Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Brandon Wiebe

Additional Tags:

Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Temporary Character Death, Depression, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, reference to suicide, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Medical Inaccuracies, Hockey Injuries, Eventual Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Supernatural Elements

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-11 Completed: 2026-01-24 Words: 18,286 Chapters: 3/3

please let me die on the street where you live

Summary

Shane takes a hit on the ice. Is barely bruised, isn’t concussed, and is cleared to play in his next game.

Ilya spirals.

It starts to feel like the world is ending.

Notes

I’ve been listening a lot to ‘The Scythe’ by The Last Dinner Party, and it’s got me thinking a lot about how immortal Ilya and Shane’s love feels.

I don’t want to post anything too spoilery, but mind the tags, and please know:
1) There is technically MCD, but I’ve chosen not to use archive warnings because any death is temporary and I don’t feel it would be a fair representation of the fic to use those tags.
2) I’m incapable of writing a fic without a happy ending

I haven’t finished writing this, but I’ve got the bug! I think it’ll be done soon, I’m anticipating two more chapters coming.

Any mistakes and Britishisms are my own. Do let me know if I’ve missed anything. Title is from ‘The Scythe’, of course.

Chapter 1: Shane

It’s in a game against the Sea Lions where Shane takes the hit that knocks him out. It’s an ordinary game, and one that should have been an easy win: the Centaurs seasoned and familiar with each other, where the Lions have a new Captain, a new coach, and not much in the way of a work ethic. 

It’s an early game in the season, and not a crucial one either - even if they do lose, they have two more games to make up the points they need to qualify for the later stages, and Shane is at ease watching Ilya in the locker room. 

He loves Ilya like this: comfortable, commanding, confident, and his heart thuds against his rib cage at the sight of him. That’s his husband, he thinks with pride.

Ilya gets the team roaring with energy, and Shane lets a hand rest on the small of Ilya’s back as he passes him, following the other players out. One last moment of private connection before the game. Ilya smiles back, and then they’re on the ice.

The game really isn’t difficult. They’re two goals up by the time it happens, and Shane is flying - catching Ilya’s eye where he can, revelling in the feeling of doing what he does best.

And then someone is slamming into him, and it’s not the first time Shane has been knocked down. It’s not even the first time he can’t get back up. But something about the force of it, about the angle he falls at, about the way his head hits against the ice - that’s new.

His vision swims and his ears ring as he’s suddenly surrounded, first by players and then by medics, and he can make out the blurry edges of Ilya’s form, just to the left of him. He thinks about the footage of him being knocked out by Marlow, and how much Ilya had tried to hide his fear. How open and obvious that fear was to Shane, watching it back.

He can’t really see the features of Ilya’s face, right now. But he can imagine them, because he knows them intimately: the slope of his eyebrows, the pinch of his lips, the way his eyes widen and soften at the same time. He wants to reach out for him, and doesn’t realise that he’s doing so until the familiar slide of Ilya’s fingers hold onto his own.

He tries to speak, but realises he can’t get his mouth to move. And then he realises he can’t hear anything, either. As he starts to slip out of consciousness, he focuses on the grip of Ilya’s hand.

-

He wakes up in a hospital. He knows immediately that it’s a hospital, because the white of the ceiling is sterile, and the light coming from the bulb is harsh, and cold. The pillows beneath his head are soft, and he can hear the steady beeps that mean his heart is beating normally.

He can also feel the grip of Ilya’s hand, a touch that he knows without knowing. He wills his brain to catch up to his waking, to remember what had happened, and he can sense the edges of something. He can feel waves of pain, and panic, and cold. But he can’t quite put his finger on anything exact.

He flexes his hand beneath Ilya’s, and turns his head, looking down at the soft curls that are resting beside him on the bed. Ilya is sleeping, bent uncomfortably over from the chair where he’s sitting, but his grip on Shane is like a vice. He’s clinging on to him in his sleep.

Shane doesn’t want to wake him, and is content to watch the rise and fall of his back as he breathes - but he knows Ilya is going to wake up with a sore neck, and, well - Shane wants to see his face.

He clears his throat, gently, barely making a sound, and Ilya’s head snaps up. Immediately looks to Shane. And Shane - well.

Shane pulls his hand out from under Ilya’s, and lifts it to place it against his husband’s cheek. He runs a thumb under his eyes, and takes in all that Ilya is, in this moment, because Ilya is… Ilya is in pain. He looks wretched. 

His eyes are red, as if he’s been crying for hours. His cheeks are sallow, the bags under his eyes dark and heavy. He’s watching Shane with naked desperation, looking at him like he’s not sure he’s real. Shane longs to leech his sadness from him, to pull it out of Ilya and into his own hand. Up into his own heart. 

Ilya lifts his hand and presses it against Shane’s, presses it harder into his face, rubs his own thumb over the back of it. Rests his eyes closed, and inhales.

”What happened?” Shane manages to ask, and his voice is rough, and his throat is sore, and he is desperate to hear Ilya speak. “How bad was it?”

Ilya keeps his eyes closed, keeps his hand against Shane’s, and if it weren’t for the hitch in his breath when he’d finished speaking, Shane wouldn’t be sure he’d heard him at all.

A moment passes, then, and Ilya opens his eyes. He lets them track over Shane’s face, and then, quietly, says, “Let me get doctor. I don’t think I can explain.”

Shane nods, and expects Ilya to leave, but he doesn’t. He reaches over, lifts himself slightly, and presses a button behind Shane’s head. He doesn’t let go of Shane’s hand, and when he settles back down in the chair, he takes it again, and presses a kiss to the palm.

”Are you okay?” Shane asks. He can’t remember ever seeing Ilya this rattled. This fraught. He can’t bear the thought of Ilya being so worried, or in pain.

Ilya nods. “You’re okay. So I’m okay.”

Shane meets his eyes for a moment. Tries to find the truth in them, because he doesn’t believe him. 

He’s close, he thinks, to discovering what Ilya’s not saying, somewhere in the blue and green of his irises, when the door opens, and he has to reluctantly tear his gaze away.

”Mr. Hollander,” a broad, dark-skinned doctor says, brightly, striding into the room with a clipboard in his hand. “How are you feeling?”

The question gives Shane pause, because he hadn’t actually assessed how he’d felt when he woke up - he was too preoccupied with the crease between Ilya’s eyes. He examines, mentally, how his body is in this moment: his head aches, his ribs ache, and his throat is scratchy, but otherwise he’s okay. He can’t pick out which part of him has caused his husband such distress.

”A bit achey, but I think I’m okay.”

The doctor, Monroe, his nametag supplies, smiles. “That’s good. You lost consciousness briefly on the ice, and you’ve been sleeping for most of the day, so we do need to do a quick assessment for concussion. Am I okay to run those tests?”

Shane nods, and Dr. Monroe steps forward. Shines a light in his eyes, asks him questions about the day, and the Prime Minister, and gets him to repeat a sequence of numbers. He seems pleased with how Shane does, and is still smiling when he moves away again.

”Well, you don’t have a concussion, so that’s good. Beyond that, you’ve a few bruised ribs, but nothing that should keep you out of the next game, depending on how you feel.”

Ilya makes a noise at that, and his grip on Shane’s hand tightens. Shane turns to look at him, and he’s staring at the Doctor with a strange kind of anger. “No,” he says, voice defiant. “No, he will not be playing next game.”

And Shane is so, so confused. Because this all sounds like nothing more than a bad run-in. The kind of hit they both take on a regular basis. Bruised ribs and nothing more should not warrant the kind of despair that Ilya seems to be feeling, and it shouldn’t stop Shane from playing if he feels up to it. But Ilya is clearly very upset, and now is not the time to press him on this. 

Ilya’s reaction also makes Dr. Monroe pause, and he takes a moment to think before he continues. “Well, that can be a discussion you have later, Mr. Hollander,” he says. “But medically, I feel comfortable clearing you for sports.” 

Shane nods. “Thanks, doc.”

”We’ll have your discharge papers ready in the next couple of hours. I was going to say you should be okay to drive, but,” he glances at Ilya, “I feel like you won’t need to worry about that.”

Ilya’s grip tightens.

-

Shane’s fine.

As he stands, and gets dressed in the clothes that have been brought over from the stadium, he’s actually surprised by how fine he feels. The ache in his head is already dissipating, and while his ribs are sore, if they are in fact bruised, then they’re not badly bruised. Once he’s upright and shaking out his limbs, he feels like if he went back onto the ice straight away, he would be able to play a good game.

Shane’s so fine that his parents aren’t even coming back early from their vacation, placated by assurances from the nurse who’d called them that his injuries barely even counted as injuries. 

Shane’s fine. 

So he can’t work out why Ilya is watching him like he might keel over at any moment, why he’s hovering beside him, hands never more than an inch or so away from his arms, ready to catch. His eyes are still full of misery, welling with tears every now and then, and Shane presses both of his hands to Ilya’s face.

”Baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss him gently. “I’m okay. Please stop worrying.”

Ilya’s head ducks down, and he rests his forehead against Shane’s shoulder, bringing his arms up and around him. Shane places his hands on Ilya’s head, lets his fingers run through the soft curls there. After a moment, he feels Ilya start to shake, and he pulls him in tighter as he sobs against the fabric of his shirt. He rubs his hands up and down Ilya’s back, and wonders what he can do to make him feel better. 

He manoeuvres them, gently, and sits down on the bed, still holding on to Ilya, and lets him weep, rocking him slowly, and wishing, not for the first time, that he could see into Ilya’s mind. That he could take away his sadness.

-

Ilya holds onto his hand for the whole drive home, and Shane watches him on the way, carefully. Catches his gaze where he can, takes comfort in the steady hold of his eyes. Offers him a smile that Ilya wants to return, he can tell - but doesn’t.

Fifteen minutes out from their home, his parents call, and he doesn’t let go of Ilya’s hand as he answers it. Briefly chats with his mother about what happened, about what the doctor had said. Wants desperately to mention Ilya’s sudden, yawning sadness to her, to ask her what he should do - how he should pull him back to him.

He doesn’t, but he wants to. He presses a kiss to the back of Ilya’s hand as he hums at something Yuna says, brings it into his lap as he says his goodbyes. Lets his eyes fix back on Ilya’s beautiful profile.

It hurts to let go of his hand as they pull into the driveway, but Ilya is quick to move around the car when they park, pulling open Shane’s door before he’s able to, and helping him out of his seat.

”You don’t need to, Ilya,” he says, gently. “I really am fine.”

Ilya smiles as he tugs on Shane’s hand, but it’s small, and watery, and Shane wants to kiss it until it’s a proper Ilya smile again. He gets pulled into the house, and manhandled into the bedroom.

”You should sleep,” Ilya’s saying, softly, as they go, and Shane shakes his head even as he takes his steps. 

“I’m not tired,” he says, but then Ilya is stripping him down to his boxers and pushing him under the covers, and he finds himself entranced by Ilya as he takes off his own clothes, and climbs in after him.

”We sleep for two hours, yes? And then we eat, and then we rest again.” 

Shane wants to protest, but Ilya is pulling Shane against him as he speaks, and he relents to the force of his hands. Finds himself seeping into sleep almost as soon as his head comes to rest on Ilya’s chest.

He presses his nose into the skin beneath him, and breathes in for a moment. Ilya’s arms are tight around his shoulders. He sleeps.

-

Ilya isn’t there when he wakes. He rolls out of bed, and stretches his limbs until he can almost hear them crack. Reaches over to grab a hoodie from the end of the bed, discarded in their rush to leave in the morning, and he pulls it over his head. Wonders if the dog sitter had come back with Anya as they were sleeping, or if Ilya had managed to organise for her to come at a different time. He hasn’t heard the sound of her claws against the floorboards yet.

He wanders out into the kitchen, expecting to find Ilya cooking something for dinner, but instead finds him fully dressed, sat on a stool by the counter, hunched over, head buried in his arms, and body wracked with sobs. 

Shane rushes over to him, overwhelmed with sudden panic. “Shit, Ilya,” he says, wrapping himself around him, running his hands over his hair, and back, and arms. Ilya doesn’t lift his head, keeps his face down, and Shane says, “Ilya, please, please, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He feels overwhelmingly helpless. He doesn’t know what’s happening with Ilya, doesn’t know what he can do to stop this. Even when Ilya’s been at his lowest, he hasn’t ever sunk quite to these depths. He withdraws, he goes quiet, he isolates - but Shane has never seen him be so - so hopeless.

Ilya doesn’t pull him in, but he doesn’t push him away, and Shane can’t do anything except drag the nearest stool closer to him, sit next to him, and do what he can to soothe his agonies - to press kisses into his hair, and be in the same space as him. 

After a few minutes, Ilya stops crying. He lifts his head, and looks to Shane with red eyes and a snotty nose. Shane kisses his forehead, and then reaches across to grab a paper towel, and run it gently over Ilya’s face. “Moyà lyubov,” he murmurs. “Help me understand. Please.” He rests their foreheads together. “I’m okay. You know I’m okay.”

Ilya shakes his head. “I don’t - I am sorry for upsetting you.”

Shane shushes him. “No, no, just talk to me. I want to help you. Let me help you.”

Ilya takes a breath, and looks at Shane. Really, really looks at him. He cups Shane’s cheek. “I almost lost you,” he whispers.

“No,” Shane protests. “I’m not even concussed, Ilya. I’m okay.”

Ilya kisses him, and it’s sudden, and Shane sinks into it. And then he pulls back. Presses a hand to his heart, the warmth of it a comfort even in the turmoil of what is happening. “I think,” Ilya starts. “I think I saw a life where you were badly hurt. Where you did not make it.” He shakes his head. Speaks quietly. “I cannot stop seeing that life.”

Shane rubs his hands over the fabric of Ilya’s sweatpants. “Okay. Okay.” He swallows. “That must be - Ilya, that must be horrible. But,” he breathes, gently and carefully. “That’s not what’s happening, okay? I’m here. I’m not leaving you, Ilya.”

Ilya nods, and they’re silent for a few moments, just holding on each other in the quiet of their house. Shane leans forward, kisses Ilya again, and it’s gentle and familiar. They linger together, a hair’s breadth between them, and then he’s pulling Ilya in for a firm hug. “You’re okay,” he whispers as Ilya’s arms wrap around him in return. “You’re okay, and I’m okay. I promise.” 

Ilya nods into his shoulder. Shane doesn’t think he really believes it. But it’s all he has right now.

-

Ilya does calm down after that night. A little. For the next few days, Shane watches him carefully, and it’s immediately clear that Ilya’s watching him right back. Every time Shane looks at Ilya, Ilya’s looking back, except he’s looking with something like fear in his eyes. He’s looking like he’s expecting Shane to drop dead at any moment.

Shane takes it upon himself to stay as close to Ilya as possible while he’s going through whatever it is he’s going through. He clearly takes comfort from Shane’s presence, and so he’ll lean into his space whenever they’re stood somewhere, wrap his arm around Ilya’s waist, feel the heat of Ilya’s arm as it wraps around his shoulders. When they visit David and Yuna, he sits on the couch next to Ilya and presses them together, thigh to thigh, and holds onto his hand. At night, he drapes himself over Ilya, lets himself press every inch of bare skin he can find to his own. 

He thinks it’s helping. And it’s certainly no hardship to be close to Ilya. It means just as much to Shane, really, that he can be so close to the man he loves.

The first real test is when they go back to training, four days after Shane took his hit. Ilya is jittery as they plan to leave, and keeps reaching out to touch whatever part of Shane is closest. “You will tell me if you feel unwell, yes?” he asks, and Shane rolls his eyes, but nods all the same.

Ilya won’t let him drive, still, and it would frustrate Shane if he weren’t so worried about Ilya’s emotional state. For now, he’s content enough to let himself be driven around, and fretted over. 

“I won’t feel unwell,” he says as they pull away. “But yes, I’ll tell you.”

Training is fine. Wiebe isn’t pleased they’ve both missed two training sessions, but he gets caught in Ilya’s harsh stare, and falters mid-speech.

”My husband was injured,” Ilya snaps. “I needed to make sure he was okay. His health comes first.”

Ilya likes Wiebe. Shane’s never heard him be so short with him before. 

While they train, Ilya sticks close, watches carefully every time he gets on the ice, and glares at anyone who skates too close to Shane. Their teammates give them a wide berth, shoot them odd looks throughout the session, and it would be embarrassing if it weren’t so out of character for Ilya to be this way. Shane can’t bring himself to be annoyed about Ilya’s protectiveness, because he’s too busy holding onto his worry.

After practice, Shane manages to slip away from Ilya while he goes to the bathroom, and finds Wiebe in his office.

”Sorry about earlier,” he says, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “I’m fine, honestly. But Ilya -. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “He’s kind of been freaking out about me getting hurt.”

Wiebe nods. “That much was clear.”

Shane’s smile is sheepish. “I’m going to talk to him tonight.”

There’s a pause before Wiebe replies. “It’s not unusual, for him to be very worried about you.”

Shane swallows. “What do you mean?”

”He loves you a lot. Before you joined, every time something happened about you that concerned him, it would affect how he was.” Shane raises an eyebrow, and Wiebe continues. “It wouldn’t affect his game, but it would… he wouldn’t be himself.”

And this - this is new information.

Shane searches for something to say, but Wiebe holds up a hand, a lifeline for him. “I’m just saying - he’ll be okay. He just needs time. And I’m used to it.”

“Thanks, coach,” Shane smiles. “If you have any advice on how to help him, I’d appreciate it.”

Wiebe laughs, and shakes his head. “Funnily enough, I was going to ask you the same thing.”

-

Shane manages to find Ilya in the locker room before he’s fully spiralled into freaking out, and is pressing a kiss to his cheek just as he’s exhaling with relief at the sight of him.

”Where were you?” he asks Shane, as he wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him into his side. 

“Apologising to Coach. You shouldn’t have snapped at him earlier, you know.”

Ilya shakes his head. “You are most important thing in my life. I’m not sorry for telling Coach that.”

-

Shane sits him down that night, and places Anya in his lap as something for comfort. He takes the hand that’s not stroking Anya’s fur, and says, “I’m worried about you, Ilya.”

Ilya looks away. “I am fine.”

Shane shakes his head. “Have you seen Galina since I got hurt?” He knows Ilya hasn’t, but there’s a chance he called her when Shane was sleeping.

Ilya shakes his head. Closes his eyes.

”Are you taking your meds?”

Ilya doesn’t do anything right away. But then he nods. Shane breathes out in relief. 

“I’m okay. I’m okay. You’ve seen me take harder hits than I did this week and get back up again.” He grabs Ilya’s chin and turns it so that their eyes meet. “Can you help me understand why you’re still so worried?”

Ilya watches him for a moment. Swallows. Shane follows the bob of his Adam’s Apple as he does so. “I cannot,” Ilya says. His words force Shane’s eyes back up to meet his own again. 

Shane nods. “All right. That’s okay.” He clears his throat. “When’s your next appointment with Galina?”

Ilya glances away. “Tomorrow. But I will cancel it.”

”Ilya.”

”I do not want to leave you alone.”

”Ilya.”

”Shane.”

Shane closes his eyes. Tries to push down the frustration he’s feeling. Thinks about how intensely Ilya feels things, how intensely Ilya loves him. How hard it is for Ilya to express how he feels to people who aren’t Shane.

”Can you call her instead?” he says, opening his eyes. “You can’t explain it to me, but maybe you can explain it to her.”

It takes a moment for Ilya to reply, but when he does, his voice is soft. “Okay, Shane.”

-

On the next day, after sleeping as closely to each other as possible, Ilya takes himself off to the study, and calls Galina. Shane kisses him gently just before he shuts the door, and places his hand gently on his cheek, nudging their noses together, just for a moment. Ilya breathes for a second, nods once, seemingly to himself, before stepping back into the room and shutting the door between them.

Shane takes himself off to do some yoga while he waits, and an hour later, Ilya is stepping into their gym, eyes red but body a little lighter. Shane walks over to him, asking, “Was it okay?”

Ilya wraps Shane up in an embrace, and they stand like that for a few moments. It’s soft.

Ilya pulls back, cups Shane’s face with both hands, and nods. “It was okay. I think I will be okay.”

Shane smiles, but it’s uneasy. Ilya’s still watching him with such intensity, pupils wide, and Shane thinks it’ll take a while before he believes it. But if Ilya’s saying that, then it’s something, all the same.

-

Things don’t go back to normal after that, but they get closer to it. Ilya sort of gets back to how he was before - still loving, still sweet, but still able to be an asshole when he wants to be. But he’s still clingier with Shane than he used to be, and, well. It’s not like it’s a bother, to have his wonderful husband want to be with him all the time.

It doesn’t affect them much day to day - Ilya just sits a little closer to him, comes grocery shopping with him, even takes up yoga with him. When the Pikes come over for game night a month or so later, Ilya doesn’t go further than a meter from him the entire evening. He only wants to have sex with Shane face to face, and when he does, it’s like he’s memorising every pore in the skin of his face. Like he thinks if he looks away Shane will disappear.

None of it’s especially bad, and for all that Shane is still worried about Ilya, if he talked to people about Ilya wanting to be close to him, he’s not sure he’d garner much sympathy.

But it’s just not usual.

(Ilya’s hockey playing has taken a hit too. He’s being too cautious on the ice, and is clearly more focused on what Shane’s doing, and whether Shane’s okay, than he is on the puck. They’re still winning games, but not as many, and Ilya’s not scoring as many goals as he normally does. Wiebe’s spoken to him about it, he knows, but it wasn’t a meeting Shane was allowed to be a part of, so he doesn’t know what was said. Ilya came out of it with a sour look on his face, hooking an arm around Shane’s waist, and pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

”What did he say?” Shane had asked. 

Ilya had shaken his head. “Do not worry. Is all fine.”)

Shane now does his best to avoid all commentary and internet comments about Ilya’s playing, and tries to stop Ilya seeing it too. They’re not kind, and Shane doesn’t want Ilya to spiral anymore than he is already. He’s sure he sees them though - Ilya’s not stupid. It just seems like he doesn’t much care that everyone’s talking about his game playing - another thing that concerns Shane.

-

He and Ilya are at Yuna and David’s for dinner, about three months after everything first started to change. Ilya’s in the kitchen with David, helping him chop vegetables, and Shane can hear them laughing together from where he’s sitting with Yuna in the living room. The sound soothes him, as distant as it is.

It’s not that he doesn’t hear Ilya laugh anymore - they still laugh together pretty much every day, and for all that there’s an insistent, nagging doubt about Ilya’s wellbeing in the back of his mind, most days do go normally, and all told, pretty joyfully. Ilya still teases him, they still bicker about little things that don’t matter at all, they’re still happy, stupidly, ridiculously happy. But it’s not how it used to be.

”I’m worried about him,” he says to Yuna, quietly. He knows Ilya can’t hear, but he doesn’t want to risk upsetting him even so. “He’s still so clingy. Like if he thinks he stops looking at me I’ll disappear.”

Yuna takes a sip of her wine. “You’ve always been close though, for as long as I’ve known you together. Him being clingy doesn’t strike me as something to worry about.”

Shane shakes his head. “This is more, though. I don’t really know how to explain it, it just is. It’s more intense.”

”Is he okay otherwise?”

Shane fixes her with a look. “I know you know how he’s been playing.” Voice even lower, this time.

Yuna pauses, and then nods. “Okay. You took a hit, he got scared, hasn’t quite bounced back yet. But if he’s doing okay outside of hockey? Just give him time.” She leans over, rubs his knee, gently, and smiles.

Shane sighs. She’s right, in her way. Ilya is okay, generally, outside of hockey. But there’s something he can’t put his finger on, something he can’t describe. It’s a part of his innate Ilya senses. A gut feeling. Something’s off that Shane knows because Shane knows Ilya better than anyone does.

”Dinner will be in about twenty minutes,” David says, stepping into the room with Ilya beside him. 

Ilya heads towards him, reaches a hand out to Shane, who takes it in his own, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Ilya smiles, and sits down next to him, pressing close, and Shane can feel the heat from his side pressing into his own through their shirts. Can feel where their thighs are pressed together too.

Ilya switches which hand is holding onto Shane’s, so he can wrap the arm closest to Shane around his waist. Shane looks towards Yuna, willing her to see that for all that they love each other, they’ve never been quite this touchy-feely in company. 

Yuna eyes them both, and gives Shane a sad smile. Like she understands. 

-

Ilya’s not been sleeping.

Shane feels like an idiot for not realising it sooner.

Four months after Shane takes his hit, he wakes up at 3.30am, and Ilya isn’t in bed. 

Not totally out of the ordinary - when Ilya gets low, his sleep always suffers. But during the day, Ilya hasn’t been showing signs that he’s in one of his depressive moods, so it’s unusual for him to not be sleeping through the night.

Shane gets out of bed, managing not to disturb Anya where she’s curled up by his feet, and follows the corridor round to the living room. 

Ilya is on the couch, a shopping channel on the TV, scrolling on his phone. He doesn’t notice Shane until he’s stepping through the doorway.

He starts, disturbing the blanket that’s wrapped around his legs, and it falls to the floor as he stands. “Shane, you are awake,” he says, voice a little panicked.

Shane rolls his eyes, moves into Ilya’s space, and says, “Well noticed.” He sits on the couch, tugs at Ilya’s arm until he sits down next to him, brings the blanket up to lay over them both. Swings his legs up and over Ilya’s, rests his head on his chest. “Why are you awake?” he murmurs into his heartbeat.

Ilya’s hand comes up to play with his hair, and Shane lets his eyes rest closed at the feeling of his finger tips rubbing circles against his scalp. He’s asleep before Ilya gets the chance to answer.

-

Shane starts to notice, then. Starts to pay attention. Ilya’s almost always in bed with him when he wakes up, but he’s always already got his eyes open. For years, he’s slept in as long as he’s been able to, but now, he gets up when Shane does. 

Shane had attributed this just to Ilya’s newfound need to be close to him, but now he thinks that Ilya’s just not able to sleep as long as he used to. 

And he’s so tired. All the time. He hides it well, and no one on the team has commented on it, but Shane can see it in the way he holds himself, and the way his eyes look like they’re trying to drift closed in the middle of the day, when no one else is watching. How the bags under his eyes are just a little bit heavier every week. He’ll yawn, a lot, and he’ll make a joke of it, sometimes. Over-exaggerate, yawn directly into Troy’s face, do something to distract from what’s really going on.

Shane notices, now.

And so he wonders if Ilya’s been in one of his depressed states all along, but has just been able to mask it well enough that Shane hasn’t noticed. The thought makes his stomach ache. 

He figures out, first through luck and then through testing, that Ilya probably isn’t getting more than 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night.

He wakes up at 3am again, one morning, and Ilya isn’t in bed with him. 

A few weeks later he wakes up at 5.15, and no Ilya then either. 

He sets an alarm for 4am five nights in a row, and each time he wakes up, Ilya isn’t there.

He knows he’s in the living room, watching TV. Can hear the gentle lull of it through the walls. Sometimes he gets up and joins him, falls asleep in his arms on the couch. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he feels like Ilya might want to be alone.

“Baby,” he murmurs against his neck one night, as they’re falling asleep. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you. If you weren’t doing okay?”

Ilya hums, a sound that sounds like a yes, and pulls Shane in tighter. 

Shane presses. “When I found you a few weeks ago. At like 3am. That’s not the first night you’ve not been able to sleep, is it?”

Ilya goes still. Takes a moment to answer. “No.”

Shane nods. Tucks himself in closer. “I just know that, when you’re not doing too good, you don’t sleep so well. So I was wondering if that was connected.”

Ilya pauses again before speaking, and is careful as he does so. “Is not related. This time. Sometimes. But not this time.”

Shane sits up on an elbow. Looks down at the man he loves. “How often do you get up in the night? And be honest. Please.”

Ilya looks up at him, eyes moving back and forth on Shane’s face. Thinking. And then says, “I don’t want you to worry.”

Shane touches Ilya’s face. “Do you think I don’t worry about you already?”

Ilya turns his head away, Shane’s fingers still resting against his cheek.

”Ilya,” he says, gently. “If this isn’t something to do with your depression, maybe it’s something you could take medicine for?” 

Ilya shakes his head. “No,” he insists. “I cannot.” He’s still looking away.

Shane sighs. “There are natural medicines too, it wouldn’t have to be-“

”Shane.” Shane stops. Ilya’s looking back at him, again. “It is okay.”

”Sleep is important, Ilya. It affects everything.”

Ilya sighs, and pulls Shane down, pulls him into his side again. “Yes, Mr. Doctor Scientist, I know that sleep is important.” His hand goes back to his hair, and Shane leans into it. Will always lean into it. Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head. “Do you trust me?” 

His question is quiet. Shane barely hears it. 

“Of course,” he answers, immediately.

”Then please,” Ilya says, with another kiss. “Go to sleep.”

-

On Ilya’s birthday, Shane wishes he could wake him up with a blowjob, like he had done the year before. He settles instead for finding him in the kitchen and dragging him into the shower.

Ilya follows, face split into a grin. As they step under the spray and fall into each other, the rhythm familiar and all-encompassing, it feels, for a few moments, like nothing’s changed at all.

-

Ilya hadn’t wanted a party. 

This had concerned Shane, at the time. As much as it makes sense with how Ilya’s been - quieter, insular - it’s still unnerves him. Ilya loves parties. Ilya’s always loved parties. 

(“Are you sure?” he’d asked, rubbing his hands up and down Ilya’s arms. 

Ilya had leaned in to press a kiss to Shane’s neck. “Yes, moyà lyubov.”

And Shane had sighed. “We could keep it small. A few guys from the team, Svetlana, my parents. Rose, Hayden, Jackie?”

“Ah, well I was interested until you mentioned Pike.”  

Shane had swatted at Ilya’s chest. “Seriously. A few friends, a few drinks? Would be nice, right?”

And Ilya had, for his part, seemed to consider it. Humming thoughtfully, swaying gently with Shane in his arms, before smiling, syrupy sweet. “I would like to spend evening with my lovely husband. And my lovely dog.” He’d leaned in to kiss Shane’s cheek.

Shane had nodded. “Okay.”)

-

So here they are: playing poker, and drinking beer, Anya asleep at their feet. Shane’s winning, which he knows means that Ilya’s letting him win, because he can’t bluff for shit, and Ilya’s been playing poker since he was nine.

”Ah, I must fold, again. Such a shame. Here, you have seven more chips now.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Ilya, I know you’re cheating.”

Ilya paints his best shocked expression onto his face, gestures down at his diminishing pile of chips. “I think I must be bad cheater, no? How dare you accuse me of such a thing.”

Shane laughs. “Asshole. You’re cheating to help me win. I’m not stupid.”

Ilya shrugs. “You are not stupid. You win fair and square, congratulations.”

Shane narrows his eyes. “Let me look at your cards, then.”

Ilya snatches them up from the table, holds them close to his chest. “No. Is not in spirit of game.”

”No shit,” Shane grins. Nudges his foot against Ilya’s underneath the table. “It’s your birthday, you know. Surely I should be letting you win.”

”Is my birthday and you accuse me of cheating. I think your logic makes no sense, Hollander.”

Shane places his cards onto the table. Leans forward, rests his chin in his hands. “Maybe you won’t want to cheat if you really want the prize you get for winning,” he says, voice dropping low.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. Looks contemplative. “I’m listening.”

Shane grins. “You ever hear of strip poker?”

All of a sudden, Ilya starts getting real lucky with his cards.

-

Two weeks later, Ilya drops one of his weights in the gym. It narrowly misses his foot and it makes the floor vibrate. Bood, Haas, and Shane all turn to look at him, and find Ilya gazing down at the dumbbell on the ground. He clenches his fist, and sighs. Lifts it back up using both hands and places it on the rack. Sits at the side of the gym, scrolling on his phone, while he waits for Shane to finish up his routine.

On the way home, Shane rubs at his thigh. “You okay?”

Ilya shrugs, gazes out of the passenger window. Huffs, and then turns back to face Shane. 

“I am not so strong, anymore.”

Shane swallows, stealing glances at Ilya when he’s able to peel his eyes away from the road. “Okay. Why do you think that is?”

”Is why I am worse at hockey, I think.”

Shane doesn’t mention that he didn’t answer the question. “The sleep is important for that, too.” He also doesn’t mention that this is the first time Ilya’s talked about how his playing has been worse. How his playing is still getting worse. ”And, anyway. You’re still better than, like, 97% of the league.” He presses his thumb into the seam of Ilya’s pants.

”No. I don’t think I am. Not anymore.”

He doesn’t sound sad about it. Just resigned to it.

”Maybe you should see a doctor.”

Ilya shakes his head. “I speak to Galina every week.”

”No, like a medical doctor. I know you’re not worried about you not sleeping, but I am. And if you’re getting weaker-“

”Is fine, Hollander.”

He says it in a way that makes it very clear the conversation is over. Shane tightens his grip on Ilya’s leg, for a moment. Oh, how he wants to help. Oh, how he feels, a little, like Ilya’s on his way to giving up.

-

Two weeks later, Ilya announces, casually, over dinner: “I’m going to retire, I think.”

Shane freezes, fork midway to his mouth. Processes what he just heard, and places his fork back down. “Come again?”

Ilya smiles, fondly. “I am not player I was. Not since - not for eight months. I am not good for the team, and hockey is not good for me, anymore.”

”Ilya-“

”I am tired. And weak.” Like in the car, Ilya isn’t sad. Ilya is accepting.

Shane swallows, and shakes his head. “We’ll go to the doctor. They’ll figure out what’s wrong, help you get back to where you were,” he says, reaching out with a hand to grip onto Ilya’s. “Ilya, you don’t have to give up.” Shane pleads, with his eyes, and with his hand, and Ilya reaches back across. Plays with the hair of Shane’s fringe.

”Sweetheart,” he whispers. “There is nothing to fix. I promise.” That sad smile again. 

”But-“

”You said you trust me. Yes?” He holds Shane’s gaze. Shane’s throat feels dry.

”Are you dying?” Shane asks, quietly.

Ilya’s hand pauses in his hair. 

“Because you seem to know what’s wrong, but you’re not telling me. So I assume it’s bad. And the only thing I can think of that would be that bad, that you wouldn’t tell me, would be -“, he breaks off, feels a tear drop down his cheek, and Ilya quickly moves his hand, rubs away the drop with his thumb.

He stands from his seat and moves round to Shane’s, pulls him up, gathers him in his arms. Rocks him, shushes him, gently. “Moyà lyubov, shhh, please moyà lyubov. Do not cry.” His hand rubs up and down Shane’s back, and Shane clings on to him. “I do not have disease that is killing me. I promise.”

Shane cries for a little longer. Ilya holds him for a little longer. He pulls away, slightly. Looks into Ilya’s eyes. “You don’t have a disease, but is it - is it -“ he places a hand on Ilya’s head. “Have you been thinking about it?” His question is quiet. He’s terrified of asking it, and terrified of the answer.

Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s. Meets his eyes, and smiles. So sweetly. “I would never choose to leave you. How could I choose to leave you?”

-

The world is shocked when Ilya announces his retirement. Well, the hockey playing world is, at least. No doubt most of the world doesn’t actually care.

Shane watches his press conference from the sidelines, a lump in his throat as he’s bombarded with questions. Everyone wants to know why, and no one seems content with Ilya’s answers.

”I had no wish to play hockey forever. I love to play, but I am not as strong as I was. I will let my husband take over as world’s best hockey player now.”

Shane can’t help but smile at that, despite himself.

“Mr Rozanov,” one reporter begins. “Why not just step down from the captaincy, but continue to play with the Centaurs?”

Ilya shrugs. “Is hard to say. Was just right time.” He quirks his lips. “I am not like Scott Hunter. I cannot skate in old age.”

It makes the room laugh, but it doesn’t make Shane laugh.

Instead, Shane thinks of the months of difficulty they’ve had. Of Ilya, dead on his feet, without a full night’s sleep for the better part of a year, stumbling into the edge of the kitchen counter and barely even registering the pain of it hitting his side. He thinks of Ilya struggling to walk for as long with Anya as he normally does. Ilya taking breaks on benches they pass on the way. Ilya, clinging onto Shane in bed, Ilya, following Shane around like a shadow, Ilya, stopping Shane at random points throughout the day to gaze into his eyes. 

And it’s hard for Shane not to feel guilty. It’s a feeling he’s been really trying to avoid since he got hurt, but he can’t deny that that’s where it all started. That Shane getting slammed on the ice, and walking away unscathed, was the tipping point that sent Ilya into a downward spiral.

(It’s something he’s mentioned to Ilya before. When he was willing him to try to do something to help himself, to go to a doctor, or to talk to him, to please, Ilya, tell me what’s wrong.

And Shane had said - I deserve to know what’s happening, because it’s my fault. I nearly got hurt, and it’s ruined your life.

Which had made Ilya angry. He’d gripped onto Shane, pulled him in tight, and said, as forceful as Shane’s known him to be with him, “You are best thing in my life. Best thing I have. You are only thing keeping me going. Do not blame yourself for things you don’t even know.”)

So, no. Shane doesn’t laugh.

-

Shane had hoped, somehow, that whatever was wrong with Ilya would get better once he stopped playing hockey. That it was somehow the hockey that was draining him. That Ilya would stop being in so much pain, and would stop being so tired all the time. But he’s weaker, and he’s more tired. He’s still not sleeping through the night, and Shane snaps, nearly a year after things started going downhill. 

“Shane, I do not need to go to the hospital,” Ilya says as he’s dragged towards the car, yawning as it goes.

”I should’ve done this months ago,” Shane mutters, almost to himself, as he shuts the door on Ilya’s side of the car, and starts walking over to the driver’s side.

When he climbs in, Ilya is watching him, and he sighs as Shane starts the engine. “We will waste their time and we are wasting the day. We should go, snuggle on couch, no?”

Shane shakes his head. “No. You’re sick, and you’re not getting better, and I’m so fucking scared, Ilya.” His voice is clipped, staring out the windscreen and deliberately not looking at Ilya, and he pulls out of their driveway. 

Ilya is silent, and then his hand is on Shane’s arm. “Shane.”

Shane still doesn’t look at him, but he lets his hand stay where it is. “I’ve been watching you fall apart for nearly a year, and I kept believing you when you say you’re okay. It was stupid of me.” He huffs out a breath. “So a doctor is going to run every test on you they can, and they’re going to figure out what’s wrong, and then they’re going to fix it.”

He looks at Ilya, then. His beautiful, exhausted, sweet Ilya. Ilya, who used to carry him to bed, but now struggles to take the trash out without getting out of breath. His beautiful, exhausted, sweet Ilya, who he’s terrified to lose. He’s watching Shane with unshed tears in his eyes.

”Okay,” Ilya whispers, eventually. 

-

The doctor finds nothing. 

Shane is looking over the test results in their living room, pacing back and forth, a pale and sleepy Ilya watching him from the arm chair. “I don’t understand,” he mutters, flicking through the pages. “Everything’s normal. Even your muscle mass is the same as it used to be. How is this possible?”

”I told you,” Ilya says, with a yawn. “I told you was nothing could be fixed.”

Shane chooses to ignore him. Drops the papers onto the coffee table. “Well get a second opinion. There’s this doctor back in Montreal that Jackie went to when her primary didn’t take her seriously, I’m sure she’ll listen to us-“

”Shane,” Ilya interrupts. Shane turns to face him, and sees his outstretched arm. Moves, automatically, towards him, and clambers into the chair beside him. Wraps himself around him, feels Ilya hold him tight. “I don’t want to spend all my time in hospital,” Ilya says, thumb rubbing up and down Shane’s side. “I want to spend all my time with you.”

Shane exhales. Burrows in closer. “I’m so scared, though.”

”I know,” Ilya says. And then, for the first time in 11 or so months, he admits, “I am, too.” He kisses Shane’s forehead. “But I love you. And you make me brave.”

Shane wipes a tear away from under his eye. “I want to be brave too.”

Ilya leans back to look at his face. “You will be. You are,” he says.

Shane shakes his head, and leans down to bury his face in Ilya’s hair. “I feel like I’m losing you,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper.

”No,” Ilya says at once. “You will never lose me.”

He says it with such certainty, that for a moment, Shane almost believes it.

-

Three weeks later, and Shane is certain that Ilya is going to die. Months of getting weaker have caught up with him, and he’s gone downhill rapidly. He’s too weak to get out of bed, but still isn’t able to sleep for more than four hours a night, and so just lays there, resting, letting Shane fuss around him. He has the gall to look happy about it.

Shane’s on a ledge, on the phone with various doctors who are as baffled as he is, and Ilya’s smiling at him. It’s maddening.

”How are you happy?” he asks, on hold with yet another doctor who’s promised to look over Ilya’s latest blood test. 

Ilya’s answer is quick to come. “I love to look at you. I love to be with you. It makes me happy to have you near.”

Shane sits on the bed, slides up next to Ilya, phone still pressed to his ear. “Please let me take you to the hospital. Please.” 

Ilya shakes his head. “Will be no good,” he says. “They cannot help.”

Shane presses his forehead to the side of Ilya’s. “How do you know? Ilya, how do you know that?” He feels himself start to cry.

”I just want to be with you, okay?” Ilya says, reaching out weakly to pull the phone from Shane’s hand. Shane’s too overwhelmed to protest as he sees Ilya hang up, and then they’re both sinking down into the bed. Ilya feels cold.

”Baby,” Shane whispers, closes his eyes, and rests his head on Ilya’s chest. 

Ilya holds him close, and even as desperate as he feels, it’s nice, to be so loved. “You will find out soon what is going on, so I think I will tell you.”

Shane’s eyes snap open. He sits up. Rubs at his face. “What?”

Ilya stays laying down, but reaches for his hand. “You are going to be angry at me, I think.”

”Yeah,” Shane says, with a swallow. “You know what’s wrong? Why are you only telling me now? Ilya, we could have been fixing this!”

Ilya lets out a hollow laugh. “I keep telling you. Cannot be fixed. Is already fixed.”

Shane closes his eyes, and opens them again. Tries to push down his frustration. His terror. “Okay. Tell me, please.”

Ilya nods, and shifts himself, so he’s slightly higher in the bed, resting against the pillows. He takes a breath. Shane braces himself: he thinks of cancer, maybe. Some kind of muscle wasting disease not yet discovered.

”You died,” Ilya says, after a moment.

This, at least, Shane was not expecting.

”Ilya,” Shane says, a warning. Stop joking around.

”You died that day with the Sea Lions. Aneurysm, after you hit your head.”

Shane’s silent, eyes stuck on Ilya’s face. He doesn’t look like he’s joking. He looks like he’s remembering the worst day of his life. He looks desolate.

”I thought I knew sadness, after my mother… but losing you was worse. And I watched it happen. On the ice. I held your hand, and you -“ he cuts himself off, as he swallows down what must be a sob.

Maybe Ilya’s hallucinating. Remembering things that didn’t happen.

”A week passed, and I was - I was not good. Everyone was very worried about me. I could not leave my bed.”

Shane brings a hand up to Ilya’s head. Cards his fingers through his curls, still soft, somehow. It’s crazy, what Ilya’s saying, but he doesn’t want to interrupt him. Can’t bear to.

”One night, I cannot sleep, so I go for drive. Run out of gas about three hours away. Middle of nowhere. And this man is there.” He pauses. “He looks - I cannot really describe him. He looks not human, but also is human. And he asks me what is wrong.” He swallows. “I tell him I have just lost the love of my life. That I do not know how to carry on. And he tells me - he tells me he can bring you back.”

Shane gasps. “Ilya…”

Ilya shakes his head. “I say yes before he even finishes speaking. And he laughs at me, and asks, do I want to know terms of the deal.”

Shane’s starting to piece together the puzzle in his mind. He thinks he knows where Ilya’s going with this. It’s insane and not real, and he doesn’t believe it, of course. But the very thought of it makes his chest tighten with such intense anxiety.

”We get one year together before he comes for me. One last year with my love. But I cannot sleep well for the year. And I lose 10% of my strength every month. That’s the deal.” Shane holds his breath at Ilya’s words. He feels a gentle hand caress his cheek. “So I say yes.”

”No,” Shane breathes out.

”Yes. And then I faint, and wake up, and is Sea Lions game again. And you still get knocked down, and I think - I think, I get to see you one more time, at least.” Shane’s heart breaks even more than it has already, and he’s entranced by the love in Ilya’s eyes. He’s thinking about Ilya losing Shane twice within a week, but being grateful for it, all the same. He’s thinking about Ilya being alone. 

And then it slams home. One year before he comes for me. What Ilya, if this is real, traded to bring Shane back. Shane feels like all the air has been sucked from his lungs. 

“But this time - you wake up. And it was so wonderful to see your face again.” He takes a breath. “And is now one more day before year is up,” Ilya says, quietly.

Shane can’t speak. Shane can’t breathe. All he can do is hold his hand where it is on Ilya’s head, and stare at his beautiful face. He knows he’s crying, and he knows the world is ending. He knows Ilya’s telling, somehow, the truth.

“It was a good year, no?” Ilya asks.

The dam breaks, and Shane sobs, falling onto him. Ilya immediately wraps him in an embrace, and the bed shakes with the force of Shane’s cries. Ilya shushes him, soothes him, and for several minutes, Shane bellows with his misery.

Ilya’s gentle kisses don’t slow as he does so. Ilya is about to die, Ilya traded his life for Shane’s, and he’s still the one trying to make Shane feel better.

After a few more moments, Shane calms enough to pull back, and to look into Ilya’s face. “Why would you do that?” he asks, voice hoarse from crying. “Ilya, you can’t - .” He steadies himself. “You’re serious,” he says, a question and not a question at the same time.

Ilya nods. Cups Shane’s cheek. “I know you are angry. But it is worth it. I know it.”

Shane’s face twists in anger, and he slaps at Ilya’s chest. He pushes away, and as much as it hurts him to leave Ilya’s touch, he needs some distance right now. “Fuck, Ilya, of course I’m angry!” he says, pacing along one side of the bed, hand running through his hair. “How could you - how could you do that? Ilya,” he pauses, fixes him with a stare. Points a finger, misery and fury fighting for dominance in him. “You swore you wouldn’t choose to leave me. You promised.” 

Ilya looks down, sadly. “Was not a choice I made. When he made offer, I - I had no choice.”

Shane drops his finger. “Ilya-.”

”You have to believe me, Shane,” Ilya says. “There was no choice.”

”And so what,” Shane says, wiping away more tears. “Now I have to watch you die? I have to live the rest of my life without you? Fuck, Ilya, fuck you for putting me through that. And do you - Ilya, my life isn’t worth more than yours. Ilya, I need you. Ilya,” he says, sitting back down on the bed. Pleading, now. “I can’t do this without you,” he says with a sob.

He watches as Ilya uses all his strength to sit himself upright, and gather Shane back up again. “I love you,” he murmurs, and Shane cries more. “It was selfish of me, I know.”

Shane breaks down again, lets out heaving, gasping sobs into Ilya’s shoulder. They were meant to have so much time. They were meant to achieve so much together.

What feels like an hour or so later, Shane lifts himself from Ilya’s arms. “We can fight this, right?”

Ilya’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

”We can fight this. When he comes, we’ll fight.”

Ilya’s gaze softens. “Sweetheart. He is powerful. We cannot.”

And Shane shakes his head, grips at Ilya once more, and says, “I’m not letting him take you. He won’t. And if he does - I don’t know. I’ll go to hell and bring you back myself.”

Ilya’s quiet. He watches Shane carefully, eyes calculating. And then he says, “I will always fight with you. You know that.”

Shane nods. Kisses Ilya’s forehead. “Then we’ll fight. I’m not losing you.” He swallows. “I’m not.”

Ilya pulls him under the covers, and they lay down together. It’s only just getting dark outside. 

“What time will he come?” Shane asks, quietly.

Ilya rubs his nose against Shane’s ear. “I think, at 6. PM.”

”I’ll come up with a plan,” Shane says, defiant. “I’ll find something else to give him.”

He can tell that Ilya doesn’t believe him - Shane’s not sure he believes himself - but he’s determined. He’s - he’s fucking going to do it. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep Ilya here. 

Chapter 2: Ilya

Chapter Summary

Ilya's POV of the events of the first chapter.

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much to everyone who’s read and commented - it means so much!

This is Ilya’s POV - it starts off with Shane dying on the ice, and gets a bit intense, so you can skip to the section that starts “Ilya wasn’t kidding” if you don’t want to read that. You can also, if you’re sensitive to some quite sad thoughts, skip this chapter entirely and wait for the conclusion (which will hopefully come this weekend!). You don’t get any new information, really.

Ilya hears Shane hit the ice before he sees him. He knows, somehow, before he turns his head, that when he does, he’ll see Shane still, on the ground.

Knowing that still doesn’t prepare him for the sight of it - of the man he loves, crumpled and motionless. He drops his stick and skates over to Shane, blood rushing in his ears. Shane’s surrounded by medics, but Ilya pushes his way to his side, watches his eyes flutter open.

”Shane,” he says, even as one medic grabs at Ilya’s shoulder, trying to move him away. “Shane, can you hear me?”

”Rozanov,” a voice is saying. “Come on, man, let them do their work.” Ilya thinks it might be Bood. He’s not sure. He’s not listening to him. He doesn’t want to leave Shane - can feel his grip getting looser in his own. Feels Shane slipping away.

-

He dies on the ice, but is pronounced dead in the ambulance, to save the fans having to know that they watched the one and only Shane Hollander die. Ilya’s there, in the ambulance, on the ride to the hospital, still clinging onto Shane - and he’s cold. 

They let him sit with Shane once they arrive, in a private room somewhere, Ilya’s not really sure - he’s silent, and numb, and barely registers when a sympathetic doctor tells him, gently, that it seems like Shane had an aneurysm when his head hit the ice. 

He’s then left alone, and Ilya lets himself gaze at Shane where he’s laying on the bed. Looks at every line on his face, each strand of hair. It doesn’t feel real, and he can’t, he doesn’t - .

After an hour or so, he’s asked to leave. A sweet nurse asks if there’s anyone who can be with him, and he shakes his head. He knows David and Yuna have been called, that they’re on their way, but that they won’t be here for a few more hours. And there’s no one else he wants to see. Can’t bear the thought of someone trying to help him make sense of what’s happened.

He calls a cab to take him home. Goes straight to the guest bedroom, unable to face the space he shared with Shane. Doesn’t leave his bed for a week.

-

There’s a stream of visitors who do their best to try to reach him. Sveta, Yuna, and David, mostly, although Pike and Rose try as well. They all use Shane’s parents’ spare key to let themselves in, and they fuss over him - bring him food, open the windows, run their fingers through his hair.

It’s not fair, really, because they’re all grieving, too. They’ve lost their son, and their friend, and now they’re stuck dealing with a virtually comatose Ilya. But also, he thinks, bitterly: too fucking bad. 

Throughout all of it, Ilya can’t even cry. He feels gutted, a shell, he feels like he has no capacity to feel anything. He feels like there’s nothing left worth feeling for.

He’s asked, quietly, about a funeral, and he refuses to answer. Doesn’t know if he’d be able to go. Thinks, that as much as Shane would hate him for it, he probably won’t be alive by the time the funeral comes round anyway.

After a week, at 11pm, with Hayden Pike sleeping on his couch, he sneaks out, and gets into his car. He pulls away without a plan, but with a determination that he’s not going to come back. That whatever happens out there, on the road, Ilya’s not going to be stuck in a world without Shane.

Not having a plan doesn’t work out too well, though, because he doesn’t have as much gas as he thought, and he runs out of it, on some desolate road about three hours away. He glances at his phone where it’s been sitting in the passenger seat, and wonders if there’s any point in calling roadside assistance. Sees that there are 23 missed calls from Pike, 8 from Sveta, 13 from Yuna. He turns his phone off.

He gets out of the car, shuts the door behind him, leans against it, and slides down onto the ground. Buries his face in his arms, and hopes that he dies from exposure.

And then he hears footsteps.

-

Ilya thinks there’s a good chance that grief has sent him mad. He’s gazing up at a man whose features are ever so slightly… off. A man whose gazing back down at him with something like hunger. A man who asks, “What is wrong?”

Ilya breaks his gaze. Looks down. Hasn’t really spoken all week, and so his voice is croaky when he says, “My husband. He died.”

And for the first time in seven days, he bursts into tears. He sobs into his arms, feels the tears leak into his sweatpants, and the man stands beside him for several minutes, letting him sob.

The man sits down next to him. Says, “Would you like to bring him back?”

The question takes a moment to be heard by Ilya, but when it is, he lets out a shaky breath, and lifts his head. “What?”

The man smiles, and it’s twisted, but also sincere. “We can make a trade. You give me something, I’ll bring him back. Would you be interes-“

”Yes,” Ilya says, instantly, scrabbling to his feet. The man follows him up. “Yes, please, please bring him back.”

The man lets out a laugh. “Ilya, do you not want to know the terms of the deal?”

Ilya doesn’t question how he knows his name. Shakes his head. “Is not matter. Whatever it is, I will give it.”

The man smiles.

-

Ilya wasn’t kidding when he said he would give anything. The terms that are presented to him are nothing in comparison to what he would do to bring Shane back - Ilya thinks he’d do anything short of murder, and if he’s honest, he can see himself crossing that line too.

”Your life for his,” the man says, smiling. “But I’m generous. So you can have one year together.”

Ilya nods. He’s grateful for the year, because he’d trade his life for Shane’s in a heartbeat anyway, year or no.

”But it won’t be easy,” he adds. “You will only be able to sleep for four hours out of every twenty-four. And every month, you will lose,” he pauses, looks Ilya up and down, and contemplates. “10% of your strength every month. So, in the first month, you go down to 90. Month 2, 81. Understand?”

Ilya nods. He doesn’t care. 

“In one year’s time, I will come to collect. 6pm.”

”Yes,” Ilya says, voice falling out of him in a rush and a panic. “Yes, please, just-“

Ilya’s on the ice.

He’s watching Shane skate.

He’s watching Shane fall again.

Shane gets knocked out, and Ilya thinks he’s about to watch his husband die again. But he gets to hold his hand one more time, at least. And so for all that he may have been cheated by a demon, at least he can trace his fingers over Shane’s cheek, one more time, too.

Except. Shane wakes up this time.

-

He’s being annoying, he knows, and clingy. He can’t bear to even look away from Shane, so he’s following after him like a lost puppy. And it makes no sense, because to the outside world, his husband is fine. Shane’s not even concussed, is barely bruised, and so why would Ilya be so obviously distressed by what’s happened?

It’s got Shane worried, he knows - as he fusses over him as he’s being discharged, as he’s holding onto his hand while heading home, as he’s shepherding him into bed once they get there, Shane’s watching him warily. Touching him gently, every now and then - his attempts at saying look, I’m here, and I’m okay.

Ilya watches Shane sleep for an hour, marvelling in the presence of him - of the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Of the flutter of his eyelashes. The occasional twitch of his fingers.

He pinches himself, every few minutes. To make sure he’s not dreaming. That he’s here, and so is Shane. That Shane’s not dead anymore.

After an hour, he starts remembering what it was like without him, for that week. The yawning emptiness, how carved out he’d felt. How lost.

He starts to cry, and he’s worried about waking Shane with his sobs, so he manages to drag himself away. Sits in the kitchen and lets himself be overcome by all the feelings he didn’t quite let himself feel when Shane was gone. 

Shane finds him, and Ilya lets himself be held. Tells Shane something like the edges of the truth. No one will ever be able to understand what’s running through his head. What he’s been through. But he clings onto Shane all the same, willing for him to tell, to know, that Ilya’s been to hell and back already.

-

They don’t go back to the rink for a few days, and it’s clear that Shane can tell Ilya’s still very stressed about it all. Sweet, lovely, understanding Shane can sense Ilya’s need to be close, and so he’s the one to press close to him, to wrap their hands together, to press gentle touches to each other when they pass one another. Ilya’s grateful.

They go to dinner at Yuna and David’s, when they return from their holiday a few days later. Yuna hugs him, and rubs at his arms as Shane goes to help David in the kitchen, and she looks at Ilya with such sadness, that he’s sure Shane’s said something.

”I am a bit emotional, recently,” he says, quietly. He’s aiming for light, in his tone. He’s not sure it hits. His voice nearly cracks as he speaks.

”He’s fine, though, isn’t he,” she replies, smiling gently. 

Ilya nods, mind throwing itself back to Shane, on the ice, dying. A traitorous tear falls down his cheek.

”Oh, sweetheart,” Yuna says, drawing him into an embrace. He clings on to her, and she rubs her hands up and down his back. He’s so glad to have her. “He’s okay. He’s not hurt. He loves you very much.”  She pulls back, and rubs at his cheeks, where tears are flowing more freely now. “I’m sorry you’re so sad right now,” she says, quietly. “But, selfishly? I’m so glad Shane has someone who loves him so much.”

Ilya hugs her again, because he really needs to. Wishes he could tell her just how much he loves her son. Wishes he could tell her the price he’s paid for him. The price he’d pay a thousand times over.

By the time he’s reunited with Shane, he’s a little calmer. He takes his hand, kisses the back of it, hopes it’s not so obvious he’s been crying.

Shane stays close. It may not be obvious to anyone, but it’s definitely obvious to Shane.

-

Wiebe doesn’t get it - doesn’t understand why he and Shane have missed practice, and Ilya guesses it makes sense: Wiebe doesn’t know that Shane died, so he’d have no reason to be sympathetic about what they’ve been through. Even Shane doesn’t know what they’ve been through.

He’s struggling, though, and he can admit this. He’s protective, and angry, and he doesn’t like other people getting too close to Shane - they all present a risk to him, and they could all be the reason why something else happens to him. Maybe the universe wants Shane dead, and maybe Ilya’s the only one who can stop this happening.

He snaps at Wiebe, at practice. A possessive hand on Shane’s arm as he does so. He watches Wiebe pause, and take stock, and decide not to fight him on it. Ilya’s grateful - for all that he knows he won’t back down when it comes to keeping Shane safe, he can recognise that any reasonable onlooker would find it difficult to make sense of what exactly Ilya’s trying to keep him safe from. He doesn’t want there to be a whole thing.

He sticks to Shane like glue in that first practice back, glares at their team members who get too close, and they all, dutifully, back off. He can feel their eyes, can imagine their hushed discussions about him behind his back: Rozy’s lost it. Rozy can’t handle his husband being on the ice anymore.

But then, no. That’s not right. The Centaurs are great. They’d be talking, but it would be more like: Is Rozanov okay? Is Shane more hurt than we’d heard? Ilya likes the idea of them being kind behind his back, not cruel. He believes they’re being kind.

But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the need to follow Shane around like a shadow. He’d, if he could, wrap him in cotton wool and not let him out of the house.

He has to lose sight of Shane after practice when he goes to the bathroom, and he comes out to an empty locker room and a feeling of blind panic.

He runs to his bag and pulls out his phone, ready to dial Shane’s number, when he comes back in. Ilya rushes to him, presses a kiss to his cheek, manages to hold himself back from throwing himself around him.”Where were you?” he asks, voice low.

Shane’s been apologising to Wiebe, apparently. Ilya understands. But he still doesn’t agree.

-

He watches Shane so carefully on the ice during their next match, follows his every movement like a hawk, desperate not to let him get hurt again. He thinks it would be a disturbing, cruel twist of fate to get Shane back, only to lose him again, in some stupid accident. 

The first time he watches Shane take a hit, Ilya’s heart drops to the floor. He feels incredibly stupid, absolutely moronic, ridiculously idiotic, for not thinking: Shane died from an aneurysm before. Maybe there was something in his head that needed looking at? Why did Ilya not drag him to the hospital and demand he get his head properly looked at, why not insist someone look at every cell in his body and make sure it wouldn’t happen again?

But Shane takes a hit, and laughs it off. And a week later, he bangs his head, does get concussion this time, and is fine. Whatever the man did, he obviously fixed whatever was wrong.

Ilyas grateful. For all that it’s costing him his own life, he’s grateful for Shane’s.

-

Ilya’s surprised that the stuff about him not being able to sleep is real: somehow he hadn’t really taken that all in, so single-mindedly preoccupied with getting Shane back.

The first few nights, he doesn’t sleep more than 4 hours - wakes up at 2am physically unable to close his eyes again, and he puts it down to keeping an eye on Shane - something in his mind telling him he can’t sleep, because he needs to make sure Shane doesn’t stop breathing through the night. He feels an immense responsibility for him.

But days pass, and Ilya still can’t sleep. Wakes up in the early hours, even when he puts off sleeping for as long as possible. Shane will fall asleep at 10, and Ilya will scroll on his phone, while stealing glances at the rise and fall of his chest. Sometimes, either before he sleeps or after he wakes up, he’ll go sit in the living room, and try to pass the time, somehow. He’ll watch TV. He’ll read. He’ll scroll endlessly on social media.

(He’d rather do this in bed, with Shane, of course. But he’s worried about waking him up).

He’s grateful at least that Shane hasn’t noticed. But Ilya knows it’s affecting him - he knows his tiredness is affecting his mood, and making him more emotional. He’s been clingy with Shane ever since the accident, but losing sleep is making him even more so. He’s still draping himself over Shane every opportunity he gets, holding onto his hand when they pass by one another, keeps him in his sights whenever they’re forced to be on different sides of the room.

There’s a night, not long after they start playing and training again, where they’re lying together on the sofa. Ilya’s on his back, head against the arm rest, and Shane’s in his arms, head resting on his chest, hands soft against Ilya’s side. Ilya’s fingers are running through Shane’s hair, and he’s enjoying, properly, the feel of their chests in sync with each other. Feeling Shane alive, and in his arms.

He thinks Shane’s fallen asleep. The movie they were watching has long finished, the selection screen of Netflix giving way to adverts for different shows, and Ilya doesn’t want to reach for the remote to turn the TV off, because he doesn’t want to disturb Shane.

He’s enjoying the quiet enough, anyway.

He thinks, for the first time since his deal, about dying. About the fact that, in a year’s time, he won’t be here. He won’t get to have this.

He’s not unhappy about that fact. The fact makes him beyond happy, because that fact has saved him from losing Shane, and that fact is keeping Shane alive. But he wishes he’d had a lifetime with him. They deserve a lifetime together. After all the hiding, after all the prejudice, after giving up his home country and his mother’s grave, Ilya thinks the least the world could have done for him would be to let them be together, properly, married and open, for more than a couple of years.

Realistically, though, if Shane had stayed dead, then Ilya would have been close behind. That’s what it came down to: either Ilya dies, or they both die.

He hopes Shane will be okay.

It’s with that thought that Shane shifts, presses a kiss to Ilya’s chest, and then looks up to him, with sleepy, beautiful, soft eyes. 

“Hi,” Ilya says, smiling. His thoughts had been sad, but it’s a genuine smile. He loves Shane so much.

”Hi,” Shane whispers back, lifting himself, and kissing Ilya’s lips. “How are you?” he asks, with a hand to his cheek. 

Ilya wraps his arms around him. “I’m okay.” He grins. “I’m with the greatest love of my life.”

It’s the kind of sentiment that would normally make Shane smile, before. But it doesn’t work, this time. He looks down with concern. “Can you be honest with me?” he asks. “Please, no bullshit. Just tell me how you are.”

Ilya swallows. He hates lying to Shane, however necessary it is. He puts his hand on the back of Shane’s head. “I am always so happy to have you with me,” he says, carefully.

Shane plants his hands on either side of Ilya, and lifts himself fully up, sitting with his back leaning on the other armrest. He crosses his arms. “Ilya,” he says.

”Shane.”

Ilya gathers his legs up closer to him. 

“Ilya, you’re still acting like I’m on my deathbed.”

He winces, involuntarily, and Shane notices.

”See! Ilya, I’m fine, you know I am. And I’m worried. I’m scared, to be honest.”

Ilya lets his eyes rest closed, just for a moment. He wants to keep looking at Shane, of course, so he opens them quickly again. 

“You do not need to worry about me.”

”Okay,” Shane says. Arms still crossed. “But I am. Wouldn’t you be, if the tables were turned?”

It’s a fair point. Ilya wants Shane in his arms again.

”I still cannot explain it,” he settles on. “But I love you more than anything, and I know you love me too.”

”Of course, Ilya. You know that.”

”Can you please trust me? That I know how things are. That I know what I’m doing.”

Shane steadies him with a look. Senses a losing battle. But he sighs, and says, “No. Ilya, I love you too much to be okay with you being unhappy.”

-

Shane wants him to talk to Galina. Ilya knows that won’t help. That he can’t confide in Galina without getting sectioned. That this is a cross he’ll have to bear alone, for the remainder of the year.

Still, he made a promise to Shane: so he tries.

”Why do you think you’re taking this injury so much more intensely than other injuries Shane’s suffered?” she’s asking, voice tinny through the iPad screen.

Ilya shrugs. She smiles at him sadly.

”Can you try to think of a reason?”

She’s not being unkind. Ilya’s being unreasonable. He called her, after all.

He goes with what he told Shane, although slightly different - Galina doesn’t know that he started freaking out before he had the chance to sleep. “After he got hurt,” he says with a sigh, “I had a dream that he died.” He looks down at his hands, picks at a bit of loose skin by his thumbnail. “It was very realistic. I woke up, and thought he was dead.” His voice ends up being little more than a whisper.

Galina looks at him, eyes soft with sympathy. “That must have been very difficult.”

Ilya nods. Wipes away a tear. ”It felt like the world was ending.”

They’re both silent for a few moments. Ilya gets the sense that Galina is waiting for him to continue, letting him sit in the silence, and with his feelings. Ilya hates it, and hates even more that it works. “I don’t think I could carry on,” he says, voice cracking. “I could not go on without him.”

Another tear falls, and he looks away from the screen.

“Those must be very upsetting thoughts to have.”

No shit, Ilya thinks. 

“It’s easy to spiral, when you’re faced with hypotheticals. Our thoughts always go to worse-case scenarios. You had an upsetting dream, and then your brain started to try to protect itself, by preparing for the worst. But,” she continues. “That did not happen. And Shane is okay.”

Ilya nods. Drags his gaze back to the screen. “Yes,” he says, softly. “Yes he is.”

”I am concerned, though,” Galina says, “about the implication of what you’re saying. Can we run through your crisis plan again?”

-

It all doesn’t help that much, but he tells Shane it does. And speaking about it helped a little, at least. And it calms Shane, too, so he makes sure to make the calls a regular thing. Goes into see her a couple of times a week as well.

He starts to feel better anyway, because he has Shane. With each day that passes, he’s reassured that Shane’s not going to slip away, or drop dead - that whatever the man did, he did good on his deal - that Shane’s life is safe. And regardless of whatever’s going through his head, that’s what matters the most. 

-

Ilya’s getting weaker. It’s probably not noticeable to anyone else, but after a few months, he’s feeling the effect of those percentages he’s lost. It had felt, and still feels, like a fair price to pay, but it is making hockey difficult. His playing is really starting to slip, and the others are noticing it too. They don’t say anything, of course, but they watch. And their eyes say everything. Especially Shane’s.

Ilya doesn’t appreciate their pity, can’t bear Shane looking at him with those sad eyes. He thinks back to the years they were playing on opposite teams, matched in ability, when playing had been so much fun.

Ilya, at seventy or so percent strength, is still a better hockey player than most, luckily. But he’s still much worse than he was.

He avoids all of the sports commentary he’d normally watch, knowing they’re running numbers on him. Stays off twitter. Tries to ignore the knowledge that Shane is also running those numbers in his head, that Shane can see how badly he’s doing.

Wiebe asks to see him, after a match where Ilya had stumbled one too many times. Looks at him sadly from across the desk. “Ilya, please,” he says, fingers interlinked in front of him. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

He shakes his head. “There is nothing to tell.”

Wiebe sighs. “You know I care about you more than the hockey, right?”

Ilya snaps his eyes up to meet Wiebe’s. Doesn’t say anything. Lets him continue.

”So when I ask, I’m asking out of concern about you. When I see you’re off your game, I’m worried about how you’re doing, okay?”

Ilya swallows. Takes a while to say something. “I understand.”

Wiebe gives him a small smile. “So, I’m going to ask again: can you tell me what’s going on?”

Ilya lowers his eyes. “No,” he says, eventually. “Am I fired? Demoted?” Ilya asks the floor.

”What?” Wiebe’s reaction is immediate. Ilya keeps looking down. “No, Ilya, of course not. Just,” he pauses. “Promise me you’ll think about what I’ve said. How I want to make sure you’re okay. How that’s more important to me. And then, if you need to, come talk to me.”

Ilya nods.

”And,” Wiebe adds. “I think, have a couple of sessions with the PT team. See if they can’t get you back to where you want to be.”

Ilya nods. Ilya doesn’t tell Shane about the meeting.

-

They have dinner with Shane’s parents, and Ilya is grateful, as he helps David chop vegetables, and as he hears the low murmur of Shane talking with Yuna in the living room, that Shane will still have them after he dies. 

Without Ilya, Shane has a lot of people: his parents, Hayden, Rose. A network of people he’s known since birth, a city of people who love him unconditionally. Without Shane, Ilya’s not sure what he has. Some friends, sure. Friends who care about him, he knows. Sveta. And he doesn’t think Yuna or David would stop looking at him lovingly. But he’s still, all told, something of a stranger in Canada. He doesn’t have the roots that Shane does. 

Shane will be okay.

-

Shane notices the no-sleeping thing. In general, he doesn’t say much about it. He obviously accepts it as one of these new things about Ilya that he can’t quite figure out, and with all the love he has in his heart, doesn’t make him feel bad about it. Will just sit with him, sometimes, fall asleep with him on the couch. He asks, quite often, if he’s okay, and Ilya gets the sense that he thinks he’s going to kill himself.

He doesn’t know how to reassure Shane about that. Because, truly, there is nothing in the world he’d like less than to leave Shane, to separate himself from the life that’s made him so happy. 

But also, in effect, he will be leaving Shane. And in effect, he did choose that path. 

He says, “Do you trust me?”

This time, Shane says yes. Perhaps because he knows Ilya’s seeing Galina. It keeps the peace, for a little while.

-

For Shane’s birthday, they go to the cottage for a rare two days hockey-free. They swim, and they play games and do puzzles, and they have sex, and it’s like all their times there before. It’s peaceful, and beautiful, and Ilya feels more at home there than he does anywhere.

He’s hoping they’ll be able to come back, at some point, before he dies. He doesn’t want this to be the last time they come here together.

He thinks of a future, several years down the line, where Ilya’s no longer there, and Shane’s… Shane’s what? Will Shane find someone else? Will Shane bring someone else here?

The thought makes him feel sick. He can’t bear the thought of someone else touching Shane like he does, holding him in their bed, feeling the sunlight spill across their faces together.

But he wants Shane to be happy. Maybe Shane could be happy one day, again. For all that he hates to imagine it, and decides not to, he does hope that he’ll be happy.

-

He retires when there’s four months left of his life. It causes quite the stir.

Shane thinks he’s dying. Shane can’t stop crying at the thought of it. It rips at Ilya’s heart to know he’s causing him such pain, no matter how much he knows it has to be this way.

He hangs onto Shane. Tells him as much of the truth as he’s able to: “I would never choose to leave you.”

-

The last four months of Ilya’s life are difficult. He’s too weak to run, can’t lift weights, can’t really stand for too long. He keeps up the pretense for as long as he’s able, and manages a couple of months where it’s only really Shane who notices that something’s wrong. 

Shane drags him to the hospital and demands they do tests on him, which of course show up nothing. A sweet, blonde doctor asks him if he’s doing okay in his head, because the only explanation for what’s happening is that it’s psychosomatic. His muscles are physically fine: they just don’t work. There’s nothing in his brain that’s stopping him from sleeping for a full night: he just can’t.

Shane is borderline furious at the test results. Ilya doesn’t have the energy to be more than amused at his pacing.

-

Ilya didn’t know what he was expecting Shane’s response to be, when he found out the truth. Something quiet, perhaps.

He knew Shane would be sad, but he didn’t expect him to be quite so angry.

He wants to placate him - wants to reassure him that this is all for the best, that it was him or Shane, and that he has no regrets.

He thinks of telling Shane that he’d die a thousand times, if it would keep him safe. He doesn’t think it would go down well.

Exhaustion takes him to sleep, eventually, and Shane assures him, as his eyes start to droop, and his breathing starts to calm, that he’ll find a way. Like he found a way to keep him in Canada. Like he found a way for them to be together. He’ll find a way to keep Ilya alive.

Ilya falls asleep with a smile. Hopes he’s allowed to be holding Shane’s hand when he dies.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments continue to be lovely - each comment I’ve received so far has made me happier than you could know. I love this fandom so much!

Chapter 3: The Devil

Chapter Notes

Thank you to everyone who’s been reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! I hope this final chapter brings a satisfactory ending to the story!

Shane doesn’t sleep, and is still awake four hours later, when Ilya’s eyes open.

Shane thinks about how cruel the devil must be, to not even let Ilya rest on his last night on Earth. 

He’s been frantically typing on his laptop, looking up every possible piece of information he can find about deals with demons, and bringing people back from the dead. The general consensus is that it’s not something that’s real, which doesn’t help Shane much. But he falls down a rabbit hole of Reddit threads and unverified blog sites, and by the time Ilya wakes, he’s scribbled down about twelve pages of information that he thinks he can use.

He’s proud that he hasn’t spiralled. That he hasn’t let himself sink into despair and desolation, that he’s been able to focus, because this is important. This is also insane. Shane’s aware that he can’t follow his first instinct when he has a crisis that needs sorting: he can’t call his mother. She’d be over in minutes, checking the house for a gas leak and then checking them both into a psych ward. She wouldn’t believe Ilya.

It occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t be believing Ilya - that maybe Ilya’s slipped into some kind of exhaustion based delirium, and that this is the last mad hallucination of a dying mind. But then, the look in Ilya’s eyes was something… it was something Shane knew he couldn’t fake, something he knew Ilya wasn’t imagining. He was looking into the eyes of a man who’d lost everything, and who’d given everything to get it back. He looked into Ilya’s eyes and saw the weight of his sadness, and the weight of the last year. 

So for all that it’s logically, insane, Shane believes it to be the truth. 

And so he has to fix this.

Which means he can’t let himself think too much about what not fixing it might actually mean. About the fact that Ilya might actually die. About having to spend the rest of his life without him.

When Ilya wakes, he reaches out a hand and places it on Shane’s thigh beside him, an instinct, to touch. “Mhmm,” he murmurs. Shane sinks down in the bed, rests his head on the pillow beside his. Ilya smiles when his eyes catch sight of Shane’s face. “Good morning,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

Shane’s hand trembles as he reaches out to touch Ilya. “It’s 1am,” he whispers. 

Ilya nods. “It is morning.” He smiles. Shane’s heart breaks.

”Ilya,” he says, quietly. Moves himself forward until they’re pressed chest to chest. “Baby. Did you think I’d be okay? With you dying?”

Ilya shakes his head, and closes his eyes for a second. Shane can tell he won’t like the answer that’s coming. “Not right away,” he says, eventually. “But with time…”

Shane shakes his head, and leans in, foreheads touching. “No, Ilya. Not ‘with time’. I would never be okay. I would never be okay with my husband fucking dying.”

”You have so many friends, and family…”

”So do you,” Shane insists, fingers still firm on Ilya’s face. “You have so many people who love you.”

Ilya pauses a moment. Covers Shane’s hand with his own. “Shane,” he says, voice low, and voice serious. “It was me, or it was you and me. This way, I die, but I die knowing you are okay. That you are alive.”

Shane props himself up on an elbow. It’s not something that surprises him, but that doesn’t stop the feeling of agony that jolts through him. “Please don’t talk like that. Please. Ilya, you must know how that makes me feel.”

Ilya, using the little strength he has, lifts himself up so that he’s a mirror to Shane. Leaning on his elbow. Eyes heavy. Soul heavy. Soul hurting. “I never want to upset you, moyà lyubov. But I do not regret my decision. It has been worth every second of pain, knowing that you are still here.”

Shane falls onto him, then, rolling them so that Ilya’s on his back, his arms wrapping as tightly as he’s able around him. He buries his face into Ilya’s neck. “I’m going to stop him. I’m not going to let him take you. He’ll have to take me too.”

Ilya squeezes harder. ”No, Shane. Don’t make this all for nothing. You have to live for the both of us. You have to keep me alive by living.”

And Shane knows that the sentiment is sweet. But he also thinks: fuck that.

-

Shane talks Ilya through all that he’s found out while he’s been asleep, talks about the various pieces of lore, and the few posts he’s seen that could potentially be linked back to someone who isn’t delusional or psychotic. Ilya’s not really paying attention, Shane doesn’t think. He’s exhausted, desperate to sleep but unable to, eyes half-lidded and dopey. Shane longs to wrap him in their blankets, press him into the bed, run his fingers through his hair until he drifts off. It’s painful knowing that he can’t.

”Baby,” he murmurs, fingertips running across Ilya’s forehead. “Can you hear me?”

Ilya nods, and presses a kiss to Shane’s wrist. “Yes. You should sleep.”

Shane shakes his head. “We have to figure this out, Ilya.”

Ilya tugs at his hip. Tries to pull him down under the covers. “We have whole of tomorrow. You should sleep.”

”Ilya,” Shane protests, resisting the temptation to burrow down beside his husband.

”I can do research,” Ilya says. “While you sleep. If it would help you sleep.”

Shane swallows, looks down at Ilya’s beseeching eyes. “If it… Ilya if it doesn’t work….” Shane catches his breath. “I don’t want to waste any time with you.” His voice is quiet. 

Ilya doesn’t say anything for a couple of moments, eyes searching Shane’s face. “Okay,” he says, eventually. “Then lay down with me, please.”

It’s still not quite what Shane wants - he wants to solve this as soon as possible - but if there’s even a remote chance that Ilya has less than a day left with him, Shane’s not really in a place to deny him. He sets his laptop to one side, nestles down under the bedding, and burrows in close to Ilya. 

Ilya’s arms come up around him, heavy and grounding, and Shane tries to pretend he’s not crying as, against his will, he falls asleep.

-

The sun wakes Shane slowly, and it takes a moment for him to remember where he is - to remember what’s happening with Ilya, and when he does, he jerks to sitting. He looks down to where a pale, drawn Ilya is watching him with amusement in his eyes, and Shane swallows.

”Fuck, Ilya, what time is it?” He starts to get out of bed, and then turns back, kisses Ilya on the forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Ilya smiles sleepily. “I am okay. It’s about 11, I think.”

Shane practically falls to the floor. “Ilya!” he shouts, grabbing for his laptop. “Shit! That’s only seven hours, we have to come up with a plan.” He starts tapping away furiously, brings up tabs he’d saved for later, grabs for the notebook that’s ended up on the carpet.

”Shane,” Ilya sighs. “There is nothing we can do.” 

Shane shakes his head. “I’m not giving up on you.”

”Is not giving up,” Ilya insists, sitting himself up and winding himself around Shane. “Is just… accepting.”

”Nope,” Shane says, immediately. “You didn’t accept my dying. I’m not accepting yours.”

Ilya sighs. “I did, Shane. If the man had not found me, I would have-“

”I don’t want to think about that,” Shane interrupts him. He swallows. Turns to look at him. “Let me fight for you.” 

He’s speaking quietly, lips close to Ilya’s. He leans in, and kisses him. 

It seems to do the trick. Ilya sighs. And then Ilya nods.

-

Shane finds the number of some self-proclaimed witch who lives in Missouri, and he calls her as soon as he’s cleared the sleep from his eyes, one hand clasped in Ilya’s.

The first thing he tells her is that money is no object, that he has the ability to pay her whatever she could ask, if only she’s able to help him.

Ilya snorts beside him, and Shane glares at him, for a moment, before softening his gaze and squeezing his hand gently.

The witch, Sofie, Shane thinks, is quiet for a moment, before she says, “Okay, Sir. Tell me what you need help with.”

He rambles through the story, the last year, Ilya’s slow decline, and his desperation to save his husband. He starts off trying not to say names, but he feels like he slips, as he gets more upset, towards the end. Ilya reaches up and wipes away a tear from his face, and Shane knows the effort of it must be draining him. 

Sofie is quiet again, when Shane stops to breathe. Eventually, she says, “When is he coming?”

Shane swallows. “6pm. So in about 6 hours.”

”Hmm.”

A few moments pass. 

Sofie speaks again. “Give me twenty minutes. I need to make a few calls.”

”Thank you,” Shane says, and sighs sharply when he puts the phone down. “She’s going to call me back,” he murmurs to Ilya, sliding down in the bed and pressing himself up to Ilya’s side.

He feels like they should talk, but there’s something so peaceful about the silence of how they’re holding onto each other that feels precious in its own way. He wraps Ilya in his arms, and presses quiet kisses to his head while they wait.

When the phone rings, fifteen minutes later, Shane’s almost loath to reach for it. But it could bring salvation.

”Hi Shane,” Sofie says, and Shane really doesn’t remember giving his name. But Sofie’s clearly a good witch, so he’s not surprised she’s found it out. “I have some information for you. Do you have an email I can send it to?” 

-

Long story short, Sofie doesn’t know. She has ideas, and pages of information that Shane tries his best to make sense of, but one thing she’s clear about is the fact that her experience of demonic deals is purely theoretical - she’s never actually helped anyone (or even heard of anyone) who’s experienced it for real. But she’s studied the literature, and she thinks, ultimately, that the best Shane can do is go in willing to negotiate. That he might need to make some big sacrifices. That he needs to think about what he’s willing to give up, about how far he’s willing to go. Are there any lines he’s not willing to cross?

Shane doesn’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t give up for Ilya. If he felt like Ilya wouldn’t immediately turn around and kill himself afterwards, he’d absolutely offer his own life up as sacrifice. But then Sofie talks about killing other people, about starting some kind of demonic religion, about routine animal sacrifice. “I’ve never met a demon, you have to understand. And a lot of the writing comes from a long time ago. But if your husband signed a contract, then this is what he might want in return for breaking that contract.”

Shane thinks about that now, laying with Ilya, just being together until they no longer can.

When he relays what Sofie had said to Ilya, it’s not met with approval. Ilya doesn’t want Shane to make any sacrifices for him, looks like he’s about to throw up when the idea of murder is mentioned.

”I would rather be dead, Shane,” he says, face stern. “If you have to change who you are, if you have to become monster, then is all for nothing.” He nuzzles into Shane’s cheek. “The man I love does not hurt others,” he murmurs.

Shane breathes in. “I can’t imagine myself hurting anyone else. I don’t want to. But it scares me, how much I would do to keep you alive.”

Ilya hums into his chest. “I will divorce you if you have to hurt anyone.”

Shane huffs out a laugh. “No you won’t.”

Ilya sighs. “No, but please. Please promise me you won’t make deal like that. I did this to save you, not to hurt you.”

Shane closes his eyes. “I know you don’t mean that how it sounds. But you dying will kill me. You know that, right? I might not die, but it will kill me.”

When Shane opens his eyes again, Ilya is looking intensely at him. He looks like he’s about to say something, but Shane presses on.

”I won’t find anyone else. I won’t fall in love again. You’re the love of my life and you have been since I was eighteen. Losing you would kill me. I’d keep living, but it would. Okay?”

They watch each other. Quietly. Ilya nods. “Okay.”

-

Twenty minutes before he’s supposed to arrive, Shane rubs his hands over Ilya’s arms, and says, “What did the contract say, exactly? I can’t believe I didn’t ask earlier.”

Ilya’s face scrunches in confusion. “What?”

”The contract you signed - your life for mine. Was there like, any fine print or something? Might be useful to know.”

”No, Shane, was man on side of road. There was no contract.”

Shane freezes. “What?”

”You think I bring pen with me when I go on suicidal drive?”

”I assume he would have a pen.” He lifts himself to sitting up, eyes fixed on where Ilya’s still resting on the pillow. “I have to call Sofie,” he says, quietly, scrambling for his phone.

She picks up immediately. 

“There was no contract,” he blurts out, no preamble. “Ilya didn’t sign anything. It was all verbal.”

Sofie doesn’t say anything for a moment. When she does, Shane thinks he can hear the smile in her voice. “Okay. You can use that.”

-

Shane supports Ilya as they walk to the living room just before 6pm. Something about being in the bedroom for this didn’t really feel right.

Shane feels defiant, as he lowers Ilya onto the couch. He’s ready to fight.

They sit together, holding hands, and at one minute to, Ilya says, quietly, “Shane, if it does not work-“

”It will,” Shane interrupts, an instinct.

Ilya nods. “I know. But if it does not. Please know that I am so glad to have had you in my life. You made everything worthwhile. And I do not regret decision. I have never once regretted any part of us, and I am grateful to have got to spend one more year with you.”

Shane doesn’t realise he’s crying until Ilya’s kissing his tears away. Shane kisses his lips, gently. Whispers, “I love you,” and hears Ilya whisper it back.

Then there’s a cracking sound.

They both look up, and there’s a man in their living room. 

He’s exactly as Ilya described, in that he’s impossible to describe - human, but not quite. Menacing. Looming. Dressed all in black. 

Shane stands. Speaks before their guest can. “You can’t take him. He’s not dying tonight.”

The man narrows his eyes. “Oh, really?”

Shane nods. “There’s no contract. He didn’t sign anything. You have no right.”

And the man smirks. Shane clenches his fists. “Do you think I need a contract?” He’s stepping forward, moving closer to Shane. Shane will not be intimidated.

”I think you’re full of shit.”

He crosses his arms. Looks Shane up and down. Smirks some more. “I can see why he wanted you back so badly.” He turns to Ilya. “He’s feisty, isn’t he?”

”Don’t talk to him,” Shane snaps, bringing the man’s attention back towards him. He takes a breath. “Please,” he says, voice dropping low. “You’ve taken a year of his life already. You’ve taken so much. Please just let him live.”

The man takes a step back and drops into an arm chair, and Shane winces at the sight of it. They’ll have to dump that, after. ”See that doesn’t feel like a fair trade, does it? One life for one year? It’s not easy bringing someone back to life.”

Shane swallows. “Then what do you want?”

The man shrugs. “What are you willing to give?”

Shane shakes his head. “No, but there was no contract, so-“

”Kid. We’re negotiating, right now. Put something on the table or I’ll take your husband.”

Shane nods. “We have money. Lots of money. You can have all of it.”

He shrugs. “Money’s easy. I don’t need money.”

”Then I don’t know -“

”A life for a life.”

”I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

The man hums. Ilya’s hand reaches up from where he’s sitting and holds onto Shane’s, in a silent show of support.

”That wouldn’t work anyway,” the man says. “If it’s not willingly given, then I can’t take it.” He pauses. “I wouldn’t want it, anyway. Less satisfying.”

Shane shudders. Squeezes Ilya’s hand. Thinks of the only thing he has to offer - the only thing he’s ever had to offer the world. 

Ten years ago this would have felt like a much bigger thing to say. He thinks, however, that if they were still in this situation - Ilya’s life on the line even as Shane’s fuckbuddy - it’s still the decision he would have made.

It just feels easier now.

He takes a breath.

“You can take hockey from me,” he says.

That stops the man, for a moment, as Shane hears Ilya gasp. The man smiles. “Oh, please do go on.”

”Hockey has been my life since I was born. It’s all I know how to do, it’s all I’m good at. Besides Ilya, and my parents, it’s the only thing that’s ever given my life meaning. So,” he swallows, even as he can hear Ilya’s breath quickening beside him, “Take it from me. You got a year of Ilya’s life and the core of my life. It’s not-“ he shakes his head. “It’s not an exact trade. I know. But there was no contract so - so this is what I’m offering. Let Ilya sleep, give him back his strength, and take away hockey from me.”

”Shane,” Ilya’s voice is quiet. 

Shane powers on. “I won’t watch it, I won’t talk about it. I won’t do the Hockey school, I won’t - please.” He finishes with tears running down his face. This has to work.

The man is obviously thinking about it, though, which is something. There’s a glimmer of something like hope in Shane’s chest. Maybe he’s considering. 

He smiles. He stands.

”It’s good, but it’s not quite fun enough.” He lopes over to Shane, and stands almost chest to chest with him. “How does this sound? Everything goes back to normal. Your husband will recover, and can play hockey again. You can play together. But at some point in the future, and you will never know when it’s coming, you’ll get an injury that will mean you can never play, ever again. And he,” the man points to Ilya, “will be the one to cause it. Accidentally, of course. He won’t know what’s happening either.”

Shane thinks for a second. “Will the injury kill me?”

”No,” the reply comes. “I’m a bit bored of you dying, to be honest. This has all been more trouble than it’s worth. But, after that point, you have to completely step away from the hockey world. No more watching, no more playing for fun. Nada.”

Shane’s nodding before he can even process what he’s hearing. “Fine, deal.”

”Shane,” Ilya says, insistent. “You can’t do that.”

Shane ignores him. “So I won’t know when-“

”You’ll spend however long it takes wondering when the last time you’ll skate will be. It could be next week, it could be in twenty years. Ah, the anxiety you’ll feel every game will be exquisite! And after that, no more of what you love. How fantastic. Pleasure doing business with you, Shane Hollander.”

And with another crack, he disappears.

Shane drops to the couch. Turns to Ilya, who’s looking at him with awe. 

He bursts into tears, and drops his head into Ilya’s lap, feels his fingers run through his hair as comfort. “Moyà lyubov,” he’s murmuring, kissing across Shane’s temple. 

“You’re still here,” Shane whispers into his thigh, fingers clutching onto it. “We’re both still here.”

-

Shane calls Sofie, and offers to transfer her $250,000 dollars. She refuses, and asks only that she can, anonymously, document what’s happened to them for her blog. 

-

They don’t talk about it until the morning.

First, they go straight to bed, and cling onto each other, and see if Ilya’s capable of actually sleeping.

When they both wake up 15 hours later, Ilya’s eyes are brighter than they have been in months. “Ah, fuck I have missed sleeping,” he says, yawning himself upright. 

Shane’s delighted. The demon’s actually done good on his deal. They’ve actually gotten away with it. 

Shane makes Ilya a breakfast that he now, somehow, has an appetite for, a full plate of greasy eggs and bacon, and he delights in watching his husband demolish it in minutes. After they finish eating, Ilya says, “You did not have to do that, you know.”

”It’s you over hockey, Ilya. Any day. You know this.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t like that it will be me that hurts you.”

”Ilya, I don’t care.” He reaches his hand out and holds onto Ilya’s. “It’s the sort of thing that could happen anytime anyway. Every hockey player knows they could take a hit that could end their career. All this is is just - Ilya, honestly, I’ve given up nothing. This is nothing.”

They’re still for a moment, eyes locked on each other, before, as if by unspoken agreement, they’re standing and enveloping each other in their arms. They hug tightly, so tightly it almost hurts, and Shane’s so happy that Ilya’s strong enough to hold onto him with such force.

And as they stand, holding each other, swaying together, tears wetting each others’ shoulders and the future uncertain, Shane thinks that maybe he was wrong. This isn’t nothing. 

This is everything.

Chapter End Notes

It’s done! I hope you enjoyed. Am I 100% happy with this? No. Will I ever be? No. So here it is anyway.

As usual, kudos and comments are always immensely appreciated.