Chapter 1: Terminal

Chapter Text

Shane’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. 

Once, twice, three times. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzzt. It’s not a very polite little sound either. It’s rattle is noisy, emboldened by the hollow wood it sits upon. Still, the first round of buzzing was easy to ignore, considering how deep Rozanov’s cock is pressing inside him. 

Rozanov fucks forward in these careful, rocking stutters that open Shane up inch by agonizing inch. It’s almost painful, but it’s not, it never is. Shane chokes out hitched groans into his pillow, sounds that are encouraged by Ilya’s palms squeezing on his ribs and leaving his breath with nowhere else to go. Rozanov presses his weight down on Shane, oppressive, as if to keep him in place while he gives him a good fucking. Like Shane would ever try to get away from this. Fuck, it’s all he ever thinks about-

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzzt.

A call. Someone’s really trying to call him.

Shane would normally ignore it, especially now. He can call whoever it is back in like, ten minutes. But there’s something that gnaws at the back of his mind, something overthought and paranoid. It’s enough to tear away the drunken haze of lust that he’s gone utterly stupid with. The gears in his head start to turn; the news, earlier. It was... Concerning. 

But by the time Shane is really thinking about it, it’s already sort of too late to do anything useful with the thought. 

Early that morning, the news had been on in the background while he unpacked his suitcase and half-listened to the weather. A red banner scrolled along the bottom of the screen:  UNCONFIRMED CASES, TRAVEL ADVISORIES, EXPECT DELAYS. The anchors kept using careful language; monitoring the situation, Out of an abundance of caution.

It's the kind of thing that usually meant nothing until it meant everything. 

His phone had been worse. Tweets threading themselves into both hysteria and jokes. Someone posted a grainy video of horrific traffic stalled north of NYC, and someone else swore their cousin’s roommate worked at a hospital and had seen things. There were lists of symptoms to watch for, numbers to call, instructions to report anything unusual. Fever. Confusion. Aggression. Shane had skimmed just enough, but his mind was already firmly on the rink. Nothing lingered for long in his head in the hours before a match. 

Hayden had said something in the locker room, about being surprised they were playing today. And, huh, maybe there were less people in the stands than usual, especially for Montreal V Boston. 

It buzzes again, a third set of vibrations. The memories replay with a clarity that makes his stomach twist. The way the anchors’ smiles had been too tight. The way delays kept getting upgraded to closures. 

“My phone—” Shane grunts, vowels rounded and drawn-out as Rozanov drags his stupidly perfect cock against Shane’s prostate. “Rozanov, fuck, my phone, hold on—”

Shane twists just enough to press a hand to Rozanov’s chest, landing with a solid thud, then he strains to reach his phone. In the same second his fingers glance at its case, it’s snatched away. Shane flits his gaze back to the corners of his eyes to see Rozanov’s sweat-drenched, beautiful face. He’s wearing a look that Shane knows well; it’s smug, coy, and makes Shane so automatically frustrated that it must be on instinct at this point. Rozanov dangles his phone just out of reach, pinching its corner between his thumb and forefinger, smudging up the camera lens. 

“You want this?” Rozanov coos, and Shane nods, slack-jawed. He can’t do much more, not with the man’s cock buried so deep in him, pacifying him. Worst of all, Rozanov seems very aware of that fact. How stupid and easy he makes Shane. 

“Please,” Begging comes easy when he’s on his belly. 

Rozanov puckers his kiss-swollen lips, as if considering it. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he chucks it across the room. “Oops.” 

Shane does not see where it goes, but considering it’s impact is only a soft thud as opposed to a loud bang, he can only assume it lands on the small couch at the corner of the room. Shane scowls as best he can when he feels just so compliant. “I really need to che—EhCK!” 

Shane’s words are swallowed up by a humiliatingly loud yelp as Rozanov pulls back and thrusts in, hard, for the first time tonight. His cock presses so deep it almost feels like it undoes the knot of dread in Shane’s belly, his balls slapping against Shane’s perineum. It makes his face burn so hot with both embarrassment and arousal.

Before Shane can even think of arguing more, Rozanov grips the back of Shane’s neck and shoves him hard back against the mattress. Shane, submissive as usual when he’s like this, goes easily. Willingly.

“Focus, on, me.” Rozanov snarls, thrusting with each word to compliment his demand, to fuck the fight right out of Shane’s head. “You take what I give you.”

“Fuck-!” It’s muffled in the pillow. Rozanov releases his grip on his neck so that Shane doesn’t suffocate, or maybe it’s just so Rozanov can hear him cry for him a little better. “Yes- fuck, okay.” 

Then Shane is dragged onto Rozanov’s cock mercilessly. Even, hard pumps of his length inside him, filling him up in a way nothing else ever could. It’s wet, messy, lube coating Shane’s trembling thighs and his neck red and spit-slick. It’s filthy. It’s fucking fantastic. The pace is fast, forcing deep, staccato moans out of Shane’s chest. Shane’s aching cock rubs against the bedding just right, grinding between his belly and the mattress. He’s sticky, cock drooling with each pointed thrust. 

“Is it Rose Landry? Is that who is calling you?” 

Fuck, Shane can’t even think hard enough to wrap his head around that question, Rozanov’s cock leaves him no room to think. “Whuh-hah, maybe?” Shane doesn’t know who it was who had been calling, all he knew was someone called him three times in a row on a day that had a lot of unsettling news. 

“You’re thinking of her?” Rozanov snarls. Ohh.

“N-no!” Shane whimpers. “Fuck, Rozanov.”

Rozanov’s hands find his hips. “You will go home-“ Rozanov huffs, leaning over Shane, “-With ache in your hips. With bites on your neck. Maybe it will hurt to sit on the plane for so long...” Rozanov laughs breathlessly, and Shane can’t think hard enough to find the joke in his words, “You will be thinking of me, yes?” 

“Yes,” Shane replies, gagging for more, “Always. Always— oh, always thinking of you.” 

“And why is that?”

Shane knows what Ilya wants him to say. His heart skips a handful of beats and he curses again, weakly, eyes squeezing shut as he murmurs out the words that just feel oh, so humiliating. But they’re true, and maybe nothing has even been more honest; “M’yourboy...”  It croaks out of him, so shy, so fast, lost in a sea of panted moans.

“Louder, Hollander.”

“Fuck! I’m your fuuucking boy!”  The words are raw, desperate, uncontrollable, clenched between his molars. His vision blurs, white-hot pleasure crashing through him as his cock jerks against his stomach, leaking more precum onto the mattress.

“Yes,” Rozanov pants, “My boy.” The words spur Rozanov on hard enough to drive into Shane’s wanting, desperate body with a force that makes the bed creak beneath them. His hips snap forward harder, deeper, as if he could bury himself even further inside. 

Their cries grow louder, shifting into complete, blissful nonsense. Shane can tell, despite how fucked-out his mind is, that Rozanov is getting close. His voice is spilling out in low, rough groans, and his thrusts are becoming borderline frantic. Shane’s hips jerk back instinctively as if to take more, the movement forcing Rozanov just that little bit deeper. The stretch is overwhelming, every nerve in his body on fire, but he can’t stop himself. He doesn’t want to.

“Say my name,” Ilya pants. 

Shane ceases thinking altogether, and the only thing remaining on his mind is Ilya. Ilya was pressing into him, Ilya was filling him up, Ilya splitting him in two. It was just all; “Ilya! Ohh, Ilya!” 

Shane’s back arches sharply off the bed as his release hit him hard. His cock jerks, untouched, spilling hot over his stomach as his entire body trembles beneath Ilya’s weight. Every muscle in him tenses and releases in perfect rhythm with the throbbing pleasure that overtakes him, leaving him gasping and clawing at the bedsheets beneath him, drooling onto his pillow.

Ilya is not far behind. Seconds later, a growl rumbles in his chest as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills, hot, into Shane. His hands keep their steady grip on Shane’s hips, holding him steady as the aftershocks ripple through both of them, leaving them panting and boneless.

For a long moment, the room is quiet, save for the sound of their heavy breathing. Ilya’s thumb caresses Shane’s hipbone, such a sweet touch. A harsh juxtaposition between Ilya’s cock, still throbbing, buried inside him. 

Shane floats there. His afterglow shines so brightly that not a thought passes through his mind that isn’t centered around Ilya. His big hands, his thick arms, his handsome moles, his perfect cock, his sweet kissing. Ilya presses his lips to the notches in Shane’s spine, and then the bed creaks as he slumps forward, atop Shane. He smushes him into the mattress, but Shane doesn’t mind at all.

Ilya nuzzles up to Shane’s sweaty neck, the damp hair on his nape. “Shane.” He rumbles, all baritone and tired. 

Shane closes his eyes, stupid with happiness, unguarded in a way that would embarrass him if he were thinking at all. Everything is fine, because Ilya’s here, and he’s murmuring his name and nuzzling into him like they’re lovers. The memory of his buzzing phone, of the news, of everything, it’s all easily discarded in favor of basking in this moment. Ilya may be the only person who’s ever turned Shane’s mind off so thoroughly.

Things have been different, even if just a little, since Shane came out to Ilya. If not for the discussion of his feelings, then certainly for Ilya’s. It hasn’t been that long since then, not at all. So it’s all fresh in Shane’s mind, the croak in Ilya’s voice, the desperation he clung to him with; how Shane wished he could make it all go away for him, how he wanted to protect him from all of it and, fuck, he still does.

That night also solidified that Ilya is clingy. Shane’s reminded of that fact now, as Ilya groans, content, squeezing his arms around Shane’s middle. There is a fine layer of sweaty film between their bodies, but Shane doesn’t mind. Not at all. 

Outside the window, the city keeps moving. Sirens wail somewhere far off, distant enough to blend into normal city stuff. If Shane hears them, he doesn’t register them as anything more than background noise. The room smells like clean sheets and sweat and sex.

They lay like that for a while. Forever, maybe, or maybe only seconds. Ilya pulls out at some point, shushing Shane so gently while he eases his cock out of him. The sensation makes both of them moan, then laugh. Ilya has such a nice laugh. Shane wishes he heard it more. It’s honest right now, in a way it normally isn’t. Sweet and open and just for Shane.

“Shower?” Ilya offers curiously.

Shane thinks about it, still laying face-down, drooling all over the hotel pillow. He shakes his head after a long moment of practically no consideration. “Too tired.” He slurs. 

Ilya pats his ass. “Hold on.” 

Soon, Shane is being scrubbed down with a warm cloth. Despite his exhaustion, Shane still notes the way Rozanov is gentle with his spent cock and sore hole. 

“So messy, Hollander.” Ilya teases him while he drags the cloth along Shane’s taint. Instead of pissing Shane off, it makes him feel fond. Ilya cleaning him up is pacifying him real good. “Only I make you like this.”

“Mhm,” Shane hums, laying on his back now, breath having slowed, “Only you.” 

There’s a hesitancy in the air, a pregnant pause. Maybe that was too much. Shane looks down at Ilya where he kneels between his legs and finds him conflicted. It’s a sort of look Shane’s seen hundreds of times by now, and one he often wears himself. “Sorry.” Shane murmurs. 

“Don’t,” Ilya sighs in reply, and presses a reassuring kiss to Shane’s kneecap. “Is ok.” It’s a good way to keep both of them happy in the moment, while not discussing things any deeper. Talking more tends to complicate things, and neither of them are very good at it. So Shane is very thankful for Ilya’s willingness to move on.  

Shane hums, a smile glancing across his features. His gaze rolls up to the ceiling, content, even as the washcloth Ilya’s using to wipe them down starts to get cold. Shane drifts like that for a while, floating in and out. A small, distant part of him still realizes this is all temporary, but it’s okay. 

When the cleaning is done, Ilya throws the duvet over Shane. In turn, Shane rolls onto his side, tangling his bare legs up in the blanket to get comfortable.

Ilya stalks around the bed, moving out of Shane’s line of sight, his feet thumping across the hotel room. Shane doesn’t know what he’s doing, maybe getting his things? It’s expected, but Shane still isn’t happy about it. That this night will be another almost that had piled up between them while they pretended this was nothing special.

The bed creaks. Ilya sits on the edge of it, suddenly, his elbows braced on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched. It’s like he’s weighing something he doesn’t usually let himself hesitate over.

“Traffic is really bad outside.” Ilya sounds kind of miserable, maybe as usual, Shane supposes. His words are left hanging, implication filling up the silence.  Streetlight bleeds through the drawn curtains, tracing over Ilya’s shoulders just enough to illuminate his moles. Shane wants to kiss them.

“Are you asking to stay?” Shane guesses softly. 

“No,” Ilya murmurs, “I want you to ask me.” 

Shane props himself up on an elbow. Ilya looks back at him,  just over his shoulder. His expression is pulled thin at the edges, something sad and conflicted flickering behind his eyes. It’s the look he gets when he’s already decided something and hates it. He hardens his jaw, tries to look less vulnerable but it’s maybe too late for that. Shane still doesn’t know this version of Ilya very well.  He wants to. 

Shane doesn’t answer right away. He sits up fully, sheets sliding down his waist, and reaches out. He hugs Ilya from behind, belly pressing to the small of his back as he nudges his nose beneath the hinge of Ilya’s jaw. Shane swears he hears Ilya’s breath stutter, but it’s hard to tell. “Stay,” Shane whispers, breath tracing over the column of Ilya’s throat. He can smell the last of Ilya’s cologne, traces of it still holding on. It makes Shane a little lightheaded , in the good way. “Don’t get stuck in traffic. Stay the night.”

Ilya hesitates for half a second, just long enough to prove how much the words cost him, before Shane tugs him back. It’s clumsy, his limbs still all jelly, but it works.  Ilya lets Shane drag him, balance tipping easily, until he’s back on the bed and Shane’s arm is around his middle. Shane organizes Ilya right where he wants him, like a doll.

Shane shifts, pulling him closer, burying his face against Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya goes very still. Then his breath leaves him in a slow, careful exhale, like something unclenched deep in his chest. He turns just enough to wrap an arm around Shane, holding him close in a way that feels far too loving. Or maybe it’s just loving enough. Shane doesn’t know anymore. 

They’re quiet. It’s all a bad idea. Shane’s sure Ilya is thinking the same exact thing. But it doesn’t matter too much, not right now anyway. They slot together like two perfect puzzle pieces, made to fit together… God, Ilya really did fuck him stupid. 

Contentment spreads through Shane, so easily. He lets himself believe that all their time apart hasn’t changed this. Shane has to go home tomorrow, but whatever they are can survive the distance. That tonight, at least, they’re together again.

Ilya’s nose bumps against Shane’s forehead. Shane leans into it, the two of them clumsy but earnest in their affection, and he presses his lips beneath Ilya’s chin in a gentle kiss. It’s something he probably shouldn’t be doing. Regardless, Ilya doesn’t seem to mind if his big, contented sigh has anything to say about it. 

Shane presses up close to him, seeking warmth, safety, someone solid to sleep against.  The howl of another siren outside goes unnoticed as he presses his ear to the steady rise of Ilya’s chest, close enough that the world narrows to just the sound. At first his heart thrums a little fast, but the rhythm begins to loosen, stretching out its spaces. Ilya’s body grows heavier underneath him, his breathing draws long. Shane strokes over his collarbone with his thumb.

He wants to believe everything is okay, and Ilya does that for him. His are the only arms that have ever held Shane quite so steady. 

Shane falls asleep, believing this is what the world feels like when everything is fine. Fine enough, at least.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Light filters through the thin gap in the curtains. It’s a pale gray, one that says early but not urgent.

Shane wakes slowly. His body feels heavy and warm, sunk deep into the mattress, the good kind of tired set behind his eyes. For a few slow seconds, he doesn’t move at all beyond the swell of his ribs as he breathes. He’s not curled up with Ilya like he was last night; he’s on the opposite side of the bed now, staring bleary out into his hotel room. 

The warmth at his back isn’t his own. Ilya’s here, his brain supplies, automatic. The thought brings a slow, contented exhale. Their only line of contact now is through their feet; having perhaps sought each other out , somehow, in their sleep. Shane lets himself linger there, suspended between sleep and waking, letting the comfort of it all sink in. He can bask in this without shame.

After a moment, he rolls onto his other side.

Ilya is facing him, sound asleep. Morning light spills over him, highlighting the stubble on his jaw and painting little halos in his curls.  

The space between them is small but intentional, like they both drifted apart in their sleep without really wanting to. Shane studies him quietly, chest aching. He watches him for longer than he should, just because he can, takes in the familiar details like he’s afraid they might disappear if he doesn’t memorize them all right now. Shane imagines this is what waking up next to Ilya, every morning, could be like. It feels so possible, so close… But still, not quite.

Shane feels the pull of it, strong and aching. Another almost. He wants to reach out; to press his forehead to Ilya’s shoulder, to trace his jaw with his thumb. A kiss would be easy. Natural. Shane’s certain Ilya wouldn’t wake, or wouldn’t mind if he did.

Shane doesn’t do any of that.

He keeps still, hands curled uselessly against his own chest, wanting without taking. Content, for just this moment, to be here. To have woken up beside Ilya at all. He likes knowing Ilya is safe, he wishes he could keep the man in bed with him forever. 

Then noise finally starts to bleed into the front of Shane’s mind. It’s really only nagging for the first few seconds , making Shane long for the quiet of Ottawa. That annoyance shifts into something far more pressing. 

At first it’s distant enough to fold into the background, like part of the city’s usual noise. A long, rising wail. Then another. And another. Shane’s brow furrows. He listens more carefully, breath slowing down as he focuses in, waking up further. Shane knows Boston and other big cities well enough to know what a normal siren peeling through the streets sounds like. This isn’t it.

Shane’s gaze drifts from Ilya to the window, light flickering faintly against the curtains, red and blue bleeding through the gray. The sirens swell again, louder this time, echoing off buildings, piling over each other. One sounds different from the usual wail of an emergency vehicle, it’s almost like the tornado sirens that Shane’s heard before in movies.

A prickle of unease crawls up his spine.

Shane rolls out of bed, still careful to not disturb Ilya. Warmth clings to him even as his feet hit the hardwood floor, a thin line of cold cutting through it. His pulse picks up, thumping louder in his chest with each step he takes to the window. He nudges the curtains open just enough to peek his head through; very aware of both how naked he is, and how throwing it open would likely blind Ilya. 

It’s not normal. Outside isn’t normal. 

From all the way up here, they all sort of look like little ants. Blurry little dots that weave over each other, crawling and scrambling.

Boston isn’t  frantic, not yet anyway, but it’s tense, coiled. Police cars choke the intersections below, lights washing the buildings in red and blue. They box in the traffic that inches through improvised lanes, officers waving cars forward. Farther down the street, military trucks idle nose to tail, and men stand around with the biggest guns Shane’s ever seen. A helicopter beats the air somewhere overhead. 

Shane thinks of yesterday. Of everything that happened yesterday. Of everything he ignored; and, fuck, he wants to keep ignoring it. To crawl back into a warm bed, to put his head on Ilya’s chest and play with Ilya’s hair and sleep until he’s got to leave for his afternoon flight back to Montreal. And when he wakes up, things will be normal.

His phone. 

The thought lands like a punch. Shane turns away from the window, shutting it with a swift flick of his hand, and goes about searching the room for his phone. Ilya threw it last night. He doesn’t know where. Shane scans the floor in a hurry until his eyes land on the tan couch at the corner of the room. His phone isn’t there at first glance, but after throwing one of the decorative pillows to the side, he finds it. The pillow must’ve fallen over it, after Ilya chucked it. Smothering out all it’s frantic buzzing and cries for attention.

The screen lights up immediately, too bright in the dim room.

Missed calls. So many.

Texts stack on top of each other as he scrolls, dread climbing with every name. Team staff. Hayden. Rose Landry. Nationwide alerts. His mother, father- three times, then five, then ten.

Hayden (9:30 p.m.) did you get the text??  were evacuating, leaving early

Hayden (10:23 p.m.) Please pleaseanswer. I need to get back home, I dont know where yur at and th plane is leaving. Its the last one to montreal im so sorry i cant wait any more

Hayden (10:25 p.m.) shane???

[ EMERGENCY ALERT ] At approximately 9:42 PM Eastern Time, federal authorities confirmed a rapidly developing public safety emergency involving widespread, violent, and unexplained behavior consistent with an infectious outbreak.

Mom (10:26 p.m.) Shane answer your phone

Rose (10:26 p.m.) I heard boston got hit rlly hard, are u ok? 😟😟😟

[ EMERGENCY ALERT ]  Reports indicate affected individuals may appear confused, aggressive, disoriented, or unresponsive to pain, and may attempt to approach others without warning. 

Dad (10:27 p.m.) Call your mother back she’s worried sick

Mom (10:29 p.m.) you need to get home

Mom (10:31 p.m.) Shane please call us 

[ EMERGENCY ALERT ]   Due to a rapidly escalating public safety emergency, mandatory evacuations are now in effect for designated areas in and around Boston, Massachusetts. Federal and state authorities are coordinating evacuation corridors and emergency transport.

Shane can see it now, his phone buzzing last night, muffled beneath the pillow while Rozanov fucked him stupid. Oh god. Oh god, his mom probably thinks he’s dead. The plane left early. Evacuated.

“Oh. Fuck,” he breathes, the word shaking out of him. Something really bad happened last night.

 Shane’s gaze slowly, so slowly, is pulled to Ilya. He’s still, somehow, fast asleep. His back is to Shane now, his chest rising slow and steady. Curling up in bed with him and forgetting about all of this is no longer an option.

Shane is frozen, panic booming in his chest. He grips his phone so hard his knuckles go white and the case creaks, staring holes into the back of Ilya’s perfect head. A big part of him just wants to let Ilya sleep. 

Shane takes one step, then another, and another towards the bed.  “Ilya,” He croaks, “Ilya...” Shane puts a hand on his shoulder, shakes him hard, panic bleeding through the motion. “Rozanov.” 

Rozanov groans, his features pinching up, a frown pulling at his lips. He pouts, swatting at Shane’s hand, before peeling his eyes open just enough to look up at him. Hazel eyes peek out behind his dark blonde lashes, hesitant and grumpy. However, he seems to quickly register the look of sheer horror on Shane’s face.

“What?” Rozanov murmurs, voice deep and accent thick with sleep. Shane struggles to respond. “You miss plane?” 

Shane shakes his head. He flounders, opening his mouth a couple times but nothing comes out. What’s the matter with him? “Spit it out, Hollander.” 

“There’s something going on,” Shane responds, because he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, but it sure is something. “Outside.” 

Ilya blinks at him, groggy, hair falling into his eyes. Shane’s hands grab his shoulders, urging him upright, and together they move to the window. Rozanov drags his feet, whining in complaint, something about Shane worrying too much. All of Rozanov’s murmurings go silent as soon as Shane throws back the curtain and reveals what he’s talking about.

Ilya wakes up. Faster than Shane has ever seen him lock in before, even during a game. His eyes go really wide, red and blue lights reflecting in them. His pupils flick around to get it all in, mouth pressed in a tight line. The longer Shane looks at Rozanov’s reaction, the sicker he feels. 

“..Maybe parade?” Ilya says.

“No! God, Rozanov.” Shane barks, too loud. He can’t tell if he’s joking, but either way, he doesn’t care. “Hayden texted me, they left early last night. Evacuated. That’s why my phone was, fucking, lighting up.” Shane pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, slamming the curtain shut with his other hand because he can’t bear to look at the swirling, overwhelming mess outside for any longer than a few seconds. The sound of the sirens does not give him the mercy of total escape. “My parents must’ve called a thousand times, I, Shit. I got some alerts about the city evacuating-” Shane feels it pressing in. If he hadn’t ignored his phone, they wouldn't be in this situation. Stuck. “God, you should’ve let me answer my phone! We’re so stupid!” 

Shane goes quiet. Rozanov stays quiet. They stare at eachother . Shane can’t read Rozanov at all, but he certainly looks unhappy. 

“I need to call my brother,” Is Rozanov’s reply. He almost sounds like a machine, acting on hardwired instinct. He turns, striding across the room to start picking through his messy pile of discarded clothes that are still sitting on the floor, right where he tossed them haphazardly last night. 

Shane turns away too. For some reason, the floor feels unstable beneath his feet, but he knows it’s all in his head. He steps back from the window, sitting at the edge of the bed and thumbing over one of his mom’s thousand missed calls in order to return it. He sits, curled around his phone like a lifeline, leg bouncing so fast as the heat of the device starts bleeding into his ear. 

His phone only rings once. “Shane? Oh God.” 

“Hi mom.” 

Shane thinks back to his first sleepover. He was only a block from home, but to him, it felt like days apart. He was so scared, so little, the house was so dark and strange and unwelcoming. At two in the morning, he padded downstairs to the phone, crying quietly while tracing a palm over the walls so he wouldn’t fall. It felt like a maze, like a trap, like it would never end until he finally ran into the landline. He curled it’s cord around his chubby fingers while calling his mom, sobbing quietly into the receiver, begging for her to pick him up.

She was there in five minutes. 

Shane can hear the tremble in her voice now. How she’s trying not to sob. “Where were you?” She croons, the croak in her voice softened by her care. Shane’s eyes well up with tears inexplicitly. He wants to be home.

“I-” He chokes up, and then takes a breath to steady himself. He distantly hears Rozanov muttering something, angrily, in Russian. It seems like he’s talking to himself, and not another person on the line. Shane focuses in again. “I was tired from the game, put my phone on silent. I’m sorry, I should’ve... I didn’t know.” He laughs, the sound hoarse, “I still don’t really know.”

“Okay. Take a breath, Shane.” Yuna takes her own advice too, sighing on the other end. “Where are you now?”  Shane leans into the phone further, like if he presses hard enough, he’ll be able to feel her.

“Boston. My hotel. I woke up and, uh, everything’s a mess outside. Police everywhere.” He explains best he can, unsure how else to put it. “I think the rest of my team left, I have some texts from Hayden, uh.” Shane feels sick. It feels more real talking to his mom. “What’s going on? Do you know?” 

She laughs, the sound is jarringly similar to Shane’s weak attempt from earlier. “It’s going to sound crazy,” She says. Shane thinks it must be crazy, it would have to be to warrant what’s going on outside. “It’s a disease, I think. Making people crazy.” 

A public safety emergency involving widespread, violent, and unexplained behavior consistent with an infectious outbreak.  Fever. Confusion. Aggression.

“Like zombies?” Shane really feels like a little kid now.

Yuna laughs. It sounds bitter again, twisted. “Yes.” She answers, “Sort of like that.” 

“Oh.” Shane doesn’t know what to do with that information. It’s fucking crazy. Even crazier than he was expecting. He swallows hard, trying to stomach it all. 

“Shane, I need you to listen to me,” She says, as if Shane hasn’t been glued to her each and every word, as if Shane’s done anything in his life but listen to her. But, he can hear the urgency threading through her words, so he keeps silent and continues doing just that because listening to her is the easiest thing he knows. “Things are fine in Canada. For now. No reports of sickness, not official ones, anyway. The news says the border is tight, really tight. They’re testing people coming in, keeping things safe here.” Shane nods as if she can see her. “It’s safe here.” She repeats. “I need you to get home.” 

Home. He wants to be home. He wishes he was just down the block, that she could pick him up in five minutes. Shane wraps an arm around himself, giving himself a hug, self-soothing. “Okay.” He croaks out, “I’ll come home.” 

“Do you know if you can fly?” She asks. Shane shakes his head before remembering he needs to say words. It feels far harder than it should.

“I don’t know,” He replies after a minute, “I’ll check. Hayden said their flight left early. I, I don’t know if that means that...” Shane’s choking on his own words, unsure how to string them together coherently while they’re all mashing together in his mind.

His mom seems to know what he means. “It’s okay, Shane.” Shane doesn’t believe her words but he clings to them regardless. “You should try. Check. If it’s safe.” 

“I’ll try.” 

“Are you alone?” 

A question has never been harder to answer. He’s been staring, blank, at the closed curtain in front of him, and the chaos that lies just beyond it. His gaze finally tears away, flitting to Rozanov. He does so just in time to watch the blur of his phone crash into the ground with a sharp thud, the sound harsh in the quiet room. Rozanov’s hands are shaking, running through his curls, tugging at them as if he can physically pull the panic out of his head. He’s hissing something in Russian that Shane can only assume to be a series of curses, based on his tone. 

“...No.” Shane hums, voice small. “A friend. I’m with a friend.” 

 “Here’s what I want you to do,” Yuna’s voice is gentler now. There’s still a tremble to it, but it’s hard to hear through the tinny grain of distance.  She’s trying to keep it together, for Shane’s sake, and he knows it. She must feel helpless. The one time she doesn’t go to his game, and this happens.  “You’re going to go to the airport with your friend, if you can.” Her words are easy to follow, they help cut through the thousands of possibilities and plans rifling through Shane’s head. She knows him well enough to tell he’s already overthinking everything. “If the airport doesn’t work out, the border isn’t too far. Only a few hours. Can you get a car?”

“My friend has one,” Shane murmurs, “I don’t know if...” 

“You don’t have to know, not yet.” Yuna reassures, stopping his thoughts in their tracks. Shane sighs. “Just focus on the airport. One step at a time, right?”  Just focus on the airport. Rozanov is pacing the room. 

“I’ll get there.” Shane says, “I’ll be alright, I .. Yea. Okay.” He smacks his lips noisily. The phone is hot on his ear, he wants to hug his mom. 

“Keep me updated,” Yuna says, and Shane nods again. He opens his mouth to agree, a sound just barely squeaking out of him, but - “And don’t wait,” she interrupts, firm. “Don’t wait for anyone. Don’t stay for anything. Just get yourself home. Do you understand?” The line starts to warp, her voice crackles with an upset that shakes Shane to his core. He’s never heard his mom so scared before, so sad. “I need you home.”

“Yea. Yea.” Shane’s voice cracks down it’s middle. “I love you. I’ll talk soon.” It’s too few words, but there really isn’t enough. 

A sob, distorted and distant, rattles through Shane’s speaker. Maybe she pulled away from the phone, perhaps in an attempt to not allow the noise to pass through to Shane’s end. But it does, and it makes Shane’s heart race. “I love you too.” She’s trying to hide the way her voice whimpers, but it doesn’t work so well. “You’ll be okay.” Seems like she’s trying to comfort both of them.

“Uhuh.” Shane agrees, “I will be.” The line goes quiet for a moment, and Shane just holds the phone, heart hammering, staring at the floor. He doesn’t want to hang up. “Bye, mom.” The words hardly make it out of his throat.

Silence. His phone beeps softly twice in his ear, signalling the call has ended. 

She didn’t say bye. Maybe she couldn’t bear it. Tears sting Shane’s eyes and he tries to keep them in, tries to swallow the knot in his throat, tries to pull it together so he can get back home. 

He thinks of his mom, picking him up from his sleepover again. They didn’t even make it past the front steps of the house before Shane threw himself at her, burying his face into her tummy. She knelt down to hug him, petting at his hair. He tries to think of that instead of the fear. His light at the end of the tunnel.

And then there’s Rozanov. 

Shane can’t blame him for where they are now. He can’t, as much as he wants to. It’s both of their faults. Years of stupid decisions got them here. Rozanov is paying for it just as much as Shane is, if the heat in his eyes is anything to go off of. It tells Shane all he needs to know; he’s terrified. And furious. And desperate. 

In some cruel twist of fate, he and Rozanov will always be together. And no one can reach them, especially now. 

Fabric ruffles in a hurry as Rozanov throws on his tanktop, and then hazel eyes lock onto Shane’s, intense, catching him staring. “Alexei won’t answer the fucking phone.” He explains in a growl, heat boiling around in his words but never quite spilling over. 

“Your brother?”

“Yes.” 

“Maybe the lines are down?” Shane has no idea how calling someone in Russia could possibly work. He takes a shot in the dark.

“No.” Rozanov’s mouth is pulled into a tight frown. It’s something he’s accepted, but still isn’t happy about. “It’s ringing.” 

Shane doesn’t know what to say. He gets off the bed, hands still shaking. He hopes Rozanov doesn’t notice. “We need to get out of here,” He says, stating what was perhaps obvious. The chaos swells louder in the streets below, that loud, tornado-sounding siren howling intensely enough to shake the windows at it’s crux. “We should go to Logan. Get back home.” 

The last place Shane wants Rozanov is back in Russia. Especially after their last conversation. Shane can still feel how hot Ilya’s tears were on him, how his breath stuttered and heaved his chest as he cried silently against him. But, maybe it’s a selfish thought. Rozanov seems to be itching to get back there in a way Shane can’t understand, but it’s not about him. He nods once in confirmation. 

They don’t talk much after that.

Packing happens fast and clumsy, all sharp movements and quiet efficiency. Shane shoves his folded clothes into his bag, zips it halfway, then jams more in. Ilya just paces, not having much to take with him beyond his wallet and phone, his head down, jaw set, knuckles tense. The room feels smaller with every passing second, like it’s closing in around them.

Neither of them turn on the TV, nor do they look outside again. Whatever they’d see there wouldn’t help.

The bed they woke up in is left rumpled and warm, a quiet thing Shane can’t look back at despite still feeling it pulling at him.

The hallway outside is eerily still.

The carpet muffles their footsteps as they move toward the stairs instead of the elevators, an unspoken agreement. The lights hum overhead, and doors are shut tight on either side, little islands of privacy that feel suddenly fragile. Somewhere down one of the branching hallways a voice rises. It’s high, panicked. Another answers it, sharp and frightened. Something crashes.

Shane’s steps falter.

He turns his head just enough to register the sound of fear spilling out from behind a closed door. His chest tightens, instincts pulling in opposite directions. But Rozanov is already moving, already starting down the stairs.

“Not problem for us,” Rozanov says.

Don’t stay for anything. Just get yourself home.

Shane forces himself to keep going.

Their footsteps echo as they descend the stairwell, the sound hollow and too loud. Still, neither of them speak, since there’s really nothing to say that wouldn’t make it worse. Rozanov’s expression is intense. Shane thinks of them racing up the stairs together, Rozanov shoving at his chest playfully, grinning with his perfect, fake white teeth. There’s none of that, now. Shane has a twisting feeling in his gut that things won’t be the same after this, but he tries to ignore it.

The parking garage is dim and cool, lit by flickering fluorescents. Their footsteps blend with the distant hum of engines and the muffled chaos bleeding down from the street above. Shane follows after Rozanov in long strides, the man really picking up the pace. His Porsche sits among a few other vehicles crowded towards the back of the garage, mercifully untouched.

When he unlocks it, the click might be the only relieving sound that Shane’s heard all morning.

Shane tosses his bag into the back without ceremony, his stick clattering. He throws open the passenger door, but something makes him pause. He glances back toward the stairwell, hair standing on end, half-expecting something to come charging out of the shadows. Nothing does.

“Hollander,” Rozanov insists, “Come on.” 

Shane climbs in, shuts the door. The sound feels final. Ilya is already in the drivers seat, hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly, eyes forward.

 Somehow, even now, Shane thinks about them, their relationship, the secret of it.

“What if someone sees us?” Shane murmurs. 

Rozanov kisses his teeth noisily. He seems just as perturbed by the thought of being seen together. It makes Shane’s stomach sink a little more, how terrified they are of themselves. So much so that it momentarily surpasses their fear of whatever awaits them outside the parking garage. 

“It’s... Just for emergency.” Rozanov murmurs, “That’s all.” 

“That’s all.” Shane confirms. His eyes focus forward.

Rozanov pulls out of the garage and into the street, and Boston swallows them whole.

The city is moving, but not freely. Traffic crawls along in tight, herded lines, lanes narrowed by cruisers and barricades. Shane now feels like one of thousands of little, helpless ants, spiralling for survival with nowhere else to go. Police stand at nearly every intersection, arms raised, whistles cutting through the air as they wave cars forward in short, controlled bursts. Rozanov’s car crawls forward, marching.

Shane sits in the passenger seat with his hands braced against his thighs, eyes flicking everywhere at once. It’s too much. The noise, the movement, the honking and yelling and men with big, huge guns. He keeps thinking he’s missing something important, some signal everyone else understands.

“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. He’s really glad he isn’t driving.

Rozanov doesn’t respond. His focus is absolute, both hands firm on the wheel, shoulders wound up. A real city driver. Shane figures Rozanov must be used to something close to this, he’s seen how bad Boston traffic can get. Never this bad, but close.

Shane keeps his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary, other than the obvious police presence. He searches for fever, confusion, aggression. He finds a lot of things; people standing on sidewalks with bags at their feet, arguing with police, filming, crying. Someone pounds on the side of a bus that isn’t moving. Anyone could be sick, Shane thinks. Confusion and aggression is too vague, he doesn’t know what to look for. Anyone can be confused and aggressive, in fact, Shane’s feeling pretty confused and aggressive right now.

Traffic grinds to a near standstill.

Shane’s leg bounces despite his best efforts to still it. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, breathing shallowly, trying not to freak the absolute fuck out in Ilya Rozanov’s stupid sports car. Shane’s played in front of packed arenas, he tries to think about those moments but nothing helps. Nothing compares to this. 

There is no decisive information on Logan’s status on his phone. Everything is conflicting, different sources saying completely contradictory things. He texts Hayden, Rose. Tells them he’s alright. That he’s with someone, that he’s making his way home. That he’ll keep them updated. 

When Shane finally looks up from his phone, he realizes they’re being funneled towards one of those Boston tunnels. Normally he’s completely unbothered by them, but right now, his stomach drops.

His foot presses to the floor as if he’s trying to slam on the brakes. The entrance yawns ahead of them, concrete mouth eating up car after car. Lights glow along the walls, a red swarm reflected in the damp pavement. And they roll on inside, crawling with all the other cars.

The sound changes immediately, echoing against a ceiling that is too low. It’s dark, bumper to bumper, boxed in on all sides, nowhere to pull off, nowhere to go. If anything happened...

“Hollander,” Rozanov’s voice sounds like it’s underwater, distant in the veil of Shane’s panic, “Don’t freak out.”

“I’m going to throw up,” Shane responds. 

“Do not throw up,” Rozanov takes his eyes off the road to look at Shane, wide-eyed. “Hollander, do not throw up in my car.” 

“I hate this,” Shane says quietly, fingers digging into the seat. He’s freaking out. Exactly what he was trying not to do earlier. There’s water above them. Tons of it. The thought lodges in his chest, ugly and insistent.

A warm hand settles on his thigh. Rozanov’s fingers are wound tight where they grip him, but his warmth bleeds though Shane’s sweatpants and gives him something real and tangible to hold onto. Shane can’t look at Rozanov, and his eyes stay locked on the road ahead of them, so intensely that the tail lights of all the cars they’re behind start to warp and blur. 

“I will get us through.” Rozanov reassures. His voice is tight still but it fits okay against Shane’s panic. “Many people come this way. And I am good driver.”

 Shane swallows. He nods. Thousands of people do use these tunnels, and there’s probably bumper to bumper traffic here every day. He can’t vouch if Rozanov is a good driver, though. This is the first time they’ve ever been in a car together, how ironic. He’ll take his word for it. Rozanov is an asshole but he doesn’t lie, not often, anyway.

Shane nods, hesitant. He takes a big breath in through his nose, out through his mouth. Tries to walk himself through all the breathing exercises his different yoga instructors parroted to him over the years. 

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” Rozanov asks as they sit in the dark tunnel, his Porsche humming as it waits to inch forward another few centimeters. 

Shane’s unsure if Rozanov is asking so he can give Shane’s mind something to do other than freak out about the situation at hand, or, if he’s asking just because he’s curious. Shane realizes he really neglected to tell Rozanov anything that he heard over the phone. He’s even more in the dark than Shane is, probably.

“Uh,” Shane starts, “My mom said people are sick, and aggressive, I guess.” Rozanov’s hand on his thigh keeps him from bouncing that leg. He bounces the other one, desperate to burn off his anxiety and funnel it out of his head somehow. 

“Like zombie,” Rozanov says. “You said that, on the phone.” Shane glances at him out of the corner of his eye, searching him for traces of sarcasm. Rozanov’s eyes are forward, one hand on the wheel, watching the bumper of the car in front of them and nothing else. He seems okay. He carries stress in his brow, but it’s a normal amount. Probably an appropriate for the situation at hand. “Russian word is the same.”

“Oh.” Shane says. “Yea. My mom said it’s sort of like that.” It's such an insane, ridiculous thing, that Shane cracks a smile. It’s not a happy one. “She said Canada is safe. They’re checking the people coming in to see if they’re sick or not before letting them in.” 

“And America is fucked?”

“She didn’t say that.” Shane sinks in his seat a little. “But, maybe. I guess.” He exhales. “I don’t know.”

They must spend an hour in the tunnel. Rozanov keeps his hand on Shane’s thigh. Traffic inches forward, exhaust hanging heavy in the stale air. Shane counts his breaths, jaw clenched, willing the light at the far end to come sooner. When it finally appears, a pale circle, relief hits him so hard his body sags with it. Rozanov grips his shoulder and gives him a little shake. “See?” He says, “Is okay. You worry too much, Hollander.”

Shane nods, a short, jerky movement. His chest still feels tight, like it hasn’t gotten the message yet. He laughs, breathlessly, at himself.

The slight relief doesn’t last long.

They spill out of the tunnel and the traffic doesn’t let up, as expected, and break lights continue to flare in frantic red waves under a cloudy sky. Shane scrolls his eyes up ahead, at overhead signs for Logan, arrows pointing toward an exit ramp that should be open—

—and isn’t.

Concrete barriers block it completely. Two military trucks sit crosswise at the mouth of the ramp, engines idling, soldiers standing in front of them with rifles slung low. A police cruiser waves cars past, forcing the line to continue straight.

“Guess we are not going to airport.” Rozanov sighs, strained.

A murmur of panic ripples through the traffic around them as other drivers realize the same thing. Horns start up. Someone rolls their window down and shouts at an officer, voice breaking. Another car tries to nose toward the blocked ramp and is immediately surrounded by police and forced to reverse. Shane leans back in Rozanov’s cold, leather seat while Rozanov barks another swear that Shane doesn’t understand, pounding his hands once against the wheel .

This is bad, Shane thinks, and then things of course get considerably worse. 

A deep, mechanical roar cuts through all the noise at once. A massive, American military vehicle veers sideways across lanes, tires screaming, a big, black blur. It slams into another truck with enough force to rattle the highway, and Shane feels it up into his throat. Explosive.

Metal shrieks. One truck jackknifes, plowing into a line of civilian cars. Glass sprays. A sedan is shoved sideways, bumper crushed, spinning until it smashes into the barrier. Doors fly open. People bail out, abandoning vehicles in the road, running in every direction with bags clutched to their chests. Horns blare nonstop now, completely useless, much like the officer who starts to shout commands nearby. It all descends into movement that Shane is too numb to feel , too busy bracing for a collision that just misses them. It instead slams into the line of cars directly in front of them. Vehicles roll, smoking, metal crumpling inches away from the nose of Rozanov’s car.

Shane jerks back as Rozanov slams his Porsche in reverse, only to impact the car behind them hard enough for Shane to feel it in his teeth, for the seatbelt to bite into his neck. Metal grinds loud and too close, and they’re both swearing and shouting over each other now, breathless and panicking and Shane can’t even tell if Rozanov is speaking English or not but it doesn’t fucking matter. 

The road is open enough. Rozanov floors it. 

 The engine snarls in protest as they lurch forward, tires squealing. Shane’s stomach drops as the car fishtails, then straightens, shooting through the gap; jerking the car around a SUV that’s been flipped upside on it’s head— What happened? What’s happening? Shane realizes he’s reached out, gripping onto Rozanov’s chest with one hand for dear life, the other smearing against the window. 

They weave through wreckage and abandoned cars, slipping between a crushed sedan and a stalled bus with inches to spare. Smoke blurs the road. People shout and scatter, scrambling out of the way as Ilya barrels through, eyes locked ahead.

Shane thinks he yells something at Rozanov, something about not hitting anybody. In his panic, he’s unsure if the words make it out of his head. It doesn’t matter, because one of the concrete barriers blocking the Logan exit has been shoved aside. It’s been knocked crooked by the earlier collision, leaving a narrow, jagged opening where there shouldn’t be one. 

“There,” Shane says, hope flaring sharp and reckless in his chest. “Rozanov, there-!”

“I see it.”

Ilya doesn’t slow. He guns it, cutting across lanes, horn blaring as another car swerves to avoid them. The ramp opens up in front of them, eerily clear compared to the chaos behind. No cars, no people, nothing. Just the sky, open and free.

For one wild second, Shane believes it. Believes the airport might still be running. That planes might still be taking off. That this could be their way out. 

Then- Gunfire. Shane’s never heard so much of it before. 

Shots crack behind them; sharp, unmistakable. Not warning shots but real ones, rapid fire, echoing over each other. Shane twists in his seat, heart slamming, and out the shattered rear window he sees soldiers scrambling, weapons raised, someone yelling over the din. He doesn’t know where they’re shooting. He just knows that they are.

“Ilya!” he shouts.

“I know!” Rozanov snaps, pushing the car harder.

The sound fades as they crest the exit, chaos dropping away behind them in a slow wash. They’re on the Logan access road now, speeding toward the airport, the pavement ahead empty and ominously quiet. The only sound is the scream of Rozanov’s engine, and both of their crowded, huffed breathing. A chemical smell starts to pour in through the vents. 

“Oh my god,” Shane eventually wheezes, something sort of like relief flooding through him. His hand slips off Rozanov’s chest, having been frozen there for some time. 

“Okay?” Rozanov checks in, all breath.

“Yea.” Shane nods, whipping the cold sweat off his face with a stroke of his palm. “You?”

“I am great.” Rozanov’s knuckles are nearly as white as his teeth where they grip the wheel. Gunfire peppers distantly, hardly more than a whisper now, and Rozanov does not let his foot off the gas. They fly over the empty, twisting ramps until Shane’s eye catches the famously vibrant red of Logan’s roof. Only then do they slow down, just marginally.

“What did I tell you?” Rozanov says, “Good driver.”

Terminal buildings sit low and gray against the sky, glass fronts reflecting a dull morning light. Cars are scattered through the drop-off lanes and parking areas, some are neatly parked, while others left at odd angles like their drivers got out and never came back.

Planes are still here.

Shane spots them through the windshield. Rows of aircrafts lined up on the tarmac, motionless. There isn’t a ground crew, which is worrying. Still, despite this further evidence, Shane holds stubbornly onto hope, because the alternative is too much to consider.

“Maybe they just paused,” Shane says, almost to himself. “Maybe they’re… Processing things.”

Rozanov doesn’t answer, his jaw clenched too tightly to do so. He swings the car sharply into a lot, tires squealing as he cuts across empty lanes and skids to a stop right at the curb by one of the terminal doors. The engine idles, loud in the sudden quiet.

They sit there for a second, breathing hard. The silence is wrong. So, so wrong. Shane’s spent a good percentage of his life at airports, and even without that experience he’s pretty sure anyone would be able to tell something was the matter. No announcements, no rolling luggage, no crowds spilling out of doors. Just the distant hum of electricity and the faint echo of something clattering somewhere inside.

“You want to try?” Rozanov says, looking at Shane.  His jaw is tight, eyes searching. There’s fear there, and calculation, and something like resignation.  Shane studies the dramatic curve of his cupid's bow, damp with sweat. 

Shane nods. His hands are steadying now, nerves sharpening into focus.

 “Okay. Then we try.”

While Shane grabs his duffle bag and hauls it over his shoulder, Rozanov looks over the damage the rear of his beloved Porsche received. Shane figures he’d be far more upset about it if not for the situation at hand, as the fact they got out at all is probably enough to pacify him, and the damage really doesn’t seem all too bad. The car still runs fine, and it seems the tail lights are still connected enough to flash. Shane bumps Rozanov’s shoulder with his own as he passes, nudging him to follow.

 The automatic doors open for them, so easy. Shane has a bad feeling writhing around in his gut, like, it was so insane to get here, and it feels so wrong that the doors just... Open. But he presses on anyway, because what else is he supposed to do? Just focus on the airport. One step at a time.

The doors slide shut behind them with a pneumatic hiss, sealing out the daylight.

The vastness of terminal B stretches out in front of them. What initially greets them is not the typical bustle of an airport, but instead rows of dark and abandoned check-in counters, screens frozen mid-update, their blue glow reflected in polished floors. 

The lights are still on. But luggage is everywhere.

Suitcases sit in loose clusters like they were dropped and forgotten, some upright, some toppled, tags still fluttering. A child’s backpack lies on its side, one strap twisted. Shane feels something in his stomach lurch at the sight. 

Shane’s footsteps echo too loudly. He lowers his voice without meaning to, whispering. “Should I call out?” He asks. 

Rozanov’s eyes scan over the empty space, every muscle tight. His gaze lands on Shane eventually, he looks nervous. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rozanov look so nervous.  “I don’t know,” He says, “I have bad feeling.”

“Yea.” Shane swallows, and nods. “Yea.”

They move together through security. TSA lanes stand open and unguarded, bins scattered mid-process, shoes tossed inside without owners. A conveyor belt still hums quietly, carrying nothing at all. Shane half-expects someone to yell at him to get his shit onto the belt and to file through the detectors. It never comes, of course. 

The terminal is long and curved, gates lining either side. Every boarding screen reads the same thing in calm, indifferent text: CANCELLED. CANCELLED. CANCELLED. Shane doesn’t bother looking for Canada, for his flight that was supposed to be in thirty minutes from now, because he knows it left without him last night. 

Shane stops walking.

That hope he’s been nursing, small and stubborn, finally gutters out. He stares down the terminal, empty to the far bend, no movement, no voices, no engines roaring outside the windows.

“So that’s it,” he says quietly. “There’s nothing here.”

Shane hears Rozanov exhale behind him. “Yes. Nothing.” 

Shane presses his lips together, trying to think, trying to pivot the way he always does. Okay. Next option. But everything feels further away now. This was their only clean way out. 

And, it was Ilya’s only way out, wasn’t it? 

Shoes scuff against tile. Somewhere, deep in this labyrinthine place. It echoes down the terminal. 

Shane pauses for a long, terrible moment, searching for the source of the sound. “...Hello?” he calls after not finding it, and he’s already regretting that. His voice echoes, and it makes him wince.

At the far end of Terminal B, someone finally steps into view.

An airline worker. At least, that’s what the uniform conveys with their wrinkled shirt, crooked tie, and a name badge that swings weakly with each step. 

Reports indicate affected individuals may appear confused, aggressive, disoriented, or unresponsive to pain.

Shane takes a step back. He bumps into Rozanov’s chest. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov rumbles, low. Shane isn’t just crazy, his nerves aren’t just shot from the carnage they just crawled out of, and he’s not just overthinking. Something is wrong. Something is wrong with that man. He’s sick. He’s....

That stupid word pops into Shane’s head again; a zombie. 

The worker’s head jerks upright. Shane sees it all at once; the slack mouth, the too-pink cast of skin, the way his eyes don’t focus on anything and the whites of them are a hot, bloody red. The man shambles, knees buckling and clicking inward. Shane still wonders if this is someone who needs help, especially as a broken, hitching noise whines out of the man’s throat, like a sob swallowed halfway through. It echoes against the high ceiling, thin and lonely and agonized. 

But it twists, presses, eliciting a sound that stretches vocal chords beyond their natural capacity, violent, animal, tearing through the terminal. The sick man lurches forward, movements snapping from slow to frantic, arms jerking as he breaks into a crooked sprint.

Shane’s breath leaves him in a rush. His stomach drops, instinct screaming wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Ilya yanks Shane backward and they spin as one, shoes slipping for half a second on the polished floor before they find traction and run. The terminal cruelly stretches endlessly long ahead of them, every step echoing, their breathing already loud and ragged in Shane’s ears. 

“What the fuck- what the fuck-!” Shane gasps, panic climbing his throat, gagging on it.

Behind them, the screech tears through the space again, followed by the slap and drag of pursuing footsteps. The sound is wet and desperate and fast, bones grinding as they move in ways they just should not. An uncontrolled, puppet of a thing. 

Shane and Rozanov sprint back the way they came, past shuttered gates and dark windows, past abandoned strollers and suitcases. Shane leaps over a toppled carry-on at the last second, nearly losing his footing.

For one disorienting heartbeat, his body does what it always does.

Muscle memory. And then the ice is under his feet.

For a heartbeat, it’s there— the rink opens up in front of him, clean and white and endless. Cold air bites at his lungs, cooling the sweat on his face as he rushes against it. 

Shane leans into the chill, weight forward, legs burning in the good way. He accelerates, body remembering exactly how to do this, how to eat distance. The boards blur, and the audience thrums along in his racing heartbeat. Go, go, go. Don’t stop.

He pulls ahead of Ilya without meaning to, the same way he always does when they race for a loose puck. He hears Ilya swear behind him, half-laugh, half-snarl, competitive even now.

 But Shane’s faster. He always has been.

The terminal opens up ahead of them, and then reality comes crashing in again. Shapes peel out from behind a row of gate counters, from a maintenance hallway Shane hadn’t clocked on the way in. Two of them. Maybe three. Uniforms, civilian clothes, one dragging a leg so badly Shane can taste his own stomach acid at the sight. The same broken sobbing, the same shambling towards them. 

It’s horrible. Shane’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush. Rozanov swears, something in Russian. 

They skid to a stop hard enough that Shane’s feet slide out from under him for half a second, his heavy, winter boots not at all meant for running. Their exit is blocked by bodies that aren’t bodies anymore. 

Behind them, that first one screeches again.

Shane spins, heart detonating in his chest. It’s somehow keeping a decent pace with two athletes, which is way too fast for something that has the body of an older man. His shambling body passes a storefront just off the concourse. The metal security shutter is half-lowered, jammed a few feet off the ground like it got stuck mid-close.

The rink snaps into place so clean it hurts. Shane’s hands tighten automatically around his stick, where it’s still strapped to his bag. Shane races back, lungs burning, strides uneven and frantic. The roar of his pulse drowns out the sound of Rozanov calling, screaming for him.

He yanks the stick free and brings it up just as the sick man lunges for him.

The crack of impact rings through the terminal, sharp and solid, vibrating up Shane’s arms. He hits it across the shoulder and head in one frantic, ugly swing. Puffy, intestine-pink skin pops and blood sprays all the way up the wooden shaft and splatters in long, brown streaks across the lettering on Shane’s sweater. It sends the sick man rolling, spine folding backwards in a way that a normal, functioning human could not possibly manage. His knees buckle in the wrong direction and then Shane is booking it for that storefront. 

He slams against the security gate like he does when he can’t slow down on the ice and batters the boards. It rattles, and Shane could so easily dip under. Don’t wait, he thinks. 

But he does. He does wait. It’s not even a question. God, how could he not wait?

Rozanov doesn’t leave him waiting for very long at all. He’s fast, just leaping out of the way of a swiping hand, barreling past Shane as he throws himself under the gate’s opening, a broad shoulder clipping the floor as he scrambles through. Shane drops next, skidding on his knees, bag scraping loudly as he ducks and slides under the shutter,  the metal edge passing inches over his back. He spins, reaching blindly— him and Rozanov’s fingers, wet with sweat, scramble over each other to grip at the bottom of the shutter. They both pull. Metal shrieks as it comes down the last few inches.

Just as weight slams against the other side, the shutter crashes shut.

The impact rattles the storefront, the noise deafening in the sudden close space. Outside, something hits into the metal again, shrieking close enough for Shane to hear the wet rattle in it’s chest.

Inside the shop, it’s pitch-dark and silent except for their breathing and whatever the hell is outside. 

Shane doesn’t remember getting onto his back, but he is now. Laying down on the cold floor, his hoodie uncomfortably damp from all the sweat he poured into it. He shakes, his lungs dragging air in sharp, burning pulls as he stares up at a ceiling he can’t see through the darkness. It could go on forever, for all Shane knows. The shop smells like dust and cardboard and old plastic, a trapped, forgotten smell.

Shane can hear Rozanov a few feet away, doing much of the same. He’s breathing so hard he starts to cough, maybe his smoker’s lungs are finally biting him in the ass.

Light leaks in through the narrow grate at the bottom of the security shutter, a thin, broken line across the floor. Through it, misshapen silhouettes shuffle past, pausing, pressing close. Fingers curl against the metal from the other side, nails scraping softly, experimentally. Maybe thinking, Shane realizes. 

A face dips down into the strip of light, mouth working soundlessly. The metal rattles once, twice, as something tests the barrier again. There’s the sound of abandoned vowels and hitching noises, as if the memory of speech is still trapped in a very, very sick brain.

In the darkness, Shane hears Ilya’s breath hitch. He exhales it in a groan, pressing it between his lips to try to smother out the sound. Some of it still makes it through, croaked and not unlike the sort of sob he had tried to choke out when he spoke about his father, who was sick, but not this kind of sick.

Or, maybe it’s close enough, Shane thinks. Maybe it’s close enough, for Ilya.

 The shadows outside drift away, the scraping fades. Footsteps recede, uneven and dragging, until the terminal beyond the shutter falls quiet again. They’re left in a terrible silence. 

Shane swallows, makes some involuntary whimpered sound, and then drags his still trembling, adrenaline-gooey body upright to paw around. The polished, concrete floor does not give him much to work with, but his eyes are slowly starting to adjust. Shane finds lots of things in this space— the blurry, grayscale outline of racks and counters and tables. He finds Ilya leaned up against one, light collecting in the curls of his hair, but he really can’t make out any further details. 

Shane crawls over. His kneecaps ache, maybe having thrown himself down too hard when he rolled beneath the security gate. Shane’s palms pat up Ilya’s body, crinkling the fabric of his jacket while he guides himself to blindly sit with him. 

“Are you okay?” Stupid question. “I mean, hurt. Are you hurt?”

Ilya doesn’t answer right away. His breathing pitches slower, as if he’s thinking about it. Checking in with himself, now that the burn of adrenaline is wearing off the both of them. “No,” He sighs, “Not hurt.” Shane exhales, long, relieved. “You?”

“Not hurt.” Shane confirms.

Rozanov’s hand comes up to press against Shane’s shoulder. It’s shaking. Not violently, but enough for Shane to feel the tremor go straight through his jacket and sweatshirt, into his bones.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzzt.

The sound, and sensation, makes Shane leap out of his skin. His brain is so fried it takes him a minute to put together the sound as his phone, and once he realizes that he hurriedly fishes it out of his pocket with clumsy, pulsing fingers.  The screen glows in the dim light; it’s mom. 

The name, her picture. It paints a small amount of light over the space, jarring and sudden enough to make Shane squint. It also makes things much harder for Shane, because all he wants is for her to pick him up. To take him home so he can sleep in his bed, and he can forget about all this in the morning. He wants his mom.

The illumination spills over Ilya too, and it’s impossible to ignore the way Ilya’s gaze rests on Shane. He’s pale, and he looks as young as Shane feels right now. Breath is coming out of him now in swift, short bursts from flared nostrils. But there’s something other than fear in his expression, and that makes Shane worry even more. 

It’s almost a sort of pleading, his pretty hazel eyes all soft at their edges. As if he’s silently asking, are you going to be okay? Will I be okay with you?

Don’t wait. 

Shane had waited.

It hadn’t been a big risk then . It was just a few seconds. But maybe next time it won’t be just a few seconds.

Ilya Rozanov can do something that no one else has ever managed to do before— he makes Shane Hollander do really, really stupid things. 

That thought settles heavy in Shane’s mind. Loving Ilya is now far more dangerous than it already was. It might even get him killed.

“You can answer,” Rozanov murmurs. “I will be quiet.”

Shane answers his phone. 

Chapter 2: Overlook

Chapter Text

The sound of his mother’s voice makes Shane cry. The first syllables that creak out his phone’s speaker are tinny and warped with distance but they’re hers, and the whimper that rips its way out of Shane’s throat is completely involuntary and horrifyingly humiliating. But he can’t stop.

“Mom,” Shane doesn’t even really know what she said to him, just that she’s here, but also so, so far away. Miles and miles and a whole border between them. Shane’s shoulders start to shake and before he knows it, he’s crying in front of Ilya Rozanov and probably scaring the shit out of his mom, all in one go. “The airport, it’s not-”

“It’s okay, honey.” She says, but Shane can hear the tremble in her own voice. Shane remembers a time where he thought her to be invincible, and part of him still clings to that. “What happened, Shane? Are you hurt? Safe?”

“No, not hurt. I’m safe, I-I think. ” Shane groans, “There’s sick people here. They, ugh.” Shane scrubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, hard enough to hurt, as if he’s trying to rub out the memory of what he saw. “It’s awful. Something’s really wrong. “ 

Something brushes at Shane’s shoulder, in the dark. He jumps again. It takes him a second to realize it’s Ilya’s hand, and he slowly, so slowly starts to rub at him. Gentle, soothing motions, maybe a little awkward. Shane sniffles, clasping his unoccupied hand over Ilya’s to show him he appreciates his attempt to soothe him... They’re both really sweaty.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Shane’s mom says it like it’s her fault, and Shane shakes his head even though she can’t see him. “It’s gonna be okay. The border isn’t far.”

“Yea.” Shane croaks, “It was just... I’m freaked out.” Shane watches Ilya’s silhouette move, using the hand on Shane’s shoulder as leverage to get up. “I don’t understand what’s happening.” Shane says while Ilya presses a quick kiss to the top of his head.

“I don’t think anyone does right now,” his mom says. 

“I’m going to try my brother,” Ilya whispers, pressing the words into his hair, muffling them. Shane nods, and Ilya paces not so far away. Shane can still see his silhouette, vague and blurry through the dark he’s partially adjusted to. 

“It was so bad.” Shane croaks, taking in a shuttered breath.  “ Me and Ily- my friend,” Shane bites the inside of his lip, hard, “We’re in the airport. We’re gonna wait here a little longer. Until it’s safer to go out, I think.” As Shane talks to his mom he feels his ribs opening up, like they’re not trying to choke him out anymore. The knot in his throat also gives him some leeway. He starts to feel just a little better. Just a little. He’s starting to grapple with it all. 

“Okay,” His mom says. “I did some looking online, Boston has evacuation shuttles to Canada—” her voice starts to grow dim in Shane’s ears. Blending into the pound of his shuttering pulse, fading briefly into the hum of electricity outside. Everything peels away, because Shane sees Ilya. His face is illuminated by his phone where he stands a few feet away, hot blue light tracing intense over his strong features. His eyes are sunken, his lips pressed together in a curled frown, and it seems whatever rage he had for his brother neglecting his phone calls has faded away into such a terrible look of hopelessness that Shane feels his throat knot up all over again. Ilya stares at his phone, empty, realizing that his calls for help are going unanswered. 

“Mom,” Shane murmurs, cutting off whatever it was she was saying, “I.. I’m gonna bring my friend with me, okay? He’s uh,” Shane feels his cheeks burn hot when Ilya shoots a wide-eyed, bewildered look at him. Now his phone is only illuminating one side of his face. Shane gulps. “He’s the one with the car. He lives in Boston and he’s got nowhere to go.” 

“Shane,” Yuna says, and Shane knows it’s just because his mom cares but the way she sounds worried over this new information is like a knife to the gut. And she doesn’t even know he’s talking about Ilya Rozanov yet. Shane can hear her trying to stomach her own unease. “Can you trust him?”

“Yes,” Shane does not hesitate, his eyes trained on Ilya. “I can’t leave him behind.” 

Ilya’s eyes fill back up with emotion, like Shane breathed some life back into him. But he’s also staring at Shane like he’s misheard, like the words haven’t settled yet, so disbelieving of it. His eyes go glassy and Shane looks away, unable to focus on anything his mom is saying while Ilya’s looking at him like that. Like he’s his light in the dark, or something.

“You bring him, then. I’m excited to meet him.” His mom says, verbally reassuring a future in which Shane makes it to Canada in one piece, but also horrifyingly confirming that she’ll be meeting Ilya Rozanov. “You’ll take his car?”

“I think,” Shane says, taking another big breath, “I’ll talk to him. We’ll figure it out. I’ll call you when we’re on the road.” He sniffles, then laughs, the sound wet and hoarse. “We holed ourselves up in a store so uh, plenty of roadtrip snacks here, I think.” Not that Shane feels like eating anything right now. 

Then there is an equally hoarse, equally shaky laugh on the other line. He’s probably driving his mom crazy with worry, she sounds like she’s been upset for a long while. He hates that he’s doing this to her, but he’s helpless to it. “I’m sorry, mom.” He says. “Don’t worry, okay? I got it.”

“Oh, it’s my job to worry,” she says, “I’m so sorry for pushing you so hard, it’s okay if you, if you’re not okay, Shane—”

“Mom,” Shane can’t have this talk right now, “It’s fine, okay?” She’s talking to him like he’s going to die, which is something he’s really trying not to manifest for himself right now, “We can talk about this when I get home.” 

Shane thinks he hears her nodding. “Okay. Yea.” 

“I’ll call when I’m on the road. Shuttle or car.” He reminds her.

“Okay. Please. Or i’ll call you.” 

“Yea,” Shane’s gaze flicks back to Ilya, who is still frozen right where Shane left him. But now his phone is in his pocket, and all Shane can see is his dark, faceless silhouette. “I love you, mom. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Love you too, Shane.” 

She hangs up without saying bye again. Her voice sounded warbled there, at the end, her composure cracking. The thought of it leaves Shane shaken, the ending of the call lingering with no resolution. He pockets his phone, turning it off, hoping to save as much battery as he can.

Then there’s silence. Nothing. Just Rozanov towering over him in the dark. His silhouette is kind of scary. Shane doesn’t know what to say, in fact, he holds his breath.

“...You are serious?” Ilya asks. It comes out of him low, almost like he’s afraid to ask, and also afraid of the answer. 

“About you coming with me?” Shane clarifies, stupidly. He sees the slight outline of Ilya’s curls bounce as he nods once in the dark. “Of course I am. I, fuck, Rozanov. I wouldn’t leave you here. I’m not an asshole.” 

Ilya is quiet again. Shane thinks back to last night, when Ilya wanted Shane to ask him to stay. 

“Will you come to my cottage, Ilya?” Shane asks. 

Ilya answers by lowering himself to his hands and knees and crossing the small space between them slowly, like he’s afraid of spooking Shane, or maybe because he’s afraid of spooking himself. When he reaches him, he folds in close, arms wrapping around Shane’s shoulders, face pressing into his neck.

The hug is tight. Desperate. Ilya’s breath stutters once against Shane’s skin. Shane pulls him in, trying to show Ilya just how badly he wants to keep him close and safe without just outright telling him, because those sorts of words are really hard— especially now. Both of them are so warm. Shane starts to sway them side to side, Ilya’s curls tickling his cheek. 

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs, “Okay.” His words puff warm and moist against Shane’s throat, “I’m coming.” 

Shane feels relief. Not a whole lot, considering what's outside, but it’s at least something.

They hold onto each other for a long while. Shane isn’t sure exactly how long, but it’s at least long enough for Shane to start sweating again due to the warmth pressed between their bodies and winter coats. Shane pets over the hair at Ilya’s nape, scrubbing his fingers through it, letting his mind roll over all the incomprehensible shit that happened today while safe in Ilya’s arms.

Shane waits until Rozanov pulls back first, which he eventually does. He painstakingly sits back on his haunches, head bowed slightly, big hands lingering on Shane’s thighs. “We will go to Canada,” Rozanov says, confirming it, “Together.”

“Yea,” Shane replies. He blindly reaches to stroke Rozanov’s cheek— he figures he’s got a good idea of where it is, but he just ends up jabbing Rozanov in the corner of his eye. “Awh, sorry.” He huffs as Rozanov grunts in complaint. He slides his hand down, stroking his fingers over the prickly beginnings of stubble. “It’s quiet, private. We can wait there until all this blows over.” 

“Okay,” Rozanov says, “We will do this. Canada is not far.” 

“My mom said there’s shuttles, so the highway must be open. We can take your car?” Shane asks, and Rozanov nods again.

“Yes. It is good on gas.” 

For some reason that makes Shane smile. 

Time in the dark passes in uneven chunks.

At some point, the panic ebbs enough that they can really move again. Their breathing evens out. The silence outside the shutter lingers, heavy but mercifully unbroken. Shane’s legs ache when he pushes himself to his feet, like he’s run miles instead of yards.

Rozanov starts to shuffle around first. He takes a cautious step, then another, and then promptly trips over a low display rack with a sharp clatter. Both of them jump, holding their breath for a few agonizingly long seconds, but nothing else answers the noise. They both end up giggling quietly, high on the fumes of adrenaline. 

Rozanov’s fingers fumble along the wall until he finds a switch. The shop lights hum to life, bathing the cramped space in harsh fluorescent white.

They both blink. It burns, for a second. Shane’s always hated this kind of lighting, it hurts his head. 

They’re in a convenience store. One that has everything you could ever want to have for a flight. Souvenirs, snacks, travel-sized everything. The register is abandoned mid-transaction, a coffee machine still warm to the touch.

“The power’s still on,” Shane says. It’s not too surprising, considering most of the lights in the main stretch of the airport were working too. 

Shane gets an idea, and it spurs him to move with quiet urgency. He digs a couple cords out of a display for electronics, cheap chargers meant for travelers who forgot theirs. Shane plugs their phones in behind the counter, relief blooming when the battery icons jump upward. Rozanov gives Shane a weary smile, and Shane returns it. They leave their phones on the floor, charging together, their glass faces touching. 

From there, it becomes a free for all.

Protein bars, trail mix, bottled water, they all end up in Shane’s duffle bag. Ilya clears out anything remotely medical— bandages, antiseptic wipes, painkillers, cold medicine— and dumps it all into a reusable shopping bag. Shane finds a couple rolled up travel blankets and decides to take those too, spending maybe a little too long considering what color he wants to take. It’s kind of fun, in a sick, twisted way. It’s stealing without the nasty possibility of getting caught. Shane feels a little devious about it all, a little naughty. Not boring. 

They find a rack of maps near the magazines. Shane spreads one out on the counter, smoothing it flat. Boston. New England. Canada. Shane matches the map up with the directions on his phone and marks his own navigation lines in bright red sharpie. “We’ll take the I-89.” Shane explains, outloud, as Rozanov watches over his shoulder. “It’s a straight shot, all the way. I’m sure there’ll be lots of other people evacuating, so it’ll probably take longer than usual, but that’s okay.” Shane looks back at Rozanov, who nods in understanding. “We’ll have this as a backup, just in case something happens to our phones.”

“Good idea,” Rozanov says, “We can take turns driving.”

Shane’s eyebrows nearly go into his hairline. “You’ll let me drive your car?”

“It is already smashed. I don’t think you can do worse.” 

Shane folds the map neatly and tucks it into his bag.

Once they’re all packed, they just sit on the cold floor of the shop with their backs against the counter, sharing what little quiet they can.

Shane peels open a packet of pumpkin seeds and forces himself to eat a few, chewing slowly, methodically. His stomach is tight, adrenaline compounding with his pre-existing food issues. But, he knows better than to skip a meal, and they’ve gone a while without eating.

Rozanov, by contrast, demolishes a bag of chips like his life depends on it. He eats fast, crunching loudly before catching himself and grimacing, then slowing down. Even then, he keeps going, hands covered in grease and salt and shaking only slightly as he reaches for another handful.

“You’re gonna get yourself sick,” Shane says, a little envious.

“Calories,” Rozanov says simply, licking over his thumb. “We need them.” 

Eventually, there’s nothing left to do but move.

Shane shoulders the bags while Rozanov grips the edge of the security gate and lifts it just enough to let a blade of light spill in. They freeze, listening.

Nothing.

Together, they ease it higher, just enough to slide under. Rozanov goes first, lowering himself flat to the floor, stomach pressing against the cold tile. He wriggles through, and it would be kind of funny if not for how horrified Shane feels right now.

“Okay,” Ilya whispers on the other side. He reaches a hand in and makes a grabbing motion. “Give me.” 

Shane pushes his swollen duffle bag under the shutters, Rozanov pulling it through. He then passes Rozanov his stick, and then himself. He slides out on his back, pushing himself with his legs.

The terminal feels so open, Shane feels so vulnerable. But the doors they came in through are just in sight; a distant, far away blur of daylight. And there is no shuffling, no sobbing, and no screeching.

They move slowly, every step careful. Shane is practically tiptoing and so is Rozanov, creeping so slow past the empty service decks and around abandoned luggage. 

And then the rubber heel of one of Rozanov’s sneakers squeals against the polished floors, and Shane takes off running. His terror finally boils over and he’s just gone, bolting and barreling through those automatic doors, heart in his throat. 

His body slams into Rozanov’s Porsche, still sitting exactly where it was left with one tire resting up on the curb. Rozanov isn’t far behind, panting. “Fuck, Hollander!” He shouts as both of them throw themselves into the car.

“Your shoe,” Shane says, panting, sweat-drenched and shaking all over again, “It scared me.”

“You scared me!” Rozanov takes two tries to get his car keys in their appropriate hole, hands shaking too terribly. “I thought something was after us!” 

“Sorry,” Shane wheezes as the engine roars to life.

“Fuck.”

They head back the way they came. It’s so quiet, for a while. Just him and Rozanov and the hum of the engine. Shane rolls down his window just so the dry, winter air can cool the sweat beating down his face for a few minutes. The wind smells like smoke.

Ilya guides the car out of Logan’s access roads and back toward the city, tires humming steadily beneath them, back the way they came. It doesn’t feel like the best idea, but by the time they get there the destruction is already being folded away. 

A crushed barricade has been dragged to the curb. Broken glass is swept into neat, glittering piles. A city bus sits idle with its doors open, a police cruiser angled protectively in front. They roll by an overturned sedan that lies on its side, windows blown out, cones all around it; and that’s when Shane sees the bodies on the ground. Someone split in two, mangled like roadkill, tire marks melting into red, shining intestines; Shane doesn’t realize what he’s seeing until it burns itself into his brain, likely forevermore. Fuck. His fingers go momentarily numb. Shane clenches his eyes shut. He feels bad for it, knowing Rozanov does not have that luxury.

“I ran over no one, yes?” Rozanov must’ve seen it too, or at least, he saw some other corpse. 

“You didn’t. You didn’t run over anyone.” God, but Shane isn’t even sure. It was all such a blur. Regardless, he tries to ease Rozanov’s mind. 

“Okay.” 

The Porsche awkwardly slots back in with traffic, soldiers directing the line of cars around the bodies getting peeled off the ground and loaded into trucks. Shane stares out the window once they make it through the initial carnage, his mind a million miles elsewhere. Neither of them speak, and occasionally Shane pays enough attention to catch Rozanov’s hazel eyes flicking from mirror to road to mirror again. He navigates easily, dependably, giving Shane’s brain some time to rest. And Shane is so terribly grateful he doesn’t have to make any decisions right now.

Eventually, the road opens up. Northbound. Out of the city. Away.

Shane exhales slowly, resting his head back against the seat. The weight of what they’ve just survived settles into him, heavy enough to weigh his eyelids down suddenly with burnt-out exhaustion.

“This is gonna take a while,” he murmurs.

Rozanov sighs. “Yes.” 

Boston recedes behind them so slowly. Thousands of cars funnel out, right alongside them, pressed in by guardrails and big military vehicles. Shane's head rests against the window, body angled away from Rozanov, all so he can watch entire worlds pass by, tucked away in their cars. A family, a brother and sister innocently watching a movie in the backseat. A car full of college-aged girls, the driver trying her best not to cry. A bearded man with his dog, it’s tongue lolled out of it’s greying muzzle, lapping up fresh air.

Shane reaches across the console blindly. He flexes his fingers once, and Ilya meets him, lacing their hands together tight. Shane strokes across Ilya’s knuckles with his thumb and closes his eyes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

By the time the sun is high, they’re on I-89.

Military vehicles sit on the shoulders of the highway at regular intervals, matte green and black and humming, soldiers standing beside and atop them with those really big rifles that make Shane uneasy. They watch over the thousands of cars all crammed onto this highway.

Shane and his arch-rival spend the entire day crossing New Hampshire. Stop, crawl, stop again.

Rozanov settles into it with a strange, jittery normalcy. He snacks constantly, tearing through chips and some nasty looking jerky. At one point he digs a CD out of his glove compartment and lets it play softly, the same few songs looping over and over until they blur into background noise. He hums along, sometimes. It’s very cute.

Shane calls his mom early on, both of them calmer now, soothed by the long highway and the certainty of the Canadian border at it’s end. Hayden and Rose text Shane back, they’re okay. The team got back to Canada just fine. And soon Shane will be there too. Shane is very fortunate that his phone’s service is still working.

He should probably trade off driving with Rozanov, but there’s nowhere convenient to pull over and swap seats. Rozanov leans forward, chin braced against the wheel, mouth slightly agape. He looks like he’s going to fall asleep. Shane doesn’t blame him.

“I am sooooo bored,” Rozanov groans.

Dusk is starting to settle in when Vermont’s welcome sign comes into view. Shane pulled one of the blankets they stole out from the back seat,  took his boots off, and curled up with it. It was more for security than warmth, because luckily Rosanov’s Porsche has a really nice heater.

The border checkpoint looks new. Temporary fencing, portable floodlights humming loudly, Military trucks parked at sharp angles in the grass. The line of cars tightens, funneling toward a handful of inspection lanes.

Soldiers move from vehicle to vehicle, faces hard to see under their helmets. Shane watches one of them lean into a car ahead, speaking to the driver, checking their trunk and shining flashlights inside. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov says gently, reaching out to nudge Shane’s shoulder— maybe because he thinks Shane is asleep. 

“Yeah,” Shane answers. He already feels it, the cold coil of dread tightening in his gut.

A sign near the checkpoint flaps in the wind, hastily printed: HEALTH SCREENING REQUIRED. REPORT SYMPTOMS IMMEDIATELY.

They roll forward another few feet. Shane still can’t tell what the soldiers are looking for, but he’s suddenly hyperaware of his own body, of Ilya’s steady breathing beside him. He feels fine. How does this disease even spread? Shane did get pretty close to that sick guy, at the airport. He still has his blood on his sweatshirt, a deep, gross brown. Could he be sick? Harboring this infection without knowing? 

Their turn comes with a sharp motion of a gloved hand.

“Pull forward. Kill the engine.”

Rozanov does it immediately. The car rolls to a stop beneath the floodlights, the hum of generators loud in Shane’s ears. A soldier steps up on either side, rifles slung but very present, eyes flicking over the car.

“Pop the trunk.”

Ilya leans over and hits the latch. It sticks. “We got into accident earlier,” Rozanov explains, “It might need a push.” 

It’s forced open while another man checks Rozanov’s license, his registration, his everything. Shane is trying not to freak out and Rozanov is real calm; he keeps his posture loose, hands visible on the wheel. It seems they’re checking over him first. Shane watches closely. 

“Open your mouth,” the soldier says.

Rozanov does. The flashlight clicks on, bright and invasive. The beam sweeps over his gums, lingers. Then his eyes—tilt your head, look left, look right. The soldier studies him for a long second, expression unreadable.

The flashlight clicks off. “Best set of teeth I've seen all day,” the soldier says, breaking his act, if only a little. Shane sighs in relief.

A sly grin splits across Rozanov’s face. “Thanks,” He says, “They are fake.” 

God, fucking... Rozanov.

“Shit, really?” The soldier chatters. Shane just wants to be done with this, and he puts his head in his hands, sighing. “You look too young for all that work.”

“I play hockey,” Rozanov says. 

Shane wants to strangle him. 

There is a pause. “You’re Ilya Rozanov,” The soldier says, grinning behind the shield of his helmet, “For Boston, right? And, and—” Oh please, God please no, “—Montreal, yea?”

The soldier leans down to look into the Porsche just a little more. Shane forces a smile on his face and nods, but his teeth are grit in a way that resembles a snarling chimpanzee more than a real sort of smile. Oh god, he’s going to get flagged for aggression, isn’t he? Shane’s sweating fucking bullets.

It registers to Shane that this is the first time they’ve been caught together, in any capacity. Well, maybe other than Scott Hunter overhearing Rozanov hissing his room number at Shane.

“We are going to Canada together,” Rozanov says, then nudges Shane’s arm with his elbow, “Hollander missed his flight. And I do not want to stay in Boston.” 

Shane for some reason also feels the need to pipe up. “Yea,” Shane swallows, unsure why he’s even talking, “Figured it would be safer to travel with someone I already knew.” Is he over explaining it? Doing too much? Maybe he is. Maybe he should keep quiet.

Either way, the soldier just nods, humming thoughtfully. He’s a younger guy, probably only a few years older than the both of them. He doesn’t look grizzled by war or anything, which is what Shane thought American soldiers might look like. Rozanov rolls down Shane’s window, and rolls up his own. Shane’s heart is pounding in his throat. He can feel Rozanov’s eyes on him, gentle, but it doesn’t soften his fear.

The soldier leans in and clicks his flashlight on Shane's face. He opens his mouth, jaw tight, trying not to think about how close the barrel of that rifle is to the window. The flashlight gleams off his teeth, then shifts upward.

The soldier pauses.

“Huh,” he says. “Your eyes are pretty bloodshot.”

“I was crying,” The admission comes easily when he’s got a gun so close to his face. He’s unsure why his eyes being bloodshot should even matter.

The soldier hums, thoughtful. “I believe it.” He says in a way that agitates Shane. What’s that supposed to mean? The soldier opens some little booklet while Shane glowers at him. He squints as he studies it, then flicks the flashlight back in Shane’s face, and then back towards the booklet. 

“What are you looking for?” Shane makes an effort to sound polite. He’s not feeling very polite, but the large gun on the soldier's back makes it easy to behave. Shane keeps staring at it, anxious.

Shane expects a non-answer, but he’s pleasantly surprised. “Red eyes,” He lists, “Bloody gums.” 

It puts Shane’s mind back in the airport, seconds before he was about to smash his stick into the face of a gnashing, crazed old man. The whites of his eyes were a vibrant blood-red, yes, Shane remembers now. That’s a sign. One that’s more tangible than confusion, or agitation. Shane did not remember the man having bloody gums, although he thinks that would be much harder to spot, anyway. 

After a silence that feels like it stretches for hours, the soldier finally slaps his book shut. “Yea, you’re good.” 

Shane tries not to look overly relieved. Of course he’s good. Why wouldn’t he be? 

The soldier moves away from Shane’s window, and rounds the nose of the Porsche to get back to Rozanov’s side—

Bang!

A gunshot cracks somewhere. 

Shane’s head snaps around before he can stop himself, desperately searching for the source. For half a second, his brain supplies a thousand awful possibilities, all of them ending badly. He’s forcibly thrown back into this morning, at the exit for Logan. The sound of screeching cards and screaming people and the pop of gunfire still feels so close by. 

But it’s just the one. No more gunshots come. The soldier seems unbothered, like it’s normal.

Ilya’s hand is on Shane’s abdomen. So warm. Shane just notices that Ilya has pressed his palm above Shane’s navel, fingers sprawled over his belly. Ilya looks focused, and his chest is puffed up like, like— like he won’t let anything happen to Shane.

Ilya would protect him, if things went wrong again. When Shane connects the dots his heart flutters in his chest. 

Both Ilya’s hand, and the look he wears, swiftly disappear before Shane gets a chance to study the depths of what it means for them. Seems like Ilya realized it was just the one gunshot too.

Shane wonders if these soldiers are killing people. The infected ones, or the ones that show signs of being infected. Shane exhales long, sinking a little into the carseat.

The soldier drapes his arm over Rozanov’s window as he leans in to speak. “Alright, you’re all set.” He says, breath puffing in the cold. He looks like he’s about to start gesturing them back on the road, but Shane still has a thousand questions bouncing around in his head. He decides to ask one.

“Wait,” Shane blurts out, “Do you know how the sickness is spreading?”

The soldier looks at him. Peers into the space between Rozanov and the wheel. “Bites.” He says. 

Shane laughs. It takes him a horrifying second to realize the soldier isn’t joking. 

He starts directing Rozanov back to the highway. The Porsche’s tires squeak over damp pavement.  “Zombies,” Rozanov turns to mouth at Shane. Shane just shakes his head in disbelief, head hitting back against the headrest. It’s all somehow at the bottom of the list of fucked up things Shane has seen or heard today.

Before Rozanov can rejoin the highway traffic, the soldier follows them a few steps forward, and the man is quick to talk more. Shane gets the impression this soldier must be very bored, or is eager to speak to a famous hockey player. Maybe both. Rozanov seems annoyed at this point. “There’s a rest stop set up about twenty minutes down the road. There’s food there, a spot to refill your gas. I suggest you go.” The soldier says, and Rozanov nods. The information gets Shane scheming; it’ll be a good place to get some sleep, and Shane can take over driving the rest of the way come morning. 

“Okay,” Rozanov says.

“And, I think I should let you know,” the soldier continues, “For now they’re only letting in Canadian citizens at the border.”

If the soldier keeps talking after that, Shane doesn’t hear his words. He’s too busy replaying this new information over and over in his head. 

They’re only letting in Canadian citizens at the border. Maybe Shane should just expect a wrench getting thrown into every goddamn thing they come up with by now, because this is divine punishment for how stupid they’ve been for years and years.

 Shane’s gaze slowly slides to Ilya. His face is glazing over with that hopeless, sunken sort of look again. His eyes go long, a million miles away, like he can see Russia from here.

There’s an opening on the highway, sizable enough to merge. “Thanks.” Rozanov cuts the soldier off, and steps on the gas. They slot themselves back in with the slow crawl of traffic. 

Rozanov’s hands stay locked on the wheel. His shoulders slope inward, like someone’s pulled the ground out from under him. The music doesn’t come back on. He doesn’t reach for food. He just drives. 

Shane can’t believe it. Can’t wrap his head around it. He sits there, perturbed, staring out into the road. “He couldn’t have been serious.” Shane says after a second, slow, disbelieving. “I mean, you have your passport, don’t you? That’ll be enough. I can’t imagine they’d close the border like that.” 

Ilya takes a while to answer. Long enough that Shane can see something scared and small flicker into his expression, before his eyebrows furrow and he sort of looks like he wants to kill somebody. “I think he was serious, Hollander.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Shane says quickly, laying down something solid between them. “Okay? This isn’t over.” Shane refuses. He refuses to give up. He’s getting Ilya to Canada, he’s getting him to his cottage, he’s getting him somewhere safe.  The wheel creaks under Ilya’s grip, and Shane realizes Ilya is using the road ahead of them as an excuse to not look at him despite the fact that they are barely moving. 

So Shane reaches out, fingers brushing against Ilya’s curls before clasping a sweat-damp palm on the back of Ilya’s neck. He’s all tense, muscles wound so tight Shane thinks he’ll probably end up giving himself a headache later. In effort to stop that from happening, Shane squeezes his fingertips into the strain to give him a little massage.  “Ilya,” Shane says, shifting in his seat. It works like a charm, Ilya’s eyes roll to him, softened by the gentle use of his first name. It’s a good trick, Shane’s gotta remember that. “We’re gonna be okay.” 

Ilya becomes all exhaustion and a careful, scared hope that he seems distrusting of. His eyes twitch back and forth across Shane’s face, searching him for something. Shane chews on his bottom lip, trying to summon some courage to say something meaningful. “I’m not gonna leave you, Ilya. Remember?” He’s a little shy about the admittance, but God, does he mean it. He never wants to leave his side again, especially now. “I told you that, and I still mean it. I don’t lie.” Well... Only sometimes. And not about big stuff like that… And, okay, he’s lied about big stuff before. But not this. Not to Ilya. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

The muscles in Ilya’s neck go pliant as Shane talks. He goes belly-up for Shane, and It’s almost too easy, Shane can’t help but smile. Ilya catches him grinning out of the corner of his eyes, and in turn he narrows them at Shane without an ounce of real heat. 

It only presses Shane’s smile in further, making the tired muscles in his face ache a little bit. Regardless, he leans over the console and uses the hand he’s already got on Ilya’s neck to hold him still so he can press a kiss to his cheek. 

“That’s my Ilya,” Shane murmurs to him, bravely,  pressing the words against his skin. He can feel the rasp of Ilya’s stubble against his lips, and fuck, if not for the seatbelt pressing into Shane’s chest, he would’ve kissed Ilya a thousand times over. He doesn’t even care about the traffic bracketing them in on all sides anymore, or about peering eyes. He’s far more afraid of Ilya believing he’ll get abandoned.

Shane sits back down, forced to by the tug of his seatbelt. When he looks back at Ilya, he finds his cheeks rosy. He’s staring at Shane out of the corner of heavy-lidded eyes, his jaw a little slack. He honestly looks drunk. “My Ilya?” Ilya repeats, really rolling the syllables on his tongue. His accent is so pretty. “That is new.” 

Shane curls back up in his seat. He slips out of his boots, resting his feet on the dashboard. He feels bashful now, and he rolls his shoulders, shrugging. “Yea.” He murmurs, “I don’t know.”

“I like that.” llya says, “I like being your Ilya.” 

Ilya reaches out. Shane takes his hand, tucking it to his chest and against the nervous thrum of his heart. “You look tired,” Shane says while playing with Ilya’s fingers, “Let’s stop soon.”

Ilya nods once, humming quietly. He lets Shane fidget with his fingers, and Shane hopes the touch is as grounding for Ilya as it is for him. Shane ignores the anxious dread swimming around in his head in favor of keeping hopeful— if not for his sake, then for Ilya’s. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Notice how the inhale is different from the exhale. You may experience the air as cool as it enters your nose and warm as you exhale. As you turn more deeply inward, begin to let go of noises around you—

A baby wails somewhere nearby. It sounds hungry, not distressed, but the sound still presses on Shane’s nerves. He takes a big inhale, counts to three, and then exhales. He rolls his shoulders back and lifts his hips to the sky until he feels a nice, long stretch in the muscles of his cramped lower back. Shane re-focuses on his breathing as he mentally narrates himself through a guided meditation he has mostly memorized. 

If you are distracted by sounds, simply notice them and then bring your intention back to your breath. Simply breathe as you breathe, not striving to change anything-

A pebble flicks into the side of his nose. His eyes pinch shut as he flinches, and he shoots a dangerous glare at Rozanov where he stands next to his parked car. In reply, Rozanov rolls another pebble in his hand, and flicks it at Shane. 

“Stop that,” Shane hisses as it bounces against his shoulder, and Rozanov just keeps talking on his phone, like Shane only exists as a fun source of mindless entertainment for him. Fuck, and maybe he is. Shane doesn’t even know. He’d really like to think otherwise, but Rozanov’s got such a hard shell, and... And he’s talking to that girl. Svetlana. 

On one hand, Shane is so happy that Rozanov managed to get in contact with someone who is back in Russia. He seemed so relieved when Svetlana picked up that he started chattering in Russian so fast that Shane didn’t think he could keep up even if he knew the language. He did note the word father being thrown around a couple times, it’s one of the few words Shane knows. He should probably learn Russian. It wouldn’t take too long, hopefully. It might even impress Ilya...

Okay, but on the other hand, Svetlana is maybe Shane’s worst enemy, and Shane’s never met her. Svetlana is probably really pretty, and Svetlana speaks Russian, and most importantly Svetlana knows Ilya. How can Shane compete? Shane’s probably just the appetizer to Svetlana’s main course. ...Gross, that’s a terrible way to put it.

Shane watches Ilya smile. It’s over something Svetlana said, based on the way Ilya turns his head further into the phone. Ugh.

Shane’s being selfish and he knows it. The world is ending, and he’s pissed off about Ilya talking to a girl he’s known for years. He has much bigger problems to worry about, and so does Rozanov. Shane gets out of his bridge pose to climb to his feet, shifting into a different organization of limbs in order to stretch out his cramped up legs. 

They reached the ‘rest zone’ an hour ago. Rozanov has been on the phone with Svetlana for almost the entire length of it, leaving Shane to his own thoughts.

The rest zone isn’t much—just a wide spill of grass flattened by tires and foot-traffic, carved out beside the highway. There are floodlights mounted on tall metal poles that throw Shane’s shadow long, tangling it into a mess of hundreds of other shadows. Military trucks are parked along the perimeter, guards posted with their big rifles slung low. 

Beyond the edge of the field, the land falls away into a steep hill, and a city that Shane does not know the name of spreads out below. Lights flicker in uneven patches; parts of it glow like nothing’s wrong at all, while other sections are completely dark. It’s small, for sure, but it has a decent sized mall that isn’t too far away. It’s basically the first thing that sticks out from the city, at least from here, and it looks to be around a twenty minute walk away; which is an unsettling thought considering all the infected people that might be down there. Shane is nervous to be so close to civilization, seeing how the airport turned out earlier.

Cars are everywhere here. Lined up in loose rows, haphazard and cramped. Some people are trying to sleep, even while kids run around in short, restless bursts before their exhausted parents can reel them back in. There’s the smell of engine heat, grass, and sweat heavy in the air. It’s almost kind of peaceful, it makes it hard to remember exactly what they’re running from. It all feels more like a big camping trip, or, a night at the drive-in theater. Shane wonders if they have drive-ins in Russia. He should bring Ilya to one. 

Nearby where Shane is stretching out his stiff legs, A woman adjusts a blanket around a little girl asleep against her chest. A group of teenagers talk, and laughter breaks out in their group, a little too loud. 

Shane keeps scanning the crowd. He’s given up on trying to meditate, it’s just too noisy. And when it’s not noisy, Rozanov is annoying him. He keeps stretching, though. 

For some reason, his eyes are drawn to a couple. A man and a woman, a normal couple. They sit close together near the edge of the field, overlooking the city, sharing a cup of something warm. The man has his arm looped easily around her shoulders, thumb rubbing slow circles like it’s muscle memory. She leans into him, head resting against his shoulder as they watch the city below. Shane tips his head too, unconsciously mimicking her. It looks so... Natural.

Shane swallows, something tight and uncomfortable forming behind his ribs. A million tender-hearted things that he shouldn’t be entertaining pop right into his head without hesitation. Shane tries to shake them off. Rozanov wouldn’t want that sort of thing, not with him. Shane doesn’t think he wants it either, anyway. All he wants is to get home. That’s all that should be on his mind.

Then Shane sees the ring on the man’s finger. It catches in the floodlights, the band twinkling.

 An idea, a horrible idea , worms it’s way deep into Shane’s head. 

Stupid. It’s so stupid. It wouldn’t work, and it’s horrifyingly embarrassing and so stupid. But it’s.. Certainly not a boring idea. Shane pushes it out of his mind and tries to focus back on his breathing.

He eventually leaves to get himself and Rozanov food. It’s being handed out by, who Shane assumes, are volunteers. He returns to Rozanov with wrapped up sandwiches, and he’s selfishly relieved to see that Rozanov is finally off the phone. He lingers, leaning on his car, nursing a cigarette in even, slow puffs. 

Shane normally would say something, but... Rozanov probably needs it.

“I got us food,” Shane says, trying to wave away the smell of smoke. 

Rozanov hums. He takes his sandwich; Shane just got whatever seemed the, well, meaty-est for him. “Thanks.” 

“Yea.” Shane awkwardly sits down in the grass. He leans his back against the front door of the Porsche. After throwing his cigarette into the grass and stomping it out, Rozanov sits too. Their knees brush, and Shane scoots another inch away. He hopes he’s subtle about it. 

Despite not having any real food for a while, Shane doesn’t feel hungry. He normally doesn’t feel hungry, truthfully. At least they had tuna. He forces himself to eat. “How’s Svetlana?” Shane also forces himself to ask.

“Mm.” Rozanov gestures with one hand, making a so-so kind of motion. “She is alright. Russia is fine. Some zombies there—”

“Don’t call them that.”

“— But is not as bad as the states.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. Shane hums, trying not to gag around his own. “She is fine. My family is fine. My father is... Fine.” 

“That’s good.” Shane says. “Fine is good.” 

“Yes. Fine is good.” Rozanov confirms. He polishes off the rest of his sandwich, basically swallowing the other half of it whole. He leans his head back far enough to rest it against the car, the curve in his neck highlighting his adams apple. He’s quiet for a second, but Shane can feel a sense of tension building in the air, smothering like the lingering smell of his cigarette smoke.

“I do not think they want me,”  Ilya finally says. 

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, not fully getting it. There are a lot of things Shane doesn’t fully get, he feels out of the loop a lot of the time. It’s why he always asks so many questions. 

“I mean,” Ilya sighs, tipping his eyes up towards the sky. It’s bruising a dark purple, the last slivers of sunlight dipping beyond the horizon. “They have always needed me,” Ilya’s eyebrows pinch, just slightly, “Never the other way around. I am dead weight now.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. He had a feeling... Ever since Ilya’s brother didn’t answer his first call, that’s when Shane knew something was the matter. He doesn’t know a lot about Ilya’s family, but he knows enough. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says, tipping his gaze back towards Shane. “I have Svetlana.” 

Shane cannot help but frown. He knows it’s the wrong reaction, he knows it’s so selfish and so ugly and jealous, but it happens. He immediately feels guilty. 

Ilya smiles, amused. Why is he smiling at that? “And I have you.” 

And him. Ohh. And him. The frown releases it’s grip from Shane’s face, and he goes all slack-jawed and pacified. He’s wrapped around Ilya’s finger so tightly that it scares him.

Ilya murmurs something in Russian to him. The words mean nothing to Shane, and he wishes they did. “Ты особенный.”

“What?” Shane asks, although he already has a feeling Rozanov isn’t going to tell him, “You know I don’t—”

“Yes, that is the point.” Ilya hums, having cheered up relatively quickly. Or, maybe he’s already accepted things how they are. Maybe he even accepted it after that first missed call. “I like leaving you guessing. Look so cute when you’re thinking.”

Shane hisses out a shushing sound. “Keep it down,” He says, not wanting anyone to notice Ilya Rozanov calling Shane Hollander cute. Although, everyone seems pretty preoccupied with their own shit right now. “You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re jealous of Svetlana.”

Shane turns beet red, he’s sure of it. He can feel his face flash so hot he feels thirsty. And Ilya, the bastard, is just smirking at him, eyebrows raised. All Shane can do for a few, terribly embarrassing seconds is sit there with his mouth hanging open, trying to think of something to say in return that doesn’t make him sound like a total, selfish asshole. 

“I’m not,” Shane lies, “I’m not jealous.” 

“Ohh, but you were so grumpy when I was on the phone.”

“Because you were throwing shit at me!” 

Ilya laughs. It’s not a big laugh by any means, moreso breath than anything, but it’s still such a nice sound. The floodlights catch his face just right, softening the sharper edges of his grin and painting his curls in such a pretty halo. For a second he looks almost like himself again; like the world isn’t ending, and there isn’t a border ahead that might shut him out. Shane’s anger sweeps out of him easily, and his head fills with something else far more intense.

Shane shoves Ilya. It’s playful, a result of big feelings with nowhere else to go. He pushes him hard, nearly tipping him over. Ilya narrows his eyes at him, and then shoves back, hands on Shane’s chest, laughing under his breath. 

They go back and forth—shoulders bumping, hands grabbing at sleeves. Eventually Shane can tell Ilya is just doing it to be annoying, and they’re snickering and growling under their breath until they’re not anymore.

Their hands brush behind them in the grass. They both freeze.

Slowly, carefully, Ilya’s fingers curl into Shane’s, like he’s checking if it’s still allowed. Shane tightens his grip immediately, like of course it is. But Shane quickly starts overthinking, and for once it’s not about the people around him. It’s about Svetlana, because he is so, so jealous of her. Does Ilya ever hold her hand like this? Does Svetlana make him laugh? Is Shane just a convenience? Is Ilya just holding onto him because he’s here, because they’re stuck together? 

Shane thinks about that married couple he saw. That will never be him and Ilya. 

It doesn’t change how Shane feels about Ilya, which might be the worst part. He wants him safe, he’d take him to his cottage and get him away from all this even if Ilya started hating his guts. He’d never leave Ilya, because Shane chose him. Shane just wonders if Ilya would choose Shane. 

Maybe Ilya notices the tension in Shane’s fingers, because he pulls away. “I’m going to get the car ready for sleeping.” He says, patting Shane’s shoulder as he gets up. Shane looks up at him, helplessly. 

“Okay.” The sound hardly makes it out of Shane’s throat.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

The field goes quiet in layers. Engines turn off, voices dim, children aren’t running around anymore. Floodlights still blaze at the edges of the camp, but a few are shut off to possibly allow for better sleep. It’s just dark enough. 

Inside Ilya’s car, the front seats are reclined all the way back. 

Shane lies still in the passenger seat, hands folded on his stomach, staring up through the moonroof. The sky is washed pale by light pollution, but he can still see a few stars pushing through. They look distant. Untouchable. He tries to make out constellations, but he can’t find any yet.

Ilya is beside him, equally quiet, breathing slow and even. Shane knows he’s not asleep. 

Shane swallows, jaw tightening. That married couple rolls to the front of his mind again, really, the memory of them has been sitting on his chest all evening, pressing heavier the longer he lets the thought live there. Well, more accurately, Shane’s been thinking about the idea they spurred on inside his head. And it’s so stupid, but, maybe Shane’s feeling stupid enough to voice it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, barely above a breath, “Rozanov.”

Ilya shifts. “Mm?”

“I’ve been thinking about the border.”

A pause. 

“Oh yay,” Ilya says lightly, but there’s an edge under it.

Shane turns his head to look at him. In the dim glow of the dashboard, Ilya looks half-asleep, lashes casting faint shadows, face softer than he ever lets it be in daylight. He’s looking at nothing in particular, eyes set lazily forward.

“I have a idea,” Shane whispers.

“That’s never good.”

“What if we just… Lie?”

Ilya blinks. “About what?”

“If you really need to be a citizen to get through the border, then...” Shane hesitates, then forces the words out before he can lose them. “We lie. Say we’re married.”

Silence settles in, heavier than before.

Ilya’s eyes pop fully open. He turns his head to the side to study Shane like he’s trying to tell whether this is a joke, a bad idea, or something even worse; a real, genuine suggestion. 

Shane’s heart pounds so fast in his chest because he knows he’s fucking insane, and Ilya’s looking at him like he’s fucking insane. And it also hurts, because, is the idea of them being married so crazy? Well, yes, of course it is. It’s fucking crazy. Insane. 

“…Married,” Ilya repeats, slowly. To make sure he heard Shane right.

“They’re more likely to let couples through,” Shane rushes on, voice low but urgent. “I’ve got my papers in my bag, and we’ll say you lost yours. Hopefully they don’t recognize us. And, if we say we’re married, they’ll probably ask fewer questions, and—”

“Fuck, Hollander,,” Ilya groans, scrubbing his hand over his face. It flusters Shane further.

“Do you have any better ideas?” He snaps, whispering like he’s telling secrets, “It’s better than doing nothing.” Shane huffs, and looks back up at the moonroof, not wanting to watch Ilya scrutinize him any longer. He’s so frustrated, it makes his anxieties feel suddenly far less manageable. He swallows. “I don’t want them to turn you away.” Shane murmurs, softer now. Shane can’t see the stars anymore. He chews on the inside of his cheek, hard enough that it hurts. “I... don’t know what I would do if they turned you away.” 

It’s quiet. It’s quiet for so long that Shane feels tears well up in his eyes. He’s so sick of crying. He’s humiliated, and even worse, he’s terrified of losing Ilya. He feels so stupid.

Shane hears Ilya sigh, he still can’t look at his face. Then, he finally speaks. “You would do this?” Ilya asks quietly. “Lie for me?” 

Shane doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah.” His throat is tight, but the answer is so horrifyingly easy. He closes his eyes, tears collecting in his lashes but never slipping any lower. 

And Ilya just goes silent again. The asshole. He’s tormenting him, tormenting him with his own shame and his own stupid yearnings and ideas. Shane is about to get up and sleep outside so he doesn’t have to share air with him anymore. 

“...We will need rings,” Ilya’s voice croaks out, slow, in the dark, “If we want to be convincing.” 

Shane lies there, frozen. It takes a second for the words to reach his overloaded brain.

But when they do, he sits up. He leans over on his elbows, looking bewildered at Ilya. Ilya is still laying down, hands folded on his chest now, his thumbs twiddling together in a way that is far too shy for a man like him. The air feels thick enough to choke on. Ilya makes it worse by looking up at Shane through his pretty lashes, with those tired hazel eyes. Shane thinks he can spot the stars in their reflection if he looks hard enough. 

“What?” Ilya asks, “You want to be convincing, yes?” 

“Uhm.” Shane murmurs. Then he nods, hesitantly. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

Ilya scoffs, smiling small. “Oh no, I do, you are crazy.” That pisses Shane off again, and his face must show it, because Ilya reaches a hand out to brush his knuckles against Shane’s cheek. “But world is crazy now. We have to be crazy too.” 

Shane sighs, leaning into Ilya’s hand before he retracts it. He shifts to lay back down, laying on his side so he can face Ilya. He folds his hands under his cheek. Ilya does the exact same thing, rocking the car slightly with the motion of his body. 

“Okay, so...” Shane starts again, voice shy. He’s not totally buying that Ilya’s taking him seriously yet. “We pretend to be married.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says confidently, “We went on vacation to America for our fourth anniversary. We were visiting Boston, where we met for first time at hockey game.” 

“Let’s leave hockey out of this,” Shane corrects. They’re already risking being recognized, Shane doesn’t want to help jog the memory of whatever government worker is allowing them through the border. Not only will they be caught as liars, but also the world will find out they’re seeing each other. Both are things Shane would like to avoid.

“Okay,” Ilya puckers his lips, thinking, “Then... we met at museum. We like art. We are art people.” 

“Sure,” Shane says, a smile tugging at his cheek. “Art people.” 

“This does not solve ring problem,” Ilya chimes in, “Maybe we lost them in the evacuation.”

Shane’s next set of words are ones he does not think about. They just blurt right out of him, like instinct; “Or there’s that mall nearby.”

Somewhere outside, a semi roars past, shaking the car just enough to rattle the mirrors. It fills gap left by Ilya’s stunned silence. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever made Ilya so quiet before. Ilya just stares at him, lips a little parted, before his eyes narrow almost accusingly.

“What have you done with my boring Hollander?” Ilya grins, although there’s this nervous edge to his smile that Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. It gives him a headrush. “You want to sneak out of here to, what, go get attacked by zombies in the street?”

“Don’t call them zombies,” Shane says, maybe for the one-hundredth time. “I don’t know... I think we’d be fine. We know what we’re dealing with, we’d be careful.” As Shane talks, he watches Ilya’s smile press more, and more into his face. “And it would solve our ring problem.” 

“It would.” Ilya confirms with a small nod. 

They hold each other’s gaze for too long, the world suspended in the small space of the car. Shane tries to imagine how a bed would feel under him right now, but the leather seats of Ilya’s Porsche are too uncomfortable for that daydream to really take any tangible shape in Shane’s mind. 

“Tomorrow morning,” Ilya whispers. He seems tired, but not the bad kind. He actually looks the most at peace he’s looked all day, second only to how he was when he was sleeping this morning. It distracts Shane, and he doesn’t fully understand what Ilya is trying to say.

“What?” He asks. 

“Tomorrow morning, we will go to the mall.” Ilya explains further, “Very early, before anyone wakes up.” 

“Oh. Right. Sure.” Even though it was Shane’s idea, it makes him kind of nervous. A thrill of both anxiety and anticipation swirl in his belly. The feeling intensifies when Ilya leans over to give Shane a kiss on the lips, gentle and sweet, their noses smushing together. It’s how Shane figures that married couple overlooking the city might kiss. His head swirls with thought. Shane chases after Ilya’s mouth when he pulls away, giving him one more kiss before they can fully part. 

“Goodnight, Shane.” Ilya whispers against his lips, like it’s nothing. Like he hadn’t just reached inside Shane’s chest and molded his heart until it wouldn’t fit anywhere else but within Ilya’s hands. 

Ilya lays back down in the driver’s seat and rolls onto his side, facing away. Within moments, his breathing evens out, exhaustion finally winning. He had looked tired, so Shane isn’t surprised he fell asleep so fast. He’s probably tuckered out from all the driving. Shane will drive tomorrow. He’s very grateful that Ilya handled the brunt of the city driving so steady. Ilya’s so steady. 

Shane wishes he could be steady too, with Ilya.

Shane rolls over onto his back and stares up at the sky again, heart pounding so loud he’s half-convinced it’ll wake Ilya up. He exhales slowly, drags a hand over his face. God, he’s insane. Reckless. Desperate. Playing games with armed soldiers and border crossing and someone he cares about way too much. The plan is flimsy, and their ring-scheme is even worse. 

Don’t wait. Shane remembers his mom begging. The words have been floating around in his head all day. This might be the one time Shane hasn’t listened to her.

He turns his head just enough to look at Ilya’s silhouette in the dim light. The curve of his shoulder. The line of his jaw, softened by sleep. Shane swallows.

Whatever happens next, there’s no version of this where he leaves Ilya behind. He reaches out to glance his fingers over Ilya’s spine, his body so warm. 

Shane sighs and pulls his hand back, resting it over his belly. The hum of the highway and the sound of Ilya’s breathing fills the car, and Shane clings to the fragile hope that this stupid, reckless plan might be enough to get Ilya through.

Shane stares out the moonroof. He searches for constellations until he falls asleep. He still doesn’t find any. 

Chapter 3: Outlet

Chapter Text

Shane’s stick is still covered in blood. It’s dried now, congealed, starting to flake off near the top. Shane knows it will still need a good wash when he gets home. It's strange, carrying it like this—not for a game. The weight is comforting anyway. Familiar. Shane keeps rubbing his fingers over the tape.

He thinks of it as a weapon now, and that feels wrong.

Shane wonders if he’ll play hockey again. He wants to think so, since a future without it feels impossible. At the same time, a part of Shane knows things can never be normal again, not after all this.

He can’t grapple with his grief over that right now, fuck, he can’t even consider it. Not with that mall looming closer with every step.

They left twenty minutes ago. Shane woke up early, as did Rozanov, and they set out. After pushing through stiff brush and over the guardrails that lined the rest stop, they started the descent down the steep hill that led to the city.

The mall itself is nearby. It’s connected by a ramp to the highway, which Shane can see curving around now that they’re pretty close to it. It’s a smaller mall, maybe only two stories. Three, at most, if its got a basement. 

Rozanov walks beside Shane, boots crunching softly on dry grass. His breath fogs the air, eyes set towards the ground so he doesn’t trip on anything as they walk. Shane keeps looking at him, maybe waiting for Rozanov to stop this, or, or.. Something. Because Shane is having second thoughts. In fact, he’s had second, third, fourth, and fifth thoughts by now. His mind is running a mile a minute, he’s surprised Rozanov can’t hear him thinking. 

Everything is so quiet. The sun hasn’t even begun to rise yet. It hides somewhere behind the horizon, making the sky a dusty lilac. 

They reach the pavement. Rozanov looks over his shoulder to wait for Shane to join his side again, eyes sharp even this early. “You are sure about this?”

“Not really,” Shane answers. He was never sure. The plan probably won’t even work, ring or not.

“It’s okay to have second thought,” Rozanov shoves his hands in his pockets, “We can find another way.”

Shane wrinkles up his nose, stepping onto the pavement. It’s hard, unyielding under his boots. He pushes up his jacket’s collar, fleece brushing against his cold cheeks. “No,” Shane says, unsure why he’s so attached to this idea. Maybe he’s just clinging onto something, anything, to keep him sane; to stop himself from thinking too hard about Ilya getting turned away at the border, and what Shane will do if it comes down to that. How he’ll likely disobey his mother and break her heart. He’s just lying to her all over again. 

“Alright,” Rozanov sighs, shrugging and pressing forward. “Whatever you say, captain.”

They cut across an empty road, and into the mall’s carpark. A glass frontage reflects the sky back at them, metal shutters pulled down unevenly like tired eyelids. A banner still hangs above the Best Buy entrance, advertising a weekend sale that will never come. 

They can outrun anything, Shane thinks to himself, they’re faster than most people, sick or not. Their stamina will outpace whatever may wait inside. 

They slip inside the mall through a side entrance,  a door forced partway open and left that way, like someone meant to come back for it and never did. 

Freshly-mopped tile clicks beneath Shane’s boots, and the hairs on his nape stand on end. He swallows, the sound noisy in the empty halls. The air inside is stale and cool, and emergency lights glow dimly along the ceiling, casting everything in a sickly half-light. 

“Huh,” Rozanov hums quietly, “Spooky.”  He seems fascinated by it all. Shane might find exploring this freshly abandoned mall novel too — if he wasn’t scared out of his mind right now. He’s coiled up, ready to strike, waiting for something to lunge out behind the stalled escalators or a closed up shop. Shane keeps his stick angled forward now, knuckles pale, while Rozanov trots forward, seemingly unbothered.

Storefronts line the walkways in neat rows, glass pristine and freshly cleaned. Some are shuttered, some aren’t. A fountain sits dry at the center of one of the halls they pass through, pennies sitting at it’s bottom. Each step they take echoes around high ceilings and carries down the hall. Shane hates how far the sound carries, how it announces them. 

Much like the airport, there are signs people left fast.

An empty stroller sits near a bench, a purse lies on the floor, a shopping bag split open with clothes strewn out everywhere. Shane keeps his eyes peeled for a jewelry store so they can get out of here as soon as possible, and back to the semi-safety of Rozanov’s Porsche. 

“You think they have jewelry here?” Shane asks, whispering. He jogs briefly to catch up with Rozanov, their shoulders brushing.

“Yes,” Rozanov says, “We will find something. Even something cheap.”

Shane frowns. He does not want his wedding band to be cheap, fake or not... Maybe this is getting too real for him.

They walk more, and everything is still so quiet. There’s still nothing here. No sounds of anyone else, no sobbing or scrambling or anything. Something about the empty mall is sad. Shane tries to not think too hard about it.

They almost pass the very store they were looking for. It’s Rozanov who stops them. 

“Hollander,” He says, nudging him with his elbow, “Found it.”

Its lights are off, which is why it was so easily overlooked, but the jewelry store sits open to the corridor. Inside, glass cases gleam slightly from the slivers of sunlight starting to peak through the windows. There is no security shutter, no gate half-latched. Just… open. Waiting.

Shane takes a deep breath. Alright.

It’s not too dark inside. Just light enough to see, even without flashlights. It smells like old, musty carpet in here, but the jewelry looks fancy. Shane’s eyes are instinctually drawn to overly-sparkly women’s necklaces, all made from shiny gemstones. The cases are intact, necklaces lie perfectly arranged, and watches and earrings line up neatly next to them. Shane imagines, in a week, this place will be thoroughly looted. Just what he and Rozanov are going to do now, he guesses. He hopes the security cameras aren’t somehow on, that they don’t get in trouble for this later…

Rozanov stops, standing at a case. He braces his palms on it, and Shane almost scolds him for getting his fingerprints all over the glass— but then Shane remembers it doesn’t matter. He steps up to Rozanov’s side and peers into the glass with him. 

Rings. Rows of them, set into velvet trays. Gold, silver, platinum. Some plain and utilitarian, others glittering obscene and bright, diamonds catching the light with every small movement. Shane’s eyes trace down, and he notes the bands that are thicker, made for larger fingers and designed with something more masculine in mind. 

Shane stops short. His mind freezes. What are they doing?

Shane’s never entertained this thought. Not just with Rozanov, but with anyone. Marriage was always this abstract thing in his head. But, Shane had always wanted it, he thinks. He probably only wanted it because that’s what was normal. His mom would excitedly talk about his future wedding day, and Shane thought it would be nice enough, maybe. Or, maybe Shane just wanted to be the sort of man who wanted to get married.

… And of course, there was that other part of him that complicated everything. The part of him he avoided until, like, last month. So he had just stopped thinking about marriage all together. 

Until Ilya.

The realization sits heavy as he watches the way the light catches on a simple silver band.

...Not that Shane wanted to get married to Rozanov. He thinks that, at least. Because Shane knows he can’t have Ilya like that. And even if he could, Ilya wouldn’t want it. It’s too boring, like Shane. 

Whatever this is between them, Shane does think it is something special. He refuses to accept that it isn’t. But it’s not the sort of thing people date over, let alone get married over. They’re not even boyfriends— what a stupid word. Stupid, juvenile word. Shane is angry with himself for even thinking of it. 

Shane loves Ilya. But he doesn’t think Ilya loves him, and, even if he did, what would that even mean? Shane has to stop thinking about this, it’s unimportant. Even now, everything they’re doing is on borrowed time. It’s another lie they’re telling, but this time they’re about to tell it to people with guns, and it means nothing—

“What ring would you pick for me?” Rozanov asks. 

Shane looks at him. Really looks. Rozanov is shifted closer to the case, leaning down until his breath fogs the glass just slightly. His eyes move from tray to tray, lowlight catching in them, bright in a way Shane hasn’t seen since before all of this started. In fact, Shane hasn’t seen Rozanov like this in a long time, maybe ever. 

It does something awful and fond to Shane’s chest. He blinks. “You want me to—?”

“Yes,” Rozanov says easily, like this isn’t loaded at all. “You’re my husband. Apparently. You should choose.” 

That makes Shane’s throat go tight. He looks at Rozanov, helpless.

Rozanov looks at him, then back at the rings, rocking slightly on his heels. “Don’t overthink,” he adds. 

Shane exhales, the sound shaky. He desperately hopes Rozanov can’t tell how hard he’s freaking out, how his hands are trembling. He leans in despite himself, eyes scanning the rows. He passes over the flashy ones, big chunky ones, all the simple silver bands. Boring, Shane thinks. He squints. 

Strangely, Shane’s nerves start to fall away. His heart still pounds, but it’s warmer in his chest now. He feels alive.

“That one,” Shane says, lightly poking a finger into the glass, just above his chosen ring. It’s gold, in a handsome matte. There’s a bit of dark trim on it, but it’s still rather simple, like most men’s bands are. “It matches your necklace.” And your hair, when the sun hits it. 

Rozanov looks at it for a long while. Shane starts to feel self-conscious, but before the anxiety can really take hold of him, Rozanov speaks.

“Yes,” he hums. “I like it.” He looks up at Shane then, eyes warm and earnest, and for a second Shane forgets they’re pretending at all.  “Give me,” Rozanov says suddenly, holding out his hand. Shane passes his stick over.

Shane knows what Rozanov is about to do, but it still startles him. 

All it takes is two hits with the butt-end of Shane’s stick. On the third, the glass explodes inward with a sharp, crystalline crack, shards scattering across the velvet trays. The sound echoes too loudly in the empty mall, hanging there for a breathless second before silence rushes back in to fill the space.

Shane’s heart slams against his ribs. “Jesus, Rozanov—”

Rozanov ignores him, reaching inside the shattered case, carefully brushing glass aside. He plucks the ring Shane pointed to from its slot, holding it up between two fingers like it’s something precious instead of stolen. Then , he goes for another, and Shane’s never looked at anything more intensely in his life. What ring did Rozanov pick out for him? But Shane doesn’t get a good glimpse at it before it’s clasped fully in Rozanov’s hand.

Rozanov straightens and drops to one knee.

Shane’s breath leaves him in a rush.

He opens up his hand. The band he’s got for Shane isn’t at all boring. Or at least, Shane doesn’t think so. It’s a dark black, with a domed strip of some kind of wood at it’s center. Shane thinks it might be chestnut, or another dark wood. He realizes, with a horrifying amount of emotion that, oh, it matches the color of his eyes. 

Rozanov looks up at him, grin so earnest, so playful and boyish. “Shane Hollander,” he says, teasing,  “will you—”

Something in Shane fractures, so deeply that he can’t control it. 

The mall fades. Everything that happened yesterday, the sick people, the border—it all blurs into nothing. His chest is too tight, too full, emotions crashing over each other with no order to them at all. Want and grief and hope and fear, all tangled together until he doesn’t know which way is up. 

He can’t speak. He can barely breathe.

Not like this, Shane begs nobody, helpless in his own mind, Please, please not like this. 

Ilya’s smile falters. He stops mid-sentence, and really, really looks at Shane. He looks at him for too long. 

Shane wants to die, he thinks. 

Ilya stands back up in one smooth motion, slams the rings in his hand down on the nearest unshattered case, and kisses Shane. 

Shane exhales into it, arms wrapping around Ilya’s neck like he’s the only thing keeping him upright. He can hear himself making these awful little sounds into Ilya’s mouth, and they regretfully only increase as Ilya hooks his arms under his ass and picks him up like he weighs nothing. 

Ilya’s mouth fits to Shane's like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t have words for. It’s not frantic, but there’s weight to it, intent. Ilya drags his tongue between Shane’s lips as he sets him down, the cold bite of a countertop seeping through Shane’s sweatpants. And Shane clings to Ilya still, breath hitching, his head is swarming with so much emotion but he can’t stop, fuck, he’s never been able to stop. 

Shane’s heart aches. His whole chest does, in fact. He sucks on Ilya’s tongue before coming up for air. “Ilya,” he breathes, surprising himself with how pathetic he sounds. Their foreheads press, noses slotting together. 

“Ты особенный—” Ilya says, and Shane’s about to get angry with him for playing so many stupid fucking games with him, but then Ilya continues, albeit with some strain in his voice, some trace of shyness; “—Is what I said yesterday. It means you are special to me. So special.” 

Shane makes a quiet, helpless sound before he kisses Ilya again to block out all the noise in his head.

The world narrows to the warmth of Ilya’s mouth, the faint scrape of stubble against his skin, the way Ilya leans in like he means it. The noise in Shane’s head dims. The fear, the doubt, the impossible what-ifs all soften under the pressure of Ilya’s lips on him, his tongue pressing wet and steady against Shane’s own. 

Ilya’s hand slides to the back of Shane’s neck, thumb pressing there like he’s anchoring him, like he’s making sure Shane stays right here. It works, just a little. But it’s still enough.

The feeling doesn’t go away, there’s still too much there. Too much love, too much loss already imagined, too much hope he doesn’t know where to put. It, instead, rearranges itself. Settles hot in Shane’s lower belly, shaped by Ilya’s tongue and his hands. It’s want. Terrible, fervid want.

Ilya kisses the corner of Shane’s lip, his jaw, his neck. His hands pull at Shane’s jacket, tugging it down to run his tongue along the column of Shane’s neck. His body reacts in turn, lighting up with sensation that flicks all the way down his spine. 

Ilya’s curls tickle his jaw, and a low moan works it’s way out of Shane’s throat. He looks out, drunkenly, into the mall—

Fuck, the mall.

“Ilya,” Shane wheezes, “We can’t do this here.”

“Why not?” Ilya rumbles against Shane’s throat, as if the reason wasn’t obvious. He moves to lick up Shane’s ear, teeth nipping at his earlobe, and all Shane can hear is Ilya’s breath and the wet sound of it all. It makes Shane’s lungs work harder to keep up with his racing heart.

“It’s dangerous,” Shane answers, disgruntled.

“It has always been,” Ilya shucks off Shane’s jacket fully, but Shane isn’t cold at all. “We are dangerous.” Ilya feels up Shane’s arms through the fabric of his sweater, greedy. And, fuck, it’s enough convincing. Shane wants Ilya so bad. “And when else will we get to fuck in a mall, yes?”

Shane groans, eyes rolling. “I hate you.” 

“No,” Ilya pulls back to smile at Shane, and Shane’s heart flutters, “You don’t.” 

Yea, he doesn’t. He doesn’t hate Ilya. He pulls Ilya’s face to his to kiss him again, fingers sinking so lovingly into his thick curls. And they kiss and kiss, until Shane’s lips are swollen, until he can’t remember the last time he took a breath that didn’t taste like Ilya. It’s all mouth and tongue, close and hungry.  But then Ilya is pulling away and sliding down Shane’s body, leaving a trail of kisses down his throat again, and his hands go to the bottom of Shane’s sweater, pulling—

“No,” Shane means it to sound firm, but the noise gets caught in his throat, he’s too flustered. “I mean it, Ilya. No.”

Ilya has the gall to look up at him with a pout on his face. He pleads, batting his eyelashes. “But I miss your other freckles. I think they need kisses too.” 

Ilya’s going to kill him. “Later, okay?” Shane says. Ilya managed to break some of his resolve, but Shane refuses to be caught naked here by an infected person— or by any person, for that matter. It’s a line he’s completely unwilling to cross, much to Ilya’s disappointment. Undressing completely is just too risky. 

But, the promise of later seems to pacify Ilya, at least somewhat. “Okay,” He complains in a murmur, but then he just starts going for Shane’s sweatpants. 

“Ilya,” Shane is about to kick him.

“Not all the way,” Ilya says, “Just enough, yes?” 

They stand frozen like that, time ticking between them so agonizingly slow . Shane rolls the choice around in his head while Ilya’s thumbs remain hooked in his waistband, and, Ilya’s lips look so soft, shiny with spit and wet, so wet from their kissing. Ohh, fuck it. “Yea, okay. Just enough. Shit.” 

Ilya smiles and pecks an appreciative kiss to Shane’s cheek. He tugs down his sweats, his underwear, just enough, exposing Shane’s quickly fattening cock. Shane pants, his pulse is hammering in his throat in an intense combination of fear and arousal, exhilaration making his cock throb in time. 

“Very pretty,” Ilya murmurs. That’s all the warning Shane gets before Ilya’s hand is wrapping firmly around his cock, slowly stroking it, sending a shock of pleasure up his spine. The first few strokes are dry, a little unpleasant, but Ilya fixes that by spitting into his hand and fisting it snug back around Shane’s cock. It doesn’t take much longer before Shane is throbbing, hot and wet and trying to thrust up into Ilya’s clever fingers. Shane is quickly stopped by a firm hand on his hip, and he whines quietly in response. Ilya keeps the pace slow, thumb occasionally reaching up to brush over Shane’s damp slit and collect the small beads of precum there, cooing at Shane while he does. “Fuck,” Ilya groans, eyes flicking to Shane’s. His mouth is hung open, cheeks pink. Ilya looks wrecked just from fucking Shane’s cock into his fist. 

And it’s too much. Way too much. Shane can’t think straight; caught between melting for Ilya as he always does, and keeping an eye on the hall. It’s an impossible feat. And somehow, some sick, perverted part of Shane’s mind really, really likes it. He’s embarrassingly close already, the heated want in his belly starting to boil over into a vicious need. 

Ilya eases Shane off the countertop, and sinks to his knees. 

“Ilya,” Shane pleads his name again quietly. 

Ilya’s nose, a little cold, presses to the sliver of exposed skin around Shane’s cock. Nuzzling up in the neatly trimmed hair at the base of Shane’s cock, he huffs noisily, smelling him. It makes Shane’s knees go weak and he leans up against the counter, moaning far too loud. Ilya echoes the sound on his exhale, cursing under his breath. 

Ilya licks up Shane’s cock, base to tip, flicking his tongue over the head before taking Shane shallowly into his mouth, tonguing at the slit. It’s messy and so slow, far too slow for where they are, but Shane can’t think straight enough to care. Ilya’s drooling over his dick, looking up at him through his pretty blonde lashes, all cock-drunk and pliant. Shane wishes they were anywhere else, and he quickly tries to store the image of Ilya like this away to think back on it when he’s somewhere a lot safer.  Ilya’s hand comes up to stroke anything that isn’t in his mouth, massaging the base with his thumb, which works another low whimper out of Shane’s throat.

It might be too late, but Shane finally covers his mouth with a hand, smothering his noises with his palm. Normally, Ilya would be upset for such an offense, but he seems to be allowing it due to the unusual circumstances. Or, maybe, he’s just not fully there. Ilya’s eyes are unfocused and bleary in the good sort of way, and even while he’s got his cock between his lips he looks at Shane with so much affection that it hurts. Shane is captivated by the way Ilya’s lips are stretched over him, how red and spit-slick they are from sucking him off. He looks like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than on his knees for Shane, and oh, that’s nice.

Maybe this is Ilya’s way of saying sorry, Shane thinks, or maybe he’s just trying to show he cares? Words would suffice but, fuck, Shane isn’t complaining; not when the wet heat of Ilya’s mouth is sending shocks of pleasure through his whole body. Ilya bobs his head, working himself lower and lower each time, tongue applying dizzying pressure to the underside of his cock before swirling around the head on the upstroke. He reaches a hand up to pat Shane’s face, the sound echoing in the silent mall. He worms his fingers beneath where Shane clasps his hand over his mouth and shoves two fingers between his lips. Shane readily accepts, moaning at the taste, sucking eagerly.

And he’s trembling, knees falling impossibly wider. “I’m not gonna last,” Shane whines out as best he can around Ilya’s fingers, trying desperately to not thrust up into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya hums around him as he takes him even deeper and Shane’s drooling over it, hips stuttering ever-so-slightly. He pulls away from Ilya’s fingers, just so they rest at his bottom lip. “Ilya,” Shane weakly tugs at Ilya’s hair, “I wanna cum with you, please, ah, Ilya...” 

Ilya, mercifully, relents. He pulls off Shane’s cock with one final drag of his tongue, ensuring Shane sees the precum he’s collected there. Shane whimpers, and Ilya gives the tip of his cock a parting kiss before climbing to his feet. Shane unabashedly locks their lips again, and it’s messy and Shane can taste the salt of his own skin but he doesn’t care. “Against me,” Shane whispers, breathing into Ilya’s mouth, “Please, I wanna feel you.” 

Ilya nods frantically and stops their kissing so he can draw his cock from the fly of his pants, flushed and hard and thick; and he gives it a long, slow stroke, as if he’s showing off, like he knows he’s got something to be proud of.  Shane can’t even help the moan he lets out at that, fuck, that’s the cock that made him miss out on the world ending. 

“You want it?” Ilya says.

“Please,” Shane nods, cock throbbing at the sight of Ilya, twitching, begging, desperate. Shane wishes they could fuck. He’d do almost anything to get that cock in him right now, but he won’t let Ilya fuck him without lube... The possibility of getting attacked by someone with a terrifying, unknown sickness is actually less of a deterrent than not having any lube on hand.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Ilya murmurs, “I can’t stand it.”

Shane smiles, shy. He nudges his nose against Ilya’s. “You are too,” Shane says, breathless. He presses a kiss just over Ilya’s mole. “Handsome.”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya hums, “We are both very pretty.” 

Before Shane can even think about rolling his eyes, Ilya presses their cocks together, already nicely slick from Ilya’s drool and Shane’s precum. Shane’s cock is so sensitive, swollen and throbbing so much it hurts, and he knows he’s going to cum soon. 

Shane grips Ilya tight as he strokes the two of them. The pressure of it is overwhelming, the sight of it; their two cocks peeking out from Ilya’s fist, Shane’s leaking with desperation, slicking up the both of them. He feels entranced by it, he can’t seem to think of anything but the here and now. Was there ever even a time before Ilya was touching him like this, his cock rubbing against Shane’s own? 

Shane moans, feeling Ilya’s cock throbbing against his. Shane isn’t small but Ilya’s cock is still notably bigger, something that’s extremely apparent now, and it makes Shane feel hot all over. Him and Ilya share the same breath and Ilya is looking at him with his pretty hazel eyes, all soft for him, while he huffs out quiet, hungry gasps – He almost looks like he’s searching Shane for something, desperately. Shane’s probably searching for the same thing in Ilya. It’s something neither of them can give up, despite everything.

“I’m close,” Shane whimpers.

“Fuck, baby,” Ilya groans. Baby, baby, baby… Ilya called him baby… “Shane—” 

The sound of his name on Ilya’s tongue is the last little push Shane needs. His back arches into the feeling, pleasure washing over him so hot he completely whites out for a moment. His cock pulses in frantic jolts, cumming into Ilya’s fist, all over his cock. And Ilya’s right there with him; huffing into his mouth, groaning low as they make a mess of each other. 

Ilya slumps over Shane, pinning him between the counter and his body, pressing kiss after kiss upon his neck as he groans low. Shane can feel the sound rattling in his chest, pressing to his heart. They stand there, together, for an alarmingly unknown stretch of time; nosing and nuzzling at each other like nothing is wrong, like this isn’t the very thing that got them into this mess in the first place. Shane doesn’t care. Not when Ilya reaches to cup his face, so gentle, tracing his thumbs over his freckles. 

Ilya is so sweet with him. Shane wonders where he learned such warmth, in a home so cold. 

“Hi,” Shane says, drunk on affection. Ilya gives him a smile, and tugs his pants back up. 

Ilya wipes his hand off blindly, then reaches to the side. Shane doesn’t think about what Ilya’s grabbing, just content to float here in this in-between space, where he’s not at all worried about borders. All he feels is Ilya’s body upon his, their warmth pressed together. Nothing feels complicated at all, everything is just as it should be.

Ilya takes Shane’s hand and turns it palm-up. His fingers linger there for a second, like he’s memorizing the shape of it. 

Then he slides the ring he chose onto Shane’s finger, slow and gentle— and it fits, perfect. Because why wouldn’t it?  Shane was made for Ilya, he thinks. 

But it’s not a proposal. Not even a promise. Just a tool. A lie he’s wearing in an attempt to get Ilya through this.

But still, the warmth spreads anyway, quiet in Shane’s chest. Comfort, not expectation, something soft he lets himself have without asking for more. He looks at the ring on his finger, the dark sheen of it catching the mall’s artificial light, and it feels strangely steady. His heart does hurt, just a little, but it isn’t too bad of an ache.

Shane’s gaze slowly rolls to Ilya. He looks a little torn up, his eyebrows pressed tight together, and some emotion that Shane refuses to think too hard about fills his eyes. “It looks good on you,” Ilya says, almost to himself.

“I like it,” Shane exhales the words. Ilya presses his lips together and nods.  “Let me see yours.” 

Ilya obliges him, setting the ring in Shane’s palm. Ilya holds out his own hand expectantly, knowing what comes next. Shane still holds onto Ilya anyway, pressing his fingers all over the fate-lines on Ilya’s palm before settling the gold band over his ring finger. Shane feels a possessive burn at the sight of it, like he’s claimed Ilya and this ring was the proof.

You’re mine, Shane thinks. He brings Ilya’s hand up to his lips to kiss at his knuckles. 

“Oh,” Ilya breathes, so quietly Shane nearly misses it. 

Shane winds his arms around Ilya, pulling him in until there’s no space left between them. Ilya exhales against his shoulder and melts into the embrace, hands settling at Shane’s back, firm and grounding. Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s curls and closes his eyes.

Everything in him is a mess— relief and fear and something dangerously close to joy, all braided together until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. His chest aches with it, but he doesn’t try to untangle it because, right now, he’s happy, he thinks. It’s complicated but Shane feels good. Neither of them say a word. 

Eventually, the world creeps back in. The mall, the threats likely stumbling around somewhere. Shane feels fear pricking up on the back of his neck again.

Shane pulls in a breath and rests his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder. “We should… we should go,” he murmurs, reluctant.

Ilya nods, though he doesn’t let go right away. “Yes,” he says softly. “Okay.”

They separate slowly, and then they’re moving, retracing their steps through the atrium, past the frozen escalators and the abandoned food court. They’re fast about it, Shane picking up the pace as his adrenaline starts to kick back in.

Outside, the air feels sharper, colder. The city is just as still as it was before... Too still. Too easy.

They walk side by side towards the hill that leads back to the rest stop, back to Ilya’s car, boots echoing faintly. There’s no movement other than their own, no sound but the wind and the distant traffic from the highway they’re walking back over to. Shane’s earlier warmth starts to cool completely, unease seeping in around the edges. His grip tightens on his hockey stick, his ring now pressing into it too. 

“Is it just me,” Shane pipes up, “Or is it weird that there’s… Nothing?”

Ilya glances around, jaw tightening. “Yes,” he says. “I was thinking same.”

Shane looks back once, at the dark mouth of the mall behind them. The afterglow fades completely, replaced by a crawling sense that something isn’t right. Maybe he should just consider them lucky. Maybe there truly was nothing in the mall, and they were never in any danger.

But Shane has a sinking feeling in his belly. He tries to ignore it, pushing harder to scale uphill, back to the overlook, back to Ilya’s car, back to Canada.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Morning breaks thin and gray over the rest zone, the light still soft enough to blur the edges of everything in fog. The field is awake now. Cars idle, doors slam, people talk—too much, too close, voices overlapping in a rattling hum. Some people come, some go, cars in a constant state of slowly rolling over the grass.

Shane sits in the grass with his back against Ilya’s car, knees drawn up, crunching on a rubbery apple. It’s the only food offered by the volunteers that he can even begin to stomach, but he still envies the chocolate chip muffin Ilya is munching on. He almost asks for a bite, but the thought turns his stomach too much. 

With everything so out of control, Shane supposes he’s clung so desperately to regimine that his body refuses to rationalize the need to break his diet. And even what he can eat is hard to swallow. 

Every sound feels sharp, a stark comparison to their quiet walk back from the mall a few minutes ago. There is laughter from a family a few yards over, someone arguing quietly into a phone, Boots on gravel, the low murmur of volunteers and soldiers calling out instructions. 

“We should get going,” Shane blurts out, words more agitated than he intended them. 

Ilya looks over from where he’s sitting, chewing thoughtfully. “Yes?” He’s got some crumbs on his face, and Shane reaches over to brush them off. “You’re ready?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, “I want to get home. I’ll drive the rest of the way.”

A dog barks somewhere. Shane watches Ilya fish around in his jacket pocket. He holds up his keys, the metal twinkling in the dim sunlight, and he tosses them to Shane. “Yes, you drive.” Ilya readily accepts the offer, “Your turn to be bored. That isn’t so hard for you, yes?” 

Shane smiles up at Ilya, giving him a quick roll of his eyes to ensure he gets the satisfaction of successfully annoying Shane. He watches Ilya get up, the man grunting while he does. Something creaks audibly in his back when he stands to his full height, which makes Shane wince slightly. “I need to piss,” Ilya says, “Then we go.” 

“Okay,” Shane says. He pushes himself to his feet too, catching sight of Ilya’s back as he weaves off toward the portable toilets at the edge of the field. Ilya’s tall enough that Shane can track him for a while; his broad shoulders, his curls. But eventually, he gets swallowed up by distance and crowd, disappearing from Shane’s sight.

Shane is left alone with the rising noise. He stares down at his half-eaten apple, then at the grass flattened by dozens of tired bodies. He feels Ilya’s absense like a pulled stitch, strangely enough. Shane rubs his thumb over his ring, and something warm and alien burns up inside him. It’s relief maybe, and it soothes his anxiety a little. That sparks a different sort of anxiety though, because the band isn’t even real, yet even the hollow gesture of one is enough to make Shane feel a little safer. He really loves Ilya, doesn’t he?

Shane could probably take the ring off. He doesn’t need it right now, they won’t need them until the border. But, on the off chance Shane dies, he’d like to do it while wearing something Ilya picked out for him.

A few minutes pass, and Shane sits himself in the driver’s seat with the door kicked open, one foot planted in the grass. The keys hang loose from his fingers, metal clicking softly as he turns them over and over. He keeps meaning to stop. He doesn’t. The noise around him hasn’t let up, voices layer over each other, laughter breaking out too loud, a baby crying somewhere to his left. It all scrapes at him, sets his nerves buzzing under his skin. He tells himself it’s just adrenaline. Just everything finally catching up.

He glances toward the distant bathrooms. He wants to be on the road.

Come on, he thinks, annoyed. Hurry up.

Then—

A sound cuts through everything. Loud, wet, broken.

A sob.

Shane freezes. His heart holds still, his fingers go numb around Ilya’s keys. No one else reacts, the chatter doesn’t stop. Someone slams a trunk shut. 

Shane knows that sound. He could never forget it now— not after hearing it echo through Terminal B, not after seeing it tear out of a ruined throat.

Ilya, Shane thinks, oh, God, where’s Ilya?

He steps out of the car, keys clenched tight, eyes scanning the field. His pulse roars in his ears and he can’t see anything, not with the crowd of bodies all around him, the pulsing mass this rest stop has become. They’re all a bunch of sitting ducks. 

Another sob rips through the air—louder this time. It breaks, shatters into a screech. The people near Shane go quiet, the crowd starting to notice, to listen to a sound that shouldn’t be here. 

Maybe that’s why the mall, the city was so quiet. Maybe because the infected had nothing to go for, nothing to sink their teeth into— if they really are biting people. And maybe, maybe all the sound pulled them in this direction, to a swath of unsuspecting people with no idea that they were in any danger. 

The porsche is readily abandoned, and Shane shoves the keys into his pocket as he begins the monstrous task of pushing through the crowd. He tries to keep it together, head down, shoulders tucked, murmuring automatic little apologies as he weaves between people. His eyes stay locked on the line of portable bathrooms ahead, on the gaps between bodies, searching for one familiar shape. He thinks he should be able to pick Ilya out. But he just doesn’t see him.

Another screech tears through the air, and this time people react. A ripple goes through the field and conversations cut off mid-word, heads turn, someone near Shane swears.

Shane’s walk turns into a jog. “Ilya,” he calls aloud now, voice getting swallowed by the noise around him. “Ilya—”  

The crowd thickens instead of thinning. People start moving all at once, no longer sure where they’re going, only that standing feels wrong because something wrong is happening. A car engine roars to life nearby, and tires squeal in the grass. 

Shane breaks into a run. One hand curls into a fist, already searching for the weight of his stick, his stick that he left in the footwell of Ilya’s backseat. Shane feels helpless, terrified, he can’t think beyond the blinding panic that only gets thicker and thicker with each passing moment.

He shoulders past a man arguing into his phone, nearly trips over a cooler left in the dirt. His pulse is a drumbeat in his ears, every sense overloaded, shouts, crying, the metallic stink of exhaust, the glare of floodlights turning everything too bright. His skin starts to itch and to correct it his legs pump harder, faster, ducking around people and stumbling over the hood of a car.

 Another one of those screams—closer now—warps into that same tearing screech. Despite the cacophony of sound around Shane, there’s nothing else quite as terrible as the noises the sick can make. They echo around in his head, sickeningly clear even against the scrambling crowd.

There’s screaming now, so much of it. People surge toward their cars, abadoning bags and blankets and sometimes other people. A sedan peels out of its spot too fast and slams into the side of another trying to do the same, metal crunching loud enough to make Shane flinch. 

He skids to a stop, deer in the headlights, then keeps going, heart in his throat.

He can’t tell anymore, who’s sick, who’s just scared. Faces blur together, eyes wide, mouths open. Someone stumbles into him and grabs his arm, looking at him like they’re drowning.

“Sorry, sorry,” Shane pants, shaking them off, pushing forward in the same second.

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

That’s all there is. The rest of the world dissolves into noise and motion and fear. He scans desperately— his dirty blonde hair, broad shoulders in a familiar jacket, the way Ilya stands just a little crooked when he’s tired. Shane keeps running, lungs burning, vision tunneling. His panic seizes around his lungs, pushing air out; “Ilya!” He screams, frantic. He can’t find him, how is he ever going to find him?

By the time Shane reaches the edge of the field, the crowd has thinned into scattered knots of people breaking in different directions. The noise hasn’t lessened, if anything it’s sharper now, stripped of overlap. Individual sounds punch through: boots pounding dirt, someone sobbing openly, a car backfiring—

No. It’s gunfire.

The crack of it snaps the air apart, that repeated cracking, Shane can’t tell where it is or how close. Regardless, he flinches, brain stuttering, body reacting before thought can catch up. Shouts follow. Orders, maybe. Or panic, he can’t tell.

“Hollander!” 

In between the rhythmic patter of gunfire, Shane hears him. He whips his body towards the sound, and finally catches sight of Ilya. It might be the most beautiful he’s ever looked, even while wild-eyed and panicked. Relief slams into Shane so hard his knees nearly give out, sweeping through him despite the terrible chaos only worsening. 

Ilya’s lips pull up in this frazzled, relieved smile for half a second, but then it drops away. Fear. It’s fear on his face. “Shane—!”

The warning comes too late. 

Something crashes into Shane from the side, all dead weight and slick, wet limbs. He doesn’t expect it and goes down hard, like how he might on the ice, the impact driving the air from his lungs in a brutal whoosh. His back slams into the dirt, stars bursting across his vision. The thing is on him instantly.

Hands claw at his jacket. A face looms into view, skin pale and slack, mouth torn wide as that same sob shoves its way out and breaks into a screech inches from Shane’s face. The smell hits him, sour and wet and wrong.

The whites of it’s eyes are so red. Bright, burning, blood-red. This is it, Shane’s brain supplies distantly. This is how it happens.

He scrambles, kicking, and when Shane pushes at it’s shoulders his fingers slide through loose, wet skin, cold blood seeping into his hands but the thing does not stop coming. Bloody teeth snap close enough that Shane feels the rush of air against his cheek. He can hear screaming all around him, and he thinks he might be screaming too.

The sick corpse is ripped sideways with a inhuman grunt, knocked clean off him. Shane rolls instinctively, gagging, vision swimming just in time to see Ilya’s boot connect with its head again, hard and desperate. There’s blood everywhere, too much blood for two kicks, like a water balloon popping. Before Shane can think about that, Ilya is hauling him to his feet, yanking him by the arm and pulling him forward. 

Shane stumbles at first but he recovers easily, his balance equals out and he’s gone, legs burning as he sprints back the way he came. Ilya is right behind him. Shane can hear him, and It’s like a game, like a race they’ve run a hundred times over. Shane pushes, just a little harder, muscles burning, lungs screaming, and he hates himself for the half-second of instinctive competition that flares in his chest.

The floodlights glare overhead, washing everything in stark white. Shadows jump and jerk at the edges of his vision, people stumbling, falling, hands grabbing. Shane veers instinctively, yanks Ilya with him when someone goes down in front of them. 

 Shane locks his breathing down the way he does on the ice. Four beats in, four out. Hockey, hockey, fuck, think of hockey. Shane’s legs take over, and he forces instinct to the front of his mind. The ground is uneven, chewed up by tires and boots, but his body knows how to stay upright. He’s always been good at this part: speed, momentum, the narrow tunnel of focus where nothing exists except the next stride and the goal.

Gunshots crack again, closer this time. Shane flinches but doesn’t slow. He thinks of boards and blades, of the sound of skates carving ice, of the clean simplicity of a rink where the worst thing that could happen was losing a game. He thinks of chasing a puck, of the way his legs always knew what to do before his brain caught up. 

Shane can see the car. Ilya’s stupid Porsche, sitting there with it’s bent-up back bumper and It’s driver-side door is still open, waiting for them. They’re out, they’re—

An engine screams, breaks squeal. Then a bang, violent and wet, metal tearing open like paper; the sound is unbelievable. Glass pops and rains, headlights burst, a horn locks up. It takes over everything else and it’s right behind them, so close that Shane can feel the heat of impact burning against his back, his teeth rattling in his mouth. In the same second, something sharp slices across Shane’s cheek, hot blood immediately bubbling and oozing out of the wound. 

Shane glances over his shoulder to see the aftermath of one car plowing into another, a chain reaction, shrapnel flying and bodies running in every direction. Black smoke pours from one crumpled machine, so mangled it doesn’t even look like a vehicle anymore. 

Ilya isn’t next to him anymore.

Shane’s faster. Faster than Ilya. Always has been.

Shane’s eyes flick over the crash, the devastation of it. It’s so much, Shane feels his vision splotching away at the sight, and he thinks he might be starting to black out from sheer fucking panic until he finally sees Ilya. He’s only about a yard or two behind Shane and a few inches away from a piece of bumper that flew off— standing in a really obvious spot that Shane was maybe too overwhelmed to see at first. 

Shane has never seen Ilya freeze. Never, not once. But now isn't like that at all. Ilya’s gaze is locked forward, focused on nothing in particular and a million miles elsewhere. His muscles are locked tight, down to the strain in the column of his neck and the grit of his jaw. 

He’s only a few feet away from the crash, smoke tracing over his body, and he’s just... Stuck there. Feet planted awkwardly on the uneven ground, hands hovering around his legs. Something is wrong with him.

And well, yea, a lot is very wrong right now. There’s so much happening, including a horrific car crash that, had he been a few seconds slower, Ilya would’ve been mangled by. So Shane doesn’t immediately think much of his frozen stupor. It’s shock, probably, all of this too much for any human body to handle. “Ilya!” Shane shouts to get his attention, running slightly in place to keep feeding his adrenaline. “Come on!”

That does it. Ilya’s eyes focus back in, locking onto Shane. Light in the dark, Shane’s brain supplies, unwillingly. 

Shane waits, waits to make sure Ilya is coming. Because he needs to make sure, and something still feels off, something Shane can’t put his finger on but he still readily blames the insanity unfolding around them. 

Ilya shakes it off, his expression hardening back into something focused. He takes a step, than a stride, than two—

He puts weight on his right leg. A wince sweeps through his expression, teeth gritting; and then he goes slack. 

Ilya’s eyes roll back in his head. 

His body hits the ground, dead weight. He doesn’t try to catch himself. He’s unconscious .

A Raiders game. Shane doesn’t remember who Rozanov was playing against, but Rozanov was playing, so Shane was watching. Next second there’s a shoulder where a shoulder shouldn’t be, and Rozanov gets dropped, or, well, thrown, really. His skates had been kicked out from under him, back slamming against the ice. His helmet snapped back and Shane had sucked in a breath so loud he was surprised Hayden hadn’t heard him. But, Rozanov hadn’t given anyone time to react properly before he was getting his skates back beneath him, standing, rolling his shoulders once, like he was resetting something that got knocked loose. 

And then he was back in it. Chasing, checking, skating like none of it even happened. He favored one side for maybe two strides, then corrected it, stubborn as hell. Shane felt a warmth in his chest, an admiration, and maybe something close to frustration, too.

“Jesus,” Hayden had hissed in complaint, “You think they’ll ever find something to keep him down, eh?”

Ilya does not get back up. Shane waits, and waits, for maybe too long. But he does not get back up.

But, Oh god, oh, what happened, what happened— Shane doesn’t remember running to him, just that he’s suddenly at Ilya’s side, choking on engine smog and his own panic knotting up his throat. “Ilya!” Shane shouts, or at least, he thinks he does. Ilya’s nose pours blood into the dirt, having crushed it beneath the force of his own weight when he fell face first.

Shane tries shaking him awake, and in reply the whites of Ilya’s eyes flicker somewhere beneath his eyelashes. He’s breathing fast, in and out, in and out, rapid and shallow, almost like he’s still running. There’s gunfire nearby, crying, screaming. Flames lick up the side of the crumpled car next to them and, Shane doesn’t see any clear injury on Ilya, he seems fine but he’s so clearly not okay, and, fuck, they need to get out of here. 

Out of the corner of Shane’s eye, he sees one of the sick tearing their teeth into a woman, blood spilling from it’s lips, her throat opening red and stringy.

Fear drives Shane to slap Ilya, hard enough to leave his hand stinging, for his handprint to immediately mark itself in red on Ilya’s face. 

It works. Ilya snaps awake. He inhales sharply, sniffling up the blood pouring out of his nose. His pupils are so dialated that his irises are just thin, hazel rings around them, hardly visible, and his eyes are jerking back and forth frantically — he looks fucking crazy, and Shane has no idea what’s wrong. Ilya seems not to know either.

But there’s no time left to think. Shane hauls Ilya back up by the arm and yanks it over his shoulders, gripping his wrist tight, feeling how heavy he is, how real. Packed with hard muscle, and he’s leaning all of it on Shane like he can’t remember how to keep himself upright. 

The car, once so close, now feels much farther away. Maybe Shane should just carry Ilya, but getting him situated would just take way too long— So they run lopsided and frantic. Shane’s spine takes the brunt of it, muscles screaming as he half-drags, half-carries Ilya forward. Every step jars, Ilya’s breath is hot against his neck, uneven, apologetic even now. Shane tightens his hold, jaw set. 

With each step, it becomes abundantly clear that Ilya hurt his leg. He won’t put any weight on the right one, the one that maybe hurt so much that it knocked the consciousness clear out of him. Shane still doesn’t know what’s wrong, but it doesn’t matter, all that matters is that stupid fucking Porsche. Shane keeps his eyes locked on it, like a net, like the boards at the end of the rink. He pushes harder, legs shaking, adrenaline doing all the work his body can’t. Shane manages to hold them both upright.

They make it.

Shane shoves Ilya against one of the back doors, swearing and shaking and terrified as he fumbles it open, and practically throws Ilya into the seat. Ilya collapses sideways, gasping. Shane slams the door, sprints around the front of the car, and dives into the driver’s seat, heart trying to claw out of his chest. 

Ilya’s shouting something in Russian between his grit teeth, in pain in a way Shane has never heard from him, or, fuck, anyone for that matter. Ilya has pushed his back against the door, his legs sprawled out over the backseats, his fingers clutching at one—

Shane floors it.

The engine screams in protest as the car lurches forward, gravel and dirt kicking up behind them. He barely registers the bodies scattering, the cars, people. His vision tunnels. All he can see is open space and the thin, fragile line that might get them out. 

His hands are slippery on the wheel, still covered in the blood of the zombie that tackled him. It doesn’t matter, nor does the memory of how easily it’s skin split open just at the press of Shane’s fingers. He swerves around a stalled sedan, clips the shoulder, and doesn’t slow down. Tires bounce over uneven ground as he drives half off the road, half on it, cutting around backed-up traffic wherever there’s room. Someone honks, someone else screams. Shane doesn’t look back. He can’t, not with Ilya making those sharp, pained sounds behind him, not with the image of him going down burned into his skull.

“I’m sorry-!” Shane shouts, “Fuck, just, hold on!” 

Ilya stops shouting. Shane feels his hand slam against the back of Shane’s seat, likely trying to keep himself from jostling too much. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” Shane mutters, although at this point he doesn’t know what for. He has a lot to be sorry for. Driving too fast. Not fast enough. Bringing them here. Letting this happen.

The highway finally opens, or maybe the chaos just thins out behind them. Shane keeps going anyway, foot heavy, lungs tight, until the noise fades to a dull roar and his hands start to shake so badly he can barely keep the wheel straight. 

Shane works up the courage to look away from the highway, just briefly enough to flick his gaze on the rearview mirror. Ilya has wrestled his pants off, and he’s clutching the gauze they packed in his bloody fingers,  and there’s red everywhere. Everywhere.

Shane veers off suddenly, jerking the Porsche into the grass on the side of the road. The car skids, lurches, then stops. “Fuck, Hollander!” Ilya shouts, even as Shane is throwing off his seatbelt and pushing the door open, “Drive! Don’t—” Shane slams his door shut, cutting off whatever it was Ilya was going to say. 

He jogs around the car and he’s at the backseat in an instant, yanking it open so hard it rattles.

“Ilya,” The word leaves him in a rush.

Ilya is slumped against the door, one knee bent awkwardly, hands braced like he’s trying not to shake. His face is washed-out pale, sweat slicking his temples and flattening out his curls, eyes unfocused with exhaustion. “Is okay,” Ilya says immediately, too quickly. He tries to straighten, hissing through his teeth. “Drive... I can—” He gestures vaguely, like the rest of the sentence will materialize if he moves enough. “I can fix.” 

Ilya cannot fix it. Shane doesn't think he can either. 

Curved along the outside of Ilya’s thigh is a thick gash. The skin bracketing it is torn and peeled back from something that must’ve sliced clean through skin and fat and maybe even muscle. It’s oozing blood steadily, drooling it onto the seats and pooling in the leather stitching. It’s a too-dark red, like it came from somewhere deep inside of Ilya’s body, something that was never meant to be coming out of him. It’s vivid against everything else, swallowing detail, turning edges soft and indistinct. 

Ilya looks away, jaw clenched. Both agony and embarrassment burn across his face, sharp and miserable. 

The car creaks as Shane climbs inside, wedging himself between Ilya’s legs. Shane sprays his hands down with disinfectant, and then he snatches the gauze away from Ilya in one quick motion.

Shane thinks of Ilya at home. His home. He conjures an imaginary scenario, manifesting an uncertain future; Ilya strolling through, barefoot, the sun gleaming through the windows and highlighting his curls in the same gold Shane picked out for his ring. He’d be impressed, but smug about it, Shane thinks. “Mister real-estate,” Ilya would probably say.

Shane pulls Ilya’s belt from out of his pants. He fastens it just above the wound, around Ilya’s upper thigh, and pulls. It squeezes a strangled yelp out of Ilya’s lungs, but he quickly bites down on the sound, teeth gritting. 

The water. Ilya would like the water, Shane would hope. Ilya probably would like swimming, they could play together. But Shane can also picture him sitting lakeside, arms thrown over his knees. He’d watch the sun set, and he’d look so peaceful. Shane imagines him blinking slow, maybe even nodding off; so amazingly, beautifully bored.

Water gurgles as it sloshes out of the plastic bottle, the air rushing towards it’s bottom as Shane tips it over. It runs in fat streams over the cut, and Shane has to hold Ilya down, bracing one hand on his chest as Ilya begs him to stop. Dark, muddy dirt washes out along with the blood, which turns into pink ribbons beneath the gentle rush of the water.

“Это больно!” Ilya shouts, tears in his eyes, “Блядь , Это больно— Shane!” 

Maybe they could go fishing together. Shane always liked doing that with his dad, even if he wasn’t crazy about putting the worm through the hook. It was too much for him usually, watching it wriggle afterward was gross and sad. But, he thinks he could do it for Ilya, to show him how. He’s not a kid anymore, anyway. Not so squeamish.

It’s slippery, and it takes a firm hand to get the gauze to wind around Ilya’s leg. Shane pulls tight until the resistance feels just right, until he hears Ilya’s breath lurch. Once it’s tied secure, the gauze does it’s job, keeping nice and dry even while red starts to bloom beneath it. Shane rests a hand over the wound; it’s throbbing, warm, almost feverish to the touch. Ilya is shaking all over. If the wound sliced through the femoral artery, Ilya surely would’ve bled to death by now. He probably would’ve bled to death before they even reached the car. He’d be a cold, stiffening corpse.

He’d be so warm in bed, in Shane’s bed. His golden curls resting haphazardly over the pillow, and he’d be so comfortable, for sure. Soft and relaxed in Shane’s bed, where nothing could ever hurt him again. Shane would make sure of it. Not Russia, not his family, not hockey, nothing. He would be safe, taken care of, Shane’s Ilya.

The car fills with their breathing. 

It’s so terribly quiet now, other than the hysteric pull of air into Ilya’s lungs. His resistance has been thoroughly drained out of him, exhaustion and pain winning him over, making his shoulders slump and his head tilt forward. He lets Shane hold his leg now, lets him mop up the remaining blood with one of the blankets they stole. Ilya watches him from under his lashes, helpless, pained, angry.

Not angry with Shane. Shane can tell that much. He knows how Ilya wears his shame.

“Sorry,” Ilya murmurs, quieter now, guilt threading through every syllable. He looks defeated. Shane has never seen him so beaten. 

Shane realizes he’s still holding Ilya down, his palm pressed firmly against his chest. He hadn’t meant to be so rough with him, and when he finally allows himself some human emotion it’s guilt that rushes in first. Shane presses his lips together and shakes his head, “No, sh-sh.” He murmurs, easing up his grip and rubbing Ilya’s chest in little circles instead. “It’s okay, Ilya.” Shane reassures breathlessly, even if he doesn’t believe it himself, “I-I.. I got you, okay?” 

Ilya pinches his eyes shut, frowning. He groans, pained, his head thunking against the window as he leans it back. “No,” He murmurs, voice thick, “You...” He’s having trouble with English, Shane can tell. He’s probably in a lot of pain. “Блядь.” He hisses, “Should have left.” 

“What?” Shane blurts out, irate.

“Dead weight,” Ilya murmurs, and taps weakly at his own chest, gesturing to himself.

Shane glares at him. He doesn’t mean to, but fuck, he’s so angry right now. Not with Ilya, of course, but the way Ilya manages to make his face look even more miserable tells Shane that he believes otherwise. “Don’t say that,” Shane also doesn’t mean to snap at him, but he does. “You know I don’t think of you like that. I’m not leaving you.” 

Ilya’s gaze trails from Shane, down to his leg. He stares at the injury where it sits beneath layers of reddening gauze. “You should.” It’s almost inaudible.

Tears prick Shane’s eyes. “Fuck,” Shane croaks. He inhales to try to ground himself but it’s already too late, and all he can smell is Ilya’s blood and lingering engine smog anyway, which is the opposite of grounding. He’s so scared, and fuck, he knows Ilya doesn’t mean it but he feels so alone now. He has to take care of both of them, and Shane already is really bad at taking care of himself. “Stop it, Ilya. Stop talking.” He swallows thickly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. If the tears don’t fall they don’t count.

Red eyes and bloody teeth roll to the forefront of Shane’s mind. He saw so many people die. Probably more than he can even process. And he could’ve lost Ilya too. Fuck, Ilya could have died. Had the cut been a little to the left, Ilya would’ve bled out in minutes. Seconds. He would’ve been just another corpse in the grass.

“Shane...” Ilya murmurs, but Shane can’t look at him. Shane thinks he sounds sympathetic, or maybe sorry. 

“I’m not leaving you. I can’t,” Shane responds, “Okay? I can’t. I won’t. Say you understand.” He knows he sounds cold, but if he doesn’t turn some part of his brain off he’s going to freak out. 

There is a long pause. “Ilya, please.” Ilya likes it when he begs, right?

“I understand.” Ilya finally says, murmuring it under his breath. 

The words convince Shane that it’s safe to look at Ilya again. Ilya still seems so angry, so embarrassed, so ashamed. Shane feels horrible but he doesn’t know what to say or do that could possibly comfort him right now. Deep down, he knows there are a lot of things he can do to help. Selfishly, he doesn’t think he can manage any of them. They won’t even fully materialize in his head, because all Shane can think about is red eyes and bloody teeth and gunshots and how small Ilya’s unconscious body looked.

But Shane does know one thing that will fix all of this, and that’s getting Ilya over the border. He tries to hold onto imaginary memories of Ilya in his cottage instead of the very real memories of the horrors that transpired a few minutes ago. But it’s so hard. Shane imagines himself shoving all of it down, stuffing the thoughts into an already overflowing bottle. 

Maybe that’s why he can’t comfort Ilya right, because he’s overflowing. And he’s turning parts of himself off to compensate.

“Thank you,” Shane says. He leans in and cups Ilya’s cheek, stroking his thumb along the raised edge of one of his moles. Ilya’s face is cold to the touch, his face slick and clammy, and it makes Shane feel itchy. But he powers through anyway, because this is the least he can do. “I’m gonna get you to Ottawa." He says, and presses a kiss to Ilya’s cheek. “It’s no trouble.” 

It really is trouble. A lot of trouble, actually. But Shane willingly bears it, even if it does fucking suck, because he loves Ilya. Loves him so much that seeing him so hurt is making him shut down.

“Okay,” Ilya murmurs. He turns his head to weakly nudge his nose along Shane’s jawline. He’s clearly seeking affection, he wants it, he’s practically begging for it. But Shane doesn’t think he can provide it, not right now, not in the way he needs. Shane tries to compromise by stroking his fingers through Ilya’s hair, but his motions are jerky and uncoordinated as he tries to equally fight off something akin to a panic attack. It is a panic attack, for sure, but Shane doesn’t want to name it that. It feels stupid.

To think, just this morning Shane was worried about whether Ilya truly wanted him or not. If anyone else was here with Ilya, they would probably take much, much better care of him. Ilya deserves better. Shane feels sick, he wishes he was stronger right now. 

“Okay,” Shane murmurs, swallowing. “Okay.” He pulls away slowly, and Ilya sniffles up the congealing blood in his nose and hardens his jaw, trying to look tough. His expression keeps rapid-firing between want and embarrassment, both underlined with pain.

Shane digs through their supplies again, popping the cap off their ibuprofen with fumbling fingers. “Here,” He says, while pressing two little pills into Ilya’s palm. He watches Ilya throw them back, and then Shane hands him some water to chase them with. Ilya gags noisily around his swallow, and Shane thinks he might throw up, but he doesn’t.  

“You’re okay,” Shane says to comfort both of them while he leans in once more to wipe the sweat off Ilya’s brow. “We’ll get you to Canada, and get you to a doctor for some stitches. You’re gonna be alright, Ilya.” He smooths some of his hair back, although his curls don’t behave cleanly.

Ilya just nods. He’s not so sure Ilya believes him. Either way, Shane reaches back to touch the wrappings on Ilya’s wound. They’re still dry and scratchy, which means they’re doing a good job keeping everything exactly where it should be. Ilya bled a lot, but not too much. Shane decides he’ll be okay, because he just has to be.

“Does it hurt?” Shane asks. Only when the words have fully left his mouth does he realize how stupid of a question that was, considering Ilya is still trembling and looks like he’s about to vomit.

Ilya blinks, slow and sticky. “No,” He says, “Not at all.”

He’s still got it in him to be a smart ass. It’s a good sign. Shane doesn’t smile, but he thinks his face takes on something close.

After discarding the blanket Shane used to mop up all the blood, he unfolds a clean one and drapes it over Ilya in a feeble attempt to help with his shivering. Shane pours the most tender, loving care he can into the gesture, and Ilya watches him the whole time. He’s quiet now, forced into compliance by the terrible wound on his leg leaving him fully vulnerable.

“I know you hate this,” Shane murmurs as he tucks the blanket up under Ilya’s jaw.

“Yes,” Ilya answers breathlessly, “Is true.” 

Shane frowns. “It’s gonna be alright,” Shane says again, and folds to the pleading look Ilya is giving him. He offers him some more physical affection by rubbing his chin with his thumb. “I’m gonna get us home.” 

Home... Shane nearly scoffs at himself. Ilya doesn’t seem to notice, and he closes his eyes and nods. 

It takes some twisting, but Shane wedges himself between the front seats, crawling over the console. He clumsily throws himself into the driver's seat and wipes his bloody hands off on some napkins that are stashed away in Ilya’s glovebox. Even still, Ilya’s blood lingers beneath his fingernails, and the sight makes Shane’s belly twist. He grips the wheel so hard he can hear his knuckles creaking. His new wedding band glints in the morning sun. 

Shane feels tears sting his eyes again. Ilya can’t see him anymore but Shane still tries not to let any tears linger, because he’ll know that he’s crying, and he’ll hate himself for it.

Shane clicks his seatbelt into place, then glances at Ilya in the rearview mirror after hastily wiping his face again, but he can’t see much of him with how he’s sitting. “You can’t buckle up, can you?” Shane asks shyly, he realizes that he is likely asking Ilya for too much.

“I do not think so,” Ilya admits quietly. Shane would normally push, and push and push for Ilya to take caution because he cares so much about him, but considering the circumstances, he doesn’t. He doesn’t want Ilya to move himself around too much. “It’s not like we will be driving fast.” 

Shane sighs, he supposes that’s true, but he’s seen more cars flip over in the past day than he’s seen in his entire life. Regardless, he pulls back onto the road, easing into traffic that’s thick and impatient. Cars creep forward in uneven bursts and horns keep blaring. Shane inches along with them, jaw tight, eyes forward. 

Shane breathes in through his nose. He can still smell Ilya’s blood. Out through his mouth. His cheek hurts. He has to get them home.

Notice how the inhale is different from the exhale. You may experience the air as cool as it enters your nose and warm as you exhale. As you turn more deeply inward, begin to let go of noises around you. If you are distracted by sounds, simply notice them and then bring your intention back to your breath. Simply breathe as you breathe, not striving to change anything, all is well...

Time stretches into something unrecognizable.

The border is close enough to taste now— but the traffic makes it feel imaginary, like it could be a million years away for all he knows. Shane inches forward a car length at a time. Sometimes less, and sometimes not at all. Minutes pass without movement, and then minutes turn into hours.

Every so often he glances in the mirror. Probably too often. Ilya is very, very quiet.

“Ilya?” he calls quietly.

There’s a pause, then a tired hum in response. Relief loosens something tight in Shane’s chest. Shane reaches back blindly, fingers finding Ilya’s knee over the blanket. He leaves his hand there, grounding himself in the warmth, in the fact that Ilya is here with him. Ilya’s hand lightly clasps over his, still all cold and clammy, but Shane is starting not to mind so much. His panic has shifted into something more manageable; a cold dread, sitting at the back of his mind. 

Ilya’s wound, It must’ve been shrapnel, Shane thinks. Something flew off the car and sliced Ilya’s leg— just like the cut on Shane’s cheek— but it happened so fast and was so serious that he didn’t notice until he was unconscious on the ground. Ilya does seem stable, at least. In pain, but managing. His breathing is slow, a little strained. Shane thinks he must nod off a couple of times, because the rhythm of his breath goes heavy every now and than. Shane also hears him munching back there at some point, which means he still has an appetite, and Shane thinks that is a good sign.

“You okay?” Shane asks him, probably once every hour.

Ilya normally hums an affirmative sound, or murmurs a quiet ‘yes’. But after the fifth time Shane asks it, his answer changes to a snarky; “I will get worse if you keep asking me, yes?” 

At some point Shane calls his mom again because this is taking forever, his voice low and strained as he explains the traffic and how terribly slow it all is. He conveniently leaves out the awful morning, and the fact that he’s got Ilya Rozanov bleeding out in his backseat. 

Shane’s mom tells him to be careful, tells him she loves him, tells him to keep the doors locked. Shane says he will, even though he doesn’t know what that really means anymore because all he’s done is lie to her. 

She, again, does not say goodbye. Shane was expecting it this time. He feels more alone than before.

The sun starts to dip without Shane noticing. The sky shifts from washed-out blue to bruised orange, then to something darker, heavier. Headlights flick on around them, one by one, until the highway is a glowing ribbon of red and white.

Shane’s eyes burn. He blinks hard, shakes his head, rolls his shoulders like that might wake him up. The lines on the road blur together. He yawns, tries to fight it, presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Fuck,” He murmurs, under his breath. He’d kill for a coffee. Anything to keep him moving. They pass another rest stop, but Shane will never risk that again.

The sick are drawn to crowds, they must be, and he should try to avoid big gatherings of people. Shane rubs his eyes as he thinks about how the highway is also just another big gathering of people, but at least Shane feels a little safer when he’s in Ilya’s stupid Porsche with the doors locked. 

The lights all start to streak, little halos around each breaklight. Normally Shane’s astigmatism really isn’t all that bad, but he’s just so exhausted that he can’t seem to tell up from down, or lanes from lights. God, he feels like they’ve maybe moved a singular mile in the span of an entire day. Maybe even less. This is a nightmare.

He just has to get them home. Canada can’t be that much farther now, that stupid, fucking border. If he drives through the night he can get Ilya to safety much sooner. Then to a doctor, so he can get stitches in his leg. He’ll have plenty of time to heal before next season. Hockey isn’t going anywhere, and neither is Ilya Rozanov. 

“Shane,” Ilya says from the backseat, voice rough but alert. Probably the most alert Shane’s heard him since he got hurt. The unease in his voice rings clearly. 

“I’m fine,” Shane lies automatically.

“You are not,” Ilya murmurs. There’s a pause, then his voice softens, “You need to sleep. You are sleepy.” 

Shane exhales, long and shaky. He knows he’s right, he is sleepy. His hands feel heavy on the wheel, his thoughts slow and syrup-thick. His stubborn refusal to give up is so easily unwound by Ilya. And, he did sleep like shit last night, as anyone would when sleeping in the passenger seat of a car...

“You’re driving my car like idiot,” Ilya then says, which isn’t very nice, “You’re going to rear-end someone. And i’m not wearing seat belt, remember?” Ilya weaponizes Shane’s care for him in a way that makes Shane frustrated, but he's probably only doing it because he cares about Shane too. 

“Okay, okay,” Shane huffs, “I’ll pull over when I can,” he says, already scanning for somewhere to stop. He should change Ilya’s bandages anyway.

Shane finally spots a break in the trees. It’s some narrow service turnoff, barely more than a suggestion of a road. He signals out of habit and eases the car off the highway. The noise drops away almost immediately, no horns, no rumbling cars; just the hush of the woods and the ticking of the engine as he shuts it off.

The headlights from the highway still gleam through the brush, illuminating Shane’s path as he drags himself over to the Porsche’s back door. He throws it open, leaning on it’s lip, peering inside. Ilya, still, looks like shit. Maybe he’s a little better than before, but it’s not enough of an improvement to be all too noticeable. He is still so pale, and his under-eyes are lined with an exhausted purple. 

Ilya manages to center his bleary eyes on Shane, blinking slow and confused. He looks so helpless right now. Scared too. God, Shane hates seeing him like this. It makes his heart really sad.

“Alright,” Shane murmurs, trying to psyche himself up as he crawls into the backseat, kneeling between Ilya’s legs.  His lungs feel tight, like he’s choking, like he’s trying to keep the smell of Ilya’s blood out of his senses. “I’m gonna fix up your bandages a little better.”

Ilya murmurs a small “okay”, but turns his gaze elsewhere. He’s nervous. Shane rubs an open palm over Ilya’s uninjured thigh in an attempt to soothe him, but it only makes him flinch. Okay, fuck, Ilya is really nervous. Shane can’t remember much from wrapping Ilya up the first time, but he must’ve hurt or scared him pretty badly— probably both. Ilya was screaming, Shane can remember that much. He won’t ever get that sound out of his head.

The bandage is wet now, warm blood slowly soaking through it. So, Shane peels it back slowly, apologizing under his breath the whole time. Ilya sucks in a sharp gasp when the fabric pulls, eyes squeezing shut, but he doesn’t say anything. He just turns his head to the side and rides it out, stubborn and quiet.

“Hey,” Shane says softly. “You can tell me if it hurts. If you need to stop—“

“Is fine,” Ilya says, voice tight. “Do it.” 

Shane’s chest aches at that but he nods anyway. He rolls up the soiled bandages into a ball, stuffing them somewhere in the footwell.

 Ilya’s cut is still very gross, and Shane really doesn’t want to look at it. But he forces himself, because Shane is all Ilya has right now. 

Shane was thirteen when one of the other boys in his program got their fingers sliced up. They were skating, and then he fell, and then he accidentally got his fingers mowed over by another boy’s blades. It was a shallow, red gash that cut right across his pointer, index, and ring finger. Shane got a quick look before he skated back to the bench and sat by himself for a long time. He just told his mom he had a stomach ache.

The bleeding has slowed and now Shane can see a whole lot more, but he still doesn’t exactly know what he’s looking at other than the literal meat of Ilya’s leg. It looks like something took a big chunk out of him, which, Shane supposes is exactly what happened. The edges of it are uneven and, maybe now that Shane is really looking at it, a little puffy. Swollen. That’s normal, right? Shane doesn’t know. Everything is just really red, and it looks really painful.

Shane knows a decent amount about typical injuries one would get on the ice. Rolled ankle, concussion, etcetera. But he’s completely out of his depth here, which is incredibly unhelpful in this life or death sort of scenario. He sighs, just deciding it best to wrap Ilya’s leg back up. He doesn’t think he can do more for him without risking further complications. Antiseptic isn’t supposed to be used on cuts this big, right? It’d probably hurt Ilya so bad he’d black out again anyway. And that would be really terrible.

Should... Should Shane call 9-11 ? 

...No. That’s stupid. Like an ambulance can get through all this traffic. Like they’ll call in a fucking helicopter for Ilya Rozanov when the zombie apocalypse is happening. Shit.

Shane pulls out a fresh strip of gauze, and starts to wind it around Ilya’s wound.

“Shane,” Ilya nervously croaks. His eyes are tactfully angled away from his injury, and instead he now stares at the Porsche’s roof. Shane hates this.

“Breathe with me,” Shane says. He feels more equipped to actually be present here with Ilya, which is both a curse and a blessing. “Okay? In… out.”

 Shane demonstrates for him and Ilya follows, breath shaky but obedient. “Ой-ой-ой,” Ilya hisses during an inhale, sucking in air through his teeth.

“You’re doing good,” Shane murmurs, sincere. “You’re being really brave.”

The praise makes Ilya’s expression flicker—embarrassed, grateful, overwhelmed all at once. Shane tapes the fresh bandage in place, snug but gentle, smoothing it down like he can soothe the pain away if he tries hard enough. It’s still so hot to the touch, Shane thinks he can feel the skin throbbing.

“All set,” Shane whispers.

Ilya swallows audibly, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He’s shaking; like his adrenaline isn’t convinced that he’s safe yet, so it’s continuing to wreak blind havoc on Ilya’s nervous system. In stark contrast to his coiled-up muscles and trembling limbs, Ilya looks exhausted. His head thunks back against the window, still trying desperately to match his breathing to Shane’s earlier instruction. A bead of sweat drips off the tip of his nose.

A smile, weak and bitter, splits across his face. “Fuck,” He whimpers. 

Shane doesn’t think about it before he’s ripping his hoodie off, yanking it over his head, finally stripping himself of the blood-soaked garment. He tosses it over the front passenger seat without bothering to fold, because Ilya needs him, Shane thinks, or at least he needs something, someone to comfort him. And this time Shane can provide, he will provide. He wants to, has to.

Shane saw through Ilya’s carefully constructed act years ago, so the way Ilya tries to look tough right now just simply does not work on Shane. All of Ilya’s sweet kissing and his gentle reassurances even at the start of their time together proved to Shane that Ilya isn’t that mean asshole he tried so hard to be. His heart yearned for a whole lot more than women and vodka and winning. Ilya just isn’t like that at all, he’s so loving, and so silly, and so sad, and so scared. Really scared, especially right now. And he can’t hide that fact very well at all when he’s got a big, painful hole in his leg.

So Shane moves them, jostling them both in the tight space of the backseat, making Ilya groan and hiss but he’s otherwise so obedient, so pliant for Shane, being so good. His breath hitches in a whimper, but once Shane gets Ilya’s head on his chest, Ilya goes completely and fully limp. 

Ilya melts into it, the last of his resistance draining out. He presses his face into Shane’s now-bare chest, rubbing a prickly cheek against him. A painfully bright realization pops into Shane’s head; That Ilya trusts him so fucking much that even his trembling stopped, that his involuntary reaction to fear and pain ceased almost immediately, that Ilya knows he’s safe while Shane’s cuddling him down to the fucking chemicals in his brain. If the circumstances were different, Shane would’ve gotten so high off that thought that he’d need to run laps.

But Shane doesn’t do that, and the thought instead festers into something so fiercely protective that it makes Shane a weird sort of angry. Shane scrubs through his curls slowly, holding Ilya tight. “You’re okay,” Shane says, over and over, peppering kisses along Ilya’s hairline, overly-affectionate and drunk with how possessive he’s feeling. “I’m so sorry you got hurt, Ilya.” He murmurs into his hair. “And I’m so sorry I was mean to you earlier. I was just... It was a lot. Everything. Not you.”

“Is okay. I know.” Ilya murmurs, breath hot on Shane’s skin. “Not your fault.” 

It’s an easy reply. Shane nods. 

How could he not have done this earlier? His poor Ilya. 

Ilya snuggles up on top of him, groaning slightly as he moves his leg, but he eventually settles fully. He’s heavy in a good way, like a big weighted blanket, keeping Shane’s bare torso plenty warm. Shane is still very aware of Ilya’s leg however, and every time he feels Ilya’s right thigh brushing against him his stomach swirls uncomfortably. Ilya doesn’t seem to mind too much, or notice. He keeps nuzzling into Shane’s chest, one of his hands kneading Shane’s pec, greedy.

“Do you like this? Being held?” Shane asks, although he sort of already knew that. They’ve always been too cuddly for what their relationship was, which was apparently nothing. But Shane hadn’t realized just how much Ilya liked being held until the night Shane came out to him, and Ilya had cried over everything going on with his family. Even though Shane is pretty sure his theory is true, he always feels like he’s one step behind most things, so he asks the question anyway.

“Yes,” Ilya answers, the sound muffled by Shane’s skin, “I am very mushy.”

Shane smiles, a real one. He presses his fondness into Ilya by kissing the crown of Ilya’s head again. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” Ilya continues, “Is just for you.” He’s quiet for a small stretch of time, making a hummed, soft sound when Shane starts to massage at the back of his neck. “...And I am in a lot of pain.”

It probably took Ilya a lot to admit that. “I’m sorry,” Shane murmurs, really meaning it. He wishes it never happened, that he stopped it from happening somehow. Shane paws around blindly for the blanket, trying not to jostle Ilya too much. Once he gets purchase on it, he pulls it over both of them, tucking it up around Ilya’s shoulders. 

The air cools, the heat slowly seeping out of the car. But it’s still so toasty warm in the backseat. Heat is pressed between their limbs, building up between two men who are far too big to be crammed back here together. They’re grimy and unwashed and they smell not great, which is the kind of mess Shane would usually scrub away as fast as possible, but right now the rawness of it feels honest. Cozy.  There’s nothing polished left to pretend with. Or maybe Shane is just going insane.

Ilya kisses on Shane’s chest. Slow, uncoordinated little pecks. “Skin on skin is good for baby,” Ilya jokes in a weak little murmur.

 It still gets a small laugh out of Shane. “Yea?” Shane hums, “You’re my baby, huh?” 

Ilya goes still for a second. Shane thinks he might’ve crossed a line, but then Ilya nods all slow. “Mhm.” He hums, affirmative. Shane always feels proud of himself when he can get Ilya flustered, although it’s probably way easier to achieve that sort of thing right now. 

“My baby,” Shane croons to him, a little awkward, but gaining confidence fast. He’s so sleepy that he can’t think about what he’s saying too much. “My Ilya.” 

“Shane,” Ilya sighs, like he’s pleading. Shane can feel Ilya’s hands on his chest, and— fuck, he’s playing with his wedding band. Ilya’s fingers are tracing over the curve of it, probably just fidgeting mindlessly, but it makes Shane’s heart soar in a way he can’t think too hard about. “I like you,” Ilya says, and it makes Shane huff out another chuckle. 

“I like you too,” Shane says.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Shane’s heart squeezes. Oh. Ohh. 

Ilya sighs, sweat gathering between their bodies, but Shane just keeps holding on. “I’m glad it’s you,” Ilya continues. 

Shane feels tears sting his eyes again, and he’s sick of crying, but he doesn’t mind it this time. He traces the shape of a heart into Ilya’s shoulder over and over with his pointer finger, wishing he could just tuck Ilya underneath his ribcage and let him live there. Ilya would probably like that. “I’m glad too,” Shane whispers. Because if he hadn’t been with Ilya, he would’ve gone to Canada with the rest of his team. And, sure, he probably would’ve been at home, safe. But Ilya would be stuck in Boston, alone, with no one. And that thought tears Shane up inside, he can’t stand to think what would’ve happened if they weren’t together. Shane realizes the cottage probably would’ve felt empty without Ilya anyway, like it was always waiting for him to complete it.  He probably would’ve left Canada to get Ilya, if Shane’s being completely honest with himself. “I would’ve been really worried about you.” Shane says, unsure how to put all his thoughts into words, “So I’m, uh,” he smacks his lips a little, “I’m happy I can hold you now.” 

Ilya hums, sounding content. “Me too.” He says, tucking his head up under Shane’s neck. His curls tickle. He yawns, and Shane catches it. “Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya whispers. 

I love you, fuck, I love you so much. It’s killing me how much I love you. “Goodnight, Ilya.” Shane presses the words into Ilya’s hair, “My Ilya.” 

Ilya laughs, quiet, distant. It’s more of a contented grumble, if anything. The sound tapers off, and gradually Ilya’s breathing starts to slow. Shane doesn’t stop rubbing his back or scrubbing his fingers through his hair, even when he’s certain Ilya’s asleep, when he’s breathing open-mouthed and drooling on his chest.

Despite the crammed up position Shane is in, it doesn’t take him much longer to fall asleep either. 

Outside, the woods murmur softly, wind in the trees. It’s winter-quiet, no birdsong, no crickets. It makes it easy to think about home. Shane’s eyes drift shut without him really deciding to let them. Exhaustion finally wins, and he nods off. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Shane wakes up slow, heavy, like he’s surfacing through thick water. He’s soaked through.

The first thing he notices is the heat. It’s not pleasant anymore. It’s stifling in the backseat, air stale and unmoving, making his stomach roll and his lungs work for a satisfying breath. Ilya is pressed close to him still, slick with sweat, radiating warmth. Shane shifts slightly, half-asleep, thinking dimly that the sun must be up and that’s why they’re cooking.

There’s a sound.

Tap, tap, tap.

It doesn’t register at first. It slips into his dreamlike haze, annoying but distant, like rain hitting glass. Shane frowns, eyes still closed, trying to place it. His head aches. His mouth is dry. His back is so stiff it feels like it’s going to explode.

Shane tries to snuggle closer to Ilya, like that will get rid of how gross he feels, but it only makes it worse. Shane realizes, groggily, that Ilya is what is making them really hot. He’s pouring heat like an oven. Shane works his sleepy fingers through his curls and finds them damp. Huh. 

What time is it? Shane can’t tell if he slept minutes or hours.

Tap. Tap.

Shane’s eyes crack open.

For a second he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Just darkness beyond the window, trees blurred by condensation. Then the shape resolves.

A hand, pressed flat against the glass.

Shane freezes.

His heart slams so hard it feels like it might wake Ilya on its own. The figure stands there, just outside the car, head tilted slightly, mouth hanging open. It isn’t violent, or rushing, It’s just… There. Tapping one finger against the glass, slow and patient, like it expects to be let in, like a normal person might. But the whites of their eyes are so red, their pupils so dark. They’re not normal. 

They almost look like they want help. And maybe they do. 

Terror fills Shane all at once, cold and thick, locking his lungs halfway through a breath. His body goes rigid before his mind catches up, pulse roaring in his ears, loud enough that he’s sure the sick person can hear it, hear just how scared he is. He’s acutely aware of everything now—how thin the glass is, how close they are, how vulnerable Ilya is against him. The backseat feels impossibly small.

 Tap.

Shane’s hands tremble. He presses them flat against the seat, grounding himself, fighting the urge to shove Ilya awake. Instead, silently, carefully, he shifts. He eases Ilya’s head off his chest by millimeters, supporting it so it doesn’t jostle him too much. Ilya makes a faint, overheated sound in his sleep but doesn’t wake. Shane’s stomach twists—Ilya is burning up, he realizes dimly, but there’s no time to think about that now.

Tap.

The zombie’s face drags slightly down the glass, leaving a foggy smear. Shane hears them sob, but it’s muffled, more human this time. Is there still a person in there? Trapped inside a diseased body? 

Shane really hopes not, because he’s not going to help them.

Shane swallows hard. He moves inch by inch, muscles screaming with tension, sliding out from under Ilya. Every sound feels deafening; the rustle of fabric, the whisper of his own breath, the creak of the leather seats. Shane climbs into the front seat, crawling over the console, making his big body fit as quietly as he can.

His hands fumble for the steering wheel, grip too tight. He starts the car. It rumbles to life. Shane drives. 

The headlights cut a narrow tunnel through the dark as the car rolls forward, slow and deliberate, tires crunching softly before the pavement smooths out beneath them again. He doesn’t look in the mirrors. He doesn’t want to know if the thing is still there, something that used to be a person.

The display on Ilya’s dash reads 6:47AM. Shane slept for, like, four hours. It’s something.

Shane just keeps going.

The highway opens up around him, lanes bleeding together in the dark, dotted with red brake lights. He’s become intimately familiar with the sight, highway lines and tail-lights forever burned into his brain. Regardless, Shane’s hands are locked at ten and two, knuckles pale, arms stiff with the effort of control.

Behind him, Ilya makes a low, pained sound. It cuts straight through Shane’s chest.

“I’m here,” Shane whispers without realizing he’s spoken, voice hoarse. He takes one hand off the wheel just long enough to reach back, fingers finding Ilya’s knee again. He gives Ilya a gentle squeeze to remind him that he is, in fact, right here.

His groan fades into a mumble, probably something in Russian, although it’s so quiet that Shane can’t tell. Ilya stays quiet after that, just breathing softly.

Shane exhales shakily and keeps driving.

The night stretches on, thick and endless, swallowing the road just as fast as the headlights can reveal it. Traffic inches forward, a quiet procession of strangers all pretending they aren’t afraid. Shane matches their pace, slots himself into the rhythm, lets the monotony hold him upright. Being bored doesn’t bother him so much, Ilya was right.

Shane doesn’t feel tired anymore. Not even close.

Every shadow at the edge of the road looks like it could move. Every flicker of brake lights sends a jolt through him. His heart stays fast, his mind razor-sharp, replaying so many images in his mind but all of them pale in comparison to Shane’s vicious need to get Ilya away from it all. He stretches his fingers on the wheel and his knuckles pop.

No more stopping. Shane drives. And drives, and drives. Slowly crawling North.

A deer crosses in front of the car. She crosses slowly between the stalled traffic, ears flicking, unbothered. Shane watches her trot over all four lanes of the I-89, and then she walks between the tall legs of a green roadside sign and disappears into the woods.

U.S. CANADA

INTERNATIONAL BORDER

20 MILES

Chapter 4: Highgate

Chapter Text

Little red lines radiate away from the torn edges of Ilya’s wound. They’re faint, but still serve as visible proof that an infection is crawling around beneath Ilya’s skin, taking root. However, it’s also somehow the easiest thing to stomach about this whole thing.

“Is it bad?” Ilya asks. 

Shane takes another look at Ilya’s wound. His deep, inflamed, pus-oozing wound. “Uh. No.” Shane croaks. “Not bad.” 

“Fuck,” Ilya groans, clasping his hands over his fever-flushed face, “It is so bad, Hollander. I can feel how bad it is.” 

Shane has no idea what to do. He can hardly stomach looking at the cut, and he knows wrapping Ilya’s leg back up is going to be excruciating for him, but it’s what needs to be done. Should Shane try cleaning it first? Or will that make things worse? He’s not a doctor. Ilya needs a fucking doctor. 

“I’m going to turn into a zombie,” Ilya huffs, sounding a little hazy.

“You’re not,” Shane responds quickly, “It’s just a normal infection, Ilya. You just need antibiotics, and stitches—”

“I know this,” Ilya murmurs, “I was joking.” 

It wasn’t a funny joke. But it’s a good sign that Ilya can still find it within himself to make some light of this horrendous situation, because Shane sure can’t. 

Shane had pulled the Porsche over on the side of the road a few minutes ago. Unlike last night’s pitstop, this isn’t private at all, and traffic continues to march on only a few feet away. It’s early afternoon, and although Shane wanted to keep driving until they were at the border, he needed to piss and, more importantly, change Ilya’s bandages. 

Shane had known it would be bad. From the moment Ilya woke up this morning, he made it really obvious he wasn’t doing well.  Really, Shane could tell he was sick right from the second he lifted his head off his chest last night and felt how warm his forehead was. 

“I’m gonna try cleaning it,” Shane says. He really doesn’t want to, but saying it out loud will force him to do it. Ilya groans, his un-injured leg starting to bounce nervously. He’s sat at the end of the backseat, hunched over, both legs outside to get some fresh air on his wound. And also so Shane can vent out the car. The cabin smells like their sweat and Ilya’s festering wound. So gross. 

“Okay,” Ilya responds after a long moment. He’s scared. Taking his old bandages off was already painful enough. 

Shane hates that he has to be the one to do this. It’s for Ilya’s own good, but he’s still hurting him, hurting him badly enough to scare him. It feels like he’s fucking torturing him, and the look of misery on Ilya’s face isn’t making it any easier. Regardless, Shane grabs an unopened bottle from the footwell and starts to unscrew it. He doesn’t know any techniques or anything, so he’s just going to pour it over the wound again. To try getting some of that nasty pus out of it, if that’ll even help. 

“I wish I had something to drink,” Ilya complains. Shane holds up the water in offering. Ilya smiles, just slightly. “No, like, vodka.” He still has blood on his upper lip, stuck in his philtrum, but it’s starting to flake off. Shane should wash his face... Or let Ilya do it himself. He doesn’t want to make Ilya feel even more helpless than he already is.

Shane rifles through his bag again. He looks for anything more to clean out Ilya’s wound, but they don’t have anything. Well, they do have a little bottle of neosporin, but Shane doesn’t think getting his fingers all up in Ilya’s leg-hole will be good for either of them. He reads the back of the plastic carton anyway.

Not for use on deep or puncture wounds, it says, and Shane sighs.

Shane rolls up a small hand-towel he has in his bag. “Bite down on this,” he says, handing it to Ilya. 

“Kinky,” Ilya says, while very scared.

As soon as the towel is behind Ilya’s teeth, Shane maneuvers Ilya just a bit further out of the car so he can angle his thigh down, and slowly, slowly pours a thin stream of water over the wound. Shane’s mind goes terribly and unwillingly quiet as his brain scrambles to dissociate from how awful it is, how gross, how Ilya immediately tightens up and some pained and startled noise is wrenched out of him, mercifully muffled. The water runs through the wound, then down Ilya’s leg and onto the dirt below, muddying it slowly.

Shane tries to focus on his breathing to keep his stomach from somersaulting. But Shane’s hands shake too hard, and a little too much water spatters out and strikes across the irritated edge of the wound—

 Ilya kicks Shane with his uninjured leg, hard enough in the jaw that it cracks Shane’s neck back and he stumbles, scrambling to stay upright in his clunky winter boots. The blow festers swiftly into a dull, pulsing ache that radiates up the left side of his face, making his eyes well with tears on instinct. 

“Fuck, Rozanov!” He shouts, throwing the bottle down on the ground in frustration. 

That’s enough, Shane decides, It’s too much, for both of them.

“Oww,” Shane groans under his breath, rubbing the spot Ilya nailed him, tender to the touch. It’s probably going to bruise horribly later, but Shane quickly realizes Ilya hadn’t meant to do that, it was probably just a flinch, an instinctual reaction; because, if Ilya did mean to really kick him in the face, his jaw would be broken.

Shane bends over to pick up the bottle, brushing off the dirt that now clings to its condensation. When he stands back up, Ilya’s staring at him. He’s pulled the towel out of his mouth, and his eyes are big and round, holding a different sort of fear in them now. “Sorry,” He murmurs after a long moment of awkward silence, “I didn’t mean...”

Shane is already shaking his head as soon as the words start stumbling out of Rozanov’s lips. “I know,” Shane says while he leans in, quickly tracing his knuckles over Ilya’s jaw, hurriedly letting him know he isn’t mad at him. “I’m sorry too.”

Ilya exhales, long, out of his nose. He goes mostly slack again, leaning against Shane’s fingers. It’s not really a relieved look that Ilya gives him, but instead something much closer to exhaustion. An exhaustion that unwillingly tempers him, making him more placid than Shane has ever seen him. Ilya touches gently at where he kicked Shane, attentive and so sweet, but all Shane can think about is how cold Ilya’s fingers are. 

“Let’s be done with that, okay?” Shane says, and Ilya smiles wearily. His tired eyes wrinkle up at their corners. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“I wish we had... A spray, or something.” Shane murmurs, “It wouldn’t hurt, probably. And it’d slow the infection, maybe stop it.”  Stopping it would be unlikely. Ilya already has a fever, he’ll need medicine from a doctor. Antibiotics. But, slowing the spread would be crucial, considering they’re trapped in a never-ending line of traffic...

“Mm.” Is all Ilya offers in reply. Ilya is not as alarmed as he should be about this, although Shane is pretty sure the fever is stopping the gears in his head from turning too hard. “You are so pretty,” He says then, as if Shane wasn’t agonizing him by cleaning out his pus-filled wound a few seconds ago. “You have such big, wet eyes. Like an animal.”

Shane raises an unamused eyebrow at Ilya. He’s glad he knows Ilya is naturally a big ham, or else he’d worry that the fever was starting to cook his brain. “What animal?” Shane asks, entertaining Ilya’s flirting, letting it soothe the ache in his jaw. 

“Mm. Like,” Ilya pauses to think, “A deer. Or, a seal, maybe.”

“A seal?” 

“Yes.”  Ilya does not elaborate further. 

“Thanks, I think,” Shane says. He throws the mostly empty water-bottle into the footwell, and then pulls their roll of bandages back out from where Shane tucked them neatly into his bag last night, trying to ensure they stay clean. 

“Seals are cute,” Ilya murmurs just before Shane starts to wrap his wound again. It seems like wrapping isn’t as painful as washing it out is, but it still definitely hurts, if the strain in Ilya’s limbs are anything to go by. Shane tries not to look at Ilya’s face too much, he doesn’t want to memorize how he looks when he’s in pain, so he really focuses in on his leg. 

And, Ilya’s leg is so gross, that Shane quickly tries to focus on the gauze as he winds it around the wound instead. It’s a lose-lose situation, really. It is a really bad cut. It’s deep, and although it isn’t bleeding anymore it’s scary looking. Shane, distantly, realizes that Ilya could die from this. That if they don’t get him to a doctor in time, the infection can, and will, kill him. 

That shouldn’t happen, though. Ilya will be fine, because they’ll likely arrive at the border by tomorrow morning. Well, as long as everything goes accordingly. 

...But what if things don’t go accordingly? Very little has gone right this entire time. Shane’s previous worries about Ilya getting turned away from the border feel more and more real with each passing second. Shane can claim they’re married all he wants, but they just aren’t. Ilya isn’t a citizen. It’s a lie. And Shane is sure there’s very easy ways for the border patrol to prove that.

Maybe if Shane says he’s hockey royalty they’ll let Ilya through.... Ha. Right.

That’s a whole other can of worms. If the border patrol recognizes them, they’ll know Ilya isn’t a citizen. Then they’ll definitely not let him in, because no group of people hate Ilya Rozanov more than Canadians. 

Regardless of why, if Ilya gets turned away at the border, then he’ll be in big trouble. It’s all too risky. 

Ilya doesn’t make a sound until his leg is fully wrapped up. He sighs, long and shaky, and Shane finally finds the courage to look at him again. Shane gives him a smile, and Ilya responds with his own. It’s half-hearted and doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “There,” Shane hums, “All done.”

“Thank you.” Ilya murmurs, gently testing his calves, rolling his ankles. He’s probably really stiff. 

“Yea,” Shane responds immediately, “It’s no problem.” Ilya’s eyes flit elsewhere, probably ashamed, and Shane busies himself by tucking the roll of bandages away, back in his bag. “I think I need to get you an antiseptic spray.” Shane continues, deciding to voice his concerns out loud again, “I’ll stop somewhere.”

The wind howls, blowing through Shane’s hair , bitter cold. He shivers, cheeks rosy from spending this long outside of the car. It’s easy to forget how chilly it is when the Porsche’s heater is blasting most of the time. Gooseflesh crawls up Ilya’s bare legs and Shane feels him shutter, but when he looks back up to Ilya, he finds Ilya staring back at him, confused.

Ilya is squinting, his hazel eyes all tight, probably working his fevered mind overtime to understand the extent of what Shane is saying. But as the cogs turn in his head, Ilya’s eyebrows slowly furrow, little kindlings of anger and frustration starting to show themselves in his expression.

“I don’t need that,” Ilya responds.

“Your pus-filled wound says otherwise,” Shane says. 

“We’re almost to the border, yes?” Ilya asks, and Shane nods. “Then I’ll see stupid Canadian doctor. Is no big deal.” 

“Okay, but—” 

“Shane.” 

Ilya’s tone makes something in Shane’s brain short-circuit, because he’s so embarrassingly hardwired to this man’s demands. Ilya is firm, firm enough to make Shane go all soft-limbed and easy, which is a big part of the reason they’re even in this mess in the first place.  “No more stopping.” The words land flat and final. 

It makes Shane hesitate despite himself, like he’s been checked into the boards. He has to force himself to speak. “You’re going to get worse,” Shane argues quietly, “We’ve been careful. I can be careful again.” Fuck, they’ve been anything but careful. “I don’t want you getting worse, Ilya—”

Ilya cuts him off with a look alone. Even half-broken and shaking and exhausted, there’s something intimidating in him— an iron certainty that brooks no argument.  Ilya shifts, grimaces, then locks it back down. He’s clawing for control. Ilya can’t walk, he can barely move without pain, he’s completely left to Shane’s mercy. Oh, and Ilya hates that, doesn’t he? Shane thinks he hates it too. “You don’t leave the car,” Ilya snaps, and Shane’s mouth presses into a hard line. “And you don’t do stupid things, and you do not split us up.”

Shane shifts his gaze elsewhere. He’s frustrated. He doesn’t understand why Ilya is shutting him down like this. But, he also doesn’t miss the way Ilya’s hands are clenched behind him, knuckles white, or how his breathing is just a little too fast.

...Okay, maybe Shane does understand. He’s not great at picking up subtleties, but he knows Ilya just well enough to see that he’s still scared; it’s a fear buried just deep enough to come out as control. Ilya could just be afraid that Shane will go somewhere he can’t follow. Shane tries to remind himself that he almost died yesterday too, that he almost got bit by one of the sick, and that Ilya would’ve watched it happen if he was a second too slow.

Ilya’s jaw works like he’s chewing something bitter. When he speaks again, the words are firm, but there’s something strained underneath; “Say you understand,” he says.

Shane’s mouth opens. Closes. He feels suddenly twelve years old, caught doing something reckless he can’t quite explain.  He’s embarrassed, and he’s angry, so fucking angry becuase Ilya is turning his own words against him. Say you understand... When Shane said that yesterday, it was completely different. Completely fucking different! He’d be getting Ilya the antiseptic for his own good—

Ilya grips Shane’s chin. It’s not hard, but it’s enough to force their eyes to meet. He squishes Shane’s lips slightly between the press of his thumb and forefinger, and Shane distantly thinks back to Vegas, and how it pacified him so easily then. It, unfortunately, has the same effect now. “Say it, Shane. Tell me.” 

Shane nods before he really decides to, small and automatic. His cheeks burn with embarrassment and his chest feels tight, full of unsaid things. “I understand.” He murmurs, defeated.

“You do not leave the car, and you do not split us up,” Ilya repeats, “Say it.” 

“You’re an asshole,” He mutters, angrier with himself than he is with Ilya at this point. “I... Won’t leave.” It’s humiliating.

“Okay,” Ilya relaxes a fraction, like he had been bracing for impact. He tugs Shane’s face weakly, dragging him up into a kiss. Shane goes willingly, leaning in. “Okay,” he murmurs again, against Shane’s lips. Their lips lock just briefly, and it feels maybe a little apologetic, but Shane can tell Ilya is not all that sorry. He nudges his nose against Shane’s, eager for attention again. Shane, begrudgingly, gives it to him by scratching behind his ears. 

Ilya very swiftly starts to look sick again, his firm act giving way to his lethargy. When Shane really looks at him again, he looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over and his eyes are so, so soft, so deceptively harmless.

Afterward, Shane helps Ilya out of the car so they can piss, and it’s somehow not the most mortifyingly awkward thing they’ve ever done. Now that Shane isn’t tired from running for his life, supporting Ilya isn’t hard at all. Keeping an arm looped around his waist for balance is really all he needs. 

“Hollander, I think you need to hold my cock,” Ilya starts, “I am too weak...”

“Fuck you,” Shane replies, still amazed Ilya is capable of joking around.

“I am serious,” Ilya continues, “Shane, I am so sick. You are denying me this?” 

When Shane ignores him, Ilya tries to cross their streams. 

A stunned noise wrenches itself out of Shane’s throat, and if Ilya wasn’t so hurt right now, Shane definitely would’ve shoved him. “Stop it,” He scolds, however it’s undercut by his own giggling. His amusement quickly spreads to Ilya too, who starts wheezing out these little, breathy laughs.

Shane tries to smother out the memory of Ilya screaming in pain and replace it with the chuckling he’s doing now. It doesn’t work, but at least Ilya being silly with him sits warm and cozy in his chest. Shane holds onto it desperately, tucks it safely away behind his ribs. 

Shane has this terrible feeling that it won’t last long at all. Especially considering what he’s about to do.

Shane understands, he really does. But the world’s gone crazy, so he’ll just have to be crazy too— lest it take Ilya from him.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

The day has blurs into itself—brake lights, slow rolls forward, long stretches of doing nothing at all. Every time Shane hears Ilya stir behind him, he checks the mirror, checks his color, checks that steady rise and fall of his chest. Ilya sleeps in pieces in the backseat, drifting in and out, waking just long enough to eat whatever he can get his hands on. His appetite being intact enough to eat shitty packaged cookies from Logan airport is something Shane will take as a very, very good sign. 

Ilya seems okay right now. He’s sick for sure, and also in a lot of pain. But he’s conscious enough...There is also the possibility that Ilya is just doing a really good job of hiding how sick he really feels. That feels like something he would do.

By the time the sun starts to sink in the sky, Shane’s hands ache from the wheel and the arch of his foot is sore. 

There aren’t any big military vehicles flanking the highway anymore. No men with intimidating guns, no helicopters overhead. Shane is not so sure if that’s a good or bad thing. Even without a military presence, the traffic on the I-89 continues as usual. 

Shane could press forward and keep crawling with traffic. That’s what Ilya wants Shane to do, and that’s what his mom wants Shane to do. But Shane made his mind up hours ago, and there’s an exit coming up. A choice to make, a promise to go back on.

 Ilya is asleep, he’s been asleep for a while, his body doing it’s best to fight off that infection.

“Ilya?” Shane calls, gently.

Only Ilya’s soft, rhythmic breathing greets him in reply. Shane takes it as confirmation. 

Shane takes an exit without really thinking too hard about it, guided by a green sign that promises food and gas and nothing else. The road curves away from the highway and spills them into a place that barely qualifies as a town—no houses, no neighborhoods, just a low sprawl of buildings stitched between traffic lights like they were never meant to last.

Fast food signs loom dark against the orange sky; gas station, dollar store, pharmacy. All of it abandoned, cars frozen where they were left, doors hanging open, trash skittering across the pavement in the evening breeze.

Shane drives past once. Then again, slower. He could pull back onto the highway easily, take an exit ramp back onto the I-89 and listen to Ilya. But Shane doesn’t.

He turns down a narrow side road that slips behind the buildings, where the asphalt gives way to dirt and scrubby trees crowd in close. He parks the car in a shallow pocket of woods, just far enough that the road disappears behind leaves and shadow.

For a moment, Shane just sits there, hands still on the wheel, listening. No screams. No sobbing. There isn’t even bugsong, winter having gone too cold.

He twists in his seat and looks back at Ilya.

He’s asleep—really asleep, like Shane had suspected. Mouth parted slightly, his curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. The blanket has slipped down around his waist, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s trying to shut the world out entirely. His breathing is uneven but deep, exhaustion winning out over pain.

Shane’s chest tightens sympathetically at the sight of him. I won’t go far, Shane tells himself. In and out. Five minutes. Ilya won’t even know.

The pharmacy sign is visible through the trees if he leans just right. So close it almost feels insulting. So close, but not close enough that leaving Ilya here—alone, vulnerable, feverish—doesn’t feel like a horrible betrayal. But he has to, he just has to.

Shane reaches back and carefully tucks the blanket back up around Ilya’s shoulders. His fingers linger, brushing sweat-damp skin, gentle enough not to wake him. “I’ll be right back,” Shane whispers, even though Ilya can’t hear him. Even if Ilya doesn’t forgive him, Shane thinks he’ll be able to forgive himself if Ilya gets out of this alive.

As Shane retracts his arm, he carefully fishes his stick out from the footwell, holding it close to his chest. It’s a weapon now, Shane thinks, he doesn’t know how things will ever go back to normal after this. But he can’t dwell on that, not now, not yet.

As he steps out of the car, the air feels cooler than he expects, evening settling in fast. The woods creak softly behind him, and the town ahead is silent in that hollow, abandoned way that makes every sound feel too loud. There doesn’t seem to be anyone here, and Shane desperately hopes his first impression is correct.

Shane shuts the door as quietly as he can. He checks to make sure the quiet slam and rattle of the car didn’t wake Ilya up, and he’s relieved to see that it hadn’t. 

Shane locks the doors. Checks them. Then checks them again. He thinks, cautiously, of the encounter he had last night with that infected person lingering outside the Porsche. They were tapping because they couldn’t get in, right? So Ilya will be fine. 

He doesn’t look back when he starts toward the pharmacy, but every step away feels wrong, like stretching a thread too thin and hoping it doesn’t snap. Shane pushes his fleece a little tighter around himself, fixing its collar. 

There are cars abandoned along the road, doors hanging open, hazard lights long dead. A drive-thru sign creaks back and forth in the breeze, a McDonalds Shane knows Ilya would probably love a burger from, if they were open.

 Shane’s nerves jump at every little sound, his body reacting before his brain can catch up. He hates how exposed it feels, how there’s nowhere to go if something comes at him fast. He thinks of Logan, he thinks of the rest zone. This isn’t like that, he tells himself, this will be just like the mall. All the sick must’ve left by now, drawn elsewhere to spread their disease. Or at least, Shane really hopes that is the case.

He reaches a crosswalk and stops on instinct, foot hovering over the white stripe. The habit is so ingrained it almost makes him laugh, almost. He stands there for a second, absurdly waiting for a signal that will never change, then swallows and steps forward anyway.

The CVS comes into view at the end of the strip, squat and beige and utterly ordinary. Automatic doors, dark windows, a sale poster half-peeled and flapping at the corner. Shane feels a spike of relief and dread all at once.

He slows as he approaches, senses stretched thin, the quiet louder than any rink. The CVS’s glass reflects him back at himself— and, holy shit, he looks awful. Shane’s taken aback by his own appearance; over the past few days he’s only seen himself fleetingly in the black mirror of his phone, when his mom would hang up their calls prematurely. Despite the urgency of the situation, Shane steps in close to study himself, tipping his head back and forth in the dark windows as if he still can’t believe he’s looking at himself. 

Shane’s appearance has always been important to him, and although he was never overly into fashion or style or looking sexy, he was very much into looking presentable. Looking put together is maybe one of the most important things a human being can do; especially a very famous captain of the best hockey team in the world. He needed to be tidy at all times, to wear his brand deals, to be good representation for his sponsorships, his team, for other Asian men.

But right now he looks like shit. Shane pulls at his eyebags, rubs his palms over his stubble, and pokes at the fat bruise forming on his jaw. He looks like a completely different person. Shane, very suddenly, realizes he hasn’t brushed his teeth in days, and he feels a grimy horror so deep it feels downright primal. And now he’s aware of his facial hair too, of the itchy beginnings of a mustache starting to grow in, and he wants nothing more than to shave it. Ughh. Fuck. His skin is crawling. 

Shane moves on. He’ll steal some mouthwash too. Mouthwash and anti-sceptic. And maybe a razor to shave—  no, no, he’s getting too picky. Just antiseptic and mouthwash. And only the mouthwash if it’s convenient. 

The doors give with a dull, tired groan, rubber seals peeling back like they’re annoyed to be asked to work at all. Shane slips inside after wedging his stick through the doors. They thunk shut behind him, the sound echoing too loudly in the open space.

He stands there for a second longer than he should, listening. His own breathing sounds huge in his ears.

The lights are off, but there’s enough spill from the street to make shapes of things: aisles, endcaps, a toppled display of cough drops near the entrance. Quick, he tells himself. In and out. Don’t think about it.

His wedding band bites into his stick as he grips it tight, moving quietly down the aisles, trying to ensure his boots don’t scuff the carpeted floor too hard. His shoulders stay up around his ears, every nerve tuned for that sound— that sob-screech, the wet drag of feet.

Shane passes by the candy aisles. Anti-sceptic spray, mouthwash, Shane reminds himself, but still grabs a small bag of chocolate truffles, because Ilya will like that. Maybe Shane can coax some forgiveness out of Ilya with an offering of sweets.

Shane squints as he looks at the overhead signage, picking out the first aid aisle as he shoves the bag of chocolates under his arm. No more distractions.

The shelves are half-stripped, chaos frozen mid-panic. Bottles knocked over, boxes torn open and abandoned. Someone’s purse lies on the floor near the pharmacy counter, spilled out like they’d dropped it and just kept running. Shane swallows and forces himself past it. What the hell happened that night, the night he slept through everything? Shane still doesn’t know. He’ll have to ask his mom, maybe she’ll have more of an idea. There’s something so terrifying about it all, like the rest of the world just went on without him. 

Shane plucks a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash from a rack that is conveniently on the way. He shoves it into the deep pockets of his sweatpants as he keeps moving, eventually finding himself in that First Aid aisle. There’s a lot to look at, and Shane hesitates at the sprays, scanning labels with more care than the moment really allows. If he’s going to be spraying it all over Ilya’s big, open wound, he has to make sure it won’t make things worse for him. Shane spots one that looks right— Wound wash, the bottle says, and it’s got hypochlorous acid in it, whatever that is. But after reading the bottle front to back, it seems to be exactly what Ilya needs. It won’t fix him, but it’ll keep his wound clean.

Shane feels accomplished. He nods at the bottle. “There,” he murmurs to nobody but himself.

The spray bottle fits near-perfect in his other pocket— 

A sound breaks the quiet.

Not loud. Not close. Just—something. A soft thump from deeper in the store, followed by the faintest scrape, like, maybe a shoe catching on tile. 

Shane freezes.

Every thought drains out of him at once, leaving only that tight, electric fear buzzing under his skin. He listens so hard it hurts. One second stretches into two, into three. His heart thunders, convinced it’s giving him away. He’s frozen, like a little animal. His gaze locks onto the pharmacy window at the back of the CVS. Its large window looks so dark.

There’s a sharp clatter, plastic against laminate, and bottles full of pills rattle. Then a figure lurches into view. Scrubs, pale blue, stained dark in places Shane doesn’t want to look.  The infected’s movements are wrong, desperate and jerking, and its mouth opens on a broken sob that might have some semblance of a word buried inside it.

It scrambles, hands slapping uselessly against the pharmacy counter before it hauls itself over, knocking into trays and pill bottles as it comes. Its shoes hit the floor with a thud and it turns toward Shane, looking at him with it’s horrible red eyes.

“Oh—shit,” Shane breathes.

His body moves before fear can lock him up. He spins and runs.

Shane’s boots skid across the ground as he cuts out of the aisle. Not a full sprint, not yet, Shane knows better. Every step is measured so he doesn’t slip, as a fall would surely be the end considering how fast the sick can run. It’s like this disease just pushes and pushes at the human limit, regardless of pain, regardless of strain. But Shane still thinks, wildly, that he can outpace. He cuts back toward the entrance, breath coming sharp, the doors a dark rectangle ahead of him. The footsteps behind him pick up, that awful half-run, half-lurch— accompanied by that ever familiar broken noise, stuck halfway between a cry and a scream.

The doors. Fuck, the doors are closed. 

Shane slams into them, shoulder first, like a hard hit against the boards. And, much like the boards, they don’t give. One side is twisted inward, metal frame bent just enough to catch. The automatic sensor whines uselessly. Panic spikes so hard it makes his vision blur. Shane thinks about Ilya alone in the car, fever-warm and half asleep. 

“Come on—come on,” he gasps, jamming his hands into the gap. He wedges his hockey stick sideways and leans, all his weight shoved into it. The glass shudders. Somewhere behind him, something crashes, closer now, forcing breathless lungs to make that horrible screaming noise.

The doors finally give with a shriek of protesting metal.

Shane stumbles out into the open air and sprints—three steps, four—

—and catches his foot on a concrete parking block.

He goes down hard, so panicked he can’t even stop himself. The impact rattles his teeth. His palms scrape asphalt, skin burning, the world knocking sideways. For half a second he can’t breathe, can’t move, just hears his own pulse pounding in his ears as pain radiates up his skull.

There’s a clatter as his stick falls onto the pavement, and Shane’s fingers fumble for it blindly. He grabs it tight, rolls over onto his back, and swings it into the frail ribcage of his crazed pursuer as she lunges for him. Even though Shane is panicking and hurt, his hit is enough to send her sick body crumpling to the side, more blood splotching all over the blade as puffy skin pops on impact. 

Shane scrambles upright, his pain forgotten. His gaze flits to the body that he just hit as ahe  squirms and readjusts herself, puppeting muscle and nerve. Blonde hair falls out of what was likely once a neatly-tied bun, drifting to the pavement in clumps. She sobs again, gurgling blood being pushed out of her throat by overworked lungs. 

She... No, it. It does not bother standing up before swiping for Shane again. It misses him, and begins writhing across the pavement— fragile, diseased skin peeling off with each pull. It lunges for him again and again, always missing. 

Shane does not run.

 Becoming a pharmacist is hard, Shane thinks, probably lots of undergraduate and graduate work. She looked older, although it’s hard to tell due to what the disease has done to her face. Maybe she had worked there for years, greeted thousands of people, and now she’s just a corpse dragging across the pavement in blind, thoughtless agony.

It isn’t a choice Shane makes. He steps forward, twisting his stick in his hands, and brings the blunt end down over it’s head.

After that, there is only noise and momentum. His body moves like it’s been waiting for this all along,  something connects, there’s a jolt that rattles up through his bones.  He doesn’t register pain, or sound, or even the thing at his feet. There is just an obstacle; another thing keeping him and Ilya from getting to the border, keeping them from going home. 

Then everything goes white. Blank. Gone.

Shane comes back with his hands shaking. They ache in a deep, distant way, like they’ve been used too hard for something they were never meant to do. The air smells wrong, metallic and thick, like Ilya’s wound but somehow a lot worse.

Shane’s stick is broken. The lower end of the shaft lays in the pavement, covered in blood. Something in Shane’s head feels broken too.

The streetlights paint Shane’s shadow long, stretching it over the now limp body at his feet. Feet, legs, torso, shoulders— then nothing. His brain hastily blocks it out, memories stitching over themselves to keep his psyche intact. Shane can’t comprehend what he’s looking at, or what he did. 

His heart is still racing, but the rage is gone, burned out as fast as it arrived. In its place is something hollow and stunned. He stares at his hands like they belong to someone else, turning them over slowly, as if searching for proof of what he doesn’t remember doing.

“I didn’t—” he starts, then stops.

There’s no one to explain it to. No one to reassure him that this didn’t change something fundamental inside him. Nothing will ever be the same, especially not now. Not after this. 

Shane drops what remains of his stick, and it makes a hollow sound as it rattles against the pavement. He turns and steps away, walking down the street, passing over the crosswalk without pausing. Shane hopes, prays, that she wasn’t thinking anymore, that she was dead, that she couldn’t feel any of that. He hopes that they’re all just dead.

At some point, Shane starts running. He doesn’t remember when, or really even why. The parking lot blurs past—dark storefronts, the faint glow of streetlights just starting to buzz on. He doesn’t register the ground under his feet or the shape of the street or the way his lungs burn. Those things belong to someone else. 

There is only the direction. A point he’s running toward without really seeing it. If he keeps moving, if he doesn’t slow down, then maybe he won’t have to feel anything at all. 

“Hollander!?” Shane thinks he hears, but fuck, he might just be hallucinating. The sound replays softer in Shane’s head, a fondness accompanying it that exists in his memory alone.

I’m not cut out for this, Shane thinks, over and over, like if he repeats it enough it’ll become an explanation instead of a confession.

He’s so stupid. He’s so, so fucking stupid. This is so terrible. He just wants to get Ilya out of this alive, he just wants to get them home, away from this, and Ilya is going to hate him. Fuck, Shane wants his mom. He blindly hopes that his mom will pick him up, like he can just manifest it into happening. That she’ll be waiting for him at the end of the street, and she’ll hug him and drive him home while he dozes off in her backseat, listening to dad’s old CDs. And everything will be normal.

He wants to fall asleep in the backseat. And he wants to wake up tucked into bed, without having made the decision to walk there. He wants Ilya to be there too, and he’ll kiss the notches in his spine and all of his moles.

The image of teeth on the pavement flashes through Shane’s mind, brain matter on his stick.

“Shane!” It’s more frantic now.

The trees ahead are darker and denser now, the place where he’d hidden the car. Relief spikes so sharp it almost knocks him off-balance, but horrible guilt accompanies it. Shane pushes harder, legs burning, every step fueled by the desperate need to get back to Ilya, to get back home, to try and forget about all of this.

The car comes into view, but Shane’s eyes snag on something else first.

Ilya is braced against a tree a few yards from the car, one hand pressed hard into the bark for balance. His injured leg hangs useless, the toe of his sneaker barely brushing the ground, his whole body pitched forward with the effort of staying upright.

He must’ve woken up. He must’ve realized Shane was gone. Ilya was coming to get him, or at least he was trying to.

Their eyes meet. Ilya’s face twists immediately—horror washing away into relief, then crashing right back into horror. Shane can somehow tell Ilya’s gaze is flicking all over the blood and snot drooling from Shane’s nose. 

“Shane!” Ilya shouts, but it comes out rough and thin, the sound chewed up by exhaustion and sickness. “What—what did you do?”

Shane’s panic turns into grief and it just hollows him right out, leaves him raw and shaking with nowhere to put his remaining adrenaline, the blood on his face hot, his tears hotter. Shane slows down, stumbling to a stop. His shoulders heave, His throat tightens painfully, and he swipes at his face with the back of his wrist; furious at himself for how wet his eyes feel, for how hard it is to breathe like a normal person. 

“I’m—” Shane croaks out, “I’m sorry.” He forces himself quiet, pinning the urge to sob between his molars. He refuses to cry in front of someone he thinks so fucking highly of. Instead, the anguish comes out of him through tremors that wrack his limbs. 

Shane wants Ilya to hate him, to be furious. But he just isn’t. Ilya looks distraught, and that’s a lot worse than anger. 

Ilya limps over, practically stumbling. “What happened?” He says again, softer this time but still obviously really upset. “Shane...” Ilya says Shane’s name like he’s been holding it in his mouth for too long.  

Shane opens his mouth to answer and nothing comes out. His chest feels too tight, like whatever rage and terror burned through him earlier scorched the air right out of his lungs and never put it back. 

Ilya’s hands find him. One braces against Shane’s chest for support, while the other hovers around like he’s afraid to touch anything that could be hurting. His fingers eventually brush under Shane’s bloody nose, likely with the intention to wipe it, but he’s too clumsy and he just ends up smearing more blood over Shane’s cheek. “Are you hurt?” Ilya asks, sounding dazed but still looking objectively terrified. Ilya is panting, trying to catch his breath. Shane watches a bead of sweat drip off the tip of his nose. 

Shane shakes his head, then nods, then shakes it again. He doesn’t know which is true. Shane makes a sound he doesn’t recognize—something between a breath and a sob—and then he’s clutching at Ilya’s shirt, and Ilya’s hand is cradling the back of his head, guiding his forehead down against his collarbone. The tension drains out of Shane in a rush that leaves him swaying. His breathing stutters, uneven and sharp, like he’s still trying to outrun something that’s already long gone. 

“I did something,” he whispers into the fabric of Ilya’s tanktop. The words come out quiet and ashamed. “Ilya, I— fuck, Ilya. I’m so sorry.”

Ilya’s cold fingers rub at Shane’s scalp, carding through his short hair. “I heard you screaming,” Ilya murmurs, voice trembling, sounding so small. Fuck. Of course he did. Ilya probably thought he was listening to Shane dying, and that there was nothing he could’ve done about it. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says again, “I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“You keep driving,” Ilya says in answer, “That is what you said. You said—”

“I didn’t, I never said that,” Shane huffs, trying to swallow down the knot in his throat, trying to find his anger but it’s just so burnt out of him he doesn’t think he can ever feel anything but despair and fear ever again. He pulls back just enough to look at Ilya, but keeps his hands firmly wrapped around Ilya’s waist so the man has something to lean onto. “I said I understood. And I do, fuck, Ilya, I really do, but I can’t— I couldn’t— I had to do something! Something for your leg!”

Ilya blinks at him slowly. He’s not acting right. He’s undoubtedly upset, but he’s also dazed, delayed, and just not meeting Shane’s hysterics with his own. He looks exhausted, like keeping himself upright is taking everything he has. Whatever emotions are rifling through his head are tempered by lethargy. He nods, like he understands. “Okay,” Ilya’s voice takes on something softer, almost whispered, and despite both of their sorry states it somehow soothes Shane a little, “Is okay.” He gently tucks Shane’s head back against his shoulder, right where it belongs, petting his head. Shane goes down easy despite how much he hates seeing Ilya so sick. He clings to him tight, squeezing until Ilya grunts.

 “ебать,” Ilya whimpers, and Shane can feel Ilya’s shoulders trembling, and he thinks he might be crying, but it’s hard to say.

They’re both silent. Shane is thinking a thousand things, all at once. He’s sure Ilya is too. But neither of them speak. Shane listens to the thud of Ilya’s heart and soaks in his fever-warm heat instead. His eyes slip shut at some point.

He did what he had to, Shane convinces himself, because it’s the only way he can move on from this. 

Ilya starts to shiver. It’s cold out. He’s only in his tank top and underwear, which are certainly not clothes to be outdoors in, especially not in this weather. “Let’s—” Shane stutters, “The car...” Shane doesn’t want to pull away from the embrace, as he’s afraid all his terrible thoughts will crowd back in once Ilya isn’t there to stop them. But he has to keep moving.

Shane slings Ilya’s arm over his shoulders and helps him back to the Porsche. What an ugly car.

They drive just long enough to put distance between themselves, the town, and what Shane did. Ilya puts on one of Shane’s flannels as Shane drives in silence past the I-89 onramp, and keeps driving until the road dips off and rises into a low, grassy hill tucked away from view. Trees line one side, the other sloping down into shadow. Quiet, and hidden enough.

Shane parks and turns the engine off. He feels stable. Not normal, but stable. He can breathe and think again.

Shane helps Ilya out of the car, and they end up sitting together in the grass, under a starless sky. Shane checks Ilya’s wound, unwrapping it with learned precision, his jaw set in concentration. The wound looks just as nasty as before— pus filled and inflamed— but it’s not any worse, and that makes the knot in Shane’s chest loosen just a fraction. Ilya watches him, head tipped back against the car, his gaze twitching across Shane’s face.

“Okay,” Shane murmurs, talking to himself as much as he is to Ilya. He pulls the wound-wash spray from his pocket, the very thing he clubbed someone’s head in for. “I’m gonna try it. Ready?” 

Ilya nods once. He squints and looks away, bracing.

Shane presses his finger on the trigger, and a thin mist puffs out of the nozzle. He coats Ilya’s wound with it, and... Nothing happens. No agonized screaming, or writhing, or anything. Ilya doesn’t even flinch.

Ilya blinks, surprised, then lets out a shaky breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “That’s… It?”

“That’s it,” Shane says, relief flooding his voice despite himself. He wasn’t totally sure that it wouldn’t hurt, but he’s glad it doesn’t. “Told you.” Shane caps the bottle and starts working on re-bandaging Ilya’s wound. Shane is very grateful he didn’t get kicked in the face again. “That should slow the infection,” Shane explains as he wraps Ilya’s leg back up, “So we’ll have plenty of time to get you to a doctor before it gets bad, I think.” 

Shane ties off the bandage and looks back up to meet Ilya’s gaze, but he finds Ilya staring at him, almost intensely. He’s thinking.

Ilya studies Shane for a long, searching moment, and whatever Shane was about to say withers in his throat. Something breaks through the fog of Ilya’s fever enough to draw his mouth into a tight frown. His eyes are glassy, swollen at the edges and heavy with exhaustion—but there’s anger there too, simmering just beneath the surface, and Shane gets the sense that it’s turned inward. 

Ilya has landed on a thought he doesn’t like, that much is clear. What that thought might be, Shane can’t tell. It could be anything, considering how much everything fucking sucks.

Ilya’s hands come up suddenly, framing Shane’s face. His fingertips trace over the freckles there, and his thumbs settle gently into the dark circles beneath Shane’s eyes. Shane thinks of his reflection earlier, and the memory clashes with how Ilya is gazing at him now. Ilya gives him a look that might just be loving, and it’s certainly not fit for someone who undeniably looks like ass. Shane doesn’t know what to do with that, but his heart still pounds quickly in his chest with a feeling that is far kinder than fear. 

“I thought you died,” Ilya says, “I thought.. Your screaming.. That you were dying.” He shakes his head, “And I could do nothing.” The fear in his eyes is naked, unguarded in a way Shane has almost never seen. It makes his chest feel too small to hold his heart. “Do not do this again.” Ilya continues, a little firmer now, like he needs Shane to hear it. “Please.”

Please, fuck, he said please. Shane doesn’t want Ilya to beg him for that. Shane swallows, throat burning. He shakes his head faintly, lifting his hands to cover Ilya’s, keeping them there. “I won’t,” He confirms, “I won’t leave you again, Ilya.”

“No—” Ilya nearly hisses, wincing, “That isn’t what I mean.” Shane raises an eyebrow in question, all while tracing circles over Ilya’s knuckles with his thumbs. “I mean...” Ilya huffs, trailing off, frustrated. He goes quiet for a moment. 

“It’s okay,” Shane encourages softly.

Ilya chews the inside of his cheek, like he’s rolling through all the potential words he wants to say, trying to decide what is best. “I want you safe,” he decides on, “I don’t want you doing risks. Risks like, spray, or, carrying me to my car.” Ilya tilts his head, “Do you understand?” 

Shane does understand. But he won’t stop taking risks because he loves Ilya. And that is something Shane can’t explain, not fully, anyway. 

Shane nods where he’s sandwiched between Ilya’s big hands. “I understand,” Shane confirms softly, “But I want you to be safe too.”

 Ilya grimaces. Shane exhales, eyes dropping for a second before he looks back at Ilya. There’s so much he wants to say— but it’s too much, and it’s all tangled up and vulnerable. Telling Ilya he loves him is out of the question. He doesn’t want to trouble him anymore than he already has.

Shane sighs, figuring something out.  “I’m not like your family—”

“I know this,” Ilya cuts in.

“Okay, sure, but my... Care for you, it doesn’t have strings attached.” The words feel heavy in Shane’s mouth, carefully chosen. “This isn’t… I’m not doing this because I have to, or because it’s the right thing, or because I’d feel guilty if I didn’t.” Shane squeezes Ilya’s wrists when his hands start to tremble, “I want this. I’m happy to do it. Even though I know you hate it.” 

Ilya’s expression tightens, apprehension flickering behind his exhaustion. He shifts slightly, like the words have put him on unstable ground. “Shane,” he says, hesitant, almost wary, “I don’t know if...”

Ilya trails off and allows Shane to interrupt him, which is something that just simply wouldn’t happen if Ilya was feeling his best. “If I were the one who was hurt, you’d keep me safe, right?” Shane asks.

Ilya nods immediately, intense and urgent, like he doesn’t want Shane to think otherwise for even a single second. It’s sweet, and the sentiment warms up the cold feeling that took over Shane’s heart when he broke his stick smashing that sick woman’s head open. “Of course,” Ilya says.

 “Yea, see,” Shane says quietly, feeling like Ilya proved his point, “It’s just like that.”

That doesn’t soothe Ilya, and it maybe even increases his frustration, actually. He pinches his lips together, his hands smoothing down Shane’s neck, coming to rest at his shoulders. He presses his thumbs into the dip of Shane’s collarbone. “No, is different.” 

Shane huffs, offended. “How so?” 

“I—” Ilya starts, then cuts himself off. He mutters some Russian curse under his breath. “English is hard.” Shane knows that's a lie, the statement just serving to cover up why he doesn’t have an answer immediately available. “Is just different.” Ilya’s expression shifts in slow, subtle ways, worry pulling at his mouth, fear sitting heavy behind his eyes, something softer and far more dangerous threaded through it all; something warm, something Shane can’t bring himself to trust fully. To complicate it all even further, Ilya’s emotions are all muffled by his fever, dulled but not gone.

Shane knows that this is only the surface of it, that there’s much more going on inside Ilya’s head than what’s being said outloud. Something deep and complicated, something Shane hasn’t earned yet. Shane can feel the edge of it the way you can feel the cold through a door before stepping outside.

What's wrong, talk to me. That’s what Shane wants to say.

The urge sits sharp and insistent in his chest. Shane wants to know what Ilya is thinking, to open him up gently— to reach inside and hold Ilya’s heart safe in his hands. Shane’s never been that for Ilya, but he’s always wanted to be. Maybe the desire is just more pressing now than it ever has been considering their dire circumstances.

But he doesn’t ask. The question sits heavy in his chest.

Questions will come with answers, and answers have weight. And Shane isn’t sure either of them can carry anymore weight right now. 

So, Shane just kisses Ilya instead. They’re both really gross, but there’s something nice about it. Raw, like they’re not hiding anything from each other, even though they most certainly are. It’s nice to pretend.

 Shane nudges his forehead to Ilya’s, feeling how fever-hot it is against his own. “I’m getting you to the border,” Shane promises, maybe for the hundredth time now. Ilya doesn’t argue. 

Blurry in the corner of Shane’s eye, Ilya still looks uncertain. But he nods, just barely, and lets the moment settle between them. Whatever he’s holding back isn’t resolved, but it’s calm. That’s good enough, for now.

“I’m sorry I’m not doing this right,” Shane murmurs, “I’m not like you.” 

It hurts to admit. Ilya stood for everything Shane wasn’t, and Shane’s always hated that. Effortlessly confident, masculine, steady. Shane has always tried, so hard, to be more like Ilya. But he just isn’t. He can’t ever be. And loving Ilya on top of that has always made the pill a lot harder to swallow.

Ilya squints at him, “What do you mean?”

Shane sighs. He doesn’t want to explain it anymore, it sucks enough as is. “Like,” Shane starts, “I’m not taking very good care of you, I think.” His gaze skitters away, embarrassed to admit it. It sounds more self-depracating than he means it to. “I know you don’t trust me—” that’s worse, “—I don’t blame you, I mean. I’m not...” Fuck. Come on. 

“You don’t think I trust you?” Ilya sounds so upset. Shit.

“No, it’s not that.” It’s exactly that, “I’m not strong like you.” 

Ilya frowns, shaking his head. “I do not think that,” he says, and he gives Shane’s shoulders a weak shake, like he’s trying to knock some sense into his head. “I trust you. Fuck, Shane.” Ilya sounds tired, Shane feels bad for even bringing this up. “I’m glad it’s you. Remember? I do not lie.” 

Shane nods. He’s so tired. “I know.” 

“I’m not upset with you, never you,” Ilya says, “I just hate this. My leg, not you. I hate making you do all these things for me. Like spray. And wrapping my gross cut.” 

Shane nods again. “Okay,” He whispers, “But I don’t mind. You’re not making me do anything.”

Ilya wilts a little. He seems exasperated at this point. There’s something on his mind that he still just refuses to share with Shane. “It doesn’t make it easier,” Ilya murmurs, “Because I... ебать.” Ilya is getting too worked up.  Shane rubs at his chest, trying to soothe him, still feeling guilty. Ilya wets his dry lips, eyes lifting upward, towards an empty sky.

“Я тебя люблю.” It’s barely a whisper.

“What does that mean?” Shane asks, gently.

Ilya closes his eyes, like he’s bracing for a hit. “It means…” The words stall out. He holds his breath too long, the air caught tight in his ribs, until it all spills out in one heavy sigh. “It means you really scared me,” Ilya finally croaks, and he suddenly looks like he’s going to cry. He doesn’t, but It still invokes some sympathetic coo from out of Shane’s throat, a kindness he’s still relievingly capable of after what he just did. 

Shane smooths his hands over Ilya’s face, brushing back his sweaty curls, “I know. I’m sorry, bud.” He murmurs as Ilya really smashes their faces together, like he’s trying to crawl underneath Shane’s skin and live there. Ilya’s nose pressing to his makes his face throb dully, but it’s a nice pain, a reminder he’s here with Ilya. 

Things could’ve gone really bad. What would’ve happened if he did die, or got bit, and he left Ilya all alone, injured like he was? Fuck, Shane can’t even bring himself to think on it anymore than he already has. He forces the intrusive thoughts out of his head by changing the subject.

“Is my nose broken?” Shane asks, and Ilya pulls back to look at him. Ilya takes Shane’s chin into his hand and gently tips his head side to side. Shane’s cheeks feel warm.

“No,” Ilya murmurs, “Is okay. You’re still handsome.” 

“I look like shit, Ilya,” Shane huffs.

Ilya finally, finally smiles. Just a little, enough to show a peek of his teeth behind his lips. “Mm.” Ilya hums in agreement, and Shane pretends he’s offended. “But I do too, yes? Is okay, world is ending.” 

“Don’t say that,” Shane scolds, very lightly. Part of him thinks Ilya is right. He thinks of his broken stick and his heart sinks a little. 

Do you think we’ll play hockey again? Shane wants to ask. But he doesn’t, because it feels really trivial when Ilya has a gaping wound in his leg and Shane just bashed someone's head in. He also might just be afraid of Ilya’s answer, Shane doesn’t think he could handle the weight of it.

Ilya distracts Shane by touching under his nose again, brushing at all the blood that’s just starting to flake away. He tries to rub it off but Shane flinches a little, his whole face feels sore. “I want to clean you up,” Ilya says, and Shane nods. He’d feel like an asshole if he were to deny him, especially after Ilya’s been so well-behaved during all the torment Shane’s put him through. 

Shane gets up and returns with what little remains of the water bottle Shane used to clean Ilya’s leg out with this morning, and a cloth from his bag. He hands them over, sitting in front of Ilya cross-legged.

The cloth is cool when it touches Shane’s face, damp with clean water, and Ilya moves slowly. He wipes away the dried blood at Shane’s nose, the smear along his cheekbone, the grit caught at the corner of his mouth. His touch is so gentle it almost hurts, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already pretty busted. It makes Shane smile, just a little. Ilya is focused; his tired eyes squinted, tongue pressed lightly between his teeth— Cute. He sends Shane’s heart aflutter.

The world seems to shrink around them as Ilya works, the dark hill and the road and the end of everything falling away until there’s only this small, careful space between their knees. Ilya’s hands are steady despite the fever, so gentle with Shane, gentle in a way Shane likes to believe Ilya reserves specially for him. Maybe it’s a selfish, unfounded thought. But it makes Shane happy, and he desperately needs that right now.

When he’s done with Shane’s face, he takes his hands into his lap. 

Shane’s palms are scraped raw from the pavement, from trying to catch himself when he fell. They sting slightly now that the adrenaline has faded. Ilya cleans them patiently, thumbs brushing over Shane’s knuckles as he sprays the antiseptic. 

Shane barely feels it. He barely feels anything except the lukewarm-warmth of Ilya’s fingers and the way his chest keeps going tight with emotion he doesn’t have words for. Well, he does have the words, but he can’t share them. So he keeps them locked up behind his ribs.

Ilya brings Shane’s fingers to his mouth to kiss them, his lips nudging against Shane’s ring. Even now,  sick, scared and exhausted, Ilya is so sweet. He’s almost indulgent with his kissing, grateful, even. Shane feels Ilya’s thumb press over his pulse, and it flutters happily to greet him. Ilya sighs at that, and with his exhale the remaining tension in his face finally starts to fully ebb away. 

Shane feels like nothing can get them now. It’s the first time he’s felt safe in days. 

“You do not want to get an infection,” Ilya jokes with a soft smile. It gets a dry laugh out of Shane. 

“Thanks,” Shane says, and Ilya sets the spray down. Shane’s hands don’t need bandages, and the small cuts would be pretty hard to wrap up anyway. “Are you mad at me?” Shane asks.

“No,” Ilya says, and leans forward to press a quick kiss to Shane’s forehead. “I’m just happy you’re okay.” 

Shane feels bitter that he had to wait for the world to end to accept Ilya’s affections. “Do you wanna get going?” He asks. 

Ilya hesitates. Shane can see the answer in his eyes before he voices it. “No. Not yet,” Ilya murmurs, almost hesitant, “Is nice here.” 

If he wasn’t so sick, Shane assumes Ilya would find this boring. 

But Shane still nods. It is nice here. It’s quiet for once, and the open air is brisk in a refreshing sort of way.  It’s just him, Ilya, and the moon. It also doesn’t hurt that lingering here will stall the stress around crossing the border just a bit longer, and Shane gladly welcomes that. He doesn’t want to think about all of his worries right now, it’s all too much. He just wants to think about Ilya, to feel the warmth of his body and the press of his lips.

Without a word, Ilya shifts carefully, easing himself down into the grass. He moves slowly, testing his leg, then settles on his side and rests his head in Shane’s lap, so natural. Shane’s hands hover for a second before he allows his fingers to thread through Ilya’s curls. Ilya sighs like an old dog getting comfortable.

“You take good care of me,” Ilya whispers. 

Shane’s immediate instinct is to deny it. “Don’t just say things...”

“I’m not,” Ilya murmurs, squeezing Shane’s knee, “You do.” 

Shane wants to tell Ilya he loves him. And, like always, he doesn’t. It’s just another almost, a line between them Shane just cannot cross.

Ilya looks small like this, like a little boy. That protective ache flares up in Shane’s chest again, and he scratches gently at Ilya’s scalp, his thumb pressing little circles into Ilya’s crown. Shane wonders if Ilya is daydreaming about his mom coming to save him too. 

They sit like that, quiet. Like the world isn’t fucking ending, like they have all the time in the world. For some reason, it’s easy to ignore the ticking time bomb in Ilya’s bloodstream right now. Maybe Shane’s just too tired— Well, yes, he’s beyond exhausted. So it’s nice to just sit and breathe easy for a few minutes. He doesn’t have to worry about driving or the border or any of it.  

Not long after, Ilya’s breathing draws out, slow and long. He’s sleeping, Shane notices right away... Poor guy. 

Shane leans over slightly to study Ilya; his parted lips, his flushed skin, just how sick and tired he looks. The sight produces another soft sound from Shane, something close to a sigh, and he brushes his knuckles gently along Ilya’s jawline. “M’ gonna do my best,” Shane murmurs under his breath, so quietly he’s convinced he doesn’t really say it out loud at all.

Shane lingers for a while longer, letting the moment stretch until the night air grows too-cool and the ground beneath them starts to ache. Eventually, carefully, Shane shifts. He murmurs a quiet apology that Ilya likely doesn’t hear fully, and gathers him up as gently as he can, easing him back into the car.

Ilya is mostly dead weight in his arms, but Shane doesn’t really mind. Shane is strong enough to hold him, even if arranging him is a little tricky. 

Shane debates driving more. He decides he can’t. He needs just a little rest; an hour, maybe two. That should buy Shane enough energy to get them to the border without falling asleep behind the wheel. 

So Shane settles them into the back seat together, cramped but close. He pulls Ilya against his chest like he did last night, tucking him in, one arm wrapped securely around his waist. Ilya doesn’t wake— not fully, anyway. He just presses closer, instinctive, seeking warmth. He murmurs something into Shane’s chest, but it’s so quiet and sleepy that Shane can’t tell what language he’s speaking, if he’s even saying words at all.

The silence leaves Shane’s mind room to wander. He scrolls through what happened today, somewhat unwillingly. The images try to form, sharp and frightening, but they never quite land. It dissolves in the fever-warmth of Ilya’s body, in the simple certainty of him being here, alive and real and safe enough.

Shane’s eyes start to burn. His limbs feel boneless with exhaustion, the kind that sinks straight into his marrow. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever felt so tired before, even after a game, or even after a whole season. 

He presses his forehead briefly to Ilya’s hair, breathes him in, and sleep takes him so quickly it’s almost merciful.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Shane wakes with a jolt, stiff and sore, the light already high and white through the windshield. There were no unwanted visitors tonight.

He drives for hours after that—through that same, seemingly never-ending traffic on the I-89.

Shane gives llya the chocolates he stole for him. Ilya doesn’t eat them. 

“Later,” Ilya had murmured, his voice so frail, “Not hungry.”

Somewhere along the way, the military presence fades completely, soldiers and checkpoints falling farther apart, until it’s almost possible to pretend things are normal.

Almost.

When the border finally comes into view, it really does feel like the world might be ending.

The sun sets behind a completely unrecognizable Highgate Springs. Temporary structures crowd the crossing; metal barricades, floodlights, portable buildings, clusters of armed soldiers. Cars are funneled into wide, separating lanes, guided by hand signals and shouted instructions. All of it was clearly built to handle more people, more scrutiny, more fear.

But Shane’s heart still pounds. Not because of the crowding, not because of the big guns the soldiers carry, and not because of the chance that the sick might be drawn here. 

He’s scared because Ilya has gotten worse, and the possibility of him getting turned away becomes more and more terrifying with each inch forward. Shane has been counting miles, counting hours, promising to get Ilya over the border— and now it’s right fucking there, and Shane’s mortified of it. Freedom feels so close, just out of reach, and Shane doesn’t think he can handle it if it slips through his fingers now. 

It’s a decision. A place where someone else gets to say yes or no. And it’ll be final. 

Shane looks down at his wedding band. This better work.

“Ilya,” Shane says, unable to keep the strain out of his voice. “We’re here.” 

Behind him, Ilya stirs. He’s quieter than he was yesterday, slower. He’s pulling on his pants with clumsy fingers, breath hitching as he brushes the fabric against his wound. The fever seems to have settled deeper into him, dulling the sharpness Shane’s used to. He only nods in reply, slack-jawed and hardly present. Shane frowns.

“We were traveling on our fourth anniversary, to America. Remember?” Shane gently reminds Ilya of their story in an attempt to gauge how lucid he is.

“What?” Okay, so not very lucid at all.

“Our plan, yea? We’re married, so you can get across the border.”

“Yes, sorry,” Ilya grunts as he arches his back, pulling his pants on the rest of the way, “I remember.” His accent sounds remarkably thicker right now.

Shane sighs, concern knitting up his brow. Ilya wasn’t being very convincing. “Let me do the talking?” Shane offers gently.

“Yes,” Ilya gladly accepts, “You talk.” 

Right when Shane thinks they’re about to slink right back into a cold silence for the rest of the drive, Ilya’s arm slides into that narrow gap between the seat and the door. His fingertips trace the line from Shane’s chin, up towards his ear. Shane feels it everywhere at once—along his neck, down his spine, a sharp awareness blooming in his chest. It steels something in him, snapping things into place.

Very suddenly, Shane isn’t so scared anymore. Because there is one thing he can count on, one thing he’s known since the second all this started; Shane won’t walk away from this without Ilya. He chooses him, no matter what.

He doesn’t know what that means yet, not in any clear or sensible way. But he’s already crossed lines he never thought he would, so another one wouldn’t feel so different now.

The certainty is comforting. It gives him something to fight for, a goal to score.

Ilya hooks a finger along Shane’s ear, just holding him there, tugging slightly on his earlobe— affectionate. His hands are so cold. 

I got you, Shane thinks. I’m going to take care of you. Whatever it takes.

A soldier waves them into a specific lane.

Shane follows the direction without thinking too hard about it, easing the car forward until another soldier steps in front of the hood and points decisively to the shoulder. The man’s rifle hangs heavy against his chest, close enough that Shane can’t help but notice it. 

“Pull over,” the soldier says. He’s not as friendly-looking as the one they met at the Vermont checkpoint. “Engine off. Everyone out of the vehicle for screening.”

Shane’s mouth goes dry. He nods, does exactly as he’s told, hands suddenly too aware of themselves as he shuts the car off. “Okay,” he says, voice thinner than he’d like. “My uh, my husband’s hurt.” Shane is already really bad at this, “We were in an accident—I’ll need a second to get him out.”

The soldier studies him for a beat, then gives a short nod. Procedure. Just another car.

He doesn’t recognize Shane. This man has probably seen thousands of cars and thousands of faces. They’d probably all start to blur together after a while, right? And it doesn’t hurt that the left side of Shane’s face is pretty swollen, leaving him at least a little different looking. He suddenly feels thankful that Ilya kicked him yesterday.

Shane opens the door, the cold air rushing in. Ilya has already arranged himself in a way that makes it really easy to scoop him up. Shane slings Ilya’s arm over his shoulders and Ilya keeps weight off his injured leg as he stands, supplementing it by leaning into Shane.

“Never too late for hat trick,” Ilya mutters, hazy, under his breath. Shane can’t find it within himself to laugh. 

The soldier leads them away from the Porsche, toward painted lines on the pavement marking a symptom-screening zone. On either side of Shane, others are being processed the same way; families, mothers holding infants, beat-up lone survivors.

And then there’s him and Ilya.

They stand there, in front of the soldier, silent for a horrifyingly awkward second. 

We went on vacation to America for our fourth anniversary. We were visiting Boston, where we met at an art museum. We like art. We’re art people.

The soldier steps closer, clipboard in hand, and clears his throat. 

“Show me your teeth,” he says.

Chapter 5: One Of A Kind II

Chapter Text

Shane’s screening goes fine, but he was never worried about that.

The check was quick and clinical; A light in his eyes, a glance at his gums, a few curt questions. He passes without comment and is waved aside just as briskly, directed to stand behind a line painted in the pavement a few feet away. He hadn’t wanted to let go of Ilya, but by the time he twisted around to fight against the hand on his back it was already a little too late. Obedient to a fault.

He frowns, hands nervously thrumming along his sides, like gripping the air will help him hold Ilya up. Still, he decides that behaving is the best thing he can do right now, even if he is worried about Ilya. These soldiers, impersonal and stern as they are, they’re here to help, right?

One of the two soldiers takes Ilya by his arm, fingers closing just above the elbow to keep him upright. The grip looks too firm, too casual about the fact that Ilya is hurt, rough, unnecessary. Shane’s stomach twists and he takes a step forward without thinking, pulse spiking— don’t fucking touch him like that, he’s hurt, be gentle—  only for Ilya to lift his free hand slightly, palm out. A small, deliberate gesture. It’s okay. Or maybe just don’t. 

Shane freezes, obeying him even as it eats at him.

Ilya lets himself be held upright, weight yielding easily, like his body has already decided it doesn’t have the energy to argue. He doesn’t even seem embarrassed. If he’s letting this happen, it means he’s worse than he’s been admitting.

The second soldier steps in, flashlight in hand. “Open your mouth.”

Ilya does. The flashlight catches on his teeth, the inside of his cheeks. Then his eyes, beam lingering just a second too long. His lashes flutter once, fatigue breaking through, and his knees dip just slightly before the soldier tightens his grip to keep him standing.

Shane’s breath stutters, and he tries to find Ilya’s gaze to reassure him somehow, but Ilya doesn’t look back at him. He stares somewhere over the soldier’s shoulder, face pale, expression unreadable. Shane can’t tell if that’s because he’s trying to be brave, or if he’s just too sick to pretend anymore. Ilya would hate this, if he was in his right mind. But, right now he really doesn’t seem to care. He just looks like he wants to go to sleep. 

 As Shane suspects, the soldiers find nothing. 

“So you have a fever?” The soldier holding Ilya up asks. 

Ilya nods slowly, “Yes,” he murmurs. His tongue presses to the back of his front teeth, like it’s waiting for the English to slowly roll out of his fever-hot brain, “It was a…” He pauses to exhale, “Accident.”

Shane decides he can’t just stand idly by while Ilya exhausts himself. “A car accident,” Shane blurts out, leaning forward, “I don’t think I cleaned a cut good enough, so it got infected.” The two soldiers turn to stare at Shane, their expressions stern, pressing in on his nerves. Despite that, Shane’s voice does not have the expected effect of hushing into something smaller. Shane digs his heels in, like if he stays exactly where he is, nothing bad can happen without going through him first. Only Ilya could make Shane feel so brave, he thinks. “So, that’s why he’s running a fever.” 

The next request comes quick and blunt; “We need to see the injury.”

Of course they do. Why wouldn’t they? They need to make sure it’s not a bite, and Shane knows that, but it still makes him very angry, and very nervous. Shane steps forward before he can stop himself, words tumbling out rough and urgent. “I can do it. Please.” He doesn’t want anyone else touching his Ilya, nor the cut he so carefully wrapped up. 

Shane has crossed over the painted line they put him behind, yet another line he’s crossed for Ilya. One of many. What’s one more? It won’t kill him... Or, well, fuck. Maybe it could. 

The soldiers pause. A look passes between them, cold enough that Shane can’t tell what they’re thinking, before one of them jerks his chin in a sharp nod. “Fine. You do it.” Shane can’t tell if they let him do so out of pity, or if they’re just trying to avoid extra work.

Shane crosses the space the soldiers have put between them for seemingly no good reason and takes a knee in front of Ilya. It’s something he’s done thousands of times for far more indecorous reasons, but he’s just as doting now as he was then. As Shane rolls up Ilya’s pant-leg, he slides his palm along Ilya’s calf as if to greet him, a gesture he likely does not have time for but still does, because it’s important.  Ilya tips his head down at him, and the edges of his eyes soften with relief. Shane thinks he could die a happy man knowing he makes Ilya feel safe.

“Shane,” Ilya sighs, barely a breath. But Shane still hears the way he shapes the exhale around Shane’s name.

“I know, bud.” Shane reassures. He has to pull his gaze away from Ilya’s, lest he lose himself in it and never get this task done. Shane is careful, his fingers finding the edge of the bandage, easing it loose instead of pulling. Shane keeps his body close, like he can block the cold air and all the eyes on them just by being here.  Shane doesn’t like exposing the wound, because it makes him feel like he’s exposing Ilya too. It spurs on that ugly, angry protectiveness again; but this time Shane can’t tuck Ilya to his chest and kiss him and rub his back in the semi-privacy of the backseat. Shane wants to put Ilya where nobody could look at him again, until he’s back to himself.

The bandage comes away, layer by layer. The cut is still just as ugly, still inflamed and puffy and most certainly infected. But it’s, very obviously, not a bite. 

One of the soldiers leans in, squints, then straightens. “That’s not a bite.”

Shane’s chest loosens just a fraction, enough that he can breathe again.

“Accident,” the other soldier confirms, already losing interest. “Rewrap it.”

Shane doesn’t wait to be told twice. He redresses the wound quickly but gently, hands shielding Ilya’s leg, fingers firm and sure as if this is the only place in the world he’s allowed to be. When Shane’s done, he secures the gauze and presses his palm there for half a second, like he can still somehow soothe it. That ship has long since sailed. Ilya’s wound is warm to the touch, even through his bandages.

Shane stands. He does not return to the spot behind the rudimentary white line. Why are they even having him stand back there? There isn’t a good reason for it. Shane holds open an arm; waiting for them to give Ilya back so he can tuck him against his side,  right where he belongs. 

A bracelet clicks shut around Ilya’s wrist with a sharp, plastic snap. The sound feels too loud.

Ilya flinches despite himself. It’s small, a curl of his lip and a pull of his arm that is more of a twitch than anything else. It’s still a flash of agitation in him, enough emotion pushing through his fever— but he looks tired enough that even that small amount of resistance seems expensive. The soldier lets go, and Ilya stumbles, bumping his shoulder into Shane’s chest. Shane’s hands come up without thinking, steadying him. 

What's that? Shane thinks, but does not voice it because he knows he won’t like the answer. With Ilya, Shane can tiptoe around the truth all he wants. He can avoid asking questions that will provide answers he doesn’t want to hear. This time, he can’t do that. The answer comes anyway.

 “Quarantine designation,” the soldier says, flat and rehearsed. “Once you’re through customs, he’ll be transferred.”

Transferred.

The word is louder than any arena Shane has ever played in. 

They’re going to separate them. Throw Ilya into some quarantine zone, maybe so they can monitor a fever that won’t cool off until he’s a cold, stiff corpse.

“No,” Shane says, voice cracking with the force of his vicious, immediate denial. Confusion swiftly comes next. “What does that mean?” Shane does not wait for an answer, “He’s injured, he’s, he’s sick, he needs a doctor. You can’t just send him somewhere else.” His voice rises despite himself, panic bleeding through the edges. “Is there a doctor there?”

“They’ll explain it, once you get through customs—” the soldier answers, but it’s nowhere near enough.

“No, fuck you,” Shane snarls, and everything is red. Real, blinding anger, and It clouds up all of his better judgement. Ilya typically has that effect, but this isn’t meeting up in secret or whispering room numbers on the ice— Shane is aggressing on men with very big guns, men whose very job it is to keep aggressive people from crossing over the border. 

Ilya’s gaze tracks Shane as he pushes past him, eyes unfocused but urgent, trying to say something. Shane doesn’t hear it over the roar of his own pulse, and all he hears is transferred, transferred, transferred.  “Is there a doctor?” Shane reiterates, shouting now, because nothing else matters to him but getting Ilya through this, “He’ll die, he’ll die without a doctor—!”

The soldier closest to him moves fast. The butt of the gun slams into Shane’s shoulder, a hard shove that knocks him back a step, then another. It doesn’t hurt as much as it shocks—how sudden it is, how easily they put hands on him.

“Get back,” the soldier snaps. 

Shane catches himself, heart hammering, every nerve lit up and screaming. Anger surges through him, bright and uncontainable, burning away all the remaining fear in his head. He’s never been so angry in his life, like he wants to fucking kill them; he thought he wanted to kill Scott Hunter after he chirped too close to home, but that memory pales in comparison to the current, violent rage tearing through Shane’s psyche. This must be what it’s like to be a little animal, backed into a corner, biting and clawing for something, anything. 

Shane watches the soldier’s gloved hands grip his gun, and it hardly phases Shane, because losing Ilya is a far more terrifying prospect.

Then Ilya sways. And that’s what stops Shane.

Something human pokes through the redness burning through Shane’s mind, his eyes snapping back to Ilya just in time to see him struggle to stay upright. Ilya clasps at Shane’s bicep, cold fingers digging into muscle, anchoring himself and taking pressure off of his wounded leg. “Shane,” He pleads, “Shane, I'm hurting. Please.”

Shane knows what Ilya is doing. He’s still playing dirty, even now. Shane knows Ilya wouldn’t say that so plainly unless he had to, because he’d never make a weakness so readily apparent to Shane, or to anybody— so the words aren’t really for himself at all. 

They’re for Shane. A deliberate pull on the reins. It works. I’m hurting. It’s true, Shane knows it, even if Ilya is angling it for Shane’s own benefit. 

Ilya knows how to get just what he wants. He’s always been good at that. 

Shane loosens his grip on his anger instantly, guilt flaring hot in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, softer, bending toward Ilya. “I’ve got you. Sorry.”

Carefully, Shane shifts, guiding Ilya’s arm over his shoulders, letting him lean in properly this time. Ilya’s weight settles against him, familiar and heavy and alarmingly warm.  The bracelet looks wrong on him—too clinical. A marker. A claim. Shane feels something ugly and desperate coil in his chest at the sight of it. It’s tight, ill-fitting for his thick wrists, sitting just above the dull glimmer of his wedding band. 

A series of numbers is printed on it. Shane does not know what they mean. 

002-81.

Eighty one. Shane’s eyes prick with tears. It really feels like the world is ending now.

The soldier who shoved Shane with his rifle steps forward, motioning to follow. “This way. Customs.” He sounds agitated now, but it’s better than his mechanical rumblings from before. Shane is glad he pissed him off. He wants to do more, more than just throwing down his gloves and fighting until one of them hits the ice, and he can’t even do that.

“Don’t cry,” Ilya murmurs. The words yank Shane out of his thoughts hard enough to hurt.

“I’m not,” Shane says quickly, slapping his unoccupied hand over his face, dragging his thumb and forefinger down through his tear ducts, hard enough to hurt.

“Is okay,” Ilya’s accent drags out his words, sounding boxy,  ok-ie. Shane would’ve probably found it cute if things were, in fact, ok-ie. Shane doesn’t know how Ilya can be so blase about this— well, actually, Shane does know, and it’s because his fever is roasting his fucking brain, probably. Oh, his Ilya...

Shane doesn’t have the heart to do anything else but nod weakly. They’re going to separate us, he thinks, distraught, nothing is okay about this, they’re going to take you from me and I still need to protect you.

But Shane keeps pressing forward, because he doesn’t know what else to do. They’re guided toward customs at a slow, uneven pace, Shane matching himself carefully to Ilya’s limp. 

The setup is clearly temporary—chain-link fencing corrals people into a narrow lane, orange plastic barriers zip-tied together, the ground chewed up by too many boots and tires. Floodlights glare down from portable towers, bleaching everything a dull, sleepless white.

Ahead of them, a short line waits. Families clutching bags, a couple of people standing alone, shoulders hunched, all of them quiet in that watchful way. No one’s talking. Shane doesn’t talk either. The only sounds are the low murmur of soldiers giving directions and the rustle of paperwork being passed hand to hand.

Customs itself is a squat prefab building dropped onto the asphalt like an afterthought. Inside, visible through a thin, plastic barrier, a desk has been set up with a computer, stacks of forms, and a small sliding slot at the bottom of the window. A woman in a high-vis vest sits behind it, and Shane cranes his neck to see her flipping through documents, checking IDs, asking short questions about residency . Shane watches the family at the head of the line carefully, trying to figure out what exactly to expect. He hates the uncertainty of it. The father is sliding IDs through the slot, and soon enough they receive some stamped paper in return. They head back the way they came, back to their car, Shane assumes, so they can drive on through the border. 

That slip of paper must be their ticket to Canada. Shane wishes he got a better look at it. 

 The soldier leaves them wordlessly once they’re settled into line, probably off to screen more people that will be handled just as coldly. 

The line inches forward. The fencing hums softly when someone brushes against it. Shane keeps his arm firm around Ilya’s back, grounding himself in the solid, fragile fact of him. The sound of his labored breathing feels suddenly so temporary. This is it, Shane thinks. After everything—this narrow stretch of asphalt, this desk behind glass. Shane’s heart batters his ribcage. 

Just through the chainlink, Shane can see Canada. It’s trees, it’s skies. If he pretends hard enough, like if he squints, he thinks he can see his cottage. Of course he can’t really, but it’s there somewhere, and that’s enough for him to feel it. Home.

...Maybe Shane can just cut off the bracelet? It feels way too easy, but it would work, right? Shane would just have to figure out the right time, when no one is looking their way. Shane reaches to fiddle with the snap on the bracelet to test how snug it is, like, maybe he can pull it off just by messing with it. It doesn’t work, of course. Sweat starts to bead up at his hairline, cooking under the floodlights. He can only imagine how hot Ilya must feel. 

Well, if Ilya is hot, he’s not showing it. He’s leaned up fully onto Shane, taking up way more real estate than he needs to. Shane distantly realizes this is the first time they’ve ever been physical with each other in public. Even still, it’s all based on a lie. Enemies or married, nothing inbetween, no space for them to just... Be. Probably because they are nothing. There is nothing to be, not with Ilya.

Shane shouldn’t be thinking about that. He has no idea what is going to happen next, and it’s tearing him up inside. Ilya brushes his temple against Shane’s, seeking affection. These are their last moments before everything changes, right? Shane tucks his head to press a single kiss to Ilya’s jawline, the coarse hair of his sideburn tickling his lips. 

They’re suddenly next in line. It’s going too fast. Shane still has to think about the whole quarantine transfer situation, he still has to think about what he’ll do if they don’t even get through customs, he still has to think about how much he loves Ilya, and he’s too tired for all of it. Shane tries to focus on one thing; getting through customs, selling their lie, pushing Ilya through the border no matter what that means. One step at a time. Shane’s ring suddenly feels like it's choking out the blood flow to his fingers.

We went on vacation to America for our fourth anniversary. We were visiting Boston, where we met at an art museum. We like art. We’re art people. We went on vacation to America for our fourth anniversary. We were visiting Boston, where we met at an art museum. We like art. We’re art people. We went on vacation to America for our fourth anniversary...

“Next.”

Fuck. 

Shane swallows, watching the couple in front of them walk by, carrying their stamped, signed slip of paper. Shane imagines himself holding that slip of paper, trying his best to manifest his uncertain future into a more certain one. They step forward, up to the desk. 

Shane eases his arm away from Ilya only after making sure he’s steady. Ilya leans into the desk instead, bracing himself with both hands, head dipped, breathing shallow but even. The glass between them and the woman feels too thin, like it just can’t  hold the weight of this moment. 

“Hi,” Shane says, horrified.

“How are you?” She asks.

“Um. Fine.”

“I’ll need some identification,” she says, already reaching for a form.

Shane’s hands are shaking as he pulls out his wallet from his back pocket. He slides his ID through the slot and clears his throat. “Mine’s there. My husband—” The word comes out so bulky and awkward, because Shane is used to lying about the exact opposite thing, “—he lost his during the evacuation.”

Ilya doesn’t look up, but there’s a subtle shift in his shoulders. His index finger scrubs at the counter top, fidgeting, letting Shane do the talking. 

The woman glances at Shane’s ID, then up at his face. For half a second, something like recognition flickers there, her brow creasing as if she’s about to place him. Shane feels it like getting his bucket rung too hard. 

Because, yea, Shane doesn’t look like himself right now. But his ID does — ID-Shane is freshly showered and had gotten a perfect eight-and-half hours of sleep before getting his picture taken.

“Shane Hollander,” She repeats, “Sounds familiar.” And of course it does, because he’s Ottowa royalty. Fuck, he’s Canada royalty. Shane’s sweating.

“Common last name,” He says, with a smile. Or at least, he hopes it’s a smile. It feels a little too close to a grimace with how stress is shaping his face. 

“Mm.” That does it. Whatever thought she had slips away under the weight of urgency and the line behind them. She’s probably seen so many people today, and Shane Hollander does not warrant anymore investigation. Shane hopes it will be the same case for Ilya. She nods once and sets his ID aside. “You’re set,” she says, jotting something down in pen on the form.

Then she turns her attention to Ilya. “I can search the system,” the woman continues, fingers already moving toward her keyboard. “We’ll need to confirm residency. Name?”

“Ilya Rozanov,” It’s so quick, Shane can’t budge in. He had meant to, he had thought Ilya would take at least ten seconds to respond, but he didn't. Shane huffs, eyes bugging, because aren’t they married? For four years, no less? Shouldn’t Ilya have his last name, or, shouldn’t he have Ilya’s? Should they have given fake names? Ilya Rozanov is about as Russian sounding as you can get. And, maybe pairing him and Ilya’s names next to each other will ring more recognition bells in her head. Shane feels like he’s falling apart. They risked their lives to get fucking rings but didnt think to make up some bullshit generic Canadian name for him…

The woman’s fingers pause over the keyboard. She tries again, frowning slightly at the screen.

“I’m not getting anything,” she says. Unlike the soldiers, she seems decently sympathetic. Trying to help. “Do you have a last known address? Place of employment? Anything I can cross-reference.”

Ilya swallows. His mouth opens, then closes again. Whatever answers might exist are tangled somewhere far away, buried under fever and exhaustion. His eyes unfocus, panic starting to creep in around the edges. He looks at Shane like he’s already apologizing.

Shane can’t stand it.

“He—he lives with me,” he blurts, words tripping over each other. “And he works—” He falters, then keeps going anyway, desperate. “You can just use my number. My social—” He starts rattling it off, voice too fast, hands clenched tight at his sides like that might hold his scrambling brain together.

“Sir,” the woman says sharply, finally looking up.

Before Shane can say anything else, Ilya straightens with visible effort. It costs him. Shane can see it in the way his shoulders tense, how he almost looks like himself again. It catches Shane completely off guard, off guard enough that he pauses, that he can’t do anything as Ilya speaks

“He is lying,” Ilya says, “He’s lying so you will let me through.”

Shane turns on him, stricken. “Ilya—” 

All the noise that had been filling Shane’s mind nonstop,  the static buzz of possibility and panic, it all goes deathly silent as Ilya rips their potential future away in one, terrible swoop.

“Sorry,” Ilya mutters, Shane doesn’t know who he is apologizing to, but he won’t look at Shane, “He is citizen. Not me, yes? Please do not fault him for this.” 

What are you doing? Why are you doing this?

The woman behind the counter sits, unsure. Her jaw a little slack, eyebrows furrowed with a reasonable amount of concern, but not nearly enough to save Ilya. “Let him through, please? Okay?” Ilya asks, and despite Shane’s panic he does not miss the terrible desperation in Ilya’s voice, and it makes Shane feel much worse. “I will go.” 

And he does. 

Ilya pushes himself away from the desk, hands shaking as he steps back, already turning, easily retreating. “It’s fine,” Ilya mutters, more to himself than anyone else. Each movement is stiff, defeated, like he’s bracing for a fall before it happens. Ilya’s injured leg buckles slightly but he forces it to work, muscles going rigid as he practically drags it with every agonized step.

Panic claws up Shane’s throat, like it’ll tear him open. “No—no, wait,” he says, but he’s rooted to the spot he’s in, stuck here because they spent so, so long trying to get here. It can’t be that simple. This can’t be it. “Ilya!” He calls, anger roughing up his voice. Ilya does not reply and he just keeps moving. Shane desperately turns his attention back to the only person he thinks can help him. This customs woman, who Shane does not know the name of. “He has his passport. Will his passport get him through?” Shane talks fast, because Ilya is just fucking leaving, and Shane is trying to fix this as quickly as possible. It’s a miracle the woman understands him.

She shakes her head, “I’m sorry,” she says, and it’s exactly what Shane doesn’t want to hear.

“Please!” Shane doesn’t mean to shout, but it just bursts out of him. “He’s sick. He’s sick, he’s going to die if I don’t get him help. Please. We’ll figure out his citizenship right when we get through the border, I—” Shane clasps his hands together, like he’s praying. All of these miles meant nothing. It was all useless. “Please. Please, just make an exception. I can’t let him die. Please don’t let him die.”

He’s begging. His knees feel like they’re going to fall out from under him. An instinctual urge to grovel, maybe. Ilya trained him well.

The woman looks at him for a long moment from behind her wall of glass. Up close, she looks tired in the same way everyone does now, like she’s been making impossible decisions all day and will keep making them tomorrow. Her mouth tightens, sympathy flickering there. But it’s just not enough. It’s not enough to save Ilya.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I can’t make that call, I can’t clear him.”

Shane wants to cry, he wants to fight, he wants to beg and scream. He does none of it. All the words get stuck up in his throat because he knows, with certainty, there is nothing more he can do.

 It’s over.

Shane lets his gaze drift right over his shoulder; past the fencing, past the soldiers and the temporary barricades, and into Canada. It feels unreal, seeing it like this— just another stretch of road, another patch of land. If he didn’t know better, he might think it was nothing special at all.

But Shane does know better.

it’s the only home he’s ever had. The shape of his life, the backdrop to every formative memory. He knows it in the small, mundane ways that only come from growing up somewhere— A place where his life made sense simply because it had always been there. Crossing this border was supposed to be an ending to this terrible mess, and maybe something like a beginning, too.

Shane can picture it. Being waved through alone, the tension draining from his body all at once. He could hug his mom. 

The image is hollow. It’s like stepping on a misaligned bone, or, maybe putting too much weight on an infected wound. What would be waiting for him on the other side if Ilya isn’t there? A country, maybe. A past. His family, a few friends. But not a life he wants, or, at least not one he could stand to live in.

There is grief in realizing what he might be giving up. But there was never any doubt in Shane’s mind that he would for Ilya. The choice is easy.

Shane has always chosen Ilya. From the moment it started hurting, to the moment it stopped being safe or convenient or smart. Loving him isn’t difficult. It doesn’t feel like sacrifice so much as something inevitable. 

Shane doesn’t think in terms of borders then. Or futures. Or lines he can’t cross. He thinks of Ilya’s weight leaning into him. Of his voice, his hands, the way he shouts and grins when he scores a good goal.  He thinks of how empty the world would be without him in it. 

The customs woman is saying something, but Shane does not hear her. Not fully, anyway. “Your slip, mister Hollander—” she says, holding his one-way ticket to Canada. Shane looks at it briefly, blind hope motivating him to check for Ilya’s name, but it’s not there. Shane pulls his gaze away from the border, and then from her, and he turns to follow after Ilya. Whatever is waiting for Shane on the other side can keep waiting.

The parking lot is wide and exposed, the sound of boots and engines and distant voices pressing in on him, but all he can see is Ilya—half-collapsed against his stupid, ugly car, one hand braced on the hood, desperately trying to catch his breath. One of his hands kneads in on his thigh, maybe trying to work the pain out of it.

“Hey,” Shane calls as he jogs over, the dying remnants of panic still lingering in his voice, “Ilya—”

“Did you get your paper?” Ilya asks, still breathless, “Maybe you could drop me off, before the border. There must be rest-place nearby, I could stay there.” He is already planning his future without Shane, one that will be very brief and very painful. He doesn’t even seem torn up about it. In fact, he seemed far more torn up about possibly inconveniencing Shane. Shane hopes that’s just the fever dulling his emotions. He hopes, desperately, that Ilya isn’t just eager to throw in the towel. To call it quits, to succumb to infection and die quietly, without fuss. 

“Stop it,” Shane responds simply, “You know I’m not going anywhere without you.” Shane says firmly, because it’s already been decided. It was decided a long time ago, and Ilya should know this by now.

Ilya’s head snaps up. His expression twists, frustration cutting sharp through the exhaustion on his face.

 Shane keeps talking anyway, “I could’ve worked something out. Why did you do that?” He starts, but decides that scolding Ilya while he’s sick and feverish is perhaps not his best angle. “We’ll figure something else out, okay?” Shane decides on gentler words. He reaches out to touch Ilya, but the angry look Ilya gives him stops him from doing so.

Ilya does look very angry, but only for a few seconds. His act shatters easily beneath the heat of his fever, giving way easily to a look of fear, of despair. He looks hopeless, helpless in the worst way, even as he still tries to force anger onto his face. “No,” he says, voice low and strained. “We figure out nothing. You get through and be safe.”

“I want you safe,” Shane fires back, just as quickly. “I want us safe.” Despite his worry, Shane can’t help but feel a little defensive. 

“That’s not...” Ilya drags a hand through his curls, pacing a half-step despite the pain in his leg. “You go home. That was the plan,” he snarls through his gritted teeth. “You don’t listen, you never fucking listen.”

Shane feels like they’re fighting. Are they fighting? “No, I wanted us to go home. Or, I mean, to my home—”

Ilya sinks his teeth into Shane’s stutter, taking advantage of his momentary lapse. Ilya spins on him, eyes bright and furious. “You are being fucking stupid!” Ilya shouts, pushing himself upright despite the pain, anger bleeding through his exhaustion. He gestures to the thin line of cars pulling through the border, angry but also frantic, terrified out of his fucking mind. “Border is right fucking there! You can see, yes? Go the fuck home, Hollander! I don’t want you here!” 

Shane doesn’t answer right away. He watches Ilya instead, the way his jaw is set too hard, the way his eyes won’t quite meet Shane’s. It’s familiar, and it makes something sad ache in Shane’s chest.  Ilya is trying to make himself unbearable, trying to shove Shane back across the line by sheer force of will. It hurts, but underneath it Shane feels something almost unbearably protective. Ilya is breaking himself apart to keep Shane safe. Or, trying to, anyway.

“You’re trying to make me angry,” Shane says, lowering his voice. This isn’t a fight, he decides. Shane can’t let it be a fight. “It’s not working.”

Ilya’s expression flickers, just for a second, before hardening again. “I don’t care if it works—”

“I know,” Shane continues. “You care about me. That’s the problem.”

Ilya laughs, short and sharp. “Do not flatter yourself.” But his hands are shaking. And his lip is starting to quiver. And, oh, he looks so sad, all the sudden, like he’s going to cry—

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs. He wants to plead with Ilya to trust him on this, but he doesn’t exactly know how to. Shane is a little tired of begging, honestly.

He doesn’t have to. The coo of Ilya’s name works how it usually does, if the tears welling up in Ilya’s eyes are anything to go by. His voice breaks, splintering down the middle. “Fuck, Shane!” He shouts, dragging a hand over his eyes and punching the hood of his car. “Just fucking go! Say you’ll go. Please.” Ilya is begging Shane to leave him. “Let me handle it.”

“Handle it how?” Shane asks, “By dying?” He throws his gaze elsewhere briefly, not wanting to see Ilya’s reaction to that question. It was a rhetorical one, anyway.  Shane takes another step, close enough now that he can feel the fevered heat coming off Ilya. “If I leave you,” Shane continues, and decides to just stop beating around the bush, “You will die—”

“So!?” Ilya barks, and Shane wonders if a heart really can break, because he feels like his might be broken. Like it’s splintered into a million tiny pieces, like the shards are cutting him up, like he’s bleeding internally now. All this love with nowhere to fucking go, swelling up inside him. It’ll kill him eventually, probably.

Ilya would give up his life to see Shane over that border. He would die, and he’s upset that Shane isn’t able to see him as disposable too. The realization makes Shane feel sick. “You have a home,” Ilya barrels on, voice rising, fraying at the edges. “You have your parents and your cottage and so many cups to win. I’m sick, and I’m slowing you down—”  Ilya’s fury collapses into something wetter, sadder. He must be at the end of his rope now, words spilling out because there’s just nothing left to hold them back. “I have nobody! Nothing! Sveta will move on, my father will die with no memory of me!”  

Shane feels like he might cry, or scream, or collapse. Maybe all three.

“You have me!” Shane pleads, shouting too because he’s not steady like Ilya, he’s such a fucking sponge, sometimes.

“Yes!” Ilya shouts, exasperated, like Shane just answered a very obvious question; and he’s crying now, fuck, he’s really crying. “But I— but, you, you’re—” his throat sounds like it’s closing around all of his words, and his voice cracks completely now, grief and terror spilling over. “I love you!” Ilya sobs suddenly, like it’s being ripped out of him against his will. 

Ilya is sinking to his knees, like that took all he had left. He presses his hands to his mouth, then to his eyes, like he isn’t sure what part of him he wants to hide more. “I love you,” He croaks,voice breaking around a sob; and Shane is dropping to the ground too, because he wants Ilya everywhere. 

“Holy shit,” Shane murmurs, despite himself,  because he hadn’t been ready for that. Everything sort of clicks into place though, of course Ilya loves him. It’s why he was so angry that Shane left, why he was so sad. Я тебя люблю— Ilya lied to him, at least partially. He probably meant something more like, I love you, and that’s why you scared me.

Shane’s scared too. So scared, but he’s glowing at the same time, because how could he not? Ilya loves him. 

Shane kisses his cupid’s bow, his most prominent mole, his fever-warm cheeks, sticky with tears. I love you here, Shane thinks, and kisses the strong ridge of Ilya’s brow, and here, and here, the rasp of Ilya’s stubble tickles his lips. He kisses him hungry and desperate like how he always is with Ilya.

“I can’t do this to you, please—” Ilya chokes out.

“I love you too,” Shane murmurs, crossing the line. He speaks the words into Ilya’s cheek so that Ilya can feel them. Ilya makes some terrible noise, somewhere between a groan and a sob, and Shane can’t tell if it’s relieved or pained. Regardless, Ilya is nuzzling into him, rubbing the hard ridge of his nose against Shane’s jawbone like he’s trying to fuse their bones together. Shane wants that too, but he still takes Ilya’s shoulders, pushing him back gently to look him in his pretty hazel eyes. “Which is why I can’t leave you. Okay? I won’t.” He swallows roughly around the knot in his throat, and Ilya just nods now, helpless, defeated. He’s shaking now, exhausted and scared and so, so human. Shane wipes his palms over Ilya’s cheeks, mopping up his tears. “You don’t get to die so I can live. That.. That’s not love.” 

Ilya lets out a broken, helpless sound, all the fight finally draining out of him. He slumps forward, pressing his forehead to Shane’s shoulder. “Okay,” He moans, and Shane accepts his answer. It means a whole lot more than a coerced ‘I understand.’

Shane hugs Ilya tight. He wraps an arm around his back, the other sliding up his nape, sinking into his curls, cradling his head close. Ilya winds his arms around Shane, frantic and desperate to touch and be close, clawing at his ribs like he’s begging to be let inside, but it’s nice. Shane can’t tell if he’s shaking or if it’s just Ilya who is, because they’re tangled together so tightly Shane can no longer tell where Ilya stops and he begins. Shane thinks he likes that. 

“I love you,” Shane says again, because he’s been waiting a very long time to say it. “So fucking much.” And it doesn’t even hurt to say. It doesn’t feel like dying, like he thought it might. Ilya kisses at Shane’s pulse, and Shane feels it everywhere, affection pumping through his bloodstream— his heart knows his Ilya well. It’s the only part of Shane that he allowed to love Ilya unabashedly, and it feels very happy to see him. Not so broken anymore.

Ilya pulls back, but not very far. Just enough to kiss Shane's cheeks, his lips pressing over the sticky remnant of tears— Shane can’t remember crying, but he must’ve started at some point. Ilya nudges his nose to Shane’s. “This is a stupid place for this.” Ilya murmurs, “Fucking parking lot.” 

Yea. Shane’s gaze drifts around, and he sees people still hustling about. There isn’t anyone immediately nearby, but certainly plenty of people can see them. It doesn’t horrify Shane as much as it should. “We’re probably scaring people,” Shane says, suddenly aware of how ridiculous they must look.

Ilya makes some noise that might be humored, a huff and a moan, like he can’t manage a laugh but he’s still trying. He presses his forehead back to Shane’s shoulder, and Shane pets at his neck. “I did not want it to go like this,” Ilya says, and it gets Shane thinking, did Ilya have a certain way he wanted this to go? His confession? Was he planning on confessing? That seems unlikely, very unlike Ilya. But it still makes Shane’s heart flutter. He imagines Ilya bringing him out to dinner, which is something they could never do together, and...  “And you smell so bad.” Ilya groans, and Shane immediately stops thinking about romantic, mushy stuff.

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane scoffs, but there’s something like a smile on his face, “You’re worse.” 

A moment passes. Ilya sniffles noisily, the movement scrunching his whole face up.  “We should go,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya looks at him, unfocused. His eyelashes are clumped together with his tears. “Go where?”

Shane glances once toward the fence, toward the soldiers and the line they’ve already crossed in every way that matters. He shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. I just know we can’t stay here.”

Lingering feels wrong. There’s nothing for them here, even if they don’t have anywhere else to go. Part of Shane worries that the longer they stay in this parking lot, the more time the world has to catch up with them and demand explanations he doesn’t have. Movement, at least, feels like a choice. 

He slips an arm around Ilya’s waist and helps him upright. Ilya hisses softly but doesn’t fight it, leaning into Shane more than he probably means to. Ilya could mostly support his own weight before, but he’s fully tuckered himself out— seems like storming out of customs and yelling at Shane cost him the rest of his precious, dwindling energy. Shane has the urge to lightly scold him for being so wreckless, but he won’t, he can’t. Shane wouldn't dare spook the moment, or Ilya, for that matter. Besides, Ilya is tucked up so soft and warm right against Shane, right where he belongs.

Shane reaches to open the back door—

“I want, what is it, shotgun?” Ilya says, “I’m not a child, yes?” 

Shane frowns. “You should lie down. The back’s better for your leg.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya insists, already reaching to tug the passenger door open instead. “I want to hold your hand. You want that too.”

Ilya is right, Shane does want that. And he can’t say no to Ilya, especially when he’s exhausted and earnest and very clearly running on fumes. Shane caves with a sigh. “Okay, okay..” Shane says, and as soon as he agrees, Ilya starts easing himself into the passenger seat with careful little movements, his fingers gripping the roof of the Porsche while he hauls his rotting leg in. 

By the time Shane gets behind the wheel, Ilya looks drained again, the aftershock of everything finally catching up to him. His head is tipped against the seat, adams apple bobbing with a noisy swallow, his skin warm and flushed with fever. He’s staring out the windshield, at nothing in particular. Shane coos at him, a nurturing little sound, and he brushes the backs of his fingers against Ilya’s sweaty brow. He’s really warm. 

“I’m cold,” Ilya murmurs, despite that. 

His admission makes Shane anxious, but he tries to exhale the stress out his nose. He reaches into the backseat, bending his arm backward at an angle awkward enough for his muscles to resist. His fingertips find purchase on the corners of the blanket where its folded up and partially crammed into the crevices between the seats. 

Then he’s tucking Ilya in, shoving it over his shoulders, pinning it between his weight and the seat. “как ребенок,” Ilya mutters, under his breath.

“What does that mean?” Shane asks. 

Ilya huffs. “Like a baby.” He croaks, his voice still all fucked up but still, somehow, so fond it makes Shane want to melt into the baritone of it. It makes him feel all warm and buttery. “You tuck me in, like a baby.” 

Shane manages something close to a smile. He pulls Ilya’s head a little closer to kiss his cheek. “You are,” Shane hums, “A baby. A big one.” 

“Is not true.” 

“Very true. You’re, uh, my baby,” Shane says, getting a little shy, “I guess.” 

Ilya is quiet for a minute. It’s like he doesn’t have the strength in his face to smile, but Shane can still see the impression of it in his eyes; they wrinkle, and look a little more glittery, somehow. Still, his silence makes Shane wonder if he pushed too far too fast. “I like that. I like you.” Ilya smacks his lips, then corrects himself— “Love you.”  

Shane wants to lay Ilya down in his bed and kiss him. Run his fingers through that thick mop of golden curls and kiss him until they’re both breathless and laughing and their lips are swollen with it, until Ilya smells like Shane. And not Shane how he is now— sweaty and stinking of the residual rot that is festering in Ilya’s leg, but instead Shane how he is when things are normal. He wants Ilya to smell like the lake, and like his shampoo and his cologne, like sun and clean linen and whatever food they’re cooking. “I love you, Shane,” Ilya murmurs again, hazy, like he’s falling asleep again. And Shane pictures his hair against his pillows, his golden cross in his sheets. He’d be a little sunkissed, Shane thinks, from spending all day outside playing with Shane. Shane would kiss him goodnight, probably after making love, and he’d tuck his feet underneath Ilya’s calf and rest his head on Ilya’s chest. Listen to that steady thump of Ilya’s heart, strong and healthy and alive. 

Shane reaches to cradle Ilya’s jaw. He brushes a fingertip over Ilya’s pulse, and although it greets him with a happy little flutter, it’s weak. “I love you too,” Shane says, happy to say it, but sad that it took him this long. 

Shane wonders if he has a future where he can love Ilya safely. 

He’ll figure it out. He has to. Ilya won’t die, Shane won’t allow it. It’s not even a possibility, because, fuck, Shane is way too scared to think about it too hard.

The engine turns over. The Porsche rumbles awake. Shane also hopes for a future where he never has to see this ugly fucking car ever again. 

“Where are we going?” Ilya asks softly, eyes closed. He reaches a hand out of his blanket, resting it palm-up on the console. He grasps at the air, thrice, in quick sucsession— his sweaty fingers making a damp slap sound. The implication is as clear as it is needy, and Shane happily intertwines their hands. “Better,” Ilya murmurs. 

 “I’ll figure it out,” Shane says on a long exhale. “You don’t have to think about that right now, okay?”

Ilya exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding himself together by sheer force until this exact second. A new look passes over Ilya’s features. It’s sort of peaceful, but also just tired. Acceptance. “Okay,” he whispers, so easily. Ilya must not feel good at all.

“Get some sleep,” Shane adds gently. “I’m right here.”

Ilya nods. His head tips toward the window. Shane can see his eyelashes catch the floodlights as they flutter open briefly, then shut.

Shane will have to clean his wound soon. But... Is there even a point? Ilya is already so sick. The spray didn’t seem to help at all, just like the rings. Shane can feel the slightly cool press of Ilya’s ring where he holds Shane’s hand, and it makes Shane’s chest so achey. The rings didn’t save Ilya either. Maybe it was all for nothing.

“You take good care of me,” Ilya murmurs, barely there.

... Okay, maybe not. Maybe it was for something. 

Shane flies past the traffic heading towards the border. The highway deeper into Vermont is empty, completely, utterly empty. There’s nothing left but asphalt and trees and the low hum of the engine. Shane does not listen to music nor the thoughts in his head, and the only sound he craves is the winter wind gusting over the car and the rhythm of Ilya’s breathing as it whistles through his nose. 

The farther they get, the lighter Shane feels. Not safe, exactly. But unanchored. Like something has let go of him. Normally that feeling would freak the fuck out of him, but it feels fine right now. The night air rushes past, cool and clean, and for a strange, disorienting moment he feels like he’s flying—skimming just above the ground, untethered from consequences.

For the first time in his life, Shane checks his phone while he’s driving. He does so briefly, just to look at Google Maps, and Vermont blinks back at him; a spread of green and winding roads and small towns. He doesn’t plot a route. He just notes what’s nearby, then lets the phone go dark again after an image of Ilya’s crumpled up Porsche flits through his mind. Imagining the Porsche all busted up does please him some, because he hates this thing more than he’s ever hated anything in his life. Maybe that’s unfair to the car. It is ugly, and flashy, but it’s not the car’s fault that they’ve been driving for so long. And it’s Ilya’s beloved car, and Shane loves Ilya, so maybe he should be kinder to it.... Mm... Fuck that. 

Instinct takes over. It’s a voice deep inside Shane, one that’s been drowned out for years by shoulds and plans and bulleted lists in his notes app.

The landscape shifts subtly as they drive—dense trees, open stretches of land, hills rolling softly into one another. And then it hits him, sudden and almost laughable; It looks like Canada.

The same trees. The same sloping roads. The same dark, endless green. If he didn’t know better, if there weren’t signs every few miles telling him where he was, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Shane exhales, something loosening in his chest.

Of course it does, he thinks. It’s the same land. Someone just drew a line through it.

He glances at Ilya again, at their still clasped hands. Shane thinks helplessly about all the lines they’ve been living around, a distance they’ve so carefully maintained. They’ve always stopped just short of each other, like there was an invisible boundary they weren’t allowed to cross.

But what if it was never real at all? A rule no one actually made them follow, not really. It just took the world fucking ending for Shane to see that. 

Shane’s grip on the wheel tightens, then relaxes.

For the first time Shane feels like he knows exactly where he’s going—even if he can’t exactly point to it...Or maybe he’s just gone crazy. The sleep deprivation finally got to him. 

It doesn’t matter. They’re here.

The road narrows into something barely deserving of a name, cracked pavement giving way to dirt, then to old tire tracks pressed into the earth. Shane eases the car along slowly, branches brushing the sides, gravel crunching under the wheels. An abandoned campsite sits half-swallowed by the forest; rotting picnic tables, a fire ring choked with weeds, a sign bleached blank by sunshine. No cars, no lights, nothing moving. The Porsche jitters, lurching a little. Shane’s car would’ve taken this a lot easier, and...

The low fuel light kicks on with a polite ding. It doesn’t make Shane feel much of anything. 

The trees open up all at once. Water.

Missisquoi Bay stretches out in front of them, dark and winter-still. Stars, so many stars, reflect on its surface. A thousand constellations just for Shane to pick apart. Without the highway lights, or the glow of border stations, or passing cars— the sky is suddenly so bright and so enormous. 

Shane thinks, oddly, of his freckles. Of the way they scatter across his shoulders and nose, how his mom used to trace them when he was a kid, how Ilya traces them now. He thinks of Ilya’s moles, too—how Shane knows exactly where each one is, how they form their own patterns along his face, his collarbone, his back. Constellations you can only see if you’re close enough, if you’re paying enough attention. It makes Shane feel connected in a way that’s really hard to name. Like all of it—the stars, the water, their bodies—are just different versions of the same thing.

...Fuck, he’s gone crazy.

Or maybe everything is just way more sensational and beautiful and meaningful now that Shane knows Ilya loves him.

The bay tugs at him next. The soft slap of water against the shore sounds achingly familiar. It reminds him of his cottage, and of his childhood home before it. Maybe that’s what brought him here to begin with. So he could stop and think through a new plan with a clear head.

 Shane pulls off the path, nudging the car closer to the shoreline, tires bumping over roots and stone until the water feels close enough to touch. He kills the engine.

Silence rushes in. It’s the good kind, the kind that Shane hopes means they’re all alone out here.

Ilya shifts in his sleep, brow furrowing briefly. He murmurs something unintelligible—Shane can’t tell if it's Russian or English, or maybe it’s just nothing at all. Shane watches him for a second longer than necessary, then reaches out and adjusts his blanket. 

Only then does Shane check his phone. The time makes him wince, and he squints at the screen, eyes burning and blurry with exhaustion—and then his stomach drops.

Mom — 1 missed call.

He hadn’t missed her call by much, maybe only twenty minutes. Still, the relief he’d been riding collapses into something heavier. Guilt, and the sick certainty that there’s no version of this conversation that won’t hurt both of them. But it’s still a conversation he needs to have. He owes it to his mom, he thinks. He owes everything to his mom.

Shane moves carefully, easing the door open so it won’t click too loud. The night air is cool against his face as he steps out, coasting off the water. He walks around the front of the car and sits on the hood, metal still warm beneath him.

The water laps softly nearby. If Shane tries hard enough, he can pretend he’s home. That this is his lake. 

Yuna has been polite with her texting. She didn’t text Shane very often at all, but Shane knows she likely wanted to. Her texts were quick, short inquiries into his state of being, and Shane would answer them all grammatically correct and polite, in the way he only texted his mom. 

For all mom knew, Ilya Rozanov was not dying of infection in the passenger seat of his car,  and her son wasn’t gay. Oh, and, her son also wasn’t a murderer, but that felt a little less pressing than the gay thing, right now.

Shane stares at the phone in his hand, thumb hovering. He thinks helplessly about borders again, because apparently Shane is really introspective now. He thinks about how crossing a border always has to cost something. How staying with Ilya meant leaving something else behind; being a good son, doing what was expected, coming home the way he was supposed to.

His chest tightens. He already knows what he’s going to say, what he has to say. He just doesn’t know how to live through it.

Shane exhales, then taps the screen. He puts it on speaker and rests his phone on his knee, in a desperate attempt to separate himself from his mom even more. It’ll probably just end up draining his already dwindling battery.

The phone rings once. Twice. He miraculously has service. 

“Hello?” Mom says. Shane doesn’t cry. Not yet, anyway. It’s coming soon, probably.

“Hey, mom.” Shane sighs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Hi, honey,” She says, all gentle and concerned. Shane feels like he doesn’t deserve it, his stomach flips, like her sympathy for him is just twisting the knife deeper. “Where are you?” She asks.

“Missisquoi Bay,” Shane answers, and he can almost feel his mom’s confusion through the line. “At some old campsite, by the water.” Shane keeps explaining, for some reason.

“What’s going on?” She then asks, like she somehow knows Shane turned away from the border, that he’s in the middle of the woods with barely any gas left and that he just confessed his love to Ilya Rozanov, who he also happened to disobey her for. 

Shane has to tell her everything. Fuck, he can’t. It sits in his throat, a painful lump. He stares blankly out at the lake, one of his legs starting to bounce anxiously where he rests it on the Porsche’s bumper. 

“Um,” Shane starts. Fuck, he thinks, because he doesn’t want to swear infront of his mom. He rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not coming home.” It tumbles out of him, because there really isn’t an eloquent way to put that. “Not yet, anyway.” 

Yuna goes quiet. Shane holds his breath, and his lungs start to ache with how long the quiet persists. There is only the crackle of poor reception to break the tension. “What do you mean, Shane?” She finally says, and Shane can’t tell at all what she’s feeling. He’s always hated phone calls, because reading people is hard enough as is. “Did something happen? Are they turning people away—?”

“They turned someone away,” Shane says carefully. He wraps his arms around himself, fingers digging into the blood-stained fabric of his sweatshirt. “Someone I’m with.”

Another pause, and it’s even longer this time. He can hear her trying to rearrange her understanding of the world fast enough to catch up with him. “Your friend?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. He latches onto the word like a life raft. “My friend isn’t a citizen. They wouldn’t let him through.”

“Oh,” she says softly. “Oh, Shane.” It makes Shane want to tear his hair out of his head. Fuck, he’s such a disappointment. 

“I couldn’t leave him,” Shane adds, too fast, like if he says it quickly enough it’ll sound reasonable. “He’s sick. He needed help. I couldn’t just—” His voice falters. He chokes on the words, whispers a choked-out fuck into the open air that he prays his mom cannot hear, “I love him. I couldn’t leave him.” He says. 

More silence. Guilt fills it. Shane imagines her sitting alone in their dark kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, wondering where she went wrong, wondering how her son ended up choosing something so dangerous over the life she wanted for him. Not only staying behind in zombie-filled America, but also loving another man. He wishes he were stronger than this, but Ilya deserves better— he deserves more than being thought of as a crack in the road that Shane tripped over, because that isn’t true. It’s not his fault, but it is Shane’s fault. 

“...So, you’re… close with this friend?” Mom asks, slowly, as if she doesn’t get it yet. Shane grinds his knuckles into his forehead.

“Mom,” He says, “I’m gay.” 

Another line. Soon there won’t be any left. Maybe people draw lines to keep themselves safe, Shane thinks. Shane drew up his entire life with lines. Food, sponsorships, appearances, Ilya— they all had their neat little borders, where they felt safe and manageable and packaged away. Everything feels like it’s coming undone.

The phone crackles with distortion, with the fluctuating reception. Shane fully expects his mom to hang up on him.

“Okay,” She says, “Okay.” He hears her take a deep breath, mechanical sounding through the phone.

“I didn’t want to tell you like this,” Shane croaks, feeling small and very alone. He didn’t want to tell her at all, actually. He wanted to keep pretending, forever.

“You were almost home,” she says, not angry, just lost. “We’re waiting for you, we’re so worried, Shane.”

“I know,” Shane croaks, “I’m sorry. I tried. I really tried.” He wonders if saying it will make it true. Because it’s not true, not really. Shane did try, but it was a meaningless attempt when this was always so inevitable. There was never a possibility Shane would leave Ilya behind, nor was there ever a possibility that Shane would ever stop loving him. 

Shane feels tears slip past his cheeks. He presses them into the backs of his fingers, quickly mopping them away. “I didn’t know what else to do,” He whines, trying to swallow down the pressure building in his throat. But without his lines and borders he feels helpless to stop any of it. “I’m sorry, mom.” He repeats into the open air, because she’s so quiet, and Shane doesn’t know what to say other than sorry. Because he is, he’s really so sorry that she ended up with him. 

He blinks hard, staring at the stars until they blur. “I’m think I’m scared,” he admits to his mom and the stars, one in the same, maybe. “I don’t know. I want to be home.”

Still nothing. Shane wipes his eyes again, sniffling, and he looks down at his phone. It’s dark. Shane picks it up, presses his fingers into it’s power button until the metal creaks, and it still does not turn on. Instead, the empty-battery symbol flashes, mocking Shane. It’s dead.

He should be angry, or scared, or sad. But he just feels numb all over, his fingers tingly. 

What now? Shane decides he’s too tired to think about that. He wipes his eyes until his tear-ducts feel sore. He wonders if that was the last time he’ll hear his mom’s voice, and the last time she’ll hear his. He’ll be remembered less for hockey, and more for his final words to her; mom, i’m gay. That’s probably what it’ll say on his tombstone. 

…Stupid. He’s so stupid.

The wind feels cool against his cheeks, raw and stinging. His head hurts. Shane tucks his knees to his chest and sits for a long time. The stars don’t move. The water keeps breathing in and out against the shore. Eventually, the cold seeps through his sweatpants and into his bones, and his eyes feel so heavy and bleary that he’s seeing twice the amount of stars than there should be, and he takes it as a sign.

Shane opens the passenger-side door. After spending some time outside with fresh air in his lungs, the smell of Ilya’s wound hits harder. His nose curls at the smell of dying meat, a smell that is unfortunately attached to his still very alive Ilya. Ilya stirs as the door opens, gusting him with cold wind, and a soft sound leaves him before his eyes even open. His brow furrows, lashes fluttering, confusion written across his face as he wakes.

“Shane?” he murmurs, voice thick and distant, like he’s speaking from underwater. 

“I’m here,” Shane says immediately. He reaches out, rubs his shoulder, gentle. “Hey. It’s okay.”

Ilya blinks slow at him, barely keeping his eyes open. He looks so bad. Shane can’t get over how bad he looks. “I thought...” he starts, mumbling so thickly that it’s nearly impossible to understand him, “You were leaving?” 

Shane gets the impression Ilya is talking about a dream, not anything real. “Not a chance,” Shane says, and he presses his palm to Ilya’s forehead, foolishly hoping that it will somehow feel cooler. It does not. In fact, it feels extra hot right now, because Shane’s hands are very cold. Ilya’s eyelashes flutter and he leans into Shane’s palm, open and trusting and content. He groans something half-spoken, and Shane strokes his thumb over his eyebrow. “Shh. It’s okay.” Shane hushes him, “I’m gonna clean up your cut, okay?” 

Ilya nods slowly, smacking his lips. 

Shane grabs the supplies from the backseat’s footwell and works carefully, methodically, knowing this well by now. He unwraps, cleans, and rewraps the wound, and the whole time Ilya is pliant, fevered, drifting in and out, occasionally mumbling nonsense—half-dreaming fragments that don’t seem to belong to any language, Shane’s name again. Shane kisses his knee, rubs his calf, is gentle on Ilya in all the ways he could never fathom being gentle on anyone else. I love you, Shane thinks as he wraps his wound, so much, Ilya. It all hurts so much but it’s so worth it, for you. 

Shane realizes, distantly, how serious this all is. Not Ilya’s wound, or the possibility of him dying— but them, their relationship. This isn’t something he can explain away to his mom, it’s something real, a love too big to just be a dirty little secret. Shane couldn’t keep telling himself that their too-tender kisses didn’t mean anything, or that they were just passing time with selfish pleasure, being nothing together.

 Shane had been so sure they couldn’t survive anything beyond casual sex, let alone the end of the world. That If he looked too closely, there would be nothing underneath. Maybe that was one of many reasons he drew such a line between himself and Ilya. 

But it’s not like that at all. Their relationship has been stress-tested to hell and back, and Shane doesn’t think he can ever love anybody like how he loves Ilya ever again. It’s real, it’s special, and it’s terrifying how madly in love he is. Even while he’s changing the bandages on Ilya’s gross, pus-oozing wound, all he can think about is how much he loves him, and how much he wants him to stop hurting. It’s so dire, in fact, that Shane doesn’t feel grossed out by Ilya at all, even peppering little smooches just over his knee, really close to that stinking cut. It’s so very unlike Shane, but Ilya breaks down all his boundaries, because Shane loves him just so much.

Ilya is his fucking baby, Shane thinks. His body instinctively curves around Ilya, and his mind is constantly tracking him—his breathing, his warmth, his pain—as if that’s what it was always meant to do.

When it’s all done, and his new bandages are secure, Shane helps Ilya out of the front and into the back because he wants to hold Ilya while they sleep. Ilya curls into him without hesitation, like his body knows exactly where it belongs. His forehead presses into Shane’s chest, one arm slipping weakly around his waist. Good, Shane thinks, despite the numbness fogging up his head, you’re mine.

“Hi,” Ilya whispers, drowsy but lucid now, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Hi,” Shane murmurs back. He wraps both arms around him, firm and protective. “Get some sleep.” He presses a clumsy kiss to Ilya’s forehead.

Ilya sighs, the sound melting into him, and easily slinks back into sleeping. His breathing evens out, slow and warm against Shane’s neck.

Shane rests his chin on the top of Ilya’s head and finally closes his eyes. He doesn’t think of much at all. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Shane’s bed is warm. His gaze drifts to the windows, all green-light and hazy sunshine peeling through, and Shane basks in the golden hue of it all. He sighs, and his sheets don’t smell anything like rot or that pungent fear-based sweat. Shane nestles his head into his pillow, his favorite one, one that was cushy and a little indulgent. He thinks, dully, that most people would assume Shane Hollander to have a cardboard box of a pillow, but no, his is all duck-feather down and fluffy. He misses it, although it’s right here, isn’t it?  It doesn’t feel right under his head.

Shane turns over. His limbs don’t make sense but he stretches them, he thinks. Next to him, the bed is empty, as usual. As always. But it feels wrong. He’s missing something. He rubs the sheets with his fingers he’s met with nothing but smoke and air and tingling numbness. 

Then a burst of cold hits him, and that feels very real. It effortlessly blows away the image his unconscious mind has desperately, hazily cooked up in order to soothe his nerves and let him sleep somewhat peacefully for once. 

Shane wakes, his spine in a stiff sort of agony, a film of sweat separating his skin from his clothes. He forces his sticky eyes open, flailing for a second as he makes sense of where he is, slurping up drool. There is a distinct lack of two-hundred-and-something-pounds of weight on Shane’s chest. Ilya isn’t on top of him anymore.

Shane’s heart lurches. He sits up fast, breath catching, and thankfully sees him very quickly.

Ilya is outside the car, the door left hanging open. He’s barely standing, one hand gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hair is damp with sweat, Shane’s flannel hanging half off his shoulder like he had been fighting with it. 

The sound of his voice bleeds sharply into Shane’s consciousness. “Где ты?” Ilya calls, shouting as much as his tired, raspy voice will allow, “Где ты, Вернись, я могу помочь!” Shane pauses, just sitting there, stupid and helpless as he tries to understand what Ilya is saying before he realizes that he’s speaking Russian. For a second, Shane thought he was having a stroke. It wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened.  “мамочка!?”

Dawn is creeping in slow and pale, light just seeping through the trees, fog rolling off the water. Ilya is shouting through it’s haze, searching for someone. He’s dreaming, Shane thinks, fever-dreaming. He’s losing his mind. 

“Ilya,” Shane groans, “Hey—”

“Мама!?” Ilya’s shouting is thin and desperate. 

Okay, Shane knows that word. He’s out of the car in less than a second.

“Hey,” Shane repeats urgently, hands already on him, trying desperately to hold together his shaking frame and tug him back down to earth. Ilya’s eyes are sunken but they’re crazed, dilated and flicking back and forth wildly in his skull as he searches frantically for... Well. His mom, Shane thinks. His dead mom. “Hey, you’re okay. Dreaming, you were dreaming, Ilya—”

Ilya doesn’t seem to hear him. His gaze slides right past Shane, panic building. “Я буду вести себя хорошо!” He shouts, placing a cold, slimy hand against Shane’s chest in an attempt to push him away. His hazel eyes cut straight through Shane, not seeing him at all. “Где ты, мамочка!” 

Maybe Shane should slap him. Would that, uh, fix it? Knock him out of it? But that feels so mean, and Ilya looks so frail—

Ilya spits out some vicious-sounding curse, clenched between his chattering teeth. It’s not directed at Shane per se, but at whatever villain Ilya’s fevered mind is perceiving Shane as. He shoves Shane again, harder than Shane was expecting and so incredibly desperate, like he’s shoving Shane against the boards to keep him pinned and out of the game. And Ilya shifts his weight to take a step—

—and cries out as pain tears through him. His injured leg gives out, going limp in a way that reminds Shane too much of watching Ilya fall unconscious that first time. It’s a memory that spurs this awful, sick and almost instinctual dread in Shane’s stomach as the memories all crash together until it’s just all too much and he just goes numb again, but not numb enough to freeze, thankfully.

Shane stumbles to catch Ilya, his arms hooking frantically under Ilya’s armpits as he buckles, breath knocked from him. He goes limp against Shane’s chest, trembling, both of his thick legs all awkwardly half-bent on the ground like a baby animal that hasn’t quite figured out walking yet. “Don’t—don’t do that!” Shane shouts, voice shaking now. He hadn’t meant to yell. 

 Ilya does not respond with words, not immediately, anyway. However, his breathing shifts into something slow, puffing through his nose instead of his mouth. His fingers grasp at Shane’s forearms, and that tells Shane that Ilya is back with him, at least partially. And he’s probably really, really fucking embarassed, if he’s thinking that hard, Shane isn’t sure. 

Shane awkwardly holds them there for a minute, hunched over, Ilya half on the ground and half on it. Both of them catch their breath. Okay, he thinks, and might even say outloud, okay. 

Ilya slowly goes limp enough that his head rolls forward. He lets out this pitiful little groan that is equal parts shame and pain. He doesn’t even try to get back up, or push Shane off. He just lets Shane arrange him in whatever way he wants because he likely can’t fight anymore— body and brain turning on him, the wound rotting him out. 

Shane’s state of numb agitation is scorched away by that now ever-familiar sense of protectiveness, something that is all encompassing and intense enough to make Shane’s skin crawl and burn with the urge to act, to do something, anything. 

Shane adjusts, hooking an arm under Ilya’s legs so he can scoop him up. Ilya is really big, big enough for the motion to be really fucking awkward— but he’s also somehow so frighteningly light in Shane’s arms, fever-hot and trembling, his skin burning through Shane’s sweatshirt. Shane’s gaze flits over his face in a cautionary check, making sure he’s not hurting Ilya; and he finds Ilya’s gaze a million-miles long, like he’s looking at absolutely nothing, and his eyes are glazed over and so, so tired looking. All the things that make him so special and just so Ilya have been beaten out of him by this atrocious, fucking awful infection. Shane thinks, horrified, that he’s probably not even Ilya anymore— he’s just a body trying desperately to keep itself alive.

Shane watches his gaze track lazily to Shane’s, hardly a movement at all. But his eyebrows still soften a little. Okay, Ilya’s still in there. He’s still himself, even if he’s too smothered out to be embarrassed. He sighs, resting his head on Shane’s shoulder. “...Baby,” He murmurs, “M’ your baby.” 

Was that a joke? Shane can’t tell. Shane really, desperately hopes that Ilya still has it within him to joke. He misses Ilya when he was healthy, more than he’s missed anyone, or anything. He tries to think of him laughing and being loud and annoying and even mean. He thinks of Ilya holding the cup over his head and giving it a big kiss.

“Yea,” Shane murmurs back, trying not to cry, “My baby.” He confirms, tucking the words into Ilya’s hairline as he presses a kiss there. 

The Porsche looks uninviting. Too full of fear, the air too stale and reeking of the rot that was already worming its way all up inside Ilya’s body. Shane needs space—needs air—and he has a feeling Ilya does too. 

And it’s beautiful here. A nice place to die— not that Ilya is dying. Well, he is, but... Fuck.

“It’s okay,” Shane murmurs as he adjusts his grip, one arm hooked firmly under Ilya’s knees, the other across his back. “I’ve got you. Just breathe for me, Ilya.” And don’t stop breathing, please. Just keep breathing.

Ilya doesn’t argue, probably because he doesn’t have the strength. His head lolls against Shane’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded, drained. He makes a small sound—something like agreement and relief. Shane carries him down toward the water.

The bay is impossibly still. Morning hasn’t fully claimed it yet, and nighttime clings stubbornly to the edges of the horizon. Lingering stars still freckle the sky, scattering across a soft lilac haze, bleeding into the coming sunrise. Their reflections tremble on the water, small points of light drifting like they’re unsure whether to stay or go. The moon is still there too, waxing and pale. It will share the sky with the sun soon, but only for a little while. 

The water is clear enough that smooth stones are visible beneath the surface and Shane’s reflection slides over them as he walks by, just along the slightly raised shoreline. He steps carefully over dirt and roots until he finds a big rock, broad and flat, worn smooth by time. It’s probably a rock a lot of people have sat on before, hikers and campers alike, because it’s a really good rock for sitting with a really good view of the bay. Shane sits down with Ilya still in his arms, grunting a little with the effort.

There are no signs that the world is ending anywhere else. The bay is quiet. It’s water mstretches into the horizon, bracketed by trees and so, so empty. Here, Shane feels like the world has left them behind again, but it’s not so scary now.

For a moment, it’s easy to believe that everything is fine here. Shane looks down at Ilya.

The first signs of sunlight turn his skin warm and gold despite the fever flush beneath it, and it almost sort of makes him look like himself again, but Shane knows better than that. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks, light tracing over the strong line of his nose. He looks impossibly young like this, softened by exhaustion, by trust. Even sick—especially sick—there’s something painfully beautiful about him, something that pulls at Shane’s chest. His necklace is dangling out of his shirt, likely untucked during whatever fever-fueled panic he was in earlier; and its sunlit twinkling matches that of his wedding band, which is why Shane picked it out in the first place.

“Don’t die, okay?” Shane mutters, half-joking.

Ilya huffs. Could be humored, could be exasperated. Shane can’t tell. 

Shane pulls Ilya’s car keys out of his sweatpants pocket. “Hold still,” Shane says, and he wedges the sharper, pointer part of the key into the button of the plastic, quarantine bracelet Ilya still wears. It takes some work, but he finally, finally gets it off. Shane tucks it into his pocket, refusing to litter, especially in such a nice place. He feels a little better when it’s gone. 

“Is this okay?” Shane asks, “You’re not cold, are you, bud?”

“Is okay,” Ilya responds, wrapping one of Shane’s hoodie strings around his fingers. 

Has Ilya ever been held like this? Probably not, at least not since he was very young. And even then , Shane has doubts. It sounded like his father was very hard on him, that gentle hands were something of strangers. But, Ilya does seem to like being held like this. When they get home, Shane will do this more. Or at least, he’ll try to, because he’s not sure if a healthy Ilya will like being coddled, like, like a baby... Shane honestly doesn’t know as much about Ilya as he would like to. He wants to learn everything about him. It’s yet another reason why Ilya can’t die here.

Even now, Shane wonders what Ilya would be doing, if he was healthy. Maybe they’d skip stones on the water together, and they’d compete on who could get the farthest. Shane would win, he tells himself.

But Ilya isn’t healthy, so Shane holds him tight, rubbing circles into his back. Ilya isn’t trembling anymore, even though it’s pretty cold. He sighs softly, eyes slipping shut again, relaxing more and more with each pass of Shane’s hand. A wordless I love you. “Feels nice,” Ilya murmurs, sounding unfocused but content. “You’re warm.”

Shane’s throat tightens. He presses his cheek to the top of Ilya’s head. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Shane stays where he is.

He holds Ilya tight and looks out toward the horizon, where the lilac sky thins into pale gold, and he knows, dimly, that he should be thinking about plans. Next steps, the border, the quarantine marker still on Ilya’s wrist, all the things that have piled up over the last days— each one heavy enough to crush him on its own.

 And those thoughts are all there, he can feel them waiting. But they’re far away. They feel strangely distant now, like they belong to a different, more frightened version of himself. The urgency of it all has been swallowed by something quieter and stronger: the simple, overwhelming need to keep Ilya calm, and warm, and breathing. 

Shane doesn’t know what to do next. The not-knowing should scare him a lot more than it does. And maybe it is scaring him, and that’s why he can’t fucking do anything about it. But what is he supposed to do? He’s so helpless to all of this. It’s like his body is only half-present, running on instinct while the rest of him floats somewhere above it all. Shane feels far more connected to Ilya than he does himself, and when Ilya shifts his legs a little, awareness tugs at his chest.

Shane smooths his hand over Ilya’s leg, the scratchy and still-dry gauze covering his wound. “Does it hurt?” Shane asks softly, which feels like a stupid question, considering Ilya just collapsed after putting weight on it a few minutes ago.

But Ilya shakes his head, the movement shallow. “No,” He murmurs, “I only feel you.” 

Tears well up in Shane’s eyes. He lets them fall, too tired to stop them. An emotion too big to hold within Shane’s body fills up his heart and his lungs and all his other organs too, making his ribs and the roots of his molars ache. Shane grinds his jaw and he silently presses all of his feelings into the crown of Ilya’s head, tears spilling into his curls. “I’m so sorry, Ilya,” He murmurs.

Ilya’s cold fingers sink into Shane’s hair, scratching lazily behind his ear, making a gentle rustling sound. Shane isn’t sure who’s holding who anymore. 

Blurred by tears, Shane’s view of the horizon distorts; and the rising sun becomes a soft, glowing spot that crawls up the sky on the Canada side of the border.  Fucking untouchable. The moon is up there too somewhere, slowly fading away. The light strengthens by degrees, turning the bay from lilac to muted silver-blue. The last of the stars fade, dissolving into morning.

…There’s something on the water.

At first it’s just a darker shape against the horizon, distant and slow-moving.  Shane doesn’t think much of it, but his eyes lazily track it, on impulse. As it comes a little clearer into clearer view, it doesn’t look like military. No sharp lines, no harsh angles. It’s a fishing boat. A decent-sized one, sturdy and practical, with a small cabin and a center console.

Growing up, summer was really hard on Shane. 

It was the off season, so no hockey. And hockey was Shane’s whole world, and so his discipline around everything else grew until it was unbearably bad, like, staying awake at night counting calories over and over and over again kind of bad, which wasn’t normal or healthy for any ten-year-old. Small things would set him off, like, dad making an unplanned icecream pitstop, and Shane would have these massive breakdowns, which were quiet on the outside and loud on the inside. His life was all lines and borders that he followed so strictly, in hopes it would give him control over a world that he felt just so powerless in. 

His parents, like always, knew something was wrong with him even when he was trying to hide it. So getting Shane to relax became Yuna Hollander’s number one prerogative. In fact, it even became a bulleted list. 

They tried soccer at first, because Shane liked soccer a little bit. Not like how he liked hockey, but it was fun enough, and close enough to hockey that Shane felt like it wasn’t a complete waste of his time. The problem lay in the fact that Shane didn’t have a lot of friends to play it with. No one wanted to be friends with the boy who left sleepovers early.

So soccer didn’t work. Next Yuna considered the exact opposite approach. Instead of feeding Shane’s competitive nature, she was going to try to starve it. So dad got a new boat.

He had one before, when Shane was too little to remember. He decided boating wasn’t for him after he ran it aground with Yuna and baby-Shane on board, and that scared him badly enough to warrant him talking about it years later, like it was the scariest thing that had ever happened to him. But, mom is good at getting dad to do most things, so he got a new boat.

It was fancy. Not like a yacht or anything, but it was still nice. Calling it a fishing boat felt a little inappropriate, in the same way that Shane’s cottage wasn’t really a cottage at all;  It was big enough to fit all the friends Shane didn’t have, and it had a little indoor cabin with a tiny bar, one that was never stocked with anything alcoholic. 

Shane remembers the hum of the engine under his feet. The way the boat would cut clean lines through early morning water, mist still rising in ribbons. How small the world felt out there—just sky and lake and the steady rhythm of it all. And he’d sit and watch their house grow smaller and smaller on the horizon, drink his ginger ale, and relax. 

And that was all it really took. It didn’t solve Shane’s problem of course, in fact he’s never been able to solve it, but it did help. Summers became palatable, and the boat gave him something to look forward to. Shane loved his dad’s boat. He hasn’t stepped foot on it in years now, not since he started playing hockey professionally. 

When dad brought the boat home, he already had a name in mind. Shane and Yuna all helped him paint it on, and it was maybe the only funny thing David Hollander had ever thought of in his entire, boring life—

The One of A Kind II. 

That’s what the bow reads.

Shane reads it over, and over, and over. 

He squints, heart beginning to pound for a completely different reason.

Shane’s eyesight isn’t the best but he knows the shape of those letters. He’s traced them with a paintbrush and a sponge and the side of his hand for years. The cabin window on the port side has that faint crack in the corner from when he was thirteen and careless with a dock line. 

That’s dad’s boat.

“No,” he breathes, half-laugh, half-gasp. “No way.” The boat is angling toward shore now, toward them. Shock floods Shane first, sharp and disorienting. Then confusion. How? Why? Maybe this is a trick of the light, a fever dream that somehow spread from Ilya to him. His brain scrambles for a rational explanation, something smaller, safer. But the closer it gets, the more undeniable it becomes. That’s his dad’s fucking boat. Relief slams into him so hard it almost knocks him sideways. His vision blurs. His chest aches with it, wild and disbelieving and overwhelming. 

They came to get him. 

The boat slows. He can see figures now, one at the helm, one near the bow, and it’s unmistakably them. He can see his mom a bit better, and her hair is whipping in the winter wind, and Shane’s breath leaves him in a broken sound. He’s a scared little kid all over again, twisting a phone cord around his fingers in the dark, begging for his mom to come pick him up. 

And she’s here. She’s really here. 

Shane feels a lot of emotions all at once but he knows he isn’t quite out of the water yet, and neither is Ilya. He needs to focus, for just a little longer. Shane kneels and lowers Ilya gently onto the rock, brushing hair back from his damp forehead. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers, and Ilya just groans, barely conscious and probably not happy about losing Shane’s body heat.

He stands and waves both arms high, voice cracking as he calls out. “Hey!” Shane tries to keep himself steady, tries to keep the knot in his throat from swallowing his voice whole, “Here, we’re here!” 

Shane can’t hear them over the howl of the wind, if they’re even saying anything at all. But unmistakably, his mom waves at him. Shane’s hands start shaking in earnest. 

When it’s clear they’re pulling in, Shane gathers Ilya carefully back up into his arms. “It’s okay,” he says to Ilya, almost laughing now, or maybe he’s crying, it’s hard to tell the difference. Regardless, he awkwardly gathers up Ilya’s huge fucking body into his arms, his shoulders burning a little from the effort of hoisting him up. Ilya is all limp and his head jerks back, reminding Shane a bit of Hayden’s infant daughter who couldn’t pick up her own head for the longest time. Shane winces, but Ilya quickly recovers, groaning as he tucks himself against Shane’s shoulder instead. “It’s okay. We’re almost there.” Shane reassures both Ilya and himself.

The possibility of Ilya dying makes the whole gay thing seem really small in comparison. It doesn’t even cross his mind that his mom and dad are about to meet Ilya Rozanov, his secret lover of ten years, as he carries him toward the water’s edge while the boat noses close enough to board.

For a split second, Shane just stares.

Mom looks the same and not the same. Smaller than the version in the memory he’s been holding onto for days, maybe. Older. Lines deeper around her mouth.  But her eyes are exactly the same. Dark like his but sharp, searching, locked onto him like he’s the only thing in the world. 

“Shane,” she says.

He’s taller than her, broader. He knows that, he can see it objectively, it’s been that way for years. But she feels enormous; larger than the boat, larger than the bay, larger than the terror that’s been living in his chest for days.

Her hand closes around his forearm to steady him as he climbs aboard, and it’s not a strong grip, not compared to his, but it still feels unbreakable. Like nothing could knock her over, and like nothing ever would. 

“Mom,” Shane croaks as Yuna’s hands find his face, gently skirting around the fat bruise on his jaw, uncaring of all the blood and sweat and grime on him. He’s trying so hard not to cry, they both are, Shane can tell. She probably wants to hug him, but that won’t happen while Ilya’s in his arms. She sweeps his hair back into his hairline, cleaning him up in little ways. 

“Are you hurt?” She asks. Shane shakes his head.

To check the validity of Shane’s answer, Yuna’s eyes flick over him quickly, checking for blood, for damage—before landing on Ilya. “So, this is...” She trails off, and Shane honestly isn’t sure she recognizes him yet. She must, but, maybe the shock is just too much, at the moment. Shane isn’t sure if Ilya is asleep or not, but he’s not reacting to anything. Shane can feel his ribs expanding with breath, so he, at the very least, isn’t dead.

“Yea,” Shane says quickly, not wanting to talk about that yet, because there are way bigger things going on. “We, we gotta help him, mom, he’s really sick. He needs a doctor— ” Ilya is getting a little heavy. Carrying him gently takes more effort, and Shane doesn’t want to hurt him, “—I have to put him down.” 

And then David’s boxy hands are on Shane’s face too, the same hands Shane inherited from him, tugging Shane in to kiss his cheek. Dad lowers his voice as he leans closer, gentle and yielding as always; “Border patrol’s sweeping the water. We’ve seen two patrol boats already this morning. Best move’s to keep him in the cabin.” He says, because apparently mom has already filled him in that Shane’s friend isn’t Canadian. 

“Yea, okay. Thanks, dad,” Shane says hurriedly. It’s not at all lost on him that his parents are willing to break laws that will probably get them into a fuckton of trouble if caught, all for a stranger Shane loves. 

“Home?” David asks Yuna. She nods, and Shane is already wobbling to the center cabin.

Shane squeezes into the small cabin first, lowering Ilya as gently as he can onto the bench inside, settling his mostly limp body atop sunbleached cushions. His legs are a little too long for it, but it doesn’t matter. Ilya stirs faintly, brow furrowing.

“Shane?” he whispers, barely conscious.

“I’m here,” Shane says instantly, kneeling beside Ilya. Shane feels a rush of embarrassment and a twinge of shame when he feels his parents still hovering around him, watching him, but the need to comfort Ilya outweighs all of the fear and guilt Shane has maybe ever felt about this facet of his life. He brushes his knuckles along Ilya’s cold cheek, the stubble there prickling Shane’s skin.  “You’re okay. We’re on a boat.”

“...Boat,” Ilya grumbles incredulously, scrunching up his eyebrows in confusion. Shane can’t help the weak, huffed laugh he lets out. 

“Yea, boat.” Shane repeats fondly, and kisses Ilya’s cheek so quickly, like if he does it fast enough his parents won’t notice. “Get some sleep.” And Ilya listens. He sighs and closes his eyes, his head tipping slightly to the side as he goes limp within seconds. 

 The One of A Kind II lurches to life, heading home. Ilya is going to be so fucking angry when he realizes his fancy sports car was left behind, or, or maybe he won’t be. Maybe he’ll just be happy to be alive. 

Alive. Ilya is going to live through this. They’re going to get him to a doctor, and everything will be fine. Shane feels the tension leave his body at once.

...Almost. Almost all the tension.

Because Shane can feel his mom’s shadow looming over him. She stands in the cabin doorway, watching, and she still feels so incredibly large, but now it’s unfortunately imposing. Shane feels like he’s been caught with his hand in a cookie jar, and, fuck— that’s stupid. He’s a grown man. Despite that fact, Shane can’t bring himself to turn and face his mom. He stays crouched beside Ilya, a terrifyingly awkward silence filling the cabin. 

This should be his worst nightmare. And, once upon a time, it was. But, a lot changed for him after bashing a sick woman’s head in with his hockey stick. Still, that does not mean Shane is particularly happy about this.

“Is he...” Yuna starts. Shane hears her clear her throat. “He’s not, sick, like...?”

She must mean ‘like zombie-sick’. “No,” Shane says immediately, shaking his head, still unable to face her. “There was a car accident. His leg got cut, and I didn’t do a very good job taking care of it. So it’s infected. Normal infected.” Shane sniffles. He feels so weird.

Yuna slowly crouches down next to Shane. Shane doesn’t look at her. Instead, he stares a hole into one of the buttons on his flannel, the one Ilya is wearing. A hand cups the back of Shane’s neck, mom’s slender fingers pushing through the shorter hair at his nape.  Shane still can’t look at her.

“I can’t help but notice—” she says slowly, “—that this is Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane presses his lips together. He nods. 

Her hand slowly retracts from Shane. She presses her palm lightly against Ilya’s sweaty forehead instead, testing him for fever the way she used to with Shane when he was little.

“Oh sweetheart,” she says softly. Not to Shane—to Ilya. “You’re burning up.”

Shane’s heart does something weird while he watches his mom brush away Ilya’s curls, only for them to stubbornly bounce back into place. “Not so scary like this, is he...” She croons, entirely to herself. 

Shock forces Shane to, finally, jerk his gaze to his mom. He finds her expression pitched with gentle, maternal concern; coddling, maybe even a few seconds away from cooing at poor, sick Ilya. Shane doesn’t have a name for the emotion that seizes up his heart, but it’s warm and full and good. 

“He’s shivering,” Yuna comments, “David, do we have any blankets?” 

At the helm, Dad makes the sound he always does when he’s not entirely sure of something, “Check the compartment under the bench, maybe?” 

Ilya fits. He fits here. 

Shane watches his mom fucking tuck in Ilya. Yuna has known Ilya Rozanov for years as a cocky, mean asshole with no respect for anybody else, but she’s bringing up the blanket around his shoulders like he’s just another Hollander. Ilya’s face is sleep-soft and Shane realizes that he’s safe here, with his family. Cared for. 

Shane hugs his mom, buries his head into her shoulder as they kneel together. It’s desperate and tight, his arms wrapping around her like he’s afraid she might disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough. She makes a soft sound of surprise, then folds into him just as fiercely. He feels so helpless and she feels exactly like she always has— safe. Her arms circle him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head the way she did when he was small enough to hide against her chest.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Shane admits quietly, still shaken from their interrupted phone call, voice rough against her shoulder. “I really tried, i’m sorry—”

Yuna cuts him off by leaning back just enough to look at him, her hands firm on his arms. Her eyes are bright, too intense. “Shane, look at me,” she says, and now Shane really can’t look at her. “I’m sorry I was hard on you, that I made you doubt yourself. You did the right thing.”  Shane just catches her gaze when she speaks again, and his brain quickly memorizes the way she looks when she says; “I am so proud of you.”

Not disappointed. Not confused. Shane doesn’t feel very proud of himself, but it’s enough. It’s enough.

 Shane makes some weak, pathetic little sound, and he sags into her again. The final bits of his stubborn tension melt away, pouring down his slack shoulders, sliding into the One of A Kind II’s wooden floorboards, and washing away in the water beneath. His forehead presses against her temple, and he lets her hold him. Lets himself be held. He doesn’t need to be steady anymore.

Her hand moves in slow strokes up and down his back. “We’re going to get you home,” She says, and Shane nods, the sentiment feeling truer than ever. He can smell the lake, feel the sun through the trees and the softness of his freshly-washed sheets— and he can hear the accented rumble of Ilya’s voice threading through it all, teasing and annoying, healthy and spry. It’s all so tangibly real now that his mom said so. 

Shane reaches for Ilya’s hand. He fits his thumb over his weak pulse, like Shane can maybe press the warm thoughts into Ilya too.

In the small cabin of his childhood summers, Shane’s mom is hugging him, and the man he loves is breathing. No more lines.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Sound first. A low mechanical hum under everything, vibrating through his bones. Then movement—gentle, rocking, like the ground can’t decide where it wants to be.

Ilya tries to open his eyes and the light fractures. Shapes blur together. The ceiling is too close. The air smells wrong. Salt and fuel and blood— rotting blood. He’s smelled it for days. His own, festering wound. His body feels too big and too small at the same time. He’s alone. His face hurts. Maybe someone hit him— yes, that’s it. He can feel the impression of his father’s big ring on his cheekbone, he thinks.

There’s a man’s voice outside. Somewhere beyond where Ilya can see, in this tiny room of shapes and blurring light. His father, Ilya’s brain readily supplies. But maybe he’s not outside, maybe he’s— he’s here. Ilya feels contaminated. Like something was planted in him years ago and is only now waking up, spreading through his blood. His father is in him, somewhere, making him crazy, his disease having spread to Ilya too and there is nothing he can do to stop it. A death sentence ordered by both his parents. 

“I don’t want—” Ilya hisses, tongue fat in his mouth, choking him out. He claws at his chest. Or, at least he thinks he is. He can’t feel anything. His arms are so heavy, “get out.”

Outside, more muffled voices. Firm, official, not his father but also his father, who is also inside him somewhere. Another voice—steady, familiar— pipes out an answer. 

That one is a lot clearer. Shane. Ilya clings to that sound instinctively. It cuts through the haze like a thread, like the only thing that makes sense. “Get out,” Ilya growls, a little stronger now, because he doesn’t want to be what his father was to his mother.

The door shifts. Footsteps. The space changes.

Then hands—warm and real—cup his face. And oh, those pretty freckles, and big wet eyes. “Ilya,” Shane’s voice says, low and urgent but soft at the edges. Ilya thinks he can feel the vibration of his words through his teeth, his ribs, but he’s still so scared Shane is going to see that ugly thing rooting around inside him. “Shh. You gotta be quiet, okay?” 

Quiet, okay. Ilya can be quiet. He feels very quiet. “Shane,” He whispers, and that’s a word that makes sense. English is so limiting. He tries to think of a softer name for Shane, something else to call him that really expresses how he’s feeling, but all that comes out of Ilya is nonsense mumbling in the vague shape of Shane’s name before he gives up. He can’t think very hard about much of anything right now, because his father is inside him and he’s very, very sick. Sick like crazy? Sick like cancer? Sick like... Dementia. 

“Yea, it’s me.” Shane says. Ilya feels Shane’s hand scrubbing through his hair, his nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Shh. Get some sleep. You’re okay.”

“You have to get away,” Ilya murmurs, because he doesn’t want Shane to get sick too, to get eaten up by the mean, ugly thing that Ilya is, “From me. Please. Shane—”

“Ilya,” Shane says, lowering his voice even more, “I can’t understand you.” He can’t? “Can you try English?” Isn’t Ilya speaking English? Fuck, he’s so cold. So cold, and so hot, too. 

“He’s in me, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, “I can’t get him out.” 

Shane frowns, his eyebrows pinching together. It’s a worried little look. His freckles look like constellations. Shane strokes over Ilya’s face with the backs of his fingers, and it makes Ilya’s skin crawl, because his father is very old fashioned and he doesn’t like that. He can really feel the imprint of the ring on his face now, like, it’s everywhere, and it hurts really bad.

The world feels distant. Unreal. Ilya groans, frustrated and distraught, trying to assemble the pieces, but they won’t line up.

The cabin door opens again and another figure kneels beside them. Softer shape. Gentle hands.

A woman’s voice. Unlike Shane, She’s clouded and vague and bathed in light from the windows; heavenly, heavenly light. “What’s wrong?” She says. 

“I don’t know,” Shane answers, whispering, “He’s, uh... I think he’s dreaming?”

No, I’m not, Ilya thinks, I’m awake, with you. But, maybe he is dreaming? He wants to wake up. It’s time to wake up.

“Is dad finishing up with—?”

“Yes, he’s got it handled.” 

What? The coiled thing in his chest shifts, hisses. The boat rocks again. Voices outside rise and fall—questions, answers. Ilya can’t make sense of them.

“Oh sweetheart,” she says. His mom, Ilya thinks. Who else? She’s not quite right, and Ilya can’t really parse her face, but he blames it readily on the fact that he’s crazy, and that he’s dying, and that he’s sick.

 “Мамочка,” Ilya wheezes, and his vision blurs again, but this time it’s not out of panic. 

“What’s he saying?” She asks, and Ilya doesn’t understand why. Can she not understand him? Is he too crazy, or, did she forget him? Maybe all the pills made her forget him. He was never a very good son, anyway. Ilya would forget himself too. 

“I don’t know,” Shane murmurs, looking a little flushed. He’s lying. He knows what Ilya is saying, he must. 

“Мамочка, It’s Ilya,” Ilya insists, pleading, “Don’t forget, please. I’m sorry.” He reaches weakly toward her, fingers trembling. “I’m sorry—” his voice raises, frantic, he wants help. 

Shane and his mama both hurriedly shush him, and Ilya remembers that Shane asked him to be quiet. He’s bad at that. Always too loud... 

But then his mama’s hand closes around his. She’s so warm, not like a corpse at all. “I’m here,” she says softly, “Shh. It’s okay.” Ilya exhales shakily, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. The coiled presence in his chest loosens, just a little, under the warmth of their hands. 

“I need help,” Ilya mutters, soft and quiet, like Shane had asked. He’s not even sure if he’s really talking anymore, his thoughts and speech just combining together into one tangled-up mass. 

“Can he understand us?” His mama asks Shane. It’s another weird question, because of course he can understand. But Ilya likes knowing his mama is talking to his Shane, that she likes him. Ilya loves them both very much, it makes the heat inside him feel a little more bearable. 

“I don’t know,” Shane says, “Probably.” Yea, probably is a good answer. Ilya thinks he’s probably understanding them too. Shane’s forehead is suddenly resting against his, he feels cooler but also nice and warm at the same time, not at all like the sickening heat tearing up his insides. “You’re okay,” he repeats, voice thick. “Um, T-tee-ah sou-benny.” 

What?

“What?” His mama asks too.

“I’m saying it wrong,” Shane huffs, “I only heard him say it twice. Ty osobennyy.” 

You are special. Ilya smiles. “Ты особенный,” Ilya repeats, saying it properly, showing Shane that he understands, that he did a good job. Shane smiles, sighs, laughs. Such a pretty laugh. He sounds a little sad, too. But Ilya doesn’t think he can do anything to help that, not with how sick he is now.

“Yea, that. Okay.” Shane hums, nudges his nose into Ilya’s forehead, and his mama strokes her thumb over his cold, cold fingers. Ilya looks at Shane, really looks at him, and even through the distortion he recognizes him. The shape of him, the feeling of him. However, his mama is all blurry edges and sunlight bleeding over her face. He can’t see her well, can’t comprehend her at all, but Ilya can still peel imagery from his memories and stick them onto the moment— her dark blonde hair, her light eyes, the ones Ilya inherited from her. They’re just as sad as hers, too. The feeling of her here is just as beautiful as she looks in Ilya’s memory. 

Her fingers brush over Ilya’s wedding ring. He can’t feel his father anymore. “Look, Мамочка,” Ilya murmurs, his words all breath, “Didn’t I marry such a nice guy?” because he and Shane are married, right? Four years ago, they met at an art museum, because they’re art people. Ilya is eager to show him off.  “He picked out this ring for me. It matches your necklace...” 

Both Shane and his mama remain quiet. Shane keeps his forehead pressed to Ilya’s, and he can feel his eyelashes kissing at his temple. His mama keeps holding Ilya’s hand, but part of him knows she can’t stay. She won’t stay, and she can’t protect him from his father. She never could. That’s okay. He forgave her a long time ago, and he just hopes she can forgive him too. 

Ilya must fall asleep at some point. His consciousness stretches long, like he’s everywhere and nowhere, and there’s hands all over him but they don’t hurt, it’s all nice. He can’t feel the mean bite of his father’s ring anymore, only the sturdy wrap of his own, anchored around his finger. 

This is what it must be like to die surrounded by loved ones. Joy fills the room. It’s a luxury Ilya never thought he would have.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

The room smells faintly like laundry detergent. And dust. Mostly dust.

Shane lies on his back in the bed that used to be his, staring at the ceiling he memorized as a kid. The same small crack in the corner near the window. But it’s all different now— no NHL posters, no desk he diligently would do homework on. It’s all styled pillows and scratchy, impersonal duvets. 

The house has gone quiet for the night. His parents’ bedroom door clicked shut an hour ago. He’s staying with them because their house is, like, 5 minutes closer to the hospital— but it’s mostly because Shane doesn’t have the strength to go home yet, to his home. He finds himself appreciating how distant this room feels, actually. Shane isn’t ready to feel too much yet. He needs to take it slow.

Now there’s only the distant ticking of the hallway clock. Shane closes his eyes.

Immediately, he’s back in the hospital corridor.

The too-bright lights and smell of antiseptic. The way the nurse’s sneakers squeaked faintly on the polished floor as they wheeled Ilya away. Shane didn’t even walk with Ilya , he couldn’t, they just took him away too fast for Shane to really think on it. 

The doctor took a while to speak with them. We need to keep him overnight, he had said, He’s stable, but it’s serious.

Stable. Serious. The words sit in Shane’s chest like mismatched weights.

He remembers the last look he got—through that narrow sliver of the hospital door before it shut. Just a thin vertical slice of white sheets, a monitor blinking green, Ilya’s face turned slightly toward the wall. He’d looked so small in that bed.

Shane had stood there too long. Like if he kept watching, nothing worse could happen.

He opens his eyes again, staring at the dark ceiling.

Dinner feels like it happened weeks ago instead of hours. His mom setting a plate in front of him, a plate of something Shane could eat, but didn’t want to. The normalcy of it was almost unbearable. He had tried to eat, he really tried. And he did eat, but just a little. His parents didn’t push, although his mom made a small, gentle comment about it that Shane can’t really remember anymore.

What Shane can remember is everything else about their conversation. “How did you find us?” Shane had asked, because Missisquoi Bay is very big. Yuna simply told Shane that she had his location through some app on her phone, that she’s had it for years, that he shared it with her. Shane doesn’t remember sharing it with her, and he doesn’t like that she has it. But he just kept quiet and took another small bite of his salmon, because his mom is right about most things. If you ask her, she’s right about everything. 

Talking about Ilya wasn’t so scary, especially in comparison to everything that happened to him. His parents were far more curious about Ilya than Shane’s roadtrip, which maybe hurts, but he tries to ignore it.

 He answers their questions. How long? Since rookie season. Do you throw games for him? No, never. I really thought you hated him? I don’t. 

How long did you know you were gay? It sounded a lot more like, how long have you been lying to us? Shane didn’t give a clear answer to that one, he just shrugged his shoulders. Truth is, he had always known, deep down.

None of his answers feel good enough. How does he explain something that started as almost nothing became everything, without him even noticing?

“Aren’t there any nice men in Canada?” David had asked, and although he had done so with good intention and a fatherly sort of care in his voice, it made Shane angry. 

“Ilya is nice,” Shane said, and then went back to poking around at his food. 

Shane has a lot of questions too. But not for his parents, more so just for the world, for the stars over his head. Will Ilya play hockey again? Fuck, will anyone ever play hockey again? Is the world really ending? Is he really, truly safe right now? There is no response, just the quiet rustle of trees outside the window.

Being in bed feels so weird after nights of sleeping in the car. He had thought he’d pass out right when his head hit the pillow, but that’s not the case at all. He turns onto his side and brings his hand up between the pillows— like Ilya should be there—and rubs his thumb slowly over the ring on his finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. The metal is smooth. Even if it’s a shitty lie that didn’t even work, it comforts Shane, just a little. Because Ilya picked it out for him.

Shane twists it slightly. He imagines Ilya in that bed. Monitors and IV. Breathing. Breathing.

Shane swallows hard. He doesn’t know how to process any of this. Everything changed so fast. His life split open and rearranged itself in less than a week. Shane thinks about the sick person tapping on the window of Ilya’s car— fuckkk he’s never getting to sleep. 

But he does sleep. Eventually. Maybe in hours, maybe in minutes. He tries not to think of Ilya alone in that hospital bed. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Shane has never liked hospitals, but, who does? He’s been fortunate enough to never sustain a serious injury throughout the whole of his career, but he’s had enough bumps and bruises to warrant getting them checked on. Each injury Shane had, he’d always worry the doctors might tell him that it was worse than it had appeared, that his bruised shoulder or battered ribs could be career ending.

That never happened, of course. And it won’t happen for Ilya, either.

He’s getting discharged today.

And, with some time, he’ll make a full recovery.

Shane had nodded so many times during the doctor’s explanation that his neck still aches.

The blinds are cracked just enough to let pale afternoon sun spill across the floor, and the beeping of the monitors and machines sounds less ominous now—more routine than urgent. There’s a plastic bag on the counter filled with prescription bottles, instructions stapled to the outside in neat stacks. A roadmap back to normal. 

Ilya is still sleeping. Shane hadn’t wanted to wake him. He’s cleaned up decently now; his face doesn’t look all slimy anymore. But his curls are flat, greasy and unwashed. He still smells like blood, but now he smells like hospital too.

Shane’s parents lingered for a while, but they left to grab lunch. So now Shane sits in the stiff vinyl chair by the window, ankles crossed, a paperback open in his hands. Hockey, hockey hockey hockey. Shane’s back to hockey. They’ll both be playing next season, for sure, and he needs to make sure none of the trauma he endured knocked any of his hockey knowledge out of his head. Ilya will make a full recovery so Shane can keep kicking his ass, again and again and again, for as long as they live.

He’s midway through a paragraph when a voice, rough with sleep, cuts gently through the silence; “You wear glasses?”

Shane’s heart skips several beats. It might kill him. It mercifully doesn’t. “Yea,” He sputters out, heat rising to his cheeks. Shane isn’t sure if it’s from embarrassment or excitement. “Only when I read.” He takes them off at once; snapping them back into their case, and slipping them into his pocket. Ilya’s eyes are open, hazy but aware, mouth tipped faintly at one corner. Shane blinks once. “You’re awake.”

“Unfortunately,” Ilya murmurs, and a smile cracks across his dry lips. Ohh, Shane could cry. He doesn’t. He thinks he’s cried enough for one lifetime. 

“How are you feeling?” Shane leans in, but he’s still a good few feet away. It all feels very clinical. That line between him and Ilya is back, because there’s doctors and nurses who could barge in at any moment, and the doctor had made it very obvious he knew who both Shane and Ilya were. He had even questioned Shane. Shane had lied, partially, covering up any hint of their romantic relationship. Traveling together was a funny coincidence that was simply for survival. 

“Well,” Ilya starts, “I have both legs. So that is good.” Yea, that’s very good. Shane had also heavily considered amputation to be a possibility. He had a nightmare about it last night, in fact. “Put your glasses back on,” Ilya complains, “They are cute.”

Ilya is making fun of him, Shane’s sure of it. “Ha-ha.” Shane laughs half-heartedly.

“Come here,” Ilya then quickly demands, “Shaaane.” 

Ilya is on pain meds, but none that should make him too loopy. He’s just being annoying. 

“Keep it down,” Shane complains. He glances to the door, as if that would give him any indication on whether anyone else was going to come in, and then stands up with a defeated sigh. He drags his chair to Ilya’s bedside, the plastic legs screeching against the tile floors. “Better?” Shane asks while he sits down, his knees pressed up to the shitty hospital mattress. He’s about as close as he can get without just crawling on top of Ilya, which is what he really wishes he could do. That, and kiss him all over.

Ilya studies Shane like he’s something new. “Yes,” he says simply.

Up close, the bruised exhaustion under Ilya’s eyes is still there, but they’re also so clear. Focused directly on Shane to the point that Shane starts to feel a little self-conscious. But it’s good, it’s really good. 

They’re on the other side of it. This isn’t the hollow, drifting version of Ilya from yesterday; Ilya is himself again. Eyes clear, voice steady, and stupidly obsessed with looking at Shane. Shane is just as obsessed with looking at Ilya too, even if Ilya really needs a shower. 

Secretly, underneath it all, Shane is a little proud of himself. Just a little, tiny bit. Because he got Ilya here, even if his parents did end up saving him at that last moment. Ilya is alive and breathing and it’s mostly because of Shane. He feels... Capable. Turns out, he was just steady enough.

Shane reaches for Ilya’s hand, or maybe Ilya reaches for his. Shane isn’t sure. They’re just drawn to each other, desperate to touch. Shane is very careful about Ilya’s IV line. “You scared me,” Shane admits softly, rubbing his thumb over Ilya’s knuckles. Ilya’s hand is not so warm, but not so cold either. An improvement.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya seems very genuine in his remorse.

“No, don’t be,” Shane coos in a tone he didn’t really think he was capable of. “It’s okay, bud.” Ilya makes Shane so gentle. Ilya really seems to believe him too, glancing up at him with an open, trusting sort of look. He’s the most content Shane’s seen him in days, his features all soft. Shane wonders how much Ilya knows. “We’re in Canada now. Did you know that?” 

Ilya nods shallowly. He must’ve figured it out already, or a nurse told him. “So, no more zombies?” Ilya asks.

Shane cracks a little smile, and decides not to scold Ilya for calling them zombies, even though he still finds it inappropriate. “Yea, hopefully.” Shane says. From his little time home, Shane could tell that things here were still very much tense. Even if there wasn’t as much chaos as in the States with no confirmed breakout cases yet; the news cycled the same scary stories, and the hospital had a weird, quiet air to it, like everybody was holding their breath. But, Shane can’t bring himself to worry too much, not with Ilya alive and breathing. “The doctor says you get to leave today,” Shane says.

Ilya’s expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable. “Today?” He repeats.

“Yeah. Just… They’re gonna have you on a lot of pills. Like, aggressively a lot.” Shane glances elsewhere briefly. When his gaze returns to Ilya, he finds him looking, fuck, Shane doesn’t know. Disturbed? Upset? Maybe anxious? Whatever it is, it’s a bad look. It cuts through whatever sleepy, semi-contentment he was wearing earlier, highlighting the circles under his eyes and making him look very sick again.

“Yay,” Ilya murmurs, pointedly, “Great news.” He seems more nervous than he’s trying to let on. “What kind are they?” 

Maybe he’s nervous about taking pills? Shane wouldn’t know why. It seems like the sort of thing Ilya wouldn’t think twice about. But, Shane doesn’t know Ilya that well yet. “Just stuff to fight your infection,” Shane says, trying to comfort Ilya even though he doesn’t really know what the problem is, “I don’t think they have any adverse side-effects. I’ll help you with them, I can set up a schedule for them on my phone. I already made a section in my calendar for it.” 

Ilya smiles. Phew. It’s a little one, but it completely unwrites the look of unease he was wearing. “You’re funny, Hollander.” Shane doesn’t know what’s so funny about that. “Am I still going to your cottage?” 

“Yea, of course.” Shane answers eagerly, “If you want that.” Shane has wanted it for years. At first, it was just a dirty, secret desire. Then it turned into something semi-tangible yet so stupidly dangerous, an invite that would sit heavy on the tip of Shane’s tongue every time he spoke to Ilya. Bringing Ilya into his life— his controlled, segmented, perfectly safe and secure life—  was all Shane had ever wanted. 

But wasn’t that too boring for Ilya? 

“Yes,” Ilya answers, “I’ve been looking forward to it.” 

Apparently not. 

“It’s in the middle of the woods,” Shane explains, because maybe Ilya would like to know about it before he goes there. “Very private. No one will know you’re there.” That was part of the reason why Shane picked it’s location, he’s always been factoring Ilya into his life choices, even if he didn’t want to admit that to himself. “It has a big lake—” 

“I know this,” Ilya says, which surprises Shane. “I saw your interview on TV. Many times. I would put it on to fall asleep.”

Shane frowns. Ilya isn’t wearing his typical teasing-sort-of-expression. He looks all earnest and soft-eyed, batting his sweet eyelashes at Shane as if he hadn’t just called him boring for the hundredth time. “Very funny,” Shane grumbles angrily, because he can’t believe Ilya has the gall to be an asshole after Shane carried his sorry-self through the border, and is acting all innocent on top of it. Maybe Shane should’ve left his ass in zombie-infested America.

“I’m not being funny,” Ilya says, “It was very comforting. Nice. I’d think about being there, when I’d go to sleep. Like, doing your yoga with you, in front of your pretty lake. And sitting in the sun, and counting all your freckles.”

Ohh. “Fuck you,” Shane murmurs, smiling despite himself, his teeth aching with the sweetness. He tries to tuck his grin behind his fingers, scrubbing his hand over his jaw, “That’s... Not too boring for you?”

Ilya groans, dramatically rolling his eyes back. “I will never be bored again. For as long as I live.” Shane can’t help but laugh at him. “I just want to be boring forever now, with my boring Hollander.” 

“Shane,” Shane corrects softly, nudging his fingers against Ilya’s face, glancing just under his mole. “Your boring Shane.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums, “Yes. My Shane.” 

Shane’s face is on fire. His cheeks feel so hot, he must be red as a tomato by now. His insides go all gooey, and he has this sweet, downward pull in his belly, like he’s about to melt into the floor.  Mushy, Ilya is very mushy. He makes Shane mushy too. “Stop it,” Shane murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead to Ilya’s bicep, “You’re killing me.”

“Oh, I don’t want that,” Ilya hums, sounding tired but very content, his accent fuzzy around it’s handsome edges. Shane closes his eyes, savoring how warm Ilya is, how solid he feels again. Like he’s really not going anywhere. “You look really good in glasses,” Ilya murmurs after a second, apparently not letting go of that, “You should put them back on.”

Shane rolls his eyes faintly. “You’re on pain meds.” He lifts his head back up and leans in his chair, the back of it squeaking beneath his weight. He still holds onto Ilya’s hand, not daring to break that well-earned contact.

“Yes, and?” Ilya says, the corner of his mouth lifting, “Put them back on. I almost died, and I would like it very much if you put them back on.” 

Shane surrenders. He does not admit defeat outloud, but he slides his case out of his sweatpants pocket and pushes his glasses back onto his face. It feels strange to wear them for a reason that isn’t reading, like he’s way more hyper aware of where they sit on the bridge of his nose now. Shane doesn’t understand what Ilya would get out of this, but Ilya studies him like his glasses are new information of national importance. 

“Better?” Shane asks.

“Better.” Ilya confirms with a self-satisfied grin, squeezing Shane’s hand. His fingers are warming up. 

The door opens. Shane and Ilya both jump. Their hands are to themselves within seconds. Something in Shane’s heart shrivels a little. They hadn’t even talked about where they were going from here. Their relationship, the state of it. Shane doubts they’ll let go of each other now, but...  Shane is acting under the assumption the whole zombie thing will be over by next season. They better keep things under wraps.

Shane’s hands fly into his lap. He scoots a little away from Ilya, trying to make it look casual, and— it’s Shane's parents. Shane sighs. He could probably keep holding Ilya’s hand, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t really want them to see him being all mushy over Ilya anyway.

 “Hey,” Shane says. Ilya suddenly looks very awkward.

Ilya had called Yuna mom. Shane wonders if Ilya remembers any of that. Probably not. Shane hopes that is the case, to save him from the embarrassment. 

“Hi,” Yuna says.

“Hi,” Ilya also says.

David just nods. He holds up a A&W bag. “We got burgers.” Mom and dad don’t eat fast food. They got it for Ilya. Shane’s heart grows warmer and warmer until he thinks it might just burst out of his chest. The terrible conversation Shane had with them last night feels much farther away now, a distant memory. 

Ilya’s eyes get big, pupils dilating. He hasn’t had a real meal in a week, and he hasn’t eaten a thing over the course of the last day. He looks at Shane, almost as if asking permission to speak. 

“They know about us,” Shane says, “It’s for you.” 

Ilya’s relief is immense. The look on his face is downright euphoric. Likely over getting a burger, and not over anything to do with Shane’s parents knowing about their relationship.

Ilya Rozanov is quickly stuck in a hospital room with all three Hollanders, each of them talking about what to do, where to go next, the timing of the discharge and the lie they’re going to cook up about Ilya being with them. Shane supposes it’s probably very intense, but Ilya looks pretty pleased... Probably because he’s eating a burger.

Shane had wanted this to go differently. He wanted, in an imaginary and ideal world, to sit his mom and dad down. He wanted to say, “mom, dad, this is Ilya. My boyfriend,” and they would meet, just like that. Ilya would be dressed up very cute and well-groomed, and he’d be polite and tell them it was nice to meet them. Everyone would get along very well, and his parents would think of Ilya as a nice young man. Then it would be over. 

This is very different from that made-up scenario. Ilya is still sick and he is in desperate need of a shower and a good shave, and he’s demolishing a burger like a wild animal. Shane’s mom is holding a white paper bag full of prescription bottles while asking about dosage timing. His dad is discussing whether they need to pick up crutches from the pharmacy on the way to Shane’s cottage. For a brief moment, Shane feels a flicker of disappointment. Not in Ilya—never that—but in the circumstances. Sure, he knew he’d never be able to sit his parents down at a fancy dinner and casually introduce Ilya Rozanov as his boyfriend. But he had wanted this to at least feel intentional. Like presenting something precious. 

But as the quiet buzz in the room presses on, and Ilya finishes eating; Shane realizes, slowly, that what he’d actually wanted wasn’t the polished version— not really. He just wanted Ilya to be seen. To be placed in this world—his world—and not look out of place. To be accepted by the people Shane loves most. And that’s slowly happening. 

Shane feels something settle in his chest. Not the frantic, protective urgency from the last few days. Something calmer. It’s going to take time, and probably a lot of conversations, and there’s still the rest of the world to figure out. So many explanations Shane hasn’t even begun to script in his head... But it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. His parents are here, and his boyfriend is here. Well, if Shane can even call Ilya that, yet...

David steps forward then, to Ilya’s bedside, clearing his throat lightly. Ilya straightens as much as he can, still pale and sick-looking but composed. There’s a flicker of nerves in his eyes now—real ones. Not based in fevered confusion.

His dad extends his hand. “It’s nice to meet you properly, Ilya,” he says, voice warm and even.

Ilya hesitates, but not for very long. He takes David’s hand, giving him the very handshake Shane thought he could only ever dream of. “It is nice to meet you too,” Ilya says.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

The road home cuts through trees that feel older than anything else Shane has ever known.

Pine and maple blur past the windows, the late afternoon sun filtering through in long, golden stripes that flicker across the backseat. The light catches in Ilya’s curls, in the metal of the crutches stretched awkwardly across his lap, in the ring that he still wears on his finger. Shane is still wearing his too.

There are no other cars. Just the low hum of the engine and the soft crunch of tires over uneven asphalt.

Up front, his dad is driving his car with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. His mom leans back in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing over her shoulder like she can’t quite help checking that Shane is still here. An old CD, one of Dad’s, plays through the speakers— warm guitar, a little scratchy. 

Ilya is watching the trees slip past the window, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion still clinging to him but no fever behind it. He’s just quiet, contentedly so. Shane reaches over without saying anything. Automatically, their fingers lace together, meeting in the middle. His parents talk softly about what they’re going to be eating for dinner.

The radio hums along. The sun sinks lower.

Shane leans his head back against the seat and exhales slowly. He traces the lines on Ilya’s open palm, his fingertips pressing gently into his soft, trusting skin. Ilya’s lifeline arcs deep and sure around the base of his thumb, and it feels satisfyingly long. If there is a line Shane is willing to believe in, it’s this one. 

Chapter 6: The Cottage

Chapter Text

Snow has never really been something Shane got to enjoy.  Winter was the busiest time of the year, so busy that snow was always just slush in the gutters, salt stains on his sponsored shoes, and melting piles of brown-ish sludge on hot city asphalt. Shane is used to snow, sure, he’s seen lots and lots of snow. But it’s never felt quite like this. 

Flurries collect in the bedroom’s windows, melting just enough to cling and clump on the panes, partially obscuring the blue-silver of early morning stretching across the lake. That’s frozen over too now, a thick sheet of white laying neatly on top of the ice beneath. It’s as if the snow had been hovering just behind the trees this whole time, waiting for them to get home before burying everything in a blanket thick enough to make the world so, so quiet. It feels a lot like being tucked in.

No sirens, no screaming, no smell of rotting blood or sour fear-based sweat. 

Shane lays in bed, pillow damp beneath his chin from drool. He slept very hard, and it’s downright euphoric. His head is so clear, clear like the vibrant white of the snow outside, and there’s no urgent pull in his belly at all. No panic, no flight to catch, no boundary to affirm, no border to get behind. The trees beyond the lake fade slightly, swallowed by the steady descent of snow that shrinks the world into something small and manageable. It feels much like a little pocket in time, carved out just for them.

For them... The warmth at his back isn’t Shane’s own. Ilya is here, his brain supplies, automatic. His presence is comforting, and it was a press Shane felt even while he was asleep; assuring a healthy and sound eight-and-a-half hours of rest. The space between them now is small but likely unintentional, having naturally drifted away while unconscious. Their only line of contact now is through their feet, having definitely sought each other out, even in their sleep.  Ilya is here, held in the heat trapped beneath weighted duvets and his soft, open-mouthed breathing fills the room. It fits in perfectly with the sound of Shane’s cottage creaking slightly in the hushed howl of the wind.

It looks really cold outside. All the more reason to stay put, cuddled up and toasty-warm. Shane nudges his head deeper into his pillow, nuzzling into cozy feather-down with a noisy, contented sigh. Shane’s unsure how long he’s been awake for, but it doesn’t matter. Could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours, and that wouldn’t have changed a thing. 

There’s a shift behind him. The mattress dips, and then a pair of arms slide around his waist.

Ilya is sleep-warm. His arms feel so strong again, his body alive. His belly presses to the dip in Shane’s spine before his shoulders box Shane in, holding him close, bare chest molding to Shane’s shoulder blades. His breath is still heavy with sleep, clumsy and open-mouthed where it ghosts over Shane’s neck.

“Good morning,” Ilya murmurs, voice rough, his accent very thick. He sounds so sweet. 

Shane leans back into Ilya instinctively, fitting into the curve of his body like he was built for it. “Morning,” Shane murmurs after a second, his own tone identifiably scratchy, even to his own ears.

Ilya’s arms tighten slightly. One hand spreads over Shane’s stomach, fingers splayed open and almost possessive, anchoring Shane in place— as if he has anywhere else he’d rather be. Then his lips brush the side of Shane’s throat, slow and unhurried, and the contact feels electrifying.

 A soft kiss just beneath his ear. One at the tender column of his throat. Another lower, at the curve where neck meets shoulder. Ilya hums, and Shane feels the sound vibrating in his chest, pressing like a purr into Shane’s spine. Shane exhales, long and steady, and lazily tilts his head to give Ilya more space to kiss, needy for some much-missed attention. He rumbles out a little, half-awake moan when Ilya’s teeth nip at his earlobe.

Shane cannot help the way his eyes slip shut. He feels like he earned this. This was the morning he never got, the one he wanted so terribly bad. And not just on the day that everything happened. There have been so, so many mornings where Shane woke up alone, still feeling the ghost of Ilya on his skin. Longing for him, wanting to wish him good morning, wondering hopelessly if Ilya was thinking about him too or if he had already forgotten. Shane reaches for Ilya’s hands, his fingers tracing over the familiar shape of Ilya’s knuckles, and the little wedding band still comfortably wedged over them.

Yea, Shane fucking earned this. He earned Ilya holding him, loving on him so slow, like they have all the time in the world. And they do. They have plenty of time to make up for each one of those missed mornings. 

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, wanting to say his name, to feel it around his tongue. He’s so comfortable that Shane idly rubs his feet together to feel the plush rub of the duvet and to stimulate his brain with a little mellow friction. 

“Mm. Little cricket...” Ilya hums, pressing one more lingering kiss at the base of his throat before resting his chin against Shane’s shoulder, his curls tickling Shane’s jaw. The snow keeps falling, piling higher along the windows now, thick enough that the bottom panes are almost entirely rimmed in white. 

They got to the cottage late last night, the drive from the hospital was pretty far. Ilya took a shower— one Shane badly wanted to barge in on, but he ended up using his newfound strength to let Ilya have some alone time. It’s one of the harder things Shane has ever done, right behind fighting zombies off with his stick. The wait was worth it— when Ilya got out of the shower he was all dewy-eyed and tender, and he let Shane drag him off happily, like a doll. His limbs were heavy and uncoordinated in the sweetest way, like, the shower had really just washed whatever remaining dread right out of him, and Ilya stepped very willingly into his second-chance at life as Shane’s live-in sweetheart. 

Shane rebandaged Ilya’s wound after and found it neatly sewn shut, and a lot less scary looking. It’s still puffy, but it’s not big and open and meaty anymore, and it certainly doesn’t have that terrible, rotten smell. It’s all very sterile. Under control. 

They crawled into bed and fell asleep, tangled together, almost immediately after. They were both so tired, Shane can’t remember if they even managed to say goodnight. They didn’t have to anyway, because the night being ‘good’ was a given.

Shane lies there for a long while, smothered by Ilya’s big arms, content to fall right back asleep. Ilya’s heart beats lazily against his spine, slow, but not sick-slow anymore. 

They didn’t have sex last night, and it makes sense why. Ilya is very hurt, and even though he’s not feverish anymore he’s not better yet. Ilya is to avoid any and all rigorous activity for three weeks at least, and sex is a very rigorous activity, especially for them. Additionally, both of them were bone-tired when they stumbled in through the front door last night. Shane doesn’t think he would’ve been able to stay awake for long enough to even get his cock out. 

 So it’s still maybe worth noting that this is the first time they haven’t ended the night with sex while in the private company of each other. Not that sex meant things were vapid, or anything. Sex was the only way they could express any amount of affection for each other in a context that didn’t terrify the both of them. Or at least it was that way in Shane’s case, although he thinks Ilya must’ve felt similarly. Either way, it’s still something Shane notices. Maybe they have the space now to love on each other in a way that isn’t just sex. Which is nice. Shane would like to broaden his affection horizons, he wants to discover new ways to show Ilya he loves him. The possibilities feel very endless.

And here’s one; “I love you,” Shane says, as quiet as the snow falling outside.

Ilya makes a shuttered noise. Something involuntary, a sleepy croak that rattles out of his throat. He tightens his hold on Shane, hands winding around his ribs, the drag of his palms making Shane squirm from something like overstimulation. “Love you,” Ilya murmurs, then presses a noisy, wet kiss against Shane’s pulse. 

Shane hooks a leg over Ilya’s hip and rolls them in one slow, lazy motion, flipping their positions so Ilya lands on his back with a quiet grunt of surprise. The mattress dips and the blankets tangle around them, and then Shane is above him, braced on his forearms.

Shane’s weight presses Ilya gently into the bed, thighs framing his hips, one hand sliding up to rest beside his head. The other drifts down to flatten over Ilya’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall. A heart that beats because of him. 

“Hi,” Shane says softly.

Ilya’s mouth curves. “Hi.” His hands slide up Shane’s sides, settling at his waist. 

The light from the windows spills across Ilya’s skin and hair, pale winter-blue and orange. It catches along the line of his collarbones and the slope of his shoulders; painting his now healthy blush in golden morning haze. Shane can see flecks of sunrise in the light blue of his eyes, nice and clear now. Clean. Warm. Wrapped in Shane’s blankets and his arms. 

His fingers drift idly along Ilya’s jaw, then into his hair, pushing his slightly frizzy curls back from his face. There’s no grime under his nails anymore. No dried blood in the creases of his knuckles. Ilya’s skin is clean. His mouth isn’t cracked from dehydration and instead still a little shiny from the lip balm Shane forced upon him last night. Shane lets himself admire Ilya openly, and Ilya does not rush him. In fact, Ilya might just be admiring Shane too. Shane wonders, a little helplessly, what Ilya sees when he looks at Shane. Maybe he should ask. He’s sure Ilya would give him an answer that would make him blush.

Shane shifts his weight slightly, lazily pinning Ilya’s wrists above his head, playfully testing the feel of it. Ilya’s eyes darken a fraction, but he doesn’t fight it. Just watches him, relaxed, going belly-up for Shane very easily. It makes a sleep-dulled thrill race through Shane’s core. He’s getting a little hard, he thinks. His cock just starting to fatten up— he’s obsessed with Ilya, this was inevitable. But, Shane ignores it in favor of enjoying the moment, letting muted arousal settle in comfortably with the sleepy sort of bliss Shane is feeling. 

“You’re alive because of me,” Shane decides to say, the words possessive.

Shane expects maybe a joke, or some teasing jab in reply. But, Ilya just smiles. Not a smug sort of smile either, but it’s something a little softer, knowing. “Yes.” He admits willingly, “I owe you now?”

“No, never.” Shane says, shaking his head, “Just be mine. Let me keep you.”

“Already done,” Ilya croons, squirming a little bit beneath Shane’s weight. He flexes his hands and Shane’s grip softens almost immediately, fingers sliding up to lace with his instead. “I’m all yours,” Ilya nearly purrs when Shane leans down, pressing his nose under his jaw, scattering his breath against Ilya’s throat. “So greedy, Hollander.”

“You like it,” Shane says, kissing Ilya’s throat, over his pulse that flutters just for him. 

“I do.”

Ilya smells like Shane’s soaps, like patchouli and the wood framing of the cottage, like Shane’s bedding and dry, clean laundry. Like the faint, lived-in warmth of this room. “You smell like me,” Shane nearly groans.

Ilya lets out a quiet, amused huff. “That’s because I’m yours, yes?”

“Mhm,” Shane hums, kissing Ilya’s cheek. He thinks with the most primal, selfish parts of his brain; thinking that no one will touch Ilya again because he smells like him. 

“You’re mine too,” Ilya murmurs, and then his fingers are in Shane’s hair, pulling him in so he can brush his lips along Shane’s forehead in a lingering, sweet kiss. Shane’s head finds its way to Ilya’s chest almost instinctively, ear settling just over his heart. And Ilya curls around him almost instantly, one splayed broad and warm between his shoulder blades, the other petting through his hair. 

“Yea,” Shane replies lazily, but he very much means it. He’s been Ilya’s since the day they met. “M’your fucking boy.” 

Outside, the snowfall has thickened into something fiercer. The flakes come faster now, blurring the tree line into a pale smear. Wind pushes them sideways against the glass, building drifts along the base of the windows. But inside, it’s so still.

Shane closes his eyes and listens. The steady thump beneath his cheek is slow and even. He’d been longing for this sound, when it was buried beneath skin that felt fever-hot and frighteningly fragile. He doesn’t have to count the seconds between each pulse anymore.

Ilya’s fingers comb slowly through his short hair, nails dragging lightly against his scalp in a way that makes Shane’s shoulders let go of a tension he hadn’t even realized they had been holding. In turn, Shane’s hands slide beneath the blanket to rest over Ilya’s ribs, measuring his breathing now too. Almost unconsciously, Shane’s own breath slows to match that rhythm. His thoughts grow even softer at the edges. 

Shane nuzzles closer, Ilya’s thumb traces over the crown of his head. Shane lets himself drift again, dozing and content in the quiet certainty that, for now, the world can wait outside the glass while the snow buries everything in white.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

The days blur gently.

Not in the frantic, disorienting way they had on the road—but softly. It’s the way Shane always hoped having Ilya here might feel; time fuzzing between their kissing and the lulls of their soft conversation. Although Shane only had two weeks a year to himself, so Ilya’s time with him would’ve been relatively short compared to this uncertain eternity of their lives being put on hold. Maybe they’ll live like this forever, Shane doesn’t think he’d mind that.

The storm lasts longer than Shane thought it might. It’s a blizzard that buries the deck entirely, swallows the path down to the lake, climbs halfway up the towering windows until the world beyond is reduced to white and faint gray shadows of trees. So they don’t leave, and they don’t need to.

Shane runs what little routine they have like it’s the fucking navy; 8:00 AM — antibiotics,  8:00 PM — antibiotics. He sets alarms, he counts pills and sorts them into little daily organizers. He watches Ilya swallow them both even when he complains about Shane waking him up too early. 

Between alarms, they do basically nothing. Ilya sleeps an awful lot, still recovering from his infection; Shane finds him dozing off just about anywhere. But when Ilya isn’t sleeping, they talk, and they kiss, and they talk more. Shane learns a lot about Ilya in a very short length of time. 

Ilya is a quiet person. Shane sort of already knew that, but it’s still such a big difference from how he is on the ice. He’s quiet, and puts a lot of thought into things, always thinking. And, he really does like being coddled like a baby, even when he is healthy. He won’t stop itching his fucking staples. He likes dogs, and he wants one, like a shepherd or something. He hates using his crutches. He doesn’t wear a necklace because he’s religious, but because it belonged to his mother. 

His mother’s name was Irina. Ilya told Shane that he took after her in looks, and that she was beautiful and funny and so sad. Which means that Ilya also took after her in personality. It now makes sense to Shane why Ilya was so freaked out over taking so many pills. And a lot of other things about Ilya started making more sense too; like, for example, how eager he was to throw himself away, and how blatantly frustrated he was that Shane was not willing to do so. Shane didn’t know what to say, so he just held Ilya closer that night. Like, maybe if he held him tight enough, he’d reach that scared, lonely little boy that Ilya was and let him know things were going to be okay. 

Now, in the present, the cottage is dim with early evening light. The storm has finally eased, leaving behind a world buried and gleaming under a pale sky. The windows are still half-walled in snow, but the wind has quieted to nothing. The TV hums softly across the room; Merry and Pippin complain about mosquitoes as the hobbits pass through Midgewater Marshes. Shane is stretched out along the couch, lazy in a way he usually isn’t, head resting on a throw pillow that he propped against an armrest. Ilya mirrors him on the other end of the couch, Ilya’s bare feet brushing against Shane’s socked ones beneath the blanket they share. His crutches are exactly where Shane left them—propped against the side of the couch, close enough to grab. A not-so-gentle encouragement to fucking use them.

Ilya is in Shane’s clothes. His flannel, his sweatpants. Ilya doesn’t have any of his own clothes, since all of it was left behind in Boston. Shane isn’t sure how Ilya feels about any of that; his apartment, his fancy car, his belongings, all left behind. He hasn’t brought any of it up... He probably doesn’t feel great about it, if Shane had to guess... But he does look awfully cozy in Shane’s clothes. 

Shane has ogled him plenty. He’s had a lot of time to think about Ilya wearing his clothes, how that it only furthers his possessive hold on him. But, apparently Shane can’t get enough, even when he’s half-asleep and watching one of his favorite movies ever. His gaze slowly rolls to Ilya, finally allowed to be lazy and quiet about his admiring for once, and Shane is rewarded with Ilya sleepy and slack-jawed as he watches the TV, the blue-green light of it highlighting the drowsy droop of his eyes. Shane’s flannel’s sleeves are rolled messily to Ilya’s forearms, and the front hangs open, unbuttoned, exposing bare skin beneath, the line where his neck meets his chest.

Ilya watches movies in silence, not asking a lot of questions, and it reminds Shane how unexpectedly perfect Ilya is for him. They’re so different, but similar in all the ways that matter. Shane just can’t stand movie-talkers... Sorry, Hayden. Anyway, it’s very cute how peaceful Ilya looks, how he holds himself when he doesn’t know Shane is watching him. Ilya shifts onto his back a little more, grunting as he gets comfortable. His chain catches the glint of the TV, and Shane’s eyes follow it down, expecting to get a good look at Ilya’s thick chest and a smattering of body hair— 

The ring.

Holy shit, he put the ring on his mother’s fucking necklace.

Shane goes very still. The ring rests right over Ilya’s heart. Right beside his crucifix, one that probably means so much to him, and Shane’s fucking ring is on it. And, sure, Shane hasn’t taken off his ring either, but there’s something much more purposeful about moving it elsewhere, right? And not just moving it elsewhere, but moving it somewhere very, very special. 

Shane pauses the movie, interrupting Aragon singing. Ilya grunts, and Shane still can’t manage words yet, his tongue fat and clumsy in his mouth.  “Bedtime?” Ilya asks. 

“No, uh,” Shane stutters, “You’re wearing the ring.” Shane pokes at his own clavicle in gesture.

They’re both shifting, moving to look at each other. Ilya presses the palms of his feet to Shane’s. “Yes?” Ilya says, like it’s no big deal, which is kind of annoying because it’s a really big deal to Shane, “You are wearing yours, too.” Ilya says, as if it’s comparable.

“Yea, but,” Shane unconsciously rubs his own. The metal is always permanently flesh-warm, having made it’s home on Shane’s finger. “It’s on your necklace. Why?” 

“Do you not like it?” Ilya touches at it curiously, sticking his index finger into the ring’s opening briefly.

“No, I...You can do whatever you want. Answer my question.”

Ilya thinks. He’s thinking. He thinks for a long second, silent, and Shane is very patient. “Both things,”  Ilya says softly, “are very important to me.”

It’s such a small thing, metal on fucking skin. Shane never considered himself a sentimental guy, but maybe he is, maybe he is just for Ilya. From his toes to the tip of his head, he feels all warm and fuzzy at the thought of Ilya keeping him near and dear to his heart, something he never expected. Everything is just fitting into place now. Shane’s eyes feel a little wet, just a little. 

“Is funny,” Ilya murmurs, “Does the movie have you thinking about rings?” He jokes, but, Shane doesn’t reply, too busy smiling at Ilya like an idiot. “You are so pretty when you blush.”

“Fuck you,” Shane coos back, the softest he’s ever said it. He’s probably blushing all the way down to his chest if he had to guess.

“Mm, soon, maybe.” Ilya smirks, turning his head in to rest lazily against the back of the couch. He’s teasing with his ring more now, probably because he knows it’s getting a rise out of Shane.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work, by the way,” Shane murmurs, and before Ilya can inquire what he means, Shane explains, “The rings.” Shane flexes his fingers under the blanket. “It was an unnecessary risk. If we hadn’t, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” It doesn’t feel so scary talking about any of this, especially when they’re so cozy.

“Maybe,” Ilya softly agrees, but then shrugs his shoulders. “But we are unnecessary risk too, yes?”

“No,” Shane shakes his head, “I don’t feel that way about you.” Not anymore. Ilya is a very necessary risk. 

“Oh,” It’s so soft, Shane barely hears it. Ilya looks embarrassed, bashful. He turns his head down in a way that makes him look a little smaller, and maybe a bit apologetic. “I feel the same about you,” Ilya admits, “It’s just habit, yes? I don’t mean to make you feel, feel like I don’t...” He trails off, maybe not having the right words. He looks at Shane helplessly.

“I know,” Shane says, “Don’t worry, Ilya.” He nudges Ilya’s foot with his, and it makes Ilya’s lips press together in a little smile, sheepish now. “I know what you mean.”

“Okay.” Ilya looks very relieved, and maybe very in love also.

“Anyway, about the rings,” Shane starts, because he’s been thinking about this for a while, and talking about it while watching Lord of The Rings is just a coincidence, “I was thinking they could be promise rings instead?” It sounds so childish saying it outloud. Like, this is something girls in school used to fuss over. It shouldn’t be something fully grown Shane Hollander is talking about. 

“I do not know promise rings,” Ilya says, “Are we getting a divorce?” 

“Shut up,” Shane scolds fondly, “A promise ring, it’s like, uhm...” Shane scratches at his hairline, right above his temple, “They signify commitment. And being serious.” Maybe this is also Shane’s way to gauge if Ilya is actually serious about him. If their commitment wasn’t just born out of necessity, if their love wasn’t just easy because the world was ending and Shane was all Ilya had. Shane still has a fear that maybe, when this is over, Ilya will go back to wanting to sleep with other people. With women who weren’t an unnecessary risk... Maybe Shane is a little insecure.

“Ohh, so it’s a boyfriend ring,” Ilya says, and that stupid word coming out of Ilya’s mouth— boyfriend— makes Shane’s pulse skyrocket. Shane thinks his eyes must be very wide. Boyfriend. He looks elsewhere, his heart too big and full to handle the way Ilya looks when he says that word. Boyfriend… “Okay, yes, promise ring. I like it.” 

Shane sinks a little deeper into the couch, trying to tuck his smile into the blankets. “Boyfriend?” He repeats outloud, hesitant despite having rolled it around a thousand times in his mind by now. His mouth feels funny around the word, like, it was never meant to fit there at all. But it feels really good to say regardless.

“Yes, probably.” Ilya seems shy now too. They’re both shy. Ilya’s toes squeeze Shane’s in a way that makes him laugh a little. 

 “Okay. Boyfriend, yea.” Shane stammers , trying desperately to continue, to spit out what he’s been thinking during all their loads of free time. Shane has come to like letting Ilya in on the private inner-workings of his mind. “Maybe if things end up working good with us, I can replace it with a real ring down the line.” Shane doesn’t want to sound too insane, but he might because Ilya’s eyebrows start to crease, his eyes going as wide as Shane’s were earlier. Shane tries to recover, to explain himself, but he’s probably only making it way worse. “I would want to do things the right way, so we can actually buy new rings, and do the whole proposal thing, for real—”

“You mean this?” Ilya blurts out. It’s firmer, far harsher than the winter hush that’s befallen everything else. The cottage almost echoes with the sound of Ilya’s voice, although that might all be in Shane’s head. Shane is at a loss for a second, and he just lays there with his lips parted, staring helplessly back at Ilya’s very intense gaze. 

“Of course,” Shane eventually answers, “I’m really serious about you.” 

For a second, Ilya just keeps looking at him, completely still. Then something in his expression shifts, and it’s subtle at first, like, a flicker. His jaw tightens slightly and his gaze drops, not in avoidance but like he’s trying to steady something inside himself. Ok, maybe in avoidance too. 

“Ilya?” Shane says softly. He doesn’t know quite how to read him. Did he say too much? Shane doesn’t want to rush anything, or scare him off with big conversations. Ilya is too special to him for that.

Then Ilya blinks hard, too hard. And he looks away, toward the snowed-in windows, and Shane knows what this means, and he sees it too—the glassiness gathering in Ilya’s eyes. The way his breathing changes, just barely.

Ilya groans under his breath, like he’s annoyed with himself. His hand lifts, brushing quickly at the corner of his eye. 

Shane’s stomach drops a little. “Hey,” he says, immediately concerned. “What—”

“Don’t,” Ilya mutters, voice croaking. “I’m not— I’m not upset.”

Regardless of Ilya’s little denial, Shane shifts fully, climbing over him, nudging him gently back into the couch, and Ilya is already eager for it, opening himself up so beautifully for Shane. Shane settles over him carefully, bracing his weight so he doesn’t press too hard against his healing side.

He cups Ilya’s face between his hands. Not fever-warm anymore. “Hey,” Shane says again, softer now.

Ilya’s lashes are wet. He looks almost startled by his own reaction. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I don’t know why I’m—”

But Shane knows why Ilya is crying, so he leans down and kisses the corner of Ilya’s eye before he can finish. “Don’t,” Shane presses the words into Ilya’s skin as he pecks another kiss to his cheek. “Do you want that too? To be with me?” Shane asks, and Ilya nods helplessly. Shane rewards his honesty with a slow kiss to his mouth, tongue dragging between his lips. He can taste the salt of his tears between them, and the tremble of Ilya’s lips, oh, his Ilya... 

When they part, Shane nudges his nose to Ilya’s, rubbing against him. “Did you think I didn’t want to be with you? I thought I made it pretty obvious,” Shane says, trying his best to keep his tone light so he doesn’t make Ilya cry any harder than he already is. His baby. “I cleaned out your gross cut so many times.” Shane leaves out his more serious commitments, not wanting to accidentally make Ilya feel guilty for any of it. Although, there are countless other examples he could use before all this zombie shit happened too. They’ve been choosing each other for a whole decade, even when it was terribly dangerous... But the cut feels funniest to bring up. Shane wants to make Ilya laugh, to try to get a smile back on his handsome mug. “It was so nasty.” He jokes, “I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know me.”

Although Shane does not get a laugh, Ilya still smiles in a wobbly way, and that’s good enough. “I don’t know,” Ilya croaks, still audibly frustrated with himself, “I was waiting for, how you say... For shoe to drop?”

“Yea.” Shane says to show that he understands, and he presses his forehead to Ilya’s. “You don’t have to worry about that, okay?” Shane’s thumb brushes beneath Ilya’s eye, catching the quiet spill of tears before they can track too far.  “I want a future with you,” Shane says, steady, even though he has no idea what the future will hold for them. Whatever it is, he wants Ilya to be there.

“Okay, fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans, voice creaking so terribly it sounds like it might hurt to squeeze words around the knot in his throat,  “I want that too. We need to stop talking.” Ilya laughs, although it sounds a bit more like a hiccup, the sound caught in a stifled sob. 

Shane still kisses Ilya again, soft and chaste, like how boyfriends do. Then, relenting, Shane settles down fully, laying his head on Ilya’s chest. He nuzzles up under his throat, sighing as Ilya’s hands scratch through his hair, and they’re holding onto each other really tight, with no fucking lines between them. “I love you,” Ilya murmurs, kissing Shane’s head.

“I love you too.” Shane says, and when he hears Ilya’s breath hitch and his chest heave accordingly, Shane rubs his open palms up and down Ilya’s ribs, trying to reach in there and soothe his shuttering heart. Your love is enough to save me, Shane thinks, it’s enough to keep me here, right here. Shane presses a kiss just under the ring, and crucifix, resting over Ilya’s heart. I’m not going anywhere. 

Eventually, Ilya’s lungs start pulling in air at a normal rate. There’s no more stubborn little sounds fighting to get out of him, no more sniffling or shuttering. Ilya’s arms feel a little heavier where they’re wrapped around Shane’s back, tired and limp. Shane feels Ilya’s nose press into his hair, and he’s very aware that Ilya is sniffing him, which makes Shane feel a little crazy— good crazy, of course. “Can we keep watching?” Ilya mumbles quietly, sounding more normal, if only more tired than before. When Ilya’s tired his accent draws long, his voice gets a little deeper, and syllables don’t fully close themselves up in his mouth. Which is very cute.

“Yea,” Shane agrees easily. He pulls away from Ilya just so he can grab the remote and hit play, and even that is too long apart. How did they ever spend months apart? It’s lost on Shane. He snuggles back up to Ilya and their bodies fit easily, naturally, like they’ve done this a hundred times before and will do it a million more. In turn, Ilya adjusts the blanket over them, pulling it up to Shane’s shoulders, tucking him in so gentle that it’s almost sort of funny. If the masses could see Ilya Rozanov now, how mushy he is for his archrival...

But, no, no one will ever see Ilya like this. This is just for Shane. All his. 

Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head, and it’s almost like a signal sent straight to Shane’s brain. He goes pitifully quiet, content to just be. He feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the heater humming near-silently in the background. 

“Do you think he’s sexy?” Ilya murmurs after a second, talking clearly about Aragorn.

“Sure,” Shane replies half-heartedly, shrugging his shoulders. Ilya goes pointedly quiet. “... Oh my fucking God, are you fucking jealous?”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

The hallway is dark, long and vast, the endless floors of the terminal blending with racks of wound-wash and candies that Ilya couldn’t eat because he was too sick. Shane isn’t running fast enough. He pushes, and pushes, and pushes, but he just can’t. His legs refuse to burn in that way they do when he reaches his apex speed, and he feels like he’s treading water, suspended in space with that copper-sour smell of blood lingering in the back of his throat.

That sobbing, that wet lurch sound rattles up through the floorboards and through the dark, unseen stretch of space in front of him. Hands — his hands — are slick and shaking around the haft of something blunt. It’s his stick but it’s also not, it’s something else now, something violent. 

The sick woman lurches again, because apparently she’s been here this whole time. Jaw hanging at an unnatural angle, eyes red and locked on him with that terrible animal persistence of something with half a brain still left. 

He swings. But this time, he misses. His stick hits nothing but air, and then he’s being bit into, tore at with bloody gums and reddened teeth. He can’t feel any of it but he knows, he knows it must hurt. His lungs seize and he tries to pry it off him but he can’t grip anything, everything feels so cold, slipping through his fingers. No one is coming to save him.

Suddenly everything is very dark again. He can feel his limbs suddenly and he jolts into a semi-waking world. For half a second he doesn’t know where he is.

The bedroom is ink-black except for the faint gray wash of moonlight filtering through the window. The air smells like woodsmoke and clean linen and Shane’s fancy seaweed shampoo instead of rot. His ribs hurt from where his heart batters them, his mouth tastes like cotton. 

There’s something at the window. Movement. A shape pressed against the glass, shifting slowly, distorting the faint wash of moonlight. It swells inward as if something heavy leans its weight against it.

He’s upright before he understands how he got there, sheets twisted around his legs, every nerve lit, because he needs to fucking protect them. It’s just him, alone all over again, and something is here, something has found them. His fingers itch for something, a weapon, anything he can use to defend himself and his hurt, vulnerable Ilya.

The shape shifts again, but instead of pale fingers against the glass, it’s... Snow sliding. The wind gusts harder and the whole shape collapses downward in a soft, heavy sigh.

Snow. Just snow losing its grip on the window. The pale mass settles lower, no longer head-height, and no longer shaped like anything remotely human. The scrape fades into the normal hush of wind against wood siding, melting in with the soft tick of the heat kicking on. 

“Shane?” Fuck. Ilya’s voice is deep and gravely with sleep, but also so very sweet and concerned. When Shane turns to face him again, he finds that Ilya has pushed himself up clumsily, one hand bracing instinctively near his healing leg. His curls stick up at odd angles, his eyes barely open.

Shane drags a hand down his face. His palm comes away damp with sweat. His pulse is still racing, but the threat has dissolved into something almost embarrassing in its harmlessness. “Sorry,” Shane scoffs, annoyed at himself and the way his heart still stubbornly flutters in his chest, still running from an imaginary threat. 

Shane settles back into bed. He remains sat up, taking long sips of the glass of water he keeps by his bedside. 

“Bad dream?” Ilya croaks.

“No,” Shane lies, for whatever reason, “Go back to sleep.”

Silence follows. Shane thinks Ilya really might’ve gone back to sleep. Shane finishes his water and parts from it with a soft breath, sets it back down on the nightstand. And then Ilya is hooking a hand around Shane’s wrist. He tugs at him, gentle and sleepy.

Shane sighs, watching Ilya open up an arm. A clear invite. “Come here to me, моя любовь.” Those are new words. But, Shane thinks he might have a theory as to what they mean. Lyubov sounds a lot like Lyublyu, so maybe it means love? My love? Shane is willing to believe that. And he likes that, hearing those words in the very first language that Ilya was taught how to love in. It feels more special, so, of course Shane nudges his way into Ilya’s arms without any further hesitation, folding right into his chest. He sighs, defeated. He’s no match for Ilya. 

It’s warm there. Sleep-warm, banked under layers of cotton and skin. The t-shirt Ilya is wearing is an older one of Shane’s, one of his favorites, the fabric thin and worn smooth. Shane presses his cheek against it and feels the steady rise and fall underneath. He likes it better on Ilya. The scary images still stuck to the forefront of his mind easily fade away, and Shane feels nice and sleepy again. He rubs his feet together. Ilya shifts his chin to rest on top of Shane’s head, and his arm drapes heavy over Shane’s ribs.

A little sound pushes it’s way up through Ilya’s throat, one that Shane almost misses. It’s barely there at first, a vibration more than a melody. Soft and off-key in places. After a minute, Shane realizes that Ilya is humming. It’s sleepy and broken, but he’s fucking humming to him. 

A lullaby, maybe, or something close to it. Oh, Ilya.

Shane doesn’t recognize whatever song he’s getting at, but it doesn’t matter. The sound moves through Ilya’s chest and into him, a low, sleepy resonance that smooths the sharp edges still lingering in his mind.

His humming slows, fades a little, and then picks up again, a little sloppier this time as sleep drags Ilya downward. Shane tightens his arms around him just slightly. He feels small like this — not in a bad way. Just held. The cotton of Ilya’s shirt is warm against his lips when he presses a quiet kiss there. The humming trails off mid-phrase and stays that way this time, and in replacement of it Ilya’s breathing deepens.

Shane listens to it for a while, matching himself to the rhythm until he falls back to sleep. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. They’re safe.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Shane has learned another new thing about Ilya. He won’t fucking sit still. 

Shane had thought maybe Ilya would like resting. That he’d like having a really good excuse to laze around. That isn’t the case at all, but it probably has way less to do with restlessness, and a lot more to do with trying to prove something to Shane. 

The rhythmic pull and slide of the rower cuts cleanly through the quiet. Legs press, core tightens, arms draw back. The seat glides forward again. Repeat. Controlled. Efficient. Shane needs it. Not just for hockey—though the thought of the season coming back, of arenas reopening, of ice under his skates again, keeps something bright alive in his chest.

What he really needs is the discipline. Shane is at a loss of what workout routines to even engage in right now, because the best cardio training for hockey was playing hockey, and Shane can’t do that right now, and he normally would be. He has trouble bouncing back from major shifts in routine like this, and calling his trainer to ask what he should be doing feels awfully inappropriate in a time like this. What would he even say? Hey, since the season is through because of all the sick and dead people, can we figure out what I should be doing? No, Shane won’t do that. He can’t.

But, Shane at least knows he should stick to cardio and HIIT, so the rower is an easy go-to. It’s got all the most important spots burning— a fiery, too-good ache searing down from his neck all the way to his hamstrings. His muscles are hot and his face burns, sweating enough that Shane can taste the salt of it on his tongue. 

Across the room, Ilya sits sideways on one of the weight machines, one leg stretched out carefully, the other planted. He’s lifting light dumbbells—controlled curls, slow and deliberate. Despite Shane’s private wishes, they’re not any lighter than he usually goes, as it’s not great to backtrack on weights. But Ilya is having trouble. He’s getting tired quick, too much strain in his expression. Shane watches him between strokes. Too much watching, probably. But not in the sexy way, Shane wishes he was watching him in the sexy way. 

“Keep it light,” Shane says, not breaking rhythm.

“I am,” Ilya replies, dry.

The doctor’s voice echoes in his head: Keep weight off it. No strain. For at least three weeks. We’ll need a followup appointment before we can clear him for any physical activity. 

So, this is already pushing it. But, fuck, Shane can’t always say no to Ilya. 

Ilya rolls his shoulders and switches to overhead presses. Shane pulls harder on the next stroke, and also stares at the line of Ilya’s armpit maybe a little too long— in the sexy way, this time.

“Don’t compensate with your hip,” Shane adds carefully.

Ilya pauses mid-lift and looks at him. “You are rowing,” he scoffs dismissively, as if he’s telling Shane to mind his business. Shane can’t fucking stand him sometimes.

“You shouldn’t even be lifting anything,” Shane says pointedly. But, Ilya’s lost just enough bulk to be noticeable, as his body likely ate up a decent chunk of his muscle-protein for fuel in an attempt to fight off his infection. Shane feels bad for him, so it’s maybe out of pity that he’s even allowing him in the gym at all. Because there’s just absolutely nothing else Ilya can do right now; he’s not able to walk normally, not able to carry his own weight, not able to move without Shane hovering. It has to be driving Ilya fucking insane.

It’s probably why he bristles at being reminded about his crutches. Ilya doesn’t like needing anyone, and right now, he needs Shane.

Shane increases his pace on the rower, channeling the tension into the pull. Legs press. Arms draw back. Repeat. He doesn’t want to be Ilya’s warden. But the alternative is, what, letting him pop his stitches open? Worsen his cut, tear muscles that won’t heal so easily? Shane doesn’t want Ilya to feel ashamed but, fuck, he doesn’t really know what to do about any of this. He wishes Ilya would just allow Shane to take care of him without being such an asshole about it, but, he’s not trying to be an asshole, he’s just full of so much shame, right? He probably doesn’t want to be like his mother, comatose and swallowing pills. The thought makes Shane feel very grim.

Ilya huffs softly but lowers his weights, rotating his ankle experimentally before setting the dumbbells down. He wipes at his forehead with the bottom of one of Shane’s old t-shirts— yet another piece of clothing he’s claimed. Shane finishes his interval and lets the handle retract, breathing controlled but heavier now. He runs a hand through his hair, sweat cooling quickly in the crisp air of the room.

Ilya studies the rower. Then looks at Shane. “Can I try?”

Shane searches Ilya to see if he’s joking. He is not. 

Shane doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

Ilya blinks. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

Ilya pushes himself upright a little straighter. “It is low impact.”

“It uses your legs,” Shane counters immediately. “A lot.”

“I wouldn’t go hard.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Shane doesn’t mean to snap, but he does. He huffs, pausing to reach his waterbottle, squirting water into his mouth with a squeeze of his fist. Maybe in attempt to cool off his brain, too. Ilya’s mouth presses into a thin line—not angry, exactly. Frustrated. “The doctor said three weeks.”

“It’s been almost.”

“A week is not almost.” 

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose. “You are just scared.” He says, almost accusing, like it’s not absolutely a good fucking reason.

“Yes, fuck, Ilya! Yes, I’m fucking scared,” Shane huffs, exasperated. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, trying to rein himself in, finding it very damp. Shane realizes he’s a bit angrier than the situation calls for, but, God, he’s sort of at the end of his rope with this. He hates feeling like he’s nagging Ilya. He’s exhausted by himself.  “You almost died, you know that, right?” 

Ilya goes quiet, but he doesn’t look very apologetic. He just narrows his eyes, turning his gaze away elsewhere, which unfortunately just pisses Shane off a little more. Shane gets off the rower’s seat, flexing his knees as he does, trying to stretch out the muscles before they knot up.

“Rozanov, look at me,” Shane says, although he quickly loses steam when Ilya does look at him. Despite his scowl, Ilya’s eyes are still all soft and sweet. Or maybe Shane just loves him too fucking much to stay mad at him for too long. “I lied, that first morning we spent together here. You do owe me.” Ilya raises an eyebrow at him. “You owe me to take better care of yourself. I didn’t get you here just so you can tear your cut back open.” Shane huffs, fustrated with how cold he sounds, “I feel like i’m your, I don’t know, your fucking jailer, sometimes.” 

Finally, Ilya gives him some leeway. His expression droops a little, his scowl relinquishing it’s grip on his eyebrows. “I did not mean this,” Ilya murmurs. He stops gripping the thin cushion of the seat he’s on and instead takes Shane’s sweaty hand in his. Groveling, Shane thinks mutely.  Ilya strokes his thumb just over Shane’s fingertips, coaxing Shane’s stress right out of his head. Ilya is good at undoing him. 

“I know,” Shane sighs, melting as Ilya gently brings his lips to Shane’s hand to kiss his knuckles. A silent apology, one Shane readily accepts.  “I know you’re frustrated. I know this is hard.” Shane gently untangles his fingers from Ilya’s just so he can scrub his thumb over Ilya’s chin, pressing a bit into his bottom lip. “I almost lost you.” It’s more vulnerable that Shane intended. His voice trembles a little at the admission. “I was really fucking scared.”

“I know,” Ilya murmurs, looking defeated, which isn’t exactly what Shane wanted out of this conversation. It’s better than Ilya being mad at him, though. Shane still wishes he hadn’t raised his voice at him.

“This is temporary. You’re gonna get better, so long as you take it easy. Just, focus on that. If not for you, then for me.” Shane basically pleads, and Ilya simmers more, nodding shallowly. “I don’t want to feel like we’re on different teams when it comes to your health, okay?” 

Ilya sighs, slowing the gentle bob of his near consistent nodding. “Okay,” Ilya says, like ok-ie,  “I know you do this because you care.” The acknowledgement of that simple truth makes Shane feel a lot better, “I like that you care, yes? You take very good care of me.” Ilya pushes Shane’s hand in closer, nuzzling into his sweat-damp palm. Shane realizes he’s doing it less to be affectionate, and more to just hide his face. “I want to show you I am very thankful. I miss being in control,” Ilya admits, eyes on his feet, and Shane finds himself very pleasantly surprised that Ilya is being so honest. “I know you like when I am in control. I want to take care of my Shane.”

“Ohh.” Shane says. He hadn’t really thought of it like that. That Ilya wants to take care of Shane too... Aw. Aww. “Aw, Ilya...” Shane feels some weird sort of aggression, an endeared kind, and he takes it out on Ilya by squeezing his cheeks together with his thumb and forefinger and giving his head a little shake.

“But I can’t do anything. I am cripple,” Ilya says between his pursed lips.

So much for being sweet. “Don’t say that,” Shane scolds—  It’s probably a word his teammates throw around in the locker room, and one Ilya probably doesn’t fully know the societal meaning of.  Shane relinquishes his rough hold on Ilya’s handsome face and starts petting him very softly instead. His jaw is nice and smooth now, no stubble. He’s been shaving regularly, since it’s one of the few things he can do by himself. “I don’t really think of it like that right now. Like, the control stuff. You’re hurt, and I like taking care of you, it’s okay. You’ll be better soon.” Shane shrugs, nonchalant, “And besides, I think there’s lots of ways you can still dominate me. If that’s what would help—” 

Ilya interrupts him with some terribly smug noise, one that makes Shane’s nape feel all prickly. It’s like, a laugh and a croon, rolled into one, and it sounds very sexy when run through Ilya’s still semi-breathless voice. “You are such a pervert, Hollander.” 

“Can you blame me?” Shane huffs. They haven’t had proper sex since the night the world ended. Although it’s nice that they can be sweet on each other in lots of new ways, Shane misses getting fucked like crazy. They’ve rubbed off on each other a few times, but it was always sleepy and over within seconds, sometimes. Shane is getting real sick of cumming in Ilya’s fist... That’s something he never thought he’d think before. Shit, he really is greedy.

Maybe... Maybe sex would be good for them anyway. Like, the ‘Ilya telling Shane what to do’ kind of sex. Re-establish their freaky power dynamic, or whatever. Fuck.

“No, I can’t,” Ilya readily agrees. Good thing he’s on the same page. He seems better now too, mentioning sex really does put Ilya in a better mood. “You are a needy slut, after all. And i’ve been neglecting you, yes?”

“Shut up,” Shane automatically volleys back, unsure how to deal with the hot flash in his belly that has nothing to do with working out, “You haven’t been neglecting me,” Shane quickly tacks on, for Ilya’s benefit. 

“Oh, but you are not a needy slut?”

“Asshole.” 

“Help me stretch,” Ilya then demands, which tells Shane that he’s been very inspired by Shane’s sort-of suggestion. He rocks forward and reaches out with an open palm, a wordless request for Shane to help him up. “And you will be very gentle with me.” 

Yes, Shane will be very gentle with him, always. He grips Ilya’s hand and helps him to his feet, even as the command makes Shane’s knees thrum with a little tremor of submission. 

...Okay, yea. Shane needs Ilya in control again.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

This is different. Not bad-different, not at all. Just different. 

“I’m going to fuck your mouth,” Ilya had said, leaning back confidently in his seat once he finished his dinner, “And you will not move, yes? You will not touch yourself, you will stay still, and take such good care of me.”  It was then Ilya’s words drew out longer, like he was testing them, because he hasn’t worn his dominance quite like this yet. 

Shane had nodded helplessly anyway, of course. Eager, as usual. 

Shane also eagerly stripped bare, and eagerly knelt for Ilya when asked. That’s where they are now, the couch. Ilya even used his crutches to get here without Shane having to ask him. Communication does work after all, who would’ve thought? 

The world outside the windows is dark, glittering snow— Shane does not care about that. He cares much more about Ilya, and his warm flesh, and his strong hands petting through Shane’s hair in a way one might pet a beloved dog. It keeps him in place, and although Shane badly wants at Ilya’s cock he’s still happy to be nuzzling Ilya’s thigh for now— he’s loving on the injured one, kissing all around the taped gauze covering that infamous wound. 

 Ilya is still partially clothed, wearing one of Shane’s shirts and his goddamn underwear too. There’s something very powerful about that. It makes Shane feel even more exposed than he is, buck-fucking-naked and kneeling between Ilya’s legs. And, despite kissing on the very injury that has weakened Ilya so severely, Ilya still effortlessly exudes power. Leaned back and spread out on the couch so nonchalant; like he owns it, like he owns everything, and, fuck, he does. 

Shane blinks and looks up at Ilya through his thick lashes. But, as pretty as Ilya’s face is, Shane’s gaze is swiftly brought elsewhere because his clothed erection is practically demanding all of Shane’s attention. His breath huffs hot against the adhesive edge of his bandage. 

The pad of Ilya’s thumb firmly traces the line of Shane’s temple, pressing Shane against his thigh. “This is better, isn’t it? You look happy,” Ilya hums, his voice all deep and practically purring, Shane can feel it’s rattle in his own ribs. “Yes, right where you belong. Servicing me.” 

Shane has the intention to nod despite the humiliated flush that burns over his face. He does not get the chance. Ilya grips his hair, dragging him finally, finally between his legs. Shane huffs, his vocal chords thrumming out a small, hum of a moan as he nuzzles against the outline of Ilya’s cock, tracing it with his nose. Shane drags his tongue along the fabric of his own boxers, but all he can taste is that pungent, post-workout sweat, and it coaxes another needy, baritone sound of Shane’s throat. Ilya echoes it, softer. “Mm.  You give me whatever I want, yes? I own your clothes, your pretty lakehouse, your comfy bed, you. I own you.” 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane groans, and he’s unfortunately very right. Or maybe fortunately? Shane drags his tongue over the tip of Ilya’s cock, mouthing at it through his boxers. He can’t distinguish Ilya’s precum from his own drool anymore. 

“You know is true. I will take, and take. And you will thank me, and give me worship.” Ilya pops the ‘P’ sound on worship obnoxiously, his dirty-talk as crass as usual. It’s oddly comforting. “Get my cock out.”

Without wasting a second, Shane does so. He hooks his thumbs in his underwear, his boxers now soaked through with Ilya’s sweat and his precum and Shane’s salvia. Shane tugs them down his legs. “Gentle,” Ilya reminds him, “I am very hurt.” Because, of fucking course he’s milking it now. But, Shane is gentle regardless, exceedingly so. He practically cradles Ilya’s injured leg, easing Ilya to raise his leg just enough by leveraging his palms under his thick, powerful thighs—  muscles that could easily handle this motion, but Shane certainly likes being the one to do it. “Fold them,” Ilya says, which is entirely for Shane’s benefit. Shane was going to anyway, but Ilya saying it makes him feel seen, and appreciated for being tidy... Once he’s done, Ilya rewards him with a “Good boy,” spoken with feigned disinterest. It makes Shane’s cock twitch, and he presses his thighs together in an attempt to keep his own precum off the floor.

“Open,” Ilya says when Shane settles back between Ilya’s thighs. Shane is all gooey, putty in Ilya’s hands, and helplessly complies. “Taste,” is Ilya’s next command, and even though the word is barely a breath, like Ilya couldn’t be fucking bothered with him, Shane sticks his tongue out. Expectedly, Ilya taps the tip of his weeping, flushed cock on Shane’s wanting tongue thrice in slow succession. The taste makes Shane moan, like a livewire to all his other senses, blowing out in overwhelming detail. Every part of him is singularly devoted to Ilya. “There’s that look,” Ilya coos, and Shane has no idea what he means by that. Fuck, he doesn’t care. Shane is far more preoccupied with Ilya pressing the tip of his cock past Shane’s lips. Shane swirls his tongue around him and sucks in greedy pulls of his mouth, bracing his palms on Ilya’s thighs to really settle into his task. 

“Was my cock worth it? Worth missing out on end of world, hm? Yes, I think so.” Ilya asks, his voice thick and demeaning. Shane drags his tongue over his slit, over and over, and it earns him a mean growl from Ilya. “You gave up everything, all to get a taste of this dick.”

Ilya grips Shane’s hair tight, tight enough to make him gasp. It forces Shane back just enough for Ilya’s tip to barely rest against his spit-slick bottom lip. Ilya stares down at Shane, eyebrow raised, like he’s waiting for something. Shane’s tongue peaks out to keep dragging across Ilya’s cock, fucking drunk on it. He feels so dazed, so stupid with it already, and he hasn’t even gotten it into his throat properly yet. 

Ilya pats his cheek meanly. The sound claps through the otherwise silent, open living room. “So?” Ilya says, “You’d give everything up for me, yes?” 

“Yes,” Shane croaks. The acknowledgement of how much Shane sacrificed for Ilya feels good, even if the words are degrading and mean. Or, maybe it feels good especially because the words are degrading and mean. Shane gave up so much. And he’d do it again. He’d do it all again, so fucking happily. He’s Ilya’s boy. All his. 

“Because you are such a cockslut?” Ilya asks, although the question is rhetorical. 

“Because I love you,” Shane answers, very honestly. He blinks slowly at Ilya, so fucking calm. 

“Yes, yes, that too.” Ilya feigns some annoyance, but his act shatters beneath the warmth of his smile. He rubs Shane’s cheek. “And I love you.” Shane smiles, bristling with affection, although that fuzzy feeling is cut short by Ilya’s thumb prying Shane’s mouth further open and pressing his cock back onto his tongue, then down— sinking into his throat. 

All the decisions, all the hard calls he needs to make to keep both himself and Ilya safe— all of it disappears under the steady weight of Ilya’s cock in his throat, that unbearably thick girth blotting out all the lingering stress in Shane’s head and making him perfectly floaty. He so happily relinquishes all of control to Ilya, down to how much air he can pull into his lungs. 

Ilya’s cooing at him, Shane thinks. Murmuring sweetness, maybe in English, maybe in Russian, but either way Shane could not tell. It’s all hot and meaningless, loving and possessive and Shane trusts them. His nose presses to the hair at the base of Ilya’s cock as he swallows him whole without gagging, Ilya’s trained him well. Fine-tuned him specifically to be a good little worship-machine over years and years. He drools around his cock, making a terrible mess as Ilya starts to rock, slow and steady into Shane’s mouth. His throat is making this obscene gurgling noise, his chin wet, drooling thick strings onto the couch. 

Shane’s vision is blurry but as he turns his gaze up, and through the thick curtain of his lashes he sees Ilya in perfect clarity; his jaw is lax, his eyes heavy, his pupils blown wide and black. He’s leaned back, relaxing, king in his fucking throne as he lazily rocks his stupidly huge cock in and out of Shane’s throat. 

Pinpricks of pain bite at Shane’s scalp as Ilya tenses his fist, rolling his hips a little harder, and Shane can feel the muscles of his thighs working. It pulls Shane’s attention away just briefly, but he pays for his distraction— his body turns quickly against him, and he gags violently around Ilya’s cock. Ilya moans, the sound heated and desperate and so very horny, but Ilya still allows Shane the mercy of pulling back and catching his breath. 

Shane sputters and coughs, snot leaking from his nose, his eyes watering. He sucks in air, quickly wipes his face off, and then gets right back to it. He nuzzles the base of Ilya’s cock first, peppering messy, drunken kisses all up his shaft, affectionate and worshipping. He brushes over Ilya’s bandages with his palm. “Don’t hurt yourself,” Shane murmurs, and he’s surprised by how wrecked he sounds, even through his own ears. He’s slurring his words, and his voice is rasped so raw it almost sounds like he’s sick. 

“Shh, shh,” Ilya immediately shushes him, almost in the way one would shush a child. “Such a sweet boy.” Ilya compliments, before easing his cock back into Shane’s mouth. Shane gladly takes the invitation to shut himself up. “You don’t need to worry about that. You only need to make my cock feel nice, do your job.”

Yea, Shane can do that. It’s all he needs to do.

Instead of fucking Shane’s throat with his hips, Ilya switches to just pushing Shane where he needs him. Shane loses himself in the rhythm of it, lightly choking when Ilya fully seats himself so deeply that Shane thinks, distantly, that he’ll be able to taste him for weeks. Ilya is one of the few treats Shane lets himself have, he’ll savor it. Ilya’s cock throbs deliciously in the confines of Shane’s throat, and he whimpers, bleary and silently begging for more.

Ilya’s groaning gets louder. Frantic, much like the brutal pace he sets. “Fuck, Shane,” He growls, “Fuuck.” Such a pretty sound. Ilya’s leg nudges between Shane’s legs, and Shane’s breath hitches as much as it can around the fat intrusion in his throat. “Such an eager, perfect slut.”

Without thinking twice, Shane readily accepts the invitation to get off, even if it is something as humiliating as humping Ilya’s leg. He grips his calf, hugging it closer, rubbing his throbbing cock against Ilya’s shin with desperate ruts of his hips. Distantly, Shane realizes Ilya has offered him his injured leg. Like, he’s rewarding Shane with reaping the benefits of all his hard work— in taking care of Ilya, in keeping him alive. 

“Good, fucking, boy,” Each of Ilya’s words are underlined by a messy, deep thrust, tip to root. Shane gags on it again but it isn’t as violent, and Ilya does not show him mercy this time around. “Choke on it, Hollander,” Ilya growls, sounding all messy, just as messy as Shane feels. He’s sitting up now, curling around where he holds onto Shane— oh, and he must be close. Shane wants nothing more than to make him cum.

Shane doesn’t think twice about roughing up Ilya’s injured leg because he doesn’t have to worry about that right now, not while Ilya is in control. He’s only nerve-endings, he’s only Ilya’s. So, Shane blindly rolls his hips, the friction is half-baked but it’s still more than enough. He doesn’t feel his orgasm coming until it’s already tight in his belly, until his cock is throbbing, stars are popping into his vision, and his brain goes numb and blissfully stupid. He’s consumed by it, emptied out as his cock spills hot over Ilya’s leg, dripping down onto the floor. 

“Fuck, Shane!” Ilya warbles, and his cock throbs, pulsing with orgasm. They both moan as Ilya empties himself in Shane’s throat, thick and hot, and Shane swallows messily around it; a normally unpleasant feeling turning downright euphoric as Shane coasts off the blissful edge orgasm, his head hazy and stupid and happy. He made Ilya feel nice, he did his task good.

Everything goes soft, fuzzy. Shane can’t fucking think—  Good. Even as he casts around for the right words, nothing comes to mind, and, hysterically, Shane can feel Ilya everywhere. In reality, they’re only connected by the hold Shane’s throat has on Ilya’s cock. Shane enjoys the bloodwarm weight of it on his tongue for as long as he can, but eventually Ilya pulls out, gently easing Shane off of him with a hand pressed to Shane’s forehead. There’s this grotesque, wet noise, and Shane dully realizes that it came from his throat. 

The swallow that Shane performs next hurts. It hurts good, though, like sore ribs after a game. “Ilya,” He wheezes, words raspy, because that’s the only thing on his mind. 

Hands are dragging Shane upright. Ilya tugs Shane onto the couch, wrapping him up in his arms, kissing his face and his messy, drool-slick lips. Shane can’t help but laugh, although he sounds all groggy and fucked up. “So good,” Ilya praises him, and Shane readily accepts it even if he can feel himself flushing all the way to his ears, “Such a good boy. Did so good.” 

“Say it some more,” Shane slurs happily. He settles, partially curled in Ilya’s lap, an arm draped over his chest and holding on tight to his shoulder.

“You take such good care of me,” Ilya easily compliments, “Best nurse I could ask for. Not jailer.” 

“Okay, okay,” Despite asking for it, Shane can’t take much more. He thinks his heart is fit to burst. He feels much lighter now. Yea, he did need Ilya to take charge. “I feel better. Do you?” 

“Yes,” Ilya hums, pushing his nose into Shane’s cheek. “I think I can come around to needing, since you so willingly provide.”

“Well, I love you.” Shane will never grow tired of saying that. 

“I love you too,” Shane will never grow tired of hearing that either, “And I do like it when you boss me around. Is fun. Sweet.” Shane leans his head on Ilya’s shoulder, idly drawing little shapes onto the other with his fingertips. “But I know it can be a lot for you, yes?”

Yes and no. Shane didn't think so before, but maybe he feels differently now. Shane usually has no problem snapping little demands at Ilya, so in retrospect , maybe what was stressing him out was feeling like he was the only one responsible for Ilya’s health— especially considering how severe his injury was. “Sometimes,” Shane answers. It’s an honest one, but it doesn’t cover the half of it.

Ilya is quiet for a moment. Not bad quiet, Shane can tell. They’re both too high on afterglow for that. Ilya is just thinking again. “I am a very self-destructing man,” Ilya admits, his tone far too light for something with so much weight, “I think it is genetic. On both sides.” 

“You’re being really honest,” Shane points out, and then gives Ilya a kiss on his pulse, as if to reassure him that he loves him regardless. 

“It is easy to be, after almost dying,” Ilya explains, “If I had died, there would have been so many things I didn’t tell you.” Ilya presses a messy, half-there kiss to Shane’s forehead, more of an eager brush of lips than anything. But Shane can still feel the affection behind it, and he melts all over again in Ilya’s arms. “I will never do this mistake again.”

“Me neither,” Shane admits quietly, barely a breath against Ilya’s throat.

They’re quiet again for a while. It’s still not a bad quiet. Shane enjoys the warmth of Ilya’s body and the rhythmic filling of his lungs. Shane is obsessed with watching his ribs expand now, each breath Ilya takes being a reassuring reminder that they made it out, and that they’re safe. However, Shane’s afterglow does begin to fade, and he sobers up just enough to start worrying about the mess they’ve left on the couch.

Before he can say anything about it, Ilya speaks. “I really do forget crutches sometimes. I do not mean this.” Ilya explains, “When I want to walk, I just walk, you know?” The way he says it makes Shane huff out an amused breath, “But I will remember better, for you.”

Ilya is trying to fix what Shane was upset about. It makes Shane’s heart warm. It’s a good sign, isn’t it? One that means they’re built to last, and one that means their promise rings will, one day, be replaced by wedding bands.

“Thank you,” Shane says, and he sits up so he can look at Ilya properly again, pressing a hand over his heart. “And I’ll stop being so bossy.”

“No, no, Shane,” Ilya’s practically whining, “I like it. No, love it.” Shane curls an eyebrow at him, amused and maybe a little confused, but he thinks he likes what Ilya is getting at. “Please keep my leash very short. I would be dead without it.”

Shane suddenly thinks of Ilya as a dog trying to run straight into the freeway. The mental image makes him laugh. He kisses Ilya, pressing his grin between their lips. When Ilya starts licking into his mouth, it just makes Shane start chuckling again. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Sunlight reflects blindingly off the snow outside, pouring in through the wide windows in clean, cold sheets. The storm has left everything pristine—untouched drifts stretching down to the frozen lake, tree branches bowed under the weight of it. Shane wonders if the lake is cold enough to skate on... Probably. He’ll need to clear the snow off it first.

Shane’s parents are coming over tonight. The thought sits somewhere between comforting and nerve-wracking in his chest. For now, though, it’s early afternoon, and the cottage is quiet in a lived-in sort of way. It’s never felt like this before. It’s always been relaxing, sure. Shane’s private little sanctuary. But it’s never felt warm like this, special. 

Shane is sprawled along the couch again, controller in hand, one arm tucked behind his head. His feet are planted squarely in Ilya’s lap, who’s sitting sideways beside him, absentmindedly working his thumbs into the arch of Shane’s foot. Shane is far more into the massage Ilya is giving him than anything that’s happening on the TV. 

“So what is the best rock to get?” Ilya asks, and Shane’s pretty sure he stopped paying attention like, twenty minutes ago. He’s far more into Shane’s feet.

“Diamonds,” Shane answers, “I think there’s a new one that’s better, but I don’t really care about it.” Minecraft was never something he played as a kid. He didn’t really play any video games as a kid, and he still doesn’t now. But in the rare moments he wanted to play a game and wasn’t feeling the NHL series, this was his go-to. And right now, there’s fucking nothing going on, so it feels like a good time.

“You should play with me,” Shane says, “We can make a house together. And you can have your own room if you want. Or we can share one.” 

“You are so cute, Hollander,” Ilya coos, and it makes heat rise to Shane’s cheeks. He wasn’t trying to be cute. “You have nice feet.” Ilya underlines his statement by pressing his thumbs into the arch of Shane’s left foot, making his toes curl with the over-sensitive, too-good roll of it. He forces himself not to make any noise, because he thinks Ilya will make it weird— fuck, maybe Shane wants it to be weird? “Did you know that foot massage can trigger pregnant women to give birth?” 

“What?” Shane snorts, his neck in phantom-pain from the whiplash of Ilya’s multiple comments, “Do you massage pregnant women a lot?” He jokes back.

“Will it make you jealous if I say yes?” Ilya is grinning, like Shane being jealous is a win. 

Shane doesn’t get a chance to react. His phone buzzes where it sits on the arm of the couch. 

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzzt. 

Shane drops everything and immediately takes the call. The phone is to his ear in seconds, and he’s strangely enough terrified, like, what if he somehow missed a barrage of calls beforehand? What if this is when things go wrong again? What if, what if—

“Hey, bud!” 

Shane sighs, big and loud. “Hayden, hey.” Shane says. 

As soon as the words exit his mouth, Ilya is groaning. His eyes roll back and he dramatically flops backwards onto the couch. Shane does his very best to ignore him. 

“It’s so good to hear your voice, Shane. Man.” Hayden sounds emotional. They’ve been texting for days, and he was actually the first person Shane texted when he got to the hospital. He needed to make sure Hayden knew he was alive and well... However, he’s been neglecting to call him for reasons that have everything to do with being absolutely obsessed with spending time with Ilya, and only Ilya. Shane has been waiting years to have Ilya all to himself, after all. Maybe he’s been waiting his whole fucking life for this— the freedom to love and be loved, to be chosen whole, with no lines, no rules dictating how and when. So, he can’t be too hard on himself for neglecting to call Hayden.

“Yea, you too,” Shane hums, “I’m sorry I haven’t called, I’ve been, uh...” Shane trails off, his gaze fixing back on Ilya. Ilya peaks an eye open to look at him, pouting. “Busy.” 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for! It’s crazy out here.” Hayden says, and, yea, Shane missed him. He missed him a lot. Last week, he feared he would never see Hayden again. No more watch parties at his house, no more going out with the kids, no more warm banter before games...  “And I know you’re probably exhausted after your big roadtrip,” Hayden says, too kind, because Shane lied to him about most of that too. Shane had only told him, over text, that he suffered through a long, boring, and uneventful traffic-filled trip up the I-89, completely and utterly alone. 

“How have you and Jackie been holding up?” Shane asks, eager to change the subject. Shane watches the snow drift around outside and he tries not to look at Ilya, because he knows he’ll have his attention stolen away very fast if his gaze lingers on him for too long. And after all the worry Shane’s put Hayden through, he deserves Shane’s full, undivided attention, even if it’s just for a few minutes. 

Ilya has other plans. 

As Hayden talks on and on about the girls being upset that their favorite icecream-spot is closed up in accordance with the pandemic lockdown, Ilya fits his perfect mouth over Shane’s cock, and slaps his face, and tries to shove his stupid fucking fingers down Shane’s throat while he’s actively talking on the phone. Cool cool, yea yea, that makes sense. Shane has no clue if Hayden is even aware of what's going on, because honestly Shane isn't aware himself— it’s a rush of shame and frustration and heat, and Shane is too torn between the thrill of getting caught to read too deeply into Hayden’s tone. It’s like the feeling at the mall, but a thousand times more intense. 

“Hey, you okay—?” Hayden says, maybe worried and scared, but God, Shane can’t even focus on anything but Ilya’s hot tongue dragging along his shaft. Drooling over his cock like he’s starved for it, mouth so greedy.

“Yea, uh, just, had to grab a package,” Shane groans, and he’s about to cum right down Ilya’s throat, “Uh, Il— my mom, she needs something. Hold on. I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

And Shane hangs up. 

Fuck, he’s such a shitty friend. Ilya is so very right, that Shane would give up everything, all for him and that perfect cock of his.

...Shane will call Hayden back later. And talk to him properly. When Ilya is in the shower or something, so this fucking menace can’t bully him. 

Later comes, and Ilya goes to take a shower. But Shane does not call Hayden back because he’s been tasked by Ilya to marinate the salmon for tonight’s dinner. Calling Hayden back doesn’t feel too pressing, because Shane is pretty sure he left the phone call just fine since he was too blissed out by near-orgasm to remember it all too well. And, Hayden didn’t call or text him again after that. So, everything’s good, and Shane will call him when his hands aren’t covered in soy sauce and lemon juice.

Shane is startled by a banging at the door. He jumps, an embarrassing whimper pushing out of his throat that he is relieved Ilya did not hear. It’s mom and dad, Shane thinks, but they’re here much earlier than Shane thought. About an hour early, in fact. 

Shane is content in knowing that they’ve come at a very opportune time at least, and not when his cock was buried in Ilya’s throat. Shane dries his hands off and opens the door.

He’s halfway through saying ‘you’re early’ before the words stall out in his throat, confusion flashing into something sharper when he sees Hayden on the porch instead of his parents. Hayden looks like he fucking ran here, despite his big SUV fit for four children sitting right beside Shane’s car in the driveway. His hair is wind-tossed, his chest is heaving, his eyes wide and frantic as they rake over Shane like he’s checking for blood, for a bite, for something.

Hayden is barking at him before Shane can even process his shock. “Dude, what the hell happened? You just— you hung up and—” 

“I’m fine,” Shane says immediately, because that’s clearly what this is. “Hayden, I—” 

“Fuck, Shane, you sounded like you were getting mauled!” Hayden presses his hands to his eyes, and, fuck, he isn’t wrong. “I thought— shit, I’m so sorry, this whole thing has me so stressed out, I didn’t mean to barge in on you.” Hayden is one of three people who knows the location of Shane’s cottage— the other two being Shane’s mom and dad. Hayden holds this title with lots of pride, and probably is mortified knowing that he possibly misused this great honor that Shane bestowed upon him. Although Shane doesn’t really think he misused it, he was just being a good friend, after all. A better friend than Shane has been—

Hayden goes completely still. Stock fucking still, and all the color drains from his face. Shane realizes his gaze is not on Shane anymore, and is instead locked just over Shane’s shoulder. Unfortunately, Shane already has a feeling he knows exactly who Hayden is looking at.

Shane follows Hayden’s gaze even though he knows what will be at the end of it. Ilya, crossing through the living room, wet from his shower but mercifully clothed. What isn’t very merciful is the fact that the clothing he’s wearing barely constitutes as anything at all— Shane’s little blue work-out shorts that look distractingly small on Ilya’s impressively toned ass. Oh, and he’s covered in so many hickeys, and he’s, fuck, he’s in Shane’s house during the end of the world, and that’s already incriminating enough. 

He has his crutches, though. That’s nice.

Like Hayden, Ilya is frozen. He’s frozen mid-step, like a shitty picture of American bigfoot. 

Shane feels it in his gut before anything’s even said—how bad this looks. How sudden it is. How much this is going to feel like a betrayal, or a secret, or something Shane should’ve told him and didn’t. Hayden is trusted with the location of Shane’s fucking private, sanctuary of a cottage, but not with the fact that Shane is gay and is madly in love with Ilya Rozanov to the point that he nearly gave up everything for him.

“Rozanov is in your house,” Hayden says.

“Yea.” Shane says.

“Um,” Ilya pipes up, “Shane, we have guest.” 

Shane considers running off into the woods, never to be seen again. He does not do that.

“Do you, uh,” Shane is scared. Stressed. But he’s smashed someones brains out with a stick, he can do this. He scrubs a hand over his face. “We should talk. Probably.”

Shane thinks maybe Hayden might run off. He might give Shane the decency of an excuse, that Jackie is waiting at home, or something. Or maybe he won’t, maybe he’ll just jump in his car and drive off. But, Hayden doesn’t do any of that. He slowly nods.

“Put some clothes on,” Shane says to Ilya, and then steps to the side to allow Hayden in.

“Oh, boo.” Ilya complains. Asshole. His crutches click as he limps off, into their bedroom.

Hayden steps through the threshold. Another line.

Shane gets him sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of water he doesn’t touch, Hayden’s knee bouncing a mile a minute while his eyes track everything— the crumpled blanket on the couch, the pill bottles on the counter addressed to I. Rozanov, the second mug on the coffee table that Shane neglected to clean because he hasn’t been living life like famous hockey player Shane Hollander. This past week, he’s just been Ilya’s boyfriend, Shane. It’s all domestic evidence.

When Hayden finally notices the rings, Shane explains everything. Well, almost. He leaves out the part where Ilya fucked him so good he didn’t care about the world ending, and instead blames it on falling asleep early after a well-fought game. During Shane’s long-winded explanation, Ilya struts out of their room, looking the most confident someone on crutches possibly could. He’s wearing Shane’s fucking Metros hoodie, and Shane can’t decide how that makes him feel. He’s mad at Ilya for being a smug asshole, but there’s something bittersweet about finally being able to Ilya off to a friend. But, Hayden is maybe not the right friend for that title. He looks mortified. Hayden was Ilya’s biggest hater, second only to Shane. And, Shane’s been disqualified from that first place title, obviously.

Even as Shane continues telling his harrowing tale about not-zombies and America, Hayden’s gaze keeps drifting past him. It lingers, long and hard, on Ilya panfrying salmon in the kitchen. Hayden might be trying to will Ilya away with his mind alone. 

“Wait, your girl,” Hayden blurts out at some point, and your girl makes Shane’s skin crawl. “I thought you were serious about her.” 

Shane hears Ilya huff, amused. Shane looks for something readily available to throw at him, but he comes up empty handed. Unfortunately, this gives Ilya the room to talk. “Yes, Lily. His very sexy Boston girl. He is very serious about Lily.”

It feels like it takes Hayden five fucking buisness days to figure it out, but Shane can’t find the words to say, so he just helplessly watches the horror that slowly dawns on Hayden’s face. “Fuck. Fuck. Lily. He’s—?”

Shane clasps his hands together like he’s praying. Maybe he is. Shane nods.

“So you’re really serious about this?” Hayden asks, whispering like Ilya can’t hear them, “Dating... Fuck, bud, I can’t even say it.”

Shane’s frustrated . He told Hayden he watched people die, and that Ilya almost died too, and that Hayden’s take away?   “Yea. Probably.” 

“I thought you didn’t like assholes,” Hayden says.

“And I thought Shane did not like unannounced visitors,” Ilya replies dryly, without even turning around, “But, here you are.”

“Okay—” Shane cuts in immediately, already feeling the headache starting between his eyes.

A knock at the door saves him. Or maybe it’ll make it worse. Shane doesn’t know yet.

His parents let themselves in with the kind of familiarity that comes from having done so a thousand times before, voices carrying from the entryway as they shake the snow off their coats— warm and normal. Greetings echo around the walls of the cottage, from Shane, to his parents, to Ilya. 

Yuna is still shaking the snow from her hair when she takes notice of Hayden still stewing in his own agitated denial at the dinner table. “Oh, Hayden,” She says, “It’s good to see you?” She’s a bit confused. Hayden Pike was not mentioned in their dinner plans, after all. “Are you staying for dinner too?”

“Hi,” Hayden blurts out, “Um, no, I don’t think so. Just stopping by.”

“You could stay,” Shane offers as he takes his parents’ jackets, because it feels like the polite thing to do. He came all this way, after all. They should catch up, and talk about things other than Ilya. “Unless you had plans with Jackie, that’s fine.”

“You should stay!” Yuna croons excitedly. It isn’t often she gets to talk to any of Shane’s friends, as he does not have many. Shane can count the amount of times Hayden has shared a room with either of his parents on one hand. 

“I think Jackie was just making the kids leftovers,” Hayden looks a little embarrassed, cornered by all three Hollanders. Yuna is also good at being particularly convincing as it’s a very integral part of her job. “I’ll give her a text...” 

They settle at the table, light conversation filling the room. His dad asks Hayden about the kids, curious about school and how they’re handling the lockdown, and it’s normal. Comfortingly normal. Like the world didn’t end. Like crossing half a dead country didn’t happen.

Shane could involve himself in it, but he lingers near the stove instead.

Ilya is focused, sleeve pushed up, wrist flexing as he tilts the pan just slightly to baste the salmon in butter. The sound is soft and steady— that delicate, controlled sizzle of a good sear. A crutch remains wedged under his other arm, shifting his weight just right. It smells really good, that dominating scent of garlic mingling nicely with the butter. Shane has always known Ilya to be a decent cook, but he’s apparently even better when he’s following a recipe. 

Shane watches Ilya for a second too long. He wants to reach out, wants to slide a hand around his waist and press his mouth to his shoulder. He wants something small and grounding and affectionate, because all those months and years they spent apart have made Shane disastrously needy. Ilya almost dying didn’t help that either.

But, he doesn’t touch. It’s a line that Shane is not ready to cross. He’s happy to be stuck behind this one for now, because maybe it’s a good thing that only Ilya knows what Shane looks like when he’s in love. 

“Smells really good,” Shane says instead, softer than usual.

Ilya glances at him from the corner of his eye. There’s something shy there too— something that still isn’t used to being seen like this. “Full house. Maybe we should invite Rose Landry too.”

Shane’s eyes roll into the back of his skull.

“Make sure he doesn’t poison mine,” Hayden calls from behind them. 

“Ooh, good idea.” Ilya hums, “Shane, where do you keep the poison...?”  Shane hates everybody in this house. Except for his parents. 

“Shut up,” Shane scolds lightly, then moves on. Feeding into Ilya’s teasing will only make him worse. “We have enough for Hayden too, right?”

“Mm. Yes,” Ilya says after a moment of hesitation, “But I only agreed to feeding Hollanders.” 

Shane frowns. “Ilya,” He says, and bumps his hip lightly against the counter, close enough to feel the warmth from Ilya’s arm without actually touching him, “Hayden’s important to me, okay?” Shane’s voice goes very low, very quiet, just because it feels embarrassing to be so vulnerable in a room so full. 

Ilya sighs. The tight, teasing pull of his expression eases some. Shane knows he has won. “Okay,” Ilya says, “I will make Pike delicious meal, with only a little poison.” 

Hayden is talking about Ruby’s interest in art. How she wants expensive markers that she’s too young for. Shane leans in close, because surely no one is watching, and presses a quick kiss to Ilya’s cheek. It’s hardly anything more than a quick brush, a nudge— And the whole room goes fucking silent.

Shane looks back at the kitchen table. His parents and Hayden are all staring. Everyone awkwardly starts looking in other places. Hayden clears his throat. 

It isn’t just Shane who needs to get over his lines. Maybe everyone else has lines of their own, boxes they’ve fit both Shane and Ilya into. Shane bristles uncomfortably, rubbing his hand over his mouth while Ilya still just looks happy as a clam. 

By the time everything’s on the table, the tension has settled into something that looks almost like civility from the outside. Everyone sits, and plates get passed around, and the salmon is golden at the edges, crisped just right. There’s a brief pause as everyone takes their first bite.

David nods immediately. “Wow.”

Hayden hesitates— just slightly, maybe still worried about that poison— before tasting. His eyebrows lift despite himself.

Yuna lights up. “Oh, this is really good,” she says, covering her hand with her mouth briefly, “I didn’t know you could cook, Ilya.” 

Ilya tries to look neutral, and fails. The pride creeps in slowly— first in the way his shoulders straighten, then in the faint lift of his chin. Cocky, like how he is on the ice, but it’s softened some by this more domestic setting. “Shane helped,” Ilya says, “But it was mostly me.” A little humility would kill Ilya. Ilya pokes around with his fork, pushing aside rice as he continues happily flaunting. “Consider it my thanks for the burger.” 

“And saving his life,” Shane adds.

“Oh, yes, this too. Burger was first thing that came to mind.” 

Ilya can be too sharp, sometimes. And although that joke was particularly mild, there is something in it that makes Shane’s shoulders tense. What if mom thinks Ilya is being ungrateful? What if they all think Ilya really is an asshole, and Shane is crazy? Shane waits for it— the awkward silence, the concerned-parent-look.

Instead— his mom laughs. It’s not like, a belly-laugh or anything, but the sound lights the whole table up. Dad echoes the sound, and Shane thinks Hayden might even crack a smile— even if it’s just born out of the desire to not be the miserable guy at the table. 

They like him, God, they actually fucking like him.

He glances sideways at Ilya. Ilya catches him looking. Ilya’s expression is composed, but there’s a faint brightness in his eyes now. A subtle satisfaction, and a relief he probably wouldn’t admit to. He’s sitting a little taller, a little more certain. Under the table, Shane nudges his foot against Ilya’s. The touch lingers, acting as a quiet line of connection running between them while conversation carries on above. They eat like that— conversation flowing so easy now.  And Shane’s laughing too, before he can even realize it, warmth spreading up his neck and across his chest. It’s not just relief anymore, it’s something a lot bigger; Ilya fits. Not just beside him. Not just in his bed or in the quiet spaces between crises. But here, with his parents, and maybe just a little bit with Shane’s best friend, too. 

Once Ilya was just a secret in Shane’s mind, and now he’s sitting at the dinner table. Shane thinks of the future, of lines they have yet to cross; getting drunk with Ilya at the bar after a well-fought game, showing him off at parties where they would look very good together, and holding Ilya’s hand in public. He thinks of not being afraid anymore, and being proud. So proud.  But for now, the two halves of his life have folded together without breaking anything at all. And that’s enough for Shane, especially while the world feels just so scary. 

Dinner winds down slowly. As plates empty, conversation softens into that comfortable, satisfied lull that only happens after good food.

Hayden lingers near the door when it’s time to go, coat half-zipped, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s not sure how to wrap this up. He pulls Shane into a hug first. It’s tight and desperate, and it’s a line of affection Hayden usually doesn’t cross. Shane melts into it regardless, very happy that they’re both okay. 

“I’m serious,” Hayden murmurs quietly near his ear. “If you need anything. Anything. You call me.”

“I will,” Shane promises, “You too, okay? I’ll be here.”

Hayden pulls back just enough to look at him. His gaze flicks briefly past Shane toward Ilya, who’s innocently starting to clean up dinner.

“And keep an eye on him,” Hayden adds, maybe accusingly. There’s more there, questions and boundaries that need to be discussed. Maybe they can have dinner again soon and talk more. But, not tonight. Tonight’s been enough.

So Shane just huffs a soft laugh. “I am.”

Hayden wishes Shane’s parents a polite goodnight. In contrast, he offers Ilya a short nod— one that is not quite approval, but not quite hatred either— and then he’s gone, door closing against the cold.

The house feels quieter immediately. Just his family, Shane thinks automatically. It takes him a full minute to realize he considers Ilya family. 

Yuna stands and claps her hands lightly. “You two relax,” she says, already gathering plates.

“Mom, you don’t have to—” Shane starts.

“We’re doing the dishes,” she insists, and dad is already at the sink. There’s no arguing with them. Within minutes, his parents have completely commandeered the kitchen.

So Shane corrals Ilya toward the hall to their bedroom in order to debrief, the sound of running water and clinking plates filling the space behind them. Being on the other side of that domestic noise is strangely intimate. Shane feels warm and fuzzy from his head to his toes, like he’s gliding across the floor, strange and unreal but still very nice.

Under the cover of privacy, Shane stands nearly chest-to-chest with Ilya, who leans gently on the one crutch. It’s close enough that Shane can feel the warmth radiating off him. “You okay?” Ilya asks, “Is a lot, I know.” 

“I’m good,” Shane responds, unable to help the passive smile that has stuck itself onto his face, “Really good.” Ilya is smiling too, warm and sweet and so, so open. “You?”

“I am happy,” Ilya says, warm and slow, like he’s savoring speaking those words outloud.

Shane reaches to rub Ilya’s chest. He still feels a little shy, a little jumpy, like his parents could still see. But the overwhelming warmth bubbling up inside him is too much to contain, and his skin itches to be pressed to Ilya. “I think... I think my parents like you.” Shane says, so relieved to be saying that. 

Ilya looks at him then— softer than he’d been all evening, a look he reserves just for Shane. “You were worried.”

“Maybe,” Shane admits.

Ilya sags forward, his forehead pressing to Shane’s, and Ilya lets out some sound that’s sort of akin to a groan. Shane can’t place it, and he’s worried that Ilya may be upset or, maybe even making fun of him. But, Ilya whispers sweet and soft; “ я тебя люблю.” 

“I scared you?” Shane asks, almost smug, because he knows that is not what those words mean. He figured it out all by himself a long while ago.

“No,” Ilya says, “I love you.” 

Then Ilya kisses him. Or, maybe Shane kisses him first. Who’s to say? 

The floorboards squeak, just a little. It’s enough for Shane to break apart from Ilya like a startled teenager. Yuna is standing just at the end of the hallway, drying her hands on a towel. But she doesn’t seem awkward or anything, and instead she’s smiling. Her eyes might be a little glassy too.

Shane turns bright red instantly. “Mom—”

“Sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t look sorry at all. “I didn’t see anything,” she says lightly, though she clearly did. 

Shane opens his mouth to apologize for something he can’t even wrap his head around. His shame lives so deep inside him, wrung all the way around his heart.

His mom replaces that shame with something much warmer as she steps forward and wraps him in a hug. Her cheek presses briefly against his temple. “I’m glad,” she says, very softly.

Shane’s embarrassment stutters into something kinder. “Yeah?”

“So glad, Shane,” she repeats. Glad for what? Shane thinks helplessly. That he’s gay? Surely not. That he’s in love with Ilya Rozanov? Also surely not. Even though Shane doesn’t understand, he tries to take her at her word. He nods, and bends to press his face into her shoulder. He takes a big, deep breath. Glad is good.

When she pulls back, she turns fully to face Ilya. There’s a tiny pause in Ilya, like he’s surprised he’s being acknowledged. Then there is a flicker of uncertainty, like he’s not sure what’s about to happen now that he has been noticed. 

“Come here,” Yuna says, like Ilya is scared and feverish all over again, so gentle with him. Ilya stiffens for half a second and his arms come up very slowly, like he’s afraid of doing it all wrong. But, as is inevitable with a hug from Shane’s mom, he sinks into it. His shoulders drop, and the tension drains out of him in a way that makes him look much smaller even while towering over Yuna. 

Shane hysterically wishes he could draw, so he could jot this down somewhere. Moments like these can’t be stored in planners or put on calendars.

Mom rubs Ilya’s back once before letting go. “Thank you for dinner,” she says warmly.

“Thank you,” Ilya replies, his voice so small. 

Soon after, coats are being put on, and goodnight’s are being exchanged. David claps Shane on the back and pulls him into a one-armed embrace, then offers Ilya a firm handshake that turns into a brief but approving squeeze on the shoulder. “Take care of each other,” his dad says simply.

“We will,” Shane answers.

And then they’re gone too. The door shuts, and the cottage exhales with the wind, a soft, snow-muted quiet pressing gently against the windows.

That nice quiet persists, even as they crawl into bed for the night. Snowlight spills faintly through the curtains, turning the bedroom pale and blue. Ilya is already half under the blankets when Shane comes back from brushing his teeth.

He’s lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other draped loosely to the side. The comforter dips over the slope of his back, bare skin warm against the cool air where it’s exposed.

Shane slides into bed carefully, ever mindful of Ilya’s leg, settling close without jostling him. The mattress dips to accommodate both of their weights, and Ilya hums softly in acknowledgment but he doesn’t move a muscle. Shane leans over him in order to press a slow, lingering kiss between Ilya’s shoulder blades. Then another just below it. He plasters himself to the curve of Ilya’s spine and his fingertips follow after, tracing lightly over the scattered moles— mapping them gently, like constellations he’s memorizing. He drags his thumb in slow lines, warm and absent-minded.

“Thank you for dinner,” Shane murmurs against his skin. 

“Mm.” Ilya hums, muffled into the pillow, “You’re welcome.” He sounds a little smug. “I like your parents. Pike, not so much. But this is not new.”

“I know,” Shane doesn’t have it in him to banter with Ilya right now. His heart is very warm, and he is just so in love he can’t possibly think about scolding Ilya for anything at all, even if it’s deserved. “Can you say I love you in Russian again?”

Ilya shifts slightly under him, turning his head enough that his voice isn’t muffled anymore. “я тебя люблю,” Ilya says, nice and slow for Shane’s benefit. 

“Ya tebya,” Shane repeats, because that part is easy enough, “Looblyoo.” 

Shane’s butchered pronunciation makes Ilya laugh, and his back bounces with the motion. The shift of his muscles make all of his pretty little moles and freckles look like twinkling starlight, and Shane wants to kiss and touch them all. He presses his open palms to as much of Ilya as he can, and he makes a wish. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

His wish comes true.

Ilya takes the puck and turns. His ankles angle just-so on the push-off, and his hips rotate with each stride, alternating with the set of his shoulders when he shifts weight. Then there’s the leg, the one that’s been the biggest talking point between them for a month and a half, and Shane tracks it automatically— hyper-aware of every extension, every transfer of balance. He watches for hesitation, for compensation, for a subtle favoring. And there is some of that; A fractional delay on hard acceleration, A slightly shorter extension on the first stride out of a stop. 

But it’s so miniscule, Shane knows it’s something only he could notice. Angles and leverage and micro-adjustments. It’s all a math equation in Shane’s mind, a math equation that adds up to further proof that Ilya is stable, steady. Growing steadier.

The lake has frozen solid, the surface smoothed over by a month of uninterrupted freeze and a fresh dusting of snow that Shane insisted on shoveling clear himself. The air bites at his cheeks, clean and sharp, the kind that makes his lungs feel brand new. 

Ilya arcs around him in a loose circle, stick guiding the puck with easy control, movements fluid in a way that makes Shane’s chest swell. He doesn’t get to see Ilya like this. Stripped down to skates and a sweater, Ilya’s movements are longer, more expressive without the weight of equipment. His shoulders are loose, his hands softer on the stick. There’s something almost effortless about the way he shifts direction, and Shane thinks distantly that Ilya could make a decent figure-skater if he wanted to. 

Shane taps his own stick once on the ice, and Ilya sends the puck back toward him in a smooth, controlled pass. Shane receives it automatically and sends it back with an easy flick of his wrists. No slap shots or racing, it’s just a lazy exchange, back and forth across the ice while they drift.

Shane takes advantage of every second of it; when Ilya pivots, Shane watches the weight transfer. And when he accelerates, Shane studies the push from his healing leg. He finds some hesitation, but not much. The sky is so very clear.

Ilya loops back around him, skating backward now, grin faint but visible in the cold air. His breath puffs a trail of steam behind him. “You are watching me?” 

“Always,” Shane says with an easy roll of his shoulders. He rubs the tape on his stick, and the phantom smell of rot no longer lingers in his mind. All he can smell, taste, feel, is the cold, crisp bite of the air.

“And what do you see?”

“You’re still favoring your left side,” Shane says, catches the puck, and flicks it back to Ilya, “Especially when you stop, you hesitate for a second. And you’re pushing harder with your left when you accelerate, too.” 

“But I am good skater, yes?” 

Shane smiles, cold air biting at his cheeks. “Yea.” They pass the puck again, “Not better than me.”

“No, never.” Ilya rolls his eyes and snaps the puck lightly past him. Shane turns and chases, blades biting cleanly into the ice.

Shane closes the distance easily but doesn’t check Ilya— just presses close enough to feel the shared speed between them. The scrape of their skates syncs for a few strides. No boards, no whistles, no crowd. It’s all just wind and their little laughing breaths and the crisp echo of their blades. The lake stretches endlessly for them, pale and open, and for a few perfect seconds Shane forgets everything that came before this and everything that might come after— he feels like he’s flying.

Ilya glides just ahead of him, cutting a clean diagonal across the lake. Shane matches the angle automatically, reading the line before it fully forms. Shane has always been good at that — anticipating motion, predicting momentum — but with Ilya it feels less like strategy and more like instinct. They move together, connected.

Shane digs in and accelerates, closing the gap again, their shoulders nearly brushing as he steals the puck and taps it forward. Ilya laughs, his breath fogging in the cold and his cheeks a beautiful shade of rosy-red,  and pivots effortlessly to chase him down. Shane feels untouchable, like no one could ever catch them.

Shane wants Ilya stronger, faster, back to himself. He catalogues every push, every stop, every slight imbalance because he is already building the plan to sharpen Ilya’s first strides, to lengthen the extension on Ilya’s healing leg. Shane wants them back on real ice, under lights and colliding at full fucking force. He wants them competing the way they were built to. He wants Ilya to be unstoppable so he can be the one, the only one, who can take him down.

But then Ilya arcs wide in a loose, playful loop. Just skating because it feels good, spraying a fine arc of frost. Shane feels something else settle into him. This matters too.

Ilya is back at Shane’s side, keeping pace effortlessly. Their sticks tap together lightly when Ilya tries to steal the puck from Shane again.

And the stick fits just so perfectly in Shane’s hands. It’s an extension of his body, not a weapon. Everything is just as it should be; the ice beneath his skates, the cold against his skin, Ilya right beside him.

This is what Shane was built for. Love expressed through motion.

He’s too caught up in it. In the cold air in his lungs, in the way the sunlight hits Ilya’s grin when he turns, in the stupid, overwhelming swell of affection that keeps rising in his chest.

He’s thinking about about love and forever, which is very unlike Shane—

Ilya feints left. Shane reads it, shifts his body to block the lane. And in that split second of emotional distraction, the puck is gone.

A sharp flick of Ilya’s wrists, and then a blur of black slides cleanly between Shane’s legs. Shane twists, but the puck is already twenty feet behind him, skittering across the ice like it’s laughing too.

Shane groans. “Are you serious—”

Ilya throws both hands up in victory. “давай!” He shouts to the empty lake.

Then Ilya is skating in a wide triumphant circle, arms raised overhead, blades carving exaggerated arcs in the ice. “Unbelievable play! Absolutely unstoppable! The crowd is losing their minds!” He shouts in his horrifying American accent. 

Shane just stands there, stick planted against the ice, watching. He’s very amused, unfortunately. Ilya blows multiple dramatic kisses to the nonexistent stands.

“They cannot believe what they have just witnessed!” he continues in that terrible voice. “Shane Hollander got completely outplayed! Humiliated! A career-ending embarrassment!”

Shane snorts despite himself.

Ilya clutches his chest as if overwhelmed by adoration. “Listen to them! They chant my name!”

There is, in fact, only wind. Shane lazily pumps his fist into the air. “Woo, Ilya.” He snarks.

Ilya stops dead. This time, he does not hesitate in putting weight on his right leg. He looks at Shane with a terrible twinkle in his eye, one that makes Shane bristle, rustling with a playful sense of panic. 

Shane’s immediate fear does not stop Ilya. He closes the distance in three powerful strides and, before Shane can brace properly, drops his stick and wraps both arms around Shane’s waist. Ilya lifts him clean off the ice. 

 “Are you fucking insane?!” Shane yelps, hands instinctively flying to Ilya’s shoulders. “Your leg—!”

“I HAVE WON!” Ilya shouts over him, spinning carefully in a small, controlled circle. “AND THIS—” He adjusts his grip, hoisting Shane slightly higher. “—IS MY STANLEY CUP!”

Shane grabs onto him tighter out of sheer survival instinct. “Fuck! Put me down! Ilya!”

But Ilya is laughing, bright and breathless, holding him up triumphantly like he weighs nothing at all. And Shane is laughing too, fuck, he’s really laughing. “My greatest prize!” Ilya declares to the invisible stadium. “Behold!”

“You’re gonna hurt yourself!” Shane yells but Ilya does not care. He dips him just enough to press an exaggerated kiss to his cheek. Then another, and another. Shane’s protests dissolve into startled laughter as Ilya peppers his face with playful kisses, completely relentless. Shane’s hands slide from gripping in panic to holding on deliberately. The worry about his leg flickers in the forefront of Shane’s mind, but Ilya’s stance is stable. The cottage has treated him well, he’s so very strong.

Ilya sets Shane down slowly until his skates are back on the ice, but keeps him trapped in his arms. Before Shane can form another argument, Ilya leans in and kisses him properly this time— still playful, still smiling against his mouth, but deeper. Warmer.

Shane melts. It feels better than any victory. 

When they finally separate, Shane is flushed from cold and laughter and something else entirely. “Rematch?” Shane asks softly. He wants to stay on the ice for as long as he can today. 

Ilya squeezes him once more before releasing him fully. “Of course,” Ilya replies, picking up his stick again. “The Cup must be defended.”

Shane shakes his head, fond beyond reason, and cuts across the ice, skating for the puck. The sky and the lake all blend together, until they’re one in the same, and the horizon looks limitless.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

The lights come up. White across the ice, gold along the trim. A low electrical hum runs through the arena, like it’s breathing, pulsing and so very alive. The glass trembles faintly from the vibration of twenty thousand voices stacked on top of one another.  Shane can feel it through the ice, rattling his bucket, his bones. It’s pressure, a physical thing that squeezes against him and settles into his ribs like a second heartbeat.

Shane inhales into that cold, artificial air that smells like rubber and steel and adrenaline. Everything narrows into geometry, a contained universe. Sixty minutes. Clear rules. Defined boundaries. Lines painted in bright, undeniable colors. 

Shane glides over the rink, letting his edges carve shallow crescents. Red line, blue line, crease, faceoff circles. 

Lyublyu, lyublyu, lyublyu— Shane traces the syllables against the rubber of his mouthguard,

regulating by scratching an itch in his brain over and over again. There’s no other noise in his head. He’s all quiet,  just instinct and muscle memory braided together.

Shane crouches at center ice. His knees are bent, back straight, and his weight is balanced perfectly over the balls of his feet. Across from him, Ilya slides into place similarly. Shane hasn’t seen him in these new colors yet, not in person anyway, and that logo is so very ugly. Shane tries to store it all away in his mind, to categorize it, but Ilya’s sharp smile distracts him, his eyes bright beneath the glare of his visor. 

“Hiii,” Ilya draws out lazily.

“Hi,” Shane replies. 

They’re on different sides of the line. Red, drawn between them. It’s okay, Shane knows it isn't real. Not in a way that matters, anyway. The ice is still one sheet.

The world didn’t heal overnight, or even over the year, and it’ll probably take many more years for things to be back to the way they were. There are travel restrictions they navigate, contracts in different cities, controversies about vaccines and treatment. Things are still tense. Shane and Ilya still cannot come out publicly. 

It would be a good time, Yuna would say, nobody will care about it when so many other things are happening.

Shane doesn’t want to come out because it’s convenient, though. And, really, it’ll never be convenient. Right now, that doesn’t matter. They’ll figure it out eventually.  Their sticks snarl together briefly, testing, feeling for pressure points, Ilya grinning all the while. Shane’s smiling too.

The arena swells louder, a chant starts somewhere in the lower bowl. The league marketed it as symbolic— two rival centers, reopening night of a fully restored season. Proof that the world didn’t end, even after it almost did.

The referee lowers his hand. Shane’s focus snaps razor thin. Ilya’s grin widens.

The puck drops, and Ilya wins the face-off. Montreal wins the game. 

It all echoes in his head hours later, that persistent second heartbeat. Shane lies on his back, sheets tangled around his legs, the room dark except for the thin wash of city light slipping through the curtains. His pulse has finally slowed, the adrenaline drained from his bloodstream— but the memory of it lingers like electricity under his skin.

Ilya is half over him, half beside him, one hand warm against Shane’s sore ribs. Shane feels so very good, like, everything in his life is just right enough. He missed hockey, and Shane thinks it missed him too. 

Ilya hums softly against his mouth, kissing him like he won. Maybe in some ways, Ilya did. His tongue pushes into his mouth, his crucifix and its adorning ring pooling into Shane’s collarbone. Shane, regretfully, took his off for the game, for the locker room. He didn’t want questions. It’s back on his finger now, right where it belongs. 

 Shane takes Ilya’s face into his hands, trying to draw him in closer, his thumb tracing over one of his moles so lovingly. The only sound is their breathing, and the distant murmur of Montreal traffic outside.

Shane pulls back only to look at Ilya in the dim light, his lips pulsing faintly. No visor now, no arena glare. Just the soft slope of his cheekbone, the familiar line of his mouth, his curls slightly frizzy while partially dry from the shower he took.

“You did so good tonight,” Shane compliments, petting Ilya’s face.

“I lost,” Ilya responds flatly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Shane says, and Ilya scoffs at him. “You really made me work for it.”

Ilya looked so good across from him tonight. He looks good now, always— fuck, Shane is so fucking horny. He tips his hips up, needy, earning a smug sound from Ilya.

“You want me?” Ilya asks, knowing the answer.

“Fuck you,” Shane bites back, still a little hot from the game, “Yea. I want you.” He butts his nose against Ilya’s, sucking in a sharp breath when Ilya hooks his thumbs into his belt-loops and strips him of his pants in one, easy go. Shane’s legs lock themselves around Ilya’s hips, and they’re kissing again, Ilya’s lips trailing down Shane’s neck to bite and lick, and Shane doesn’t even have it within himself to remind Ilya not to mark him up too terribly. Shane clutches the back of his head, fingers sinking into his curls, greedy and possessive and all those other embarrassing words Ilya uses to tease Shane about how much he needs him.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzzt.

Ilya sighs, hot against Shane’s neck. He groans, annoyed, but does not snatch Shane’s phone away as Shane paws blindly for it on the nightstand, picking it up. 

Shane squints as he brings it close to his face, small letters blurring, but not enough to completely obscure who it’s from.

Rose (10:32 p.m.) That was awesome!! Nice to b back?

There’s more, but Shane does not read it. He sets his phone back down on the nightstand, face first. Letting it snuggle up with Ilya’s, which sits similarly close. 

“What? Is world ending?” Ilya asks, sounding bored.

“It will, if you don’t get inside me right now.”

A crooned laugh pushes it’s way out of Ilya’s throat, his eyes wrinkling to make room for his grin. He attacks Shane, kissing and roughing him with enough fervor that it feels a lot like being devoured, and Shane can’t help but laugh too— weakly kicking at Ilya, just to be rough, to have a little fun. 

Everything will be okay, Shane thinks dimly, which is a weird thing to be thinking when Ilya is kissing a line down his chest, murmuring warm little nothings about his pretty freckles. Shane runs his fingers through Ilya’s curls again, just to make him smile. Yea, things feel very okay, especially when Ilya is grinning at him like that. Everything will be okay and not because the world is fixed enough to play hockey, and not because nothing bad will ever happen again. But because there is nothing in his life as steady as this, as Ilya, as the both of them. Nothing feels too scary at all, not when Shane knows he’ll pick Ilya every time. 

Ilya sits crouched between his legs now, and he lifts Shane’s leg to press a reverent kiss to his ankle. 

“я тебя люблю,” Ilya says.

No barrier to hide behind, not anymore.

“Love you too.”