims to be, it strikes him odd to hear that he lost control that much. Then he remembers, a couple months ago he was dating Rose Landry. So maybe they were both acting a little odd.

He tries to focus on the task at hand, running the calculations on his phone. He’d researched average traffic speed in Boston at high hours of the morning to figure out how much ground Ilya might have covered. Now, he adds new circles around Svetlana and Cliff’s places. He went from Svetlana’s to Cliff’s in under half an hour. He uses Ilya’s fridge magnets to pin a piece of red thread between them. It seems unlikely he made any stops along the way. Because Svetlana’s visit was first, he manages to reduce the two hour radio significantly. Ilya can’t have spent two hours just fucking off as far as possible if he was at her place by 3:50.

“What are you doing?”

“I have no idea,” he admits. “Just trying to get a sense of where he could’ve gone in the unknown two hours. Don’t know if this will help but…”

Svetlana is looking at him. Like… staring. It makes him squirm uncomfortably. Like a bug under a microscope.

“What?” He demands.

“Nothing,” she shakes her head, perfect curls bouncing around. “I can help with the research. What is next?”

Shane doesn’t remember falling asleep. It could’ve been five minutes or five hours ago. He’s half curled on the couch, his computer precariously balanced on his lap, the last sentence he’d tried to google devolving into downright nonsense. He blinks, trying to get used to the light. It’s not dark outside yet. That’s good.

Then, he realizes what woke him up: voices. Marleau’s voice, booming despite how he’s clearly trying to whisper.

Shane sits up, blinking groggily around, and finds Marleau and Svetlana talking hurriedly on the hallway. Something about their tone of voice sends a spike of anxiety through him. He’s on his feet immediately.

“What’s going on?” He asks, stumbling forward. The world is spinning a little as his brain restarts.

“Hollander, hey,” Marly says, casually, but he’s a little pale.

“Maybe we sit,” Svetlana says.

“What’s happened?” Shane demands, ignoring the suggestion.

“The rookie.”

“What about him?”

Cliff Marleau, who stares down some of the most violent players in the league on a daily basis, looks downright scared for a moment. Shane is half aware of how he must look to him: red eyes from lack of sleep, hair disheveled, wrinkled clothes from yesterday. He probably seems deranged. He feels it.

“Marleau! What happened?” Shane takes another step forward, unsure of what he’ll do if he doesn’t get answers soon: threaten the man, fight him, beg? He isn’t above any of it.

“He’s freaking out, okay?!” Marly finally blurts out. “He was a mess during practice yesterday, and then again today. He kept stealing glances at me and acting weird. So I fucking ambushed him.”

“You what?!”

“Just, like, in the parking lot, okay? When I knew there wouldn’t be anyone else around. And finally, fucking finally, he confessed that he hadn’t told me the whole thing yesterday morning.” Cliff pauses, like he’s expecting questions, but Shane and Svetlana only stare, waiting. “Okay, so, apparently his fucking friend showed up the day after the whole Sally’s thing. And this kid was freaking out too. He kept telling Coney how he fucked up and whatever they were supposed to do that night went way over his head, and apparently, apparently, the worst part is that someone saw them. And he was so sure it was Coney, that he was the witness and that they were gonna kill him over it. But then fucking Coney convinced him that he’d left as soon as they got there because he was sick and so it couldn’t have been him. He got the friend to believe him. Like Cap told him to.”

“Rozanov. It was Rozanov. He was the witness,” Shane breaths.

“Exactly!”

“But how can they know for sure?” Svetlana shakes her head.

“The jersey,” Shane groans. “He signed the fucking jersey. They know he was there. They fucking know. They know it was him.”

“Fuck,” Marleau breathes.

“Yes, Marly, fuck!” Shane snaps. “Fuck!”

Shane walks back to the living room, running his hands through his hair. This isn’t good. This can’t be good. Ilya saw a- fuck, he saw something bad and Shane knows it’s probably murder. A murder. And the mafia knows. The mafia wants to kill Ilya.

(He knew this. He already kinda knew this. Knowing it for sure is a whole other thing.)

“Wait,” he frowns looking at his board. “Svetlana, this area… do you know if there’s a police station on it?”

“Oh, shit, murder board,” Marleau approaches. “Precinct’s here,” he presses a confident dinger in the map. “Had to bail out a bunch of rookies once.”

Shane marks the spot. It’s within his Ilya radius. And close to Svetlana’s.

“He went to the police,” Shane blinks. “Of course he did. He reported it.”

“Well, no shit they wanna kill him,” Marleau scoffs.

Shane is going to strangle him.

“He knew,” Svetlana says, stepping between them and inadvertently saving Marleau’s life. “Before. He came to say goodbye like he was going to go.”

“Because he was going to.”

“Yes, but that is before Coney’s friend showed up at his door,” Svetlana turns fully to Shane. “Which means, he’d already left by then. This guy, they said they wanted to kill the witness. But they hadn’t yet. They weren’t sure who he was. Maybe they know now, maybe not, but Ilya got out.”

“Witness protection,” Shane says, and it’s with both relief and horror.

He’s never going to see him again.

“Fuck,” Marleau breathes out.

“How do we find him?”

“We don’t,” Svetlana sighs, picking her jacket from the coach.

“What do you mean ‘we don’t’?”

“Hollander, if Ilya is really in hiding, finding him is the last thing we should do. It would put him in danger.”

“But he can’t just be… gone. We can’t just do nothing,” Shane pleads. “He is- I- I want-“

I want to see him. I need to.

Svetlana’s face settles into something cold, detached, the way Shane has seen Ilya do a million times. Like a door shutting closed.

“I know you want. But you need to decide if your wants are more important than his safety. If you love him, you have to let him go.”

And with that note, she steps closer, kisses Shane’s cheek and walks away.

He just stands there, feeling his heart shatter at the realization that he does love Ilya. Fuck, he loves him. He’s so in love with him. And he can’t risk his life.

“Let’s get you a drink, Holzy,” Marleau says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And maybe a shower and a nap.”

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” Shane snaps, not looking at him but at the closed door, as if he could will Ilya to appear through it.

“Well, sucks for ya. Because when Rozy comes back, and he will, he’s gonna have my fucking head if he finds out I didn’t take care of his boy.”

“I’m not his… anything,” Shane deflates, defeat weighing him down like an anvil. He looks up at Cliff fucking Marleau feeling pathetic. “You really think he will come back?”

“I know Rozy. He’s no quitter. He ain’t dropping his life for good just like that. And- look, Holzy, I’ve gotten time to think about this... thing between you two.”

Shane cringes. He doesn’t want Marleau thinking about Ilya and him. At all. In any sense.

“Thing is, I’ve known about his Montreal chick, uh, guy for sometime. It’s the only person he kept going back to. And he specifically asked us to keep you out of it.”

“Yeah? So. Probably didn’t want the fucking mafia poking in on his business.”

Marly shakes his head. “Don’t be an idiot, Hollander. He cares for you. He will come back.”

Shane wants to believe him, he does, but Ilya has always been able to move on easier than him. Maybe when he made this choice he already let Shane go. Not everything is about you. We are nothing. We can’t be anything. He has been telling him for years.

“Hollander.”

Shane is not going to cry in front of Cliff fucking Marleau.

“I’ll take that drink,” he says, voice hoarse.

@thanksfor_theven0m
Sure love living in a place that’s trying to kill me 🤪 Another night in the town’s tornado shelter.
[attached image 01] [attached image 02] [attached image 03]

@thnksfrthmmries replied to @thanksfor_theven0m

omg girl be safe!!!! :(

@bostongal replied to @thanksfir_theven0m
IS THAT ILYA FUCKING ROZANOV?!

Chapter End Notes

So I’m sure we are fine stirring shit right? Right?

Chapter 9: the distance between us

Chapter Summary

“Call me, before you do something stupid.”

Shane recoils, offended. “I won’t.”

Chapter Notes

Marleau stays for three beers. Shane nurses his one beer until it’s warm and gross. He considers, momentarily, pulling out Ilya’s vodka from the freezer (he’d seen it yesterday when looking for a healthy midnight snack) but he isn’t feeling quite that masochistic yet.

After a while, the small talk dies down. Shane keeps his eyes on the beer, tracing a droplet of condensation that slides down to the counter’s marble, trying to ignore the Raider’s eyes on him until he snaps.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” Marly takes a big gulp of his beer. “Just weird, looking at ya… knowing ‘bout you and Rozy.”

Shane fights to keep his face neutral but he feels his pulse skyrocket immediately. No one knows he is gay aside from Rose and Ilya, and up until yesterday their relationship was known to only the two of them. He’s not sure how he feels about being perceived by someone else like this. It’s not safe, an anxious voice whispers from deep in his gut. Run. He knows too much. He will tell. He will destroy everything. He will harm you. Shane valiantly stays put.

“Yeah?” He takes a sip and tries not to grimace at the stale taste.

“Yeah, like… it’s kinda blowing my mind. Has been since yesterday. I just can’t wrap my head around it, y’know? Like, how long has this been going on? Like, a few months? Longer? Because I know you were with Rose fucking a Landry, right? But Rozy’s been texting his Montreal chick for years, so-“

“Look,” Shane cuts him off, “I already feel fucking awful for telling you. Like, no offense, but I shouldn’t have fucking outed him like that. I would’ve never, if I hadn’t been freaking out. So, like, I’d rather not share any more extra information he doesn’t want shared.”

Cliff’s mouth forms a very round O. It makes him look far too young for such a hulking athlete. “Fuck, no, yeah, right. Sorry, Holzy, I’m just like… trying to understand, right? Because, Rozy is… well, he’s always been kinda… uh, you know, he has a reputation and…”

Marly blushes so violently and quickly that Shane finds himself taking pity on him.

“Relax, Marly. I mean, you know Rozanov, we are not exclusive or anything.”

We are nothing, his mind supplies, bitterly.

“Oh, right, right. No, yeah, that makes sense. But…”

Shane arches his eyebrows.

“Well, I know Rozy, sure but… would you wanna be?”

“Be… something?”

“Yeah.”

“We can’t be.”

“But would you wanna be?”

This feels like a redo. And not one Shane is particularly enjoying

“Cliff, we can’t be. Ilya made it clear. He’s… he’s Russian, y’know.”

“I mean, fuck, yeah, I know. But, like, I’ve met Russians with girlfriends before. It can happen.”

“Have you met any Russian men with boyfriends?”

Marleau blinks a couple times. Shane can see the information slot in his head like a jigsaw puzzle.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yes. Fuck. So… we can’t be.”

“But would you want to? Would he want to?”

Yes. I would. I think he would too. I really believe that.

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone…”

“I’m telling you, Hollander, he’s gonna come back. No way is he just disappearing on us.”

Shane is really tempted to get that vodka.

Thankfully, Marleau seems to notice the mood has deflated. He stands up, grabs his leather jacket and heads for the door. Shane walks him to it, as if this was his house and he was the host.

Before Shane can open the front door, though, Marly shoots him a serious look.

“Call me, before you do something stupid.”

Shane recoils, offended. “I won’t.”

“You will. You’ve got that look, like you’re staring at a cliff, just waiting for the push to jump. You probably got it from Rozy.”

“Maybe he got it from me,” Shane says, emboldened.

Marly barks a laugh. “Maybe. I doubt it. But maybe. Either way, when you decide to be stupid…”

“I won’t.”

“…just call me first, okay?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”

Apparently satisfied, Marleau finally leaves.

Shane closes the door behind him and looks around at the empty house. His stomach sinks, slowly, like a pathetic little canoe with a hole in the middle. No matter how much he fights it, the water will swallow him whole eventually.

Hoping for a distraction, he reaches for his phone, long forgotten in the living room. A google alerts notification sends a bolt down his spine.

Ilya Rozanov, Raiders’ Captain, spotted spending the night in tornado shelter in Twitter user’s photo.

“What?!” He shouts at his phone, sitting down and rushing to open his laptop. He quickly finds the news and pulls on the thread.

Three hours later, Shane has narrowed down Ilya’s location to three possible towns in the Midwest, two in Oklahoma and one in Illinois. All three had tornado warnings last night. The tweet could’ve come from any of them.

Shane is already jumping to his feet and pacing around when a new realization hits him: if he knows, then so do other people.

Ilya is in danger.

Shane forces himself to a halt.

The tweet was posted last night. It’s been nearly twenty four hours. If Shane, with his measly laptop and WiFi connection, could find these three towns, so did the gangsters after Ilya. And the police. They must know by now. They will have moved him. Even if Shane takes off right now, grabs a plane to the middle of nowhere in the United States, it will be pointless.

Shane will find another empty house. Or worse. A body. He’s not sure he would survive it.

He falls back down on the couch. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Chase after Ilya anyway? With what purpose? To help? To protect him? How? Shane is just… Shane.
He still wants to go. To… what? To just look him in the eye and convince himself he’s okay? Shane wants to do all those things but he knows, deep down, that none of them will do. Not really. What he wants is to have Ilya back.

And he can’t.

What if he just makes it worse? What if Ilya isn’t in danger yet and Shane showing up just puts the spotlight back on him? What if his cover gets blown because of Shane?

“Fuck,” he whispers to the emptiness.

Shane pulls out the Twitter pics again and zooms them in until he can sort of look at Ilya’s face. A pang of longing rushes through his body, more painful than any check he’s suffered in his entire career.

He just wants Ilya back. How can he miss so desperately something that has never truly been his?

Shane: [attached image]
Shane: he’s alive, he’s ok
Shane: somewhere in the Midwest I think
Shane: or at least he was last night
Shane: probably not anymore
Shane: not THERE anymore I mean
Shane: not that he isn’t safe or alive. I’m sure he is okay.

Svetlana: you can’t go Hollander

Shane: I know

Svetlana: I’m sorry

Shane: don’t be
Shane: you are protecting him

Svetlana: always
Svetlana: you too

Shane feels his eyes water. He twists his mouth and tries to be sincere too.

Shane: always

Svetlana: sleep Hollander
Svetlana: I’m serious
Svetlana: need you pretty and rested when he comes back

He laughs, drying his cheeks.

Shane: you sound like him sometimes

Svetlana: wrong
Svetlana: I am much cooler

Shane: yes but he is hotter

Svetlana: SHANE HOLLANDER
Svetlana: you dog
Svetlana: do not tell him this, he will never shut up about it

Shane: he already knows I think he’s hot
Shane: it’s not a secret

Svetlana: hopeless
Svetlana: go to sleep

Eventually, Shane does go to sleep. He climbs into Ilya’s bed and tries not to think about how this is the first night he has spent in it… and Ilya isn’t there to hold him. The bedsheets smell like him, even after all these weeks.

It occurs to him, as exhaustion claims him, that he feels like a widower. But he isn’t one. Because Ilya is alive… but also because if he does die (and the thought alone spears Shane through the heart) what can he even say he lost? A rival? A fuck buddy? Ilya is so much more than that to him. He is the only man he has ever loved. And now he’s just a ghost and Shane can’t even put a name to the hole he has left behind.

The navy blue pillowcase grows wet with silent tears as his hand traces the empty space across the mattress.

“Come back, please,” he whispers, pathetically, as if Ilya could hear him and, as he always does, give him exactly what his soul needs.

In his dreams, Shane is skating.

This isn’t new or weird. But it’s not the puck he is chasing.

He speeds after someone he can’t quite recognize. All Shane knows is that the person he’s chasing has stolen something precious from him and that they are too fast, always two steps ahead, always out of reach no matter how much Shane pushes. But he can’t stop. He can’t. He needs to reach him. He needs to-

Shane wakes up startled on Monday morning in Ilya Rozanov’s bed, alone.

He sighs, sinking back into the pillows and glares at the ceiling. It’s five in the morning. He knows his body well enough to accept he won’t be able to sleep again. Not that he’d want to. Not after a night plagued by stressful dreams.

He gets up, jumps into the shower and washes himself with Ilya’s shampoo and body wash, letting the familiar smell of him sink into his skin, as if he could absorb his essence and somehow be closer to him through it. He jerks off, in a sad attempt to feel anything other than despair, with his eyes closed and trying to convince himself the hands touching him belong to someone else. It’s pathetic, even for him, but at least he gets some release.

Shane shaves, changes into a clean set of clothes (Ilya’s because he hadn’t packed more than necessary for their game against Boston on Friday) and makes himself a protein smoothie with whatever he can find in Ilya’s pantry and fridge that hasn’t gone bad yet. By seven, he feels slightly more like himself, except for the gapping hole in the pit of his stomach and the pang that stabs his chest every few minutes.

Grief. He knows it’s grief. He doesn’t know what to do with it, where to put it, if he’s even allowed to feel it.

Luckily, before he can spiral deeper into the painful doom of missing a man that isn’t even his to miss, his phone buzzes on the countertop. His idiot heart does a little flip, powered by blind hope, until he sees the screen.

[Incoming call: Hayden.]

Right.

Shane takes a deep breath and swallows the knot in his throat before picking up.

“Hi?”

“Shane! Hey, buddy!” He says in that overly enthusiastic tone he uses when one of his kids is upset.

“Hey, Hayd. What’s up?”

“Oh, not much. Just chilling, easy morning before our game tonight.”

“Right,” Shane says, as if he had forgotten. He hadn’t. Of course. It’s just been a buzzing noise in the back of his head the past three days.

“Uh, yeah, coach actually wanted me to call and see if you’d make it,” Hayden says, through Shane is sure that Theriault wasn’t nearly as nice wording it. “But really I just wanted to check in on you. How are you?”

“I’m… good.”

“That bad, uh?”

Shane grimaces.

“Everything okay with Lily?” Hayden presses.

Shane has never quite known how much to tell his best friend when it comes to “Lily”. On one hand, outright talking about a nonexistent woman feels more like lying to him than just denying her existence. On the other, well, Shane could really use someone to talk to right now. He has been aching to just tell his best friend a little bit of all the complicated feelings that have been boiling inside him for months. He could use some advice, now more than ever.

“Yeah. No. Not really. It’s… complicated,” he finally says. And that’s all he means to say. Really. But his mouth doesn’t get the message apparently, because he keeps going. “She’s gotten herself into… something. It’s hard to explain. But she’s in trouble. And I don’t know how to help. I don’t even know if I should. And I can’t talk to Lily, and it’s driving me fucking insane.”

“Why wouldn’t you help?” Hayden asks, slowly. Shane can picture his brow pinching.

“Because I could make it worse. Like, way worse. And I don’t wanna fuck it up. I can’t. I can’t risk it. I mean, we aren’t even… anything, right? So it’s not even my place to do anything. I mean, even Lily’s best friends are backing off, and they said I should do the same, and just… trust that it will be fine.”

“Fuck that.”

“What?”

“Shane, buddy, look, I know you are new to this whole relationship thing but, take it from me, if Jackie was in trouble, there’s no fucking way I’d just sit back and hope it turns out alright. It might be a choice when it’s just a friend or someone else, but when you love someone… there’s no choice at all. Your friends are like… like your D-men, right? They stand by you, watch your back and trust you to do your thing. But your partner is your wing, they are right there in the front line with you, ready for the assist..”

Shane takes in a shaky breath, incredibly relieved to hear exactly what he’s been aching to hear.

“You don’t think I should… let it go?”

“Do you love Lily?”

“Yes. Fuck. Yeah, I do.”

“Then do what you gotta do, man. Her friends probably love her too, but when you are with someone it’s… different. I get it. And I’m sure she will too. So just… trust your gut, okay? And don’t worry about coach. I’ll deal with it. You just make sure your girl is alright.”

Shane hangs his head low, closing his eyes, letting his body let go of the overwhelming anguish that has been eating at him for days.

“Thanks, Hayd.”

“Don’t mention it. Love you, buddy. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure Lily will be alright as long as she’s got you in her corner. I still haven’t met a goal that Shane Hollander can’t accomplish.”

Shane lets out a shake laugh, feeling himself blush. “Stop that.”

“Uh, no way. My best friend is a fucking catch. I get to brag about it a little.”

“Shut up.”

“Bye, Shane! Say hi to Lily from me.”

“Will do.” If I ever see him again.

Shane hangs up and lets out a sigh. He looks around at the empty house, at the home Ilya has built away from Russia, at the hollow space that is aching for his presence. He mulls over his best friend’s words and reaches a harrowing and inevitable conclusion:

Shane Hollander is not a good person. Or, at least, he’s not as good or as selfless as he would like to pretend to be. Shane is selfish. He is greedy. And so is his love. Just like Shane cannot love hockey from afar as a fan, like he can’t just play without hunger for a win, like he can’t truly ever be a good sport about someone else getting the trophy he has set his eye on… that’s the way he loves Ilya. It’s not enough to love him from afar, it’s not even enough to know that he is safe and okay somewhere else. It would be, if Shane was better and kinder and selfless. He is not. He wants Ilya Rozanov in his life. He needs him. He is not willing to go without him. He will do absolutely everything in his power to make it happen. Giving up, letting go, is not an option. It has never been a fucking option. Not since the first time he set eyes on the man.

Shane wants Ilya Rozanov in his life. And he has always, always, gone after what he wants.

He’s not going to let the fucking Irish Mafia stop him.

Shane grabs his phone, his wallet and picks a set of car keys at random from Ilya’s collection. As he’s stepping out the door, he pauses, and makes a call:

“Marly? I’m about to do something stupid. You want in?”

Chapter End Notes

Y’all didn’t really think Shane fucking Hollander was about to back down did you? That man is as a stubborn as they come.

Chapter 10: I need to come down

Chapter Summary

Interlude #3: interrupted.

Chapter Notes

It’s a fucking long night until they finally crawl out of the tornado shelter. Ilya expects to find the little town that has hosted him these past few weeks torn to shreds, but everything looks… mostly fine? Trash cans have fallen, the wind has made a mess of the streets, a couple signs have fallen, a couple trees too… but over all it looks like the storm has passed by without hitting them. They got lucky.

Ilya didn’t.

They are walking back to the house when Jackson gets the call. A bad feeling sinks in Ilya’s stomach as soon as he sees the young cop’s face take on a serious mask. Sending Ilya a quick look, he walks off to take the call, still walking forward, but just out of earshot.

Ilya tries to busy himself with the messy town, with the clear skies, with the church bells stubbornly calling townsfolk to Sunday mass despite the scare (or perhaps because of it). None of it manages to ease the growing anxiousness swirling in the pit of his stomach.

He pulls out a cigarette, lights it and takes a long deep drag, hoping it will settle his nerves.

You shouldn’t smoke, Shane would say. It will kill you. What’s the point of all this hiding to survive if you end up getting lung cancer anyway?

The thought makes Ilya’s lips curl upwards around the cigarette butt. That angry kitten face. He’d kill to see it again. No amount of streamed hockey games will ever give it to him. That Hollander exists only behind closed doors, where Ilya can have his way with him and turn his anger into desire like it’s second nature.

Ilya exhales, releasing smoke like he is blowing a kiss.

Eventually, Jackson approaches him again. Ilya is about to ask what’s going on, but one warning look shuts him up. Not here. Okay. So it’s bad.

Their safe house is mostly untouched by last night’s storm. Jackson waits until they are inside, to lay it all on Ilya: the shelter, the post gone viral since last night, what it means for him.

“At least, we are not the only place that got hit by the weather last night, and it looks like the user’s information and the photo’s metadata don’t give up our location entirely. That gives us some leeway. Not much, but enough. But we gotta move before we lose any advantage we have.”

“You think Walsh will come here?” Ilya asks, feeling his chest constrict with a sudden wave of fear. He hates it. It makes him feel like a fucking child. But he is scared. He can’t help it.

Jackson shakes his head. “Walsh doesn’t leave Tommy’s side usually. He wouldn’t leave town to settle a score, specially without a known location, but he might be putting out fillers. We better not risk it.”

That’s a little reassuring, at least.

“So we are moving.”

“Yes, start packing your stuff. I gotta make a couple talks to secure our next location.”

“Where are we going?”

“We won’t know for a few hours, but we gotta be ready to move when they give us the call. Or earlier, if possible. We can wait out instructions on the road. Might be safer. For now, pack.”

Ilya doesn’t really have a lot of stuff here. He barely had time to pack before leaving Boston and, unsure of where he’d end up, he’d figured he’d buy whatever he needed once they got there. He changes out of his running clothes, takes a light-speed quick shower to wash off the sweat and dust and shoves on a pair of jeans, a black tank top and a plaid shirt that he got on a whim two weeks ago and makes him feel like he’s playing a character. Maybe, if he doesn’t say a word and smiles more, he could pass for a local American boy. He should’ve gotten a hat.

Ilya puts the rest of his things in a bag and carries it downstairs. He can hear Jackson talking to someone on the phone, probably discussing logistics, while he moves stuff around in his bedroom. Ilya opens the truck and shoves his bag in the back. He grabs a cardboard box and fills it with whatever seems useful from the pantry and is carrying it out when he’s met by an unexpected person.

Ilya’s pulse speeds up, even as he recognizes Loraine from the diner. She’s nice. Ilya and Jackson have had quite a few meals there, whenever he could convince the man to let him breathe out of the fucking house. She’s a gossip, too, which always amuses Ilya, who has slowly grown invested in the town’s surprising amount of drama, old grievances and new hookups.

“Hi, Mister Gorki!” She calls, wide smile. Her eyes find the box he’s holding and her eyebrows arch. “Oh, are you boys leaving already? I thought we’d have you here for the whole season.”

“Ah, yes, but maybe I want to see tornadoes in other places too,” he shrugs, letting his accent get thicker than usual in an attempt to disguise the fact that he has no idea what an actual weather scientist would say. “Last night was good, yes? Gave us a lot of… data. I am happy. Was good.”

“Oh,” Loraine’s brow pinches minutely, maybe disbelieving, but then she smiles again. “Of course. Makes sense. Can’t keep ya chasers still for long, can we?” She laughs. “Then maybe it’s lucky I caught you. I think there was someone looking for you this morning?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Ilya feels his stomach sink to his knees. He tries to keep the emotion off his face. Not trusting his voice, he tilts his head, hoping it’ll prompt her to continue.

“Some big city guy, I wager. He looked… well, he said he was with the post office and he had a letter for some Russian guy? I though of you immediately, of course, but…”

“But?” Ilya manages.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind me sticking my nose in something that’s none of my business, honey, but he was a bit off? He just wouldn’t really say your name, he kept insisting there was ‘a Russian’ in town, I thought it terribly rude, y’know? And unprofessional. Why ask around? Wouldn’t he have your address, or just drop it at the post office? I didn’t like him one bit. And I could tell by the end of the whole ordeal he thought I was just an idiot or something.”

“He sounds rude,” Ilya forces a smile, which pays off when Loraine’s face lights up with the approval.

“Right?! Anyway, I told him I didn’t remember seeing any Russians around, but that I’d be happy to deliver whatever he needed if I did. He left town about half an hour ago, left this with me,” she reaches into her purse and produces a big yellow envelope. “So… is this for you by any chance?”

Ilya grabs the envelope. There’s a name scribbled in terrible Cyrillic on a corner. The name isn’t Sergei Gorki. It’s addressed to Ilya Rozanov.

“Ah. Yes this is… this is for me,” he says, hoping his face hasn’t gone too pale. “Thank you.”

“Oh, boy. Was that man a friend of yours? I’m so sorry, dear.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Ilya says, managing a tight smile.

Loraine’s eyes search his face and Ilya can see any suspicions she might have had about him slotting into place, carefully fitting with whatever Russian stereotypes she has gathered from Cold War movies and American TV shows.

“Oh, I see,” she says slowly, conspirationaly. “Well… then I’m glad I didn’t tell him nothing.”

Ilya nods, his fingers tightening around the envelop. It’s light, thin, feels like whatever is inside it is just paper. Maybe.

Lorain looks at him, expectant for a few seconds, until it probably becomes clear that Ilya will not open the package in front of her. He sees her face fall for a second, before she perks up again

“Alright then, dear. I’ll leave you to packing,” she smiles and gives his arm a quick squeeze. “And don’t you boys worry, okay? My lips are sealed.”

Ilya doubts it, but he can’t help but feel a little fondness for her anyway. She must be excited. This will be an entirely new and exciting story to tell her clients for the weeks to come.

“Thank you. Maybe just… for a while. Maybe some day I come back and tell you more about it,” he offers.

“Well, isn’t that sweet? I hope you do, darling. It’s been a delight to have you here. Take care of yourselves, alright?”

“Will try.”

With a last longing glance at the unopened envelope, Loraine walks away.

Ilya’s hands are fucking shaking by the time he is finally alone. He shoots a look back at the house. Jackson isn’t here yet. Maybe Ilya should tell him about the envelope, maybe they shouldn’t open it until they are sure it’s safe. Could the papers inside be dozed with something? Or have a tracker in it? Or a trigger?

God, he hates feeling this paranoid. It’s like he is becoming Hollander.

Fuck it. He opens the envelope and empties its contents on the porch. Four pieces of paper fall harmlessly on the wooden floor. Pictures. Not actual photos, not developed from a camera. These have been printed on paper and look like screen grabs from a security camera.

In one of them, Svetlana and Cliff lean over a bar’s counter, chatting with a young blond bartender. In another, probably taken before, he sees Cliff walking through the door. Svetlana’s curls peak from behind him. And in front of him, almost off camera, the top of a dark haired head. In the third photo, Cliff, Svetlana and Shane chat with the bartender, looking stiff. Shane is looking at someone off camera, his freckles in full display under the bar’s warm lights.

Ilya’s heart feels like it’s trying to crawl out of his throat.

No. No, no, no. This can’t be real. This can’t be. These idiots. What are they doing?!

The fourth piece of paper isn’t a picture. It’s a note in clean and precise handwriting:

Your friends came looking for you. Should I pay them a visit? Maybe I will start with your favorite.

You have until Monday night. Call to get instructions.

Hands shaking, Ilya grabs the pictures again, checks the paper sheets on both sides. Nothing. Call. Call how?! He shakes the envelope and a smaller piece of paper finally slips out: Elijah Walsh’s card.

Fuck.

Fuck his life.

Ilya’s heart thunders like a storm as he looks back at the house. He could tell Jackson. He should tell Jackson. But what will he possibly do? Will the police let Ilya go back, risk losing a witness? He doubts it. Will they protect his family? They couldn’t even protect Ilya. Will they send Cliff, Svetlana and Shane into hiding too? It doesn’t seem likely. Walsh would just find someone else to hurt too.

Fuck!

No. Ilya can’t just sit here. He can’t. His life isn’t worth theirs.

Before he can overthink it, he jumps into the truck’s driver seat, sends a mental apology to Jackson for making his job harder and leaving him stranded here, and turns on the ignition. He rushes out of the driveway and down the road. By the time Jackson runs out of the house, he is just a tiny silhouette in his rearview mirror before he takes the exit towards the highway.

It’s an almost twenty-four hour drive back to Boston (he has googled it a bunch of times, whenever he was feeling particularly morose). He might need to make a pause to catch on a couple hours of sleep midway through. But he can make it by Monday afternoon. He will make it. There’s no alternative. He will not accept any other outcome.

Ilya waits until he’s well into the highway, speeding back home, before he dials.

“Yes?” A grave voice greets him, pleasantly.

“I am coming back. Tell me where to meet.”

Chapter End Notes

We couldn’t leave all the stupid choices to Shane!! These two are equal opportunity idiots!

Also, Loraine has at least half the facts right with her suspicions lol

Chapter 11: i can’t not be with you

Chapter Summary

“Jesus, Hollander.”

Shane bends over and presses his forehead against the wheel. “I know.”

“Rozy won’t like any of that. You know it, right? He’ll be pissed.”

Chapter Notes

Two chapters in less than 24hours?!! Yep. Don’t look at me. I had to take two 3h trains today. For work. On a Saturday. I’m exhausted, sleep deprived and was so excited to bring this chapter to you finally!!!

So, everyone, please: buckle up. Literally.

“Holzy, I’m not sure you’ve thought this through.”

Shane takes in a deep breath, tightening his grip on the wheel.

“Trust me, I have.”

“But… you really think it’s a good idea to come here?”

“Look, there’s three options for where Ilya could be. We don’t have time to try them all. Chances are by the time we get there, he’s gone. Or worse. It’s been over thirty six hours since that picture was posted. He’s either been moved or-” He can’t even bring himself to say it. “And what’s even the point if I find him? What are we gonna do? He will still be in danger. Going after Rozanov is looking at the puck, when we need to look at the play.”

“And the play is… Sally’s?” Marly gestures at the bar.

Shane is parked a block down, by the empty docks. Pulling into the bar’s parking lot in an orange Camaro seemed like a terrible fucking idea. Shane has no clue how Ilya goes anywhere in these monstrosities. From here, through, snuggly hidden between the shade cast by two industrial buildings, they can at least be somewhat discreet.

“These people are fucking awful, but for them this is a business. Everything has a price. And I have a lot of money.”

“So, what, you pay them off?”

“I guess! I don’t fucking know, Marly, I have never done this before, okay?! But it’s the only way I can make sure that they won’t kill him if they find him. The only way that he maybe gets to come back. So, yeah, maybe I’m gonna collude with the fucking Boston Irish Mafia and give them a shit ton of money that they will probably use to do some very fucking awful shit. Not to mention that if anyone, ever, finds out, it’s not just the League that’ll have my head but the fucking police and probably some other American federal agency. Which they will know, obviously, so they’ll get to hold this over my fucking head for the rest of my life. They’ll probably ask for more. And I will have no choice but to keep paying. But… but Rozanov will be safe. So, yeah, trust me, I have thought about it quite a bit. A lot. And I’m still sure.”

“Jesus, Hollander.”

Shane bends over and presses his forehead against the wheel. “I know.”

“Rozy won’t like any of that. You know it, right? He’ll be pissed.”

“He’ll live. Which is the point. So fuck it. If he didn’t want me doing something stupid, he shouldn’t have gotten in trouble.”

Only after he speaks does he realize that maybe he’s showing more than he should. Sure, Cliff knows about them having sex, but maybe he didn’t need to know that, for Shane, there is no universe in which Ilya Rozanov is in danger and he doesn’t do anything in his power to protect him.

Devotion. The word takes form in his brain with embarrassing clarity. And he knows, he knows, that if he turns and meets Marleau’s eyes he will find pity in them. Because even he must understand that there is no way that Shane’s all-consuming need is requited. That’s just not who Ilya is. And it’s okay. It changes nothing for Shane. It’s okay.

“I meant if you’d thought about the whole walking into Sally’s thing,” Marly says after a moment. “I just… well, I don’t think you got the warmest welcome last time, y’know?”

Oh. That.

Shane closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and straightens up, keeping his eyes locked forward. “I know. I thought Svetlana would have the best chance out of all of us. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“But she isn’t picking up. I’ve tried six times. It all goes straight to voicemail. She’s really done with all this.”

“Or busy. Maybe we should wait for her.”

“No. I’m done waiting. Every hour that passes he could be… we can do this. You can do it.”

“So you want me to walk into the mafia bar?”

“Just take a look around, see if it’s empty. Monday afternoon, it should be. Hopefully. Just the owners.”

“So the mafia bosses,” Marleau says, voice clipped.

Shane risks a look at him and winces. The Raiders’ wing looks scared.

“See if you can find Bobby.”

“Who?”

“The old man, from Friday night, remember? He seemed… reasonable. I think he would listen.”

“And if he isn’t there?”

“Then you just ask for the boss, tell him Shane Hollander wants to talk to him.”

“And you think that’ll work? Just your name?”

“Usually does,” Shane shrugs.

Cliff sighs and shakes his head. “Fuck, Holzy. I still think we should wait for Svetlana. But I said I got your back, and I meant it. So… okay. Let’s fucking do this.”

With that, Marleau opens the door and steps out, unfolding his towering body out of the compact and ridiculous sports car. He bends over to look at Shane:

“Stay put.”

“Not going anywhere.”

Marleau nods once, closes the door, squares his shoulders and walks to the bar like he’s going to a playoffs match.

Shane sighs and leans against the headrest.

This is stupid.

This is so fucking stupid.

But Ilya Rozanov had to go and get himself in mortal peril and Shane Hollander has known that their fates are intertwined in more ways than one since they were both seventeen.

The first time they met on the ice, he knew. Something inside him said ‘oh, there you are’ even if he didn’t know what he’d found yet. His match, he thought, the one person he would forever be fighting for the top, the one person he would eternally want to beat. Rozanov became the one constant point in his life. He would always be there, a fixed point in the turmoil of Shane’s fight. Cups, playoffs, all-stars, trophies, interviews. That day, at seventeen, Shane had already known that there was no future in which he wouldn’t have Rozanov next to him, one step ahead, one step behind. But always there. What he didn’t know, what he does known now, is that he cannot fathom a future without Ilya, that he wants him, needs him in it. Whatever the price.

A terrifying realization to have alone in a dark alley by the Boston docks.

A terrifying realization to have at a restaurant sitting across the perfect woman he could never want.

A terrifying realization to have when a name made it past his lips unbidden and charged with feeling.

A terrifying and unmovable truth.

So Shane accepts it.

Whatever the cost.

A car appears in his narrow field of vision. Gray, nondescript, far enough that Shane can hope Ilya’s stupid car hasn’t been spotted. The sun is starting to go down, painting the world golden and elongating the shadows, providing him further cover. (He hopes. He sinks a little in his seat just in case.)

The gray car’s driver turns off the engine, gets out and lights a cigarette. There seems to be people in the backseat but Shane can’t quite make their faces.

Two minutes go by before another car appears. This car, a truck, arrives much faster, screeching to a halt a few meters away from the first one, facing it.

Shane watches: the truck on the left, the grey car on the right, and the space between them, headlights drawing lines in the afternoon fog, that makes it feels like a stage for a play.

The truck driver doesn’t even turn off the engine before he jumps off the seat. Something about the fluid movement makes Shane hold his breath. The man stalks around the truck’s engine and comes to stand between its headlights. And finally, Shane sees his face.

Ilya.

Ilya is here. In Boston. In this parking lot. Breathing heavy, strung tense to the point of breaking, clearly pissed off. Alive.

Oh god, Ilya is here. What the fuck is he thinking?!

Before Shane’s heart and his head can stop warring, the car’s passenger seat opens. A huge bulky man steps out of the vehicle, then reaches in and drags someone else by the arm, a shaking woman with a head of messy curls.

Svetlana.

Shane feels like blood has entirely abandoned his body.

In the afternoon light, he sees Svetlana’s face is stained with dark tears. She’s saying something.

Ilya replies. He takes a step forward, his hands reaching out slightly until the big man points a fucking gun at her and Ilya freezes entirely. The strangers say something Shane can’t hear. Ilya replies.

Svetlana shakes her head, her shoulders shaking. Crying.

Ilya slowly steps forward again, and Shane knows this careful demeanor, his movements always clearly telegraphed. His mouth is moving and Shane can imagine his gentle tone even if he can’t hear it. God, he wants to hear it so bad.

The big man hands over the gun to the other guy. With a gesture far to casual for the violence it holds, the driver immediately points the weapon at Svetlana, maneuvering so he is standing in the space between the two Russians.

Again, Ilya stops. He gets on his knees.

His jaw is set, but held high. His hands are shaking.

The big guy walks slowly towards Ilya, around him, his hands working on something that Shane can’t quite make out from a distance. He doesn’t need to. He remembers the pictures. The suspicious suicides. The angry red marks around the people’s necks.

Ilya is big, though. Not bigger than the guy, but big enough to fight back, to get away. Except he won’t. Not with Svetlana in danger right in front of him.

Ilya is going to die.

Ilya is going to get fucking murdered right in front of him.

They both are, probably.

No.

Fuck no.

And then Shane sees the play. The shape of it becomes clear as day in his adrenaline pumped brain, as it does in the ice. Ice. That’s the last piece of the puzzle.

(When Shane was fifteen, his dad signed him up for a snow driving course. He learned how to properly put on chains on his wheels, how to drive on black ice, how to safely drive during a snowstorm, and how to control a car in low-friction surfaces.)

Shane turns on the car. It roars under him like a beast.

Four heads and a gun turn towards him at once.

His foot slams on the pedal and the Camaro answers immediately, rocketing forward like an orange blur. And then, out of pure muscle memory, Shane breaks, switches gears, pulls on the wheel. The car turns. Drifts.

Shane has good aim.

The right side of the orange Camaro hits the gunman like a whip, sends him flying backwards and away from Svetlana. The sports car stops spinning, firmly planted between Svetlana and Ilya.

Shane reaches across the copilot seat to open the door.

“Get in!”

Ilya, still on his knees, freezes, looking at Shane wide eyed.

“Now, Rozanov!”

Finally, Ilya sprints and flings himself into the copilot seat, slamming the door shut. The back door opens and Svetlana jumps in too, falling sprawled over the back seats.

Shane doesn’t even wait for her to close the door before he takes off. They speed across the docks, past Sally’s parking lot just as a bunch of guys exit the bar too.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Cliff is speeding out too, running towards them. Shane barely dares to slow down enough for him to jump through the open back door, falling half on top of Svetlana. As soon as everyone is inside, Shane slams his foot down again, the car roars and they speed off down the street as several pairs of headlights come to life in Sally’s parking lot.

Chapter End Notes

I DID PROMISE A CAR CHASE DIDNT I?!

Things that Shane Hollander has used as a weapon in the Procedural Verse so far:

☑️ Puck
☑️ Car
☑️ ???

I hope the stand off and car rescue made sense and that you could all picture it. The space and movement was clear in my head but it’s one of those scenes that can get messy.

Also, why did Shane drift like that? 1) #whimsy ✨ 2) so he could speed forward during the getaway, there was a logic here and he was thinking on the Way Out.

Why is Svetlana “the favorite”? Because the gangsters are heteronormative. And because that’s his fucking bfff and in this house we love and appreciate and prioritize platonic love too.

Did you see any of this coming?! Let me knowwww

Next up: car chase but make it D/s 😜

Chapter 12: cause i’m past the limits

Chapter Summary

“Well, it’s pointless now. We are going to die because Hollander drives like grandma.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane mutters, changing lanes.

Chapter Notes

Its about family!!

Get ready for some fast and furious adjacent shenanigans.

Edit: sorry to everyone that had to read me use the word “stir” instead of “steer” so many times. They sound the same in my Spanish speaking head and I forgot to double check before posting and going to bed lol. Thank you to everyone who was very sweet at pointing it out. Should be fixed now :)

Shane takes a sharp turn left and tries to merge into the city traffic. His heart is pounding so hard inside his chest that he feels it loudly drumming in his ears. But not loud enough to drown out Ilya’s panicked voice:

“Hollander, what the fuck are you doing?!” He is staring at him with wide eyes filled with terror, one hand braced against the door handle and one on the glove compartment, as if he needs every single point of contact to keep himself steady.

“Saving your fucking life! What does it look like?!” Shane yells back, changing lanes to try to get ahead of a particularly slow car. He represses the urge to add: so put your fucking seatbelt on.

“You should not be here! Why the fuck are you here? What were you thinking?!”

“Me?” Shane chances a disbelieving look at him before returning his eyes to the busy street. “I’m not the one that’s wanted by the fucking mafia, Rozanov!”

“Exactly! Then why are you-“

“Guys! Hate to interrupt the lovely reunion but we are about to have company!” Marly yells, looking through the back window.

Shane sees it through the rearview mirror: several other cars weaving through traffic. Fast. Coming after them.

“Turn here!” Svetlana says.

“What?”

“Turn!” She snaps.

Shane does as he’s told, switching to a less busy street where he can speed up a bit more. The cars chasing them (obvious in their speed and recklessness) follow them suit.

“Maybe it would be easier to lose them if you chose literally any other car color!” Shane yells.

“Did I make you pick this car, Hollander?”

“All of your cars are in fucking stupid colors what did you- oh shit.”

There’s a light coming, yellow blinking with a warning that feels like a death sentence.

“Hollander, do not stop for red light,” Ilya warns him.

“I can’t just ignore it! We are gonna crash!”

“Oh my god, Hollander, you are worst getaway driver ever. Speed up!”

“But-“

“Go!”

Fuck it. Shane pushes the car faster, he watches the yellow light turn red just before they speed past it. On the rearview, four other cars do the same, only barely missing the oncoming traffic. Fuck.

“They are catching up!” Marly supplies, unhelpfully.

“Who are these guys?” Shane grits, before changing lanes so he can take a turn right and hopefully lose them in the traffic.

“Sally’s was packed, man. Like, full of fucking sketchy people,” Marly says. “They were already looking at me funny and then I said Shane Hollander wanted to talk to the boss and I swear the whole place went quiet. And that’s when we heard the fucking car speeding outside. Dude, what the hell did you do?!”

Shane turns right. The street is busy. He tries to wedge his way between cars.

“They were going to kill him,” is all he can say.

“Yes and now they kill us all,” Ilya snaps. He turns on his seat and points an accusing finger at Marleau. “I told you to fucking keep him out of this, asshole!”

“You said Jane, Rozy! How the fuck was I supposed to know you meant him?!”

Ilya freezes and blinks. He turns to Svetlana. Shane can’t see what kind of look they are sharing. Not if he doesn’t want to crash the car. Another turn. He needs another turn.

“Well, it’s pointless now. We are going to die because Hollander drives like grandma.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane mutters, changing lanes, hoping the far left will be a little faster.

“Hollander, you don’t know this car. Move. Let me drive.”

“There’s no time to stop and switch places.”

“We do it now, I just move over and-“

“This is not one of your fucking action movies!” Shane snaps, harsher than before, loud enough that it manages to pause Ilya, who is already halfway through climbing out of his seat. “We are not doing that. We need to- fuck, I gotta-“

Shane can’t find the way out. The traffic is too thick. This is a two way street with multiple lanes on either side, but he can’t find how to wave his way through them fast enough to loose the people after them without crashing with other drivers. He has to-

“Guys,” Cliff’s voice is strained, looking over his shoulder.

Svetlana makes a sound, halfway between a squeak and a sob. She sounds scared. Oh god. They are going to die. They are all going to die and it’s going to be his fault. Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh god.

Ilya’s right hand lands on top of his, holding him firm around the steering wheel. Then he says, voice suddenly firm and steady:

“Speed up.”

“What? There’s a car in front of me, I can’t-“

Ilya’s left hand lands on his upper thigh as he commands: “Hollander, now.”

And Shane, inevitably and irrationally, obeys. His foot sinks on the pedal and, just as they are about to slam against a red car’s trunk, Ilya turns the wheel left, dodging it and sending them into the opposite lane’s incoming traffic. The left hand on his thigh squeezes gently, holding Shane inches away from panic for two frantic heartbeats before he swings them back into their lane before a green minivan nearly crashes headfirst onto them.

“Slow down.”

Shane eases the pedal, hits the break softly, switches gears, just as Ilya takes the space created by the slower pace to avoid slamming against the rear of yet another car and carefully switches one more lane to the right, barely fitting them in the safety space between a heavy truck and the car behind it. The car honks angrily.

Ilya’s hand on Shane’s thigh squeezes firmly, holding his attention for about five seconds until an opening appears on their left.

“Now. Go.”

Shane is already shifting gears and speeding up as Ilya turns the wheel left and swings then through two lanes diagonally.

“What the fuck,” Marly whispers somewhere in the back.

Shane tunes him out. He focuses on Ilya, ready when he says: “On three, slow for sharp turn. One, two, three!”

Already Shane is going through the motions as Ilya flings them horizontally across four lanes of incoming traffic, in an extremely illegal move that lands them on a new less busy street. He watches on the rearview mirror as the cars trying to follow them attempt the same move. Three make it but two miss the window of opportunity and are forced to halt.

Ilya is still steering them, muttering calm and firm instructions that Shane follows on instinct. He could close his eyes, let go and follow Ilya and trust that they would make it. It’s second nature at this point. But he doesn’t. Shane looks. He sees the road, the streets opening around them, the cars moving and with every turn he starts to see the path Ilya is tracing. The changes start coming faster, immediate.

It’s like the All-Stars game. Shane feels like he can read Ilya’s mind. Or like Ilya can read his. They move as one.

(It’s nothing like the All-Stars game, there are fucking gangsters coming after them and they are breaking about a million traffic laws in the process, but ignoring dangerous facts while Ilya steers him is also second nature at this point.)

Suddenly the back of the car, that has been filled with panicked screaming, quiets down. The change registers enough in the back of Shane’s head for him to start paying attention again, just as Marly is shouting on his phone:

“-really not the fucking time, Coney!”

There’s a pause. Ilya says, “keep going fast,” as if it wasn’t obvious that they’ve finally got themselves a good stretch of street before them. Their persecutors are relatively far behind now, but still in view. Shane suspects that Ilya is steering them towards the city limits. What he plans to do or where he plans to go from there, he doesn’t know (but Shane is not planning on leaving his side).

“Wait! Wait! Say all that again!” Marleau puts his phone in between Shane and Ilya and a young voice, now on speaker, fills the car as they speed pass their fifth red light.

“I’m telling you, Marly, there’s no time! Jamie said we didn’t have to worry anymore, that Walsh would deal with the problem. But he didn’t sound happy about it. It’s like- I think they are gonna kill him! They are gonna kill Cap! We need to warn him!”

“Kinda late for that!” Ilya barks, still steering them past a black minivan.

“Cap! Oh god, I’m so happy to hear your voice!” The rookie’s voice shakes. “Wait! Where are you?!”

“Running away!” Marleau says.

“Or trying to,” Svetlana mutters, looking back.

Shane doesn’t have to look to guess these assholes are still on their tail. He had hoped with night falling it would be easier to shake them off. Apparently not.

“Shit.”

“Yes, shit,” Ilya huffs. “Slow down, ready to turn.”

Shane nods, clenching his jaw. Ilya swings them right, through a big boulevard. It’s a fast street, Shane can tell immediately, he switches gears and steps on it just as Ilya is giving the order.

“No, no. Shit. You should be in Sally’s.”

“I would be dead.”

“No! No! See I- I called the cops. They were doing there, to- to catch them. It was a trap. I-“

“Why didn’t you fucking say something before!” Marly shouts.

“It just happened!”

“They would’ve been too late anyway,” Shane says, firmly.

The image of Ilya on his knees, ready to die, is burned on the forefront of his mind.

“Is that-“

“Maybe is not late,” Svetlana says, leaning in. Her green eyes look sharp and focused for the first time since the parking lot.

Shane looks at her. Ilya keeps steering the wheel wildly.

“What do you mean?”

“The trap. We still do it. We just take them somewhere new.”

“You mean we are bait,” Ilya says bluntly, clearly unhappy about it.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “We take them somewhere. The police too. And they catch them in the act.”

“Uh, what?” Coney says on the phone.

“But where do we take them?”

Just as Marly is asking that, Shane (because he’s not watching the road) catches three cars speeding out of a side street at full speed.

“Ilya!” He shouts, taking one quick look forward and steering the wheel left himself, nearly throwing them against another car and quickly correcting.

“Nice,” Ilya praises, returning his hand to the wheel. “Keep going fast.”

Shane nods, focuses on the road as Ilya takes over the steering again. They have way too many cars after them and they are way too close now.

“Seriously,” Coney says, “is that really-“

“The rink. The practice rink. We can go there,” Svetlana says.

“Oh, fuck. Yes,” Shane breathes.

“What? Why the fuck would we take them to the rink?” Ilya shouts.

“You know it well. They don’t. It’s empty, it’s big, we can hide in it,” Shane lists, quickly. “Home ice advantage.”

Ilya takes his eyes off the road to look at him, his gaze intense but oddly tender too. It makes Shane’s insides feel fizzy. It’s only a microsecond before his attention returns to the road.

“Okay. Yes.”

“You heard Cap, rook,” Marly says. “Tell the cops to meet us at the practice rink. We’ll get them these assholes all bundled up and red-handed inside.”

“I- uh- okay? I don’t know if they’ll listen to me, though. Kinda took a long time to convince them in the first place.”

“Talk to detective Ryan,” Ilya says. “Tell him I’m back in town and if he wants star witness he better fucking be there.”

“O-okay, yes, Cap.”

“Hang up and call them!”

The car sways around a truck, dangerously skimming the median in between both directions of the boulevard.

“There is one problem,” Svetlana says after the call goes dead.

“Only one?” Shane laughs, a little hysterical.

“We are going the wrong way for the rink.”

Ilya curses. First in Russian. Then in English.

Shane looks before them. At the road, the cars. They are speeding, reaching a red light at an intersection. Fast. Too fast for a u-turn. And the Irish are hot on their heels.

And there it is. The play.

Shane laughs. “It’s a punch turn.”

“What?” Marly asks.

“Oh,” Svetlana sits back. Bracing.

Shane checks the rear view mirror, watches the cars chasing them like D-men. He measures their speed, the distance between them and the crease. The red light.

“I’ve got it.”

“Shane,” Ilya whispers, tense, but lets go of the wheel.

And that trust ignites Shane’s insides. He feels brave.

Shane reaches the intersection, pulls on the wheel and disengages the clutch. The rear wheels fly off the pavement, sending the car’s rear end into a wide spin. They drift. Then, Shane hits the clutch again, steps on the pedal and sends them speeding on the opposite direction as the mafia cars that speed past the red light. They try to turn, but they are going too fast and it’s too late. One crashes against the median, four are forced to come to a complete stop if they want to turn and come after them.

“That should buy us some time,” Shane sighs.

“Oh god, Hollander,” Ilya moans, in the exact same tone he has used in bed a thousand times while inside him.

Shane feels heat creep up his neck and hopes the streetlights will be enough to hide it.

“Attaboy,” Svetlana reaches out and squeezes his shoulders. Then she says something in Russian.

Ilya makes a funny sound. When Shane risks a look (quickly, because now he is entirely in control of the wheel again) he could swear the Raiders’ captain is blushing too.

“Okay, I get it now,” Cliff Marleau whispers.

“Shut up,” Shane huffs.

“Yes, Marly, shut up,” Ilya says, petulant and possessive, in a way that sends a wave of heat through Shane’s stomach.

This is not the time to get hard, he reminds himself.

Then Ilya says, plain and clearly: “He’s mine.”

Something inside Shane cracks open with a wave of want and hunger that he’s been repressing weeks.

Fuck this. Fuck the mafia. Fuck it all. They don’t get to take Ilya away from him ever again. He is his.

“Alright,” Shane says, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Let’s ambush these fuckers.”

Chapter End Notes

I said D/s driving dynamic but halfway through writing this I realized they are simple drift compatible (pun intended).

Chapter 13: when your stitch comes lose

Chapter Summary

“Figured this is as good a place to hide as any,” Cliff is saying as he crosses the central space towards what must be his cubby. “Maybe we have something we can use here to, like, defend ourselves or whatever. Or get help.”

“You want to fight gangsters with fucking pucks and sticks, Marley?”

Chapter Notes

Omg this chapter took forever because there’s been a lot going on irl lately but it’s finally here!!

The Camaro screeches to a halt inches away from the rink’s parking lot entrance.

“Seriously?” Ilya huffs from the copilot seat.

Shane pointedly ignores him. He just saved his life and broke a thousand laws in the process, but there’s no need to pointlessly add damage to private property for the sake of three seconds. Plus, he rationalizes, it’s an extra obstacle between their pursuers and them (as feeble as it might be).

The entrance pen raises automatically, recognizing Ilya’s car. Shane rushes in, then makes a beeline for the players’ entrance.

“C’mon,” he prompts, jumping out.

Everyone follows suit, but before they can make it to the door Svetlana says, “you go, I’ll keep watch.”

“Oh, absolutely not!” Ilya turns on his heels.

“What?” Shane’s voice cracks, stressed and about to reach his fucking breaking point.

“If something goes wrong, we need a way out. I will stay and get a car. Call me if you need me.”

“Get a car?” Shane asks.

“Unless you have another hidden talent you haven’t told us about and also know how to hot wire a car too, Hollander. I will get us something more… discreet.”

“Why not this one?” Cliff frowns.

“We need it here. For the bait. So they know to go in.”

Before Shane can decide if that’s a good plan, Ilya snaps in Russian. He doesn’t need to know the language (though he wishes he did) to understand their argument. Ilya barks angry words, laced with fear, and his best friend replies matter-of-factly. Her levelheadedness contrasts with the dark tear tracks across her cheeks and the paleness of her skin. Shane can’t stop picturing her at Sally’s parking lot.

“Ilya,” he says gently, “she’s right.”

The look he gets in return could freeze hell over.

“Hollander,” there’s a warning in his voice.

“I know. But we do need a way out and… she’ll be the one in the best position to get away if something goes wrong. Worst comes to worst, she gets the hell out of here.”

“I won’t,” she says, unhelpfully.

“You better!” Ilya warns.

“You will. You’re smarter than that,” Shane says. “You can’t help Ilya if they catch you again.”

Shane feels a little bad for bringing it up like that, for reminding her that Ilya almost died already to rescue her. But Ilya almost died, and he can’t forget it. Her face crumbles slightly. He tries to soften his voice:

“It won’t come to that. We’ll be fine. And you’ll have our back if we need you.”

“Guys we really don’t have time for this!” Marly yells somewhere behind them.

Svetlana grumbles something in Russian. Ilya replies, his voice softer. Finally, it seems like everyone is in the same page.

“Be careful,” Shane says, hoping to settle the matter and get fucking moving already before their pursuers appear. “Stay out of sight.”

“Take care of him, Shane Hollander,” Svetlana says, before she takes off running into the parking lot, heading to the lower levels.

“Let’s move,” Ilya says, his voice restrained to the point of choking.

Cliff is already at the doors, holding them open and practically bouncing on his heels with impatience.

“C’mon, man,” he huffs once they are finally inside, already speeding down dark the halls. “We better get in here before those assholes show up.”

They rush into the dark winding hallways of the practice rink. Cliff and Ilya seem to know the place intuitively, turning left and right in the dark. Shane struggles in the unfamiliar space. He reaches forward, his fingers only just gracing Ilya’s soft lumberjack shirt when a rough hand finds his. Shane feels familiar dexterous fingers intertwine with his and pull him along. Even like this, running for their lives in the dark, Ilya’s touch settles something deep in his soul, like a dislocated bone finally slotting back into place after weeks of pain.

Eventually, they reach a bigger room. Shane’s eyes have grown used to the darkness, just enough to make out the open space. He’s never been here, but the smell and shape of it are as familiar as his own home’s: a locker room.

“Figured this is as good a place to hide as any,” Cliff is saying as he crosses the central space towards what must be his cubby. “Maybe we have something we can use here to, like, defend ourselves or whatever. Or get help.”

“You want to fight gangsters with fucking pucks and sticks, Marly?” Ilya mocks, moving into the room and still not letting go of Shane’s hand.

“You got a better fucking idea, Rozanov?” Marly grumbles back, already digging through his stall.

“Yes. We hide and we don’t fight them like idiots. Police will get here and finish it. We just stay put.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea, but we need a plan B, Rozy. You’re the one always talking about the importance of strategy-“

“You are?” Shane blinks, his mind flashing back to the white board still in Ilya’s living room. His heart jumps, endeared (and slightly turned on). “Full of surprises.”

“Shut up,” Ilya hisses, but doesn’t let go of his hand. “This is not stupid hockey game. They will not check us, they will try to kill us.”

“Maybe Marly’s got a point.”

“Oh, he’s Marly now?” Ilya turns towards Shane. He can’t quite see his face in the darkness, which is frustrating in several levels, but Shane can still picture his raised eyebrows. “What? You just keep taking everyone’s side against me, Hollander?”

“You’re right too,” Shane rolls his eyes. Though it’s pointless in the dark. Maybe Ilya can also hear it in his voice. “They will probably try to kill us. So a little preparation can’t hurt. Like… what about some protective gear? I mean, it’s not bulletproof, probably, but if they come at you with a knife or something, can’t hurt to have an extra layer. And the sticks aren’t a bad idea. I mean, it’s got some range, and we all know it can do damage.”

“You have lost your mind,” Ilya whispers. “Both of you.”

“Well, Rozy, that’s what happens when you fuck off without an explanation. You leave us to improvise on how to fight fucking criminals,” Cliff laughs, already putting on his gear.

Reluctantly, Shane lets go of Ilya’s hand to put on a set of borrowed gear (no idea whose) and watches the shadows as Ilya puts on his own too. It settles something in him, to see Ilya with at least some semblance of protection. It makes Shane realize that he has been feeling uneasy since he saw him on his knees and ready to die. Like the horror of it hasn’t left his body yet.

Wordlessly, the three of them sit on the cubbies and wait, their breathing barely making any noise to fill the room. Ilya’s fingers find Shane’s again, like they are back in the beach in Tampa. Shane decides to be brave this time, protected by the dark and emboldened by adrenaline, and do as he wanted then: reach out and grab his hand.

They sit. They wait. Not for long.

Too soon, steps and voices fill the darkness. Shane tenses, anxious. Ilya squeezes his fingers. His heart hammers relentless against his ribcage. The steps still sound far away, but Shane knows it’s only a matter of time for them to reach them.

“What do we do?” He whispers.

Without a word, Cliff stands up and walks slowly to the locker room door.

“Marly. Marly,” Ilya whispers, his hand tensing in Shane’s grasp.

A sharp “shh” comes from the opposite side of the room, then the gentle, ever so faint, creak of a door opening. Shane holds his breath. The door creaks slightly again and then Marly’s voice appears closer to them than expected:

“They are checking the rooms in this hallway. They are still ways off but they’ll get here eventually.”

“What about the cops?” Shane asks.

“No clue.”

“We can’t stay here,” Ilya’s voice is a low grumble. “We have to move before they come.”

“Move where?” Shane’s voice wavers.

“Away. In the dark. When they are inside a room.”

“Ilya-“

“Is only way.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shane doesn’t want to go out, to leave the apparent safety of this room and venture into who knows what in the darkness. But Ilya is probably right. Staying here just waiting to be taken out is not the solution.

“Okay,” he stands up, without letting go of Ilya’s hand. The Russian stands too and Shane feels the heat of his body close to his, the presence solid and comforting. “Okay.”

Quietly, the three of them move towards the door. Cliff slowly opens the door, poking his head out. Shane is anxious at the perspective of the Boston man getting shot in between the eyes for exposing his head like this, but he fights against the mental image, trying to focus.

“Wait… wait… now.”

Marly drags Ilya along and Ilya drags Shane by the hand. The three of them step out and into the dark hallway, just as a door to their left closes. They move right, with quick silent steps, trying to put as much distance between them and the goons as possible. Three grown muscular men holding sticks and trying to be as stealthy as possible. Shane wishes he was on skates. It would be faster, quieter. He’d feel better.

Marly suddenly takes a sharp left, taking them with him. They round the corner just as a door creaks open back in the hallway. With their backs pressed against the wall, all three of them hold their breaths as steps move a little closer, whispered voices carrying across the dark before the men go into a new room. The door clicks shut and that’s their cue to move again.

They keep moving along that new hallway, until voices and steps ahead of them warn them. They freeze, with nowhere to go, and just press themselves back against the wall until the voices pass them by. They wait some more before moving again.

Shane doesn’t know where they are going (out of here, hopefully) but he does think they will make it… that’s when the shooting starts. There’s screams, far away. Then a ‘pop, pop, pop’ sound that makes Shane think of Canada Day and New Year’s parties. All three of them freeze. Shane tightens his hold on Ilya’s hand, ready to pull or push him out of the way if necessary. Then there’s a new ‘pop, pop, pop’ from the opposite side.

“Fuck,” we have to move, “c’mon.”

Ilya takes the lead, pulling them away from the sound (the shooting). There’s screams now, angry and menacing, orders and threats. Shane keeps pace with Ilya, so close that their bodies are nearly flush. He has to be careful not to trip him with the stick. He lets himself be led, fully trusting Ilya with his life in this unknown space.

And he still thinks they will make it. They almost do.

Then the lights turn on.

The lightbulbs over their heads flicker and come to life all at once and catch them: three buff deer in headlights.

“Hey! That’s the fuckers!” A voice screams, they turn and find two armed men looking at them from the far end of the hallway.

“Move!” Shane reacts first, pushing Ilya and Cliff to the left, into another hallway.

They take off running. Soon after, steps appear behind them. Shane risks a useless look back to confirm what he already knew, that the mafia goons are close after them. Fuck, fuck, fuck. They need to go faster before-

Shane slams against Ilya’s back. “Wha-“

Over the Russian’s shoulder, he catches sight of a man and a woman in navy blue. Oh, they do not want to be caught between these four.

All three pivot immediately to the right and keep running. There’s no steps behind them anymore. There is more yelling and shooting.

Cliff barrels through a pair of doors and suddenly the space around them opens like a breath of fresh air: high ceilings, bright space, the smell of ice in the air. They just reached the rink. They keep running forward, right up to the benches. Shane barely has time to register the sound of doors opening violently and voices feeling the big chamber before he is being tossed down to the ground between the boards and the bench.

“Where the fuck are they?”

“You sure Pete said they came in here?”

“How the hell did that fucking egg loose them?”

“Fucking cops are here, man. Move, move!”

The voices sound far away, on the opposite side of the rink, where most of the stands are. They aren’t shooting yet, but Shane figures it’s only a matter of time until the cops showing up here too. And as good as the them coming to the rescue would be, they don’t want to be caught in the crossfire when it happens (or to be found and murdered before the rescue can even take place).

“We need to get out of here,” he whispers, looking around.

“No shit. There’s no other way out,” Ilya hisses. “In case you forgot, we just came from a hallway full of gunmen, too.”

“There has to be another way out,” Shane insists.

“There,” Cliff says, pointing across the rink.

Shane pokes his head out just enough to see, as a matter of fact, the entrance players use to skate into the rink during exhibition skates, through the tunnel, or fan events or pride night. It is right there on the other end of the ice.

A hand yanks Shane back down, Ilya’s touch steadying against the back of his neck even as he hisses angrily: “great fucking plan, Marly. How do you want to get there? We run across seats filled with gunmen? We slide through ice? Or-“

“Better than just waiting here to get caught, man.”

“Not slide,” Shane says, eyes locked on the beautiful and simple solution right next to them.

“What?”

“Not slide. Skate.”

Shane points at the several pairs of discarded skates that someone must have forgotten to put away this afternoon.

“Hollander, you can’t be serious.”

“C’mon, we are faster on the ice. And all we gotta do is cross it. Few seconds tops and then it’s a free run to the parking lot.”

He holds Ilya’s eyes, trying to communicate resolve despite the way his hands are shaking. It’s a risk, a stupid plan, Shane knows it, but if it’s between that and having to watch Ilya get killed, he will fucking do it.

“You are insane, Hollander. Fine. We do it.”

Chapter End Notes

This chapter took forge er it turned out to be mostly transition into the scene I am really looking forward to lmfao. But I couldn’t gloss over this so here you go!

Chapter count has gone up (surprising no one) and probably will again before the fic is over because I have gotten them in quite a pickle.

Sorry if the amount of hallways make it feel like they are stuck in the fucking back rooms lmfao. It was dark assume they ran a bit in circles at some point probably

Also it’s been fun having Ilya with Sveta and Cliff and having Shane in the middle of it all hehe in the end it was worth it to lengthen this a little to explore that dynamic more.

Ilya and Shane just got each other back and haven’t had a second of peace to even TALK about it all but you know they had to spend at least an entire chapter physically touching each other for comfort. They held hands for sooooo long. It’s making Shane want to ask “what are we” all over again lol

Next up, skating! (Is anyone surprised that this is Shane’s solution to everything?)

Chapter 14: this isn’t how our story ends

Chapter Summary

“Fucking go, Rozanov!” Shane pushes him forward and, with his heart torn to pieces, Ilya has no choice but to skate.

Chapter Notes

TW: lots of shooting and gun violence. Heads up for anyone who might be sensitive to it.

This so stupid. This is so stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

Ilya shoves his feet into the skates, awkwardly while they all sit on the floor to remain hidden from the armed men after them. He watches from the corner of his eye as Shane puts on his skates, in the same order he does before a game, and starts tying them methodically.

“No,” he whispers, placing all hand over Shane’s to stop him. “Keep it loose. Easier to take off and run barefoot yes?”

Shane looks at him, eyes wide and nervous but his mouth is settled into a firm line as he nods. Brave little thing. Ilya is terrified that he is about to see him die because of him.

This danger, this violence, these horrors. Shane isn’t built for it. Shane Hollander was born in a world of gentle hands and forehead kisses and hot cocoa with his parents. This darkness and murkiness, this world of death and horrors, this is what chases Ilya. And now he has dragged him down with him.

Shane is already pulling his phone out and typing quickly.

“Pike can’t wait five minutes?” Ilya teases, desperate for some levity.

“Fuck off. I’m texting Svetlana to let he know we are coming.”

“Did she reply?” Ilya asks, anxious. He hasn’t shaken off the idea that their tense exchange in the parking lot was their last conversation. He can’t let that be the last time he ever saw his best friend.

“Yes. She’s ready,” Shane says, shoving his phone back in his back pocket.

Ilya sighs, letting himself feel a little relief.

Before he can say something more, there’s a new set of voices crashing into the ice rink. Cops. They start shouting loud. So do the Irish.

“We better move,” Shane says. “While they are busy.”

“I’ll go first,” Marly says.

“No fucking way,” Ilya snaps. “We go together.”

“Rozy, man, we ain’t all getting caught if this goes wrong. I’ll go first, make sure it’s safe, and-“

“You are not going first!”

“And then,” Cliff powers on, voice unusually rough, like he sounds on the ice, “you cross after I’ve opened a way. Then Hollander.”

“What? Cliff, I am not letting you-“

“You ain’t letting me do shit, Cap,” Marly says, standing up to Ilya’s utter horror. “I’m your wing man. Just doing my part.”

“Marly! Stop that! Come back!”

“See you in the car,” Marly says and jumps over the boards.

Ilya tries to go after him but a pair of firm hands holds him down. He glares at Shane, but the other man’s eyes are locked on Marleau as he speeds in a straight line across the rink. Ilya holds his breath, watching the back of his best friend as he zooms away. There’s a couple screams from the gangsters looking for them, but before anyone gets a chance to react or shoot, Cliff makes it to the other side and runs off, skates still on, like a huge clumsy maniac. Ilya watches in horror as the man powers through like a charging bull and disappears into the hallways.

“Fucking insane,” Ilya whispers.

“Yeah,” Shane huffs half a laugh. “Your tu-“

And then the shooting starts.

Shane and Ilya both duck back down, instinctively reaching out for each other. Ilya’s hands clutch the gear covering Hollander’s chest to keep him down and close. He feels Shane do the same. They share a look. Someone screams from the seats, hit by a bullet probably. He sees the moment something clicks inside Shane:

“You have to go!” He shouts over the noise.

Ilya shakes his head. He’s not going. He’s not fucking leaving Shane. He won’t. He can’t.

“They are after you. You can’t be last!” Shane insists, reading his refusal. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Shane-“

“Ilya, please. Go! Now that they are busy! Go.”

“I can’t-“

He doesn’t get a choice. He feels himself being pulled up by his gear.

(And he knows, okay? He knows that Hollander is strong, that he is every bit the athlete Ilya is, that the only reason he gets to manhandle him in the bedroom is because Shane wants him to. It is still startling to be reminded of it like this.)

Shane Hollander lifts him off the floor and fucking throws him over the boards. It’s a miracle that Ilya doesn’t slip, but it’s mostly because Hollander is still holding him upright, just enough for Ilya to get his feet under him.

“Fucking go, Rozanov!” Shane pushes him forward and, with his heart torn to pieces, Ilya has no choice but to skate.

Oh god. Why is he doing this? Why is this the plan? Why is Shane pushing him away? Why is he forcing Ilya to go, to leave him here surrounded by bullets? He feels like a piece of him is being torn to shreds with every step of his skates.

Ilya’s head is such a mess that he almost misses the guy in a suit stepping onto the ice. It’s pure instinct that makes him dodge before the man can shoot. He hears the bang and something zipping past him but his blades are already sending him right. He takes another sharp turn to keep his eyes on the man blocking his way to the exit.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck his fucking life.

(But at least it wasn’t Shane. Oh he has never been so thankful for that man’s stubbornness. At least he’s not the one getting shot at right now.)

Ilya picks up speed. He sees the barrel of the gun pointed at him, tracking him. He makes a punch turn just as another shot crosses the air.

It might be the man, it might be from the stands. They might be shooting at him from up there too.

He feels like a fish in a barrel. He needs to get the fuck out of here. Now.

Ilya turns, trying to aim for the exit again, and finds the gun pointed directly at him.

Oh, god.

There’s a blur across the ice. Shane fucking Hollander checks the gunman… viciously. The crash punches a scream out of the man before his defenseless body is slammed against the boards. Fucking hard.

The gun clatters to the ice and then Hollander uses the fucking hockey stick in his hand —because Cliff and Ilya left theirs back at the bench but of course Shane didn’t— and slap shots the gun across the rink. For a fucking delirious moment, Ilya is expecting the weapon to land inside the goal, but it doesn’t, it just slides until it hits the boards on the opposite end of the rink.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya breathes, feeling blood rush to all the wrong places in his body.

“Are you okay?” Shane pants, big brown eyes locked on him.

Before Ilya can reply, more shooting from the stands makes them jump.

“C’mon!” Ilya yells, skating forward and grabbing Shane to pull him to the exit. They jump over the boards together and duck back down, crouching as much as possible behind the boards as they kick the skates off. It’s a gamble, but Ilya does think the speed and agility will be worth the precious seconds as they climb off the blades.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Shane prompts, shoving the second skate away and pushing Ilya forward down the hallway.

Ilya picks up speed and barely gets three steps into the hallway before a sound pulls him back, like a string tugging straight from his heart.

Shane screams.

Ilya slides to a stop, his body turning around already, just in time to see Shane crumble to the floor with a whimper at the feet of the scarred man. Walsh. Elija Walsh, who grabs Shane by the neck and slams him against the wall again, pulling another pained sound out the Canadian, who looks dazed and scared.

No, no, no, no. No.

Ilya’s feet move forward. Like in a nightmare, he struggles to find footing. His socks slide over the tiles. He can’t move fast enough.

Shane. Shane. Shane.

He sees Walsh press Shane against the wall and squeeze around his neck while the other fucking hand reaches for something shiny. A blade.

Shane.

Ilya doesn’t stop as he reaches down. His fingers close around the handle of Shane’s dropped stick. He sees Walsh’s hand shove the blade into Shane a second before he gets there. With a feral scream, Ilya swings against the assassin’s back. The wood shatters. Both men fall down.

Panting hard, Ilya spares one look at Walsh, making sure he doesn’t get back up, before turning to Shane who is sitting up on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, his face pinched with pain.

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice trembles as he kneels down next to him, letting go of the stick. His fingers tremble, fluttering from Shane’s head to his neck to his stomach, too afraid to touch. “Shane. Shane.”

“I’m-“ Shane chokes.

Ilya’s heart stops.

“I’m okay,” Shane groans, his voice rough.

“Shane.”

“Ilya, look at me,” Shane croaks, putting a firm hand on his cheek and forcing Ilya to focus on his lovely brown eyes. “Ilya, I’m okay.”

Shane looks down. Ilya follows his eyes and sees Shane’s right hand wrapped around a blade’s handle. Carefully, Shane unwraps his fingers and reveals the blade: harmlessly stuck on his gear.

“Oh,” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Oh, thank god. I thought-“

“I know,” Shane leans forward and presses his forehead to Ilya’s. “I know. But we are okay, yes, we-“

Another round of shots from the rink makes them jump. This isn’t over.

“We have to go,” Ilya says, firmly, feeling a wave of determination take over his frenzied mind.

He helps Shane up and pulls him forward. He knows his grip on Shane’s arm is probably bruising. He doesn’t care. He will not leave him again. He cannot lose him.

They run together. Ilya guides them the short few feet separating them from the exit and pushes the door open with his left shoulder, making sure to angle his body to shield Shane in case the assholes are waiting for them out here.

Just as they step out, there’s a screech of tires. Ilya spreads an arm out to keep Shane behind him, his heart already a racing horse inside his chest as he tries to figure out the best route to flee. When a black Jetta appears: with Sveta and Marly in the front.

“The fuck are you waiting for?! Get in!” Marly yells.

They run and jump into the back seat together just before Svetlana floors it. Ilya feels his body slam against the back of the seat as they take off at full speed, dangerously taking a curve near a column before they head straight to the exit. Svetlana wrecks the entrance pen that Shane refused to hit earlier and takes the ramp up to the street so fast that Ilya could swear all four tires leave the ground for a second before they slam back down against the street and rush away. All the while, Ilya keeps a hand on Shane, afraid he’ll slam his face against something with his best friend’s wild driving.

“Jesus fuck,” Shane whispers, a hand braced against the back of Cliff’s seat and another holding on to Ilya’s arm.

They take a turn and for a second Ilya swears the car is going to tip over.

“This isn’t a fucking race car!” He yells in Russian.

“I’m not your boyfriend, I’m not letting you drive!” Svetlana bites back, but there’s laughter in her voice.

“He’s not-“

“Guys!” Shane warns, looking back. Ilya turns in time to see three cars speeding after them.

“Fuck, Sveta-“

“Guys!” Marly yells too, pointing forward as two cars close them off.

Svetlana curses as she steps on the breaks, turning the wheel. They don’t quite drift like Shane did. Instead, the car loses control and slams against a street light. Not too hard, thankfully, but that’s where their luck ends. There’s men coming out of the cars in the front. The ones chasing them stop too and several armed men climb out. Ilya sees the awful metallic glint of guns in the cold streetlights.

“Get down!” He yells, grabbing Shane and pulling him into the space between the front and back seats. They both crouch there, holding onto each other.

Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s body and burrows his face into the crook of his neck. If these are his last moments on earth before they all get gunned down, he wants his last action to be shielding Shane Hollander from whatever harm he can, he wants his last memory to be of Shane’s skin against his mouth and his familiar scent enveloping him.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispers.

Shots ring across the night air for what feels like an eternity.

Then everything stops.

Shane is still breathing, shaking in his arms. Ilya clings to that knowledge until the car’s door opens behind him.

“No!” Shane screams, tackling Ilya to the ground, covering him with his body, like a bulletproof vest.

Ilya feels Shane Hollander wrapped around him, shaking, his grip unforgiving and relentless. Like he can pin him there and keep him from getting dragged away to his doom. He tries to commit all of him to memory, and hopes Shane will live to forgive him for all this.

A moment passes. Then another. Finally, Ilya ventures a look up, craning his neck to peak back at the door open above him, to face his fate. And there, standing backlit by the Boston city lights and looking entirely unimpressed is officer Jackson West.

“Hey, roomie,” the man says, arching an eyebrow. “How’s the whole runaway thing going?”

“Could be better.”

“You asshole. You’re lucky we got here on time.”

Shane finally looks up, first at Ilya, then at the man standing above them. “What?”

Ilya laughs, bringing a hand up to sink his fingers into Shane’s dark sweaty hair, wishing to pet the fear out of his beautiful face. “Is okay, Shane. This is my friend Jackson. He’s with police. We are okay.”

“Oh,” Shane says, still looking up at Jackson, who nods and flashes a badge. “Oh.”

Shane drops his head back against Ilya’s chest and shakes with what could be a sob or a chuckle. Ilya drops his head back down and lets relief wash over him.

It’s okay. They are going to be okay.

Chapter End Notes

Everyone complaining about the plan needs to remember rule #1 of this fic series: ✨ Whimsy ✨ Over Realism.

But also, do you think a show like Castle or Bones or The Rookie would pass on a chance to have them on skates???? C’mon!!!!!! Where’s the fun in that?!

That being said, the scene of them crossing the rink was inspired by real life events during a shooting at a high school hockey game. The image of the players rushing from the bench to the exit trying to get to safety stuck with me years ago (and still makes me shudder).

I hope yall enjoyed the action and the drama!!!! I promise we can mostly breathe now and enjoy the aftermath and Hollanov finally together.

Chapter 15: you were the only one that even kinda came close

Chapter Summary

“What happens now? With… you. Do you have to leave again?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya whispers back. “They don’t either. Maybe I am still in danger. But maybe…”

Chapter Notes

Woops chapter count went up (surprising no one)

Detective Tim Ryan is pissed. And, okay, on one hand, Shane did not listen to his cryptic ‘don’t go mess with the Irish mafia’ speech but, on the other hand, they did help them arrest over a dozen gangsters, so he kinda figures it should all balance out. Right?

The detective doesn’t seem impressed. Not by Shane’s feeble explanation as to why he stayed in town, or why he was at Sally’s or how he ended up in two highly dangerous car chases across town. But, despite his anger, (and despite the ever growing fear that Shane’s gonna leave this place in handcuffs in what will inevitably turn into an overblown media circus) he’s eventually told he’s not actually getting charged or arrested… for now. He is, however, told to wait while they finish interviewing the others.

So Shane is escorted out of the interrogation room and led to a waiting room filled with black stiff chairs and lit by uncomfortable fluorescent lights. It’s a shitty space, but immediately made better by a familiar voice:

“I am telling you, it was emergency!” Ilya is groaning, throwing his head back in frustration.

He is talking to the guy that found them in the car earlier, officer Jackson.

“You fucking left me stranded in the middle of nowhere, man!”

“Yes, but you got here okay, no?”

“Yeah, a fucking day before you did, by the way, because I’m not an idiot and I knew it was better to just fly in! Which we could’ve both done if you had told me!”

It doesn’t look like an interrogation. It looks like two teammates arguing. Or friends. Jackson’s handsome, strong, dark skinned, big smile. Not Shane’s type, but… definitely good looking.

“Jackson, you know you wouldn’t let me come back!”

“Maybe I would’ve tried!”

“Not good enough! Was emergency!”

“It was an emergency to almost let yourself get killed?” Shane finally says, stepping in.

“Hollander!” Ilya turns, arching his eyebrows. “You betray me?! After I saved your life?”

“I saved your life, Rozanov,” Shane rolls his eyes. “Twice, by the way.”

“Is not competition,” Ilya waves a hand dismissively, but something in his eyes sparkles.

“Everything is,” Shane smirks at him, but then decides they are showing too much, being too risky, so he turns to the cop. “Shane Hollander, pleasure to meet you. Thanks for saving us back there,” he says, offering a hand.

“Oh, I have heard of you,” the guy smiles, shaking his hand. “And seen your adds around town. Big workout inspiration.”

Shane feels his cheeks burn a little as he laughs. “Oh, uh, thanks.”

“Heard you are the guy keeping Rozanov on his toes on the ice, too. He didn’t miss one of your games while we were holed up together.”

“He didn’t, uh?” Shane flashes Ilya a look.

“Okay, that is enough bonding,” Ilya slaps their still joined hands until Shane and Jackson let go. “You two are both too boring to be friends. World would implode from all the rule following.”

“Boring, uh?” Jackson smirks at Ilya, like he knows something.

An ugly sharp feeling twists inside Shane’s gut when he hears Ilya call the other man boring. What’s worse, at Jackson’s smirk, Ilya blushes. For a second, Shane feels unsteady. The ugly voice that has been tormenting him for weeks, that he has managed to suppress the past twenty four hours, comes back: he might want you, but why would he choose you? Why would he risk everything… for you? He can have anyone else he wants. Jackson. Svetlana. Anyone would be lucky to have him.

Then Jackson looks at Shane and his smile turns softer.

“Alright, I’m sure you two want to catch up. I’ll leave you to it. Just… don’t run off, Rozanov. Please. Before you give me an ulcer.”

The officer grabs them both by the shoulders and leads them to a pair of chairs, pushing them to sit side by side. Shane is a bit too stunned to even try to resist. He suddenly finds himself sitting side by side to Ilya Rozanov, pressed against each other, shoulder to elbow, knees bumping together. And completely alone.

Well, not entirely, not really, not privately, not the way Shane would want. But they are here, both of them, alive. The realization hits Shane like a puck to the gut. He digs his fingers into his thighs to fight off the urge to grab Ilya’s hand again, to hold on to him and make sure he can never be taken away. As if sensing his need, Ilya leans in slightly, pressing firmer against Shane’s side. It’s not enough, but it’s something. Shane breathes a little better.

“Jackson seems… nice,” Shane mumbles, unable to stop himself.

“He is,” Ilya shrugs. “Good roommate.“

“Yeah?”

“I guess, yes. I have not much experience with roommates, but he was okay. Not the person I would have chosen to be trapped with, though.”

“No?”

Ilya looks at him, with those intense eyes, like he is trying to communicate something more as he says: “No.”

And it might not mean anything, it probably doesn’t, but Shane’s heart still flutters. He clears his throat and looks away.

“What happens now? With… you. Do you have to leave again?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya whispers back. “They don’t either. Maybe I am still in danger. But maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe I get lucky.”

Ilya doesn’t sound too hopeful. Shane risks a look at him. He looks exhausted and… sad.

“We’ll figure it out,” Shane assures him.

Ilya blinks and turns to him, looking surprised. Shane meets his eyes and gives him what he hopes is a reassuring nod. Ilya’s eyes soften, but he doesn’t say anything else. That’s okay. Even if he doesn’t believe him. Shane won’t let him do this alone anymore.

Shane doesn’t remember falling asleep. Somewhere between getting interrogated and sitting in silence next to Ilya, the exhaustion of the last two days catches up to him.

He comes to slowly, growing aware of himself and his surroundings: the antiseptic smell, the stiff chair under his ass, the armrest digging into his ribs, the warm steady weight of Ilya’s body leaning against him, his peaceful heavy breathing ruffling the top of Shane’s hair. He is tempted to cuddle a bit more into the contact and just let himself drift off. But the sudden awareness of where they are, of what happened in the past few hours, nudges at his awareness and forces him to wake up.

You’re not alone. They can see you. They will know.

Shane blinks, frowning under the fluorescent lights. The first thing he sees is Cliff Marleau spread horizontally across three chairs in a position that just can’t be comfortable, no matter how pleasantly the man is snoring. Then he sees Svetlana, curled up inside a single chair, her knees up against her chest, her head tucked against the corner wall, like a cat forcing herself to fit into an improbable space. Then, he sees Ilya’s hand, barely brushing his thigh, like he fell asleep reaching out for him.

Before he can figure out what to do with that or how he feels about it, something else catches his attention: voices.

Shane turns, as discreetly as possible, and catches sight of Detective Tim Ryan talking to… Bobby? Shane stares as the two men have a whispered conversation. He can’t quite understand them but their voices sound tense. Or… the detective’s does. Bobby looks as relaxed as he did back at Sally’s. At some point, he shrugs and shakes his head. Ryan takes a step forward and a second guy, that Shane hadn’t even noticed, steps up between them…. Until Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him back.

(Shane isn’t stupid. He knows, for his research, that Bobby is Robert O’Brien, youngest of the O’Brien brothers and next in line after Thomas. But it’s hard to reconcile that idea with the man he met, looking every bit a tired accountant.)

Bobby says something else, gesturing calmly with his hands as if telling everyone to settle down. Detective Ryan says something, tilting his head. Bobby nods, smiles, pats the detective’s shoulder and turns to walk away. As he does, his eyes briefly lock on Shane. It’s only a second, barely a pause before he walks away, but Shane could swear he sees the man give him a single nod. What…?

Shane must stir, because Ilya straightens up next to him, body tensing almost immediately.

“What is it?”

“Hm?” Shane turns. “Oh, nothing. I just thought…” but the hallway is empty now. “Never mind.”

“Hollander.”

“What, Rozanov?”

Before Ilya can pry a word out of him, Shane’s phone starts buzzing. He jumps, startled, and then feels his stomach drop:

[Incoming call: Mom]

“Shit. I gotta take this,” he murmurs, standing up and walking away to the nearest empty hallway.

“Sure,” he hears Ilya faintly as he walks away.

Shane takes a deep breath and takes the call.

“Hi, mom.”

“Shane, honey, hi. Are you alright?”

“Me? Yeah. Why?” Shane asks, like he wasn’t being chased around by armed gangsters a few hours ago.

“What do you mean ‘why’?!” His mother jumps. “Where are you right now?”

“Oh. Uh… Boston.” No need to explain it’s a police station, he figured.

“I knew it. Your dad and I saw ESPN reporting that you hadn’t flown back with the team. We thought it was just pointless gossip, but I had a feeling… and then you weren’t at the game tonight. I called your coach. He said you’d taken personal time for a family matter?” Her voice turns sharp at the end, making it clear she’s well aware that they have no family in Boston. “Shane, what’s going on?”

Shane closes his eyes, like the darkness might help him face this moment somehow. He tries to find the right words to tell her as much of the truth as possible without freaking her out:

“I’m sorry mom. I should’ve told you. I am… well, I stayed here because a friend needed my help.”

“A friend. In Boston.”

“Yes, mom. I come here often and I do meet people that aren’t just my teammates sometimes, you know?” He bristles for a moment and then, almost immediately, deflates. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- well, yeah. Basically. I have a friend here. More than one, actually,” he says, thinking of Cliff and Svetlana. “And they, well, they needed my help. So I stayed in town.”

“And you missed your game. You chose to miss it.”

Shane flinches, eyes still closed. “Yes.”

There’s a long, charged pause. Then his mom says: “Alright. I just wish you’d told us.”

“Wait. What?” Shane opens his eyes. “That’s it? Just ‘alright’?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” his mother sighs. “You are a grown man, Shane. Even if it’s hard for us to accept some times. And I know the kind of man you are. I know no one takes the responsibility to your team more seriously than you. So… if you made this choice, I am trusting that it was important.”

“It- it was.”

“And this friend… they are important to you?”

Something about how she phrases it, the neutrality of it, makes Shane stumble a little. His heart rate picks up.

“Uh, yes. They are. Very much so.”

His mother sighs again. “Okay, then. I just wish you’d told me. I hate finding out about you from the news, you know?”

“I know. I’m sorry, mom. I- I will call you next time, okay? Not that- not that there will be one, but… yeah. I am sorry for blindsiding you. But it’s all over now. It’s okay. I think I will be good to play by next game on Thursday.”

“Well, I’m sure your coach will be happy to hear that,” she deadpans. Ah, so she’d noticed Theriault’s anger. Great. “When are you flying home?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll be in Montreal by Thursday.”

“Okay. That’s good. Your team needs you, specially this close to the playoffs.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I know, mom.”

“I know you do, honey. I’m just saying… and, well, when you are back, maybe after your game you could come over for diner on the weekend?”

Her hesitation makes his heart ache. The sudden awareness that he could’ve died today, and that he never would’ve seen his parents again, never would’ve told them the truth, never would’ve shown them who he really is… it hits him hard. He tries to swallow a lump of tears before he replies, a little choked:

“Yeah, mom. I’d love that.”

“Good. Good. Me too,” she says softly.

“Mom, I gotta go. But I’ll call you later, okay? I love you. And tell dad I love him too.”

“Of course, baby. We love you too. We’ll see you soon, alright?”

“Okay. Bye.”

Shane hangs up and sighs, not sure if a weight had been lifted or added to his shoulders. He has several unread texts, from J.J, from his coach, from his mother. The last one is from Hayden:

Hayden: heads up, I think ur mom just called coach

Shane laughs. Well, it’s a bit late for the warning, but that’s on him.

Shane: yeah she just called

His best friend replies immediately.

Hayden: everything ok?

Shane: yeah all good

And then, because he now feels like a shitty captain, he adds:

Shane: how was the game?

Hayden: you couldn’t watch?
Hayden: probably for the best actually
Hayden: we kinda sucked
Hayden: missed u man

Shane: sorry about that

Hayden: no no dude love comes first
Hayden: don’t worry about it
Hayden: I’m sure u will whip us into shape when u come back
Hayden: gtg twins are fighting
Hayden: say hi to Lily from me!

Shane laughs shaking his head. He wonders what his best friend would think if he knew who he was encouraging him to pursue. Would he still be okay with it? Shane kinda hopes so, but he really doubts it.

Ilya has moved from their his spot in the waiting room. He is now sitting next to Svetlana, talking in hushed Russian. Shane doubts anyone in the room could understand them even if they were shouting, but he also suspects their tone is more due to emotional rawness than necessity. Shane feels a pang of jealousy, and hesitates, fighting the urge to go sit next to Ilya to… what? Claim his place? This is stupid.

Shane sits down back in the same spot as before and pretends to be interested on his phone. Thankfully, before he can give in to the itch to go back to Ilya’s side, someone walks in. All three heads (four, once Ilya kicks Marly awake) turn towards the entrance where Detective Ryan is standing with a vaguely familiar looking kid. Everyone jumps to their feet and approaches them.

“O’Connor,” Ilya says. “You okay?”

The rookie looks pale and a little shaky, but he gives Ilya a nod. “Fine, Cap. You?”

“I’m alright,” Ilya grins, wolf-like, as if he hadn’t been clutching to Shane and trembling for their lives not long ago. Right now, he is all bravado as he pats the kid’s back. “You did good, Coney.”

The guy almost seems to grow a few inches taller under his captain’s reassurance. Shane feels a strange swell of pride inside him. Marley reaches out to grab Coney by the shoulder and shakes him gently, brotherly. Coney’s eyes keep trailing towards Shane and then quickly averting his gaze.

“He did good,” the detective nods, voice nicer than it has been all day. He seems to be back to his ‘just a guy doing my job’ persona from back at the hotel. “You all did. And now it’s time for all of you to get home.”

There’s a beat of silence, where all five of them stare at each other until finally Ilya asks, carefully:

“All of us? Me too?”

“Well, thanks to Coney here we have Walsh and Tommy O’Brien in custody over attempted murder charges, along with about half a dozen of their crew.”

“Yeah, but what about the rest of their… people. Is it safe for Rozanov out there? For the rest of us?” Shane asks, crossing his arms.

The things he’d seen or read about while doing research these past couple days… haunt him.

“Apparently,” Ryan shakes his head like he can’t believe it either. “Seems like the new head of the O’Brien family isn’t too big on revenge. He is, however, a big hockey fan. Word on the street is he just declared any Raiders player off-limits for his people. So, congrats, seems like you’re out of your pickle.”

A wave of relief washes over Shane, so strongly that it might sweep him away.

“Okay” Ilya deadpans, not sounding half as relieved. “What about Hollander?”

“What about him?”

“You said Raiders are safe. Does he need to worry too? Would be annoying if he can’t come to games anymore. Too easy to beat his team without the only one that can skate.”

“Hah. That’s kinda the thing,” Ryan smirks. “Like I said, the guy’s a big hockey fan. Apparently, Hollander makes for good hockey. So he’s off-limits too.”

“Good for business, right?” Shane says.

The detective seems to startle a little at that, giving Shane a quick curious look before he smiles again.

“Exactly. So… you’re all free to leave. Go home, get some rest, and make sure I never have to see you in my precinct ever again. Got it?”

“No promises,” Ilya smiles, sharp.

Shane resists the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Instead, he roll his eyes. “Behave, Rozanov.”

Cliff barks a laugh.

The detective and two officers escort them towards the door and leave them there, standing in the parking lot. They stand there in silence, under the city lights, with the faint sound of cars driving by. Everything feels normal, calm. It doesn’t match the tension still buzzing under Shane’s skin.

“C’mon, Coney,” Marly says, suddenly, throwing an arm around the rookie’s shoulders. “I’ll drive you home before you can get Cap in any more trouble.”

Svetlana shoots Ilya a quick look. Then her eyes meet Shane, her lips quirk into a faint smile, before she starts walking after the other two men.

“You don’t even have a car here,” she points out, catching up.

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem for you,” Marly shrugs.

Oh, that spells trouble.

Shane is about to walk after them and beg them not to steal a car when they all just got released, but before he can give a single step, Ilya turns to him.

“So,” he says, voice low and intense, “where to now, Hollander?”

Heat creeps up Shane’s cheeks as he looks at him.

“Your place. Is that okay?”

Ilya smiles, all hungry eyes. “Yes. I am ready to go home.”

Chapter End Notes

Well well well! We are closing plots one by one here!

Detective Tim Ryan in my head is a mix of characters. Tim for Bradford from The Rookie. Ryan for Kevin Ryan from Castle (whose Irish mafia episode inspired a lot of this fic). But mostly, physically and personality wise, in my head he’s a lot like Booth from Bones!!

Jackson West is back!!! And stirring shit a little bit. He can’t help it. Ilya and Shane BOTH being jealous during the span of a single conversation while actively getting clocked is everything to me.

Coney is having a very weird time right now.

Bobby in my head is basically like the uncle from The Bear iykyk haha and he took a liking to Shane during their conversation (as criminals apparently do in my fics)

Also, yay I finally braved a Shane and Yuna conversation!!! She’s still going to be pushy and a little bit overbearing but I wanted her to kinda clock him too. We knows David and her suspect Shane’s sexuality so I wanted her to have a moment here where she’s kinda suspicious (she could never guess the Rozanov of it all though)

Cliff and Svetlana have had enough shenanigans for now. They do NOT want to get involved in whatever is going on between Hollanov right now. Almost dying like four times is more than enough. Gay tension? Nope. That’s enough.

Okay, time to take the boys home!!!

See you soon!! :)

Chapter 16: i wanna sleep on every piece of fuzz and stuffing that comes out of you

Chapter Summary

“You were looking for me?” He turns his head to look at Shane.

“Obviously,” Shane mumbles, tensing a little.

Chapter Notes

CW: Smut (aka they finally fuck about it)

Also omg you guys HAVE to check out the amazing cover AlwaysAnotherSecret made for this fic

They drive back home in Ilya’s orange Camaro. Shane sits in the copilot side this time, looking out the window, feeling far calmer than the last time they were in it. Well, sort of…. His brain is just occupied by less life threatening matters: He’s sitting in one of Ilya Rozanov’s stupid ridiculous sports cars. How many women has he driven home just like this? How many years has Shane secretly fantasized about taking their place? Does it mean anything that he is finally here?

They park in Ilya’s huge garage and quietly walk inside. Every step of the way feels charged by the tension of the past hours of fear, the past days of anguish, the past several weeks of silence and absence. Ilya unlocks the door and lets Shane walk in first. He toes off his shoes as Ilya locks the door behind them.

They haven’t said a word since they left the police station.

The keychain rattles as it falls inside the plate by the door. Shane feels the tension grow inside him. He should break it. He should say something. Right?

When he turns, Ilya is already looking at him. Everything else falls away.

Shane and Ilya crash in a messy desperate kiss, wrapping their arms around each other. Ilya pushes him against the wall. Shane’s hands come up to grab at his clothes, to pull him closer by the neck, to run his fingers though his curls. Ilya groans, pushing a leg between Shane’s thighs. He whines at the friction in return, practically humping Ilya’s leg. Dexterous fingers explore his waist, traveling across his stomach, just below his ribs-

Shane hisses. Ilya stops completely.

“What is wrong?” He pulls away.

“Nothing,” Shane chases after his lips.

“Hollander.”

“Really, Rozanov, it’s-“

The hallway lights turn on. Ilya must have found the switch. Shane winces, closing his eyes at the sudden brightness.

“Oh, fuck off!”

Ilya, in fact, does not fuck off. He comes back to Shane and pulls up his shirt, but not the way Shane would want him too. Instead, he’s inspecting the small cut on his side.

“You are hurt.”

“It’s just a nip. It’s fine.”

“A nip. From a fucking knife.”

“Seriously, Rozanov, I’ve had worse on the ice,” Shane groans, opening his eyes.

He blinks a couple times until he manages to focus on Ilya’s face. Now that he can look at him, really look without the pressure of anyone else watching, he notices the dark shadows under his eyes and handsome stubble across his chin. He looks unfairly handsome for a person that has probably spent two days awake. He also looks painfully scared.

“Well, game injuries are not because someone tried to kill you.”

“That’s debatable,” Shane laughs.

Ilya doesn’t seem amused.

“Come. I have first aid kit.”

“C’mon, you can’t be serious!”

“Hollander, I will not fuck you unless you let me take care of this, yes?”

Oh, that’s just not fair. Shane sighs, rolling his eyes, and follows Ilya towards the kitchen.

Ilya turns on the lights as they go. He tells Shane to sit on the counter as he bends down and pulls out a little blue box from under his sink.

“Why do you have your first aid here?” Shane asks, curious.

“For cuts when I cook,” Ilya shrugs. “Or burns. Kitchen can be dangerous.”

Shane can’t help a fond smile as he imagines Ilya cooking at home. What does he make? Where did he learn? Is he any good at it? He wants to know it all.

Ilya pulls out a couple things and then wordlessly gets to work. Shane hisses when the antiseptic spray hits the cut. Ilya bends over and carefully blows on it, helping the burn die down. The tenderness of the gesture makes Shane want to melt right there. His eyes prickle slightly, he throws his head back and pretends it’s just the burn. Then, Ilya pulls out cotton, gauze and tape and methodically covers the cut. Shane focuses on his steady hands, his gentle touch, his attention to detail as his strong fingers carefully trace the edges of the bandage to make sure it well placed.

“There,” he finally seems satisfied.

“All good now?” Shane tries and fails to sound annoyed.

“Not yet. But better,” Ilya says, wrapping his arms around his waist and walking closer.

Shane closes the distance bending down and enjoys a much softer kiss than before.

“Are you hungry?” Ilya asks. “I make you something to eat.”

Shane tries to repress his annoyance. What he wants isn’t food.

“I’m good. And, uh, you don’t have a lot of food anymore. It’d mostly gone bad.”

“I’m sure I have something,” Ilya says. He opens the fridge and stares at it for a long while. “Fuck. Okay. We get delivery.”

Ilya walks out of the kitchen and into the living room.

“We really don’t have to.”

There’s no answer. Shane groans, jumping off the countertop to follow.

“Can you at least get me something with vegetables?”

Ilya is not calling the restaurant. He is standing in the middle of his living room, staring at the whiteboard filled with information Shane’d researched in his frantic need to find him. Embarrassment creeps up Shane’s neck, heat crawling across his entire face. Ilya’s body is stiff, his eyes intense as they fly across the board’s information.

“You were looking for me?” He turns his head to look at Shane.

“Obviously,” Shane mumbles, tensing a little.

Ilya doesn’t seem content with the answer. If anything, his face scrunches with further confusion. Shane feels… sheepish. He looks around trying to ground himself and instead is mortified to find the entire living room is filled with scattered evidence of his presence: a stack of papers he printed and never got to pin on the board, his laptop and reading glasses on the coffee table, a pair of slippers he travels with by the end of the couch, the hoodie he’d taken off at some point last night, an empty can of ginger ale.

“Shit.” Shane rushes forward, picking things up as he goes. He’s very aware of Ilya’s eyes trailing his every move. “Sorry. I, uh, I meant to pick this shit up last night, but I was tired. And then this morning I got, well, sidetracked, so…”

“You were staying here,” Ilya says slowly, “in my house.”

“Yeah, I… I figured it was more discreet than a hotel? Sorry. I would’ve asked but-“

Shane doesn’t get to finish his rambling before Ilya tackles him down on the couch. The things he had collected fall to the floor as Ilya presses his arms above his head and kisses him hard, sinking them both into the cushions. The startled squeak that leaves Shane’s lips at first turns into a moan as Ilya deepens the kiss hungrily, like he needs to taste every inch of his mouth. Despite his surprise, Shane is quick to match his pace and answer eagerly, taking as much as he gives. Ilya’s weight on top of him is perfect, as is his hand pinning up his wrists as the other snakes down his naked torso and slides into his pants. Shane’s hips buckle when he feels Ilya’s teasing touch on his dick, rubbing him over his already wet boxers.

Unable to move, Shane humps against his hand with needy urgency and tilts his head forward until his mouth finds Ilya’s neck. He kisses the salty skin there, licking and biting softly, needing more, more, more. Ilya makes a sound that feels like a reward for his teasing. Shane wants to get his hands on him again, to strip him off his stupid flannel and black tank top and to find more skin to taste. Ilya seems to have similar plans, and more agency than he does, because his hand pulls down Shane’s sweatpants.

“I know this,” he says, glancing down. “You are wearing my clothes.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, no point in denying it. “I ran out of mine. And…” Shane chokes, embarrassed.

“And?” Ilya demands. His hand brushes Shane’s sensitive cock, teasing. When he doesn’t get an answer, he wraps his fingers around it. Not stroking, barely touching, not giving Shane enough no matter how he tries to hump against his hand. “And?”

As it often happens with Ilya, Shane’s neediness outweighs his mortification.

“And I missed you,” he gasps when he is rewarded with a firm stroke. “I wanted to… smell you… feel you close.”

The admission opens up the floodgates of want he’d been barely containing. The reminder of the absence he endured and how definitive it’d felt contrastes starkly with the steady heavy weight of Ilya’s body on top of him. And it’s only made worse when Ilya lets out a gutural groan against his throat, his movements becoming sharper below Shane’s belt.

It is so much, so good, and still not nearly enough. There is a slight wrongness inside Shane that the part of his brain not overcome by pleasure can only begin to understand. He tries. He pokes at it in between waves of heat and moans and finally realizes.

“Wait.”

Ilya pulls back immediately, tense eyes on Shane’s face, looking for the source of discomfort. Shane blushes a little, but bravely pushes enough to say:

“Not here. Your… your bed.”

The worry in Ilya’s eyes quickly morphs into fond amusement.

“It has to be in bed, Hollander? You don’t usually mind where you get me.”

Shane shakes his head, still embarrassed but too overcome by the specific sentiment to let the matter go: “I slept in it… in your bed, last night. Without you. Without knowing if… I just need to have you there. Please.”

Something switches in Ilya’s eyes, his jaw sets and, for an instant, Shane is afraid he was wrong to ask for it. Then Ilya growls as he pulls Shane’s hips towards him, his arms coming under him to wrap around his back and pull him up. Dazed, Shane barely manages to straddle Ilya’s waist as the Russian lifts him up and carries him to the bedroom, all the while peppering kisses to his neck and shoulders.

Ilya lowers Shane carefully on the mattress and takes off his pants and boxers. Then, finally, he undresses too, completely.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya orders.

Shane obeys, of course. His hand wraps around his cock, using his thumb to spread precum on it before starting to stroke himself. Ilya keeps his eyes on him, like a guardian, as he walks around the bed towards the nightstand, naked and golden like a Greek god. He pulls out the lube and condoms and brings them over to the bed. Ilya touches himself too, as his eyes roam across Shane’s body, eyelids hooded and mouth parted. He is looking at him like a starving man, ready to devour him.

Yes, please, Shane wants to say, nonsensically. Eat me, bite me, take me in any way you want.

Ilya climbs on the bed with him. Shane keeps his eyes on his face, even as he hears the wet sound of the lube on his fingers. Then a firm digit presses gently around the edges of his hole, just as Ilya leans in and grumbles against his neck:

“Shane Hollander,” his deep voice rounds the words, appraising, “staying in my house, wearing my clothes, sleeping in my bed, waiting for me.”

There’s a heat in Ilya’s voice. Like the thought alone of Shane existing in his space is doing something to him. Shane loves that idea. He would love to believe he could have that kind of effect on Rozanov.

“Stop touching,” Ilya says, using the same tone he did in the car earlier while giving instructions. “I don’t want you to come yet. Move only when I say. Yes?”

Shane nods.

“Words, Hollander.”

“Yes.”

“Good boy,” Ilya kisses his shoulder and slips a finger inside him, sending a wave of pleasure though Shane. “Such a good boy for me, Hollander. So patient,” his finger curls inside him, “so loyal,” his digit finds just the spot that ignites Shane, making him moan loudly. “Waiting for me. For this,” he moves again, playing Shane’s body like a puppeteer. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Shane breathes, throwing his head back against Ilya’s chest. “Wanted… you.”

“Of course you did,” Ilya laughs, sending the vibration of his voice through his spine. “Touch yourself, slowly.”

Shane whispers a “thank you” as he does, and is rewarded by another finger slipping inside him. He moans loudly, both with pleasure and hoping the sound works as encouragement for more.

“I like you like this,” Ilya says after a moment. “In my house, my clothes, my bed. All mine.”

“You said that-“ The sound Shane makes is nearly a whimper as Ilya nudges the bundle of nerves inside him.

“What?”

Shane can’t focus. He wiggles against Ilya’s arms, aiming for more. A hand comes up to hold his wrist, forcing him to stop. Shane half sobs, but doesn’t fight it. Thankfully, Ilya’s fingers keep scissoring inside him.

“Words, Hollander. Said what?”

“Before. In the car. You told Marleau I’m yours. You said ‘he is mine’. I- I like it. I want it.”

Ilya lets go of his wrist and turns Shane’s face to capture his mouth in searing kiss. His other hand pulls back, slipping out of Shane, but he barely has time to whine about it before Ilya is flipping him onto his back and pushing his legs back. Shane goes willingly, using his flexibility until his knees are nearly by his ears to give Ilya better access.

“You are mine,” Ilya says, voice firm and factual as he pushes inside Shane. “And you have waited enough for this. Now I give it to you. Because you are mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” Shane says, as Ilya thrusts inside him. And then, again, with every thrust. “Yours, yours, yours. Oh god, Ilya.”

Ilya keeps a steady pace, clearly fighting to sustain control. Which would be good most nights, but Shane is desperate and needy in a way that goes beyond his body and none of it seems like enough to quench his thirst. Before he fully understands what he is doing, he maneuvers them both across the mattress, pinning Ilya on his back and fixing himself on his cock until he is straddling the other man. Ilya looks dazed for a second, staring up at him, like he is wondering when the exchange happened.

Shane’s hands come up and press Ilya’s arms against the bed. “I’m yours,” he says again, slowly starting to roll his hips. “And you are mine.”

Ilya just looks at him, mouth parted, eyes wide. Shane picks up the pace, squeezing Ilya’s biceps.

“You are mine,” he repeats, but he doesn’t mean it the same way. Not like a belonging, not like something you have but as something you keep, protect, hold tight. “You can’t do this again. You can’t leave me again. I won’t let you.”

“Won’t let me?” Ilya gasps, half laughing, half challenging, but his eyes are dark with desire and Shane can tell he likes what he is hearing.

“No. I won’t,” Shane says firmly. “I will find you. I would have. You can’t just disappear on me. I won’t let you, because-“

Shane is breathless, the roll of his hips hits just right and he moans so loud that he almost misses the way Ilya gasps: “because I’m yours.”

The words spurn Shane on. He sets a relentless pace, rolling his hips, chasing his pleasure and Ilya’s.

“You’re so good at that,” Ilya gasps, a few minutes later. “Driving stick.”

Shane laughs, looking down at Ilya, whose eyes are still hungry and bright. Oh, he’s thinking about the car. The memory sends a rush of adrenaline through him.

“That really did it for you, uh?” He chuckles, remembering Ilya’s blush back in the car.

Ilya’s hands come up to his hips, grip tightening.

“Was so hot, Hollander,” he gasps, sounding strained. “I wanted to… suck your cock… right there.”

“I would’ve… let you,” Shane breathes, bracing himself against the headboard, panting. “Let you… do anything. I like it too… when you took control, felt like you were…. driving me… everything else goes away… just you…”

“Just me,” Ilya smiles, his hands climbing up Shane’s torso. “Want me to drive, Hollander?”

Shane is sweating, panting, and despite everything still pent up from the past four days. So he nods, thankful.

Ilya turns them around, pulls out and flips Shane in his stomach. Shane expects him to push back in and get them going again, but before he does he leans in, crawling over Shane’s body, covering him entirely, skin to skin. The warmth of his sweaty skin against his back is exactly what Shane needed, apparently. Something inside him settles, a noose loosened. He feels Ilya’s mouth press a kiss to the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades, down his spine, as his fingers trace the slopes of his ribs.

“I’m here, Shane,” Ilya whispers. “I’ve got you. You can let go.”

Tension bleeds out of Shane immediately. He’s almost boneless when Ilya grabs his hips and pulls them up, flush against him. He moans loudly as his cock pushes slowly into him, feeling so full and so fucking good.

After the first gentle thrust, Ilya sets a relentless pace, pounding into Shane fast and hard (a brutality contrasted by the way his hands keep gently tracing his back, his neck, petting his hair). Every thrust punches little ‘uh, uh, uh’s out of Shane. Pleasure overcomes every one of his senses. Shane’s hands clench on Ilya’s bedsheets and Ilya’s hands grip his hips to pull him closer. And, again, like back in the car, it’s like they are talking mind to mind, two words bounced between them: ‘mine, mine, mine’ and ‘yours, yours, yours’.

Somewhere in the haze of pleasure —in between Ilya ordering him to touch himself and a blinding orgasm that makes his ears ring— the cruel little voice in Shane’s head gets smothered by an unshakable certainty: He is Ilya’s and Ilya is his. Unbelievably, irrevocably. Everything else, they will face together.

Chapter End Notes

I always feel a little awkward writing smut, but I love it when it adds to the characters and the story… so I hope this was good and that yall found it hot!! I had a lot of fun with it

They STILL have to talk about a lot of stuff but that’s mostly what the last chapter will be about.

Thank you to everyone that has been along for the ride!! And for all your comments, they seriously make my day!!!

You should also come talk to me on Tumblr (same handle) and Twitter (@pamericachavez)

Chapter 17: i love you to death

Chapter Summary

“So how did you end up becoming detective Hollander?”

“Oh,” Shane squirms, feeling heat crawl up his face.

Chapter Notes

Yes, y’all get another chapter (you are not getting rid of me yet) because these two had A LOT to talk about but and there’s still a few conversations we need to close all the plot points, so one more. I swear that’s it.

By the time Shane gets out of the shower, Ilya has changed the bedsheets and ordered food, judging by the frankly insane amount of small white cardboard boxes in his kitchen and the spicy smell filling the air.

“Well, that was fast,” Shane chuckles.

“Yes, my favorite Thai place. I just asked for two of everything in my usual order.”

“That’s a lot of food.”

“Yes, Hollander, we need it. Almost dying burns a lot of calories. Like game day. Everyone knows this.”

“Everyone knows this?” Shane can’t help the fondness that takes over him.

“Yes! Now shut up and eat.”

Shane laughs shaking his head, but grabs a couple boxes and goes with Ilya, who chooses the couch over the dining table. Just like they did the other day, with the tuna melts. Shane mentally notes it as an Ilya-thing, and is delighted to have learned a new detail about the man, something so small and silly and irrelevant as where he usually eats in his house.

Shane doesn’t realize until the first bite how famished he is. Fuck, Ilya might be right about almost dying burning calories. The food is delicious too: flavorful, a little greasy (it does have some vegetables, at least) and a just a bit spicy. They both wolf down the food in silence for several minutes before either one is inclined to break the silence. Unsurprisingly, it’s Ilya who breaks the silence. He points at the white board with his chopsticks (which he uses the wrong way but still manages to make effective), and says:

“So how did you end up becoming detective Hollander?”

“Oh,” Shane squirms, feeling heat crawl up his face though he hopes he can blame the spices. He wishes he could dodge the question, or lie, but the evidence is right in front of them. “Well… I’d been worried for a while, but after the game I kinda went after Marly. It took some pushing but I finally got him to tell me what you said that night.”

“Fucking Marly,” Ilya throws his head back. “Can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.”

Which might be a problem now that he knows about them but Shane is trying very hard not to let that fear creep up on him right now. He’s had a lot of fear already the past three days.

“I kinda freaked out,” he admits. “I mean, I thought… I thought it was my fault. That Russia’d found out and- and taken you or something.”

Ilya turns to him, brow furrowed. “Would not be your fault.”

“Kinda would,” Shane barrels on. “Anyway, I dismissed that theory when we found Svetlana here looking for you. She’d found your passport so… I figured you hadn’t gone back there. I mean, now that I think about it, they could’ve still taken you without your password, but I guess I figured you wouldn’t have had the chance to say goodbye to Marly and Svetlana if it was, like, the KGB taking you.”

“There’s no KGB anymore.”

“I know. Shut up. I’m just saying… Svetlana was worried too, so we just started looking for you.”

“So how did you get to Sally’s?”

“Your Uber history,” Shane grins, suddenly proud of himself.

“Ah, fuck. I forgot. Thought I got everything.”

“Yeah, almost,” Shane’s mouth twists. “I mean, you were… throughout. Deleted everything. It was like… like it was all gone. Everything about you.”

“Had to be,” Ilya says, gravely. He puts the empty pad thai box down on the coffee table and stares ahead, not at the whiteboard. His eyes seem faraway. Shane is tempted to say something but the way Ilya is working his jaw suggest he’s mulling something over. So he bites down the urge and waits until he finally says: “The detective, Ryan, he said Walsh always killed the witnesses… and the people close to them. I didn’t want to leave any clues they could use.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane whispers, feeling his stomach drop. Of course. Of course Ilya hadn’t run away to look after himself. Even that he’d done to protect others. “That’s why you took a risk and tried to warn Svetlana and Marly. You told them not to speaks about you if anyone came asking.”

“It was a long shot,” Ilya shrugs. “Most people know I am close to them. But I thought maybe they would be more careful this way.”

“You also told them not to mention Jane,” Shane says before he can stop himself. He’s been thinking about it nonstop for days. And with this added context, it’s impossible not to read into it.

“Yes,” Ilya says slowly, turning to look at him. His eyes are very cautious, like he’s one wrong word away from shuttering down. “Even if no one knew who it was, I worried. I did not want them to know that I had someone I was… sleeping with. Is stupid, but I was afraid if Walsh looked too close he would somehow know. That he would try to use it. You.”

Sleeping with seems like too small of an assessment for what they are to each other, specially with everything they just did and said in the bedroom, but Shane tries his best not to dwell on that. It’s not like they are… more. Not officially. Not in any way either of them has ever said out loud.

“You were very good at disappearing,” Shane says instead, and despite his efforts he can’t help the pain that taints his words. “For a moment there, I thought I’d never see you again.” And then, because he is b feeling stupid and brave he adds, “It was killing me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s okay. You were… you had a good reason. It’s just… when we figured out why you’d run, Svetlana said maybe it’d be best for you if we didn’t find you. And, fuck, Ilya, I hated that,” Shane shakes his head. “I couldn’t accept it. And- and then, out of nowhere you showed up, and you were going to let him- you were going to let him kill you,” his voice cracks, as the horror of that sight creeps up on him again.

Ilya sets a firm hand on his knee, steadying him. Shane puts all his focus on that touch, a lighthouse in a storm.

“I did not want to,” Ilya says, in a way that carries a lot of meaning, like it is important that Shane understands that Ilya didn’t mean to turn himself in and just die without putting on a fight, “but I did not know what else to do. I got photos sent to where I was hiding.”

“Photos?”

“Yes. Of Marly and Sveta and you, in Sally’s. There was a note, saying I had to come back or else…”

“Or else,” Shane repeats slowly. Then blanches. “Fuck. Fuck!” He jumps to his feet and starts pacing around. “Svetlana was right. It was all my fault. I took us there. We shouldn’t- we shouldn’t have gone poking around.”

“You didn’t know, Shane.”

“You almost fucking died!”

“Shane,” Ilya reaches out for him, opening his arms.

Shane, without really meaning to, walks right into his embrace. Ilya’s hands hold his hips and guide him back down to the couch.

“It wasn’t your fault, okay? The pictures… they didn’t need them. They already knew about Sveta and Marly, everyone has seen me with them. It was the stupid fucking tweet in the shelter. They would have found me anyway. It wasn’t you… but I did not like seeing you in those pictures. I thought they would know. When they said they’d take my favorite… I’m- I’m not happy it was Sveta, but I was so relieved it wasn’t you.”

Shane has a hard time making eye contact, so he keeps his attention on Ilya’s chest, raising and falling steadily. It eases him a little.

“And then, you showed up,” Ilya shakes his head, like he still can’t believe it. “Speeding in my own fucking car like out of a movie,” Ilya laughs breathily. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I- I didn’t,” Shane blinks down at his hands. “I was… uh… I was there to talk. To someone.”

“Someone?”

“Bobby O’Brien. I’d met him the other night. I thought I could… look, I know Svetlana said we should stop looking for you. I know. But I couldn’t just let you disappear like that. I had to do something.”

“Do what, Hollander?”

“I don’t know! I- I just thought I’d maybe- maybe talk to them and-“

“Oh my god. You are a terrible liar, just tell me.”

“Okay, fine, I was gonna pay them off, okay?! I thought maybe, maybe, if I hit the right number they’d just call it off or something.”

“If you hit- if you paid the fucking mafia off?! And then what?!” It’s Ilya’s turn to stand upf leaving Shane feeling unmoored. “Then they have you by the nuts forever! What the fuck where you thinking, Hollander?!”

“I was thinking that the fucking mafia had a hit on you and I was never going to fucking see you again! What did you want me to do?!”

“Not that! Not fuck up your life just because I fucked up mine!”

Shane gaps at him, speechless, unsure of how to put into words that Ilya’s life and his are intertwined, that one can’t be fucked without the other (in more ways than one), that there is no world where Ilya is in trouble and Shane isn’t.

“Well, it didn’t get to it in the end, did it?” He sighs. “I got you out of there. And we are both okay. So can you please just… sit down?”

Ilya looks at him and Shane makes an effort to hold his gaze. He looks shaken, upset. Almost like he is scared. Shane does his level-best to remain steady for him until, very slowly, Ilya comes back and sits by his side, knees bumping together.

“We are both okay,” Shane repeats, firmly.

“Barely,” Ilya scoffs, but the attempt at dismissiveness is underscored by the way his hand keeps brushing behind his ear, a habit Shane has seen before when Ilya’s upset. “He almost stabbed you, and then we almost got shot at in the car. It was too close.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “It was scary. We almost died… but we didn’t.”

He’s not sure why he isn’t spiraling along. Maybe because he’s already used to living with these horrifying ‘what if’ doom scenarios echoing in the back of his mind… or maybe it’s because, like it happened earlier in the car or in the rink, Ilya needing him overrides his own fear.

“We didn’t. We are here,” Shane insists, grabbing Ilya’s hand and pressing it against his chest. Both to give comfort and to cling to his touch for his own relief. He looks into Ilya’s eyes. He looks as scared as he did back in the car, when he thought it was the end. “What did you say back there?”

With the way he’s holding Ilya, he can feel him stiffen from head to toe. “When?”

“In the car. When- after we crashed. You said something. I didn’t understand it.”

“I don’t remember,” Ilya’s face goes blank and distant. “Probably nothing important.”

“Don’t do that,” Shane’s expression pinches. “Don’t act like it’s nothing. It was… it would have been the last thing you ever said to me. The last thing I ever heard. It’s not nothing.”

“Shane…”

“Please.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya sighs, looking defeated. Then he repeats it, looking into Shane’s eyes intensely. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Shane repeats the words slowly, probably butchering the pronunciation. But Ilya’s face goes unbearably soft regardless.

“What does it mean?”

For a long moment, Shane thinks Ilya will lie or brush it off again, until he finally confesses:

“I love you. It means ‘I love you’.”

“Holy shit.”

Fear crosses Ilya’s face, worst than any Shane’s seen today, but before he can say more Shane finally finds what he wants to say:

“I love you too.”

Ilya blinks, looking stunned, then a beautiful smile blooms on his face. He tackles Shane down on the couch, peppering kisses to his face, his neck, his eyes, his mouth, his cheekbones, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you” in between.

Shane giggles, pushing him off just enough to hold his face with both hands and look at him, in the same living room where he wallowed and wondered if he’d never see him again, he says “I love you so fucking much.”

The shadows of fear dissipate after that.

That night, as they lay in bed, after a round of lazy blowjobs (delighted in the novelty of going slow and taking all the time they want) Shane finally dares to poke at an idea that has been bouncing around his brain all night. Longer, if he is being honest. Since Tampa, maybe, even before.

“So, uh, what are you doing, now that you are back? For the… for the summer, I mean.”

Ilya sighs heavily. Too heavily.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Go to Russia, probably. Maybe. But… but I’m not sure yet. I will know soon.”

That’s a very roundabout way to talk. Specially for Ilya. Shane frowns, propping himself up on an elbow to look at his face as he asks:

“What do you mean?”

Ilya doesn’t look at him and his face is cautiously controlled as he says:

“My father is dead.”

“What?! Ilya, oh my god, what- when-“

“The night I left,” Ilya says, running his fingers through Shane’s hair, like he’s soothing him. “Alexei was calling me. I didn’t pick up. Police found out later. Jackson let me know, was very nice about it.”

“Shit, Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

“Is okay. He was…”

“Complicated. I remember. I’m still sorry.”

“I missed the funeral. My brother will be angry that I wasn’t there.”

“Your life was in danger!” Shane is immediately offended.

Ilya kisses the top of his head.

“I think I should go now, see my brother, my niece, make sure it’s all in order.”

Shane’s heart breaks. He doesn’t want Ilya to leave again. He just got him back. And now he has to go to Russia.

“Will you be safe?”

“As long as I stay away from Russian mafia.”

Shane pokes him in the ribs, hard. “Too soon!”

Ilya laughs. “I’ll be fine, Shane. Just a week or so. I will be back to kick your ass in playoffs.”

“Bold of you to think you’ll make it that far.”

“Oh my god, Hollander, stop being asshole my father just died.”

Shane gasps, shocked and appalled. “Oh, that’s not fucking fair!”

Ilya laughs, kissing him until Shane almost forgets what he was saying in the first place. By the time Shane remembers how to breathe, Ilya is smiling at him all soft and sweet and, oh, he remembers.

“Don’t go to Russia over the summer.”

“What?”

“Don’t go. You were away for so long already. And I… I wanna have you in my home too.”

Ilya blinks at him. “You do?”

“Yes, of course. I-“ Shane takes a deep breath and says the words exactly the way he’s been practicing them for weeks in his head, all in one go: “Would you come to my cottage this summer? Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house. We’ll have so much fun. It’s so private. No one will know. We could have a week or even two. We’d be completely alone… together.”

His heart is hammering so hard in his chest that he can barely hear when Ilya’s mouth moves. He has to ask him to repeat it.

“Yes, Hollander. I’m saying yes, okay, I’m coming to your cottage.”

Shane feels like he might burst with happiness. He kisses Ilya, or Ilya kisses him. It’s hard to tell. They just kiss, and kiss, and kiss… they have so much time ahead of them, there is no hurry, so it’s okay that the exhaustion of three sleepless stressful days finally beats them and they fall asleep while making out.

Chapter End Notes

Head canon that the way Shane invited Ilya to the cottage was very practiced, again and again and again, which is why he said it all in one go while high, he had memorized it. Invitation, explanation, reasons why. My shanebug

Also, raise hands: who forgot that the reason Ilya doesn’t fly with the team in canon is because his dad kicks it? I didn’t, and it was haunting me since chapter 1 lmfao.

Chapter 18: this isn’t how our story ends

Chapter Summary

When the front door opens, they both wake up all at once, startled and tightening their hold of each other. Shane feels his heart speed up, his mind running a million scenarios (should they jump out the window? Should they get dressed first? Why didn’t he grab a kitchen knife?)

Chapter Notes

Aaaand here we are. A few final bows to tie it all up :) couldn’t forget about our detectives

Shane and Ilya fall asleep together, in Ilya’s bed, tangled in each other and breathing evenly and easy. They drift apart over night, each still used to sleeping alone. Except for their ankles, that remain hooked, as if even in their dreams they’d been afraid to lose each other. It make’s Shane’s chest twist with a sad sort of happiness when he realizes, at some point in the early hours of morning. He rolls over, closer to Ilya, who without fully waking wraps his arms around him, pressing his palms flat against his back and holding him as he falls back asleep, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When the front door opens, they both wake up all at once, startled and tightening their hold of each other. Shane feels his heart speed up, his mind running a million scenarios (should they jump out the window? Should they get dressed first? Why didn’t he grab a kitchen knife?) before a familiar voice reaches them from the hall:

“Ilyusha, you better be here, I am not tracking you down a second time.”

Shane and Ilya melt with relief. Shane drops his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder while Ilya mumbles something in low angry Russian.

“Go away!” He groans loudly, burrowing himself deeper into the sheets and dragging Shane along with him.

“Fuck you, Rozy! We brought coffee,” Marly’s voice barks.

“I’m going to kill them,” Ilya vows.

“And donuts!” He adds. “All from Dunkin’s!”

“Okay, maybe I don’t kill then yet,” Ilya sighs.

“What is it with Boston and Dunking Donuts,” Shane laughs against Ilya’s chest.

“Is good,” Ilya shrugs and kisses his forehead. “We like good tasty things,” he says, squeezing Shane’s ass once. “Come. Before he eats all the chocolate ones.”

They sit around the kitchen island, in the same spots they’d occupied two days ago. Everything is the same… except now Ilya is here so everything is different. Better. He is rough housing with Svetlana over the last chocolate donut, making Marly laugh mid-sip and spill half his coffee over the countertop, brushing his foot up Shane’s shin and leaning closer until their shoulders brush. It makes Shane blush and smile sheepishly. Until it stops abruptly.

“What?” Ilya asks suddenly, snapping Shane a little out of his dreamy happiness.

He looks at him, but Ilya’s attention is firmly on Marly, eyebrows raised defiantly.

“Nothing, man. Relax. It’s just… strange, seeing you guys together all chummy.”

“You already knew,” Shane says. “I told you.”

“Yeah, man, but hearing about it and seeing it is different. It’s weird.”

“Weird?” Ilya’s voice is cold now, all playfulness gone.

Marleau must catch it, because he stiffens, straightening his back. “Jeez, Rozy, I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s just that you two have always been at each other’s throats, all intense and shit, and now suddenly you like each other? It’s just taking a moment.”

Shane sees the tension in Ilya’s shoulders, Marly’s hesitation, Svetlana watching with caution. He notices Ilya watching him from the corner of his eye, like he is measuring Shane’s reaction, like he is… like he is expecting Shane to bolt any second. And, again, Ilya’s needs overpower Shane’s fears. He makes a split second decision, as easy as hitting the pedal yesterday to save his life.

“We have never been at each other’s throats,” he says, casual, like it’s normal conversation, as he picks a piece of his sprinkled donut. “I mean, in a way we have, I guess, but not like that. We’ve just been at each other’s dicks since rookie year.”

The silence in the kitchen is defeating. Ilya turns fully to looks at him, eyes wide with shock. Shane shoves the piece of donut into his mouth and grins.

Marly barks a laugh, so explosive that it seems to fill the entire kitchen.

“Jesus fuck, Rozy. He’s as bad as you.”

“Worst,” Svetlana chuckles, shaking her head.

The smile that blooms on Ilya’s face is worth the risk of feeling like a exposed nerve. His shoulders finally drop, as he laughs and shakes his head.

“You have timeline wrong. It was before! Summer before!”

Shane rolls his eyes. He loves him so fucking much it’s ridiculous.

Svetlana offers to drive Shane to the airport, since either of the Raiders dropping him off would be suspicious. It’s a bit sobering, after being out in the open in Ilya’s house with his friends.

Ilya hovers around him like a moth in a porch light as he picks his things up and puts them back in his duffel bag.

“You can keep the clothes,” he says, just as Shane starts changing. “No one will know. You can give it back over the summer.”

Shane feels his heart flutter. Ilya is right. No one will know. But they will. The idea of traveling home in Ilya’s clothes is dizzying.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Ilya smiles, then pins him to the wall and kisses him deeply, in that way that makes him melt, legs weak and body lose and pliant.

A long teasing whistle pulls them apart. Shane blushes beet read as he sees Marleau smirking at them from the hallway.

“Rozy, let the man go before he loses his plane.”

“Fuck you, Marleau,” Ilya flips him off, and kisses Shane again, hard, before he lets him go. “Okay, off you go. See you soon, Shane. I will text you.”

“You better,” Shane smiles, and steals one last peck before he rushes off, knowing if he doesn’t he’ll never leave.

The ride with Svetlana is mostly quiet, in a surprisingly comfortable way. Up to the point when they’ve almost reached the airport.

“You didn’t listen to me,” she says, as if it was part of an ongoing conversation. “About letting him go.”

Shane’s stomach jumps. “No. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“No, not really,” Shane admits. “I know what you said. I know why you said. I just couldn’t… I can’t let him go. I won’t.”

Svetlana sighs, her eyes still on the road. “You’re very stubborn, Shane Hollander. It’s probably the only reason Ilya and I are still alive. So I guess I can’t be mad at you about it.”

“It was just dumb luck.”

“It wasn’t. You weren’t there accidentally. You were there because you wanted to save him. You intervened because you were already going to do anything to save him.”

Shane doesn’t know what to reply to that except for, “yes, I would have.”

“I’m not mad,” she insists, “I am thankful. It has been, for so long, just Ilya and me against the world out here. His team is… okay. But other than Marleau I don’t think any of them is very… reliable.”

“You think Marly is reliable?” He blinks.

Svetlana laughs. “When it comes to Ilya, yes. He’s loyal, a good friend.”

Shane hums, thinking back to the last couple days and nods.

“But still… it’s maybe not enough, what we can give him. I am glad to know he has you now. That you would not stop at anything, not even me, for him. He deserves that.”

“He does,” Shane says, feeling his chest full of love and longing at once. “I’m glad he has you too, for what it’s worth. We don’t get to see each other a lot, so… I’m glad he had you.”

Svetlana shrugs. “Yes, but he doesn’t want me the way he wants you. He needs us both.”

He’s aware of what she’s saying, the attempt at reassurance and, maybe even more importantly, the seal of approval. Shane finally risks a look at her, smiling, and is surprised to find her eyes watering.

“Oh, you shouldn’t- I can drive if you want.”

“Hollander, I’m not letting you behind the wheel again unless it’s a life or death situation.”

“I’m a great driver!” Shane complains.

Svetlana laughs, wild and loud and so like Ilya, in a way that up until yesterday would’ve hurt and now makes him like her more.

They say goodbye at the airport dropout area, with a quick hug and a promise to keep in touch and maybe meet for a drink next time he is in town.

Shane grabs his bag and walks inside alone.

He is an experienced traveler. He has a routine. Check-in, security controls, gate, and then maybe have a coffee or herbal tea before boarding. But he knows once he starts all that, this will truly be over. The nightmare of nearly losing Ilya, yes, but also the overwhelming happiness and afterglow of recovering him and being loved, loved, loved by him. So, yeah, Shane is stalling a little when he finds a bar and orders a ginger ale before he starts closing that door.

What they pour him is… not ginger ale. Shane blinks at the dark liquid in the glass, sniffs it just to confirm his suspicions, and is about to call the bartender to fix the mistake when a second, identical glass appears next to him.

“Would be disrespectful to turn down a gifted drink,” says Bobby O’Brien sitting next to him.

Shane jumps a little, feeling his pulse skyrocket. He fully expects to feel the press of a gun or a knife against his ribs. But Bobby had both hands on the counter, around his glass, and looks every bit the unassuming accountant he did back at Sally’s. It helps a little, though Shane’s pulse doesn’t quite settle even as he takes the cold glass between his shaking fingers. His voice is far more steady than he feels as he says:

“I believe it’s me who should be buying you a drink, isn’t it? As a ‘thank you’?”

“Bah,” Bobby waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it.”

“But-“

“Seriously. Not a word, kid,” he sends Shane a warning look. “I can’t afford people thinking I’ve gone soft in my line of work. I’m guessing that goes for you too, don’t it?”

Despite his better judgement, Shane is amused by this.

“I suppose that’s true,” he smiles before taking a sip of whiskey and immediately pulling a face because Jesus Christ he doesn’t like hard liquor and it’s way too early to even pretend he does.

“Heard you were looking for me last night.”

Shit.

“Yeah.”

“You should be smarter than that, kid. Guy like you… you can’t afford getting your hands dirty. It ain’t your thing.”

Shane is tempted to say that Bobby has no idea what Shane could or couldn’t afford, and that he would get his hands far dirtier for the man he loves.

“It was important,” he says instead.

Bobby shakes his head. “I don’t get it. But, then again, I suppose I don’t have to. You got your guy back, and we got our captain. And that’s that.”

Your guy. Shane doesn’t know if he should be worried about what it could mean. But the gangster sitting next to him doesn’t seem interested in that detail, not even when it would be better blackmail material than Shane paying him off like an idiot.

“So,” Shane swirls the glass, in lieu of taking another sip, “are we good?”

“I wouldn’t expect any parades next time you’re in town. You’re still enemy number one as far as this city is concerned.”

Shane laughs. “Makes for good hockey.”

“It better fucking does,” Bobby laughs and downs his drink, before giving Shane a hard pat on his back. “Stay out of trouble in my town next time, Hollander. I can’t afford to lose any more guys because of you.”

“Don’t worry. I’m just making you lose Stanley Cups from now on.”

For the first time in the conversation, Bobby looks startled by this. Then he grins and barks a dry “Hah! See you around, Hollander.”

Shane heavily doubts they’ll ever cross paths again. He really, really, hopes they don’t. But he puts on his best polite smile and waves goodbye as the head of the fucking Boston Irish mafia family walks away. Only once he’s left alone does Shane breathe easy, practically melting on the bar. He gestures to the bartender to get a ginger ale, hoping the sugar will help settle his blood pressure.

His pocket buzzes. Shane looks down. A smile splits his face at the sight of the text sender.

Lily: got my phone back :)
Lily: you were very needy while I was away
Lily: that desperate for it?

Shane laughs, shaking his head.

Shane: Asshole
Shane: I was worried.
Shane: And I missed you.

He sees the dots appear and disappear three times before the Ilya replies.

Lily: I missed u too
Lily: I miss u already

Shane thinks of the past several weeks of not knowing, of worrying, of missing Ilya. He thinks of that mean little voice that tried to convince him that Ilya had chosen to let go of him, that urged Shane to do the same. He thinks of three nights ago, standing alone in the middle of Ilya’s dark house, unsure whether he’d ever see him again, he thinks of the words “mine” and “yours” uttered desperately back and forth just a few hours ago. He looks at these two last messages and knows with unshakable certainty he could never lose Ilya Rozanov, no matter what.

Shane: I love you

The answer is immediate and unequivocal:

Lily: I love you too.

Chapter End Notes

ITS DONE

Jfc guys this one got away from me. I knew it’d be the most crazy and convoluted of the series yet when the idea hit me but I did not expect for it to go this long. Thank you for sticking around!!!

I hope you liked the crazy shenanigans, the mystery board and detective trio, the crazy driving and the insane hockey in the middle of it all.

I had so much fun reading all of your comments. Specially because this one had enough of a mystery to have you all guessing for a while. Your theories were all so much fun too that half the time I was like “damn that would’ve been fun too” (shout out to everyone that wanted a car chase in the middle of a tornado lmfao you really are my people and we should all watch Twisters together)

I’m not even going to pretend I don’t have ANOTHER crazy idea in my head for the next part of this series. (Has anyone noticed the pattern yet? I will talk about that and about the in depth narrative purpose of this and the past fics in this series in my Twitter @pamericachavez so pls come talk to me there too!!)

Love you all!!!!