Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

more character tags to be added later probably, Near Death Experiences, Action/Adventure, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, no one dies, Fire, Whump, Action & Romance, Action, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Is Bad at Feelings, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Takes Care of Ilya Rozanov, POV Alternating, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Heated Rivalry - But Make It a Procedural TV Show Universe

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-05 Completed: 2026-05-16 Words: 16,544 Chapters: 8/8

this whole damn world can fall apart

Summary

“I’m here. I’m here,” comes through, finally. “Sorry, just- I’m here. What do you need?”

“Just talk,” Ilya begs, not even caring how pathetic he sounds. “Please.”

“Okay, okay,” Hollander breathes. “You know. I keep thinking. This isn’t right. There’s something fucking wrong.”

“Of course there’s something wrong, Hollander! Your building is on fire!”

“I fucking know, Rozanov!”

Or:

Pre-tunamelt, in peak situationship era, Hollanov’s building catches fire… with Ilya still inside.

Notes

Thought I could stay away from the buzzy ideas for longer than a week. I was wrong.

Soooooooo…. Here we go again putting the Hollanov Situationship into Situations.

If you are new here: the rules are that we are going to pretend these dumbass hockey players are waaaaay better at action movie like emergencies than would be realistic (and hopefully keep them in character in the process).

Everyone, leave realism at the door and grab a cup of whimsey ✨

Chapter 1: hold tight

Chapter Notes

Shane Hollander is, truly, a talented man.

On the ice, he’s unmatched —except, of course, by Ilya—. The entire world knows it. In bed, he is unlike any lover Ilya has ever had, pliant, hungry, desperate and eager to please. Only a select few (who Ilya prefers not to think about) know it. But the one talent that Ilya Rozanov is confident only he truly knows, is Shane’s near inhuman capability to go from loose and well-fucked relaxation to the absolute most tense anxiousness known to man in the blink of an eye. It’s truly remarkably insane.

Ilya, as the self-appointed leading expert in all things Shane Hollander, has learned how to identify the millisecond when it happens. It’s usually preambled by Hollander’s softest instants, melting against Ilya’s side, eyes distant and glassy, little satisfied sighs, the smallest upward curve to his lips. It always, for a second, fools Ilya into thinking he will stay. And it always, without fail, ends with Hollander tensing like a knot, and saying:

“I have to go.”

Every time they meet, it happens faster. Which is frustrating, because lately Ilya finds himself pulled on the opposite direction, wishing Hollander would stay a little longer. But he never does.

Tonight, as Hollander rolls away, leaving Ilya’s torso colder with his absence, Ilya can’t repress a pang of disappointment.

“Always in a hurry, Hollander,” he groans, disguising his annoyance with humor. “Where is fire? We already played a game tonight, remember? We have the whole night free.”

“I forgot. I promised to call my mom. We had to discuss a new sponsor,” Hollander says, not even looking at him as he slips back into his jeans.

Ilya watches him, fighting back the urge to complain, to ask him to stay. They don’t do this.

Only after throwing his shirt back on, does Hollander look back at him.

“You can stay a bit, if you want.”

Ilya wrinkles his nose at the obvious pity.

“Is your place.”

“It’s just the condo,” he shrugs. “Not like it’s my house or anything.”

“No, of course not,” Ilya says, bitterly, hating himself for resenting the fact in the first place. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t. He definitely doesn’t.

Hollander pauses, and for a second Ilya is scared that he caught on to the uneasy feelings warring in his chest.

“Take a shower if you want. It’s… it’s actually good, for the plumbing. I don’t use this place nearly often enough. There’s a lot of hot water. And the shampoo’s gotta be better than your hotel’s.”

Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Fine, Hollander, I will use your shower so your precious plumbing doesn’t rot away.”

Ilya wonders if when he says he ‘doesn’t use it often enough’ he means he only comes here with him. He doesn’t let himself entertain the idea (nice as it is) long enough.

“Okay,” Hollander seems satisfied. “Alright. I’m… I’m gonna go. Night, Rozanov.”

“Night, Hollander.”

After Shane leaves, Ilya is tempted to stay in bed for a while. Wallowing.

He doesn’t wallow.

(He does, sometimes, but it’s dangerous. It’s like playing with fire. He knows where it leads. If he lets himself touch that dark heavy feeling he might not emerge from it for a long time. He can’t risk it.)

So he stands up, runs the shower until it’s scalding hot, while he scrolls through his DMs filled with gorgeous eager women who would meet him in a moment’s notice if he asked. He doesn’t text back any of them. He just hops into the shower and lets the hot water rinse off the sweat, semen and shame off his body.

He gives himself these few minutes to let himself want impossible things, then turns off the water and reminds himself how stupid that is.

Enough.

Ilya steps out of the shower, smelling of Shane’s expensive nice shampoo and body wash, and dries himself with the stupid clean and fluffy cotton towels. The bathroom is still very hot from all the water and steam. Ilya cleans the mirror and meets his own eyes, giving himself a harsh look. Stop wallowing, dammit. Stop.

Shit, why is this bathroom so warm? Ilya steps out into the bedroom and picks his clothes from the floor. The room is hot too. They didn’t even turn on the AC and it’s still warm just from their fucking. Hollander really needs to invest in better ventilation.

Annoyance bubbles in Ilya’s chest. Maybe that’s why Hollander was in such a fucking hurry to get out of here. This place sucks. Has it always been this suffocating?

(Is Ilya having a panic attack? No. No way. He doesn’t think so.)

He opens the bedroom door, ready to leave, and is met by fire and smoke, hot air scalding his face.

“Ah, fuck!” He stumbles backwards, slamming the door shut. Only now does he notice the handle is warm. Too warm.

Fuck. Fuck!

(Okay. Now he is panicking.)

Ilya goes to grab his phone.

Missed call from Jane (4).

The phone starts buzzing almost immediately.

Incoming call: Jane.

“Hollander,” he breathes, at the same time as Shane shouts on the other side of the line:

“Rozanov! Thank fucking God. I thought- Are you alright?!”

“No, I’m not fucking alright! The fucking place is on fire!”

“I fucking know! I’ve been trying to call you!” Hollander yells, he sounds like he’s panting. Panicking, probably.

“Why are you calling me? Call 9-1-1!”

“I did! They are on their way, but they said it might be a while.“

“A while?”

Hollander takes a moment too long to answer. “Thirty minutes out.”

“Half an hour?! Why?!”

“I don’t know, Rozanov! That’s what they said! Where the fuck are you?!”

“Bedroom. Everything outside is on fire.”

“Okay, okay, you need to go to the bathroom, wet some towels and put them under the door.”

“What?!”

“Just do it, Rozanov! You need to keep the smoke out.”

“Fuck. Right. Right.”

“Do not open the windows!”

“I know. Oxygen. I know,” Ilya mumbles, rushing to the bathroom and shoving the fancy towels into the sink until they are heavy and soaking wet.

“Rozanov? You still there?”

“Yes. Covering the door now.”

Shane keeps breathing heavy on the line. Ilya steps away from the door, shaking.

“Okay, good. Done.”

There’s no immediate answer. Ilya has a sudden pang of fear that Hollander will think his job is done and hang up. That he will leave Ilya alone while he waits to either be burned alive or be rescued.

“Hollander?”

It takes a moment longer. There’s noise on the other side of the line. Maybe the connection isn’t good. Maybe it’s just Ilya’s heart pounding in his ears or the crackling of the fire outside the door.

“I’m here. I’m here,” comes through, finally. “Sorry, just- I’m here. What do you need?”

“Just talk,” Ilya begs, not even caring how pathetic he sounds. “Please.”

“Okay, okay,” Hollander breathes. “You know. I keep thinking. This isn’t right. There’s something fucking wrong.”

“Of course there’s something wrong, Hollander! Your building is on fire!”

“I fucking know, Rozanov! But I just had… the anual… inspection last month. It shouldn’t be… the alarms should have gone off… the sprinklers… the doors should be locking… to stop it from spreading.”

“I want to complain to the landlord,” Ilya says, hoping his humor will conceal his fear or, at the very least, to keep Shane from panicking. It sounds like the man can barely breathe as is.

“Very funny.”

Ilya stays on the line, listens to Shane breathe.

“Room is getting hot,” he says after a moment. “Smoke is coming in, I think.”

“Fuck,” Hollander hisses. “I just need to- Okay, get in the bathroom. Cover the doors too.”

“And then what? Just wait to die in smaller place?”

“Fucking do it, Ilya!”

Hollander’s roughness snaps Ilya out of it. He does as he’s told. He leaves the phone on top of the toilet lid while he wets another towel and stuffs the space under the door as best as he can.

He stares at his work, breathing heavy, wondering if it’s enough.

“Rozanov? Ilya! Ilya, are you there?” Hollander’s faint voice comes from his abandoned phone.

Ilya sets it on speaker.  

“I am. In the bathroom.”

“Okay, okay. Just… hold on.”

He sits on the floor between the toilet and the shower, his back pressed to the wall furthest away from the door, as if that could save him.

“How bad is it?” Ilya asks after a moment, even if he doubts the answer will help.

“Not too bad, but close to you. Fire started a couple floors bellow you. Hasn’t spread down, so the building structure should hold. I hope. But better not test it.”

“Ah, and how do you suggest I don’t test it?”

Hollander doesn’t reply. Ilya can still hear him breathing heavy on the other side.

“Hollander?”

“Just give me a- Fuck! Okay. Okay, just-“

Ilya frowns. “Hollander, are you okay? Are you hurt. Maybe you should stay away from building. Could… explode or something. It’s not safe.”

Somehow, the idea of Hollander getting hurt by the fire is scarier than himself dying in it. Or, maybe not scarier, but more urgent. Yes. Something he can focus on. Something he can try to fix.

“Hollander?” He says more firmly. “You should stand back until help comes.”

The laugher on the other side of the line is… near hysterical.

Okay. So maybe Hollander isn’t handling his panic at all.

“Rozanov,” Shane’s voice sounds rough, “you are an idiot.”

“Not very nice words for a man about to die in a fire, Hollander. Very rude of you.”

“Well, fuck that.”

The line goes dead. Ilya is so shell shocked by it, by the cold of the silence as Hollander just leaves him alone, that the door slamming open almost gives him a heart attack. But there’s no time for his heart to stop, not really, because standing there, sweaty and covered in soot, backlit by the flames, is Shane fucking Hollander, panting hard, clutching a fire extinguisher in one hand and offering Ilya the other.

“You’re not dying on me, Rozanov. Get up. We are getting out of here.”

Chapter End Notes

I am going to be real with yall. I have no idea if all chapters are going to be this long. As usual, the plot is plotted but the chapter count is likely too optimistic.

Chapter 2: you’re in harm’s way, i’m right behind

Chapter Summary

“Would you rather we just stay here until the firefighters arrive?” Shane arches his eyebrows.

“There should be no ‘we’! You shouldn’t be here!”

“Well, tough shit, Rozanov. I’m already here.”

Chapter Notes

Thank you to everyone who commented!!! I’m so glad you guys aren’t tired of my silly little situations here 😭 💕

Rozanov stares at him like he’s a ghost. Given the circumstances, and how terrible he probably looks, Shane supposes that’s fair. Meanwhile, of course, Rozanov looks gorgeous, clean and fresh, his hair still wet from the shower, his skin glistening with sweat as if he was in the middle of a photoshoot or something. Part of Shane, irrationally, wants to jump his bones all over again right here and now.

But there’s no time for that.

“C’mon, Rozanov, we have to hurry,” he hisses, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him up.

The touch of his skin is like a balm. Thank god, thank god, thank god. I thought I would never see you again.

“Hollander,” Rozanov finally reacts as Shane forces him to his feet, immediately going to grab him by the shoulders, “what the fuck are you doing here?!”

Rescuing you, is what Shane would say. But it sounds ridiculous and overly dramatic and frankly embarrassing. And just like that, Shane’s relief is replaced by annoyance.

“What does it look like?” He huffs a laugh instead.

Which is a bad idea, because his throat is fucking dry from running up twelve flights of stairs, three of them on fire and filled with smoke. He starts coughing, letting go of Ilya to cover his mouth with his arm.

“Fuck. Shit,” he groans almost soundlessly, opening the faucet and dunking his head into the sink to drink some water until it doesn’t feel like he’s choking.

He doesn’t realize that Rozanov is holding him, one hand on his shoulder, the other steady on his back, until he’s able to take a deep breath.

“Hollander.”

“It’s fine,” Shane straightens up, pushing him away with the motion. “Just dry. Are you okay?”

Rozanov arches his eyebrows, as if the question was ridiculous. “I am not the one that just ran into a fucking fire, Hollander. What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Shane explains, throat still feeling raw, as he walks out of the bathroom and goes to the bedroom’s closet. He grabs two of the spare shirts he stocked here months ago and throws one at Rozanov, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t know if you were, like, unconscious or something, okay? And I had a fire extinguisher in my car, for emergencies, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, so I-“ There’s no way around this. “I came looking for you.”

“But I picked up. You knew I was alright.”

“Inside a burning building,” Shane huffs, going to the bathroom and shoving the shirt under the faucet until it’s soaked wet. “And I was already halfway here anyway.”

“Yes, but now you-“

“I know, Rozanov!” he snaps. He doesn’t mean to, but this is all terrifying enough without the dreadful ordeal of having to explain to the man he is fucking that the fear of losing him outweighed his own survival instincts. “Can we just- can we just get out of here and talk about it later?”

Or, better yet, never?

Shane takes the wet shirt, rolls half of it and wraps it around his nose and mouth like an improvised face mask.

“How do you know these things?” Rozanov whispers, finally getting the hint and following Shane’s steps with his own spare t-shirt. “Why are you not panicking?”

“Who says I’m not?” Shane laughs, thinking about the blind all-consuming fear that had taken over his brain as he sprung up several flights of stairs not knowing whether Ilya was alive or not. “But I- well I took a course on fire safety. My mom insisted before I moved to Montreal.“

Rozanov laughs, as if it was funny that Shane is prepared for emergencies. As if it’s ridiculous. Given the circumstances they are in, he thinks that’s fucking rich of him.

“Okay, mister fireman,” Rozanov says, covering his own face, “now what?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Now we get out.”

“With just your car extinguisher?”

“Of course not, you asshole. This one’s almost empty anyway.”

“Ah, great!”

“I told you, I just passed the inspection. There’s one in every floor,” Shane sighs. “We just need to grab a couple more… it’s just to make it down to the ninth floor. After that, we should be good.”

“Should be good. Okay. Fine, Hollander. If you say so.”

“Would you rather we just stay here until the firefighters arrive?” Shane arches his eyebrows.

“There should be no ‘we’! You shouldn’t be here!”

“Well, tough shit, Rozanov. I’m already here.”

I had no choice. There is no world where I just stand out there waiting, while you could be dying. Because I am an idiot, apparently.

“Okay, are you ready?”

“No. But what the hell,” Rozanov shrugs.

“Stay close.”

Shane nods and opens the door. The heat is suffocating, but the wet rag over his face helps make it far more bearable than it was in the way in. He walks purposefully across the living room and towards the kitchen.

(He tries not to mourn the loss of this stupid dumb apartment that he had furnished thinking specifically of nights spent in the arms of Ilya Rozanov, trues not to think about how it’d been rather plain and impersonal at first but how it has slowly become their own, with every night spent making the most of what precious little time they have together. The couch, the carpet, the diner table… they’ve fucked in all of them and now they are on fire. Maybe it’s a metaphor about what a terrible idea this whole ordeal is. Maybe it’s a sign from the universe. It still makes Shane incredibly sad.)

Shane focuses on spraying the closest fires as he makes his way to the kitchen sink, clearing a path for both of them. He feels Rozanov looming close behind him, tracing the same path. Finally, Shane reaches the sink, sprays the burning counter with the last remains of his car’s emergency extinguisher, then opens the wrecked doors and pulls out the fire extinguisher he just replaced two months ago, specifically for the inspection.

“Okay.” Shane discards the old extinguisher and clutches the new one tightly. He turns to Rozanov, trying to look brave. The kitchen around them is still mostly on fire. “This is fine.”

To his surprise, Rozanov bursts out laughing, the sound wonderful and bright, out of place in the dark smoky hellscape around them.

“What?” Shane asks.

Rozanov just shakes his head, his eyes still crinkling with laughter, like Shane is the funniest man alive. It’s ridiculous and it makes Shane’s heart do a little flip.

Focus, you idiot, everything is literally on fire.

“We better move. Stay close. We gotta make it to the stairs, then just two flights down. Got it?”

“Bossy.”

“Fuck off.”

Shane takes the lead, spraying the flames in the hallway connecting the apartments. It’s not as bad as it was when he came in, but a lot of his previous work has been undone by the flames. Truth be told, he knows that a fire extinguisher is far from an effective tool to deal with a fire this size, it’s only meant for smaller accidental fires, like what would happen if some Russian idiot threw a lit cigarette in a trashcan. A fire this size needs more water, needs the sprinklers that for some godforsaken reason are not going off as they should. So… this is all they’ve got.

Rozanov stays close, his hand pressed gently to Shane’s back, his presence comforting. They make it down the stairs. The heat is becoming unbearable (it was, somehow, easier to put up with it when he was panicking about Ilya’s fate), sweat drips into his eyes. He cleans his face with his forearm, and takes a right.

“Hollander, where are you going?” Rozanov mutters, but stays close.

Shane focuses on opening a path: the floor, the ceiling, the walls. The unfinished building structure is burning too hard, too fast. But they make it to the extinguisher in the hallway. He uses the butt of his own to open crystal box, clearing the small remaining glass on the frame before reaching in for the new one.

He hands it over to Rozanov, who grabs it with both hands and clutches it to his chest like a treasure.

“You know how to use that?”

“Yes, I’m not an idiot, Hollander.”

“Take the safety off.”

“I know.” Rozanov rolls his eyes, but he takes a bit too long until he finds and unlocks it.

Breathing is getting harder. The air is so dark he can barely see Rozanov’s movements.

“C’mon,” Shane presses, back towards the stairs.

Rozanov falls into step with him, taking over the right side as Shane works on the left. It’s stunning how well they work, how coordinated. Whenever a spot flares, one of them catches it without speaking. They have each other’s back seamlessly.

(They have never played together on the ice, not in the same team, but Shane imagines this is kinda what it would feel like. It’s a nice little fantasy. Impossible. But comforting. If only because in the rink they wouldn’t be putting up with this fucking heat.)

By the time they make it to the ninth floor, which is still too warm but, thankfully, not yet in flames, they are both panting and sweating.

Rozanov rips off the wet shirt from his face, gasping for air.

“Fuck. That- that sucked,” he heaves.

Shane tries to reply, but his throat closes again with a coughing fit that has him bending over, leaning on his knees for support. Rozanov approaches. Shane tries to wave him off with one hand, but it’s no use. The other man is bending over him, his hands on his shoulders and a far too openly concerned expression in his eyes.

“Fuck, Hollander. And I’m the smoker.”

“Fuck… you,” Shane heaves. “I’m fine. Not used to… inhaling smoke… like you.”

Rozanov’s frown deepens. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yes,” Shane forces himself to take in a deep breath and straightens up. Rozanov follows the motion, staying close. His concern is… unexpectedly sweet. “I’m okay,” Shane says more softly. “I’m good. I’ll be better once we are out of here.”

Rozanov doesn’t seem too relived, but he nods after a moment. Shane takes a deep breath. He can still taste the smoke but it’s better here, and it will just improve as they go down.

The worst has passed.

They make it down almost floors before Shane is abruptly proved wrong.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Rozanov is holding him back as they round the corner towards the sixth floor.

“What?”

“There’s smoke,” Ilya frowns.

“What?” Shane looks around.

Rozanov is right, the air around them is murky. Shane can’t really tell from the smell (everything kinda smells smoky to him right now, himself included).

“Fuck. That can’t- There wasn’t fire downstairs on the way up.”

“Maybe you didn’t notice.”

Shane frowns. That’s… true. Maybe it just hadn’t reached the stairs before. He hadn’t really stopped to check other floors on his way up. But… well, he’d assumed the fire must have come from an electrical installation issue, which would have explained why it started near the only reconditioned apartment in the building. Having fire this far below has to mean something else.

“Shit. Okay. Okay. C’mon, we need extinguishers.”

They make their way back two floors up, grabbing an extinguisher each. They go back all the way up to the ninth floor to recover the wet shirts too. They aren’t quite as wet anymore, with the heat and all, but Shane guesses they’ll have to do.

The ninth floor is now far darker than before and starting to burn near the stairs. Shane feels the clock ticking. They need to get out of here before the place comes crashing down.

Rozanov and him share a look and a single nod before braving the fire again.

It’s bad.

It’s very bad.

Shane still thinks they are doing to make it. Then, there’s a violent tug as Rozanov pulls him back by the shirt. Shane stumbles backwards, landing against a sturdy chest, right before the steps in front of him collapse. Shane stares at the fiery void in front of him, shaking. He can feel Rozanov’s frantic heartbeat against his, his arms wrapped around Shane’s torso like he will be ripped away any second.

He hears Rozanov spit a long string of Russian words. Pretty sure he’s cursing. Shane doesn’t need to understand what he is saying to agree with the sentiment.

“Go back,” he tries to say, but his voice is rough with smoke and shaky with fear. “Go back! Backup!” He raises his voice, over the cracking flames, as he turns around inside Rozanov’s arms and starts pushing.

Finally, Rozanov seems to get the idea. He grabs Shane and all but drags him back upstairs. Between one pushing and one dragging, they clumsily retrace their steps, not even bothering with the extinguishers, until they are back in the relative safety of the seventh floor.

They collapse next to each other on the floor, panting and coughing (Shane is a little ashamed of himself for feeling vindicated by Rozanov coughing too, it makes him feel less weak… which is fucking stupid, probably).

“Fuck, that was close,” Rozanov huffs once they both stop. “You okay?”

Shane looks at him and nods. “Thank you, I- if you hadn’t-“

“But you didn’t. Is okay. Yes?”

“Yes. You?”

Rozanov nods, sitting up and looking at the stairs. “Now what?”

Shane just closes his eyes. He blames the tears on the smoke making his eyes sting. “I don’t know.”

Oh god, now what? Just wait. Or die. Shane isn’t ready to die. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to see his parents, and he wants to see Hayden’s kids grow up, he wants to win another Stanley Cup, or two, or three.

The worst part is that Ilya Rozanov is here. Shane really wishes he wasn’t. Because as comforting as his presence is, as much as he is glad that he isn’t alone facing dead, that of all people it is Ilya with him in the end… even more overwhelming is the horror of thinking that Ilya will die too. The thought is more agonizing than the heat and the smoke and the fear.

And worst of all: this is Shane’s fault.

If he hadn’t bought this stupid building, if he had just brought Ilya home like he truly wanted or if he had put an end to this as he should have… then Ilya would be okay.

“Hollander, get up,” Rozanov says, snapping him out of the spiral of anxiety and regret. Shane opens his eyes and finds him standing over him. “Get up.”

Shane obeys, accepting the hand the Russian offers. Once on his feet, he notices the smoke is starting to fill this floor too. Fuck.

Rozanov gestures for him to follow. Not towards the stairs but to the opposite end of the hallway. Towards the elevator.

“They don’t work. I never installed them and, besides, we really shouldn’t be taking the elevator during a fire.”

“We are not taking it,” Ilya says, digging his fingers into the crack between the metal doors and starting to pull. “Is our way out. Stop staring, help me fucking pull, Hollander.”

Oh, he has to be kidding. No way. No.

“You want us to die in fire?”

Fuck. Fuck his stupid life.

Shane steps in and digs his fingers next to Rozanov, meeting the other man’s eyes.

“This is a terrible idea.”

Rozanov has the gall to grin. “What is?”

Chapter End Notes

Burning to death, asphyxiating from smoke inhalation or falling seven floors to your death down an elevator shaft.

Good choices all around, uh?

Chapter 3: don’t let go

Chapter Summary

“I am not scared of fucking heights, Rozanov! But I am not a fan of falling ten floors to our deaths either.”

“You will not fall, Hollander, oh my god. It’s a ladder. You are professional athlete, I think you can climb down a ladder without falling.”

Chapter Notes

Unrealistic shenanigans about to ensue.

Please PLEASE do not take any of this as advice on how to deal with an actual fire.

Opening the doors is harder than Ilya expected, but they manage together.

Before them, a void opens, cold, dark, apparently endless. The streetlights shining through the windows aren’t enough to reach in here. It’s just… dark.

Ilya takes out his phone, uses the flashlight to look around. The elevator’s wires hang ominously in the middle of the pit, thick and still. Ilya swallows and checks around looking for… ah, there. A metallic pit ladder extends all the way down, bolted to the wall.

“No,” Hollander says, taking a step back.

Ilya turns to him and finds him deadly pale under the soot, his dark eyes glued to the abyss.

Fuck. If Hollander panics, there will be no getting out of here. Ilya is not an idiot, he knows this is risky, he knows it is incredibly stupid, but he also knows it’s their only way out. The alternative is just waiting to die (or be rescued, but that is also looking increasingly unlikely). And Ilya is not willing to do that. Fuck this. He isn’t dying here and, perhaps more urgently, neither is Shane Hollander. Not after he fucking ran into this dead trap of a building for Ilya.

“What? Are you scared of heights, Hollander?”

“I’m not!” Hollander jumps, offended.

Good. Ilya can work with that.

“You are,” he grins, like this is funny instead of possibly a huge problem in his desperate escape plan.

“I am not scared of fucking heights, Rozanov! But I am not a fan of falling ten floors to our deaths either.”

“You will not fall, Hollander, oh my god. It’s a ladder. You are professional athlete, I think you can climb down a ladder without falling.”

Hollander shakes his head. “It- it won’t hold.”

“It will. You had it inspected.”

“Yeah, well, I am not fucking trusting those inspections right now!” He snaps, voice shaky.

“Hollander, it will be okay. Just a few floors down. We can do this.”

And, to prove his point, he puts his phone —flashlight still on— in his front pocket, only half-tucked in with the light peeking out. Then, he grabs the metallic staircase and swings himself into it (a little more recklessly than is probably necessary).

“Ilya, don’t!”

Hollander rushes forward, hands outstretched, stepping dangerously close to the edge like he is ready to pull Ilya out of the clutches of dead… or jump after him. Ilya just hangs there, a little dumb folded by the intensity in Hollander’s terrified face, by the way he’d screamed his name. They look at each other for a moment that stretches probably longer than is safe, given the circumstances. He watches Hollander’s fear morph, first into embarrassment and then into anger.

“You, asshole!”

Ilya feels like he might blush too and doesn’t trust the darkness to cover for him. He grabs the wet shirt hanging from his neck and sets it over his nose again.

“C’mon on, Hollander. The faster we go, the less we are risking that the stairs won’t fall, yes?” Ilya forces himself to climb down, like nothing complicated just happened inside his heart.

He climbs down a few meters then glances up and, thankfully, sees how Shane covers his face and carefully climbs onto the ladder too and starts, slowly, carefully, making his way down too.

Good. Good.

They climb down slowly but surely. All along, Ilya can hear Shane muttering to himself under his breath: oh fuck, oh shit, oh my god, oh god, oh this is bad, oh my god, oh fuck. He shouldn’t find it as endearing as he does.

By the time they reach the seventh floor, he can feel the heat of the fire radiating through the doors. The smoke is harder to tell, in the darkness, but he can smell it and fill it clogging his throat.

It’s Hollander’s incessant muttering that alerts him. His voice grows fainter, further away. When Ilya looks up, he finds that Hollander is frozen in place in between floors. He’s not moving. He has taken off the makeshift mask. Shit.

Ilya climbs back up.

“Hollander!” He calls. No answer. “Hollander, are you alright?”

Still no answer. He can barely see Hollander’s stiff posture, his head brand down in between his hands.

“I’m okay,” Hollander’s voice is small and uncertain. “Sorry, I’m just…. I just need a moment.”

Ilya doesn’t like how breathy Hollander sounds, or the way his arms and legs seem to be shaking a little. He has the terrible feeling that any second he will collapse and fall.

He makes a choice that is not even a choice at all. He climbs up, maneuvering his hands around Hollander to hold on to the steps by his chest, slowly pulling himself up until his feet are standing on the step bellow Shane’s, his hands holding the ones above his head, his entire body enveloping and holding him there.

“Hollander,” he says. “Shane.”

“I’m sorry. I’m okay. I’m just- I’m freaking out.”

Ilya pulls down his wet shirt too.

“Breathe. You have to breathe.”

“I- I can’t.”

“Shane, it’s okay. You are okay,” Ilya says, wishing he could hug him. Pressing his body against his back is the best he can do right now. “We are almost there. Halfway through. You can do this.”

Shane shakes his head, still hunched over. His knuckles are white from holding so tight.

“I feel- I feel like I’m going to die.”

Ilya’s heart breaks.

“No. No, you are Shane fucking Hollander. You do not die in some stupid random building fire.”

“No?”

“No. This is not how you die, okay?”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know. You want me to tell you? Long time from now. You die of very old age. Almost as old as Hunter.” Shane lets out a tiny laugh that lets Ilya know he’s on the right track. “You die in bed, happy and very loved. Surrounded by all your very many cups and trophies and rings… a lot of them. Only maybe one or two less than me.”

Shane laughs again, steadier. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Yes, later.” It’s low hanging fruit, but Ilya does love that joke and he can feel Shane’s body slowly ease under him. “But first we get out of here. Okay?”

Ilya feels Shane nod.

“Good,” he praises and presses one quick kiss to the back of Shane’s neck before pulling the wet shirt up again over his face. He gently puts Shane’s mask back on too, then slowly climbs back down, moving his body around Shane’s.

When he starts going down once more, he is relived to hear Shane moving along too.

They make it down the seventh, sixth and fifth floor. The fourth still feels hot, but by the time they reach the third floor the air feels cooler and lighter. Ilya pauses, reaches a hand out and risks a soft tap at the metal doors. Cold.

“What?” Hollander’s voice comes from above.

Ilya pulls down his mask. “I think it’s safe. No fire here.”

“Are you sure? Rozanov, if there is fire in there and we open the doors, the oxygen will just make it worse.”

“Well, we need to get out of here eventually. And it feels cold. Check.”

Ilya climbs further down. Shane reaches the door and carefully lets his hand hover above the metal plate before touching it.

“Okay, it’s cold,” Shane confirms, pulling his own mask down.

“That’s what I said,” Ilya huffs. “You want to open it?”

Hollander hesitates. Then says. “Okay. Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

It’s awkward like this. They are both pulling from the same side, while holding on to the ladder with the other hand. Hollander pulls from the top, Ilya from the bottom. As they slowly pry one of the two doors open. When there’s enough space, Ilya uses his hold of the door to pull himself up onto the floor, setting himself in between the two doors and using his back and his feet to push them further apart. Shane groans as he pulls harder. Then the doors in.

Hollander wobbles on the ladder. Ilya is quickly on his feet and reaching out to offer a steadying hand. He accepts it and doesn’t let go, letting Ilya help him down and back to solid ground. Hollander steps in, melting against Ilya’s chest, his face pressed to him.

Ilya freezes for a second, feeling like he has been handed something precious. Carefully, he wraps his arms around him, holding him tightly.

“God, that sucked,” Shane whispers.

“Yes, but you did good,” Ilya rubs his back, hoping to provide some comfort. “We are almost there, yes?”

Shane nods, pulling back. “Okay, yes. Sorry, just, needed a moment.”

“Is okay. But we better move, just three more floors to go.”

Shane nods, pulling further out of Ilya’s grasp. His face is flushed under the soot and sweat, a couple wet tracks across his cheeks might be from tears, but his expression settles into something familiar and steady. Game-ready.

“Okay, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

There is my Shane, the thought comes unbidden and dangerous.

Fuck.

“Lead the way, Mister Firefighter.”

Shane grins, rolls his eyes and walks to the stairs. Ilya’s heart does a little flip.

It takes Ilya too long to notice. Between the noise of the building groaning above them, the smell of smoke clinging to his throat and the stupid little complicated things his heart is doing, he almost misses it. But the smell is strong and intrusive in its wrongness, enough to make him halt in his tracks.

“You smell that?”

Shane is already rounding the stairs towards the second floor. He pauses and frowns back at Ilya.

“More smoke?”

“No,” Ilya looks around.

Every door in the hallway is open. Like in other floors, there are spare materials and unused tools laying around. But the floor is… wet. He rubs his foot on it. The trail leads to the closest apartment. He steps forward.

“Rozanov, what the fuck are you doing?” Shane hisses, following him closely. “We need to get out of here. C’mon.”

Ilya isn’t listening. He is frozen in the entrance of the empty unfinished apartment. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, they are all drenched in… acetone. There are open barrels of the stuff spread across the room. He can smell them. His stomach drops. This stuff isn’t just incendiary… it’s volatile.

“What the fuck?” He breathes.

The windows are open, the ambers of the upstairs fires fall like bright mortal snowflakes. It’s matter of time for one single hot particle to land in the wrong place.

“Oh, shit,” Shane breathes next to him and is suddenly tugging him hard by the arm. “We need to get out of here! C’mon!”

Ilya doesn’t need to be told twice. They run back out, through the hallway, down the stairs. They are sounding the second floor, with just one flight of stairs fo go, when the world bursts into flames around them.

Ilya feels the wall of hot air hit his body and throw him backwards with a deafening boom. Somewhere, mid air, he loses Shane’s touch.

Then, there’s only darkness.

Chapter End Notes

Gotta say, compared to the past three fics in this series, what’s been different and fun this time around is having them TOGETHER while in danger.

So much banter lmfao I’m having a blast!! (get it? haha)

Chapter 4: one dance left

Chapter Summary

Slowly, painstakingly, Shane gets up on his feet. He wobbles a little until he regains his balance. The world stops spinning momentarily, which is only a vague relief, because the world might be still but it’s on fucking fire, filled with smoke and falling apart.

Chapter Notes

The check must have been bad.

Shane can hardly breathe, his entire chest hurts like he’s been stabbed, the world is spinning, he can’t open his eyes.

Get up, a stubborn voice inside him says. Get up. Concussion spotters are gonna see it and pull you out. Get up. Get the fuck up, Shane.

Shane!

“Shane!”

That voice isn’t in his head.

Shane opens his eyes with a huff. He is lying face down, his cheek pressed to the floor. He’s not on the bright cold ice. Quite the opposite. Everything around him is hot and dark. In the flickering light, he can see that the floor he’s lying on is covered in dust. No, not dust. Cinder.

“Shane!”

Ilya. He sounds… distressed. Maybe in pain.

Shane’s brain reboots with a jolt. He coughs, spitting dark saliva on the floor as he pushes up on his hands and knees. The movement alone sends a new stab of pain through his core. Fuck. Fuck that hurts. Not to mention the way his head is pounding or how the world around him keeps spinning out of place.

Ilya’s voice hones in and out, making it past the high pitched ringing in his ears in waves.

“Oh, tha… god, Holl… right? Shane?”

He gets the gist of it.

“I’m okay,” he croaks, but speaking has him coughing again. And coughing hurts like hell.

Fuck. Fuck! Maybe he broke a rib or something. Okay, that’s a problem for later. 

Once he can breathe, Shane spits more soot-filled saliva on the floor and puts his improvised mask back on. It isn’t even wet anymore, but it feels better to have something covering his airways.

Slowly, painstakingly, Shane gets up on his feet. He wobbles a little until he regains his balance. The world stops spinning momentarily, which is only a vague relief, because the world might be still but it’s on fucking fire, filled with smoke and falling apart.

Then, Ilya makes a sound —a pained sound— and Shane’s entire mind zeroes in on him, pain and fear all but forgotten.

Ilya is lying on the floor, surrounded by flames and debris. He is looking at Shane, but his face is stricken with pain, his eyes anguished and his mouth twisted downwards with a grimace. Shane is running before his body gets the message that they are okay, they have to be okay, because Ilya needs him. His legs almost give out, but he holds it together.

“Oh, god. Oh, god. Ilya. Oh my god. Are you okay?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

“Your head.”

“Oh,” Shane touches his forehead. His fingers come back wet. “I’m okay. Are you-”

“You need to go,” Ilya says, gritting his teeth.

Shane balks. “What?! No, c’mon, we are almost there.”

“I can’t,” Ilya whines, closing his eyes. “M- My leg…”

Shane’s eyes traces Ilya’s beautiful, familiar body and land on his left leg, trapped under a huge metal beam.

No.

“Fuck. Okay, okay. Let me-”

“There’s no fucking time, Hollander, you have to-”

Shane turns around, feral and furious, to level Ilya with a murderous glare.

“Rozanov, I am not fucking leaving you! So you can either say something useful or shut the fuck up!”

Without wasting a second, Shane grabs the beam. Or tries to. The contact burns his palms immediately, he hisses stepping back.

“Hollander.”

“Fuck off!”

Shane swallows back the tears from the pain and forces himself to think. Think. Think, dammit!

Okay.

He takes off the shirt wrapped around his face, tears it in half and hastily wraps it around his hands. Now, protected, he grabs the beam and pulls. And pulls. And pulls. The beam gives minutely but not enough, not nearly enough. His ribs feel like they are on fire too.

“Fuck!” He huffs letting go. The effort leaves him with a coughing fit that makes him double over with pain, each cough more painful that a puck to the ribs.

“Hollander.”

He straightens. “I told you, I’m not fucking leaving you! So if you-”

“No, no. I- I help. You- you need… what is word?”

Shane finally turns to look at him, panting and sweating and shaking with horror.

“What word?”

“The thing. You- you pull. It’s… in movie. It’s- Oh, fuck English. It’s in movie! She tells him to pull and he- he does. And they fall with crocodiles.”

“What?”

Oh god, is the smoke getting to him? Is Ilya hallucinating?!

And then Ilya makes a gesture with his hand.

A… handjob? That can’t be- wait!

“A lever?”

“Yes!! Lever! To push better.”

“Oh, leverage!”

Shane has a vague memory of a physics class. Something about mechanics. About levers and weight and… something. God, he really should’ve paid more attention in class instead of doodling hockey plays in the back of his notebooks. But he gets the idea.

He roams around the hallway, looking for… ah! There. He grabs the metal pole with his wrapped hands, and looks for a good point to lean on. A piece of cement rubble does the trick. He kicks it (which, again, fucking hurts) closer to the beam. He shoves the metal pole in position and sets himself on the opposite end.

Ilya is still panting, sweating, quietly watching him work. Shane sets himself in position, and looks back at him.

“Ready?”

Ilya clenches his jaw and nods.

Shane pushes down. Hard. His arms shake, his chest burns. Shane puts his entire weight into it. He screams. It feels like he is being torn apart from the inside.

This is nothing, he tells himself, you do more at the gym, you are a professional athlete in a contact sport, you have dealt with more pain during games, you are Shane fucking Hollander, you are not losing Ilya Rozanov today.

The beam gives. Ever so fucking slowly, it lifts. Shane sobs. Ilya screams and moves, freeing his leg.

“I’m out! I’m out!”

Thank fucking goodness. Shane lets go and nearly toples over with exhaustion. His throat fucking closes with the effort, he coughs doubling over, trying to catch his breath or stop his ribs from hurting. They are not done yet.

“Shane?”

“I’m-” Really, no point in complaining right now. Not much point in lying either. He deflects. “Are you alright?”

Ilya nods, still not looking appeased.

Shane rushes over and helps him up. Ilya groans as he stands. When he tries to put weight on his left leg, he makes a terrible sound that lodges inside Shane’s heart. Shane wraps an arm firmly around Ilya’s back, holding him up. Ilya leans his weigh on him.

“C’mon. Just one floor. We are almost there,” Shane mutters.

Ilya, jaw still clenched, just nods. They start moving.

Shane is shorter, he doesn’t make a very good crutch, but he puts all of his considerable strength into pulling Ilya along, holding him up, keeping him on his feet. (To be perfectly honest, Shane isn’t entirely sure if he’s holding Ilya up or leaning on him at this point). They move through the fire and smoke together, as a single four-legged creature, stumbling down the stairs.

Moving stings. Breathing burns. Actually, Shane isn’t so sure that breathing is working at all right now. He draws breath but he feels like he is chocking, suffocating. Maybe his bones caught fire. It feels like they are burning inside him.

The air is dark and heavy, filled with flying ambers, the place crumbling around them with long drawn out groans, but, miraculously, they reach the front door. Shane pushes it with his shoulder as he drags Ilya forward into the night.

The air is fresh, delightfully light and chill. The night is wonderfully cold against his sweat drenched skin. Shane tries to take a deep breath but it feels like his lungs are still clogged with smoke. He drags Ilya forward, away from the building.

They limp all the way to his car. Ilya lets go to lean his weight on it, panting, his eyes locked on the building. Shane can tell he’s still in pain, but when he looks at Shane, despite the sweat and soot and shakiness, Ilya smiles. It’s the most wonderful thing Shane has ever seen.

“We did it,” Ilya says, laughing with disbelief.

Shane smiles back, filled with relief. “Yeah.”

There’s sirens in the distance, he realizes. Help is coming. It’s going to-

His mind stumbles mid thought.

His ears ring. His vision fills with dark spots. The world spins dizzily, the ground under his feet suddenly unsteady.

”Shane?”

Through the haze, he sees Ilya’s smile falter. He tries to ask what’s wrong but no sound comes out. There’s no air.

He can’t breathe. He can’t-

Shane plummets into the darkness and the last thing he sees is the night sky, alight with flames, and a golden-haloed silhouette leaning over him.

Chapter End Notes

Brb going into witness protection for a little while.

Chapter 5: what’s real can’t die

Chapter Summary

Terrified, he presses a hand to his chest and he feels… nothing. No rise and fall of his chest, no steady heartbeat.

Nothing.

Shane isn’t breathing.

Shane’s heart isn’t beating.

Shane is-

Chapter Notes

Okay so in my defense when I first came up with this idea, I didn’t realize it would be the angstiest yet.

Shane Hollander collapses like a puppet without strings. It’s the worst thing Ilya has ever seen.

He launches forward instinctively, forgetting all about the pain in his leg, to catch him before he hits his head on the pavement.

“Shane?” He calls again, falling to the ground along with him until he has him cradled on his lap. “Shane!”

He brings a hand up to his face, holds his jaw, slaps him gently trying to wake him up. Nothing. It’s not working.

“Shane, wake up!” He pleads.

But Shane is pale under the soot and sweat and his face is slack in an absent way Ilya has never seen. Terrified, he presses a hand to his chest and he feels… nothing. No rise and fall of his chest, no steady heartbeat.

Nothing.

Shane isn’t breathing.

Shane’s heart isn’t beating.

Shane is-

“No, no, no,” Ilya lays him down on the floor, trembling. “You don’t get to do this, Hollander! You cannot die on me! You cannot leave me!”

He presses his hands to the middle of his chest, keeps his elbows straight, puts his weight into it. And he pushes. Ribs crack under his palms.

(When he was twelve, he obsessed over CPR technique for months. How to do it right. When to do it. How and why it can save a life. How it can improve chances of survival. How, if he had known back then, maybe he could have saved her…)

One, two, three, four. “C’mon, Shane!” Five, six, seven, eight. “Please!” Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. “Please, Shane, you said you wouldn’t leave me!”

He leans down, pinches Shane’s beautiful freckled nose, presses his lips to his usually warm and responsive mouth, and he tries to give him all the air in his lungs, to breathe for him, fuck, if he could he would will his very soul into Shane’s body to keep him here.

He pulls back. Waits for a beat. Nothing.

One, two, three, four. “Shane! Please!” Five, six, seven, eight. “Please, my heart.” Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. “Please, don’t leave!”

Again, he tries to breathe for Shane but he isn’t sure of how much air he’s got to give, his chest feels as empty and death as his. He sobs as he straightens up and keeps trying.

One, two, three, four. “Fucking fight, Hollander!” Five, six, seven, eight. “I cannot live with you!” Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. “I love you, please!”

He pushes breath into Shane’s lungs again. Stupidly perfect and clean lungs that deserve better than whatever rotten smoke-filled air Ilya can give.

One, two, three, four. The sirens grow closer. Five, six, seven, eight. The night fills with blue and red lights. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

“Help! Please!”

The paramedics are already running their way. Ilya keeps pushing.

“He- he just collapsed. He’s not breathing. He’s not- please!”

“It’s okay, kid,” the paramedic says, gently. “You did well. Now I need you to move. We’ve got him.”

It feels wrong, letting go of Shane, losing his touch, standing back… but Ilya forces himself to obey. As soon as he’s off of Shane, he sees two other paramedics jump in. One checks his pulse, another his breathing. They get to work on compressions.

“Sir? Sir, can you tell me you- oh, shit, you’re Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya doesn’t look at the person speaking to him, but he nods.

“Wait, it’s that- oh, fuck. Okay.”

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya says, but his voice belongs to a dead man.

They stop compressions, check, keep going. 

“Okay. Okay. Hum, Mister Rozanov, I’m going to check you over, okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay.”

They are moving Shane into a gurney.

“Your leg tells me another story.”

“Ah, yes. It’s…”

Shane’s hand hangs from the gurney, limp and pale, still wrapped in cloth.

“Okay, mister Rozanov, can you look at me please?”

A gentle hand forces him to face forward, where he meets a woman’s kind expression. She shines a light on both his eyes and hums.

“Alright, Mister Rozanov. It looks like you have a mild concussion. Your ankle is pretty banged up too. Could be just a contusion but it’s-”

To his left, they are lifting Shane off the ground and rolling him away.

“It’s broken. Is fine,” Ilya dismisses, trying to get on his feet. Pain nearly makes him double over.

“Clearly not,” the woman is already there, holding him up. “And that’s without taking into account the smoke inhalation. You are coming to the hospital with us.”

“Yes, please, I-“ his eyes are still locked on Shane.

She seems to notice. It’s risky. He doesn’t care.

“I need to go with him. Please.”

Ilya is pushed into a corner of the ambulance, holding an oxygen mask to his face as he watches the paramedics work on Shane. A pair of scissors rips off his ruined shirt, exposing his chest. Shane’s gorgeous athletic body is covered in deep dark bruises.

They talk over each other as they work. Ilya catches stray words like “cardiac arrest” and “smoke inhalation” and “internal bleeding.”

Then someone yells “Clear!” and Shane’s body jerks violently.

Ilya feels like someone is carving his heart out.

“Nothing,” the paramedic says and starts compressions again while the other pushes air into Shane’s lungs with a plastic thing and another pinches him with a syringe.

“Clear!”

The shock rocks Shane’s body unnaturally. Ilya feels it in his bones.

“Nothing. C’mon, keep going! How much longer?!”

Whatever the driver replies, Ilya doesn’t hear it. He takes off the mask, fear and fury finally overcoming shock.

“Come on, Hollander!” He yells. “Don’t you fucking dare! You cannot do this! You have to wake up.”

“Hold him back,” someone says.

The woman that tended to him earlier is trying to get him to put the oxygen mask back on, saying something about his lungs. Who cares about that? His heart, his true heart, is lying on that gurney. Dead.

“Clear!”

“Shane, please! Ya tebya lyublyu! Please!”

Ilya thinks he might die too. If Shane is gone, then he is dead already.

What a freaky thing, they will say, he looked alive at the scene, he even moved and talked and yelled. But he was already dead, they will realize, ever since Hollander stopped breathing.

They press two fingers to Shane’s neck, to the favorite spot where Ilya likes to pepper kisses.

Mama, please.

“I’ve got a pulse!” The paramedic announces.

Ilya’s body convulses with a wrecked sob of relief. The steady beep of Shane’s heart in the monitor feels like an hymn at church.

Oh, thank god. Thank god. Thank god.

He lets them press the mask to his face. He keeps crying, his eyes trained on Shane the entire time. It feels like a lifetime.

When the doors open, the light and chaos of the hospital’s ambulance bay comes in, the paramedics rushing Shane off through the doors, loudly informing the doctors of every awful thing his body is fighting.

Ilya watches them go, still rooted to his seat, knowing that they aren’t out of the woods just yet. That Shane will still be fighting for his life in there. But he is breathing now, his heart was beating, and Ilya clings to that thought with all of his strength.

Please, mama. Please, I can’t lose him.

Chapter End Notes

Short chapter for the longest minutes of Ilya’s life.

Chapter 6: you’ll be okay, follow your heart

Chapter Summary

“Who the fuck cares, Marly?!” He yells. “So I fucked my foot, so what?! He wasn’t fucking breathing!”

“Who wasn’t?”

Chapter Notes

OKAY EVERYONE CAN STOP YELLING AT ME NOW

(Also incredible that I came up with my saddest Ilya head canon because I needed a credible excuse for Ilya to know CPR)

Ilya is the only sane person left in the world.

Why else would everyone keep moving, talking or caring about stupid stuff while Shane Hollander is somewhere fighting for his life? He feels like he is going insane, as he watches the world move around him like nothing it’s wrong, like this isn’t the worst possible thing that could ever happen.

Ilya sits in the noisy, busy and bright emergency room. He answers questions flatly. “Ilya Rozanov. Twenty five. No, no allergies.” Is Shane alright? Is Shane alright? Is Shane alright? Someone checks his blood pressure, they nod satisfied. Someone presses a stethoscope to his chest as he breathes, they don’t look exactly happy. Someone cleans the burns he didn’t even notice on his legs and arms, he barely winces. Is Shane still alive? Is Shane breathing? Is Shane’s heart still beating? He’s told that they need an X-Ray for his ankle, to confirm whether it will need surgery or just setting. He nods. He waits.

Time becomes something that happens to other people, people around him. Ilya sees them move, run around, get wheeled in and out, talk, shout, laugh. He watches like the pyramids must watch the world go by, as they guard the memory of something long dead.

Until Cliff Marlow bursts into the ER with the subtly of a bear set lose in a museum. His hair is sticking in every possible direction, he is only wearing one sock and his Bears t-shirt is on backwards. He is also the size of a, well, a hockey enforcer which already makes him stand out in any normal room. On top of it all, he is frantic.

“Rozy!” He shouts, crossing half the room in three long strides, and wraps his arms around him in a smothering hug. “Holy shit, man, are you alright?”

Ilya knows he should reply. He should say something light or witty to take the edge off the situation, to seem cool and unbothered. But when he tries to open his mouth, there is nothing there. All he could do right now is wail, but even that is smothered by his pain. It doesn’t matter. Cliff barrels on.

“They called me, said you’d been in a fucking fire? Like, holy shit, dude, did a club burn down or something?”

Ilya manages to shake his head. Cliff frowns, finally taking him in. If Ilya looks half as terrible as he feels, he must look like hell.

“What did the doctors say?”

“Broken ankle,” Ilya says, his voice rough with lack of use, throat burnt by smoke and horror.

“Fuck, coach’s not gonna like that.”

For the first time in hours, an emotion other than grief or fear flickers inside Ilya.

“Who the fuck cares, Marly?!” He yells. “So I fucked my foot, so what?! He wasn’t fucking breathing!”

“Who wasn’t?”

Ilya can’t say it. He doesn’t get to try either.

“Rozanov!” An annoying voice pierces the silence as Hayden fucking Pike crosses the emergency room towards him. “What the fuck happened?! What the fuck did you do?!”

“Easy, Pike!” Cliff tries to step between them, towering over the Montreal wing. The stupidest metro manages to push past him. 

“I’m not taking it easy! My fucking best friend almost died in a goddamn fire while he was with him!” He points an accusing finger at Ilya. “So you’re gonna tell me what the fuck happened, Rozanov?! What did you do?!”

“I said back off, Pike!!” Cliff grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Shane!” Pike’s voice breaks. “He was in a fire! With fucking Rozanov!! And now he’s- he-”

“Hollander?” Cliff blinks.

Pike shakes his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin flaky and pale. He’s been up for hours, probably, here, waiting. That means-

“You are his emergency contact,” Ilya breathes out, sitting up. “You know. What did they tell you? Is he- Is he alright?”

“I’m not fucking telling you shit, until you-”

Ilya jumps off the bed, ignoring the blinding pain on his left ankle as he bursts forward, past Cliff, and grabs Hayden Pike by the front of his stupid Voyageurs hoodie.

“Is he alive, Pike?! Fucking tell me!”

Anger fizzles out of Hayden, smothered by surprise. Ilya sees clearly how something about having the man he hates yell —plead— so desperately unsettles him enough to break the macho charade.

“Hey, yes,” Pike says softly, bringing his hands up to hold on to Ilya’s wrists, in something that half feels like an effort at comfort and half like an effort at freeing himself. “He’s alive. He’s… he made it out of surgery just now. We now just have to-” Pike swallows hard, “to see if he wakes up.”

If he wakes up.

Ilya almost collapses right there. It’s either the relief of Shane being alive, or the pain from his ankle, or the fear of still not being in the clear. Cliff and Pike catch him and help him back to his bed, albeit clumsily.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck!”

“Roz,” Cliff says softly, pushing Pike away as he puts both hands on Ilya’s shoulders, “what happened?”

Ilya doesn’t meet their gazes. He has his eyes set on the floor. It’s the only thing bearable to look at right now. He knows he can only stall for so long, that at some point he will have to answer. The thing is he isn’t sure what to say. How much to give? If Shane is dead, it doesn’t even matter anymore. But if he isn’t, if he survives, then… then what Ilya says right now will matter.

Ilya knows which scenario he prefers.

Pull it together, he demands of himself. For Shane. Don’t fuck this up.

Shane will be alright. So it matters.

It has to matter.

“The building that burnt down. It was Hollander’s,” he begins, carefully.

“What?” Pike blinks.

“He bought it a while ago. He said is so he can resell the apartments later. He is… landlord. He invests, yes?”

Cliff still looks confused, but at least Pike knows his best friend well enough to nod along. This is true. This is just who Shane is. Even if Ilya knows, deep down, that Shane never meant to sell this particular building. That it was only for them. For Ilya.

But they can never know that.

“I was… looking for apartment in city. To buy. He was showing me his, uh,” what had Shane called it? “His exhibition apartment.”

“And you wanted to rent from Hollander?”

“We talk sometimes. He mentioned it last All-Stars,” Ilya shrugs, the lie simple. “I was interested.”

“You wanted to… rent an apartment?” Pike blinks, like it’s the craziest shit he’s ever heard. “In Montreal?”

“Shit, Rozy, I didn’t know things with your girl got serious like that.”

“His girl?”

“Yeah, this Montreal chick, they’ve been texting, like, forever,” Marly shrugs.

“A girl from Montreal wanted to date you?!”

The captain from Montreal was so quick to drop to his knees for my cock tonight that I barely made it through the threshold, Ilya wants to say. But even the fantasy of rubbing that fact on Pike’s face is drowned by grief of the memory, of Shane’s perfect gorgeous smile the second before their mouths crashed, the sounds he made against his neck, the way his hands clung to Ilya’s back like he would never let go, that soft pleased look… right before he left. Hours ago, he thought nothing could hurt more than watching Shane walk away from him when he so desperately wanted him to stay, even if Ilya never dared ask him to. Now he knows better. There’s worse. There’s so much worse.

“Does not matter,” he waves a hand. “There was fire. He- he was already gone, but he came back. For me. He wouldn’t leave me.”

“Sounds like Shane,” Pike whispers, though Ilya could still see a million suspicious questions roaming behind his eyes.

“He got me out. Saved me when I was trapped,” Ilya says, eyes stuck on the floor now. But it’s important to say it. That they know. That they understand it’s his fault. That Shane is a hero. “Then he- he stopped breathing. I tried to…” he doesn’t have the words in English, not the technical correct words he learnt as a child in Russia anyway. “I tried to keep his heart beating.”

“Fuck, Rozy,” Cliff is looking at him now with so much pity, even when he only knows the surface of Ilya’s pain. He puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. The weight of it is steadying.

“Okay, okay. Shit,” Pike runs a hand through his hair. He looks like he’s going to start crying for a second until he recomposes. “I’ve gotta talk to his parents. They- We didn’t know what happened. They will want to-“

“Pike. There’s something else.”

Hayden stills, frowning at him.

“The fire. It was… not an accident.”

“What?!” Cliff and Hayden jump at the same time.

“It was too fast. Too bad. And then, third floor, there was… I don’t know the word for it. Like, for nails? It smelled. And then it fucking blew up.”

“Holy shit, are you saying someone wanted to kill Hollander?!”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But someone wanted to burn the building.”

“Fuck. Fuck,” Pike hisses. “Okay, shit. I gotta tell his parents. And- and the police or something. They’ll want to… I guess you will tell them all this, right?”

Ilya swallows and nods. Hayden looks like he’s gonna vibrate out of his skin.

“Okay, hum, yeah. I’m gonna…” he takes a step away, then turns back around. “Thank you, Rozanov. For… for his heart.”

“Of course.”

“Are you okay, Rozy?” Cliff frowns at him once they are alone again. “You look…”

Of course he’s not. Of course he’s not fucking okay. Ilya isn’t sure he will ever be okay again.

But no one will ever know.

“Fine. Just… tired. Maybe I sleep while I wait for my X-ray.”

“Okay,” Cliff nods, not looking convinced. “I can stay around with you, while you wait.”

“No,” Ilya says firmly. Because in all honesty he is not sure how long he can keep it together and trying to look alive for Marly is already becoming exhausting. “Is okay, Marly. You have flight back to Boston soon. You go with the team.”

“We are not just gonna leave you here, man.”

“You can’t lose more players because of me. LeClair will not like it.”

“Fuck that,” Cliff shrugs. “I’ll talk to him, bring your stuff over, okay? And then we’ll see if I can stay, or maybe someone from the medical team. We’ll… we’ll see. I’ll take care of it, Cap. You just get that foot taken care of. Okay?”

Ilya feels a rush of affection for his best friend, clearly in over his head, far from home, worried sick and trying so hard to do right by him.

“Thank you, Marly. Okay. I wait here. Not going anywhere.”

“Okay, I’ll text you what Coach says.”

“I lost my phone.”

“Ah, fuck. Okay. I’ll- I’ll get you a new phone. Later. When the stores open and shit.”

“You’re a good friend, Marly.”

Cliff hugs him, tight enough to make his bruised body hurt. But the pain is strangely grounding. Ilya melts into the hug a little longer than he would usually allow himself.

“Alright. Enough. Go,” he says finally, patting Cliff’s back.

When he pulls back, his friend looks a little shaky. Scared. Like Pike had been. But he nods, bravely, and finally leaves.

About half an hour later, they wheel Ilya in for an x-ray.

After another hour and a half, they let him know that he is very lucky (hah) and won’t need surgery on his foot. A cast will do.

Then they inform him that, given the amount of smoke inhalation, they would like to keep him in observation twenty four hours. That saves Ilya the trouble of letting them know he’s not fucking going anywhere until he knows that Shane Hollander is alright.

“We should probably move you to our more private wing, though, since-”

“Fucking vultures!” Marlow huffs, pushing into the ER. He looks more like himself than before. Dressed in proper clothes, hair tamed down, murderous glare like he’s on the ice about to start a fight. “Some asshole tweeted a picture of you here, and I guess half the fucking city was already up in arms about Hollander being here.”

“Who fucking talked?”

“Some stupid tabloids ran the story about the fire and they mentioned Hollander. Then it looks like someone saw Pike here earlier and connected the dots. And now they know you’re here.”

“Great.” Ilya runs a hand over his face.

“As I was saying,” the nurse says, looking apologetic. “We will move you to our more private wing.”

“Is that where Hollander is, too?”

“I’m sorry, Mister Rozanov. I can’t discuss patient details with you.”

They wheel him upstairs to a larger comfortable room, where they monitor his heartbeat and his oxygen levels.

Marly carries his bags and helps him get settled in. Ilya finally washes off the ash, soot and sweat from his skin and changes into a pair of fresh clothes from his bag. Finally, his friend settles on a chair with a bag of chips, casually scrolling his phone, in a very obvious attempt at nonchalance that, strangely enough, does the trick and lets Ilya relax enough to fall asleep.

Exhaustion drags him down like an anvil. Mercifully, he doesn’t even dream.

He’s woken up by hushed voices. Groggily, Ilya opens his eyes. He finds that someone, Marly or a nurse probably, had closed the blinds and turned off the lights in his room. Marly is talking to someone in the hallway now, physically blocking the entry to his room like a bouncer. The other voice is a man’s. Ilya doesn’t recognize it, but there’s an urgency to it. Worry. His stomach flips with worry immediately.

“Marly,” he calls, his voice rougher than before, like sleep has let it catch up to the damage the smoke caused.

His friends turns around, deep frown on his face. Ilya doesn’t like what it bodes.

“There’s… hum… there’s someone here that wanted to talk to you.”

“Not reporters.”

“No, of course not. It’s, uh,” Marly looks over his shoulder at the stranger, “it’s Hollander’s dad.”

“What?” Ilya sits up, immediately awake.

Hope and dread curl inside him, at war. Is this good news? Is this bad news? Is this because he also thinks, like Pike, that Ilya had something to do with the fire? Or is he here to let him know that Shane is gone?

Ilya doesn’t want to know.

Ilya can’t live another minute not knowing.

On the screens next to his bed, his heart beats at a frantic pace.

“Yes. Let him in.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Marlow, move!”

His friends still looks hesitant, but he steps away and lets Hollander’s father walk in. He looks… different than he did on television last time Hollander won a cup. Smaller. Grayer. But that might just be the effect of losing his only son to a fucking fire.

“Hello,” he starts, voice gentle and a little awkward, so like Shane’s that Ilya is about to burst into tears immediately. “Mister Rozanov, I’m- I’m David Hollander. I’m terribly sorry to bother you and your friend.”

“No. No, is good,” Ilya whispers. “What-” Fear punches the air out of his lungs. He fights to try again. “What happened? Is he- is Hollander…?”

“He’s asking for you.”

The words stretch the last remaining strings of Ilya’s heart until something snaps inside him. He can actually hear in the screens how it skips a beat.

“He’s awake?” His voice is small, far more vulnerable than he would like, a wounded desperate animal begging for mercy.

David Hollander’s eyes open wide, then they soften. “Yes, yes, he’s awake.”

“Oh.”

Ilya crumbles, curling his face between his knees to hide the tears he can no longer fight back. He wraps his hands around the back of his head, as if that could help him keep himself together. It’s useless. He is falling apart… in front of Shane’s dad.

“Fuck. Sorry,” he says quickly, ashamed of what this man will think of him for being so fucking weak.

“No, hey, it’s okay, it’s-” David’s voice is closer now, but hesitant. Then a solid hand lands gently between  his shoulder blades. “It’s okay, son. It’s been a lot. You’re okay.”

Ilya nods, fighting with tooth and nail to regain some semblance of control. Fucking breathe. Breathe. Pull it together.

He sits up, cleaning his face and blinking away any remaining tears. He meets David Hollander’s eyes and slowly, carefully, repeats:

“He is awake.”

“And asking for you,” a fond smile crosses his face. “I don’t know if you know this, but my son is damn stubborn. He won’t talk to the doctors, or the police, or anyone else until they let him see you. So… I know it’s been a long day, and this is a lot to ask, but would you…”

“Yes. Yes, I come.”

He stand up on his good foot so quickly he almost loses his balance. White spots dance before his eyes and by the time he regains his vision he notices David’s arms anxiously hovering around him, as if to catch him. Ilya straightens up, quickly, though, trying to regain some dignity. David Hollander hands him a pair of crutches he doesn’t remember having before falling asleep (just how long was he out?).

Once he is ready, he finds David Hollander looking at him intensely. There’s a nervous energy underlying there that Ilya knows intimately. The hesitation before something big, something important. Shane does the exact same face.

“What is it?” He prompts, knowing that, like Shane, perhaps David needs the little push.

“I just wanted to say,” he starts, “the doctors… they said you did compressions on our boy, before help arrived. They said it probably saved his life, kept his brain from-” David Hollander’s voice breaks, his eyes fill with tears.

Ilya has never seen his own father cry. Not even after his mother. He doubts he would see him shed a tear if he was here tonight and it was Ilya’s heart that had stopped.

David clears his throat.

“I just wanted to thank you.”

“Nothing to thank,” Ilya says, earnestly. “I am just- I’m happy he is okay. That is important.”

David nods and then, adding yet another layer of unreality to the last several hours, embraces Ilya in a quick but firm hug. Ilya barely has time to pat the man’s back once (though part of him wants to squeeze him hard) before he is pulling back.

“Okay, okay,” David laughs shakily. “I’m sorry. That’s enough of me being a sentimental old man. Let’s get you to Shane before he bites someone’s head off.”

Ilya laughs. A real laugh, charged with all the grief and relief mixed together. It’s a sound he never thought he’d make again.

He remembers quickly to take off the oximeter. He doesn’t need it anymore. His heart is just fine, and waiting for him.

Chapter End Notes

So this fic is in the book universe for obvious reasons (sex condo) but that also means that Cliff is Ilya’s emergency contact, not Svetlana. (Cliff is… trying his best, okay?)

Also, fun irrelevant fact, while plotting this chapter I kept forgetting this fic happens in Montreal and not in Boston for some reason (there IS a reason.. because I am thinking about the next fic in this series haha)

Also, heads up for everyone talking about who started the fire. We WILL get some answers next chapter, but to be entirely fair this is less of a whodunnit fic and more of a survival fic.

But more on that later.

See you next chapter!!!

Chapter 7: give it to me now

Chapter Summary

“So,” Yuna reclaims their attention again, “how long have you two been, hm, friends?”

She says the word like she isn’t sure it’s the right one. Shane isn’t sure either

Chapter Notes

Finally some fluff and some answers :)

Look, Shane knows he’s being an asshole.

To be entirely fair, he is hurt, he is exhausted and he is stuck in a hospital (which he hates —the antiseptic smell, the rough bedsheets, the fact that every time he’s been in one it means he has to give up hockey for a while). Also, he has asked nicely several times.

The first time, it was just as he was waking up. Which felt more like surfacing from a lake filled with syrup. His tongue had felt oddly fluffy, his eyes wouldn’t quite open up, and there’d been something plastic covering his mouth and nose. Of course, his mom hadn’t understood a word. She’d just ran her fingers through his hair and assured him everything would be alright as he sank back into the darkness.

The second time, it was easier. He’d woken up properly, even if his head still felt like someone’d played target practice with it and words still took a millisecond too long to make sense. His parents had hug him, tearfully, smiling, and told him how much they loved him and how scared they’d been and how happy they were.

“Where’s-”

Before he could ask, a doctor had walked in. He’d been nice, if a little brusque. Shane had liked his directness. He’d listed a bunch of afflictions (smoke inhalation, broken ribs, internal bleeding, first degree burns in his hands) to all of which Shane had nodded and thought to himself, well, yeah, that makes sense. He’d really just been biding his time, waiting for the second when he could politely ask what the fuck happened to Ilya.

“When will he be able to play again?” His mom had intercepted before he could. Her brain less drowsy.

Past the sting of annoyance at being beaten to the punch, Shane’d also felt a rush of affection because his mom knew this would usually be one of his first questions. Usually. Today, maybe it would be the second. Or third.

“I’m afraid, with the damage sustained, we are looking at least three months of recovery. Your lungs were seriously damaged from the smoke inhalation.” Shane must have made a face, because he quickly added. “They will probably heal fully. But, for that, and especially you as a profesional athlete, you need to let them rest. And that’s not even accounting for the concussion or the blast damage to your abdomen. We have to-”

“Okay, okay. I get it,” Shane had mumbled.

It was hard to process so much information. His head felt like someone had stuck his brain in the blender. What he really cared about-

“I want to make it very clear how lucky you were, if your friend hadn’t started compressions-”

“What?”

“Paramedics said you received CPR at the scene, after you collapsed. If he hadn’t been so quick to act, your chances of survival-”

“Ilya- Ilya Rozanov did that?” Shane had felt his heart twist with pain at the thought. That must have been… scary. “Is he okay? What happened to him?”

“He’s alright. He’s being treated in the ER. I’m afraid we cannot disclose much more, given patient privacy laws but-”

“Oh, fuck that, you have to-” Shane started getting dizzy as soon as he tried to sit up.

“Shane, honey,” his mother held him down. “You need to slow down.”

“No, no,” Shane had felt himself lose grip of consciousness. “I have to… I have to talk… he will be… he’ll worry.. I’m…”

“You should rest,” the doctor had said, his voice far away and gluey. “We’ll be back later. There’s some cops that had questions but I’ll tell them he’s not…”

The third time Shane woke up was easier in some ways (his head felt clearer, staying awake wasn’t a battle, words made more sense) and harder in others (he was now vaguely aware of a general soreness in his chest and abdomen, the pain bearable but annoying). He’s still got painkillers, but whatever kind they’ve changed to is lighter. He doesn’t feel high, exactly, just… two beers drunk.

(Two beers drunk Shane isn’t really drunk drunk, just bolder, braver, maybe a little more honest than usual. Three beers drunk Shane is touchy feely and a little emotional. Four beers drunk Shane is something to be kept secret between Hayden, J.J. and him for the rest of time.)

They say it’s so his head is clear to talk to the cops about what happened. Shane has other ideas.

“I wanna see Rozanov,” he insists, emboldened. “I’m not talking to the cops until I do.”

“Shane, honey, this is far more important.”

“It isn’t,” Shane says firmly, meeting his mother’s eye. “This is important. We survived a fire together. I just need to know he’s alright.”

“Son,” his dad tries, “they’ve already told us. He’s okay, just-”

“I need to see it,” Shane shakes his head. It’s a bad idea. It makes his brain pound against his skull. Whatever. “I am not talking to the cops, or the doctors, until I know he’s alright. He- He saved my life, mom,” he tries. It’s not the reason he needs to see Ilya. Not entirely, at least, but he knows it’s a reason that might make sense to his parents. “I need to see him.” His voice breaks with held back tears. Shane tries not to be too embarrassed about it if it gets him what he wants.

When his dad sighs heavily, he knows he’s won.

Ilya looks like a ghost. His blue eyes are even more striking in contrast with the dark circles around them. His skin is paper white, stretched a little too tight against his cheekbones. His full lips are pale and cracked. His curls are flat and a little greasy against his skull. He’s leaning heavily on a pair of crutches.

He’s alive. He’s here. He’s the most beautiful thing Shane has seen.

It takes a second for Shane to school his features into something, hopefully, slightly less adoring.

“Hi,” Ilya says, voice impossibly soft.

“Hi,” Shane sighs.

They both sound like shit. It occurs to Shane that they both sound like they’ve been deep-throating each other, which nearly makes him burst out laughing. Then he meets Ilya’s eyes and realizes that the asshole is probably thinking the exact same thing. It’s the CCM shoot all over again. All it takes is an instant of eye contact for them both to break.

Laughing hurts. Shane groans, throwing his head back against the pillow, fighting the giggles still shaking him.

All three people in the room move towards him at once.

“I’m fine. Just hurts to laugh,” he groans. He looks back at Ilya who is already limping forward on his crutches. “Your foot… are you alright.”

“My foot?! Hollander, your fucking heart-”

“I’m okay. I’m fine now. I mean, out for the rest of the season but…”

“Yeah, me too,” Ilya sighs, reaching the bed. He looks like he wants to touch Shane. Shane wishes he would. But they aren’t alone.

“So we are both out,” Shane says.

“Crowell’s going to love that,” Ilya huffs.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane chuckles squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t make me fucking laugh, Rozanov.”

“Language,” his mom says, like it’s a reflex.

“Sorry,” both Ilya and him reply, immediately.

Then, Shane remembers they are both adult hockey players with three Stanley Cups between them and sends his mother a look. She at least has the decency of looking a little admonished.

“Habit,” she says, in lieu of an apology.

“Is okay,” Ilya says, voice unusually gentle.

But when their eyes meet, Shane can see he is still holding back amusement. Shane really does feel a little drunk now. He wonders if Ilya does too. Relief, after so much fear, is more inebriating than any drug.

“So,” Yuna reclaims their attention again, “how long have you two been, hm, friends?”

She says the word like she isn’t sure it’s the right one. Shane isn’t sure either. Is he Ilya Rozanov’s friend? Over the years, they have been many things (rivals, hookups, confidants) and many not-things (not-enemies, not-boyfriends, not-together). Friends, though? It doesn’t feel right.

“We have known each other for long time,” Ilya shrugs, easily, before Shane can poke at the thought much longer. “Since seventeen. We grow… close, yes? Familiar.”

Familiar. Shane hums, pleased. The word fits. It’s probably just because of Ilya’s particular approach to English, he probably means something else, but Shane likes how close to the idea of ‘family’ it feels. Like Ilya fits in his life with the same ease as his parents, or Hayden, or Hayden’s family. He likes that.

“Yes,” he nods emphatically.

His mother doesn’t look as satisfied with the word as he is, but when she’s about to open her mouth his dad intervenes.

“Now that we are all here, maybe we can let the detective in? She has been waiting for a while now.”

“Oh,” Shane had forgotten. He blushes, feeling a little bad now about making everyone wait even if it was worth it. “Yeah, okay.”

He turns to Ilya, who is hovering by his bed like he doesn’t know whether to stay or leave. The idea of him leaving makes his heart speed up anxiously. The monito picks it up for the entire room to hear, which is embarrassing.

“You should sit,” he says, nodding at the chair next to his bed. “You know, for your leg.”

Ilya looks unsure for a moment, and Shane worries that he will leave, but he finally does as he is told. Good. Shane hums happily again, as his heartbeat settles down in the monitor.

His father comes back, followed closely by a woman with long dark hair tied up in a high ponytail.

“Hello, Mister Hollander. I am Detective Lucy Grey. It’s nice to meet you.” Her eyes turn to Ilya and, without missing a beat, she adds. “And you must be Mister Rozanov.”

There’s no confusion in her voice, no distrust. Not a Voyageurs fan, then. Maybe not even a hockey fan. That’s probably for the best.

“Yes,” Ilya smiles tightly. “You are here about the fire, yes? Because it was not an accident.”

“That’s what we are trying to ascertain,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Not accident,” Ilya insists. “Unless someone accidentally left a lot of accelerant in the building.”

“I didn’t,” Shane frowns at him, offended by the implication. “Everything was up to code. The renovations were just… paused, for a long time.”

“See, usually for something like this we might consider insurance fraud,” Detective Gray says casually. “But given your line of work, your assets and, if I may be blunt, your wealth, our colleagues in the financial crimes unit did not deem it likely.”

“Shane Hollander is too honorable for financial fraud,” Ilya scoffs. “He will not even cheat at cards.”

“Yeah, well, what’s the point of winning that way,” Shane huffs.

“The point is he wouldn’t do that,” Yuna intervenes, sending them both an exasperated look.

“As I said, we do not believe it likely,” the detective assures them. “But we do believe there might have been foul play.”

“There was,” Ilya insists firmly.

“Mister Hollander,” Grey goes on, ignoring him, “do you know a businessman named Tomas Garret?”

“No,” his mother replies.

“Yes,” Shane says. When his mother, used to taking care of all his business dealings, shoots him a look, he shrugs. “He’s, like, the owner of some big tech company.”

“G-Force Tech,” she nods.

His mother gasps softly.

“That one,” Shane nods. “Well, he reached out to me. Not him, his people, I guess, saying they wanted to buy my building. He said he was looking to… expand his properties in the city, build a new office or something. Apparently he was very interested in the city’s periphery growth.”

“You didn’t mention it,” his mother frowns at him.

Shane blushes. “I told him no, and I didn’t really want to discuss it,” because that would have required more explanations than he wants to give his mother about that particular property. “He kept trying to raise his offer. But I told him that I had no plans of ever selling that building.”

Ilya shifts to his left and Shane has to make an extraordinary effort not to look at him. He feels like he is confessing to something else. Something bigger. That he is admitting, to himself at least, that every time he has told himself he would end things with Ilya it has been a lie. That he has always known deep down that he can’t give him up. Not really.

“What did Mister Garret’s people say?”

“They insisted,” Shane says plainly, happy to move forward. “Then he wrote to me personally. He was… intense, but when I explained I wasn’t interested he finally backed down. He said to call him in the future, when I changed my mind. I just told him I wouldn’t.”

Ilya’s eyes are now fully on him. Pretending not to notice is getting hard.

“Why do you ask about him?” His mother pushes on.

“This isn’t the first… incident of this kind in which a building that has peaked Mister Garret’s interest has had a suspicious accident.”

“Was not accident,” Ilya bites again.

“No, it would seem not. The other fires were, well, too destructive for us to determine much. But people have noticed a pattern. Mounties have been trying to put together a case for over two years, but without any victims or witnesses, property damage isn’t a very pressing matter to some of the people upstairs. They have bigger fish to fry than some… shady business practices.”

“Business practices?!” Ilya jumps, his voice —despite its roughness— booming loud across the room. “They almost kill us! His heart fucking stopped!”

“Exactly,” Detective Grey says, half a smile tugging at her lips with something that Shane recognizes immediately. Smugness. Oh, she must be good. She must be the best. Because he knows that calm assurance, with no need to showboat. He has seen it in the mirror. “You two almost died, which makes this attempted manslaughter and makes Tomas Garret’s case mine now. And I don’t intend to let him weasel through the bureaucratic cracks.”

“Alright,” Shane nods. “So… what do we do?”

“Firstly, to build a case, I would like to know if you would like to press charges. As owner of the building, and as a victim to attempted murder.”

“Oh, we are definitely pressing charges,” his mother says, steel in her voice.

“Me too,” Ilya says firmly. Then looks at his mom. “If is okay.”

Shane sees, clear as day, the moment his mother approves of Ilya’s resolve. Oh. Yuna Hollander and Ilya Rozanov on the same side can only mean trouble. Garret has no idea what he’s done.

“It’s my building,” he reminds them, a little annoyed. “But yes. I will be pressing charges.”

“Good. Then, tell me everything you can remember about the fire.”

Chapter End Notes

The thing here is that Shane is DEFINITELY higher than he THINKS he is. Not quite as much as after Marlow’s hit in canon, but he’s definitely that drunk that thinks they are doing a great job at looking sober.

Which makes him like 70% less anxious and 40% more openly yearning. It was extremely fun to write haha

One last chapter to go!

Chapter 8: now say you are mine

Chapter Summary

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he says.

“Rozanov.”

“Ilya, please.”

“Ilya, I am starting to realize I might have been… wrong about you. Let’s not ruin it by lying to me, okay?”

Ilya feels a cold dread wash over him at the stern look of Shane Hollander’s mother.

Chapter Notes

did anyone catch that last chapter’s detective was the same as my other fic what’s gonna be left of the world (if you’re not in it)? I just love her and she’s technically already a Montreal detective in this series so ;) returning cameo. Book!universe version of her works homicide and has even more Kate Beckett vibes!

They spend a long time talking to the detective. She seems particularly interested in the acetone barrels of the third floor. Ilya supposes knowing the exact substance and how large the amount used was, must make it easier to track. At least, he hopes so. He needs to believe that what they are giving her will make a difference, otherwise he’ll end up marching into Tomas fucking Garret’s office and beating his ass himself.

By the time they are done, Shane is clearly struggling to stay awake. His eyelids keep dropping and he keeps stubbornly blinking himself awake. Eventually, Yuna suggests they walk the detective out, and the second they leave Shane alone in the room Ilya sees him sink gently into a deep sleep. He stares, from the threshold, aching to put a hand to his chest and just feel him breathe. 

“So,” Yuna’s voice draws Ilya’s attention to the hallway. He carefully closes the door, to keep their voices from waking Shane, “how long?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he says.

“Rozanov.”

“Ilya, please.”

“Ilya, I am starting to realize I might have been… wrong about you. Let’s not ruin it by lying to me, okay?”

Ilya feels a cold dread wash over him at the stern look of Shane Hollander’s mother.

“I know my son,” she says. “The way he looks at you…”

Oh, Hollander. It’s really a miracle that the entire world doesn’t know yet. Maybe because they are never seen together like this, off the ice, in the light of day. Ilya is suddenly sure that, the moment it happens, everyone will see it clear as day. The idea should terrify him. Instead, he feels the pulse of desire in his heart at the idea.

“Do you love him?” Yuna asks, sounding like she already knows the answer.

“We cannot be together,” Ilya says, despite his little fantasy. “Is too risky.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you love him?” Yuna insists, but not unkindly.

Of course, he wants to say, how could I not? I have tried to fight it for as long as I’ve known him and it’s always been useless.

But he hasn’t told Shane yet, not while his heart was beating at least, and it feels wrong to tell someone else first. So he offers:

“Last night, I almost lost him, I thought that I did, and it felt like dying.”

Yuna’s eyes get shinny with tears as she nods. “Maybe that’s the real risk.”

Ilya hums, not trusting his words. They both send a look back into the room.

“I wish he would have told me,” Yuna says, sounding sad.

“I think he will. When he is ready,” Ilya says, at least able to offer this honesty. “It is… scary. But he is brave.”

“He is. Always has been,” she smiles softly.

Shane sleeps for a long time. The Hollanders let Ilya stay with them until a nurse comes looking for him and admonishes him for leaving his bed while he is still in observation. Apologizing, he sends Shane’s parents a quick goodbye and thank you before being led back to his room.

Cliff is sprawled on the couch, snoring. Ilya thought he would have left already. He feels a little guilty, but mostly thankful for his friend. The nurse hooks him back to the monitors, takes a look at the screens, notes something in his chart and leaves.

Ilya doesn’t realized how tired he is, until his head touches the pillow.

His dreams are a hell particularly tailored to him. Shane coughing in the middle of the smoke filled room, looking at Ilya with pleading eyes. Shane falling down the hole in the fiery stairs a second too soon, before Ilya can pull him back to safety. Shane ripped away from his hold as the world explodes around them. Shane laying on the floor, just a few feet away, not moving no matter how many times Ilya desperately screams his name. Shane falling like a puppet without strings. Shane’s gorgeous brown eyes looking lifelessly at him. Shane gone, chest still, heart damaged beyond repair. Gone. Dead.

Ilya wakes up startled.

His room is empty, the hospital hallways look dark and empty and far more quiet than before. Ilya looks around and finds a phone in the table next to his bed. It’s unlocked.

Cliff: hey, man

Cliff: sorry i had to leave visitor hours r up

Cliff: this is ur new phone btw

Cliff: u should create a password

Cliff: coach and the bois say get well soon

Cliff: be back 2morrow

Cliff: glad ur ok brother

Cliff: no looking at screens w a concussion tho

Ilya smiles at the messages. He quickly goes through the settings to create a password (1221) and sets it back down when he starts feeling a headache creeping in.

He should sleep, he knows this, but every time he closes his eyes he sees the flames, feels the cracking of ribs under his palms. He’s on his feet before he knows it, making his way back to Shane’s room. He’s just needs too see him, to touch him, to hear him breathe. Then, he will be okay.

He shuffles like a thief across the hallway until he finds Shane’s room again, quickly sneaking in and closing the door trying his best to be quiet. The entire ordeal would be much easier without the fucking crutches.

“Hi.”

Ilya nearly jumps out of his skin as he turns around to find Shane looking at him across the dark room.

“Jesus Christ, Hollander, you almost give me heart attack.”

“Maybe that way I can return the favor.”

“Too soon to joke,” Ilya grumbles.

“Sorry,” Shane sighs. “Are… are you okay?”

“I am alright,” Ilya says. “I just couldn’t…” but suddenly the words feel too big for his throat.

“Yeah, me too,” Shane says, voice raw.

Then Shane reaches out for him, and Ilya nearly trips over his crutches to reach him and grab his hand tightly. Finally. He’s been aching to just touch Shane ever since the ambulance.

“Hey,” Shane says, so gently Ilya thinks he might cry.

“Hey,” he says back, bringing his other hand up to gently brush a thumb over Shane’s freckles, a stark constellation against his pale skin. Before, while he was fighting to keep him alive, he couldn’t see them under the soot. Without letting go of his hand, he sits on the chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a semi truck,” Shane says. “You?”

“I’m okay. I’m just… processing, I think.”

Shane hums like he understands. Ilya wonders if he does.

“It’s over,” he says.

“You weren’t breathing, Shane,” Ilya blurts out without meaning to, like the words have been clawing at his throat all day. “Your heart stopped.”

Something crosses Shane’s face. Understanding. He grabs their joined hands and brings them to his chest, where his heart beats steadily, if a little quickly.

“You got it beating again.”

Ilya feels his eyes fill with tears as he shakes his head. “I could feel your ribs crack.”

“Pretty sure they were broken already,” he tris to joke but it falls flat. “I’m sorry you had to do that. But it’s okay. I’m okay. You saved my life, Ilya.”

“You were only there because of me. Because you came back. Because we have to hide.”

Shane frowns at this, as if it isn’t a flat undeniable truth.

“I should’ve brought you to my place instead. I wanted to, so many times, but…”

“No, Shane, that’s not what I mean. I just- you came back. And you almost died.”

“But I didn’t. Thanks to you. So… can we call it even?”

Ilya isn’t happy with that. It’s not enough. He presses on, because surely Shane needs to realize how badly being loved by Ilya has fucked him over.

“You won’t get to play hockey the rest of the season.”

“Yeah, that sucks,” Shane makes a genuinely upset face. “But neither will you, probably, so we are still even.”

“God, David is right, you’re so fucking stubborn.”

Shane looks perplexed for a moment at the mention of his father, then he gives Ilya one of his big shit-eating grins that no one who has only met him in the ice would believe possible.

“I am.”

Ilya shakes his head, impossibly fond despite himself.

“So we have time off now,” Shane says after a moment. “Are you going back to Russia?”

Despite himself, Ilya flinches. He doesn’t want to go back home. He hasn’t for a while. But his father needs him.

“Probably will have to go sooner than expected.”

“What if you didn’t?”

“What?”

“What if,” Shane says slowly, deliberately, like he does when he’s very anxious about getting something right, “well, if you had somewhere else to go. For a while at least. Until the season is over.”

“I have a house, Hollander.”

“No, I mean,” Shane huffs, clearly frustrated. “Okay, so, I have this- this cottage, yeah? It’s nice and very comfortable and very private. It’s my favorite place in the world.”

Ilya knows everything about Shane Hollander’s so called cottage. He has only watched the documentary about it about six or seven times. But surely he doesn’t mean-

“Why don’t you come with me? We could stay there… hide away from the world for a while. Together.”

That last word, the way Shane says it is so filled with emotion that it makes Ilya’s heart twist with misplaced hope. Together. Days, maybe weeks, after only getting Shane for a few hours every couple months.

“You know we can’t do that, Hollander.”

Shane honest to god pouts. “We can. We survived a fire. I think we… I think we deserve it. We earned it.”

Ilya sighs, feeling himself lose the battle. “Maybe,” he concedes softly. “Maybe.”

And then Shane gets that look… the look he gets before running. He looks so soft, open and happy, like he has everything he wants in the world. So, of course, Ilya braces for it. He knows Shane too well not to know it’s coming. He’s already half standing up when Shane’s fingers tighten around his hand.

“Would you stay here? With me… for a little bit?”

Ilya blinks at Shane and says the only thing he possibly can: “If you want.”

“I want,” Shane says, already closing his eyes and sinking into the fluffy hospital pillow. “I always want. It’s scary. It’s why I always have to rush away so fast. Before I let myself want it too bad.”

Oh.

Oh.

“I will stay. Of course I will,” he says softly as he sees Shane drift off. “I always want, too.”

He thinks maybe Shane has already fallen asleep, but then he squeezes his hand gently and hums happily.

Morning finds them together, Ilya’s head curled up against Shane’s thigh, Shane’s left hand brushing Ilya’s curls, their right hands clasped together and resting firmly on top of Shane’s chest. Ilya opens his eyes and, for the first time in his life, wakes up to Shane Hollander’s beautiful sunbathed face.

It’s the first time they have ever slept together. And Ilya immediately knows that there is no way he isn’t going to the cottage.

All he has wanted for longer than he ever dared admit to himself is more time with Shane. Minutes in bed, more hours in his arms, more game days that brought them to the same city. More, more, more. And for an instant, last night, he thought he would never get a single second more of this man. He has been suddenly gifted the one thing he has ever truly wanted: more time. He will take as much as possible.

Forever. Forever, if he can. For as long as Shane’s heart keeps beating.

Chapter End Notes

And we are dooooooone!!!!

After making them lose a place to fuck it only seemed fair to give them more of the cottage!!! I don’t think Ilya will be as appreciative of the fireplace tho…

Also, in my head, Cliff and Hayden come in and see them sleeping and immediately begin to QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE wrestle each other in the exact same “I don’t know what I just saw but you better keep your fucking mouth shut” instinctive reaction, until they realize they are on the same page and wordlessly make a blood pact to pretend they didn’t see a thing and never ever talk to anyone about this ever.

Also this might be the first fic in this series where the threat isn’t neutralized/killed yet and I am deeply amused by the idea of eventually having a sequel where this guy tries to off them in revenge. BUT WHO KNOWS. Not in the immediate list right now.

Anyway, THANK YOU to everyone who has left the nicest messages in every chapter of this fic. As usual, you make my day and make the process of writing incredibly enjoyable.

Let me know what you think of the ending and see you next adventure!!! ❤️