Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Protective Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Hurt Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Can Fight, BAMF Shane Hollander, BAMF Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, POV Ilya Rozanov, Near Death Experiences, Death Threats, Shooting, Gun Violence, Near Drowning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Russia Haunts the Narrative, Post-Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics, Post-Episode: s01e02 Olympians (Heated Rivalry), Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Anxious Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, No beta we die like Shane Hollander’s comphet, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Idiots in Love

Language:

English

Series:

Part 6 of Heated Rivalry - But Make It a Procedural TV Show Universe

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-14 Completed: 2026-08-18 Words: 33,352 Chapters: 13/13

when the lights go out

Summary

Ilya feels his phone buzz a few times on his way to the elevator, probably everyone confirming they are on the move. He waits until the doors close to check who their group will be tonight.

Lane: I’m out guys my ankle is killing me

Chuck: pussy

Tanner: cmon Lane don’t be a baby

Lars: we are coming down as soon as Nosey stops texting his mommy

Nosey: uh guys wtf
Nosey: did you see this?
Nosey: http://www.twitter.com/cnnbrk/status/2693739470000000036

Marly: holy shit
Marly: did someone try to kill Hollander

or

The season after Sochi and the Las Vegas night, Ilya comes back from the summer ready to reignite his hookups with Shane Hollander. But the Metros captain seems to have bigger problems, mainly, that someone might be trying to kill him.

Notes

Well hello!!!!!!

It’s Ilya’s turn to fret over death threats :)))) and it’s Shane Hollander’s turn to be in the eye of the hurricane.

As usual, please, don’t expect too much realism. We are putting hockey players in SituationsTM and hoping (after some necessary angst, miscommunication and danger) the power of love and whimsy saves them ✨

Hope you guys enjoy this new adventure!

Chapter 1: summertime

Ilya: ready to be reminded what winning cock feels like next week?

Jane: Very funny

Ilya: not funny
Ilya: nice
Ilya: nice of me to share it with you
Ilya: will even let you lick it if you ask nicely

Jane: Fuck you

Ilya: that’s the plan

Jane: I can’t meet next week

Ilya: what? u got better plans?

Jane: will be celebrating our win against you obviously

Ilya: fine so if you win I will suck your cock
Ilya: make you come as many times as you want
Ilya: and if I win you give me another show like Vegas

Jane: Not happening

Ilya smirks down at his phone now, still sticky with sweat and feeling his body buzz with post-game adrenaline. They lost to Montreal, but it barely feels like a defeat. The game was fun, exhilarating, in a way that Ilya had almost forgotten over the summer. And Hollander had been perfect: furiously focused, easy to goad, intensely present in that particular way that he only gets on the ice or in bed. It was their first game of the season and already Ilya feels the beast of his desire (painstakingly tamed over the suffocating Russian summer) stirring awake. And he could feel Hollander’s want too, simmering under the surface with every hit, every face off, every stolen puck.

Ilya: to the winner go the spoils
Ilya: this is the saying yes?
Ilya: where do you want your prize? your place or my hotel?

He leaves his phone in his cubby and jumps into the locker-room showers, counting on Hollander typing and retyping a dozen excuses until he finally gives in.

Ilya is looking forward to tonight, more than he wants to admit. After his self-imposed discipline last season to make up for the humiliating defeat in Sochi —which proved efficient and earned him a place in history as the youngest captain to ever win the Stanley Cup— he is ready to make up for lost time. Just not too fast. He’d been too hungry in Las Vegas, had needed to restrain himself from taking too much, from showing too much, lest he fuck up the delicate balance required in this dance he shares with Hollander. That night was one of the hottest and most exhilarating moments of his life, but it still left him feeling hungry for more, unsatisfied.

(He is afraid that it will always be this way with Hollander, that he will always want more.)

Luckily, the summer and the distance have proven a balm, a bitter medicine that reminded him of who he is, who he truly is, in the iron core that he shares with his father and brother. He feels stronger now, safe behind the fortified walls he has built around his stupid neediness. And so, tonight, he will get to have Shane Hollander in any way he wants without the worry that something as simple as a kiss will unravel him.

By the time Ilya walks out, curls dripping on his glistening shoulders, he is already fantasizing of all the ways in which he will make Hollander beg and come undone for him tonight, both as revenge and as a generous reward (never let it be said that Ilya lacks sportsmanship). When he grabs his phone, his stomach drops.

Jane: I told you. Not tonight.
Jane: Sorry.

Fuck.

Disappointment hits Ilya like a tidal wave and he is immediately embarrassed and angry at himself for feeling it at all. So Hollander won’t fuck him tonight.

Who cares? Who gives a fuck? He’s just one guy.

Yes, one incredibly beautiful and exciting guy who seems perfectly designed to ignite Ilya’s body with more desire than should be humanly possible, but he’s still just a sporadic hook up. Ilya doesn’t care. Shouldn’t care. He doesn’t need him. If he wants to get his dick wet tonight, he fucking will.

“Marleau!” He yells, head snapping up. “You are buying first round tonight for missing that shot!”

“Oh, fuck you!” Cliff replies, flipping him off, but the rest of the Raiders cheer around him and start picking up the pace, excited by the unspoken promise of their captain: they are going out tonight.

They arrive to the hotel about an hour later.

Ilya drops his bag on his bed, thankful to have the room for himself (even if he feels stupid now for the idiotic hopes that made him request one in the first place) so he can change and lay down scrolling on his phone until their go time with no one pestering him.

Thankfully, it’s too late here and too early in Russia for anyone in his family to have seen the game results.

The Cup win had earned him some respite with his father over the summer, whenever he remembered it, but Alexei had just gotten weirder. Jealousy is ugly in his brother. He’d spent weeks looking at Ilya smugly, scoffing at him, moving around the house as if he was lording something over Ilya. It’d finally come to a head his last night in Moscow, when Alexei showed up to collect cash from Ilya, no doubt to be used on drugs and hookers. Ilya had been silently dreading the moment all week, because his brother always got crueler when he needed something from him. His wounded pride it made him bitter and meaner than usual.

“Don’t look so proud of yourself,” he’d said, as he counted his bounty. “You might be bringing money home, but I’m the one actually taking care of this family.”

Ilya’d rolled his eyes. “You look after the old man. Big deal. A nursing home could do it, and it’d probably be cheaper and better.”

“I am loyal to this family, unlike you. Just because you’re some big shot now in America, don’t think that makes you better than me. I am still taking care of you too.”

“Of me?!”

“Yes, and you better not forget it. You will thank me one day.”

“I fucking doubt it,” Ilya had muttered, walking away from the conversation.

His brother had never taken care of him. As far as Ilya remembers, he’d checked out even before their mother died. Alexei isn’t a caretaker, the only reason he is looking after their father right now is because of Ilya’s money and, maybe, some residual fear that still lingers in both siblings, tying them together with a bond stronger than blood.

Fuck, he needs to get laid and forget all about his family for a few hours. The thought leads him directly to Hollander, the one cure he is craving right now, but he forces himself to dismiss it again. Anyone will do.

He spends about half an hour scrolling, looking for the best clubs in the city, hoping to find the most exciting one. His phone has gone hot from use in his hands by the time Connors finally texts the group chat.

Connors: what time r we leaving?

Ilya: now
Ilya: anyone not ready in 5 is left behind

He’s already getting up and grabbing his coat.

Marly: omw

Ilya feels his phone buzz a few times on his way to the elevator, probably everyone confirming they are on the move. He waits until the doors close to check who their group will be tonight.

Lane: I’m out guys my ankle is killing me

Chuck: pussy

Tanner: cmon Lane don’t be a baby

Lars: we are coming down as soon as Nosey stops texting his mommy

Nosey: uh guys wtf
Nosey: did you see this?
Nosey: http://www.twitter.com/cnnbrk/status/2693739470000000036

Marly: holy shit
Marly: did someone try to kill Hollander

Tanner: looks like it
Tanner: fucking guns man

Connors: wtf
Connors: is he alive???

Nosey: my girl’s freaking out
Nosey: telling me not to go out tonight

Chuck: she’s just jealous
Chuck: someone should tell her with that face of yours she’s got nothing to worry about

Nosey: fuck off

There’s more messages, and more keep coming in, but Ilya can’t read them. His hands are shaking too hard. He miraculously manages to click the fucking link.

CNN Breaking News @cnnbrk
Sources report Shane Hollander was attacked by a shooter while leaving the Bell Centre with his team after Metros vs Raiders game earlier tonight.

CNN Breaking News @cnnbrk
Witnesses: several shots were heard. Hollander was reportedly escorted off the property by police. His status is currently unknown.

CNN Breaking News @cnnbrk
Video surfaces of shooter attack against Montreal Metros captain Shane Hollander (23)

[The video shows a screaming crowd, pushing against security as they try to approach Shane Hollander, who is walking to his car next to a tall dark haired man. “Hollander! Hollander please! Shane! Shane over here!” Shane looks back at the crowd, that screams his name, shaking jerseys and pucks for him to sign. He looks genuinely sorry as he smiles. “Not today. Sorry,” can be heard as he walks away, his shoulders tense and his jaw set. There’s two sharp pops somewhere off screen. Every single person in the recording ducks, screaming. Shane too bends over, his eyes wide and scared as he looks around, and is still holding himself down while two men grab him and rush him away. The camera moves frantically as the fans try to run away. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” can be heard. The video ends abruptly.]

Ilya’s breathing is heavy. His heart feels like it’s about to punch a hole through his chest. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t scroll to the next tweet to find out more.

Hollander.

Hollander was attacked. Shot. Maybe… maybe killed.

Fuck.

Ilya is hit with flashbacks of Hollander’s open expression under him, nervous big brown eyes trusting him fully, his warm lips against his skin, his strong hands gripping his hair. He thinks of Hollander breathing heavy in the Vegas bathroom, tears in his eyes, mouth down turned into a pout, begging to be kissed until Ilya hadn’t been able to resist it. He thinks of his wanting eyes that night, of his mouth saying “I need you”, of his perfect surrender to him. He thinks of him tonight, eyes focused and intense, mouth twisting in that smirk when he thinks he’s got a winning shot lined up, sweating and panting and alive like a supernova. He sees his terrified face in that video, burned in his mind’s eye.

The elevator door dings. Ilya almost drops his phone at the sound. He looks up, sees the hotel lobby, Connors and Marly are already standing there, looking at their phones with wide eyes, commenting something in low hushed voices. He rushes past them, directly to the doors.

“Cap!”

“Rozy! Hey, where are you going?!”

“The others aren’t down yet!”

“No going out tonight!” He yells, not stopping. “Curfew now. For safety.”

“And where the fuck are you going?!” Marly throws his hands in the air.

Ilya ignores them. The cold night air hits him like a slap. It’s a welcome shock to his system, helps him clear his head a little as he hails a taxi and jumps in. He says the address automatically, having memorized it from the only time he’s been there before.

Ilya:saw news
Ilya: are you ok?

His heart is pounding in his chest. The minutes stretch. There’s no reply. It’s been… how long has it been since they left the rink? One hour? Two? Hollander would have said something already wouldn’t he?

Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: if ur alive u better fucking reply to me right now
Ilya: this isn’t funny

No answer. Ilya bends down, fighting the nausea taking over his body. Hollander. Hollander is dead. Shane. Shane…

His phone buzzes. He sits up so fast his head spins. He blinks down at the screen until he manages to make up the words.

Jane: Hey
Jane: Sorry. I wasn’t looking at my phone.
Jane: I’m alive
Jane: obviously

Obviously. Obviously, he says! As if Ilya didn’t just spend agonizing minutes convinced that he was dead. Alive is not enough for him, though. It’s doing little to settle the unease that has nested in his chest like a carrion bird.

Ilya: good to know
Ilya: u hurt?

Jane: No. I’m good.
Jane: I’m home

Ilya: Ok

The cab drops him off two blocks away, as usual. Ilya lights a cigarette and smokes it so fast that he nearly burns his fingers by the time he reaches the building. Hollander will complain about it. Knowing that somehow soothes the beast pecking at his bruised heart.

Ilya has a key to the back door because Shane Hollander is a paranoid man when it comes to anyone finding out about them. He should be maybe more paranoid about his life and not give keys to just anyone. He should be more careful. He almost fucking dies and now he’s just relaxing in his house? Like it’s nothing?!

Ilya chews on his anger as he climbs up the several flights of stairs up to Hollander’s apartment.

Ilya: I’m here
Ilya: open

Hollander will probably appreciate the heads up so Ilya isn’t standing in his hallway, where someone could see him. He feels his phone buzz with the answer as he pockets it and pushes the stairwell door open.

Immediately, Ilya is faced with two police officers. Past the first initial shock, they both stir, bringing a hand to their holsters. He can see in their eyes that they’ve recognized him. It doesn’t make them relax.

What do they think? Ah, yes, Rozanov is here to kill his rival since whoever he sent didn’t finish the job. It’s stupid. But not as stupid as the reals reason why Ilya is here: because he needs to see Shane Hollander with his own two eyes before this terror that is feeding off his insides eats him to the bone.

That explanation won’t do either.

Ilya takes a deep breath and forces his body to settle as he walks forward.

“Sir, you shouldn’t be here,” one of the two officers speaks, finally, taking half a step forward.

I know that. Oh, believe me, I know that.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the officer says. As if they could make him.

“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging. “I have duty as captain. My manager sent me. I have to talk to Hollander. Captain to Captain. Is sportsmanship thing.”

The man blinks at him, confused for a second. Ilya counts on that confusion to play in his favor as he tries to push past him, but a hand on his chest stops him.

“Mister Rozanov, this is an ongoing police investigation. You can’t just-“

Behind them, the door swings open.

Shane Hollander is standing there, panting, disheveled, wonderfully alive, scowling at Ilya with his angry kitten face. The relief that washes over Ilya is less like a comfort and more like a gut punch.

“Rozanov,” Hollander says.

You are here, his eyes say, like he can’t believe it. Why are you here? His voice says, like he can’t understand it. What the fuck are you thinking? His tense shoulder say, like he wants to slam him against a wall again.

“Hollander,” Ilya replies, and it only means that. Hollander. Shane. Here. Alive.

Okay. Okay.

Okay.

“What are you doing here?” Hollander asks, shifting his weight awkwardly.

“Captain duties,” Ilya says, as his brain finally catches up. “I was telling the officers. I am here on behalf of my team. For sportsmanship.”

“Sportsmanship,” Shane repeats, suddenly looking very tired. One of the officers turns to Shane, who seems to mull it over for a couple seconds, weighing his options, until he finally sighs and steps aside. “It’s okay. He can come in.”

It really shouldn’t feel like as much of a victory as it does when Ilya is finally allowed across the threshold. Of course, whatever ease he feels is immediately squashed by the amount of police officers inside Hollander’s house, reading files, checking the phones, peaking out windows.

“Hollander, what the fuck is going on?”

“It’s… complicated. Come. Let’s go upstairs to talk.”

And if Ilya didn’t already think that something very fucking bad is going on, Shane Hollander openly suggesting they go somewhere private in front of all these people settles it: something is very, very, very wrong.

Chapter 2: something I can’t know till now

Chapter Summary

“Why are you so calm?”

“What?”

“You are not panicking. You don’t look scared. Someone shot at you and you are more annoyed that I showed up unannounced.”

Chapter Notes

First of all, please let me say I am FLOORED by the response the first chapter of this fic had?? Like, where did you all come from??!

I have ready every single comment but haven’t had much time to reply because, clearly, I was busy already writing chapter two (I was tempted to make them a single chapter but it felt like it’d be too long and I like to keep them short for pacing).

Anyway, here you go! :)

Hollander leads Ilya upstairs to his bedroom (which is far less fun than the last time he was here), where two policemen are looking under his bed and inside his closet. Hollander tenses from head to toe. Ilya wonders if they’ve found his dildo and bottle of lube yet or if he was paranoid enough to hide them before hand. Hard to tell, but either way he doesn’t look happy about it.

Somehow, he still manages to sound polite as he says:

“Sorry, officers. Could we, uh, have the room for a moment?”

The men pause and look at them. First at Hollander, with that look almost everyone in Montreal gets around him like he holds their hopes and dreams for a future Cup after decades of mediocrity, then at Ilya like he’s the scum of the earth. The confusion that follows is new, though. They aren’t seen together off the ice often enough to incite it. Or ever. They are careful about it. Which now seems like it could be a problem.

“Rozanov is here on League business,” Hollander says, in the most unconvincing way ever. “We just need a word.”

“Of course, Mister Hollander,” one of them says. “We are almost done here.”

And then they continue as they were, searching meticulously, while Hollander and Ilya just stand there. It strikes him as ridiculous and disrespectful.

“What? You are deaf? We need room!”

“Rozanov,” Hollander hisses. “They are just doing their job.”

“They can finish later. Room isn’t going anywhere, is it? Is your house, you can have some fucking privacy.”

The men shoot him nasty looks, but Hollander looks like no one has told him so far that he can have some fucking autonomy in his own house, so Ilya counts it as a win.

“I think we are done here anyway,” the officer by the closet sighs.

Too slowly for Ilya’s taste, they move around them and out of the room. Ilya closes the door. Hollander visibly relaxes immediately. Being able to provide some sort of comfort at all feels oddly like a huge win for Ilya. He had thought, for a moment there, that Hollander was gone for good, nothing to do, nothing to fix, nothing left to save. This, being able to do this small thing, is a weird blessing. A small one, in the middle of this fucked up situation.

Ilya takes the moment to look at the other man more carefully, to remind himself he’s okay. He looks unharmed. Mostly, he just looks tired. First, he thinks it’s just exhaustion but the darkness around his eyes, the sluggishness of his movements, the clear heaviness of his shoulders, it’s not the kind of tiredness Ilya has seen before in hotel rooms after a game. Which, sure, he supposes could be a result of almost getting killed.

“What the hell, Hollander?” He says, finally. “Your house look like an episode of CSI.”

“Of what?”

“Police TV show, Hollander, whatever. What’s going on?”

“Well, this is what happens when some asshole tries to kill you, I guess,” Hollander gestures widely at the door and runs his hands through his hair. “They are being very… careful about it, but I told them my house is fine.”

It suddenly occurs to Ilya that there’s something off, beyond the tiredness. He has seen Shane Hollander nearly have a panic attack trying to figure out where to hook up. But he’s suddenly shot at and he looks… inconvenienced?

“Why are you so calm?”

“What?”

“You are not panicking. You don’t look scared. Someone shot at you and you are more annoyed that I showed up unannounced.”

“Well, because you shouldn’t have!” Hollander huffs, pacing across the room. “What do you want me to say? That this isn’t the first psycho that threatens to kill me? I’ve been getting fucked up mail since I was a teenager, Rozanov.”

“Wait. What mail?”

Hollander freezes. And now he looks panicked.

“Nothing.”

Ilya takes two long steps until he is standing in front of him. “What mail, Hollander?”

“It’s- it’s nothing, okay? Just… this summer I started getting some weird stuff in the mail. No big deal, mostly just some threats, you know? Telling me to leave the NHL, suggesting they’d kill me if I didn’t. The normal stuff.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows bewildered. “This is not normal stuff, Hollander.”

The idea of someone sending Hollander threats, downright telling him they want to kill him, for fucking months makes him nauseous all over again.

“Well, it is for me, okay?!” Hollander snaps, his voice growing higher as he gets defensive, which would usually be cute. Not now. Nothing about this is cute. “It happens. Whatever. I have a fucking good security system here at home. I have experience dealing with this shit. And, yeah, it was fucked up and it was a- a weird summer, but I’m not gonna fucking let it get to me. I never have.”

“You have never been shot at either!”

“Yeah, no shit! That’s why the police are here.”

“No,” Ilya frowns. “I saw the video. Cops were there before the shooting. You knew this would happen.”

Hollander reels back, angry —or caught.

“I didn’t- I just thought it could, okay? Two weeks ago I got the weirdest letter so far. The most… specific. It told me I should leave town, not be here for the game, or that I would pay for it. As if I’d just miss a game against fucking Boston just because some asshole wants me to!”

A week ago Hollander told him they couldn’t meet tonight. Because he knew. He knew he was in danger. The relief and excitement from understanding his rejection are immediately smothered by the realization that Hollander knew his life was in danger even back then.

“You didn’t say.”

“People have always been weird about the rivalry, I didn’t see the point in making a big deal about it. I asked the police to keep it discreet.”

“Well, so much for that!” Ilya snaps. “But that’s not- you didn’t tell me, about any of this.”

Hollander blinks, shakes his head slowly, like he can’t understand his words. Ilya wants to strangle him.

“You didn’t mention the threats in the summer, or for this game, or tell me about the shooting.”

“Why would I tell you?” Hollander says slowly, plainly, like he is genuinely confused. “We don’t- we don’t really talk about this stuff. I mean… before Vegas we hadn’t even texted for, like, six months and then we didn’t even- It’s not like I have to tell you about shit going on in my life, Rozanov. You said it yourself in Sochi, right?”

Ilya feels like he’s been dropped in freezing water. What is he doing? He reels himself back, like pulling at strings of one of those toys that fall apart with a button and quickly pull themselves together.

“Right,” he says as coldly as he can manage, trying to reassemble the walls he build back in Russia. He puts his hands in his pockets and tries his best disinterested tone as he says: “So now what? You know there’s killer out there. Are you going listen to the demands?”

“What? Fuck, no! I’m not leaving my town, my home, my team… not for fucking anyone and sure as hell not for some asshole who thinks they can scare me.”

“Scare you,” Ilya repeats.

Kill you, Hollander. Someone wants to kill you.

“So now what?”

“Nothing. Hayd wanted me to stay with them for a few days, but Jackie is fucking pregnant. I’m not gonna put them in danger if something happens.”

“So you do think something can happen.”

“I have top of the line security here! My parents wanted me to go to Ottawa and stay with them, they’ve been… I know they are scared but I’m not going to put them in danger either. I didn’t even let them come tonight. It was part of our… deal.”

“You almost died… so you made a deal with your parents?”

“Yeah… my- my mother talked to the police,” Hollander sighs, sounding embarrassed. “I’ve agreed to have one of their guys in the hallway, they’ll have a patrol nearby, and I’ll let them escort me to and from the rink for a couple weeks while things calm down.”

“You think a guy that has been harassing you since the summer will give up in a couple weeks?”

“Whoever it is, they failed. Maybe they’ll give up now. Besides, we don’t play Boston again until two months from now,” Hollander shrugs. “If this is about the rivalry, I’m hoping it’ll cool down by then.”

It’s a practiced answer. A fake one too.

“So,” Ilya asks, casually, “will you bring cops with you to our next game?”

“No.”

“But you think this is a Boston problem.”

“I fucking hope not!” Hollander says and then catches himself.

Ilya smirks, but the victory is short lived.

“Why are you being stubborn about this, Hollander? If you need protection from killer then you need protection!”

“I don’t fucking need protection!” He snaps back. “I’m a professional athlete. A fucking hockey player, just like you! I can fight my own fucking fights. What do you think would happen if I fucking showed up to a game with a bodyguard or some shit!? You think anyone would respect me? There’s already a bunch of people that think I shouldn’t fucking play this sport! That people like me- people that look like me are too soft for hockey! And that’s without even taking into account the whole…” He gestures between them, furious eyes filled with tears. “I’m not going to give them the fucking satisfaction.”

Something cracks in Ilya’s carefully constructed walls.

“So what? You will die for your fucking pride?!” Ilya takes a step forward, closing the distance between them again. He grabs Hollander by the shoulders, but the man refuses to meet his eyes. “Who the fuck cares what people think! Is not worth your life, Hollander.”

“You don’t get it,” Hollander mutters, glaring at his chest. “There are always threats, always people that hate me. If I agree to this, I won’t ever be able to do anything alone again, to meet anyone, to- to be with anyone without them knowing.”

Ilya lets go of Hollander’s shoulders. Is that what this is about? It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it. I want you more than I should, more than I deserve, but it’s not worth your life.

“Will you really risk it all just for a hook up?” He asks.

When Hollander finally looks up at him, he looks… despondent. He smirks, but his eyes are sad. “Obviously. I mean… isn’t that what we do?”

”Is it?”

No. Not like this. Not at the cost of you.

Hollander’s eyes travel across Ilya’s face, fluttering quick and nervous like a butterfly until they land on his mouth. And suddenly all Ilya can think of is how close Hollander is, how warm his body feels in his hands, how he smells like soap and sweat and ice even now. Hollander’s breath hitches, but before Ilya can close the space between them, the man steps away abruptly, leaving only cold emptiness in his wake.

“You should go,” Hollander says, eyes set somewhere above Ilya’s left shoulder. “You’ve- you’ve fulfilled your captain duties. You can tell the Raiders’ management it’s all good. I’ve got it handled.”

Ilya’s brain stumbles for an instant until he remembers his lie to the cops outside. Wait, did Hollander really think-

Hollander opens the bedroom door and walks out. Ilya follows him, frowning. This feels wrong. This isn’t right. He can’t just leave while Hollander’s life is in danger, while someone is threatening him. It isn’t right. Every cell in his body tells him this isn’t right.

Every eye in the room follows them.

Hollander opens the front door and offers Ilya his right hand.

“Rozanov,” his voice is firm, steady, gone is all the want that had flooded his deep brown eyes a minute ago. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate it.”

Ilya suddenly hates this distant perfect boy. No, not hate. He could never hate Shane Hollander, even if he tried. Ilya fears him, this mask… the possibility that it might be the last version of the man he ever sees.

He grabs his hand, slowly wrapping his fingers around it, pressing slightly more than he should. He lets his thumb rest over the back of Hollander’s hand, the smallest hint of a caress, innocent to the world’s eyes but he can see the slight tremble of his pupils as Hollander registers it. Good.

Ilya wants to pull him in, kiss him, like he did in Vegas their rookie season. He doesn’t.

“Of course,” he says instead, trying to give his voice as much meaning as he can, to say without words that he is here because he wants to be, not because anyone sent him. “Take care, Hollander. We’ll be in touch.”

“We will?” Hollander says, and it’s so clearly a slip out of his act that it makes Ilya smile proudly.

“Yes,” he says simply, letting go. “See you around.”

Leaving feels like swimming against the current. Ilya pushes forward, fighting not to drown.

Chapter End Notes

Poor Ilya is kinda paying for his ghosting and Las Vegas karma in this fic.

I have always been fascinated by this little unexplored 2014-2015 patch in their situationship. It feels like everything must be so unsteady for both of them atp. In canon, this is where they start to fall into their routine and slowly build up a more steady dynamic, but the beginning of all that must have been so emotionally turbulent for them both.

So let’s throw a near-death-experience-shaped wrench in the middle of all that! :D

Chapter 3: or until my heart explodes

Chapter Summary

Ilya was counting on losing sleep in Montreal… just not like this.

Chapter Notes

time for pain :)

Ilya was counting on losing sleep in Montreal… just not like this.

Now that he knows Hollander is alive and safeguarded by a bunch of policemen, he finally dares to venture online to read more about what happened. Twitter is a black hole. He clicks on the same video he saw before and is immediately treated to a dozen other angles of the incident. By two in the morning he knows the incident by heart. He can anticipate the first shot a millisecond before, knows every scream as the people go down, knows that Hollander was the fastest to duck, knows that he screamed even if it was mostly drowned by the crowd, can trace the exact route the police used to evacuate him.

Ilya is thankful for having waited until now to do his deep dive of doom into the incident because the amount of misinformation is staggering. More than one person swears Hollander was hit, that they saw blood. Others claim there was more than one shooter. There’s reports of Hollander being dead or critical in the hospital and entire threads about how it’s all a montage based on the fact that the police were already escorting him before the shots rang out. Several Metros fans blame Ilya, or the Boston Raiders fans in general, for trying to kill their captain.

About three hours before he has to leave to the airport, Ilya forces himself to put the phone down and try to sleep. It’s a terrible mistake.

His brain takes every single detail he has learned in the past several hours of spiraling and sets the stage for the incident happening right in front of his eyes. Again and again and again. Ilya is in the crowd. Ilya is walking behind Hollander. Ilya is everywhere and always too far away. No matter how fast he runs, how many people he pushes out of the way, how loud he yells, he never makes it in time before the shot rings out. Nothing changes, no matter how hard he tries, it happens just like it does in the videos. Except for one thing, one terrible, awful thing: there is blood. Hollander’s body hits the floor with a sickening crack and stays there. It happens a dozen times. It happens all at once, in that awful way that nightmares twist time.

Ilya wakes up screaming, panting and drenched in sweat. He struggles in the dark until he finds the lights, just to make sure his shaking hands aren’t painted red.

He fumbles for his phone, still hot from the hours upon hours of use, and accidentally drops it to the floor. The corner of the screen cracks slightly. He ignores it as he opens his chat with Hollander. His fingers hover over the keyboard.

Ilya shouldn’t say anything. He knows it was just a nightmare. Hollander is fine at home. Or he was, hours ago. He had the police. He is safe. What the fuck is he even supposed to say? It’s five in the fucking morning. Hollander is probably awake already, doing one of those crazy routines he talks about in interviews.

Ilya: the internet thinks i tried to kill u to win another cup 😂
Ilya: is very rude actually as if i needed help to beat u this year! I already did!

His heartbeat hasn’t slowed down. He watches the screen with laser focus until the three dots appear. Relief hits him so hard he drops back down against the pillows.

Jane: makes sense
Jane: they know it’s the only way you’ll win another cup 😉

Ilya: but without you pouting is not so much fun
Ilya: who would be my prize?

He gets no answer. Doesn’t matter. Hollander made it through the night. Ilya can let his nightmares remain nightmares and not worry about it anymore.

Ilya is dead on his feet at the airport. He is vaguely aware of his team loudly commenting on “the Hollander thing” around him. He ignores them, feigning indifference as he blasts music on his headphones in an attempt to keep himself awake (and keeps the images from his nightmares at bay).

Of course, it’s Cliff Marleau, with his ridiculous love for gossip, that can’t let him be. He pokes Ilya’s shoulder insistently until he angrily yanks his headphones off, ready to bite his wing’s head off.

“What?!”

“Wow, sorry Cap. You okay?”

“Fine. What the fuck do you want Marly?”

“Jeez, sorry. I was just wondering… did Coach or management told you anything about the whole Hollander thing.”

“Why the fuck would they tell me anything?”

“Fuck if I know, because you’re the captain? Where did you run off to last night?”

Truth be told, LeClaire didn’t bother telling Ilya shit. The whole sportsmanship thing might have been a lie last night, but Ilya is kinda angry now that no one in management thought to check in on the Metros captain.

Ilya thinks he probably should feign ignorance, or disinterest. He could let the guys keep talking about what happened, make their stupid theories and whisper about it until they tire themselves. But he thinks back to Hollander’s held back tears last night, how he spiraled about what people would think of him if he showed any sign of weakness.

“Hollander is fine. Pissed-off, mostly, like anyone would be.”

“Fuck, man, I’d be scared shitless.”

“Yeah, but you’re a coward,” Ilya grins like a wolf. “Hollander doesn’t scare so easy.”

Cliff looks offended for a second, then he barks a loud laugh shaking his head. “Makes sense. That guy’s got ice in his veins, man.”

Ilya rolls his eyes and puts his headphones back on, satisfied. It feels like a little victory, to help change the narrative for Hollander. It makes him feel less useless.

He checks his phone. No news so far. Nothing else. Nothing bad has happened. And yet he can’t shake off the growing feeling of impending doom pooling in his stomach.

As soon as they land, Ilya checks his phone again. Nothing. No news. Nothing bad. He scrolls all the way home, chewing on his cross’s chain. He refresh news sites, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, gossip sites. He forgets to eat lunch and is only his growling stomach that finally prompts him to cook (and burn) dinner.

By the time he climbs into bed his head is pounding and he knows it’s because he’s spent too long glued to the screen. He has a game tomorrow. He can’t keep doing this.

He sets up several news alerts, hoping that way he can trust he will find out if anything happens (not that it will). Mildly satisfied he puts the phone away and tries his best to sleep.

The nightmares aren’t done with him yet.

The first week after Montreal is hell.

Ilya can’t go ten minutes without his eyes trailing to his phone to check for new updates, news, tweets. He spends every single hour waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Whenever he does get a news alert, his heart climbs up to his throat and forces him to read the notifications at least three times until he can make sense of them:

Montreal Metros’ Captain Shane Hollander on the incident outside the rink last Monday: ‘I’m just thankful no one was hurt.’

Theriault: We Have No Intention To Bench Hollander

Shane Hollander’s Top 10 Movies To Watch During Flights

Is Hollander Slowing Down After Monday Scare?

Hollander On Gun Violence: “I think it’s bad.”

Hollander Scores Twice Against Dallas Amidst Security Concerns For His Safety

Ilya’s body feels in constant tension. The nights aren’t any better. The lack of restful sleep is becoming a problem.

He just wishes he could convince his subconscious somehow that Hollander is fine. It was a scare, it happened, it’s over. Fuck, Hollander is probably right. Whatever this asshole’s obsession is with him, it will pass (oh, like it passed for you? a sneaky little voice taunts him).

The worst part turns out to be game days. Every period stretches a fucking lifetime. He keeps thinking about all the things that could happen while he’s on the ice without him knowing. Ilya can’t focus, he is playing like shit.

It’s been almost two weeks since the whole thing happened when Ilya finally caves.

Ilya: do you think the cop outside your house has heard you touch yourself?

He sends the message early morning, after a particularly vivid nightmare. He has a game tonight, he needs to focus. All he needs is for Hollander to reply, to tell him to fuck off, anything. Then, Ilya will know he’s alive and maybe his brain will stop sending him on a fucking spiral every time his phone buzzes.

He goes to the gym. There’s no answer.

He goes to practice. There’s no answer.

He does his pre-game. There’s no answer.

He goes to the game. There’s no answer.

He loses to fucking Toronto. There’s no answer.

By the time Ilya gets home, he is googling Shane Hollander’s name, refreshing news sites in a near-manic state. When his phone buzzes, it startles him so bad he nearly drops it again.

Jane: No
Jane: But I’m sure he heard the crowd booing you
Jane: wtf was that game Rozanov? You losing your touch?

Ilya feels a little insane, the way relief makes him laugh and collapse face first on his couch. Fucking Hollander. It takes a couple dizzy minutes until he can answer:

Ilya: bold of u to talk shit when you have no cups
Ilya: I’m just keeping the scoring race interesting
Ilya: it’s called sportsmanship

Jane: sure
Jane: you’re nowhere close in the race asshole
Jane: Hunter’s ancient ass is closer to catching up to me than you

Ilya laughs  

Ilya: yes it’s polite to give grandpa some head start
Ilya: I would give you too but I think you like other kind of head better

Jane: fuck off
Jane: but seriously are u ok? you looked kinda sick tonight

Ilya: you fishing for insider info, Hollander?

Jane: forget it

Ilya has a good night sleep for the first time in two weeks.

Which is, of course, why he wakes up to several news alerts:

Montreal Authorities: Ongoing Fire Is Confirmed To Be At Metros’s Captain Apartment Building

Authorities Still Working On Controlling Shane Hollander’s Apartment On Fire

Montreal Metros’ Shane Hollander’s Status Still Unknown After Apartment Building Fire

Apartment Fire In Downtown Montreal Controlled, According to Authorities. Hollander’s Status Still Unknown

Ilya jumps to his feet before he’s fully aware that he’s awake. He stumbles, braces himself against the bedroom wall as he keeps scrolling. But there’s no more information.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Hollander answer
Ilya: I saw the news about the fire
Ilya: answer please

He tries to call, but the call rings until it goes to voice mail. “Hello, this is Shane Hollander. Please, leave a message at the tone and I will call you as soon as possible.”

Ilya: fucking pick up

He calls again as he puts on pants and a sweatshirt. “Hello, this is Shane Hollander. Please, leave a message at the tone and I will call you as soon as possible.”

Ilya: please pick up

He puts on his sneakers by the door and stumbles to his garage. He doesn’t know which key he grabbed. He clicks the button and follows the sound. “Hello, this is Shane Hollander. Please, leave a message at the tone and I will call you as soon as possible.”

Ilya: Shane pick up the fucking phone

The car roars to life under him. It’s five hours from Boston to Montreal. Fuck it, he can make it four. Maybe three and a half. If he can just-

“Hello?” Shane’s voice comes across the line, same word as before but a new intonation.

“Hollander.”

“Rozanov, hi. Sorry I didn’t pick up before. I’ve been, uh, busy.”

“With fire, yes.”

“Yeah,” Hollander makes a sound, half a sigh, half a laugh. “I’m- it’s been a fucking crazy morning but I’m-“

“Are you okay?” Ilya finally asks, and hates how choked his voice is, how it trembles. He hopes Hollander can’t hear it.

“Oh, I’m- I’m okay. I’m fine. I was… I was not at my place.”

“Wha- where were you?”

“Running,” Hollander groans, like has said it several times. “I went running, okay? Earlier than usual. I just couldn’t sleep. It- it happened while I was out.”

“What happened?”

“They don’t know yet. It looks like an accident but…”

“But?”

“It’s weird. With everything else going on. I’m not sure. I- maybe I will have to keep the police around a little longer.”

Ilya turns the car off, feeling his body become very heavy with exhaustion. He sighs. Okay. Shane will still be protected. That’s good.

“That’s probably good,” he says slowly. “Just to be sure.”

“Yeah,” Hollander repeats. “Just to be sure. Listen, I- I have to go. But… thanks for checking in. I… I appreciate it.”

Ilya can’t help the wry smile that takes over his face. Always so polite. Appreciate it. Like he was being polite and not losing his mind about to drive three hundred miles thinking Hollander was dead.

“Sure,” Ilya says. “Any time, Hollander. Take care, yes?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Bye.”

The call ends. Ilya leans back on his seat, staring at nothing in the darkness, contemplating the last few minutes, the last few hours, the last several days.

“Fuck.”

Chapter End Notes

Shane is having a great time thanks for asking bye

Chapter 4: in crowded rooms and highways I call home

Chapter Summary

Ilya: how is life with police? Have you bored them with your hockey facts yet?

Chapter Notes

This chapter is a lot longer than i intended because their conversations always get out of hand. It’s just fun to banter!

The fire burns down the rest of Ilya’s restraint (which was, admittedly, already holding by a thread). His brain learns the lesson: something terrible could’ve happened and you wouldn’t even know, he could be dead and you wouldn’t even know.

There’s only one solution.

Ilya: do you think your dildo melted in the fire?

Mercifully, Hollander’s reply comes almost immediately.

Jane: fuck off
Jane: probably
Jane: I hope so. The alternative is some guy from the crime lab found it.

Ilya: too early to spiral about it

Jane: I’m not spiraling

Ilya: yes you are
Ilya: relax they probably think you are just kinky with your girls

Jane: oh yeah girls use them too I guess
Jane: ok

Ilya makes a mental note. It doesn’t sound like Hollander has been with many women. Not like he has. Or maybe he’s just more conservative with them. Having seen Hollander in bed, it’s hard to imagine.

Ilya: what did the crime lab say about the fire

Jane: electrical fire
Jane: freak accident
Jane: something about faulty wiring

Ilya frowned at that, chewing his inner cheek.

Ilya: Mr. Real state would buy a place with bad wiring?

Jane: I wouldn’t
Jane: that’s the thing…

Ilya wishes he could tell Hollander not to spiral about this too, but given the circumstances he thinks he might not be too off base.

Jane: anyway I got to go

Ilya: to buy new dildo? ;) send pics

Jane: fuck off

Mollified by the knowledge that Hollander is alive and at least taking this seriously enough to suspect the initial fire theory, Ilya manages to get through the day only mildly glued to his phone. He makes it through a morning skate, packing for a roadie and flying to New York. He starts getting angsty again when he makes it to his hotel, through. It’s been too many hours without news alerts or signs of life.

Ilya: so now where do you live?
Ilya: are you staying in a hotel? What number?

Jane: why it’s not like you could come with all the police around?

So I can check the news and make sure nothing bad has happened.

Ilya: there is always a way, Hollander

Jane: I’m not in a hotel anyway

Ilya: then where?

The dots appear and disappear several times before the answer comes.

Jane: Ottawa

Ilya looks at that single word, trying to pinpoint what about that information would make Hollander hesitate for so long.

Ilya: your parents?

Jane: yes
Jane: and no

Ilya: ?

Jane: they have very good security so I agreed to stay here
Jane: as long as they left town
Jane: they are staying with some of my dad’s family at PEI

Ilya: wtf is PEI

Jane: sorry
Jane: Prince Edward Island

Ilya: u kicked ur parents out and sent them to an island?
Ilya: that’s cold Hollander

Jane: fuck off
Jane: it’s safer for them
Jane: my mom hated it
Jane: we had a big fight about it

Something about Shane sharing that information so willingly makes Ilya’s chest tighten. He imagines Shane, good polite golden boy, perfect son, who probably never got in trouble at school or had a rebellious fase, fighting with his parents. It can’t have been easy for either of them. Ilya knows everything about difficult relationships with parents, but he imagines the Hollanders to be rather different than his father (judging by how good and kind their son turned out). He wonders if he would have fought like that with his mother if she was still alive. It’s hard to imagine, since all he has wanted since he was twelve is to hug her and kiss her again, but he knows it’d be naive to think they never would have disagreed. He does know for sure that, if he was in Hollander’s place, he would have been relentless about his mother’s safety. He would give anything to be able to protect her, just once.

Ilya: you are keeping her safe
Ilya: she will understand
Ilya: even if she’s worried right now

It takes a couple minutes for Shane to reply. Ilya starts to worry that he might have overstepped. He doesn’t know Hollander’s mother, or their relationship beyond the fact that she’s his manager. Maybe he is way off base.

Jane: thank you
Jane: for saying that I mean
Jane: I hope you are right

Ilya thinks of Hollander, who has already escaped two murder attempts, alone at his childhood home, eaten up by remorse for trying to protect others, more worried about them being mad at him than about his own safety. He has the weird and sudden urge to reach through the phone screen and touch him, kiss him, shush his worries at least for a minute. It’s frankly ridiculous.

Ilya: I’m always right ;)
Ilya: about time you noticed

Jane: asshole

He can imagine the way he’d roll his eyes and smile while saying it, no heat at all behind it, the way only Hollander manages to make the words sound fond. The urge to reach through the screen worsens. Better leave the conversation there.

“Hey, Cap, you good?” Marly asks after their game.

Ilya, who has been scrolling news sites ever since they got off the ice, looks up frowning. He doesn’t even bother asking for clarification.

“Sorry, it’s just… you’ve been kinda tense lately. It’s like you’re distracted. You didn’t seem entirely into the game tonight.”

Every nerve in his body tenses at once. Lazy, pathetic, embarrassing. He can hear his father scoffing disdainfully. It’s a dangerous thing to be seen like that. It brings anger, punishment, discipline. Slowly, Ilya puts his phone face down in his cubby and arches an eyebrow.

“What, Marly? You are not happy with my game? Is beating the old man in his home ice not good enough for you?”

“Jesus, Rozy, relax. I’m just asking… it’s like something’s worrying you. Everything okay?”

Deep down, Ilya knows his teammate is just trying to check on him, have his back, but he can’t help the urge to bite back. And if he knew what is keeping Ilya up at night? If he could see that particular weakness in him, would Marly still respect him? (Probably, but he can never be sure.)

“Is fine, Marleau. Worry less about me and more about your fucking game. Vaughn got too many past you tonight. Maybe you are slowing down after the cup? Got too comfortable?”

He can see the words land and hurt Cliff and he feels immediately bad about it. He offers an olive branch, clapping him in the shoulder:

“Maybe we all need to focus more, yes? I want another cup to rub in Hunter’s face before he is too old to keep playing.”

Marleau relaxes only slightly. He smiles and shakes his head.

“Sure thing, Rozy. Let’s do that,” he says, and doesn’t push more.

Ilya is still feeling a little paranoid, so he fights back the urge to text Hollander until he is alone in his hotel room. He knows the Metros had an early skate, team lunch and a game against Florida, which they won thanks to a last minute goal from Hollander, who had three assists and landed them 4-3 just in time. He knows Hollander didn’t do press after the game, probably to dodge any questions about how he feels about his home burning down and someone probably being out to get him. He knows Hollander made it out of the rink escorted by two police officers. And that he probably made it home. Probably. Most likely. He’s fine.

Ilya: how is life with police? Have you bored them with your hockey facts yet?

Mercifully, Hollander answers almost immediately.

Jane: hockey is not boring

Ilya: but you are

Jane: then why are you even texting me?

Because I need to make sure you’re not dead so I can sleep.

Which he has done. Hollander is alive. Great. Ilya could go out with his team now, have some drinks, kiss a pretty girl and forget about news alerts and threats in the mail, at least until tomorrow. He could.

He’s just tired after so many nights sleeping like shit (and he’s pretty sure there’s only one distraction he’d lose sleep for right now). He flicks channels in the hotel television until he comes across an interesting movie, something loud and fast-paced with charming criminals and angry cops always a step behind. He manages to watch about half of it until the nagging in the back of his brain gets too annoying.

Ilya: you never answered my question
Ilya: how is living with police?

He thinks maybe Hollander is already asleep. Probably. Boring like he is. In bed by nine to be up at four fucking am and barely dodging an arsonist attack. He’s just sleeping. For sure. He is alright. Even if he doesn’t answer.

Jane: it’s ok
Jane: why?

Ilya: I’m just curious… is it like the movies?

Jane: honestly? Not at all
Jane: mostly they just keep watch and take me everywhere
Jane: i feel a little caged
Jane: like an animal in a zoo

Ilya thinks that it doesn’t sound “ok” to him.

Ilya: makes sense
Ilya: zoos are for taking care of animals yes?

Jane: fuck u
Jane: you’re calling me an animal Rozanov?

Ilya laughs. He can imagine his anger. Like a kitten’s, yes.

Ilya: no one called you this in bed before? sad
Ilya: they say I am a beast all the time
Ilya: but not what I meant
Ilya: I mean like
Ilya: wait

He changes tabs to google the word.

Ilya: endangered

Jane: oh
Jane: like for wildlife preservation?
Jane: I read about it once

Ilya: exactly
Ilya: you would be like a penguin

Jane: I’m not a fucking penguin
Jane: they are not even an endangered species

Ilya: they will be if the ice keeps melting
Ilya: you are not the only one that watches documentaries Hollander

Jane: I still wouldn’t be a penguin!

Ilya: you would be so fast in the ice
Ilya: have you seen them slide?

Ilya really did watch a documentary about penguins on a flight back in February. He’d been surprised to find that penguins mate for life and do very long walks to get to the place where they will be with their loved one, through storms and unsteady terrain and cruel expanses of land with nothing but snow and predators. All for the other penguin they chose. They even said that there were a lot of documented cases of gay penguins.

It had made him think of Hollander (just because of the gay thing). He’d thought about teasing him about it, but back then he wasn’t talking to him, focused on wining the cup. So he’d mostly forgotten about it. Until tonight, apparently.

Jane: oh okay I think I would be an animal that was fast on the ice

Ilya: and funny, walking all silly out of the ice

Jane: you’re such an asshole
Jane: if I’m a penguin you’re a penguin too

It’s a chirp. It shouldn’t make Ilya’s heart twist at the thought of them crossing the expanse of inhospitable land to get to each other.

Ilya: no im not

Jane: you are!

Ilya: no, I’m a bear

Jane: a polar bear?

Ilya laughs out loud despite himself.

Ilya: no a brown bear
Ilya: for Russia
Ilya: obviously

Jane: oh right

But then again, if Ilya was a brown bear and Hollander was a penguin, they probably would never meet, and definitely wouldn’t be able to fuck. Ilya finds himself disliking the idea immediately.

Jane: there’s bears in Canada too, you know?
Jane: grizzlies

Ilya shakes his head, smiling because he is pretty sure Hollander has the same complaints about his analogy. It makes him ridiculously happy, that Hollander might be looking for ways to get fucked by him even in this imaginary world.

Ilya: yes I know
Ilya: but you are still a penguin
Ilya: fluffy and cute

Jane: don’t call me that

Ilya: fluffy?
Ilya: or cute?

Jane: neither!

Ilya: is just the truth Hollander

He doesn’t get an answer after that. It doesn’t matter. Ilya can imagine Hollander’s blush, his pouting mouth, his big brown eyes glaring at him. If they were together right now, Ilya would get him on his knees for him, make him suck him with that angry little face and then fuck him good until he let Ilya call him anything he wants.

Ilya comes on his fingers biting back Hollander’s name and finally sleeps through the night.

To Ilya’s delight, it’s Hollander who texts him first this time. In the middle of the morning:

Jane: penguins live in the southern hemisphere it really doesn’t make sense

Ilya: not the ones in the zoo
Ilya: which was the point

Jane: it still makes no sense
Jane: I would be a Canadian animal

Ilya: a yes the Canada golden boy… like a beaver?

Jane: or a grizzly

It’s so stupid. Ilya shouldn’t find it as endearing as he does. At least if Hollander is doing deep dives on the habitats of penguins and grizzly bears, it must mean his life hasn’t been in danger in the past several hours. Maybe the threat really has passed.

Ilya: is this what you are doing? Thinking about Canadian animals?
Ilya: very unprofessional
Ilya: I thought all your free time was for watching tape

Jane: not all of it

Ilya wonders if that’s supposed to have a double meaning, if Hollander is thinking of something else they can do in his free time, together.

Jane: I’m waiting for my optometrist appointment

The doctor? Ilya frowns. Is something wrong? He does a quick google search.

Ilya: eye doctor?
Ilya: no wonder you miss so much

Jane: I’ve literally got the Shot Accuracy record asshole
Jane: I only need glasses for reading

And here Ilya thought Hollander couldn’t be any less cool than he already is. Ilya imagines him with a nerdy pair of glasses. Oh.

Ilya: show me

Jane: no

Ilya: Hollander show me
Ilya: please

Jane: no!
Jane: I can’t anyway
Jane: they burned down
Jane: that’s why I’m getting new ones
Jane: it’s annoying

Ilya: you are maybe the only person who is more annoyed about glasses than about someone maybe trying to kill you

Jane: of course I’m annoyed
Jane: why do I have to change everything in my life just because some asshole has a problem with me
Jane: it’s fucking stupid

Ilya blinks at his phone. So far, he has been put off by Hollander’s nonchalance about his own well-being. It hadn’t occurred to him that the resistance to taking the threat seriously could come from anger.

Ilya: it is unfair yes
Ilya: but life isn’t fair

Jane: no shit

Ilya: I don’t mean is okay
Ilya: but just because is stupid doesn’t mean it will go away if you ignore it

And he knows it’s harsh telling him this, but he hates the idea of Hollander choosing now of all times to become reckless out of spite. He tries to soften it a little.

Ilya: you ignored me two years

Jane: are you calling yourself stupid?

About you, sometimes.

Ilya: I’m saying it didn’t stop me

Jane: no
Jane: until you got what you wanted

If only it was so easy. If only Ilya could be satisfied, take what he wanted from Hollander once and move on. Nothing is that simple.

Ilya: you wanted it too
Ilya: I remember you begging
Ilya: but is not the point
Ilya: maybe ignoring this asshole is not such a good idea
Ilya: since what they want isn’t as much fun

Jane: got my appointment
Jane: got to go

Ilya sighs and leans his head back against the pillow. He’s not sure that conversation ended well.

That afternoon, while Hollander is playing, the Raiders fly to Ottawa. Ilya tells himself that no one will shoot Hollander while the entire world is watching. Probably. So he really has nothing to worry about while disconnected on the air.

He still rushes to check the news as soon as they touch down.

Montreal Metros Continue Winning Streak, Beat Toronto With Hollander Hat-Trick

Ilya smiles despite himself.

Ilya: we play Ottawa tomorrow

It takes a couple hours for Hollander to reply, but the news remain focused on his win so Ilya tries to relax. This anxiousness is frankly exhausting. No wonder Hollander never goes out, he must be beat by the time night rolls around after spending all day fretting over nothing. Unlike Ilya, who is completely justified in his current worries.

Jane: I know

Ilya: we just got to the hotel
Ilya: and you are staying in Ottawa too yes?

Jane: yes so?
Jane: wait you wanna come to my parents’ house?

Ilya: maybe or you come here

Jane: we can’t
Jane: the police are still here
Jane: how would we even explain it?

Ilya: maybe I lie again and say is still sportsmanship thing
Ilya: worked last time

The three little dots dance for a long time in the bottom of the chat.

Jane: they will think you are aiming for the Lady Byng
Jane: would make sense
Jane: since you aren’t getting any other trophy this year

Ilya: wow so rude
Ilya: not very sportsmanlike of you

Jane: I don’t need it
Jane: I’m getting the cup and the mvp this year
Jane: and fuck anyone who has a problem with that

Hollander’s fire makes Ilya grin. Beautiful and frustratingly stubborn man. Of course he would take some asshole’s death threats and turn them into fuel. Ilya is the only one that gets to stand on his way to victory. Oh, he needs to have him again, to taste that fire in his tongue, to unmake that iron resolve with pleasure.

Ilya: so if I say I have problem with it…
Ilya: we can fuck again?

Jane: can’t

Ilya: police won’t give a shit

Jane: it’s not that
Jane: we have a team event later tonight
Jane: some big private party for a sponsor
Jane: they’ve been going overboard with security all week to make sure I can go

Ilya is tempted to say that the Metros management should not be making him attend a fucking party while someone out there is trying to kill him, but he knows better than to suggest Hollander skip an event that he probably sees as part of his captain duties. Heaven forbid he puts himself first once.

Ilya: ok
Ilya: maybe tomorrow?

Jane: maybe

Ilya sighs and drops his phone on the hotel bed. It’s going to be a fucking long night. It’s okay. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will see Hollander and finally assure himself that the other man isn’t just going to die when he isn’t watching. He will kiss and suck and lick and fuck him until his body understands it too. And then, finally, Ilya will be free.

The first thing Ilya sees when he opens his eyes is the time on his screen: 3:27 AM. The next thing he sees is the notification.

[Incoming call: Jane]

Hollander doesn’t call. Hollander never calls. Hollander definitely doesn’t call him in the middle of the fucking night the night before Ilya has a game.

“What’s wrong?”

”Rozanov! I- I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”

Chapter End Notes

Okay everyone. Seatbelts on ;)

Chapter 5: till you pick me off the ground

Chapter Summary

“Why are you calling me?” Ilya says, balancing his weight on one foot as he puts on one sneaker. “I don’t mean- Why not the police?”

“Because I don’t trust them!” Shane’s voice cracks, as if he was a teenager. It makes Ilya’s heart twist, thinking of the kid he met in a parking lot years ago. “The event, the apartment, they were in charge for both and look what happened. I don’t- maybe I’m being paranoid but I don’t know who to trust right now.”

Chapter Notes

Yes. We went up one chapter. I cannot be trusted to stick to my plans. Clearly.

Ilya is on his feet and wide awake in what has to be some sort of record time.

“Hollander, what’s going on?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m pretty sure someone just tried to roofie me.”

Ilya freezes mid-grabbing his pants off the floor. His stomach drops. His limbs go cold. “What?”

“Yeah, I- I don’t know how it happened. The whole thing was fucking vetted by the police. The venue, the catering, I don’t- I don’t know. I don’t know where to go.”

Fuck. Shane is somewhere in fucking Montreal, maybe alone, probably drugged and about to lose all control, left vulnerable for anyone to hurt. And Ilya is so close and so far away. Unable to stop it. Again. Again. Again. Never able to stop it.

“Where are you?”

“Uh, not sure. Driving around.”

“You should not be driving.”

“What? Why? I’m- oh. No, I’m not- they tried to drug me. I’m okay.”

“You are not making sense, Hollander. What do you mean they tried?”

“Fuck, I’m- okay, so Hayden offered to drive me home after the event. He said I should be able to let go a little and that he would be designated driver tonight.”

Ilya decides immediately that Hayden Pike is a fucking idiot. The last thing Hollander needs right now is to lose control. Not the way alcohol would achieve. Only in Ilya’s arms would he be safe enough to let go and it infuriates him that anyone would be so careless about it.

“I didn’t want to explain to the others, so I just slipped Hayden my ginger ale and drank from his beer. And now he’s fucking- he’s out of it. He started getting drunk off a fucking soft drink! Meant for me!”

Ilya starts dressing faster, as the dread in his stomach threatens to turn into full on vertigo. Of course. Anyone who knew shit about Shane Hollander would know that he’s the only man in the NHL choosing to drink fucking ginger ale in the middle of a party instead of beer. It would only take spiking it, slipping something in… waiting until everyone assumes he’s just drunk and snatching him to-

“Where are you now?”

“Driving around. I’m not sure where to go. Hayden is- I’ve got him with me. He’s out of it. Passed out. I couldn’t leave him. I don’t know if I should take him to the hospital or to his house. Oh, god. What if he’s not roofied? What if he’s fucking poisoned?! What do I do?”

“Why are you calling me?” Ilya says, balancing his weight on one foot as he puts on one sneaker. “I don’t mean- Why not the police?”

“Because I don’t trust them!” Shane’s voice cracks, as if he was a teenager. It makes Ilya’s heart twist, thinking of the kid he met in a parking lot years ago. “The event, the apartment, they were in charge for both and look what happened. I don’t- maybe I’m being paranoid but I don’t know who to trust right now.”

Except for you, goes unsaid, but Ilya hears it anyway, locks it in the back of his mind for later.

Ilya looks around his room. He needs to go. He needs to get to Hollander. He needs to get to him before whoever was biding their time does.

“Do not go to Pike’s home. They will be expecting it. If you got drunk, he would not leave you alone, yes?”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Okay. Okay,” Ilya makes it to the hallway. He needs to get to Hollander. He needs to reach him. “Come to Ottawa.”

“What?!” Hollander snaps. “Rozanov, that’s like two hours. I- I can’t.”

“Is two hours if you stay bellow speed limit,” Ilya says, as he clicks the elevator call button insistently.

“The limit’s there for a reason! And- and what if something happens and I’m in the middle of nowhere alone.”

“Not alone.”

DING. The doors open, Ilya jumps in and clicks the lobby button another half a dozen times.

“Yeah, not sure Hayden is much help right now,” Hollander’s voice wobbles.

“Is he ever?”

“Do you have to be an asshole right now?!”

“You won’t be alone. I am coming. I will meet you half way.”

“What?! How?!”

Great question.

“Don’t worry. I will be there. Trust me, yes?”

“Fuck. Yes. Okay,” Shane breathes. “Okay, I’ll- I’ll get to the highway. Oh, fuck. This is bad. This is so bad.”

Ilya can hear the panic raising in Hollander’s voice. After weeks of being frustrated by his apparent calm, this is the worst possible time for him to start reacting like a normal person.

“Breathe. You are okay. You got out. You did good.”

DING. The elevator doors open. Ilya almost misses it but he could swear he hears Shane sigh.

“Okay.”

Ilya wishes he could stay in the line, keep Hollander from spiraling, guide him through this and make sure that nothing happens… but he can’t do that and get himself a car at the same time. And he really, really, needs a car.

“I have to go now,” he says regretfully. “But I will call you back. Or you call me if anything happens. Yes?”

“Yes,” Hollander’s voice is still shaky.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I will call if something happens. I did call you just now, didn’t I?”

The bite back eases Ilya slightly. There’s his Hollander.

“Drive fast, not like grandma. Don’t stop, no matter what. I will see you soon.”

Ilya hangs up because if he has to actually hear Hollander say goodbye something in him might break and he cannot afford that.

Now how the fuck does he get a car at three in the morning in fucking Ottawa?

It’s ridiculously easy to get a car.

Well, not legally.

Ilya blames Canadian naivety. They are way too nice and, therefore, trusting of others’ niceness. He grabs a cap a distracted and probably sleep-deprived tourist left on top of his bags as he checked in and keeps his head low as he walks out. The valet left the keys unsupervised while he smoked ten feet away. All Ilya has to do is snatch a keychain and walk casually towards the parking lot.

To distract himself, he mentally ranks how high grand theft auto would rank in his slowly growing list of misdemeanors. Higher than trashing a hotel room in New York for sure, but maybe lower than some of the drugs he tried his rookie year.

He clicks the keys and follows the sound.

He thinks anyone who knew the reason for it, would not blame him. Hell, Canada might gift him the car and a medal for rushing off to rescue their golden boy. But no one can know. Fortunately, Ilya has a reputation. He can practically read the headlines:

NHL Bad Boy, Ilya Rozanov, Steals Car During Drunken Bender In Ottawa

He gets in the car.

Would the League help him if he gets arrested? Probably. He has seen them cover up for far more terrible and disgusting things from their players half as good as him. He feels like a slimy hypocrite for hoping some of that willingness to turn the blind eye works in his favor this time.

But if it doesn’t… if this impulsive decision means he loses his contract and his visa, if it means he has to go back to Russia to a disdainful father and a brother who resents him for losing their source of income, to a country that would see him die in prison for who he wants to take to bed… if it comes to that, it would still be worth it.

The car ignites to life and Ilya steps on the pedal.

Almost an hour later, Ilya is speeding down the highway at a speed only permitted in the German autobahn when his phone starts buzzing. He puts it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“I think someone is following me,” Shane says, his voice tight like he is pouring every ounce of himself into remaining in control.

Ilya tells himself this was to be expected. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“Tell me.”

“Two black cars. No lights. They’ve been on our tail for a while. I- I don’t know. I speed up, they speed up. I slow down, they do too.”

“Could it be police?”

“Without headlights!?”

“Okay, probably not.”

“Is that fucking-“

“Shut up, Hayden.”

“Where are you?”

“Past the halfway point. I don’t know. I didn’t want to stop and wait for you.”

“That’s okay. I am coming. What do you see?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. We are- we are by the river, the highway is tight. Dark. I keep thinking we are gonna run into a deer or some shit.”

“What? Hollander, why are you worrying about deer?!”

“Because I’m going too fast and it’s very fucking dangerous! If you hit a deer-“

“Okay, fuck, fine. I get it. The cars. They are still behind you?”

“Yes.”

“Speed up. I am close.”

They stay in the line. Ilya can hear Hollander’s carefully controlled breathing and he clings to it like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. Every so often, Pike mumbles something incoherent that makes Ilya equal parts annoyed at him and grateful that it isn’t Shane in that state right now.

Ilya keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead as he snakes through the highway, desperate to finally see Hollander’s headlights coming his way.

“Oh,” Hollander says suddenly. “Oh, thank god. Okay, they are passing us now. So I guess they weren’t really follow- Fuck!”

“What?!”

There’s no answer. Ilya hears wheels screech then a dry metallic sound.

“Fuck, no, no, no.”

“Hollander, what are-“

“They are trying to- oh shit,” there’s another louder metallic crash.

There’s a scream.

“Shane!”

He gets no answer. The line goes dead.

No. No, no, no, he can’t have- he can’t be-

Ilya pushes the car to the motor’s limits as he speeds down the highway like a bullet. Two sets of headlights appear. Two black cars that speed past him. An irrational part of his brain wants to slam his car against them, make them pay, demand answers, but he can’t yet, not until he knows…

Half a mile later he sees the crash site. There’s glass on the highway floor and the security fence in the curve is torn to shreds. Ilya stops so abruptly he nearly gives himself whiplash and jumps off the car. The glass cracks under his feet as he approaches the highway’s edge, where the metallic fence is broken. He sees the black tire marks on the curve leading here and speeding off towards-

Oh. Oh no.

The river is a dark mirror under the cold Canadian moonlight, nearly peaceful except for the ripples and bubbles coming up right here by the shore, and two blinking lights disappearing slowly towards the bottom.

Shane is in there. In the water. So Ilya does the only thing he can: he jumps.

Chapter End Notes

I did say to put your seatbelts on!!! Next up: we go for a swim :)

Also I know this is kinda short, sorry but just imagine the chapter pauses aren’t “end of episode” cliffhangers but “going to commercial break” pauses lol

Chapter 6: cause you stop the noise

Chapter Summary

The river is dark, but thankfully it hasn’t rained lately and the current isn’t too hard to fight as he paddles deeper and deeper. He follows the car lights like a lighthouse. No, that’s not right. Like a siren call, pulling him under to the depths.

Chapter Notes

sorry for the wait!!!! I was busy literally visiting the Montreal biodome penguins! They are so cute. Ilya and Shane would love it there.

TW: F-slur, suicidal ideation mentions, some generally homophobic & xenophobic language

Ilya dives in head first.

The freezing water shoots through his system like an electric shock. You are not a penguin after all, his mind supplies deliriously. Everything in him wants to stop and curl into itself, or to get back to the surface and the fuck out of the water. He does neither. He forces himself to keep swimming towards the sinking lights.

The river is dark, but thankfully it hasn’t rained lately and the current isn’t too hard to fight as he paddles deeper and deeper. He follows the car lights like a lighthouse. No, that’s not right. Like a siren call, pulling him under to the depths.

When he gets close enough, he sees people in the car. Hollander is holding Pike’s head with both hands and leaning in, so close that for a very fucked up second Ilya thinks they are kissing. But no, he is softly slapping the other man’s cheek, yelling something, like he’s trying to wake him. Finally, Pike seems to understand. He moves his head in what’s barely a nod, but Hollander seems satisfied. He turns, pulls out the headrest out of his seat and turns towards the windshield. That’s when his eyes meet Ilya’s.

He could swear he sees his lips move and form his name. His first name. Ilya can’t hear it.

Hollander is wet, there must be water dripping into the car, but so far it seems like they have enough air. With wide eyes and bleeding from his left eyebrow, Hollander keeps talking as if Ilya could hear. He shakes his head. This isn’t helping. Jesus Christ. He needs to get them out of there. He needs to-

He finally reaches the car and slams his hand against the windshield twice, but even with his strength he can tell he lacks the leverage for it.

Hollander’s open palm slams against the glass, demanding his attention. He points at Ilya and sweeps his hand to the left. What? Pike, who is staring at Ilya with unfocused eyes keeps mumbling something, face pinched with annoyance. Hollander repeats the motion more urgently. Fuck. Okay. Fuck.

Ilya moves to the left, by Pike’s window. Hollander grabs the seat’s headset and uses the metal spikes to hit the windshield. Ilya watches him work with the kind of precision he is known for, hitting the exact same spot three times with all of his very considerable professional athlete strength until a crack appears. Hollander hits again and the crack widens all around, like a spider web. (Ilya remembers idly Svetlana mentioning that car glass is made this way on purpose, to better your chances of survival if you go through it during an accident.) Once the web is big enough, Hollander moves trying to kick it, but his leverage inside is awkward and can’t quite get it right. He kicks twice to no avail.

Ilya is almost running out of air. His lungs burn, it feels like his chest is going to burst, his every instinct is begging him to swim up and find air. But he can’t. He has to help. Leaving is not an option. If he dies, he fucking dies. It’s better than the alternative.

Ilya moves to the front again and grabs on to the two metal bars on the car’s rooftop (because of course Pike has them for his skis or whatever). Like it happens in the ice some times, Hollander seems to understand his strategy instinctively. He grabs Pike and covers his head, turning both their bodies away as Ilya uses his arms to swing all his body weight and kick the windshield with both feet. Once. Twice…

The glass gives and the current drags Ilya in.

His head finds air and instinctually he gasps, filling his lungs. His ears are ringing and the water is rushing in quickly, filling the car’s air bubble.

“-lya!” Hollander’s voice breaks through in the middle of the chaos. “We…. go… ta… -den!”

“Are you okay?” Is all he can ask, turning to look at him.

Soaking wet now, Hollander is pale but determined. Captain Shane Hollander. He grabs Ilya by the shoulder and looks him in the eye.

“Take him!”

“What, no, Hollander, you-“

“I can swim! He can’t! Help me get him out!”

Ilya doesn’t get to reply. The water is filling the car. Ilya and Hollander take a big gasp of air as the car is finally filled. Underwater, in the silence that follows, Ilya suddenly has the sensation of falling. Fuck, it’s the car. It’s sinking faster now that it’s lost the air.

Hollander grabs him by the shoulder and points at Pike. Ilya nods, grabs Pike’s arm with one hand and Hollander’s with the other (he’s fucking insane if he thinks Ilya is swimming out of here without him) and pushes himself out through the windshield.

They’ve barely made it out of the car when he feels Shane tug. For a second, he thinks he’s trying to free himself. But then the tug gets harder and they are all sinking. Ilya turns and sees Hollander getting dragged down.

He tries to pull to no avail. Hollander tries to shake his grasp off and gestures for him to keep going.

No, no fucking way. He didn’t get this far to lose him. Ilya tightens his hold of him.

Hollander fucking takes off his jacket.

The moment Ilya loses him, Shane sinks. Meanwhile, Pike seems barely conscious enough to try to swim upwards desperately.

No, no, no. Shane. Shane, please.

Ilya feels his heart sink to the bottom of the river. He swims up. He wants to die. He wants to go back with Shane and drown with him. He makes it out.

Pike gasps for air next to him, but his head is already lolling around uselessly. Ilya has to kick hard to keep them both afloat.

“Hollander!” He calls, to the dark uncaring night. “Shane! Shane!” His voice breaks into a sob.

He can’t- he can’t be. Not now that Ilya was so close to saving him. Shane. Shane. Shane.

“Oh, fuck!” A voice. His voice.

“Shane!”

“Ilya?! Oh, thank god,” there’s a spluttering sound and suddenly Shane’s head is near them, his bright eyes reflecting the moonlight. “Rozanov. Are you okay?”

“Ask me later. We need to get out,” Ilya says, voice clipped with all the restrain he has left, because all he wants to do is throw himself at Shane and hug him and cry.

Shane nods, grabs Pike and starts swimming towards the riverside. All three together move clumsily until they reach the rocky edge. Panting, Shane and Ilya pull Pike out of the water.

“Fuck, Hayden, hey, look at me, are you okay?” Shane says, crawling in his hands and knees to his friend.

Ilya must have hit his head because Shane is not wearing pants. Only his black boxers.

Pike coughs and gasps and throws a thumbs up. “L’good, bud.. but.. m’never goin’ swimmin’ w’ya again.”

Shane laughs, patting Pike’s cheek and finally looks up at him. The sound of that laughter does more for Ilya’s lungs than all the oxygen in the world. He looks at Shane again, taking him in. He’s alive, half dressed and bleeding from the eyebrow but otherwise unharmed. His knees must hurt though, with the river rocks underneath them.

“You lost your p-pants,” Ilya points out, as if he could possibly not know that already.

“It was t-that or sinking w-with the ship,” Shane says. “The hem got stuck on t-the rearview m-mirror. Didn’t have the time to free it so…”

“Always g-good choice to take them off.”

Hollander laughs again and rolls over falling on his back. “Oh, fuck. That was… fuck.”

“Yes. Are you okay?”

“Ask me later,” Shane groans. “You came.”

“Yes.”

“You jumped into the f-fucking river.”

“Yes.”

Ilya doesn’t know what else to say. Admitting it feels like a confession but it’s not like he can deny it. He did. All of it. And he would do it again.

Shane looks at him. In the dark, with only the moonlight, Ilya can’t quite make out his expression. He wishes he could see him properly, to convince himself he’s alive.

“We are sh-shaking,” he says after a long pause. “We need to m-move. We need to warm up be-before we get hypothermia.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, forcing himself to move.

Shane is right. He hadn’t noticed but his body is trembling and his hands and feet fill numb. He feels slow and sluggish. It can’t be good.

“H-help me w-with him.”

“F-fucking bossy.”

There are backpacks in the car’s trunk. Ilya tries not to feel particularly bad about the pink unicorn one. Shane asks where the fuck he got the car but seems to get the idea when Ilya doesn’t answer.

Shane gets gloriously naked for what feels like a millisecond before he’s dressing up in a pair of mismatched sweats that barely fit his thighs. Ilya dresses too. The jeans and the t-shirt aren’t quite as warm as he would like, but he gets a flannel on top and it does enough. At least it’s dry. Pike gets the fuzzy white lady sweatpants that leave his calves exposed and a tight baby pink T-shirt that leaves his abs (infuriatingly okay) out.

They cover him with the rest of clothes like a stupid cocooned baby laying across the backseat and sit in the front seats with the motor running and the heat turned up to the maximum.

“Now what?” He finally asks when he can feel his hands again.

Shane startles a little at his voice. Ilya wonders if he had dozed off. Is that good? Is that bad?

“I don’t know,” Shane says.

“They probably think you are dead,” Ilya supplies. “Maybe we lay low. Let them think that.”

But Shane is already shaking his head.

“I can’t do that to my parents.”

“Maybe we tell them, just them.”

“We can’t.”

“Right. Just you, but-“

“Hayden. I still don’t know what he took. It could just be, like, normal drugs or whatever. But these people are trying to kill me so- so what if it’s something worse? We need to take him to a hospital.”

“These people are after you. If we go there, they’ll find you.”

“I don’t think they’ll just come after me there. And- and fuck, I have to risk it. He’s in this mess because of me.”

“Is not your fault, Hollander.”

“Well, it’s not him they were after is it?!”

“Okay, okay. So I take him to the hospital and you hide.”

“Alone?” Shane’s voice shakes. “I- I mean, I could but-“

“No. You are right. No,” Ilya says immediately. Because he’s right. If he loses him out of his sight right now he might finally go insane. “Fuck. Okay, fuck. We go to hospital.”

“We? You- how would we explain it?”

“I was partying in Montreal? Because Ottawa is fucking boring.”

“You have a game tomorrow!”

“Late game, and this is fake, Hollander I was not partying, remember. We say I was, and then you and Hayden picked me up, because you are so nice, and in the way to Ottawa to drop me off we had an accident.”

“The clothes?”

“Good samaritans.”

“The- the fucking car?!”

“They will report it stolen. I leave it in the street. Hollander, what is priority right now?”

Shane drops his head against the glove compartment. Ilya watches him. He is breathing hard, but he has stopped shaking. That’s good. He reaches out and puts a hand on Shane’s neck, finally touching his skin. He rubs his thumb behind his ear, trying to soothe the panic away. It’s meant to help Shane, but he feels the way the contact settles something inside him too.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Ilya still doesn’t love the plan but it’s better than leaving Shane alone and he knows he’s too stubborn to leave Pike’s fate to chance. So this is it.

Thankfully, he’d left his phone in the car before jumping into the river (a part of his brain that is logical and has self-preservation skills still can’t believe he did that) so he can google the nearest hospital in Ottawa and drive them there.

Ilya lets the silence stretch, feeling whatever is coming build up between them like a pot of water about to boil. They have been on the road for about fifteen minutes when Shane gives up and says whatever he has been chewing on since Ilya started moving.

“Thank you. For… for coming tonight when I called, for jumping in after us, I don’t know if we would’ve-“

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “Was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Shane seems offended. “I- I mean, not to me, obviously, it means a lot. But also, in general it’s… I don’t think most people would be willing to take a risk like that. So… thank you.”

“Most people are smarter than me then,” Ilya smirks.

“Would you just take the fucking compliment? Jeez!” Shane groans, turning his face away from Ilya.

No, turn around, look at me. Let me look at you when I steal a glance. I need to remember you are here.

“Okay, yes, I am amazing. We are agreed,” he says flatly.

“You’re unbelievable,” Shane sighs.

“Tell me what is going on.”

“You know what’s going on,” Shane turns to him, frowning.

Ilya discovers that driving with Shane in the copilot seat is a security risk. His freckles are so fucking distracting up close.

“I know nothing. I find from the news you almost got shot and that your house burns down and you tell me ‘it’s just normal asshole it will be okay’ but none of this seems normal, or okay, so tell me everything that is going on.”

“Rozanov, you don’t really have to get involved.”

“I am involved!”

He already was. There hasn’t been an instant when this hasn’t pertained to him. Because this is Shane Hollander and Ilya’s life has been tied to his since before they met.

“So I would like to know what the fuck is happening. Please.”

Silence stretches again as they drive in the dark. Until Shane says:

“The first letter came about a week after Las Vegas. It said: Faggots don’t belong in hockey if they want to stay alive.”

Ilya turns to Shane, feeling his heart rate spike just at the thought of those words, of the violence implied, of the reason behind it. Shane has closed his eyes and is leaning his head against the seat.

“It was fucked up, but that word gets thrown around enough that I didn’t even know if I should look at it like a homophobic thing or just normal hockey shit, you know?”

“Was it?”

“I don’t fucking know. I mean, I lost sleep so many nights trying to figure out how they could know. But I have no idea.”

It isn’t lost on Ilya that apparently Shane didn’t once think to blame him or question him about how someone else might know.

“Anyway, the letters kept coming. The idea was the same, mostly, that I should quit hockey if I wanted to stay alive. As if I’d ever,” Shane sounds angry at the mere idea. “The reasons changed, though. They’d say… they’d say people like me were always so delicate, if I wasn’t careful someone might break me on the ice, or that I should leave hockey to the real men and go back to my people to suck dicks there. Homophobic, racist, some, uh, ableist I guess? The idea was always the same: quit or die.”

Ilya’s grip tightens around the wheel, his jaw clenched. He’d known it was happening. Or, at least, Shane had finally mentioned it back in Montreal. But hearing the full extent of it is different. Worse. He feels anger unfurl inside him like a viper.

“And this was going on for four months.”

“Yeah, it was- it wasn’t a good time, but it’s not like I was gonna let it get to me. If I’d quit every time someone threatened me, I wouldn’t have made it out of the fucking pee-wee league. I told my parents the gist of it to convince them to tighten their security too and I thought that’d be it. I mean, with most of these assholes they just wanna scare you, get under your skin.”

Ilya sends him a look because this is clearly not the case.

“I know,” Shane rolls his eyes. “But I didn’t know. And then I got a new letter. It said… fuck, it said: Time’s up. Enjoy your last game against Boston. That was-“

“Two weeks before our game.”

“Yeah. It felt so… definitive. So I talked to the police about an escort in and out of the rink. I thought I was just being cautious.”

“And then someone shot at you,” Ilya says. He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but maybe it does.

“Yeah. Fuck. It was- I was so fucking scared. I thought I’d fucking die right there but- but I didn’t. No one even got hurt. So- so maybe they were just trying to scare me. I don’t know.”

“Were they trying to scare you when they burned your house?!”

“That’s- that’s the thing,” Shane perks up, which feels odd to Ilya, like he’s almost excited to be recounting this. “I was meant to be home! I was- I mean, the police were checking my ins and outs. I was meant to tell them if I ever moved but… but I couldn’t fucking sleep. So I went out. I didn’t want to bother anyone so I figured I could go run close by and it’d be fine and then-“

“You didn’t want to bother the officers literally looking after you?!” Ilya snaps. “Hollander, do you want to fucking die?”

The moment he says the words it feels like he’s opened a hole in the ground with a beautiful corpse long buried inside it. He turns his focus on the road, clenching his fists around the steering wheel.

“I don’t!” Shane snaps back. “I wouldn’t be doing all this if I didn’t fucking care. But it’d been weeks and it was early and I couldn’t sleep and I was almost up to the deadline when the cops were no longer gonna be trailing my every move. I figured I could go for a run without a goddamn babysitter!”

Ilya is almost too angry to answer. He focuses on the dark road ahead of them, presses the pedal slightly to feel the speed pick up. Shane could’ve died. Shane could’ve died so many times and still he insists on being so fucking reckless and for what? Pride? Rebellion?

But then something else worms its way out. He remembers growing up in Russia, his father and his police friends, later his brother. He remembers feeling like his every move was being watched and measured carefully inside his own house. Being driven to and from training by people appointed by the Sports Ministry, watchful eyes on the stands during their practices, during games, the feeling of an entire nation’s hopes and dreams for the future of one of its biggest sports firmly set on his shoulders.

Your country is counting on you. Your family is counting on you. We are all counting on you. Don’t you dare disappoint us. Don’t you dare step out of line, for your own good, of course.

He remembers feeling like a mouse in a cage, observed, poked, trained to obey. He remembers feeling like any step out of line could be deadly. And yet… that didn’t stop him did it? He still partied and did drugs and fucked Sasha. He still approached Shane fucking Hollander in the showers. Every risk he took, reckless and stupid, felt like reclaiming a little bit of himself.

He wishes he didn’t understand. But he does.

“Okay, so what? You went for a run and your house burned down?”

“When I was supposed to be in it. And then the party tonight. It’s just… I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or if it’s the police or things are just getting worse ever since that game but-“

“Have there been more letters?”

“No. It’s somehow even more unnerving. Like- like the threats are over. Now they have decided to just kill me.”

Ilya looks at Shane and feels his heart twist at the worry there. He looks just as scared as Ilya thinks he should, but he hates to see it now.

“Well, you’re three points ahead so far,” he offers, with a smirk.

“When does this game fucking end?” Shane groans, leaning his head against the window.

“We gotta game t‘night?” Hayden babbles. “Maaan! No! M’drunk, can’t play. Shaney bud m’s-sorry im-“

Shane turns around to glance at his friend, brow furrowed.

“It’s okay, bud. You’re good. You’re gonna be okay.”

“He’d probably play better this way anyway,” Ilya chirps.

Shane gifts him the perfect angry kitten glare.

“Stop that! It’s not funny. He- he could be-“

“He’s gonna be okay, Hollander. Is not poison.”

“How could you possibly know?”

“If they wanted to kill you with drinks, why follow you in two cars? Why throw you in the river?”

He’s been mulling it over (ever since his brain started to function again once he made sure Shane was alive and okay). The party, the drinks, the cars. So many complicated steps to kill one man.

Shane frowns like he isn’t following.

“It was meant to look like accident. Hollander gets drunk, drives himself and his friend into the river. Tragic. So sad.”

“Oh. Oh fuck,” Shane gasps.

“So potion is probably not the best if you want the police report to look like alcohol.”

“Okay. That’s… terrifying, but reassuring, I guess? We are still taking him to the hospital, though.”

“Yes. Yes. You worry like hen mama.”

“Mother hen,” Shane corrects. “I thought I was a penguin.”

Ilya feels something inside him flutter excitedly. He turns and finds Shane already looking at him, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

“Penguin mama, then.”

“Penguin dad,” Shane counters.

“We goin’ to th’zoo?” Hayden gasps. “Oh the girls’ll love it!”

Ilya looks at Shane, eyebrows raised and catches the moment the chuckle erupts past his defenses. All he can do is burst out laughing too. The momentary joy feels like a breath of fresh air after drowning for so long.

And Shane’s laughter… Ilya realizes with bone-deep certainty that he will kill to protect it if he has to.

Chapter End Notes

A loooong one this time hopefully to make up for the wait, since I’m still travelling and don’t have a lot of time to write. Also damn Shane should 100% speak more French guys, ppl in Montreal lead with it like 90% of the time. I’m taking notes.

Chapter 7: terrified of what i’d be

Chapter Summary

There will have to be explanations: why he left in the middle of the night, why he ended up at an Ottawa hospital with Shane Hollander and a barely conscious Hayden Pike, why he chose to stay here even if he’s not injured.

Chapter Notes

Turns out super long travel time between cities is good for writing fanfic so we have a new one, yay!

The hospital staff require shockingly little information from them. They don’t ask about the clothes, or the accident, or how the three of them ended up together.

It might be because they are more busy checking Hayden Pike’s vitals and setting him up with a detox banana bag, or it might be because they are starstruck by Shane Hollander showing up in their emergency room, or it might even be because said Shane fucking Hollander is an A list celebrity and they need to relocate three patients in order to free a private room for Pike and him to get checked out without causing a commotion.

Regardless, Shane repeats their cover story at least three times, each less convincing than the last. The doctors either buy it because golden boy Hollander would never lie, or because they truly do not care about his explanations.

Ilya stays quiet. He refuses to get checked up. He lets them focus on the other two while he watches the hallways, the windows, the cars on the street bellow. The city hasn’t woken up yet. The skyline is barely starting to brighten with the first shy rays of daylight. There are no black vans in sight.

A very nice nurse does his best not to fanboy too much as he gives Shane stitches on his eyebrow cut. Ilya bites his tongue to fight off the urge to insist he be careful not to mess up his perfect pretty face with a clumsy patch work. Once he is done, they are left alone to wait for Pike’s toxicology and bloodwork.

Ilya has a brief and pointless debate with himself before he chooses the chair next to Shane. He sprawls on it, as casual and relaxed as he can possibly pretend to be. He feels Shane tense next to him. Not a bad tension, the kind he has in hotel rooms and empty locker rooms. Anticipation. They are alone. In a public space and with a still drugged Hayden Pike snoring off his high in the hospital bed next to them, but alone.

Ilya grabs Shane’s chin and tilts his face gently, inspecting the cut on his eyebrow.

“It looks okay,” he decides. “Will heal good.”

“And you’d be the expert,” Shane huffs, rolling his eyes. “After all your fights on the ice.”

“Yes,” Ilya grins. “And maybe I am expert on your face too.”

“Shut up,” Shane twists his head out of Ilya’s grasp, but it’s not enough to hide the gorgeous pink spreading through his face.

Ilya wants to kiss every blushed spot, his cheeks, his throat, his ears. To restrain himself, he checks his phone. There are no new messages. It’s just a matter of time until his team realizes he isn’t in his room. But not yet.

There will have to be explanations: why he left in the middle of the night, why he ended up at an Ottawa hospital with Shane Hollander and a barely conscious Hayden Pike, why he chose to stay here even if he’s not injured. His half baked story won’t hold close inspection, specially if he doesn’t show up to morning skate before their game tonight. It’s a problem. He doesn’t want people looking at him too closely, or at Hollander, he doesn’t want them wondering why when faced with danger and uncertainty, he chose to call Ilya of all people (a question he has been asking himself too).

But all those problems exist in a nebulous future. Right now, Shane is sitting next to him, nodding off until he finally gives in and falls asleep with his chin tucked against his chest. Ilya has never seen him sleep before. His brow is relaxed, safe from the anxiety that haunts him in wakefulness. His mouth is slightly parted, like he’s about to whisper something secret. Even his hands have unclenched on his lap. He looks beautiful and horribly vulnerable. How many nights has he gone to bed afraid in the past months? Has he been sleeping at all? And now? Is it exhaustion from a terrifying sleepless night that has dragged him into this gentle peace… or is it maybe (improbably, impossibly, unimaginably) Ilya’s presence keeping watch that has let him relax? Ilya feels his eyes grow heavy too, lulled by the reassurance of Shane’s steady breathing, but he pinches himself repeatedly to remain awake. He will keep watch, now that he finally can.

The respite lasts about twenty minutes until a very young looking nurse walks in, holding a phone. She looks at Ilya first, then at Shane. Nervously, she approaches and very gingerly pokes his shoulder.

“Mr. Hollander?”

“Ah! What- what?!l” Shane nearly jumps out of the chair. Instinctively, Ilya puts a hand on his thigh to hold him down before he accidentally head butts the girl.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hollander,” she cringes, pressing her palm to the phone’s mic. “It’s just… we have called Mr. Pike’s emergency contact and she, uh, she’s very upset. Mrs. Pike asked if she could talk to you…”

“Oh. Oh, shit. Sorry, yes, yes,” Shane stands up now. “Is- is that… is she…”

“Oh! Yes,” the girl hands the phone over.

Ilya thinks another drop of awkwardness would overflow this room’s capacity. Luckily, the girl seems to think the same, because she quickly excuses herself.

“Jackie?” Shane says on the phone as the door closes. “Hey, hey. Slow down. He’s okay. I promise. Jackie, hey, listen to me, now he’s-“

“Jacks?!” Pike wakes up, summoned by his wife’s name. He looks more awake than he did all night. “Is that Jackie?!”

“Yeah, he’s- I don’t know if he’s fully sober yet but- no he wasn’t- wait a second.”

Pike is doing grabby hands to Shane like a toddler. Shane sends Ilya an apologetic look, as if he was embarrassed by his friend’s enthusiasm. As far as Ilya is concerned, though, this is the most likable Hayden Pike has ever been (which is probably because he hasn’t even clocked Ilya’s presence in the room yet). Shane hesitates for a second until he finally gives his friend the phone.

“Hi, Jacks. Baby, hey, baby, don’t cry please. Honey, I’m okay. I pro- no, you don’t have to. Babe, please, wait. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I scared you.”

Pike is crying now too. Shane looks panicky when he meets Ilya’s eyes, but Ilya is already grabbing his hoodie.

Cigarette, he mouths before walking out. Shane makes a disgusted face, but lets him go.

The nurse is standing outside of the room, balancing her weight from her toes to her heels. She jumps a little when he steps out.

“I will give them some privacy,” he explains. “Do you know where I can find cigarettes?”

She looks around, nervously, and Ilya wonders if she’s about to tell on him with some oncologist or something. But then she shoves a hand in her pocket and pulls out a tattered pack. She offers him one.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“My lips are sealed,” he smiles at her.

“There’s a balcony at the end of the other hallway,” she whispers. “Everyone pretends not to smoke there.”

He chuckles and gives her a playful wink before following the direction she pointed at. Just around the corner, at the end of the main hallway, there’s a big glass door leading to a long narrow balcony. It’s tight and uncomfortable and fucking freezing outside, but judging by the scattered cigarette butts pressed in the slushy snow, he’s not the only one willing to brave it.

The hot smoke hits the back of his throat like a balm. Ilya knows it’s probably psychological rather than physiological, that there’s no way for the tobacco to hit his bloodstream so quickly, but he feels his muscles immediately release the lingering tension in them. The second drag is even better, past the initial need he finds the little joy in the bad habit. He lets the smoke out, mixed with his hot breath it makes a much bigger cloud that slowly vanishes in the cold morning air. He gets a third deep drag before his phone starts buzzing.

So much for peace.

He’s mentally preparing his excuses for his coach when he realizes it’s not anyone from the Raiders’ management calling him yet. He’s not sure that this is better, though. He takes a deep breath before picking up.

“What do you want, Alexei?”

“That’s no way to greet your big brother.” Ilya tenses immediately. His words are light hearted, teasing, but his tone isn’t.

“Hello, dear brother. What do you need?”

Because his brother always needs something, always wants something, always demands something.

“I need you to tell me what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

For a second, he feels like a kid, wondering if his teacher called home to tell on him for skipping class. LeClaire wouldn’t, would he? He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need his brother fucking checking on him.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He tries.

“Don’t play fucking coy with me, Ilya!” Alexei snaps. “All you had to do was stay the fuck out of it, but you could never let go of your goddamn toys, did you?”

Ilya is back in the river. His body is frozen cold. He can’t breathe.

“Do you know how fucking lucky you are?” His brother keeps going. “If Vetrov’s daughter hadn’t adopted you like some stray dog, he wouldn’t have bothered tipping me.”

“Tipping you,” Ilya repeats, trying desperately to find the jagged pieces of the puzzle before him.

“Oh, please, America can’t have made you so naive, Ilyushka. Did you really think they wouldn’t keep an eye on you in Sochi? That they wouldn’t bug your phone? And after that fucking humiliating performance, our Sports Minister was worried, had reason to look deeper. Do you know what they found?”

Shane.

“You should be on your fucking knees, since you apparently like it so much, thanking me. I convinced Vetrov to wait, told him you were too easily distracted but that we could fix it if we needed to. Thank fuck you won the cup, so I could convince him you were still salvageable. But after Vegas… well, it was obvious you needed help.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Ilya asks, but he knows the answer. His heart is hammering inside his chest. His legs feel like fucking jelly.

“I’m looking after this family, Ilya. So you better turn around and walk away, let it happen. It’s for your own good. Like taking a gun away from a child. Get out of the fucking hospital, play your little game tonight and-“

“The hospital.”

Alexei knows. How does he-

Ilya googled it.

His phone. He’s the mole. He wanted to meet Shane the night he got shot. He knew about the party tonight. He told Shane to meet him midway to Ottawa. He googled the way to the hospital. He-

“Now, Ilya, don’t you fucking-“

Ilya hangs up and runs back inside. His feet are wet from the snow, he nearly slips as he turns the corner. The nurse isn’t there anymore.

Okay. One explanation less to give on their way out. Because they need to leave. They need to go now.

He throws the door open and finds a doctor standing over Pike’s bed… pressing a pillow over his head while Pike trashes uselessly against him.

In normal circumstances, he would quip: I know the feeling, or hey, I wanted to do that or maybe even, need some help? But there’s nothing funny about it, nothing to make light of, it’s horrifying and Ilya is already in survival mode. Fight or flight.

Fight it is.

He launches himself forward just as the man turns. Before he can react, Ilya grabs him by the scrubs and yanks him away from the bed, hard enough that the stranger’s feet leave the floor as he flies and crashes against the wall.

Pike gasps, sitting up.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck! What the- what the fuck?! Roz- Rozanov?!”

Ilya doesn’t have time to catch him up (it would take ages with his tiny brain). He throws himself at the man that’s already trying to get up and punches him once, hard, the way he only does when he intends for someone to stay down on the ice.

“Wha- what’s going on?!” Pike is looking at him wide eyed from the bed.

“Hollander! Where’s Hollander?” Ilya asks, looking around the room.

There’s no trace of Shane. Pike seems to realize the same thing.

“I- I don’t know. He was right here. He was- three doctors came in. He- he was one!” He points at the man on the floor. “And then he-“

Pike pales, maybe just realizing someone tried to murder him. Ilya has bigger concerns.

“Do not let him go!” He orders before he runs off.

Where is he? The two other doctors… He didn’t see them but he wasn’t gone so long, they can’t have- he turns two corners and makes it to the elevators, just as the doors are closing. He catches the quickest glimpse of him, just half a second, but Ilya would know him anywhere: Shane, sitting on a wheelchair, sleep or knocked out or-

The elevator closes and starts going down. Ilya is already pushing open the stairs door and running down, taking the steps three by three all four floors. He pushes out at the lobby and looks around desperately. The elevator doesn’t open. Or it already has. But… the screen says P. Parking. Ilya pushes back into the stairwell and goes down another flight of stairs.

He makes it out just in time to catch the tail end of the black van disappearing up the parking ramp, the wheelchair left abandoned by the elevator. Ilya runs after the car. Because of course he runs. He’s fast. He’s a professional athlete. Faster than most men. And yet there’s no way for him to catch it; by the time he reaches the street, the van is disappearing in the distance, taking a right three streets away.

He lost him. He fucking lost him.

No.

Ilya clenches his jaw and runs back inside. He finds Hayden Pike out of the bed, still in the blue hospital gown, with a knee pressed on top of the man’s chest, his knuckles are reddened. 

“Shane?” He asks, brow furrowed.

Ilya doesn’t bother answering. He closes the door and locks it. Then, he pushes Pike away to grab the man by the clothes and slam him hard against the floor once more. 

“You are going to tell me everything. Right now,” he growls.

Chapter End Notes

DUN DUN DUN

Okay I know pretty much 80% of you clocked Alexei’s involvement from chapter 1 and it did make me wonder if I made a mistake setting it up so early, but then I remembered this story isn’t so much about the mystery or the surprise but about the high stakes and the emotional implications of it all.

Plus, everyone has been guessing Alexei as a bad guy for like 3 or so fics now so it was about time you guys got it right lol

Shout out to Dame_Lazarus who 100% nailed the Sochi phone bug in the comments last chapter!!!

(A different initial version of this story had this call happen at the beginning, before any murder attempts, and Ilya calling Shane being very cryptic trying to explain his life’s in danger because of Russia without tipping the bug off, but I liked keeping Ilya in the dark longer because it’s a different kind of torture for both of them).

Anyway we are getting into more crazy procedural worthy shenanigans the next few chapters so I hope everyone is ready!!

Chapter 8: and carry all this broken bone

Chapter Summary

“Hold- hold on a second,” Pike says. Ilya is about to remind him what’s at stake but he goes on. “I’ve seen him before.”

Chapter Notes

Hi babessss we are back with more shenanigans.

Grab your cup of whimsy we are getting deep into the action tv procedural tropes.

CW: this chapter gets a little dark so tw for torture, violence, allusions to suicide and a bit of suicidal ideation

“Where did they take him?” Ilya asks politely, the first time.

The man doesn’t answer. So Ilya grabs his little finger and twists it outwards, in an unnatural angle, until he feels it crack like a twig. The man screams. Ilya picks up the fallen pillow and presses it over his face.

“Rozanov, what- why are you doing this?!” Pike hisses, grabbing his forearm with a steely grip.

“He knows something,” Ilya says. Simply.

He feels clinically detached. Like he is watching himself from far away. It has been a long time since he’s managed to turn his feelings off like this. Not since he was a teenager. He tried with Hollander, again and again and again, but ever since the day he met him he’s had a knack to make his emotions boil to the surface no matter how hard Ilya fights himself. All that is gone right now. Might be gone forever.

“I don’t mean that!” Pike says, surprisingly. “I mean why… why do you even care?!”

Ah.

“That will have to wait.”

“Fuck that!”

“Do you want to fucking save your best friend’s life or not, Pike?!” Ilya asks and hates the edge his voice betrays. He hopes Pike is too stupid to notice it.

Pike’s jaw clenches for three seconds. Three. That’s how long it takes.

“Fuck. Fuck! Fine. Not here though. Someone will see. Bathroom.”

Ilya pulls the pillow away, hears the man gasp for air. Before he recovers, they each grab an arm and drag him into the cold blue-tiled bathroom. Pike closes the door and locks it. Ilya registers it faintly, but his attention is back on the man. He presses a knee on his chest to keep him down.

“Where did they take him?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

The second finger cracks louder when it breaks. This time, Ilya is fast to cover the man’s mouth when he screams. He squeezes his cheeks, digging his nails into the man’s face.

“Plenty more bones for me to break until you answer,” he informs him, making eye contact just so he knows that Ilya means it; just so he knows that Ilya has broken a lot more bones on the ice, for something not even remotely as important to him as a single hair in Shane Hollander’s head.

“Hold- hold on a second,” Pike says. Ilya is about to remind him what’s at stake but he goes on. “I’ve seen him before.”

“What?”

“Shit. Yes, man. He’s one of the cops. He was fucking- you motherfucker! You were supposed to be protecting him!”

Ilya doesn’t even ask a question. He just breaks the third finger.

“Stop! Stop! Please,” the man cries, tears rolling down his face. “Yes, yes, okay? I’m- I’m with the police. I’m a cop,” he says rushedly. “But I’m not- I’m not a killer.”

“Debatable,” Ilya deadpans.

“That’s fucking rich,” Pike bites.

“I’m not! I swear! I’m not! I just- I got debts, man. I had to pay. And these guys, these Russian guys, they said they just wanted information. All I had to do was tell them shit!” The guy whines, pathetically. “And this guys- this guys they had an obscene amount of money. All I had to do was keep an eye on Hollander. They told me he’d call the police, that he’d want protection. And I had to tell them where he’d go or where he’d be. That kinda shit. That was it!”

“So what? You graduated to killer?” Ilya snaps.

The man presses his mouth into a long thin lipless line. Ilya grabs his broken fingers and squeezes. The man sobs, squirming under him.

“I fucked up! I- I fucked up,” his voice wobbles, like a fucking baby. Like he isn’t trying to justify murder. “The apartment. He was- he was supposed to be sleeping when the fire started. But- but he wasn’t. They were so fucking angry at me. I wanted out. I swear, I wanted out,” he sobs, “but the Russians said I was an accomplice now. Attempted murder. And if the law didn’t get me, they would. Silence me, I mean. I was fucked. Fucked.”

“Boo fucking whoo,” Pike yells. “You just tried to fucking kill me, asshole!”

“I had no choice. They- they said the party would be the end of it. I just had to get them into the bar a bit before the event. They said it’d be over. But then- then they called and said the accident had gone wrong. They said I had to finish the job. I didn’t want to. But I- I just wanted out. I thought it’d be him. Hollander. But they- they just had that syringe. They took him. They said Pike. It had to be Pike.”

“Why?” Pike demands.

Ilya grabs a four finger.

“Please! Please! I don’t know,” the man cries.

Ilya believes him. He’s too stupid to put the pieces together. Stalkers. House fires. Accidents. Deaths that couldn’t be traced back to a couple of Russian hands for hire with too full pockets.

“Doctors saw Hollander walk in. They know he was okay after the accident. No good to kill him. But you? They can blame it on the accident, or the drugs, pin it all on him.”

“On him?”

“Driving drunk. Was the plan with the drugs.”

“The dru- but I’m the one that got fucked up.”

“He drank beer. Is maybe enough.”

“Oh, gimme a break!” Pike, as expected, is missing the point.

Ilya sees the greater picture. He doesn’t like what he’s seeing. The stalker. The pressure. The fire. The accident. His best friend’s death. The guilt.

“How do they contact you?”

“B- Burner phone. On my left pocket.”

Pike is quick to grab it. Ilya snatches it from his hands and quickly goes through the text messages. Dry, direct, straight to business. And this little weasel gave them every single thing they asked for.

He texts them.

Phone: it’s done
Phone: now what

“What are you doing?” Pike whispers, over his shoulder.

“Letting them know you’re dead.”

“But I’m not- oh!”

Maybe Pike is still a little high. Before Ilya can contemplate that, the phone buzzes twice in his hand.

Unknown number: is his house being watched?

“They want to know if his house is being watched.”

He looks at the man laying on the floor. He doesn’t even need to reach for the injured hand this time.

“It is. There’s two patrols outside.”

“Lie to them,” Pike says. “Send them there.”

Ilya is already shaking his head. “They’ll see the patrols and panic. Do something stupid maybe.”

Phone: yes, there’s surveillance.

Unknown number: does he have another property?
Unknown number: one that isn’t being watched

Ilya frowns. “They want to take him to a place he owns. Without surveillance.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But his apartment burned down already.”

“He has the cottage,” Pike jumps. When Ilya sends him an interrogating look, he shrugs. “He just finished building it. I actually told him to lay low there but he said it’s got no security yet. It’s too secluded.”

Ilya grabs Pike and drags him out of the bathroom, closing the door carefully.

“How far?”

“About three hours away. Wait. You’re sending them there?! Why are you fucking helping them?”

Phone: he mentioned a cottage

“Because that way I know where they are taking him. And it’s buying us time. Three hours at least.”

“Assuming he’s still alive,” Pike whispers.

Ilya wants to punch him, wants to scream, wants to maybe throw up. He forces himself to remain detached. He cannot afford to lose focus now.

Unknown number: give address

Phone: let me find it

“Okay we have to move. I will wait to give them the address, buy some more time. You know the address yes?”

“Me? Y-yeah,” Pike nods.

Ilya grabs his own phone, then, and looks at it like it’s a cursed object. He has half a mind to throw it out the window, destroy it, free himself from their spying. But that’d be giving up too much. He can’t afford to show his hand just yet.

He texts his brother.

Ilya: you better know what you’re doing

Alexei: relax
Alexei: accidents happen all the time
Alexei: people like him just aren’t built for this

A pit opens in the bottom of his stomach. The bad feeling that’s been building up in his veins gets heavier. He feels like his heart is pumping lead. Threats. Accidents. He suspects what’s next.

“We need to go. Fast.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me get my car,” Pike pats himself, as if he could find his keys somewhere in his paper thin hospital gown.

“Are you still fucking high, Pike?” Ilya blinks.

“Fuck off, Rozanov. I just woke up, I feel like fucking shit and someone just tried to murder me and kidnapped my best friend. Now, where’s my-“

“Your car is in the fucking river, Pike!”

“Wha- ohhh,” Ilya can almost see the memory resurface in Pike’s tiny scrambled brain. “Oh shit. Fuck. Did we- did I-“

“I’ll explain later. We need to go.”

“How?! My car is apparently gone. Jackie is like two hours away, like the rest of our team. The Hollanders are out of town. I don’t fucking know anyone else in Ottawa!”

Ilya grabs his phone, hesitates a moment while he remembers he’s being watched. I don’t know who to trust, Shane has said. Ilya understands the feeling. But that’s not entirely true. He knows who to trust. It’s just hard doing it.

Shane needs you. Get over yourself.

Ilya: I need help

It takes a minute before the message is read.

Marly: haha sneaking in after curfew?

Ilya: no
Ilya: sort of
Ilya: need you to pick me up at the hospital
Ilya: here
Ilya: [location sent]

His brother won’t see anything weird about him asking for a ride.

Marly: holy shit bro u ok?

Ilya: need to keep it dl

Marly: that bad?
Marly: I’m guessing no taxi

Ilya: can u get a car?

It takes almost five minutes for Cliff to reply. The other phone, the dirty cop’s phone, buzzes in his back pocket. He holds back the impulse to check it. One problem at the time.

Marly: got u
Marly: b there in 10

Ilya sighs. Pike, breathing down his neck, groans.

“Marleau? We can trust him?”

“Yes.”

“And I can trust you why?” Pike frowns at him again.

“I just saved your fucking life twice, Pike.”

“Why?”

“I am good person.”

“So now you want to rescue Shane. Why not just do your part? Why not leave it to the police?”

“That police?!” He gestures at the bathroom.

Pike’s face twists. Point taken. “Fuck. Fine. Okay. But I still need to know why.”

Because this is my fucking fault. Because I dared to love him and now he will be taken from me like everything else. Because he trusted me when he shouldn’t have.

None of that is Pike’s business.

“You can ask Hollander when we find him. We have to go.”

Pike makes a face. He doesn’t look satisfied at all, but he doesn’t push. Miraculously.

“What about him,” Pike nods to the bathroom door.

Right.

Ilya walks back in, grabs the head of the man who should have been looking after Shane and sold him out instead, the man he shouldn’t have trusted, the man responsible for all this, and slams his head against the sink with every bit of self hatred in him. It’s his own face he wishes he was bashing in.

The man’s nose breaks, his mouth bleeds, he falls unconscious to the ground with a groan, curling into himself before he goes limp.

Pike is staring at him wide eyed.

“He’s already in hospital,” Ilya deadpans darkly. “Grab your clothes. We go now.”

“Yeah, ri- are you fucking kidding me?!” Pike holds up the women’s fuzzy sweatpants they’d found for him after the river.

Any other day, Ilya would laugh, chirp, take a fucking picture. He has no time (or heart) for it right now.

“Marleau will bring me clothes probably. Move!”

He doesn’t wait for Pike as he walks out of the room. He’s pretty sure he hears him trip as he tries to walk and get dressed at once. Behold, everyone, a fucking professional athlete.

He finally checks the other phone.

Unknown number: hurry the fuck up

Pike catches up to him running barefoot. Ilya hands him the phone.

“Text them address.”

“You better fucking know what you’re doing, Rozanov. If you get him killed, I’ll kill you.”

“Okay.”

If I have gotten him killed, that won’t be necessary.

Chapter End Notes

All the circus’ monkeys are here this time!!

Wrote this chapter after an international flight, jet lagged, sleep deprived and exhausted. Sorry if there’s a lot of typos… lemme know if there’s any big screw ups lol

Chapter 9: will you take me with you

Chapter Summary

“Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

“Rozanov, what the actual-“

“Okay, cops are coming,” Pike sighs.

“What the fuck is going on?! What do you mean someone tried to kill you?! What do you mean someone fucking kidnapped Hollander?!”

Chapter Notes

This chapter took FOREVER to write. So many important conversations. But finally we are here!! Have fun!

(Full sentences in Italics mean Russian. You know the drill.)

Cliff Marleau arrives to the hospital’s pickup area in what can only be described as a soccer mom’s van. The sight is weird enough to momentarily shock Ilya out of the numbness that has filled his head like cotton.

“What the fuck is that?” He asks, opening the copilot door.

“Don’t ask.”

“I am asking.”

“Let’s just say now I owe a huge one to a very angry chick I ghosted a year ago.”

Ghosted. Ilya thinks of Shane’s angry teary eyes in a dirty Vegas bathroom. His stomach hurts like he’s been punched, all amusement drained from him.

The backdoor slides open and Hayden Pike climbs into the car.

“Hey, what the fuck is he do- Pike what the hell are you wearing?”

“Tell me you brought Rozanov clothes.”

“Wait here,” Ilya says.

“What!? Hey, what’s going- Roz! Rozy!”

Ilya ignores Marleau as he rushes towards the street and stops a taxi. The driver looks confused and distrustful as Ilya asks him to drive to his team’s hotel and drop off his phone at the reception desk. He looks less reluctant, of course, when Ilya pulls out his (still wet) wallet and pays him two grand on the spot.

Once he dives away, Ilya jumps back into the van. Cliff looks like he just took a hit on the ice while Pike is slipping into a pair of jeans that must be Marly’s, judging by them being at least two sizes two big.

“Rozy, what the fuck is going on?”

“Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone, Marleau! There’s no time!”

The man actually looks startled by Ilya’s tone, which is good because he finally complies. Ilya enters Cliff’s password (the date they won the Stanley Cup) and then sets his maps app to the cottage address.

“Here. We are going here.”

“Rozanov, are you fucking insane?! That’s three hours away! I’m not-“

“Fucking drive, Marly!”

“Marleau,” Pike growls, “I swear to god if you don’t drive right fucking now-“

“Now, fucking listen, Pike-“

“Marly!” Ilya yells, his voice cracking.

Cliff blinks at him.

“I will explain! I swear! Just go! Please.”

It’s thankfully still too early for rush hour. They make it out of Ottawa in under fifteen minutes. Hayden uses the cop’s burner phone to call 9-1-1.

“Yes, hello, this is Hayden Pike. Pike? As in the Metros’s pla- okay, never mind. Listen some guy just tried to kill me and his friends took Shane Hollander. Yes, that Shane Hollander. They fucking kidnapped- this is not a fucking prank! Listen, I know where they are taking him. Yes. Yes, I’m sure. Listen, I will give you an address, you have to send the cops there. No. Yes. I’ll wait.”

Marly’s knuckles are so white as he grips the wheel.

“Roz, what the fuck is going on?”

“You heard.”

“Are you fucking serious?!”

Then Pike gives the cops the address. And Marly turns, wide-eyed. He starts pulling over at the side of the highway. That won’t fucking do. Ilya grabs the wheel and steers them back into the lane.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

“Rozanov, what the actual-“

“Okay, cops are coming,” Pike sighs.

“What the fuck is going on?! What do you mean someone tried to kill you?! What do you mean someone fucking kidnapped Hollander?!”

“What do you fucking think?!”

“And we are going there? Why?! Rozy, why the fuck are you- why the fuck are we going there?!”

Pike, who is still looking a little green, pokes his head between the seats and looks at Ilya too waiting for answers. Ilya clenches his jaw, working quickly with the information he has.

“The people that took Hollander. The guy said they are Russian. Maybe I can help. I can buy time while the cops arrive or- or something. I don’t fucking know!” He snaps finally. “I don’t know, Marly! Maybe it helps. Maybe. If Hollander is still alive.”

“That still doesn’t explain why the fuck you were in the hospital.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“No, wait the fuck up. I want to know too,” Pike says. “What is it to you? Why are you helping?”

“Because I don’t want him to die!” Ilya screams. “Why is that so hard to understand?!”

“It doesn’t explain what the fuck you were doing at the fucking hospital!” Marleau matches his tone.

Ilya leans forward, pressing his forehead to the glove compartment like Hollander had before. The memory aches.

“You said before there wasn’t time,” Pike says. “We’ve got nothing but fucking time now, Rozanov. Talk.”

Ilya closes his eyes.

“Fucking talk, Rozanov!” A hand shakes him violently and then is abruptly pulled away.

“Watch it, Pike!” Cliff warns, defending Ilya, even when Ilya isn’t saying anything for himself.

Cliff is here, having his back. Pike is here, useless as he is, having Shane’s. He knows, deep down, rationally, the truth won’t change that. But still-

“Hollander called me last night. Pike was roofied and he was paranoid. I told him to meet me halfway but they- they drove him out of the road. I helped him and Pike out of the river.”

“You did?” Pike reels back.

“You are terrible swimmer.”

“Wait, wait. Back the fuck up. Hollander called you? In his city, in his hometown, he didn’t know anyone else to call but you?” Marly frowns at him.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ilya clenches his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. Before them, the road stretches nearly empty except for the odd truck. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Ilya could throw a fit, yell, tell them to fuck off… but if he loses their trust they won’t help him. He can’t lose time. They need to focus on Shane.

“We know each other.”

“Sure,” Pike deadpans.

“More than people know, okay? We talk. We… meet, sometimes.”

“You meet,” Marly frowns.

“Yes! We do. When we play, or in events. We-“ fuck and kiss and suck each other off and laugh more than they probably should with a casual hookup. “We meet.”

“You are friends?!” Pike says the word like it offends him personally. “Shane never mentioned you.”

“Because the Rivalry! We are not supposed to like each other!”

Marly sends him a look, like he’s working out a play.

“Okay, fine, for the media, but Shane’s my best friend. He would- he would’ve told me!”

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Ilya says firmly.

“What- why?!”

“You said you meet when we play,” Marly says, frowning at him. “But when we go to Montreal, you meet your chick.”

“What chick?”

“Oh, fuck off, Rozy. You know what chick. The one that has you all worked up whenever we play the Metros! You almost bit my head off the one time we couldn’t make it to a game. You know the one. Is like you’re flying off the hotel as soon as we get there.”

“There’s no Montreal chick,” Ilya mumbles.

“Like hell there isn’t, man! You think I haven’t seen you pack your bag with condoms before you sneak out?!”

“Condoms?” Pike says, very very quietly.

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“But you just said there wasn’t-“

“I know what I said. Yes.”

There’s a long silence in the car. Ilya feels like crawling out of his skin. He wants to jump off the fucking car. He wants to kick them out of the car and ditch them and go to Shane. He wants to scream that who even fucking cares. Shane is missing. Shane might be gone. Who cares that Ilya likes to fuck him?!

“Holy shit,” Hayden whispers.

“So all those times… you weren’t even fucking?” Cliff arches his eyebrows at him. “Just meeting a buddy?”

Ilya blinks at him.

Hayden says, “I think I’m getting sick.”

Ilya shoots him a killer look.

Hayden, truthfully looking green, pales further.

“Car sick! Don’t fucking- I don’t fucking care if you two are like- like dating or whatever. Fuck. I feel like I drank a million tequila shots last night. Pull over.”

“Wait. You are dating who?” Cliff shakes his head.

“Pull over!” Hayden begs.

“Fuck.”

Ten minutes later (ten minutes too long in Ilya’s opinion) they are finally taking off at full speed again.

“We are not dating.” Ilya breaks the silence. Because it’s important to get this clear. “Just hook up. No big deal.”

“Rozy…”

“He called you when he was in trouble,” Hayden says, still looking sick. “You came. You jumped into the fucking river, and I know it wasn’t for me.”

“Clearly.”

“Jeez, man,” Cliff sighs.

“Fuck off, Marly. Is not that. Is not!”

Marleau doesn’t reply, but he keeps the car going at an acceptably high speed. Pike whispers something about trying to pass out and lays down on the back of the car.

Left alone, finally, Ilya pulls out Marleau’s phone and finds Svetlana’s number, which he’d given him strictly for emergencies and yet he can see he has used to try sexting her at least six times. Idiot.

He writes in Russian:

Marly: This is Ilya. Pick up.

He counts thirty seconds in his head (okay, maybe twenty) and calls her. The phone rings five times before she finally picks up.

“Sveta,” he says right away.

“Ilyushka. Did you lose your phone again? Are you drunk? You have a game tonight. If you lose to fucking Ottawa I will never forgive you.”

“Sveta- Sveta, listen,” he begs and his tone finally stops her. “Alexei knows. About me. About what I… like in bed. They hacked my phone in fucking Sochi.”

“Shit,” Svetlana breathes, anxiety clear in her voice for only a second until she jumps into action. “You are in Canada, yes? You can ask for asylum. If you don’t come back through the borders, they have no way to take your passport away. I can talk to my father-“

“Sveta. He knows. He has for a while,” he interrupts, as gently as he can, despite the anxiety pulsing through his veins. Talking to her is making this more real than before. “He called my brother. He is the one who tipped him and fucking Alexei thought he could fix it.”

“What do you mean ‘fix it’?” Svetlana replies, but she seems to reach the natural answer faster than he did. “Oh, shit. Sasha. He’s back in Paris. I haven’t talked to him in a while, do you think…?”

“No, no. I don’t think so. We haven’t talked in years other than Sochi and that wasn’t… He’s- He’s not who they know about,” he reassures her. “No one knows about Sasha, as far as I know. He’s fine.”

Svetlana sighs with relief. He understands it. He even shares her worry and is glad their childhood friend wasn’t dragged into this mess. He also resents it, because a dark ugly part of him would prefer that alternative to what is actually happening. And he hates himself for it. But not enough to change his mind.

“Okay,” Svetlana says after a second. “What is going on, then? Are you safe?“

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I think so. I think Alexei hasn’t let this get any further. He thinks if he does this, I will fall back in line.”

“If he does what?”

Ilya closes his eyes. The number of people who know is going from zero to three too fast. No. Not three. Five, at least. And the first two are the problem.

“Hollander. He put a hit on Hollander.”

“Why would he-? Oh. Oh, Ilyushka.”

“Yes. It doesn’t matter now. He’s in trouble but I’m trying to fix it. I can fix this. I have to, Sveta,” his voice cracks like it hasn’t since they were fourteen.

“What do you need?” Her voice is all business again. He knows with a bone-deep certainty that she will do anything in her power to help. And Svetlana Vetrova is a force to be reckoned with once she sets her mind on anything.

“I need to know how far this goes. These people, the ones that are going after Hollander, they are dangerous but they are… sloppy.”

“You don’t think this is the government?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. If this is just Alexei’s doing, maybe I can still stop it from getting worse. Maybe there’s still a way we can…”

“I am in Boston, but I have contacts in my father’s office. I might still catch them awake.” He can hear her moving around, picking things up or putting them down. He’s not sure if she’s doing anything useful or just keeping her hands busy. “I will tell you as soon as I know more.”

“Thank you.”

“Ilya,” she adds quickly, as if sensing he’s about to hang up, “be careful, please. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“A bit late for that.”

Kissing Hollander that first night had been stupid. Everything after that had just been even more stupid and dangerous and irresponsible. It is Ilya’s fault that this is happening. And he doesn’t know if he would not do it again. He is stupid like that.

“Is he worth it?”

Ilya bristles at the question, but reminds himself that all Svetlana might see is a whim, a man she doesn’t know and whose existence in Ilya’s life is a risk. Svetlana isn’t Alexei, she wouldn’t disregard another life so lightly, but she loves Ilya and she would do terrible things to protect him. As he would for her.

As he would, he realizes with crystal-clear and terrifying certainty, for Shane.

“Yes. He is.”

“Okay,” Svetlana doesn’t question further, doesn’t falter for a second. “Go get your boy, then. I will do my thing.”

“I love you,” he sighs, meaning it whole heartedly.

“Love you too, Ilyushka. It’s going to be alright.”

The part of him that has been following her around all their lives, can’t help but believe her. He wants to believe her. It has to be alright. He’s not sure he can live with the alternative.

When he hangs up, Cliff has given up pretending not to stare at him.

“Look at road,” Ilya says, noticing his own accent thicker after talking Russian with Svetlana so freely.

“Sorry, I just…”

“You got a problem, Marleau?” He asks, defensively.

He has always known how hockey is. America might be better than Russia but only when it comes to their laws. The people… he has heard the same hateful shit in every locker room. Still, his heart feels at risk of breaking even more if he misread his best friend.

“Fuck you, Rozy! You know I don’t,” Marly sounds actually angry, which is comforting. “I don’t give a fuck who you are fucking. Never have. Even if I think you’re kinda nuts for going after Hollander of all people.”

“Who says I’m the one that went for him? Maybe he seduced me. Convinced me to hook up.”

“You’re full of shit,” Marleau says. “This isn’t just a hook up.”

“Shut up,” he snaps.

“No. See, I’ve been thinking. These past few weeks. You haven’t been sleeping, you’re glued to your phone, every time it buzzes you jump like you’re terrified. It was this, wasn’t it? Hollander. After the attack in Montreal.”

“You spend too much time thinking about me, Marly.”

“I’m your best friend. It’s my job.”

“Sveta is my best friend,” he says, holding up the phone as if she was still on the line.

“Best friend you’re not fucking, then.”

Ilya laughs now, which feels completely out of place in the horror show that is his nervous system right now.

“Best not fuck buddy, maybe.”

“Hollander is not just a fuck buddy, though,” Cliff looks serious again.

“Fuck rival.”

Cliff laughs, loud enough to make Pike groan in the back. And in the middle of this painful horror, Ilya discovers a speck of joy: getting to talk about Shane with someone else. Oh god, he wants this, doesn’t he? He wants to have Hollander and to talk about it and to get fucking teased by his stupid best friend about it.

He wants… Shane Hollander. Fully. Totally. For real. Fuck. Fuck.

“Sure, Rozy.”

“Shut up, Marly.”

He just had an epiphany. He isn’t ready to share it yet.

Besides, it might not matter anymore. Even if Hollander is alive (he has to be, he has to be, he has to be), how could Ilya even have him after putting his life in danger like this. What he wants doesn’t matter.

So this will be his curse. To know that he loves Hollander and lose him all at once.

No.

Ilya might lose his chance to have Hollander, he will find a way to live with that… but he will not lose him. As long as Shane is alive, as long as he can love him even from afar, it will be enough.

He will not love another grave.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter didn’t even exist in my notes. I had “Ilya gets to the cottage” lol. Turns out three hours in a car is plenty of time for important conversations, revelations and plot points.

So yes, chapters are up by one (probably two soon).

I swear when I started this series I wanted every fic to be under 10 chapters lol

Anyway, we are definitely getting to Shane next! Promise!

Chapter 10: you can run away with me

Chapter Summary

“Relax, Boris, you’re overthinking it,” blondie sighs, finally finding a funnel. “Big shot couldn’t take the pressure. Stalkers, accidents, now the friend. He won’t be the first rising star to take the easy way out.”

Chapter Notes

Before we begin, a couple reminders:

-Some Russian conversations in cursive.

-CW: slurs (f-word included), violence, suicidal ideation mention, suicide mention, guns, violence, blood

Ilya isn’t sure what he was expecting but it wasn’t this.

Shane Hollander’s cottage is less of a cabin in the woods and more a of a lake-side chalet. But even with its size and might, he can tell it’s not ostentatious the way big old houses were in Moscow. No, this house, like his owner, feels down to earth, built with the purpose to last, to give comfort and stand steady against inclement weather. Like Shane, it feels like home.

One thing it’s definitely not built for, though, is privacy. Yes, it’s secluded and surrounded by nature, not a crazy fan or paparazzi in sight, but almost every surface facing the outside world is made out of glass. It mystifies Ilya, that someone as private and reclusive as Hollander would build a place for himself more akin to an aquarium than a cave. As if he was saying that here, only here, will he show his true self to the world.

Or maybe Ilya is too anxious and sleep deprived and letting his brain run wild with pointless commentary as he desperately searches for an open window to crawl through. No luck so far but as he rounds the corner towards the living room, he hears voices. Two of them. Speaking Russian.

Ilya freezes.

“What is taking so fucking long?” A voice growls. “He should be awake by now.”

Awake. Awake. You have to be alive to wake up.

Ilya shouldn’t, but his heart has taken the wheel at this point. He peeks.

There, sitting on a dining room chair and tied with duck tape around his shoulders, is Shane Hollander. He still in the stolen borrowed sweatpants from last night. His head hangs forward, tucked against his chest. Ilya focuses on its steady rise and fall, matching its pace with his own breathing.

“What the fuck do I know?” The second man shrugs.

Ilya turns his attention to him, assessing. He is tall, pale, with a slim frame and short blond hair, almost white, slicked back right against his skull. There’s a lump on the back of his waist. A gun, probably.

“You were in charge of the doze,” the second man barks. “You must have fucked it up.”

He is even taller and wider, with a defenseman build, curly brown hair tied back in a stupid ponytail and a thick mustache. Gun too.

“Who fucking cares if he’s sleeping?” The pale chopstick rolls his eyes. “Just get on with it.”

“Get on with it?” The older man slaps blondie on the back of the head. “He’s supposed to take the pills. How is he going to swallow like this?”

Ilya’s blood runs cold.

“It’s instinctive,” blondie replies, without losing his disinterested tone, even as he slicks back his hair after the patronizing slap. “Like breathing. Even sleeping, he can do it.”

“He’s not asleep. He’s passed out.”

“Same thing,” the guy walks to the table and picks up an orange pill bottle. “All we need is a funnel. I bet you the little cocksucker swallows.”

Ilya clenches his jaw so hard it hurts as the guy walks over to the kitchen and starts carelessly opening and closing drawers.

Something catches Ilya’s eye. Movement. Shane. His fingers are twitching slightly, though neither of the two men standing in front of him can probably see it. And his breathing… It isn’t the peace of easy sleep from the hospital room, it’s too controlled, perfectly paced, four in, four out.

He is awake. Or conscious, at least. He might be pretending to still be out, not even knowing it’s the only thing saving his life right now. Smart boy.

“And what if he chokes, uh?” Mustache is saying, walking into the kitchen too. “What if he drowns? You think the police won’t find that suspicious?”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“What’s the point of staging a suicide if you’re not going to do it right?”

“Relax, Boris, you’re overthinking it,” blondie sighs, finally finding a funnel. “Big shot couldn’t take the pressure. Stalkers, accidents, now the friend. He won’t be the first rising star to take the easy way out.”

“He’s too famous. There’s no way they won’t suspect foul play,” the other man, Boris, shakes his head. “And you know as soon as they start looking into it, that little weasel is going to talk.”

“We will deal with him before he can.”

“Dammit, Ivan. Fine. Fuck it. Let’s get this over with. It shouldn’t be this hard to get rid of a kid.”

“Finally,” Ivan walks to Shane purposefully. “Grab the water.”

Ilya knocks on the glass window before his brain has even caught up to the decision. Three heads snap towards him: both men and Shane, who was apparently too startled to remember to play his part. Well, fuck.

The two men haven’t noticed Shane’s head snapping up, their eyes locked on Ilya, who plasters his best poker face on. He knocks again and gestures at the sliding door with exasperation. As if he was expecting to be let in. As if their surprise seeing him was stupid.

“Fucking open,” he demands, petulant.

Boris and Ivan share a look. A moment later, pulling out his gun, Boris walks forward and very slowly opens. Ilya steps in, kicking snow off his boots.

“Finally,” Ilya pretends not to care about the gun as he walks in, as if he knew them, as if this was perfectly normal. “What the fuck are you two idiots doing?”

“Stop there,” Ivan demands, grabbing his own gun (Shane’s breathing hitches). “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I am the asshole that’s paying you. Put that down,” Ilya growls, stepping forward.

Shane shuffles on the chair. Ivan’s eyes bounce to him, only for a second, before returning to Ilya, who is trying his hardest not to acknowledge him. He can’t. Not if he wants to remain who he has to be right now. Ivan’s eyes narrow, distrustful. Ilya can hear Boris rounding him, ready to attack from behind. He forces his shoulders to relax.

“Do you really think Alexei has the kind of money he is paying you?” He forces a cold laugh. “He’s a bum. He only does what I tell him to. Now put that down, if you want to see the rest of your money.”

Very, very slowly, both men lower their weapons. Shane relaxes sightly on the chair.

“So what are you doing here?” Boris walks closer, getting within Ilya’s eye sight. “Your brother said to keep you out of this.”

Of course he did. Good question, though. Why would he be here now? Think fast.

“That was when I thought you were professionals. But, clearly, you need supervision if it takes you so long to get rid of the most boring person in the world.”

“He’s slippery,” Boris huffs. “But that’s done now. He’s awake. We can get this over with.”

Ivan grabs the pills bottle again. Shane’s eyes fly to it, tensing all over like a guitar string ready to strike a note of panic. His eyes fly to Ilya, pleading. Ilya keeps his face carefully detached as he steps up to Ivan, fighting for the restraining to knock his teeth out.

He looks at the pills and he feels his mother’s weight around his neck, burning where the cross sits against his skin. But his mom cannot be here, cannot help him. He cannot be her son right now. Right now, Ilya needs to be his father’s son.

“Are you two stupid?” He snarls, pouring venom into his voice, every drop of vitriol he has absorbed since childhood. “This man is publicly my rival, we go head to head every year since we were rookies. And you want him to take the way out like a fucking pussy? You would make me look weak if I was struggling to beat a pathetic coward who couldn’t even take the fucking pressure. No. This won’t do.”

“This is the fucking plan,” Ivan growls back, like a cornered animal.

“Well, the plan is not good,” Ilya snaps. “He came and killed himself? How? His car is not here.”

“We will bring it later! The cop will do it.”

“I said no. Something else. An accident.”

“We already tried accident. The fucker keeps surviving.”

Thank fucking goodness.

“You’re not doing it right. First, you kill him, then you worry about the accident.”

“Okay?” Boris says slowly.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes. Yes. You just stage it right. But you two clearly can’t, so I will take care of this.”

“What?” They both ask at the se time.

“You heard. He was upset. He had an accident on the way to the cottage. I will take him outside and take care of it. Text the cop. Tell him to meet him in the back of the property, by the woods.”

“That will take three hours.”

“How do you think I got here?!” Ilya rolls his eyes. “Now, fucking tell him while I take Hollander. We will stage it.”

“And what about us?” Boris jumps.

“Why are we listening to this guy?” Ivan grabs his gun again, waving it around as he speaks. A clear threat in an attempt to regain power in the situation.

Shane squirms in the chair. Ilya doesn’t look at him.

“Shoot me. See if you ever see the rest of your money,” Ilya says coldly. He turns to Boris. “You two will stay here and wait for my instructions.”

And hopefully be caught by the police that should be on their way.

Before they can complain more, he goes to the fireplace and grabs a big heavy fire poker. “Untie him.”

Boris and Ivan share a tense look. Then Boris caves, going to the kitchen for a knife. Ilya hates the way Shane tenses when the man approaches him. His eyes search Ilya, pleading for answers. Stay put. Trust me. Ilya keeps his face blank.

“Or we could just…” Boris muses, bringing the knife close to Shane’s neck.

“Too obvious,” Ilya says, fighting every single nerve in his body that wants to intervene and tackle the man away from Shane. “No knives in a car accident. I don’t want an investigation drawing more attention on him. Better a blunt object, cave his brain in.”

Ivan’s narrowed eyes pierce Ilya, like he is assessing if he is predator or prey.

“Text the cop,” Ilya orders.

He brings the heavy poker closer to where Boris is, in case he needs to use it, and holds his breath as the knife comes closer to Shane. But Boris cuts the tape on either side of his shoulders, with nerve wracking precision. He is maybe not the brute he seems.

Shane lets out a shuddering breath. Boris steps away. Ilya fills the space and grabs Shane’s face roughly with one hand. His eyes search his face. He is pale, shaking, looks a little drowsy still from the drugs, but when his big brown eyes meet Ilya’s there’s… trust, there. Steady. The exact same as last night, as countless other nights when they have put themselves in each other’s hands.

“You are coming with me now, Hollander,” he says in English, voice detached.

“Rozanov-“

“Up. Now. And shut up.”

Shane doesn’t immediately obey, but when Ilya grabs him by the arm and forces him to his feet, he can tell Shane stood up by himself (he has enough experience manhandling him to know when he isn’t resisting). He comes easily, stumbling but helping along.

Ilya leads them both outside. The sharp cold hits them on the face. Knowing they are still being watched, Ilya drags him forward into the snowy woods. They move left, rounding the lake and into the trees. He hopes the thickness will cover them.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks finally, tightening his grip firmly around Shane’s bicep to help him along the snowy roots.

“Yes. I think,” Shane breathes out, leaning a little more against him. The warmth of his body pressed against Ilya’s side like a balm for his soul. “What’s the plan? Do you- do you know those guys?”

He doesn’t sound suspicious, or defensive. Ilya is shocked (and a little concerned) by Shane’s unshakable trust in him apparently. He hates that he doesn’t deserve it.

“No. Not me. My brother.” No point in hiding it. He will not lie to Shane. Not about this. Not when it’s his fault. “He… knows about us. Bugged my fucking phone in Russia.”

“What?!”

“I’m sorry.”

Shane shakes his head. “You just saved my life.”

“Not yet. We need to get to the highway.”

“You have a car?”

“Marleau does.”

“Cliff Marleau?” Shane sounds like he doesn’t believe him for the first time. Like this is the point where he draws the line.

“Pike too. Long story.”

“But what-“

A loud noise echoes through the woods. A nearby tree chips, pieces of bark flying around.

“Shit,” Ilya breaths. “They called my bluff. Run.”

“What?”

“Shane, run!” Ilya takes off, dragging him along.

They stumble forward. Another shot rings loud into the cold morning air. Ilya ducks instinctively and pulls Shane down with him.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, god,” Shane mutters under his breath as they press against a big tree, hoping for cover. “Now what?”

Ilya looks around. Not too far away, the trees stop. The highway. There’s no sign of the van yet but he has to trust Marly will come through.

“Now, you run,” Ilya says, peeking around. Another shot hits a nearby tree. Fuck. “I keep them busy.”

As he says so, he brings up the fire poker. Shane stares at it wide eyed.

“You can’t be serious. I’m- I’m not leaving you.”

“Yes, you are!” Ilya yells.

“No!”

“Hollander, go. Run. I will be behind you, yes? We just can’t go together.”

For the first time, Shane looks like he doesn’t believe him. His eyes are filled with tears. He shakes his head.

“Run!” Ilya roars, grabbing Shane and throwing him towards the highway.

Before he can protest the plan, Ilya runs left, curling into himself as the trees bark explodes around him. He doesn’t stop. He knows he makes a more interesting target right now, closer, visible. But the bullets stop hitting the trees nearby and go back to Shane. Fuck. Fuck.

Ilya skids to a stop and turns around to find the assassins advancing into the woods, after Shane, guns raised. Fuck. No. No, no, no. Ilya is running back before he knows it.

He swings the fire poker at Boris first, but the man is fucking faster than he looks. He blocks the hit with one arm, dropping his gun, and slams his hand against Ilya’s chest, using his momentum to drop him down. Ilya’s back hits the floor, air leaves his lungs. But he’s a hockey player. A fighter. He can’t be taken out by a bad hit. He lost the fire poker but he punches Boris square in the jaw. Boris barely winces. A hand wraps around his neck. Then another. Ilya tries to claw at the man’s face. It’s useless. His vision starts to darken at the edges.

Innocently, perhaps, he thought they wouldn’t kill him, that Alexei would’ve told them not to. Stupid. He is probably more useful to his brother dead than a possible humiliation. He’ll get the money in his bank account and his life insurance. He wins no matter what.

There’s another shot, not too far away. Shane. Please. Please, Shane needs to make it. If he goes, he needs to know that Shane made it. Please, god-

There’s a loud thud and and a scream. The pressure eases. Ilya gasps, air filling his lungs again. His vision clears, just in time to see Shane fucking Hollander standing over him with the fire poker in hand, beautiful, angry, winded. His face is splattered with blood.

Boris groans next to them, but doesn’t get up.

“Ilya, get up! Come on!” Shane starts trying to pull him to his feet. “We have to-“

Another shot rings out. Shane flinches, and falls to his knees, curling over Ilya’s body like he means to shield him. Bark rains on them when the shot hits the tree behind them.

“Fuck.” Shane turns to look over his shoulder.

Ivan is advancing towards them, gun in hand, face impassive. He knows he has them. He is enjoying this, the power. Nowhere to run. Shane bends forward, grabbing Ilya by the shoulders, wrapping him like a shield. Fuck no. Ilya tries to get up, turn them around so he can cover Shane instead. But when his hand sinks into the snow, he finds something else. Something hard that his fingers close around.

A memory of childhood, a shooting range, his fathers’ stern eyes. No boy of man will be too much of a faggot to pull a trigger.

He is his father’s son.

Ilya presses Shane against his chest with his left arm, as he sits up and raises his arm. The shot rings across the woods. Shane flinches instinctively, his face curling into Ilya’s neck like he expects to feel the shot piercing his back.

Ivan’s body hits the snow.

Shane, panting and shaking, pulls away just enough to look him, his eyes roaming anxiously across Ilya’s face. Ilya does the same, making sure. He’s alive. They are both alive.

Shane looks down at Ilya’s lips just as Ilya is about to kiss him. That’s when police sirens fill the air. They both flinch away from each other.

“Shane!” Pike’s voice comes from the highway, as the man himself stumbles clumsily across the snow toward them. “Oh, my god, Shane! Are you alright?!”

“We both are, thank you,” Ilya rolls his eyes. “No thanks to you.”

“Shut up, Rozanov,” Pike has the gall to pull Shane away from him, bringing him to his feet to hug him tightly.

Shane goes, holding his best friend back, but his eyes stay on Ilya as the sirens grow louder. Ilya looks away, unable to hold his gaze, ashamed of his fault in all this.

It hits him, then, what he has lost. In the end, one way or another, Alexei wins. He has lost Shane Hollander.

Chapter End Notes

Adding fire poker and gun to the list of shit they’ve used against bad guys in this series hehe

Chapter 11: put the pieces back together

Chapter Summary

Sveta: how is your boy?

Ilya: he is not mine

Sveta: …

Ilya: we haven’t talked

Sveta: Ilyushka

Chapter Notes

Relatively short one but I blame the messaging.

Ottawa Police: One Dead and Others Injured at Metros’ Captain Shane Hollander’s “Cottage”. Investigation On Going

Anonymous Sources Claim Ilya Rozanov, Boston’s Raiders Captain, Involved In Hollander Shooting

Raiders Management Confirms Rozanov Will Not Be Playing Against Ottawa Centaurs Tonight. Marleau Likely To Miss Game Too.

Breaking News: Men Who Attempted to Murder Metros’ Captain Shane Hollander Had Russian Nationality. Authorities Investigate Possible Rozanov Ties

Ilya Rozanov Denies Comment On Hollander Incident

Think Piece: When The Rivalry Goes Too Far. — Did Ilya Rozanov Try To Have Shane Hollander Murdered?

Russia Denies Ties to Hollander Murder Attempt

Rozanov Cleared Of All Charges After Hollander Incident. Claims Of Self-Defense Confirmed By Several Witnesses

Captain Ilya Rozanov Back In Raiders Starting Line For Edmonton Game

What Happened At The Cottage? — What We Know So Far About the Hollander-Rozanov Incident (Spoiler Alert: Not Much)

“There Had Been Threats.” Hollander Finally Talks After Bloody Incident In His Property

Hollander: “Ilya Rozanov Saved My Life.”

Official Russian Statement: We Are Proud Of Mr. Rozanov’s Actions. He Is An Example Of Russian Fair Play and Sportsmanship

Sveta: They don’t know.

Ilya: Are you sure?

Sveta: yes

Ilya: ?

Sveta: I know how his mind works
Sveta: he wouldn’t have let them make that statement if he thought this can be traced back to him
Sveta: or the government

Ilya: in case they need to throw me under the bus

Sveta: exactly

Ilya: great

Sveta: this is good news

Ilya: I know
Ilya: it was only Alexei
Ilya: great

Sveta: I’m sorry
Sveta: is he still hounding you?

Ilya: he has started using my father to contact me

Sveta: do not give that man a single cent

Ilya: you don’t have to tell me
Ilya: if it was up to me he’d be dead too

Sveta: I know you don’t mean that
Sveta: but if you ever do, let me know
Sveta: I know people

Ilya: funny

Sveta: not joking
Sveta: how is your boy?

Ilya: he is not mine

Sveta: …

Ilya: we haven’t talked

Sveta: Ilyushka

Ilya: I have to go
Ilya: thanks, Sveta

With a sigh, Ilya closes the conversation and erases it. He’s gotten into the habit lately. Even if he got himself a new phone and installed a lot of very good and very expensive cybersecurity measures in it, he is never trusting the thing fully again.

Then, without meaning to, his fingers tap a new contact name: Jane

He opens the empty conversation.

He shouldn’t.

Ilya puts his phone down on the kitchen counter and walks away, pacing around his kitchen. He’s restless. He has been restless for months. Since that night in Montreal.

The nightmares haven’t stopped. He had hoped that stopping the threat would fix it, that he would be better now, but actually seeing Shane almost die (almost dying with him) has just filled his brain’s new found penchant for horror.

Ilya wakes up startled every night, shots still ringing in his ears, he can still smell snow, he can still feel warm blood splattered across his face. In his dreams he is not fast enough. When Shane flinches it’s because he’s been hit. In his dreams, he can feel his life fade in his arms in a matter of seconds.

In his dreams he never kills Ivan. He wonders if it should bother him, having killed someone, but his brain feels more disturbed by the possibility of not killing him. No. Ending his life is the one thing Ilya did right in all this mess.

It does worry him, the lack of regret. A part of him that is a small wounded animal that spent years in a dark cage, fears that his indifference is final proof that he is more like his father than he ever feared. Another part of him, though, is convinced that it’s because of Shane Hollander, that for him and only him Ilya would do it again. No hesitation.

Ilya Rozanov would kill for Shane Hollander.

Ilya Rozanov has killed for Shane Hollander.

It’s a fact of life now. A truth in the universe. Maybe it has always been. There’s nothing for Ilya to do except contend with the fact: and what it means.

He knows what it means. That’s the part that actually terrifies him. Loving Shane isn’t enough to protect him, it’s actually what put him in danger in the first place.

So he can’t love Shane Hollander.

(Too late for that).

He shouldn’t love Shane Hollander.

Which is why he hasn’t talked to him in weeks. In the messy aftermath of his rescue, with the police questioning them and gathering evidence and the press circling them like vultures, there wasn’t a moment alone. By the time Ilya was released to his team management, Shane was with his parents and his friends, being comforted and what right did Ilya have to intrude into that?

It’s been weeks. The itch under his skin that pushed him to check on Shane the last few weeks has only gotten worse since then. He reads the news alerts again. He keeps coming back to one:

Hollander: “Ilya Rozanov Saved My Life.”

He has read it at least five times. He can recite by heart the lies Shane told: that Ilya and him have been friends behind the scenes for years, that he knew Ilya would be awake and partying in Ottawa, that he called him after Pike and him had an accident and Ilya came to the rescue, that he saved him from the evil Russian men. No mention of Ilya’s part of it, of his brother being the cause of it all. Ilya doesn’t recognize himself in the hero Shane paints in the interview. He’s a coward, and a selfish, selfish man. Who cannot even do the most basic decent thing and stay away.

Ilya: http://www.espn.com/news/hollander-ilya-rozanov-saved-my-life
Ilya: you didn’t have to do that

He holds his breath, waiting, until the three little dots (his favorite little dots) appear. He smiles like an idiot at them, relieved.

Jane: yes I did
Jane: sorry maybe I should’ve asked you before giving an interview
Jane: I was just so tired of them making shit up

Ilya: so you made more shit up?

Jane: just a little
Jane: it’s mostly true

Ilya: you are still terrible liar

Jane: I’m not!
Jane: Anyway
Jane: I’m sorry you got dragged into this fucking circus

Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: what are you talking about?
Ilya: no one dragged me

Jane: I kinda did

Ilya: no
Ilya: was my business

Doesn’t Hollander get it? It’s Ilya’s fault that this happened in the first place.

Jane: …okay

Ilya’s stomach drops. There. It’s done. For once, he has done the right thing. Now, Hollander understands. It’s over. He swallows the lump in his throat as he erases the conversation.

Pressing his forehead against the cold granite, Ilya blinks back tears.

Shane is alive. He is safe. Safe from Alexei. Safe from Ilya. It’s over.

Ilya isn’t a good man. He’s too selfish. He keeps reaching for his phone, hungry for a single word from Shane. Again, and again, and again.

What is wrong with him? Can’t he even do the smallest thing? Can’t he be decent for once and leave the man alone?

At least Shane is better at keeping his distance. He has understood what Ilya’s heart won’t: that it’s better this way. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s hard.

Fuck. Why is this so hard?

Ilya: I need you

Pathetic. Desperate.

Marly: what’s up man?

Ilya: need a distraction
Ilya: don’t ask

Marly: Hollander?

Ilya: that’s asking asshole

Marly: ok nvm
Marly: halo night?

Ilya: I need to get laid
Ilya: let’s go out

Marly: no

Ilya: ???

Marly: I’m beat man
Marly: halo, beer and pizza

Ilya twists his mouth. He knows what this is. Marly is trying to do the whole “good friend talking about chicks” thing, which is the opposite of what Ilya wants right now. Hollander is not a chick he wants to talk about. He’s not a chick at all. Even if he was a woman, the description wouldn’t begin to cover what Shane means to him.

Ilya cannot talk about it.

Marly: we can tell Connors too

Ilya: why?

Marly: he doesn’t know about Hollander
Marly: we won’t touch the topic

Oh. It hits him like a wrecking ball. He’s not sure what to do with this… kindness. What do you do when you actually have people in your life to rely on? To call when you need them? To ask for help and just… get it.

His father would say that he shouldn’t need it, that it will make him weak. His brother would say that he is already weak for needing it and that he is pathetic for daring to ask. His mother… she didn’t have it. Maybe she would want him to.

Ilya: thank you

Marly: got ur back bro
Marly: and when ur ready to talk too

Ilya: fuck off

Marly: I’ll bring the beer
Marly: pizza is on u

Chapter End Notes

SUPPORT SYSTEM!!!

Can you tell I’m having fun with the headlines in this fic?

Oh and the text message miscommunication continues…

Chapter 12: just to smash them down

Chapter Summary

“So how does it feel like? To play against a man whose life you saved?”

Ilya feels the cold creep into him. It’s a fight to keep the grin on his face, to not give them the reaction they are fishing for. 

Chapter Notes

Final stretch! I got to write quite a bit this weekend and I have no patience to space updates on purpose lol so here we go!!

The weeks leading up to the Montreal-Boston game are hell. The usual excitement that coats the countdown to facing Shane Hollander on the ice has morphed into dread at the thought of facing the man whose death he almost caused. 

This is not helped by the fact that Hollander hasn’t tried texting him once since their last conversation, nothing to suggest excitement about their incoming game or a desire to meet. And, yes, historically it’s been Ilya who has done the chasing, the flirting, the open desire (another reminder that he is, ultimately, the one to blame for what happened) but he has never felt the silence on the other side as deafeningly as he does now. Last time Ilya had decided to distance himself, Shane had at least tried to reach out. Not now, though. 

It’s better this way. 

Stop checking your phone. 

Ilya leaves early for the rink, feeling his nerves twist themselves like thorns beneath his skin. He taps his fingers against the wheel, trapped in the Boston traffic, feeling himself grow unsteadier by the second. This won’t do. He plugs his phone to the radio and blasts some deep Russian rap songs to drown his thoughts. The bass makes the entire car buzz. He keeps thinking it’s his phone, vibrating with a new text. Every time, he checks. Every time, he is disappointed. 

Stop being fucking pathetic. He’s not going to text. 

Ilya finally gets to the rink. It’s too early for anyone from the Raiders or the Metros’ teams to be here yet, but that doesn’t mean the place is empty. Cleaning crews, rink staff, management personnel and the media team are all already hard at work preparing for the game. He lets the noise of their energy wash over him as he gets ready. His eyes trail towards his phone only ever so often and he is proud of himself for his restraint.

He greets every arriving Raider with a chirp as they walk in. Comforted by their familiarity. Only Marly knows the significance of today, beyond playing their bitter rivals. Ilya dismisses the concerned look shot his way with an eye roll. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s going to be fine. 

In the end, it turns out for the best that he arrived early because LeClaire wants him to do media before the game. He prepares to answer a million stupid questions that pretend not to know that his strategy to win tonight is to simply score more than Hollander does. Which is why the last question catches him a little by surprise. 

“So, Ilya, you are playing against Hollander tonight.”

“Yes, only him. Rest of his team don’t even count.”

The reporters laugh. 

“So how does it feel like? To play against a man whose life you saved?”

Ilya feels the cold creep into him. It’s a fight to keep the grin on his face, to not give them the reaction they are fishing for. 

“I only save him because it’d be too boring to play the Metros without him,” he shrugs, playful. “And then they would think I only win because he’s not here. I want to beat him fair and square.”

The reporter smiles, clearly excited by the sound bite that will be replaying for weeks. “So you only saved him for the sake of the rivalry?” She teases. 

Ilya’s mouth opens but the lie is too big to fit between his teeth. He can play all their games but saying this particular thing feels like grabbing a very delicate thing and throwing it against a wall. He can tell his face has fallen by the way the reporters sober up too. 

“Shane Hollander is a great player and a good man,” he says. “I helped him because I did not want to see him harmed. That’s it. That’s the true.”

He can see them blink, confused. A young man takes the leap, shoving the microphone forward as he asks:

“So is it true that you two are friends?”

Against his will, Ilya smirks. He can’t help it. What a ridiculous thing. As if Shane and him could ever be ‘friends’. As if that word could encompass everything they are to each other. 

“Not exactly.”

Taking it for a joke, they laugh. Ilya decides he has given them enough pieces of himself for now, so he ducks away ignoring the rest of their questions. 

Ilya feels the tension of the entire arena pulsing in his veins as they warm up. He is careful to keep his back turned to the Montreal players until Marly skates by him. 

“Hey, Rozy?” He whispers. “I think your boy’s trying to catch your eye.”

Ilya’s traitorous body turns before he can think better of it. And sure enough, there is Hollander, skating back and forth the center line with the most terrible attempt at nonchalance. And then, as if he’s noticed Ilya’s eyes on him, he startles and looks up. And then he… waves. 

It’s only a second, his hand kept low, fingers sprayed open, moving up and down gently. Hi.

Ilya’s hand doesn’t wave back so much as it spasms. 

And then Hollander is gone back into his team’s warm-up drills as if nothing’d happened. Ilya stands there, dazed and confused, his hand still half raised. Marly has the gall to laugh as he pats him in the shoulder and skates away. 

What. 

Ilya’s brain is still reeling as the game begins. He skates to center ice for the starting face off. His eyes remain on the ice as a pair of skates approach. The crowd roars. He knows immediately who he’ll face. 

You can do this. Don’t be a coward. You can do this. 

He carefully sets his face into cold indifference, ready to shield himself from the anger he’s sure to find staring him back, the face of all his mistakes. And he looks up. 

Shane Hollander’s big brown eyes are already on him, his freckles sharp even under his visor, his mouth curved upwards in a playful smirk. It’s that unexpected smile that unbalances Ilya. It lasts only a second before Shane’s face falls again, but he’s still thinking about it when the puck drops. He losses the face off. 

There are no more flirty smirks the rest of the game, to the point where Ilya thinks he might have imagined it. Instead, Shane plays with laser-focused intensity. 

It’s exhilarating. 

Everything else —the murder attempts, the fear, Russia, Alexei, the guilt— falls away. There’s only hockey, the speed on the ice, Hollander’s masterful game, his body pressed between Ilya and the boards. He’s alive, it’s like turning back time. 

By the time the game ends, 3-2 for Boston, Ilya’s entire body is buzzing. He laughs with his teammates while walking back into the locker room, and goes to his phone instinctively. And there it is:

Jane: 4218
Jane: see you later?

What the hell?

Ilya should not be here. There’s a million reasons why he shouldn’t be. Starting by the fact that he almost got Shane killed not a month ago. But here he is. He has been lying to himself for the past two hours, telling himself that he is doing this for Sha- for Hollander’s own good.

(Maybe he just wants to yell at Ilya, he has every right. Maybe he wants the whole story to make sure that he isn’t in danger again because of Ilya. Maybe he is somehow, impossibly, confused and hasn’t understood that he is safer without Ilya in his life.)

(Maybe he actually wants to see him. )

Whatever the reason, Ilya has a responsibility to make things right. To make it all clear. He owes Hollander that much. And then he will find in himself the strength to walk away. For good. 

Ilya stares at the numbers on the door, hating them. He doesn’t want these numbers. He wants to go back to other more pleasant combinations. He wants many other impossible things.

You can’t outrun this pain. You know it. 

With a deep breath, he tucks the pieces of his broken heart away. He can do this. He has to do this. He hates it. 

He knocks. 

The door opens almost immediately. Hollander must have been waiting by the door nervously. The mental image is nearly enough to make Ilya smile. Half a second and his walls are already tumbling. Get it together. 

He barely makes it half a step inside the hotel room before a pair of firm dexterous hands grab a hold of his shirt and drag him further in. Ilya barely has time to process the fact that he is being manhandled before Hollander walks him back and practically throws him on the bed. He lands on his ass, sitting on the edge of the mattress, catching his breath. 

Oh, okay. So he’s mad. That’s fine. Ilya can work with-

Hollander falls to his knees in between Ilya’s thighs. His hands reach for his belt. 

“Hollander, what are you doing?” Ilya asks, like an idiot, like it isn’t clear (like he isn’t half hard already despite his best efforts).

Shane’s eyes finally look up and meet his and there is the warm playful expression from earlier. Still smirking, Shane wets his lips. 

“I haven’t thanked you properly for saving my life,” he says, voice deep and gooey while his fingers trace the edge of Ilya’s underwear. His fingers brush Ilya’s cock suggestively. “Can I?”

“Thank-?! What?!” This isn’t right. This can’t be right. Ilya doesn’t deserve anything like that. The idea that Shane thinks he ‘owes’ Ilya anything at all, that’s why he’s doing this, makes his stomach turn. “Hollander, wait, you don’t have to- stop. No.”

Shane’s face doesn’t fall… it crumbles. He looks throughly devastated, in a way that makes the shattered pieces of Ilya’s heart scream in pain. Fix it. He has to fix it. He has to. But before he can say another word, Shane jumps to his feet and walks backwards, out of Ilya’s reaching hands. 

“Then what the fuck do you want from me, Rozanov?!” He snaps.

Ilya is back in the Vegas bathroom, but he doesn’t feel quite as in control as he did back then. 

“You- you ignore me for months, then you fuck me without even kissing me,” Shane’s voice wavers, like he’s on the verge of tears. “So, I think, ‘fine, this is what this is, just a casual fuck here and there’ and that’s fi- that’s okay. But then- then you act all worried about me?! You show up to my fucking house, you text me, you come when I call. What- what am I supposed to think?!” The held back tears in Shane’s eyes begin to overflow. “You fucking saved my life. Twice! But then you won’t even talk to me?! So, fine- fine! You- I guess you care if I die or whatever. Don’t wanna lose your fuck buddy. Fine! But- but now you don’t even want me to suck your fucking cock?!” 

Shane somehow sounds the most affronted by this final accusation. Ilya doesn’t understand anything, until he says, more quietly:

“What did I do wrong?” His tears finally start falling. “Why did you even save me if you didn’t care?”

Fuck this. Fuck it all. Ilya can’t do it. Call him weak, call him selfish, call him a coward. He cannot take it. He can’t let Shane believe this, even for his own good. He’s not a good enough man to walk away. 

Ilya leaps to his feet and catches Shane’s teary face with both hands, bringing him into a deep kiss. Shane’s lips part immediately and he makes a sound closer to a whine than a moan. Scared, Ilya tries to pull back, but Shane’s hands have found his shirt again and are holding him in place, like he is drowning and needs Ilya’s lips to breathe. His tongue dives into Ilya’s mouth with a demanding groan and he is happy to let the kiss deepen and extend until they are both forced by the need of oxygen to pull away. 

When Ilya finally looks at Shane’s face, his eyes are still teary and his cheeks still wet, but his lips are properly swollen and red and thoroughly kissed. It’s a start. It’s not nearly enough. 

“I care,” Ilya breathes. “I want. Of course I want. Hollander, I want so much. Always too much. In Vegas too much. I was afraid if I kissed you I would lose control,” he confesses, running a thumb over his lips first and then over his wet cheek, cleaning the tear tracks there. He feels his own eyes sting. “I want you so much that it nearly gets you killed, Shane. I can’t be the reason you are ruined, the reason you die.”

Shane’s face does something complicated, jumping from bewilderment to confusion to anger in fractions of a second before it settles into something else that Ilya knows well from the ice, determination. 

“Fuck that,” he says, twisting the fabric of Ilya’s shirt in his fists with trembling hands. “You’re the reason I feel alive. I want-“ Shane paradoxically lets go of him and pulls away just enough to give Ilya space, a choice as he says with pleading eyes: “I want you.”

Ilya is a weak man. He can live with it. Especially if it tastes like Shane Hollander’s lips when he pulls him back in for another hungry kiss. 

Chapter End Notes

ALELUYA THEY TALKED

they still have to talk a lot more lol but the cards are on the table and Shane FINALLY got the kiss he’s been too afraid to take or ask for all fic

Particularly fun in this chapter that since their last text conversation Ilya has convinced himself that Shane now hates him and it’s all over, meanwhile Shane’s got “I’m spinning like a ballerina” playing in the background for weeks because if nothing else, even if Ilya doesn’t love him, at least he cares about him in some sort of way. Now if he can just have sex with him, maybe Shane can have this in whatever way he gets. Is he taking scraps? Who cares. Flirty mode activated (but never texting Ilya first because that got him the Sochi treatment, he can do better this time, he can be a good fuck buddy who doesn’t demand more than what he’s given). Shane Hollander mi amiga mas migajera.

ANYWAY one chapter filled with smut and feelings to go!

Chapter 13: anytime you want

Chapter Summary

Ilya kisses Shane. It’s simple like that. It’s not simple at all.

Chapter Notes

Beware!!! Sex!! Smut!! Lemons!!!

And then tooth rotting sweetness and communication.

Ilya kisses Shane. It’s simple like that. It’s not simple at all. He pushes him back, until Shane’s back hits the hotel wall.

No dam could hold back his desire. What a fucking fool to think he could restrain himself. Shane makes a desperate sound that travels from his throat to Ilya’s and all remaining hesitation goes out the window. Yes, of course he would kill for this, for him.

Ilya presses a leg between Shane’s thighs and is rewarded with him immediately humping Ilya’s leg with a kind of desperation that makes his’s head spin. Ilya presses and grinds his hips forward too, feeling his hardening cock brush Shane’s. It feels so good. So fucking good.

Then, Shane’s mouth leaves Ilya’s, who goes blindly chasing after him until he realizes that Shane has fallen to his knees. His hands work Ilya’s belt and fly and he looks up at him, asking for permission. Perfect. So fucking perfect. Ilya feels light headed as he nods. Shane smiles and nuzzles his cock through his underwear like he did in Vegas before pulling down his underwear and taking Ilya into his hot wet mouth.

The noise Ilya makes is embarrassingly undignified. He leans forward, pressing fist to the wall and his forehead to his hand, leaning hard against the ugly wall paper. His breathing speeds up, his legs tremble slightly. He opens his eyes and finds Shane already looking back, big brown eyes looking up at him with so much attention, measuring Ilya’s reactions with the same intensity with which he watches a goalie during a shoot out. It’s so much. Too much.

“Hollander,” he breathes, a warning. “Hollander, if you want me to fuck you, you better stop.”

The little devil twirls his tongue around Ilya’s head before pulling off with a wet pop and a satisfied grin. Like he has won a fucking prize instead of sucking Ilya’s cock.

“Come here,” he pulls Shane up by the shirt and catches his mouth again, only breaking the contact to pull that same shirt off of him and throw it away.

His hands grab handfuls of Shane: his abs, his waist, his chest, his hard defined shoulders. Shane melts in his touch, their mouths still connected. His legs give in, like they did when he first stood up in the cottage and Ilya does what he wanted to do then, he picks him up in his arms. Shane goes easily, his hands pulling at Ilya’s hair as he is carried to the bed, where Ilya carefully drops him.

Ilya barely has time to step away before Shane is excitedly pulling off his pants and boxers.

“Someone’s eager,” he teases.

“Fuck you,” Shane bites back, grinning as he finishes taking off his shoes.

Oh, that smile. That’s better. Ilya finds himself grinning back as he kicks off his pants and takes off his shirt with the same enthusiasm. Both naked, they stand there smiling like idiots for a moment before Ilya pounces and captures his mouth again.

The moan Shane lets out this time can only be described as happy. Ilya kisses him for a while, until Shane starts impatiently wiggling under him, demanding with his body to be touched. Ilya, as it has been proved, is powerless to deny him. He sits back and reaches for the lube and condoms that Shane has predictably prepared on the night stand. He coats his fingers and, feeling ridiculously soft, rubs his hands warming it up before he presses a gentle touch to Shane’s rim.

His hands kneed and gently prod at Shane’s hole and find him… tense. He is tighter even than he was their first time and, as much as Ilya works him, he feels little change.

“So tight,” he comments. He feels more than sees Shane tense under his touch.

“S’been a while,” he mumbles, sounding painfully embarrassed. His face is flushed deep red even as he tries to cover his eyes with his forearm.

Ilya leans forward, closer to him, still gently massaging him. “You need to relax, Hollander.”

Shane laughs, tightening around Ilya’s lightly prodding finger when he does. “It’s been a weird few months.”

Ilya leans closer until his mouth brushes Shane’s jaw.

“Hollander,” he whispers. “Hey, look at me.”

Slowly, Shane complies. Their eyes meet. He looks anxious. It’s not just this. Ilya knows him enough to recognize that this tension has been building for a while.

“Hey,” he says again, and kisses the crease between his eyebrows. “It’s good. I’m here. You’re here. We are good. You can let go.”

Shane’s eyes are still conflicted. It hurts Ilya, that he might not trust him enough. But then Shane’s eyes glisten and it hits Ilya that there’s a lot more going on here than himself. Months, he said. The threats, the fear, the pain. Oh, Shane.

Ilya kisses him. He kisses and kisses and kisses, feeling Shane respond eagerly under him. Their tongues touch and tangle and explore each other’s mouth. Shane hums into Ilya’s mouth, his body rolling under him, his hands roaming Ilya’s skin. They fall into a paused rhythm, no hurries, joyful and curious. Slowly, as Shane’s perfectly defined muscles go gooey under him, he opens up. Ilya pushes one finger in, then two, then he finds the spot that makes him squirm under him with pleasure. Three fingers. Ilya swallows all of his gorgeous sounds as he pulls more and more pleasure out of him.

“Rozanov,” Shane sighs eventually, and as Ilya pulls away he finds his eyes glazed over and blissed out staring at him as if from afar. “Please. Would you… can you fuck me? Please?”

Fuck you? Ilya wants to say, Hollander what I want to do to you is more than that. I want to take you and pull you apart with pleasure, I want to make you happy and calm, I want to make you beg and moan and fill your head with nothing but me, no worries, no fear, no control. Just my touch and my words.

English has deserted him. He can’t say it. He shouldn’t say it anyway. It’s okay. Ilya is a man of action.

He puts on a condom, lines up their hips and slowly pushes in. Shane’s back curves as he lets out a long lustful moan as he gets filled. Decadent and unashamed and so fucking perfect.

Once Ilya is fully in, Shane’s eyes open up again and find him, pleading. And Ilya knows exactly what for. He starts thrusting, pushing harder and harder, setting a relentless pace until Shane is gone under him, tears streaming down his temples, little satisfied sounds being punched out of him. Happy. He looks happy. Gone and relaxed, here where Ilya can take over and give him what he needs.

Then Shane’s body tenses around him and Ilya thinks he’s about to come. But before he does, Shane reaches out with both hands and brings Ilya’s face down to him, kissing him with demanding hunger, all teeth and tongue and hot breath right as he comes against Ilya’s abs. It’s all too much. Ilya finds himself coming undone too, and too gone to even be embarrassed about the sound he makes when his vision goes white.

Shane is still kissing him as he collapses on top of him, still buried inside him.

Later, once Ilya’s legs stop feeling like jelly at least enough to throw away the condom and clean them both with a warm wet towel, he collapses next to Shane with a long satisfied groan.

Next to him, Shane has half wrapped himself in the bed sheets, as if suddenly remembering his modesty. Ilya finds it equal parts adorable and ridiculous. He closes his eyes, basking on the warmth of the man lying next to him until Shane’s voice breaks the silence.

“So… you want me?”

Ilya laughs, incredulous. Because after all that, how could he possibly not know- Except Shane flinches at the sound of his laughter.

Ilya opens his eyes and takes Shane in. His cheeks are very pink, and his eyes fluttering everywhere except Ilya’s face. He looks… small. Ilya hates it. He didn’t just pour his all into fucking his worries away to have him this diminished again. Shane looks tense, like he did in Vegas, right before Ilya dismissed him. Ah. Fuck.

He doesn’t mean to sound frustrated when he sighs, but knowing he will have to put this into words is hard, knowing it isn’t as simple as fucking Shane good enough to prove his point is nerve wracking. He has made a mess and he suspects that all the kissing and fucking won’t do to fix it. He’s mad at himself and he’s scared of what he has to do. But the sound he makes, that frustrated sigh, makes Shane immediately squirm and turn his face away.

“Forget it,” he bites, shaky again. “It’s stupid.”

“Hollander,” Ilya props himself up on one elbow, turning his body to him. Shane is still turned away. “Hollander.” Ilya reaches out and grabs his chin, guiding his face back towards him. At least Shane doesn’t fight back his hold, but his eyes still stubbornly avoid Ilya’s. It will have to do. “Listen to me, yes? This is important.”

Shane, with his chin still held in one of Ilya’s hands, nods. His face is set though, mouth flat and tight, like he is waiting for disappointment and trying to hide it. Ilya sighs again.

“Yes, Hollander, I want you. I always want you,” Ilya says, slowly picking the words. “I think I have wanted you all along. I… shouldn’t. It’s not a good idea. But I do. Staying away from you last season was hard. I had to do it, but I did not like it.”

Ilya watches as Shane’s brow pinches slightly, like he doesn’t believe that Ilya struggled with the distance too. Like he can’t see that Ilya has been starving too.

“I was very scared, when I thought you could die,” he offers, even if every instinct in his body demands he shuts up. It’s too much, too vulnerable, showing Shane his soft underbelly and admitting weakness. He pushes through despite his heart hammering hard in his chest. “The thought of losing you for good… was terrifying. I can’t-“

He shuts up, because he hates how saying those words makes him feel, how his voice is tight with emotion, how he can’t control it. But then Shane rolls over until he’s lying on his side, and fully facing Ilya, his face more open, like he understands finally what Ilya is trying to say.

“Okay,” Shane whispers. “So… what do we do now?”

We. What a pretty concept. Ilya looks into Shane’s hopeful eyes.

“The world knows we are friends now,” he shrugs. “I was very heroic. Very dashing.”

Shane laughs, rolling his eyes. It’s ridiculous how it makes Ilya’s stomach flutter.

“So maybe we play into that. We can be… close now, in public. Since you are so grateful to me for being your savior,” he says dramatically and it earns him a soft shove on his shoulder. He traps Shane’s hand with his and holds him there. “So we are friends now. We can hang out sometimes, go out, be seen in public.”

“And fuck when we are alone?” Shane adds, like it’s important not to forget that part (as if Ilya could ever).

Ilya laughs, leaning in to kiss him. “Yes, Hollander, and fuck a lot when we are alone.”

Shane hums and smiles against Ilya’s lips and for a while they forget about everything else.

“What about Russia?” Shane asks later, tucked against Ilya’s chest after they’ve sucked each other off again.

Ilya hates the way the question makes him tense. He recognizes the instinct to shut it down, to tell Shane to mind his own Canadian business and leave his homeland and his family to him. Except, well, Shane did almost die because of it, because of Ilya. He is owed answers.

Ilya rolls onto his back and glares at the ceiling. He mourns the loss of Shane’s warmth in his arms but it feels wrong to talk about this while holding him.

“They don’t know,” he starts, hoping to be reassuring. “At least, my friend Svetlana is sure they don’t. I think this all just… stayed between her father and Alexei.”

“Her father?”

“He is sports minister. He is probably the one that tapped my phone but… he knows Sveta loves me, so he only told my brother. And Alexei…”

“Thought it was easier to get rid of me,” Shane sighs.

“He has always been like this, since we were kids. Whenever I had something I… cared about, he would take it away and say it was to teach me some lesson. To build character. He learned it from my father, I think.”

“Fuck, Rozanov, that’s… I’m sorry,” Shane says, with so much feeling that Ilya has to bite back his own resentment. He doesn’t want Shane to pity him.

“Is okay,” he brushes off. “I am not a kid anymore. He doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to hurt you,” he adds, turning to look at Shane, who has turned to his side and is hovering above him.

Surprisingly, there’s no pity in Shane’s eyes. Not even sympathy. His face is hard as he says, “Or you. He doesn’t get to hurt you either.”

Ilya melts a little, smiling up at Shane. “I cannot outrun my family. Is who they are, who I am, but I will not let my brother use what I give for this. I have… made arrangements.”

Shane frowns and tilts his head, prompting Ilya to continue. He bites his lips, measuring how much he wants to share right now.

“Alexei will continue to look after my father, but the money is in new account. I will control how much he takes, and require receipts. If there is anything that he can’t prove… the money will stop.”

He suspects the day will come sooner rather than later, and that it won’t be one of his brother’s schemes but his addictions which will force his hand. But he feels like this last chance is already more than Alexei deserves after what he has done.

“And you would do that?” Shane asks. “Stop sending money to your father?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya admits. “I think I might. I hope I don’t have to. It’s…”

“Complicated,” Shane nods, sounding sad but surprisingly steady. “I’m sorry. I feel like this is my fault somehow. If you and I weren’t… doing this…”

Ilya shakes his head. “This is my brother’s doing. Is not about you. Is about me. He wants to make me… scared. And he did. I was scared that you would die. It scared me more than anything.”

Shane doesn’t seem entirely convinced even as he nods. “I was scared too,” he admits. “I mean, obviously. I was terrified of dying but… I think the worst part was thinking I’d never see you again. It’s stupid, I know, but every time I thought… and every time you showed up.”

Ilya feels his chest constrict as the idea lands. Shane was thinking about him. When he was going to die, when he was scared and alone. Ilya isn’t sure what to do with that, with the idea of being so fucking important to someone. It makes him excited and horrified in equal measure, like he’s holding a delicate bird in his hands and if he’s not careful he might squeeze it too hard and kill it. Kill Shane Hollander. In ways that have nothing to do with blood or violence.

“I- I know it’s stupid,” Shane pushes on, looking away. “I mean, you said it yourself we are nothing, but-“

“Not nothing,” Ilya says quickly, because that is the way he might squeeze this little bird too hard. “I should not have said that in Sochi. I was… not good. I was bad to you. But I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Shane says, softly. “Sort of. I guess… I could tell you were upset. Knowing, well, what I know now, I guess it makes sense.”

“I am still sorry,” Ilya insists, because Shane just repeated they are nothing, and that must mean some of it did land on its tender target.

Ilya has always been good at hurting what he loves. He has good aim. He knows what he shot at Shane that day.

“I was more sorry about Las Vegas,” Shane shrugs. “About not kissing you that night.”

“Was not your fault.”

“I kept telling myself you didn’t kiss me but I didn’t kiss you either. I could’ve said something, I was just… well, I didn’t want to ask for too much.”

Ridiculous. I would give you anything.

But he thinks back to Sochi. Of course Hollander had expected to be hurt again if he tried approaching.

“But then, when… whenever I thought I was gonna die,” Shane keeps talking and the way his voice wavers makes Ilya’s doubts dissipate to focus on him. “I just kept- I kept thinking that I was going to die, and the last fucking time I got to kiss you was in that stupid dirty bathroom. And it just- it made me so mad that I- that we hadn’t-“

Ilya catches Shane’s mouth, drowning his fears with his tongue. He kisses him long and languidly, until Shane is sunken on the pillows, all tension bled from him and Ilya is pouring evenly apology inside him into his wanting mouth. He wants to use his lips to erase the past, to smooth over Shane’s pain, to carve himself a new blank canvas that he has never hurt.

“You should be kissed every time you want,” Ilya says, pulling back only enough to find the spot where Shane’s jaw meets his neck. He licks the skin there and sucks it. “You should be kissed every day,” he says, coming up to kiss his freckled cheekbone, his nose, his eyelids, the new scar on his forehead. “You should be kissed everywhere.”

Shane giggles under him, light and easy. “Only if it’s by you.”

His eyes open and when they meet Ilya he isn’t apologetic. He is asking this time for what he wants.

“Only by me,” Ilya agrees, kissing his mouth again.

Jane: now that we are officially friends maybe we can hang out next time you come to Montreal

Ilya: it’s been one day
Ilya: you miss my dick already?

Jane: fuck off
Jane: I was thinking we could do something
Jane: like outside the hotels
Jane: https://m.espacepourlavie.ca/biodome

Ilya: you want to fuck in the zoo?
Ilya: is this new kink?

Jane: they have penguins

Ilya feels like his heart might explode. Who would have thought Hollander was the most dangerous assassin after all. He smiles like an idiot at his phone as he types:

Ilya: ah so it is a kink thing

Jane: I hate you

Chapter End Notes

It’s done!!!!

No I love yous or cottage or even first names on a regular basis this time because, remember, this is soooo early in their timeline. I feel like they are still too emotionally stunned to get that far. Communication and admitting they WANT each other is already a million steps ahead!! They are both still struggling to open up, but they are choosing to try anyway!!

I hope y’all aren’t too disappointed. I think they are left on a happy place and that in this world the situationship turns into an actual relationship much faster.

Also, Ilya is save from Russia until the day he comes out and then well they will not like it but after the Shane thing they probably know that any harm coming to either of them would be way too suspicious. So they are safe!!! Mostly!!

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed the ride. Thank you so much to everyone who has left the mixes comments along the way, you really helped me power through the story and make writing a million times more fun!

See you in the next adventure ;)