Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Jackie Pike & Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Jackie Pike, Rose Landry, David Hollander, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), The Blip | The Five Years Between Thanos's Snap and Hulk's Snap, not exactly a fandom crossover bc there is literally no mention of any marvel characters, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Temporary Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, POV Ilya Rozanov, most of it is ilya pov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, girl ilya cries so fucking much in this fic, Found Family, Good Friend Rose Landry, everyone cries so much guys like so much im sorry, cannon used from both book and show bc i know ball, Happy Ending, People Find Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, POV David Hollander, POV Jackie Pike, POV Shane Hollander, again to be so transparent shane comes back he does not stay gone, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Relationship Timeline Reveal, Good Friend Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Good Friend Jackie Pike, David Hollander & Ilya Rozanov Bonding

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-28 Completed: 2026-09-01 Words: 31,228 Chapters: 6/6

disappearing act

Summary

“Ilya?” his voice is thick and heavy on his tongue. He's so agonizingly beautiful, his face tender and red from the impact of his helmet hitting the ice moments before. “I’m okay,” he insists, blinking slowly.

And then, starting at his fingertips, Shane starts to fade away, just like St-Simon and Marlow and Pike moments before. Eyes soft, Shane gazes at Ilya, not seeming to realize what’s happening at all. And Ilya, overcome with terror, can only watch as Shane’s whole being simply disintegrates into thin air.

__

Half the universe is snapped out of existence, including Shane.
Ilya struggles to cope.

Or, a character study on grief, ending with reunion.

Notes

the way this was supposed to be a one shot...

i was inspired by a reddit post, set out to write this, and i had no idea how truly devastating it would turn out to be. HEA but still guys, it’s quite the journey. also realizing most of my works are about grief in some way so i guess this is therapy for me

you do not have to know anything about marvel beyond this cliff-notes background: half the universe is snapped out of existence. they are dead and gone, until five years (and some months) later they are snapped back.

Chapter 1

Part I: Snap

Ilya knows it won’t last. He knows that tonight he needs to call it off with Shane, that they can’t keep doing this. There’s no way they can be together, not in any real, meaningful way. Not how Ilya wants, or how Shane deserves. That's really the crux: Shane deserves better. Way better. Easier. Not Ilya.

But Ilya is weak, he knows this about himself. So he positions himself at center ice, where Shane can easily skate up to say hello during warm-ups. Which of course, Shane does.

“We still on for tonight? After?”

Ilya gives him a nod. He can’t help himself: he flirts, or at least the version of flirting that Shane will respond to.

“Raiders win, we’re watching Fast and Furious.”

Shane chuckles, trying to act annoyed, but failing. “No chance.”

“Oh, so you do not want a prize if you win?” Ilya says, smothering a smirk.

“Fuck you,” Shane says, no heat in it, pretending to pay close attention to the tape on his stick.

“Later,” Ilya promises, and Shane skates back to the bench to where Pike is watching them, looking confused.

Tonight Ilya would end things with Shane. It would hurt, a lot, but it had to be done. Shane deserves more than what Ilya can offer.

 

Ilya taps his stick against the ice to playfully antagonize Shane. It’s not very intimidating, though. Shane looks into Ilya’s eyes and Ilya can’t help the giddy smile that creeps onto his lips. Shane, smirking, wins the face off.

Shane starts down the ice with the puck, taking a quick second to glance back at Ilya over his shoulder, a satisfied smile on his face. He’s distracted, and he doesn’t see.

Ilya sees, just a moment before, helpless to prevent it. His alternate captain, Cliff Marlow, clean contact, right into Shane. Ilya’s world narrows; Shane crumples onto the ice. Not moving, he’s not moving.

The medics are rushing out, lifting Shane onto the spinal board. Words, questions, spill out of Ilya, but no one seems to hear him, no one replies. And then, somewhere in the stadium, someone screams.

It breaks Ilya from his trance, and he looks around to see his teammate, St-Simon, evaporate before his eyes.

What the fuck?

Another scream, and Ilya blinks hard as he realizes all around him, people are just silently disintegrating, disappearing into thin air.

Pike, gloves off as he tried to fight Marlow for the hit, is staring at his left hand as it starts to fizz away into nothing. Ilya watches as Pike’s eyes widen, the realization setting in. And then, he’s gone.

“Dude,” Marlow says, making eye contact with Ilya in the aftermath. But then, he too, is fading away.

What the actual fuck is going on?

The stadium has fallen into a terrifying quiet, people holding their breath in shock and fear and anticipation.

Shane, what about Shane.

Ilya turns his attention back to Shane’s body on the ice, skates over quickly. There's only two of the three EMTs still there, the remaining duo disorientated and distracted by the scene unfolding around them.

“Shane,” Ilya falls to his knees over the love of his life. Shane is blinking back into consciousness.

“Ilya?” his voice is thick and heavy on his tongue. He's so agonizingly beautiful, his face tender and red from the impact of his helmet hitting the ice moments before. “I’m okay,” he insists, blinking slowly.

And then, starting at his fingertips, Shane starts to fade away, just like St-Simon and Marlow and Pike moments before. Eyes soft, Shane gazes at Ilya, not seeming to realize what’s happening at all. And Ilya, overcome with terror, can only watch as Shane’s whole being simply disintegrates into thin air.

“нет,” Ilya stares at the empty place where Shane had been. It doesn’t make any sense. It happened so fast. “нет.” His hands are shaking, and he fumbles around the space where Shane had been, feeling across the ice as if Shane has just turned invisible, is maybe still there. But he’s not. He’s fucking gone. He’s dust. He's nothing. Shane is gone.

It’s too much. It’s not comprehensible, any of it.

 

Ilya doesn’t really know how everything happens next. When he comes back into his body, he’s bundled in one of those shock-blankets, the tin-foil-looking ones, his skates are off, and he’s sitting on the bench. The Bell Center, despite its size and still substantial population of surviving people, is strangely quiet, more subdued than Ilya’s ever heard it.

Someone’s standing in front of him, and he blinks more into his body to register that it’s the Haitian-Canadian defenseman, the one that’s friends with Shane.

“Hey,” J.J. says awkwardly. He looks stricken, which is about how Ilya feels. “Rozanov, you okay?”

Ilya realizes he can’t speak, not yet, so he just shakes his head, letting it fall into his hands. J.J. lands on the bench next to him.

“Did you… did you see if Hollander…”

“He is gone.” The words come from Ilya, but it feels far away, like it’s not actually him speaking. He closes his eyes; his head is ringing. The lights are too bright, the stadium is too quiet. It’s all wrong.

“Putain,” J.J. curses next to him. “What the fuck, dude.”

“Mm, yes,” Ilya agrees, swallowing in attempt to keep it together. Now is probably not a good time for him to openly weep about the loss of his greatest rival. “What the fuck.”

Time makes no sense. He and J.J. sit there, wordlessly devastated, for what must be an hour but feels like a handful of minutes. Or maybe it’s the other way around? Ilya’s not sure what he’s supposed to do next. Go to his hotel? That would be fucking crazy, right? Nothing makes sense.

And to think, he had been planning on ending things with Hollander. Fuck, the irony almost makes him want to laugh.

One of the Raiders’ rookies appears before them, face twisted into something determined to keep it together. “There’s a lady – she said she’s Pike’s wife, and there was no one from the Metros staff–” J.J. stands up immediately.

“Where?” he asks, his voice strained. The rookie points to the tunnel, where a heavily pregnant woman stands just within their line of sight, a little girl clinging to her side.

“Fuck.” J.J. scrubs a hand over his face, looking pained. “He– I haven’t seen Hayden, I don’t know–”

“I saw,” Ilya contributes, his voice hollow. “Gone.”

“Fuck,” J.J. breathes again. The three players stare at the ground in front of them, no one sure what to do. “We have to tell her, right?” J.J. says, sounding horrified at the thought.

“I will,” Ilya volunteers. J.J. would be the ideal choice for this task, but he is absolutely wrecked, clearly. Ilya is a stranger to Pike’s wife – but this is Shane’s best friend’s family. Except no one knows about Ilya and Shane. No one, except Ilya. Now alone in this knowledge, and grief. He feels desperate, suddenly, to connect with Pike’s wife.

He doesn’t wait for J.J. to agree, he just tugs his skates back on and hops the boards, skating the distance of the rink to the other side. As he gets closer, he sees the little girl is crying, her face red and puffy. The woman, Pike’s wife, is frazzled, like she’s just barely keeping it together.

“Rozanov?” she sounds confused at the sight of him approaching her, but at least she knows his name.

“Ilya,” he corrects gently, and he’s not sure why he wants to make this distinction.

“Ilya,” she says, and then pauses, the next question hanging between them. The moment when her hopes will be shattered.

“Um,” Ilya presses his lips together. He realizes he’s towering over her in his skates, probably scaring the girl. He crouches, wrangling them off his feet somewhat awkwardly.

“I’m Jackie,” Pike’s wife offers, her voice delicately even, like it’s taking everything for her to keep it steady. “This is Ruby.”

“Hi Ruby, I am Ilya. I need to talk to your mom, okay?”

Ilya doesn’t exactly have a plan for what’s next, he just knows that Ruby shouldn’t have to witness her mother’s reaction to this next bit, and likewise Jackie should be able to process things a little bit more freely.

“J.J.,” Jackie says, and her eyes are starting to fill with tears, and Ilya turns to see J.J. has followed Ilya across the ice, his skates scraping as he stops, steps out of the rink. The Raiders rookie is not far behind, seeming lost and disoriented. Jackie continues, “Where’s–”

J.J. shakes his head. So much for telling her in private. Ilya feels a little dizzy himself, the weight of it all…

Jackie huffs out a breath, holding her crying daughter closer to her body. She’s keeping it all together surprisingly well.

“And Shane?” Jackie asks next, and Ilya feels the world crash down on him all over again. J.J. is answering, saying “No,” and Ilya can’t stand anymore, he bends forward, curling up, and sits on the ground.

“Roz, you okay man?” The rookie leans over him, gripping Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya is barely aware of his surroundings. There’s a buzz in his head, something low and constant. The lights all feel way too bright again, and this time it’s like it’s all getting worse at once.

“Breathe, man, breathe,” the rookie is saying, and Ilya realizes Jackie, Ruby, and J.J. are walking away, down the tunnel. Of course. Because they aren’t here for Ilya. And they don’t know... no one knows. “Sorry,” he winces, trying to be normal, but his heart is pounding out of his chest. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the rookie says, but clearly he is in way over his head. “Um, just, uh, breathe. Breathe, yeah.”

Ilya wants to chase after Jackie Pike and tell her everything, and tell her how he saw her husband disappear, and then Shane– but he can’t move, he can’t get up, every limb in his body feels rooted to this spot, this place on Earth, like he’s trapped in this purgatory, cursed to grieve Shane completely alone. Which he can’t possibly do.

The panic attack itself ends, but the underlying feeling of absolute anxiety remains. Ilya kinda of zones out, unable to be fully in the moment. Somehow, over the next few hours, someone manages to get the surviving Raiders players back to their hotel, where they’re told to hang tight. It’s unclear when airspace may open up again, they’re told, because of staffing issues.

Right, staffing issues. Because half the universe just disappeared.

Ilya is supposed to share a room with Marlow, so he goes back and sits with a dead man’s belongings, and seriously considers if he wants to keep living. It’s a dangerous spiral, one that starts to get too dark… until the hotel room phone starts ringing, and Ilya, for whatever reason, picks it up.

“Yes?”

“Ilyusha,” Sveta’s voice comes out relieved and frantic, and then as she continues, it turns angry. “Are you fucking kidding me, you haven’t checked your phone, Ilya? I had to track down your hotel details– I– Oh my god, I thought you were– I–” She stops, her rant held up by her best efforts not to lose her shit.

“I am sorry,” Ilya says numbly. “It is at the bottom of my bag. I did not think–”

“You didn’t think, what? That I would worry? That I–”

“Sveta, stop,” Ilya interrupts her with little effort, his voice sluggish. His head hurts so fucking much. Miraculously, Sveta actually does fall silent.

“Are you okay?” she asks next. No, Ilya thinks. He can’t lie to her, so instead he says nothing.

“Was it– you were playing the game?”

“Yes,” he confirms, weary. He stares at Marlow’s duffel on the opposite bed. He would need to take it back to Marlow’s family. If his family is even still alive.

“Your team–”

“Sveta, I am tired.”

She huffs. “Fine, Ilya. Do you need help getting back to Boston?”

Yes, actually, he could use her help. But the thought of leaving Montreal makes him nauseous.

“I will stay here for a little time,” he decides, offering no explanation. Svetlana is quiet for a moment, probably trying to figure out what that even means. Finally, she says, “Okay. Don’t disappear on me, yeah?”

 

Part II: Denial/Depression

The remaining Raiders are stranded in Montreal for a week. Ilya lays in bed the whole time, barely gets up, barely moves at all. When the assistant coach comes to collect him on day seven, announcing that they’ve secured a charter bus back to Boston, Ilya can’t find it in himself to go with them, to get up, to pack his things, to shower and get on a bus surrounded by hockey players. So he hands the coach Marlow’s things, to deliver to his family, and Ilya goes back to bed.

He puts the Hallmark channel on the TV, lets it play on a low volume at all hours, allows his eyes to glaze over as he stares at the screen.

He wants to think about Hollander, but it his chest hurts so badly, and his throat feels closed shut, and his brain exists in a hazy liminal space where there are no real thoughts, just fleeting observations, and he can’t bring himself to break out of it, to push his mind into reality,

After two more weeks in the hotel room, he’s lost ten pounds. That doesn’t really bother him, but he’s grown sick of the small space, fed up with the scratchy, unfamiliar sheets, and the extra bed that mocks him with its emptiness, a reminder of Marlow, of everyone who just fucking randomly disappeared. Like Shane, mostly. So Ilya decides it’s time to go.

The airlines have reopened service, albeit limited. He books a direct flight to Boston, and he sits next to a young woman who knits the whole time, and he wonders if Shane would have ever liked to learn to knit, because it seemed nice, and calming, and a little boring, which were all things he associates with Shane.

He cries in the airplane’s little bathroom, splashes water on his face, but can’t hide the puffiness around his eyes. Embarrassingly, he’s still sniffling back in his seat. The knitting woman silently passes him a tissue from her bag.

“Thank you.”

His taxi driver recognizes him, tells him he watches all the Raiders games. Ilya doesn’t ask if he saw the Montreal game, the last game, because he’s afraid of the answer. He signs the man’s steering wheel, which is pretty funny and usually would have Ilya snapping a photo to post on social media, but he doesn’t, because it doesn’t fucking matter.

Ilya’s house is sterile and empty, just like the inside of his chest. He lays out on the bed, and he wonders if heaven is real. If he killed himself, could he still get in? He always thought his mama must be there, so maybe he could still make it.

Shane would be so angry with him, though. The thought makes him sick to his stomach – actually, he runs to the bathroom and manages to make it to the toilet before he hurls. No, he can’t kill himself. If he’s been cursed to survive, so be it. He can maybe do his best, for Shane.

 

There’s no more hockey, not for this season. Probably longer, if Ilya has to guess. He doesn’t really mind the loss of hockey, but it means he has a lot of free time, and that is really, really not good for his mental health.

Ilya holes up in his house and treats his body like shit, letting himself sink into the depths of depression. He fluctuates between binging fast food or not eating for days, especially when he’s playing video games. He doesn’t let himself think, or process, or dwell. He just keeps his brain stimulated with shooting zombies or dragons, or enemy soldiers, and he sleeps as much as possible, and constantly hates himself.

Outside the seasons change, the crisp Boston spring easing into a sweltering summer.

A week before Ilya’s birthday, Sveta shows up at his doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” Ilya asks not-so-kindly, because he's embarrassed of how he smells, how he looks, how Sveta sees right through him immediately, understands him intrinsically in a way that Ilya is not prepared for. She looks him up and down, assessing. Then her eyes lock with his. “This can’t continue.”

She makes him shower, scrub himself down and shampoo his hair, she stocks his fridge and throws away the rotting leftovers. She makes him wash his sheets, vacuum his floors. She forces him out of the house, for a walk around the neighborhood. She stays for two weeks, and things are a little better.

Then she goes home to New York, and Ilya slips back into the depths of depression, helplessly falling.

He refuses to let himself think, even a little, about Hollander. He cycles through Youtube videos, movies, video games, porn, anything to hold his attention. He doesn’t watch any hockey and he barely leaves his bed, or the couch. It’s the same as before, and yet worse. Worse because as the time eeks on, he feels even more disgusting, useless, deplorable. Why would he survive something like this? What’s the point? The fucking Snap should have taken him, not Shane.

One day he rolls out of bed at three in the afternoon and catches sight of himself in the mirror. Ilya honestly doesn’t recognize the man staring back at him; there are deep, dark circles under his eyes, his once-muscular frame is thin and weak, his curls limp, his face flat. He is a shell of himself.

He looks like his mama, when things were at their worst. Right before the end. That’s not a good sign.

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he calls Sveta.

“I’m not okay,” he tells her.

“Okay,” she says slowly, clearly thinking, scanning for solutions. “Come stay with me. We will figure it out.”

So two days later, Ilya is flying again, into LaGuardia, Sveta waiting for him in Arrivals. She doesn’t say anything about how awful he looks, she just wraps her arms around him and holds him very tightly and, for the first time since the airplane bathroom (months ago, now), something in Ilya’s chest loosens and breaks free, and he cries.

 

Sveta makes two americanos with the little espresso machine in her kitchen, and they sit on her green velvet sofa, coffees steaming. Ilya takes a tentative sip, careful not to burn his tongue.

“So will you tell me, Ilyusha, what happened? What you saw during the Snap that is haunting you?”

He knew she was going to ask, but it doesn’t make it easier to come up with an answer. “I can’t, Sveta,” he winces, avoiding her eyes. He doesn’t deserve her. He’s not sure he deserves anything.

“That’s okay,” she says, though he doesn’t believe her. She’s trying to soldier through, but Ilya knows his friend. He knows how frustrating he’s being. But he actually cannot fathom–

“Your person,” Sveta continues carefully. “Jane.”

The name hangs in the air between them.

“He is gone,” Sveta guesses, thought it’s less a question and more a statement. Ilya’s throat is tight.

“Yes.”

Even just uttering this answer rocks Ilya’s world. He sets his coffee on the side table, not trusting himself to keep it upright, to keep this beautiful green couch unstained.

“Ilyusha…” Sveta reaches out and touches his knee lightly. Despite how delicate and slow her touch is, Ilya flinches. She doesn’t retreat. “You cannot do this alone.”

“I know,” he snaps unnecessarily.

“Do you?” Sveta raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Because you haven’t even told me who he is. Ilya, you have to let someone in. Maybe not me, that is okay. But does he have family, friends, people you can talk to?”

“He wasn’t out,” Ilya almost chokes on his words. “I can’t…”

“I think you can,” Sveta states. “I think that’s an excuse. There are a lot of solutions to that. Say you are a friend, say you are–”

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya cuts her off, before she wastes her breath. He blows out a heavy breath, surprised with how much tension seeps out of him, just by saying the name. “It’s Hollander. He’s my Jane. So I can’t–”

“Ilyusha,” now it’s Sveta’s turn to cut him off. She’s shifted on the couch to face him completely. He makes the mistake of looking back at her, into her eyes, which shine with complicated layers of empathy and concern. And Ilya just falls apart; his shoulders rattling as he lets out hiccuped sobs that seem to take his body by surprise, no build up, just wretched cries. Sveta slides over to him, and pulls him into her arms.

He cries for so long, eons, lifetimes worth of tears. By the time he can focus his vision on anything, his head is pounding from the dehydration, and whole-body grief.

“I loved him, Sveta,” he says, because he needs someone to know. She rubs his back, like his mother used to when he was small and inconsolable. I love him, Ilya thinks, and it hurts so so bad.

 

New York City after the Snap is weird. There are still people everywhere – survivors who have flocked to the city in search of work, and food, and resources, and change. But everyone is a zombie – stricken by grief, by trauma, by the shock of it all, fumbling through life aimlessly, blindly. Ilya hates it, the city, but he loves Sveta, and he has nothing else, so he stays.

Ilya develops habits for himself, things to structure his time so it feels less like he’s a ghost in his own life, in his own body. He sleeps on Sveta’s green velvet couch, wakes after she’s left for her office job, buys $1.50 coffee from the corner deli and smokes a cigarette on the curb before hoping on whatever-the-fuck train to go wherever-the-fuck for however-fucking-long.

He goes to free art museums with big white statues and gold frames larger than the actual paintings, he walks deserted neighborhoods where businesses are shuttered and only ghosts make any sound, and then he dodges his way through heavily populated streets full of people in fancy jackets buying salads for lunch, he sits by the water and stares out at the ferries passing by, he gets lost in the park on more than one occasion, trying to find purpose in weaving his way through the trees. It’s aimless, his expeditions, just like Ilya himself.

Near the end of the summer, it's officially announced that the MLH will “take a season to regroup and consider the future of professional hockey.” Ilya’s not surprised, and not upset either, but it does raise some immigration concerns.

Technically speaking, Ilya’s no longer legally allowed to live and work in the United States. There’s all kinds of post-Snap statuses he could apply for (immigration to the US, as it turns out, is highly encouraged nowadays), but the Russia situation makes everything… tricky. Russia wants him back. They want everyone back, every Russian who has left the homeland, whether it be temporarily or a decade ago, they are eager to repopulate their cities, invigorate their industries.

“Sasha told me no one can leave, like it’s the fucking Soviet Union all over again,” Sveta divulges one night over dinner. “And they’re tracking Russian nationals across Europe. He said some KGB-looking-motherfucker followed him home from work the other day.”

“Really?” Ilya can’t cover his fear at the idea. He can’t go back to Russia – he just can’t. Whether it be through state sanctioned violence or his own doing as a result of living there again, a return to Russia would be a death sentence.

Ilya’s imagines that if he were in Boston still, he’d have letters waiting for him, demanding his return. Maybe someone has even shown up at his house, looking for him.

“I think Sasha’s going to come here,” Sveta continues.

“What?” Ilya blinks at her and sets down his fork.

“Yes,” Sveta nods, not looking at Ilya, just continuing to eat. “He doesn’t feel safe. He has a flight for Saturday.”

“Sveta,” Ilya balks. “That is in three days. You were not going to tell me?”

“I’m telling you now, Ilya. And this is my apartment, I’m opening it to my friends in need and that includes more than just you.”

Ilya frowns at his noodles. “But are we even safe here? You are dual citizen, yes? That means Russian too. They will want you. And how long until they figure out you are harboring two more of their prized sheep?”

“They are understaffed,” Sveta argues. “It will take them a long time. You can apply for–”

“If I apply for anything, they will find out where I am.”

“Ilya, you are paranoid,” Sveta sighs. “They may think they are KGB, but it is nothing close.”

“Then why is Sasha coming here, huh Sveta?”

She presses her lips together in annoyance. “Sasha is in Paris. Do you know how hectic Europe is right now? It’s easier for people to disappear.”

“Don't talk to me about people disappearing,” Ilya snaps, standing suddenly, the chair grinding loudly against the wood floors. Sveta flinches at the sound, incredulous. Ilya finds himself huffing, breathless and panicked, staring at Sveta. “Sorry,” he mutters and whisks past her to the front door, to escape. He can't– he can’t.

He lets the door slam behind him, hurries down the hall to disappear down the stairwell before Sveta can follow. He wants to disappear. He wants to fade into a crowd, to get lost in the city streets, to float away into the clouds.

Instead, he buys his coffee and loosie from Jamal at the deli, and he stands on the corner and people-watches.

He doesn’t have his jacket, but it’s only a little chilly, early October setting in. Besides, the wisps of cold air make him feel more alive.

Maybe Sveta is right. Maybe he’s being paranoid. But he really doesn’t think so. The unknown phone calls he's been getting, the emails from his agent back in Moscow. Maybe it’s nothing. But it could also be something. Something bad.

Does Ilya have enough of a survival instinct to care? The answer, to his own shock, is yes. Despite all his wallowing (and suicidal thoughts), Ilya only wants to die if he can choose it. The autonomy matters. And maybe, when he really thinks about it, he doesn’t actually want to die at all. He just wants… Shane.

Fuck.

Ilya finishes his cigarette and starts walking. Maybe if he travels far enough, turns a certain corner, bumps into someone in a crowd, he’ll see, or hear, or smell something, something to remind him of Shane.

But there’s nothing. There’s no one, no thing, no scent, no memory. There’s nothing.

 

“Where will he sleep?” he asks Sveta when he makes it back to the apartment.

“We’ll figure it out,” Sveta says, still very unconcerned. Ilya imagines it: Sasha in his space, twirling around the kitchen in the mornings, hogging the bathroom when Ilya needs to shit, creating messes and never taking out the trash. It’s all hypothetical, of course, but probably accurate.

“Fine,” he says, because he’s already decided he needs to find a new place to live as soon as possible.

 

Sasha appears on Saturday, more of a nuisance that relentlessly crosses Ilya’s boundaries than someone fleeing political persecution.

“Snap took away your sparkle, huh Ilya?”

Ilya grits out a very unconvincing smile. “Hi Sasha.”

Sasha eyes him up and down in a way that in the past would have simply irritated him, but in the present, it makes him want to curl up in the corner and die. He feels incredibly uncomfortable, and completely exposed to Sasha's unwanted advances – because if there’s one thing he knows about Sasha, it's that he will make a pass.

“So we’re sharing the bed?” Sasha flicks his tongue out of his mouth. Bile rises in Ilya’s stomach.

“Cut it out, Sasha,” Sveta hits him lightly on the arm. “I’m serious.”

Sasha shrugs, unperturbed, and waggles his eyebrows at Ilya as he follows Sveta into her bedroom.

Ilya goes on his phone and tries to find somewhere in the world where he might belong.

 

Part III: Nowhere

The lake house is small, but too big for him still. Maybe this was a mistake, he thinks, but he settles in anyways. Ilya only has one suitcase and his backpack. He’d only taken that much to Sveta’s, and he isn't going to go back to Boston for anything. There’s nothing worth going back for.

Ilya decides to take out the kayak. It’s dark already, but he’s not really bothered. He doesn’t need to worry about being quiet – no one else is around. The guy who rented him the place said most people clear out after Labor Day weekend because the little houses around this lake have basically no insulation. Ilya doesn’t need insulation, he's Russian.

Out on the water, there’s only the sound of the wind in the trees and the water lapping against the boat to keep him company. He lets his eyes adjust to the darkness, the only light coming from the stars in the sky and the distant glow of the porch light he left on, barely visible through the trees.

Ilya takes a breath, and it almost feels like the first real breath of air he’s taken since before. He feels hollow, of course, because he can’t shake that feeling, but there’s a sense of serenity to the water and the woods. Maybe this little New Jersey lakeside getaway is what he needs.

 

The lake days stretch. He lets himself think about Shane, miss Shane, hate himself for wasting all the time he could have had with Shane. The air turns colder, and Ilya buys a space heater in town which helps keep him warm at night. He kayaks often, even though the lake is too small for him to go much of anywhere. He wonders if Shane knew how to kayak. Probably, since he had that fancy waterfront cottage in the Canadian wilderness.

Ilya buys groceries in town, and cooks himself his favorite meals from childhood, the ones his mother used to make for him. Sveta calls, and Ilya tells her about the owl that keeps him up some nights, the way the leaves are turning, how he’s putting on muscle from rowing so much. She reports that Sasha has moved out, found his own place and a job uptown, tells Ilya he can come back if he wants. “No thanks,” he says immediately, already decided.

Everything gets much colder as fall seeps into early winter, and Ilya learns how to use the fireplace. Did Shane ever make a fire in a wood-burning fireplace? What technique would Shane use?

He buys a shit ton of groceries and he goes weeks without speaking to anyone, only breaking his silence when Sveta calls or he has to venture into town for more rations.

Some nights it’s so cold, he wonders what would happen if he froze to death. No one would know for so long.

He skates on the frozen lake, mostly trying to go as fast as possible, feel the cold air in his lungs. It feels good, even when it hurts.

Then the ice starts to melt, the winter slowly fading out.

It’s almost been one full year since the Snap when Ilya has his first dream of Shane. It’s simple, really, just Shane sitting at the bottom of the emergency exit staircase at his secret sex building, holding Ilya’s hoodie in his arms. He smiles at Ilya, soft and gooey, just like how he would in real life, and it almost feels real. For a brief, blinding moment. Then Ilya wakes up, staring up at the wood beams of the lake house ceiling.

He packs his bags, throws out his scraps, messages the lake house guy that his stay has concluded, he returns his rented car, catches a bus to Newark International Airport, and buys a plane ticket at the counter.

 

Part IV: Asylum

In the customs line, the agent asks Ilya if he would like to apply for asylum. “Asylum?” he asks, unsure how the word is defined in this context. Or any context, really, besides an insane asylum. But that cannot be what this very professional looking agent means, unless Ilya has really truly lost it.

“If you apply, and your request is granted, Canada will protect you,” the agent taps Ilya's red passport. Oh. Canada will protect Ilya from the KGB-wannabes.

“Yes, I would like this asylum.”

The application takes a swift twenty-two minutes, and by the end he is officially approved. They take his photo, print a temporary ID card, and inform him he can pick up the permanent version in one week from an address printed on a little card. “This office will help you if you decide to pursue citizenship. They can also help you find housing and work,” the agent tells him. “Do you have a place to stay?”

Does he?

“Yes,” he says, because he can figure it out. He still has some savings left, even if his hockey income is forgotten, dust.

“Welcome to Canada.”

The agent slides his ID over. The photo is grainy, but there he is, unmistakable. Ilya Rozanov, asylum-seeker.

 

In the realm of bad ideas, this is one of his worst. Ilya stands in front of Hollander’s secret sex building, clutching his life possessions.

This is crazy. He doesn't even know if the building is vacant – or if the door codes are the same. He could be arrested for breaking and entering.

But, he considers, it would be even more insane to show up at Shane’s actual penthouse where he used to live, and Ilya wasn’t doing that, so relatively this is… fine. Right?

The front door code is the same. No alarms ring, no lights start flashing, so Ilya just… walks in. It’s too easy. He climbs the stairs to the second floor, to their unit, the one where they used to meet up, and he types in the next door code. It clicks. Unlocked.

Ilya takes a shaky breath. He hadn’t really expected to make it this far; hasn’t prepared himself mentally for this next part. Maybe it’s better that way. He pushes the door open and steps inside.

It's just as he remembered it. All of it. Well, except it’s dusty and dark - there’s no one to pay the power bill. Besides that, which is honestly very forgettable because the setting sun through the windows provides enough light to see, the space hits him hard. It… it reminds him of Shane, so viscerally. He can see Shane in the living room, he can picture his shoes by the front door, his jacket on the hook. Small things that he probably never even paid much attention to in all their years of hooking up here. The couch, where Ilya’s fucked him. The stairwell, where they’ve hungrily kissed as they tripped over themselves to get upstairs to the bedroom. All the places they've touched.

Ilya, a little dumbfounded by how surreal it all is, wanders around the corner to the kitchen. There’s a low glow of the green digital clock on the stove – there’s power? Ilya tries the switch, not expecting anything, and nearly blinds himself with the overhead fluorescent.

“Fuck,” he curses to himself, blinking hard.

So someone must be paying the power bill. Shane’s parents? Ilya suddenly realizes he doesn’t even know if they are still around, or if they too were snapped out of existence.

Hazy, Ilya opens the fridge to find an assortment of produce which has shriveled and molded after spending nearly a year in the fridge. Shane must have been planning to make a smoothie – in the morning?

It would have been their first full night together. Or, no, it wouldn’t have, Ilya remembers. Because he had been planning to break things off. How could he ever…why would he ever willingly be parted from Hollander? If he had known, if he had considered that Shane Hollander’s company was a finite resource… well, he should have known. He should have done a lot of things.

Ilya leans onto the kitchen island, gripping the granite and getting dust all over himself as a result. Fuck. Grimacing, he wipes his hands on his pants.

Ilya coughs on the dust in the air.

He needs to clean this apartment. Shane would find it deplorable, the state of it. That won’t do. And Ilya could use a task to keep his hands busy anyways.

Shane is predictable, and that comes in handy. Ilya finds every cleaning supply known to man in the hall closet. Don’t cleaning services usually bring their own? He must be particular about the brands. Well, good then; Ilya would only use Shane’s preferred brands.

Ilya puts on a face mask (which Shane apparently also thought to stock) to protect himself from the dust, plugs his headphones in, music blasting, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.

Something like three hours later, everything is shiny and fresh, the fridge has been wiped out, the sheets are tumbling in the dryer, and Ilya, wet from his shower with only a towel around his waist, falls onto the sofa.

He almost feels okay. Here, in Shane’s space, being productive, taking care of Shane’s things. He has purpose, he has meaning. Even though Shane isn’t around.

His body doesn't have the patience to wait for the sheets to finish drying; he falls asleep on the couch as soon as he closes his eyes.

Chapter 2

Part V: Connection

Everything in Montreal is, for whatever reason, more like real life. Ilya feels tethered to the earth by something, something strong, despite how the sadness persists.

The one-year memorial of the Snap passes. The world remembers, agonizingly so. Ilya buys a case of ginger ale to chase his vodka that night. Alone in the apartment, he toasts to Victor St-Simon, Cliff Marlow, Hayden Pike, the two Pike children that did not make it, his mama (always), and of course, to Shane. It's not a particularly good night for him, full of anger and despair and too much vodka. He wakes the next morning with a blinding headache and a deep shame at letting himself descend like that, fall into his worst emotions. He wants things to be different in Montreal. Things will be better, if even just a little bit, in Montreal, he decides. Ilya forces himself out of bed, a shower, caffeine, food in his body. Things will be better, he chants to himself. He is still pretty fucking hungover though.

He begins to treat Shane’s sex condo as his own home, and it actually feels like it. He cooks for himself, cleans up after himself, always wipes down the counters, stores his clothes, folded neatly, in the bedroom dresser, never wears his shoes past the entryway. His mind may not be clear, but he has an uncharacteristic determination to keep Shane’s space in tip-top condition.

He discovers a coffee shop down a block, a local place with mismatched couches, worn wood floors, and a mediocre (and yet perfect) cup of coffee. It's the type of place that has shelves and shelves of used books, as stack of obscure board games for the customers to play if they like. On Tuesdays, they have an open-mic, and Ilya sits and listens to higher schoolers strum songs about heartbreak, and middle-aged adults sing ballads of grief. Everyone who is left on the planet, it seems, is struggling to understand why.

After three weeks in Montreal, the cafe’s head barista, a smiley, pink-cheeked blonde woman named Marie, asks Ilya if he wants a job. “Yes,” he says, because it feels right. He learns how to grind the beans, and press them tightly and clean the puck, and pour too-sweet syrups. He comes to recognize the regulars, they learn his name, and he learns theirs. He chats with the Tuesday performers, he wipes the tables and flips the sign most days, and it’s perfectly mundane, easily peaceful.

No one seems to recognize him as Ilya Rozanov, the Russian hockey captain and biggest rival of Canadian Golden Boy, Shane Hollander. Ilya prefers it this way, the anonymity. And he's not sure how he might react to anyone bringing up Shane in a causal setting, if he'll be able to play along with the rivalry now that there is no reason to keep up the facade.

His coworkers ask him about himself, and he tells them pieces of truth: that he used to live in Boston, that he has a friend in New York City, that he lost someone he loved in the Snap, but hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell him that he loved him. He lets the truth of his sexuality slip out, seeing no real reason to hide it, and is pleased by how little anyone cares. It's a new sort of freedom, something Ilya has never had before. The freedom to be himself. He wishes he could appreciate more. The soft hum of grief in his brain makes everything a little dull, though Ilya's working on that.

Ilya starts to exercise again, remembering how he loved to push himself, how good the burn felt. He trains in the evenings, after his shifts, and then he showers, and watches movies on Shane’s television.

He dreams of Shane, of Shane’s face as he stroked himself in the shower, of Shane in a kayak on a lake, of running into Shane in a crowd of people in New York City. Ilya wakes up happier after those dreams, because it almost feels like Shane is with him, visiting him from the beyond. In those moments after waking, when the dream is still fresh and raw in his mind, morning light seeping into the bedroom, the room he had never had the opportunity to share overnight with Shane, Ilya wonders if Shane would like the cafe, if he had ever been there before. It's not exactly a fun exercise, to imagine Shane in his new life - because it will never happen. Shane is gone, and Ilya must accept that, for his own fucking good. Shane only exists in his dreams now.

Ilya’s coworkers try to teach him Québecois French. He picks up simple greetings, like how to say hello, goodbye, and practical words, like hot or iced, coffee or tea.

When spring seeps into summer, in a haze of grief and desperation, Ilya reaches out to the CCM team that shot their rookie season promos, tracks down the photographer, and gets a copy of the shots where they are facing off, uncontrollably laughing. The ones that the league didn’t use, because it’s so fucking obvious that these two boys are not rivals.

The only other photos he has of him and Shane are the selfies from that stupid MLH awards show years ago, which are a treasure. So Ilya frames both images, the selfie of Ilya grinning and Shane scowling, and the laughing-CCM-face-off photograph, and he hangs them in the entryway of the apartment, so he can see them every time he leaves, every time he comes home. It just feels right.

 

At the start of July, his citizenship application is approved and he picks up his navy blue passport. His coworkers are overjoyed; Marie organizes a celebration at the coffee shop. Ilya gets drunk, more drunk than he probably should, and he shows Marie and her brother, Reid, the Rozanov-Hollander selfies, and then divulges the whole fucking story. It’s fine, really, because he trusts them, and they are both enthralled by the tale, up until the end, of course, since Shane died.

“So you told him, but it was in Russian? He didn’t understand,” Marie says, the full weight of tragedy hitting her. “Oh, Ilya…”

“Ah, yes, is very sad,” Ilya waves his hand, not willing to let his tipsiness teeter into tears. “But now I am here! I live in the building he bought just for us to fuck in, and sometimes I dream of him, and I am a Canadian citizen, and I work with you guys, so I think I am going to be okay.”

His coworkers grin at that, and drag him into another celebratory shot.

 

On a random summer day, Jackie Pike comes into the coffee shop with her two daughters. She is distracted at first, baby in her arms, her older daughter giggling and running around maniacally. And Ilya isn’t paying attention either; he’s not working the counter, he’s making someone’s iced latte. And then he’s setting it down and saying, “Iced vanilla latte for Jackie,” and she’s standing in front of him, and the realization is hitting them both at the same time.

Ilya takes his break, because Marie diagnoses the situation and suggests it, which is really very astute of her, and so Ilya holds the baby as they walk to the park at the end of the road.

“It’s been really hard on Ruby, I think,” Jackie sighs. Ilya had asked her… how is everything? A big question, though one that could be answered without any real detail. Jackie, instead, is opening up, immediately, unquestioningly. Ilya’s not sure why, but he feels comforted by the fact that she sees him as a confidant, someone worthy of this information.

“They were twins?” Ilya nods, trying to understand without totally crying. He’s more prone to that nowadays.

“Yeah,” Jackie smiles like she’s also trying not to cry. Ruby, ahead of them, turns and waves. Ilya and Jackie wave back. “But my parents moved in. And then I had Amber. And we talk about them all the time, try to keep the memory alive. Hayd, Author, Jade. And her Uncle Shane, too.”

Ilya almost chokes, blinking rapidly to keep himself together, fight away the tears that will spill. He bounces the baby in his arms, letting Amber’s unbridled joy save him from embarrassment.

“I know you and Shane were rivals on the ice,” Jackie continues, watching Ruby ahead of them. “But I’m sure–”

“We were not rivals,” Ilya cuts her off, despite himself. He does not see a reason for this narrative to continue, especially with someone who knew Shane personally. “We were never rivals. Competitive, yes, of course. Not rivals.”

He feels Jackie’s eyes on him, seeking answers in his expression.

“You were on the ice with him. And Hayd too.”

Ilya can’t look at her. He nods tensely.

They’ve reached the playground, come to stand in front of the structure where Ruby has gleefully started climbing.

“I watched the clip,” Jackie says after a moment of silence between them.

“The game?” Ilya stares at her, shocked. He had not even realized that such a thing existed. Jackie Pike nods.

“Yes. I had to see.” She sighs lightly, and then looks up at Ilya, her eyes shining. “I’m not suggesting you watch it. But you and Shane…” Ilya looks at the ground, his eyebrows knotting together. Jackie puts a steadying hand on his arm, and Ilya helplessly looks back to her. “I’m so sorry, Rozanov.”

“Ilya,” Ilya corrects, sniffling. Jackie smiles sadly, nodding. “Ilya,” she agrees.

Amber babbles in Ilya’s arms, reaching out to grab his nose. Ilya laughs, despite the runaway tears on his cheeks.

“Mommy, Mommy, come look at this bug!” Ruby is shrieking in excitement, pointing to something on the slide. Jackie makes her way over, leaving Ilya a few paces away with the baby.

“You would’ve loved your Uncle Shane,” Ilya tells her. Amber giggles, which must mean she agrees.

 

Jackie invites Ilya to come for dinner. She tells him she’s not being polite, that she actually means it. So Ilya decides to believe her, and he goes.

Ruby and Amber are big fans, probably because he puts on a princess crown without question, lets Ruby pull him into an imaginary world, takes his role quite seriously.

Jackie’s parents are a bit more resistant, a bit confused by his sudden presence, because all Jackie tells them is that he was a hockey player, that he was on the opposing team at that final game.

“I was friends with Shane,” he expands, and then he tries really hard to be his most polite, most charismatic self, and by the end of the first family dinner, Jackie’s parents are fussing over him like he’s one of their own. It’s surprising, really, how easily this family accepts him. Especially given how his own family never embraced him like this. He wonders if it's because of the state of the world, or maybe the Pikes just always been like that. Maybe some of both.

He also learns, from Jackie and her parents, that Shane’s father is still alive, living in Ottawa. He should be embarrassed that he didn’t know this, that he didn’t know Shane’s mother was snapped away, too, like her son, but he’s just so overjoyed to finally talk to people about Shane that he can’t find it in him to feel anything but content (and maybe, also, a little sad, but that is okay and kind of always present). Ilya hadn't realized how much he was missing talking to people about Shane - not just any people, but people who knew him, loved him. People who thought of him not as Hollander, the hockey protege and his greatest rival, but as Shane. The boy from Ottawa.

When he leaves, Jackie walks him out and tells him that if he wants, she can drive him to Ottawa to meet Shane’s dad, David.

“Maybe,” he says, because he’s a little scared, a little nervous, a bit unsure.

“Okay,” she smiles, like she understands. “Well, you let me know. And come for dinner again. Wednesday, maybe?”

“Yes,” Ilya smiles sheepishly. “I can come back Wednesday.”

“Good,” Jackie smiles wider. “Get home safe, Ilya.”

 

He starts going to dinner at the Pikes’ house every week, like clockwork. It’s the only activity he could use a car for, which he doesn't currently have in Montreal, so at first, he just uses a rideshare app or, if he’s up for it, he walks. But it would be nice to not have to make small talk with a driver, and to be able to drive out to some hiking spots he’s been eyeing outside the city. So Ilya decides to buy a car. After all, it’s not like he’s paying rent or utilities or anything.

He picks something practical, something he thinks, distantly, Shane would approve of, even though he loves the bright red sports cars in the lot. He needs something more incognito now that he’s not a famous hockey player. Just a barista. And technically, a squatter – is he breaking the law by living in Hollander’s secret building? Someone’s paying the power bill, surely. David Hollander? Ilya starts to feel squeamish thinking about it, and also hates that David might one day know exactly how lazy Ilya can be.

Rather than address the problem head on, Ilya pretends it doesn’t exist. He cannot imagine living anywhere else; doesn't want to risk it. So Ilya avoids telling people where he lives (besides the people he’s already told, like his coworkers), doesn’t have anyone over to visit. It’s just a little easier that way.

He uses his new mid-sized SUV to drive to new parks, to forest trails outside the city. He finds a lake he likes, which reminds him of his winter in New Jersey. It feels like so long ago now. His memories of that lake all live in a liminal, grief-stricken place in his brain, somewhere between dreams and reality, despite the fact that he actually lived it. It's nice to explore outside Montreal, to find these places in nature where all he can hear is the buzz of nature, the silence that allows his brain to get soft, let him somehow feel closer to Shane. A car is a good investment. A car brings him autonomy, flexibility, and a proximity to nature he hasn't had before.

One day when he's working, Marie’s brother, Reid, tells Ilya how he’s starting college classes in the fall. “They’ve waived all the fees, seeing as how there’s barely any students now. They’re trying to train people to fill all the important jobs.”

An important job. Maybe that would be nice. Fulfilling. Something to keep his mind busy, give him purpose. Ilya asks Reid how to sign up.

 

Autumn comes. Ilya starts university classes, which are harder than he anticipated, probably since he hasn’t been to any type of school in years. It takes a little getting used to. Reid is a good study buddy though, and when they have shifts at the same time, they take turns studying while the other serves customers. His life starts to feel different, further from before the Snap. It's probably good, to move on, but every once in awhile, Ilya is filled with a sadness at the thought that he is now living a life that Shane would never know, could never be a part of. It's another kind of mourning, the grief of moving on in life, and realizing there were people who could not come along, would never be there.

Ilya thinks a lot about the idea of multiple dimensions, different versions of himself living out various lives, and how his own path fits into all of that. It gives him a strange sense of autonomy, to know that he can set where his story goes from here.

Maybe there is a version of Ilya that has a crush on Reid. He’s cute, and his laugh is infectious, and he gets really focused when he’s reading in an adorable way. But every once in awhile, he’ll do something vaguely similar to Shane, like put on his glasses, or frown a certain way, and Ilya is reminded that he’s not Shane. Not anywhere close. It wouldn’t be fair to Reid (if he were even interested in Ilya) to compete with a dead man.

Jackie tries to set him up on dates with her friends. She asks him what type of person he likes and he doesn’t know what to say. He settles on, “I used to like anyone. Now I think, no one.”

It’s the closest he gets to telling her the full truth about him and Hollander. Ilya still isn’t sure exactly what she’s pieced together about his and Shane’s history. Maybe nothing. Probably something, though. He’s learning that Jackie Pike is incredibly perceptive.

“Okay,” she responds, pensive. “Well you let me know if you change your mind. My friends are hot.”

Ilya laughs, and is grateful when she changes the subject.

 

The weather turns cold again, snow blanketing Montreal in white, and Ilya takes Ruby ice skating at the lake he likes outside the city. They leave Jackie and Amber in a cozy coffee shop nearby, staying warm over hot chocolate and the low symphonies of Christmas music on the cafe speakers.

Ruby has skated before, obviously, and she makes sure Ilya knows it. “With Daddy and Uncle Shane,” Ruby informs him. “So I know how.” It makes Ilya smile, her confidence, and her excitement to do it again. And she is right to be confident – despite the time since she’s last skated, Ruby picks it back up easily, and when she inevitably falls, she brushes off the snow and gets back up before Ilya can even ask if she’s okay.

“You want to have a race?” he suggests, and Ruby grins evilly, shouting, “Go!” before they can set any rules or parameters. Ilya doesn’t let her win just because she’s little and cute, which leaves Ruby huffing and puffing and red-cheeked, but one day, Ilya has no doubt, she will beat him, and then she’ll know what real victory feels like. It’ll be awhile though.

They skate for an hour, and Ilya remembers how intoxicating the ice is. It’s especially nice out here on the lake, no stadium, no goals, no sticks. Just nature, and blades on ice – and all the other Canadians who flock to this particular frozen lake.

Ilya shows Ruby how to skate backwards, which she takes very seriously and gets very good at.

“You’re more fun than Dad and Uncle Shane,” Ruby tells him with a toothy smile. She’s probably meaning it as a compliment, but it pierces into his heart, tears it open just a little.

“That can’t be true,” Ilya argues in return, and Ruby seems to reconsider.

“Well, maybe just different. Can we race again?”

Ilya finds it in himself to smile. “Of course.”

 

On a Friday in late January, Ilya gets a call from an unknown number that turns out to be J.J. Boiziau.

“Rozanov!” J.J.’s French accent lilts around Ilya’s name. “I heard you are living in Montreal now.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya says, unsure exactly how to reply. J.J. is being incredibly friendly, which has never been the relationship between them. In fact, beyond chirps on the ice and the blinding shock of the Snap, they don’t have a relationship at all. Or, that’s what Ilya thought. But J.J. seems to be working with different information.

“Why didn’t you say? You have to come out tonight.”

“Tonight?” Technically, he is free, but…

“I am sending you the address. My friend is the chef, there will be food and drinks and a good time. Bring a friend or two! Jackie will be there.”

And then J.J. hangs up, leaving Ilya dumbfounded. His phone buzzes with a text: the address, as promised.

“I told him you’re here and you’re lonely,” Jackie tells Ilya when he calls asking. “That’s all. Nothing about Shane.” That’s a relief at least. He feels a sort of protectiveness over Shane when it comes to people from the hockey world, just in general.

Plus, if people thought Shane and Ilya were friends, and knew that Ilya is bi, would they figure the rest out? They would figure something out, like Jackie has, maybe. Or maybe they wouldn’t.

Shane never got to tell anyone, except Ilya, as far as Ilya knew, that he was gay. Even post-mortum, Ilya doesn’t want to out Shane unnecessarily. It would be a betrayal, wouldn't it? Would it? Ilya’s undecided on the ethics of the situation, doesn’t know who he would even ask to better understand what’s okay to say or not say. So it's probably better that J.J. doesn't think that they were anything more than rivals.

“Bring those coworkers you love so much, it’ll be fun,” Jackie continues.

“Fine,” Ilya agrees. He’s a little thrilled to be invited to a social event, and not-secretly really nervous. Will there be other hockey players there? He really hopes not. People who knew Shane? That doesn’t sound too bad. He’s massively enjoyed spending so much time with the Pikes, who will offhandedly mention Shane in a warm, loving way that fills Ilya with appreciation and sometimes tears. Everytume Ruby calls him “Uncle Shane,” it evokes images of Shane playing princesses, a thought that is both beautiful and deeply painful.

But does Shane even have non-hockey friends? Ilya could ask Jackie for more information probably, who would be there — and she would likely have the answers. But Ilya is a little embarrassed to ask, to expose his true level of anxiety about the whole thing, so he doesn’t.

 

He invites Marie and Reid, just as Jackie suggests. They take the metro together, something Ilya has barely done since moving to the city. He likes it, despite the crazy-cult people who stands at the entrance and hand out pamphlets about how the rapture happened, and only holy, God-chosen people are left on Earth now. That doesn’t make any fucking sense to Ilya, because if only good people were left, he would definitely be gone. And Shane would still be here.

The restaurant J.J. has invited them to is in a trendy part of town, an area where young people have flocked in search of connection amidst loss. The place itself looks full of people, thumping music audible when people open the door.

There’s a girl at the entrance asking for names and checking the list. Ilya is getting flashbacks to his previous life, the party boy lifestyle he touted for years. He feels like a shell of that person, and yet more himself at the same time.

“Ilya Rozanov,” he tells the girl, and she flicks her eyes up and down his body, calculating. She knows who he is, Ilya realizes, which he doesn't particularly like, a sort of sinking dread in his chest. He prefers and anonymous life of a Montreal barista.

“You’re good. You and your friends can go in,” she asserts, a little flirty smile appearing on her lips. “Don't be afraid to come chat later.”

Ilya smiles politely, but otherwise ignores this comment, forging ahead to the entrance. In another life, he would probably take her up on that offer. But it doesn’t really suit him now. Maybe it never did.

Marie links her arm with his as they step inside, leaning in to whisper. “Oh my god, Ilya, how famous are you?”

Ilya shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “Don’t worry,” Marie pats his arm, releases him. “You’ll be okay. We can leave if it’s too much. Right, Reid?”

“Right!” Reid replies enthusiastically, his eyes already scanning across the crowded restaurant. “Drinks?”

Five minutes later, they’ve each downed a shot and are taking their first sips of their drinks when Marie goes bug-eyed, spotting someone across the room.

“Is that Rose Landry?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Ilya’s stomach drops. He follows Marie’s line of sight to see the gorgeous, immaculately dressed Rose Landry talking to none other than Jackie Pike. Jackie locks eyes with him, her face lighting up as she starts to wave them over. So obviously now he’s going to have to say hi. Fuck.

“Oh my god, Ilya,” Marie starts, breathlessly excited. “You never mentioned Jackie is friends with the Rose Landry! Holy shit!” Marie waves at Jackie, who’s become a regular at the cafe and thus well liked by both Marie and Reid.

Marie starts across the room, leaving Ilya and Reid to straggle behind.

“You okay?” Reid prompts, knocking Ilya lightly with his elbow.

“I’m gonna smoke,” Ilya decides, unable to force himself into a crowded conversation with Hollander’s ex. Reid gives him a long look, like he’s trying to decide if he should join Ilya outside.

“Go,” Ilya insists. “Go meet famous actress. I will be back soon.”

Reid grins, squeezes Ilya’s arm affectionately, and then makes his way over to the trio of women. Ilya averts his eyes, tries to slip into the crowd to avoid Jackie’s attention. She’ll definitely ask him about this later.

But not now. Now, he finds a door in the back to a sparsely populated patio, only occupied by smokers. Ilya finds a cold corner, a wood bench, and clicks his lighter until it sparks to life.

His cigarette is almost gone when Rose Landry herself sits down next to him.

“Hi,” she says. “Do you have another?”

“You smoke?” Ilya is almost too baffled by her sudden presence and startling request to be annoyed by her.

“I do now,” she says, a little ominously, a little smile on her lips. Ilya hums, and passes her a cig. He stands, ready to go back inside, but Rose stops him, grabbing his arm.

“You can’t leave me alone out here, I’ll get swarmed,” she says, not sounding very serious.

“Humble,” Ilya scoffs. Rose grins. “I’ve heard the same about you,” she quips.

Rose Landry is kind of sharp, Ilya thinks. That’s annoying. Of course Hollander had to date the most famous, beautiful, and witty woman to live. He slumps back into his seat on the bench.

“Light?” Rose asks, holding out her newly acquired cigarette. Ilya silently pulls the lighter from his pocket, snapping it several times before it produces the spark she needs.

“So,” Rose starts, pausing to take a long drag. “You moved to Montreal.”

“Yes,” Ilya says flatly. Rose tilts her head.

“Any particular reason for that?”

“Russia wanted to drag me back. Canada is better for immigration protection. I was an asylum-seeker.”

“And now?” Rose watches him closely.

“A citizen,” Ilya expands, staring up at the sky when he does. He can’t see many stars with the light pollution, but probably more than before the snap.

“Ilya,” Rose slaps his leg lightly, playfully, like they’re old friends, using his first name. “Congratulations!”

He can’t help but smile, because her reaction is so genuinely enthusiastic. “Thank you,” he tries to suppress the smile, but it doesn’t work too well. She beams back at him, and they fall into a frustratingly comfortable silence. After a handful of beats, enough time that Ilya thinks she might not say anything else at all, Rose opens her mouth.

“Sometimes I think–” Rose starts, causing Ilya to look over at her. She’s staring up at the sky. “–it would have been easier to disappear.”

The admission sits heavy between them. Ilya’s never heard anyone say that out loud, he’s only thought it to himself.

“They had one moment of panic, and then… it was over. And we’re left to figure out how to do it all without them.” Rose ashes her cigarette on the side of the bench, takes another drag.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, his voice rich with understanding.

“The whole world mourns,” Rose sighs. She offers him the cigarette, and Ilya accepts, and then passes it back.

Together, they stare at the sky. Around them, the patio is emptying as the cold eeks in and the party ramps up.

“Did you know Shane well?” Rose asks out of nowhere, breaking the silence. Ilya blinks at her, attention sharp at the words. “Well, I mean, you were rivals on the ice, obviously, but beyond that. Did you talk?”

“Yes,” Ilya admits helplessly, even though the truth is a more complicated. “Since we were seventeen.”

Rose hums her understanding.

“I knew something about Shane,” she continues. “A secret. That I wish he had the chance to tell other people. I don’t want to tell other people for him, you know? But it’s heavy. It’s weighing me down. I don’t know why I’m telling you. I haven't mentioned to J.J.. I don’t know.”

She tilts her head at him, resting her chin on her hand, elbow on her bent knee. Ilya feels his eyes welling up as he realizes what she’s saying, what she means. What Shane had told her, or that she’d figured out. He takes a deep breath.

“He told me,” Ilya confesses. Dangerously, wildly, because she’s given him the space to to say it, but has no idea of what he knows. He wipes his eyes quickly and turns away slightly so she can’t see his face. He doesn’t know why he’s trusting her. Maybe because Shane did.

“He…” Rose starts, but trails off, gathering her thoughts. “He told you,” she confirms, although her tone is uncertain, like she doesn’t quite believe they are talking about the same thing. Ilya forces himself to look at her, but not before wiping his cheeks again.

“I was jealous of you,” Ilya admits. “He ran away from me, went to you. I hated you, for months. But then he came back.”

Rose is covering her mouth with one hand, shock and sadness melting together in her eyes as she digests what his words really mean. “He came back?”

Ilya hiccups, holding back a sob, and in the blink of an eye, Rose is wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

“I thought we would have more time,” he lets himself sob. Rose doesn’t say anything in reply, she just grips onto him fiercely, like he might float away if she lets go.

 

They walk down the block, to a dimly lit 24-hour diner, so they can get out of the freezing cold and not be overheard.

“He was miserable with me,” Rose says, sipping her coffee. “Poor guy. I hate that he felt like it’s what he had to do.”

“Me too,” Ilya agrees, leaning back in the booth, holding himself. The silence between them feels comfortable, safe. It’s a little crazy, how instantaneously he has decided to trust Rose Landry. But he understands why even the super-gay Shane Hollander was drawn to her – she’s so open, so genuine and caring. And she’s the only one who knew about Shane being gay. In fact, according to her story, she is the one who helped him admit it to himself. So if anything, Ilya should be thanking her. Akin to that, they’ve found camaraderie with one another.

The conversation drifts all over the place, not just on Shane. Which is good, because Ilya’s heart might be able to take that. Rose talks about her brothers, her parents, who were all lost in the snap. “You are alone?” he asks, the words somber, but Rose smiles sadly and shakes her head.

“I have an aunt, we’re really close. And some really strong friends in L.A. But, it’s been tough. I think that’s the case for everyone.”

Ilya hums in agreement, nodding. The server brings their orders: a burger for Rose, a stack of pancakes for Ilya. They eat in quiet for a bit. Again, the silence is warm. It feels like Ilya can breath.

When she finishes her food, Rose asks Ilya about his new life in Montreal. He tells her about the cafe, his coworkers (“They were so excited to meet me, it was cute,” she says about Marie and Reid with a kind smile), his dinners at the Pikes’ home, his classes at the university.

“Where are you living?” she asks, and Ilya takes a pause.

“Um,” he winces, but decides to tell her anyway. “Shane… he bought a building. Where we would hook up, when I was in town. It is empty, no one lives there. Except me, now.”

Rose’s eyes widen, her jaw dropping. “He bought a whole building? Didn’t he have a penthouse? Why–” Ilya waves off the end of her question.

“He was very paranoid. Did not want anyone to know. Is fine.”

Rose frowns, eyebrows knitting together as she considers this.

“How long were you two hooking up?”

Ah, this question. Ilya can’t help but smirk. “Since before our rookie season.”

In all of Rose’s shocked reactions, this one takes the cake. She really truly freezes, like this piece of information requires a moment to compute. Then, it seems to settle in, but her reaction isn’t what Ilya expected.

Her face falls, something so tenderly heartbroken, as she gazes into her coffee mug. “Oh, Shane…” Rose gazes up at Ilya, meeting his eyes. “Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

Fuck, he’s going to cry again. He glances down at his lap, absentmindedly cracking his knuckles to keep his hands busy. “Yes, was long time. Always causal. We were very stupid.”

Rose reaches both her hands across the table and Ilya helpless grabs them, holding on for dear life.

“His dad made him a gravestone. In Ottawa, next to his mom. Would you like to go sometime?”

Wet salty tears streaming down his face, Ilya nods. “Yes.”

Chapter 3

Part VI: Family

They make the drive two days later, because Rose is only in town for the week and it’s the only day Ilya’s not working. He picks her up from her hotel, which feels a little crazy, given she is an internationally famous actress. “No one cares anymore,” she argues when he tries to tell her its not a good idea. And as it turns out, there are no fans waiting out front, no paparazzi hiding in the bushes (they’re never very well hidden, so Ilya trusts he’d be able to spot them if there were any). He texts Rose, here, at the agreed-upon arrival time, and moments later, she’s bouncing out from the main entrance.

“Are you ready for this?” she asks.

“I do not think so,” Ilya replies. He had barely slept, wrought with anxiety all night. “But coffee will help.”

They order from a drive-through just before the highway entry ramp. The girl in the window recognizes Rose, but doesn’t say anything about it besides giving them their drinks for free. Rose tries to tell it’s not necessary, but her attempts fall on deaf ears. In the end, Ilya passes the girl a twenty and speeds off before she can try to give it back.

They settle into the drive. Ilya has been nervous that after J.J.’s party, Rose would wake up and realize how crazy Ilya is, that she might feel obligated to escort him to Shane’s gravestone, that she wouldn’t know how to politely back out of the all-day excursion. But he finds the opposite to be true: Rose has planned their day, and she seems to be cautious that Ilya might not want to do any of it.

“Have you ever met David?”

“No, not really,” Ilya admits nervously. Rose smiles, sipping her coffee carefully.

“I think you two will like each other.”

Ilya glances over to her in surprise. “Shane introduced you?” They had only dated for a couple of months, and Rose got to meet the Hollanders?

“Oh, no,” Rose shakes her head. “But after… after the Snap, he reached out to me. I think he thought Shane and I were still together, or something. I came to see him.”

“I see,” Ilya watches the road. “And you did not tell him about Shane?”

“No,” Rose says, her voice low. “I wasn’t sure… it didn’t seem like my information to share. But I think… I think you should tell him. If you want.”

Ilya ponders this, it seems impossible.

“It would be a big shock, no? Your dead son’s rival shows up and tells you not only is your son gay, and never told you, but his rival has been in love with him for years? I don’t know, it seems–”

“You loved him?” Rose cuts him off, staring at him.

“Oh,” Ilya sputters, glancing over at her and then back to the road ahead. “Um, yes. But I did not get the chance to tell him. I mean, I said in Russian. But he obviously did not understand that.”

He steals a glance at Rose to see her reaction: she’s staring ahead, thinking, lips pressed together.

“What?” Ilya prompts, getting nervous. Rose swallows, and reaches for his right hand, the one not on the steering wheel. He lets her take it, feels her squeeze.

“I think you should talk to David. Tell him. I think Shane would want him to know, now. After all this.”

Ilya blinks rapidly. He can’t cry while he’s driving, that’s a safety hazard. “You think so?”

Rose hums a yes.

“Okay,” Ilya decides shakily. This is going to be a big day, apparently.

 

They switch seats halfway through the drive, which is good because Ilya wants to space out completely and try to prepare himself for everything to come. It backfires a little, because he falls asleep against the window.

He wakes up as Rose is parking. He tries to orient himself, but it’s started to rain, obscuring his vision out the windows, and his brain is still fuzzy, powering up.

His mind only seems to refocus when he’s standing there, right in front of Shane’s gravestone, holding an umbrella over himself and Rose.

There’s Shane’s name, carved into stone. And the years, 1991 to 2017.

Ilya lets himself cry. He’s been doing that a lot lately. It’s easy, easier than before, and better than all the numbness he felt before he arrived in Montreal, before he let himself feel anything real.

Rose keeps an arm around him, pressed tightly to his side.

It hurts so bad. “I miss you,” he says to the gravestone. Shane can’t say anything back. Shane’s not even there. But maybe his spirit is, like when Ilya feels Shane visit him in his dreams. Maybe he’s here. It’s a comforting thought.

“I love you,” he says next. It hurts so bad. And yet, he feels a little better saying it out loud. Maybe, wherever he is, Shane is listening. Ilya hopes so.

 

David Hollander, despite the confusion evident in his expression, has kind eyes.

“Rose, it’s good to see you,” he says, holding the door open for them and accepting Rose’s hug. “I didn’t know–”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming, or bringing Ilya. I wasn’t sure if we were stopping by,” words spill out of Rose quickly, all at once. “We were visiting Shane and Yuna’s stones.”

“Oh,” David says blankly, clearly unsure of how to decipher this information.

Ilya shuffles into the Hollander residence behind Rose, slipping his shoes off out of habit.

“Hi,” Ilya smiles awkwardly, tensely. He doesn’t know what to expect or how to do this; it doesn't help that he hasn’t had the best experience with fathers. “I am Ilya. I do not think we have met properly.”

“Hi Ilya,” David’s initial confusion seems to soften. “It’s nice to meet you. Would you two like some tea?”

“Do you have coffee?” Rose asks. David nods, and Ilya mouths thank you to Rose, because he would also much prefer a bitter black coffee to the mildness of tea. Their trip to the gravestones was exhausting. Good, healing, but in a challenging sort of way that necessitates coffee over tea.

“Come sit,” David says, leading them to the kitchen, indicating to the bar stools at the island counter.

“Sorry we are here,” Ilya says dumbly, meaning to say something more like sorry for the intrusion or sorry for showing up unannounced like this.

“No worries,” David waves his hand, turning to pull a coffee pot, filters, and grounds from an upper cabinet. “I was just working on a puzzle, you aren’t disturbing me. It’s always a joy to see you, Rose.” He pauses, turns back around to look at Ilya. “It’s great to have you here, Ilya, but if you don’t mind me asking… I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

It’s not actually a question, but Ilya gets the gist of it. “Right,” Ilya clears his throat, wincing. His heart is beating in every part of his body, his hands feel unsteady, his throat swallowing too much. Rose jumps in, ever so helpful, saving him from floundering.

“Ilya is living in Montreal now,” she provides. “We ran into each other at one of J.J.’s parties, just the other day.”

“Oh?” David raises his eyebrows, shoveling spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the filter basket. “What brought you to Montreal?”

Ilya taps his fingers anxiously on the counter. “Um,” he starts, and then clears his throat again. David is filling the machine with water, clicking the start button, turning back to Ilya and Rose. Ilya has run out of time. He needs to say something.

“Many reasons,” he restarts. “But mostly… it reminds me of, uh, of Shane.” He ducks his head, tucks his hands between his legs, subconsciously trying to make himself small and unnoticeable. He can’t bring himself to see David’s reaction to hearing Shane’s first name out of his longtime rival’s mouth.

“You were at the game,” David says, echoing what Jackie had brought up, all those months ago. “You saw it happen.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “And he was hit on the ice, right before–”

“Of course,” David breaths, like he’s only just remembering this. “I’m sorry,” he continues, which is a shock to Ilya. What does Shane’s father have to apologize for?

“I was– we were watching the game on TV, but then when Yuna disappeared, I couldn’t– I couldn’t do anything. I froze. And then I found out about Shane too, and I– I should have reached out.”

What? In the realm of possible reactions, this is not what Ilya had remotely anticipated.

“No,” Ilya says quickly. “I should have… I did not even find out you were alive until Jackie told me this year. I didn’t– I should have–”

The coffee machine gurgles. Rose is holding his hand, he hadn’t even noticed. Ilya takes a slow, deep breath.

“I need to tell you some things about Shane,” he forces the words out. His voice is surprisingly steady. Stronger than he feels inside. David blinks. “What about Shane?”

Rose squeezes his hand. Ilya glances to her, and she’s nodding, as if to say, you can do this.

He can, he can do this. Shane would want this.

“Um, Shane is gay. Or was,” Ilya stumbles, correcting himself. The words are clunky. David’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. Ilya continues. “And we were… lovers, I think you would say. For a long time.”

“Oh,” David crosses his arms, staring off as he processes this barrage of information, facts that rewrite what he thought he knew about his son. “Wow. Wow.”

Ilya waits nervously for more of a reaction. For violence, for yelling, for something.

“What about you and Shane?” David tilts his head, looking at Rose, who smiles kindly.

“I think I was his final attempt at being “normal”. It failed, obviously. But we remained friends,” Rose provides. David holds his chin in his hand, thinking.

“And you–” he gazes at Ilya. “I heard about you with women.”

“Yes, um,” Ilya swallows the lump in his throat. “I am bisexual… and Shane and me, we were not exclusive. We, um, we wasted a lot of time. I thought, with Russia, and hockey, and everything… I thought I could not be with him… not in the way I wanted. Or the way he deserved.”

“The way you wanted?”

Of course, because Ilya’s waterworks have no control panel anymore, his eyes are brimming with years. He nods. “I loved him.”

So many people Ilya has told now, about his love for Shane. And yet, he will never get to tell Shane, not in a way he could understand. As much as it feels good for people to know, as much as Ilya wants to shout it from the rooftops, it pierces through his soul that Shane will never know.

He must have faded out, gotten distracted in his own mind, because when he snaps back to attention, David is on their side of the kitchen island, enveloping Ilya into a bear hug, holding him close. David is crying, his tears soaking into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt. Ilya lets himself hug David back, accepting the love.

“Thank you for telling me,” David chokes out, his voice trembling. “Thank you, Ilya.”

The coffee machine beeps; it’s ready.

 

David Hollander must have been an excellent father. Ilya is already so flayed open, so emotionally raw from visiting Shane’s gravestone, and David is careful with him, considerate, and so easily welcoming, so instantly affectionate.

The three of them sit in the living room with their coffees, and work on the puzzle, and tell stories about Shane. David has so many of them. And then he pulls out the photo album, the rows and rows of Shane as a newborn, Shane as a toddler, Shane on his first day of school, Shane in his first pair of skates. Something about it feels healing, all of this. Despite how deeply sad Ilya is, this makes a difference, this connection to Shane.

In the afternoon, the emotional labor of the day catches up to him, creeping in slowly until he can barely keep his eyes open, his head up. David suggests a nap, offers Ilya Shane’s bed, which Ilya cannot reasonably object to.

So he finds himself laying on Shane’s childhood bed, beneath his comforter, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars tapped on the ceiling. Shane’s bedroom, where he spent his whole childhood. “Я скучаю по тебе, Шейн,” Ilya whispers to himself. I miss you, Shane.

He sleeps without dreaming, and wakes to the sun setting. He breathes in deeply, the faint remnants of Shane.

Maybe in another life, Shane is with him when Ilya first meets his parents, both of them. Maybe in another life, they get more time. Ilya can only hope that version of them exists out there somewhere, living the life he can’t.

 

 

David tells Ilya he wants to be a part of life his life, that he really means it. It starts slow; they text occasionally, David sends Ilya restaurant recommendations in Montreal, places Shane used to like, asks Ilya his opinion on the best vodka brands. It’s nice. It’s something.

In April, Ilya is hit with his second-ever finals season. For whatever reason, his courses this semester are more rigorous, more work, and he feels a nagging stress to constantly study, to stay sharp, to utilize his time so carefully, so thoroughly. He cuts down his shifts at the cafe, and really only sees Reid and a couple of other classmates (a very helpful study group) for almost two weeks.

Before his exams, David texts him good luck, son! and Ilya almost cries, but he keeps his head on straight. Sveta also messages – she’s been bothering him to come visit New York over his summer break. Ilya is undecided. He wants to see Sveta of course, but he doesn’t feel confident about leaving Montreal, about what might happen to his mind. And for now, he needs to focus.

He sits for the exams and is pleasantly surprised to find that all his studying has paid off. And maybe, he is smart after all. Jackie’s invited him for dinner after his last exam, so he drives over right after, feeling accomplished and lighter with all the stress of studying behind him.

On the front door, Jackie’s taped up a sign, You did it Ilya! written in block letters, decorated by the girls. He almost cries, but instead, snaps a photo, just before the door opens. Ruby bursts out, happily screaming, “Uncle Ilya!”

That night, after a celebratory night of slow-baked chicken with wine, and playing princesses with the girls, Ilya calls Sveta and tells her that he will come for New Year’s. He can do it, he tells himself. His stability is not reliant on the city of Montreal. He’s strong, resilient. He’s determined to prove it to himself.

 

Before his trip to visit Sveta, Jackie invites him over for Amber’s second birthday. Which of course, he goes, bringing too many presents for Amber, and Russian sweets he manages to find at his new favorite international grocery store.

The whole house is festive, balloons and decorations throughout, even thought it’s the family and Ilya around for the day. “I wanted to make it special for Amber, since she may actually remember it this year.”

Ilya is overcome with how lucky he is to have been invited. To show his gratitude, he volunteers to do the dishes after their big-home-cooked dinner, though Jackie’s dad insists on helping.

Later, after the evening of bliss has floated by and Jackie’s parents have taken charge of putting Ruby and Amber to bed, Ilya and Jackie sit on the back deck, sipping white wine under the stars. And then Jackie starts crying.

It’s quiet at first, so Ilya doesn’t notice. But he glances over, and he sees the shimmer on her cheeks, recognizes the familiar sniffles. In all these months he’s known her, Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jackie cry. Which, thinking about it now, is sort of crazy. She has ample reasons to cry all the time.

“Are you okay?” he keeps his voice soft, not sure exactly how to handle a crying Jackie. This is uncharted territory.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she sniffles, laughing wetly. “It just hits me all at once sometimes, especially on days like this. I just–” her voice cracks, and she covers her face with a hand on her forehead. “Sorry.”

“No, do not be sorry,” Ilya says quickly, reaching out to take her hand. “Is a lot, I know. You… you have lost a lot.”

“Yeah,” she laughs again, almost a sob. “It’s too much, really. I try not to… think about it. I mean, I do, obviously. All the time. About Jade, and Arthur, and the lives they should be having. And Hayden…” She falls silent for a long moment, and Ilya realizes it’s because she’s trying to suppress sobs. “I just,” she tries again, her voice hollow and teetering. “Miss him so much, you know? So much. It hurts. It hurts so much and I thought it would get easier… but it never does.”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya nods, squeezing her hand. “But just think, he would be pretty mad to hear we are friends, yes?”

Just as he’d hoped, this makes Jackie laugh. Ilya grins. “Yeah,” she agrees, still laughing, a little hysterical. “He’d be so annoyed.”

“Sometimes I dream about him,” Jackie says, catching her breath, sobering. “The kids too. But with Hayd, it almost feels like he’s there with me. Like he’s with me through all of this.”

“Yes, I get this too, with Shane,” Ilya feels tears prick in his own eyes. “I do not know if there is a science reason for this, but I like to think it is them, saying hello.”

Jackie smiles, sniffling. “I do too.”

 

“You look good,” Sveta says when she meets him at the airport, JFK this time. Ilya does look better, much better than the last time she saw him, which was more than a year ago now, before he left for his solo lake house stay.

“I am good,” he confirms. “Not all the time, but Montreal is good for me.”

Sveta smiles, something that says a lot of complicated things at once without any words, and then she wraps him up in a hug.

“I missed you,” she sighs into him. “I was worried about you. You have barely texted me.”

“Now, I will tell you everything,” he promises, smiling wide. “And buy you a fancy present, like how I used to.”

 

New York City is similar to his memories, but it hurts less. The crowds, the people, the possibility, it feels less suffocating and more novel. It helps that he knows where home is.

He and Sveta go to a dive bar and order greasy food and beers and tell each other every single detail from the past year and a half. Well, almost. Ilya does not tell her anything more about his winter at the lake house. For him, it was an important experience, but he knows she will only focus on the “sometimes I wondered if I might freeze to death” part of the story.

Sveta is thrilled to learn about the coffee shop, the Pikes, his university classes. When he tells her about Rose and David, she gets quiet, smiling sadly, and pats his arm softly, like it’s the only thing she can manage to do without crying.

Sveta tells him about her office job, which started as a receptionist position at a law firm, but they’ve slowly given her more and more responsibility. And now, she too, is taking classes, trying to become an immigration attorney, of course. She is so smart, so sharp, it doesn’t surprise Ilya at all.

He learns that Sveta has been volunteering at the city’s Snap Refugee Center, where she met her new beau, a person named Mal who speaks four languages fluently and can do wild things with their tongue.

“Don’t tell me about that part,” Ilya cringes.

“We used to fuck, you know,” Sveta points out, laughing at his reaction.

“Yes, a lifetime ago,” Ilya counters, which he means lightheartedly, but it shifts the tone, reminds them both of the Snap, of how different things used to be.

“Well, have you been seeing anyone?” Sveta asks, probably trying to lighten the mood.

“No,” Ilya says, and swallows a sip of his beer. “I do not think I am ready for that.”

“But… you’re not lonely?”

Ilya thinks about David Hollander, and Rose Landry, and the Pike family, and Reid and Marie, and all his cafe coworkers beyond them, and his study group, and even J.J., who’s invited him to a couple more parties since the Rose Landry restaurant one. With all that, is he still lonely?

“Sometimes, yes,” he admits. “But I have a lot of people. I think I am okay.”

Sveta tilts her head, studying his face. “Eventually Ilya–”

“Yes, I know,” he cuts her off. “I know, eventually. But not yet. I am not ready.”

“Okay,” she accepts, and then they drop it.

 

After his successful trip to New York City, Ilya lets Rose convince him to come visit her in Los Angeles for a week. She introduces him to her LA friends, an assortment of semi-famous people, who are enamored with Ilya, likely since he’s hot again and, of course, he used to be famous, at least in some circles. They dine at fancy restaurants, and drink overpriced cocktails, and dance at trendy clubs, and Ilya makes out with a couple of strangers which is nice, and feels like progress.

He even takes some time to visit with a couple of guys he used to play with back in Boston. They talk about hockey, which is bit foreign to Ilya now, and how the league is working on coming back, restructuring things so they can still play, but with fewer teams. Ilya doesn’t particularly care. It’s all much more bro-y than any environment he’s been part of in awhile. It reminds him why Shane felt so scared to be gay, to even admit it to himself. Ilya hasn’t missed hockey, hasn’t even really thought about it much.

Ilya is relieved, when the meal ends, to go back to Rose and her friends, who are diverse in life experience, and background, and sexual orientation, and who actively support Ilya in making out with a cute boy on the dance floor. That cute boy asks Ilya to join him in the bathroom, and Ilya knows what that means. He declines politely, and goes outside to smoke. He can’t see the stars, but he stares at the sky anyway. Rose joins him, bumming a cig.

“Miss him?” she prompts softly.

“Always,” Ilya smirks, though the sadness seeps through a bit. Rose smiles back, also a bit somber.

“One day, you’ll see him again,” she says. Ilya takes a deep breath.

“I sure fucking hope so.”

“But we’re both going to have to quit smoking or he’ll come down here and kill us himself,” Rose adds, which sends them both into a fit of giggles.

“He would be so mad,” Ilya laughs fondly.

 

Between his trips to New York and LA, Ilya feels a tug to return to Montreal, to get back home. So when his travels conclude and he’s securely back in Shane’s secret sex building, he feels almost giddy, and at the same time, so totally relaxed. It was good to get away, to prove to himself that he could do it, to meet new people and spend time with Sveta, and then Rose. But it’s even better to be home, to sleep in late, dreaming of Shane. To run around Montreal, to make coffees at the cafe, to take Ruby and Amber to the water park, to have movie nights with Marie and Reid. To hike, all alone, around his favorite lake, and stare out at the water, and be completely alone, where he can be sad or angry or at peace, and he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation. It’s a good summer. Better than the last one. Worlds away from the last one. But it's still hard, all of it. It would still be so much better if he still had Shane.

Chapter 4

Part VII: Hockey

A week before his second year of university is scheduled to start, a representative from the MLH reaches out to him and asks if he would be interested in playing in a new league, one which would pay far less, but which would “promote the continued fan commitment to the sport.” It’s the easiest no Ilya has ever given. The woman on the phone tries to argue at first, but she quickly realizes her attempts are futile.

“Okay, thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Please do let us know if you change your mind.”

 

At the start of his semester, they have the students examine career options, take a somewhat silly aptitude test, and ask them to think about what job they might want. The university has restructured itself a lot, apparently, and is really trying to train students for specific work so they can enter positions as soon as they graduate. The city needs more of everything.

Ilya studies the booklet of options, agonizes over the aptitude test questions, and does a lot of internet searching. None of this is really that helpful. Then, when he’s on one of his morning runs, it hits him, the idea, and the more he thinks it over, the more confident he is that it is the perfect fit for him.

“I want to be a teacher,” he tells Jackie at dinner that evening, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Oh, Ilya, you would be so good at that,” Jackie says excitedly, clapping her hands together. “What grade would you teach?”

“I do not know what the years are called in Canada,” he admits. “But when the kids are young, but not too young? Age eleven to thirteen, or something like this.”

Jackie beams. “That sounds perfect. You should do it.”

 

Things are easier, and with it, time seems to move faster. It’s more reliable now, what each day has to hold.

Ilya studies, does okay, discovers the magical world of attending office hours. He spends the holidays with the Pikes, and David comes this year too. Ilya flies to New York City for New Year’s, and Sveta prods him about his love life again, and he tells her the truth, that he still isn’t ready. They get drunk and dance, and Ilya ignores the hungry eyes of the attractive people around him, focusing on having fun with his friend.

He works fewer shifts at the cafe, because he’s trying to focus on school, and he has enough savings to support himself, but he keeps two shifts, because he loves it there, and he would miss it too much if he left.

During the spring semester, a girl in his pedagogy class asks him out and he can’t find a good enough reason to reject her because she’s really cool and pretty and down to earth and not very similar to Shane, so it doesn’t feel as painful. They go on two dates, and hook up once, which is fun and harmless at first, but then afterwards Ilya feels so out of his depth, and he can’t help it that he cries and tells her about Shane, which is so embarrassing, but she assures him that it’s okay. They don’t go on any more dates after that.

 

On the third anniversary of the Snap, Ilya is over at the Hollander house in Ottawa and he decides to ask David about the secret sex building – though he leaves out the sex part. It’s been so long, he’s starting to get worried that it is too good to be true, that someone truly might arrest him one day for squatting.

David laughs really hard for a full minute. “The power bill must be set to auto-draw from Shane’s account. I didn’t even know he owned an apartment building.”

“Oh, okay,” Ilya says, relieved.

“Wait, how did you know? That he owned a building?” David realizes, perplexed. Ilya smiles guiltily, and slowly lays out the details, hoping David will connect the dots and he won’t have to actually say it. But he doesn’t get it.

So finally Ilya just says, “Shane bought it so we could hook up when I was in town, because he did not want anyone to find out.”

David gets quiet after that, his mouth pulled small and tight. Ilya’s starting to get worried, wondering what exactly is wrong, when David finally speaks.

“It makes me sad that he had to hide. Both of you. I wish it was different.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Me too. But at least now, I have a free apartment paid for by my dead lover?”

Thankfully, David laughs at that.

 

Ilya opts to take summer courses, at the the advice of his academic advisor, but before they start, he has two weeks off. David invites him, and Rose, to the Hollander summer cottage, which is less of a cottage and more of a vacation home. He’d seen the interviews with Shane, the ones set at his cottage, but David invites them to the other one, the family one. Ilya’s not sure if Shane would be okay with him encroaching on his private, serene cottage (self proclaimed, “favorite place on Earth”), so he doesn’t ask David if they can go.

The three of them spend the time in utter peace. Ilya swims a lot; the Hollanders even have a kayak, which he takes out on the water and is happy to find this body of water is much larger than the little New Jersey lake years ago, more akin to his favorite lake outside of Montreal.

They sunbath, and watch movies, and play drunken board games, and sometimes cry a little, which kind of nice, and of course, they work on David’s many puzzles. Ilya reads, because he’s got prep reading for his summer classes, and Rose is researching a character from a book, so she reads too, and David is inspired by them, and finds a favorite of Yuna’s on the shelf and decides to join them.

It’s lovely, and perfect, and Ilya doesn’t feel lonely at all. But still, of course, he misses Shane. Always.

 

Back in the city, he spends most of the summer doing the same as the spring: classes, cafe shifts, dinners at Jackie’s, the occasional night out with Marie and Reid, if J.J. invites them to a special event, which he’s starting to a lot.

J.J. and Ilya haven’t really talked about their shared trauma, that game when the Snap occurred, but Ilya’s thought about it plenty, how it weirdly bonds them together and yet they haven’t acknowledged it since. As he and Reid (Marie has a date, she tells them she’ll show up later if the date doesn’t last all night) take the metro to one particular event in late July, Ilya suddenly realizes he hasn’t even talked to J.J. about the MLH revival. Presumably, J.J. isn’t playing, right? Or he wouldn’t have been hosting parties all throughout the year. It’s possible though, if the new league is less of a time commitment.

This particular occasion is a rooftop bar that J.J. has rented out. Ilya and Reid show up on the later side – Ilya had a late class and then they met up for dinner and spent much longer than expected breaking down the intricacies of the movie industry post-Snap (there are a LOT of indie films, which are arguably – in Reid’s opinion – better than the blockbuster films from before. Ilya still misses the Fast and Furious series, though). There’s not that many people on the rooftop, despite their late arrival, but J.J. is very drunk. He comes right up to them, face lighting up, giving them each sloppy hugs that are far too intimate for their present relationships.

“Guyssss, I am so glad you are here. This party suuucks.”

“Oh? It’s your party,” Ilya points out, smirking. J.J. laughs, his steps wobbling. He throws an arm around each of them and steers them towards the bar. “Let’s get drunk!”

“I think you are already, J.J.,” Reid states the obvious. J.J., grinning, rolls his eyes. “You sound like Hollander. What, you want a ginger ale?”

Both Ilya and Reid sort of freeze, the mention of Shane bending them out of the fun energy and into something sobering. J.J. doesn’t seem to notice – in fact, now that he's remembered Hollander, he keeps blabbing.

“God, he was suuuch an incredible player. There’s nooo way we coulda won the Stanley Cup without him. Wooooow I love that guy. Oh, yeah, Rozanov, you were rivalssss! You hated his guts.”

“No, I did not,” Ilya corrects quietly, his mouth small. He is starting to think through all his interactions with J.J. since the Snap, realizing with growing concern that he's only ever seen J.J. drunk or high. Why hadn’t he noticed that earlier? Probably because he’s never known J.J. all that well…

“Oh shit, this is my jam, I gotta dance.” J.J. disappears as quickly as he appeared, leaving Ilya to wonder, throughout the whole night, if J.J. has anyone looking out for him. Or if he’s all alone, just giving the illusion of community with all these parties.

Ilya isn’t in much of a party mood now, with all this heavy on his mind. Reid must sense the shift, he tells Ilya it’s okay if he wants to go home early, and then wanders off, looking for a stranger to draw into a conversation. Ilya, left to his own devices, does actually order a ginger ale, because it sounds nice, and he leans against the bar, watching the guests mill about.

Slowly, sinking, it hits him. He feels like he’s failed Hollander. J.J. is Shane’s close friend, after all, and he seems to be all alone, and Ilya had not even noticed he is struggling, not coping well. And now what could he do about it? Shane would know. Why wasn’t Shane still here?

A woman with a stylish updo and a shimmering silver top slides up next to him at the bar, trying to strike up a conversation. He’s so tired. Ilya smiles politely, and tells her he’s just leaving. He finishes the remainder of his ginger ale, and leaves it on the bar.

He finds Reid across the room, standing sensually close to an attractive, muscular man in a white tee. Good, that’s good for him. Ilya waves, gives Reid a thumbs up. Reid grins, winks, and turns back to the stranger.

And then Ilya leaves. Tired from his full day, but more exhausted than he should be, really. He catches the metro, doesn’t even listen to music. He feels sort of floaty, like he’s in-between reality and dream, all the noises sort of muted, but the lights too bright. When he closes his eyes, he can almost picture Shane sitting next to him, resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder, saying, “I’m sleepy,” with a yawn. Simple, and domestic, and untouched by hockey or rivalry or homophobia or years of miscommunication or sudden death. Another life, where they can be together.

Ilya leans his head back against the train, and hopes that he can make the most of this life, the one he has now, even though he’s lost his chance at happiness with Shane.

When he sleeps, Shane visits him. He dreams that they make pancakes, go on a hike, watch a movie together. Regular things, together. It’s nice, really nice, and it almost feels real.

 

Ilya reaches out to J.J. and asks him if he wants to get coffee. J.J. seems a little confused by the invitation, but accepts. They meet a week later, at a cafe in the neighborhood near J.J.’s place. Ilya asks a lot of questions, trying to learn more about J.J.’s life, his support-system-situation in a casual way, like he’s not investigating the depths of J.J.’s substance use issues – if there are any at all.

J.J. takes a minute to warm up a little perplxed, a bit guarded, but Ilya persists. Ilya suggests they walk down the street to the park, and when they sit on a bench, something in J.J. seems to tear open.

“Listen,” J.J. starts, his voice more earnest than it has been this whole time, his friendly exterior melting into something more genuine, more serious. “I know we don’t know each other very well. So I don’t want to… I mean, everyone has their shit. You get it.”

“I know,” Ilya says, keeping his tone light even though this is exactly his intention now. “I thought we should talk. Seeing as we were there… at that game.” J.J. looks wary, the memory of the game clearly paining him, so Ilya takes a breath, and decides to fess up.

“I know you think Hollander and I hated each other. But we did not. Ever. It was never the case between us. And now, he is gone. And I miss him very much.”

Ilya pauses, lets J.J. digest this. His expression wrinkles into something like deep thought, reconsidering.

“Really?”

Ilya nods. “Why do you think I moved to Montreal? Or why I spend so much time with Jackie and her girls? Is for Shane, to remember him. To be closer to him. Also I like the Pikes, this helps.”

J.J. rubs his temple. “Dude, to be honest, I thought you were just trying to fuck Jackie.”

Ilya barks out a laugh. “Ha! Hilarious. No, I do not want to fuck Jackie. She is family now, I think.”

J.J. is studying Ilya, his face a bit disbelieving. “You know, you are not at all like how I thought you were.”

Ilya smiles. “Mm, yes,” he says. “I have changed, I think. I hide less, now.”

“What were you even hiding before, bro?” J.J. finally seems to be relaxing, which is good. Ilya gets the feeling he might not get J.J. to spill all his whole heart out in the open during this hangout, but that’s okay. He can open up to J.J. now, show him it’s okay for him to do the same.

“Well, I am bisexual,” Ilya says, and then he wonders if J.J. is maybe secretly homophobic. No, right? Because he’s been cool with Reid, who is obviously gay. Ilya doesn’t have to wonder for long, because J.J. is staring, wide-eyed at him and responding, “Holy shit, dude, really?”

“Yes, really,” Ilya confirms, nodding. J.J. looks like he’s short-circuiting, now blinking off into the distance as his brain tries to compute this information.

“I did not know that,” he says dumbly, blinking. Ilya half-laughs, a little nervous. “Yes, it was a secret for a long time. Russia, you know. And hockey.”

“Oh fuck, Russia,” J.J. gasps. “Oh damn, Rozanov.” He looks back at Ilya, and must read the anxiety in Ilya’s expression. “Oh, shit, I mean, I’m cool, I’m all for it. Good for you. So like, you’re out now?”

“Yes,” Ilya lets the tension roll out of his shoulders, forcing himself to loosen up. There’s no threat here. There never was.

J.J. nods, thinking it through. A thought clearly hits him, his head snapping back to Ilya.

“You said you moved here for Hollander? Were you… like in love with him, or something?” J.J. balks at his own question. “Whoa. Sorry, I–”

“It’s okay,” Ilya laughs a little, cutting him off. “Um, yes, actually.” It doesn't seem relevant to bring up that Shane was also quite involved. He doesn’t need to out Shane right now. There’s enough going on for J.J. to wrap his head around.

“Wow,” J.J.’s shock dissipates, the ever-present sadness they all carry returning. “Hey, I get it, Roz. I lost my girl to the Snap. Well, she wasn’t my girl, but I was hoping she would be soon.”

Ilya nods in understanding. “What was her name?”

“Antonia,” J.J. says, his eyes getting a little sparkly. “Sorry,” he apologizes unnecessarily, blinking hard. “I haven’t talked about her in a long time.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he continues, smiling sadly. “I lost a lot of people. No one close enough to talk to about this kind of thing.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Is very hard. I understand. Do you want to tell me more about her?”

“I don’t know,” J.J. says quietly. “Maybe another time.”

“Another time is okay,” Ilya tells him gently. “Grief is very hard. Is important we do not do it alone.”

J.J.’s smiles, and despite the sadness, it’s something genuine, something real. “Yeah,” J.J. agrees. “Hey, thanks for inviting me to coffee. I needed this, I think.”

“I always need coffee,” Ilya says, which earns him a laugh from J.J.

 

Should he have told J.J. that Shane was gay? Ilya proceeds to overanalyze the question for the next week. It’s distracting, really, how much he thinks about what Shane would want. Which is difficult, Ilya realizes, because he doesn’t actually know anything about their friendship. There’s actually a lot about Shane that Ilya never got to learn. Hell, he had only seen him wear his glasses a couple of times, when they videocalled while Ilya was in Russia. It sends him on a bit of spiral. Did he even know Shane? Not totally, not how he wanted to. Fuck. Is he crazy for moving to Montreal and building relationships with Shane’s dead friend’s wife and kids and his dad and his ex girlfriend? Probably, yes. Super fucking bonkers. Fuck.

He calls Svetlana, because he knows she’ll be honest with him.

“Do you think I’m crazy? For all this Shane stuff, and moving to Montreal and everything. Am I crazy? Did I actually even know him?”

“Ilyusha, what?” Sveta’s voice is sharp; she sounds deeply annoyed and mildly confused.

“Am I being crazy?” Ilya repeats.

“Obviously, yes,” she says, sighing, the sharpness of her voice falling away. “But everyone is crazy. It is grief, remember? It makes us all crazy, and that is a good thing, mostly, in your case. It has brought you so many people that you love now. And to answer your question about Shane, I think, if you loved him, which I know you did and probably still do, then you knew all the important things.”

Ilya lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, you are right. Okay.”

“What is this about, Ilya?”

“I am trying to be friends with J.J. Boiziau,” he starts. “Because I am worried about him, I think he is alone. And I was right, it seems. But to get him to open up, I told him I am bisexual, and then he… guessed that I was in love with Shane? But I did not tell him that Shane was gay, or about the hooking up. I know I should, but it was so much at one time. What if he is angry at Shane for not telling him? Or hurt, that he did not know his friend like he thought he did?”

Sveta is silent for a moment, thinking it through.

“He might be angry, or hurt,” she concedes. “That’s natural. Maybe David felt that way too, but dealt with it himself. That part you cannot protect J.J. from. You should tell him, if you want him to trust you. And I think, with what you’ve already told him, you need to tell him anyway.”

“Right, okay,” Ilya blows out a breath.

“You already knew this. You had to call me?”

“Yes, Sveta,” Ilya smiles to himself. “You are all-knowing goddess, remember? I need your mind.”

Svetlana laughs. “Yes, this is true. Good luck with J.J., let me know how it goes.”

 

Ilya gets caught up in his coursework, doesn’t realize how quickly time is passing, until two weeks later. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and he’s passively reading for class on the living room couch when J.J. calls him.

“Hey man,” J.J. greets him when Ilya picks up the phone, sounding both casual and intense at the same time.

“Hey, J.J. What’s up?”

“Do you think maybe Shane liked guys?”

Ilya cannot believe his ears. J.J. keeps going, “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how you… loved him? And… he never dated anyone, besides Rose. Maybe he was bi, like you? So I guess I was just wondering, if like, you ever got a vibe from him, about that. I don’t know. Is that a thing?”

“Gaydar? Yes, is a thing. I have very good gaydar,” Ilya brags. Internally, he is cheering and shouting and screaming in excitement. J.J., apparently, is actually very astute and a very good friend, and now Ilya doesn’t have to overanalyze how to bring this subject up, how to tell J.J. about Shane.

“Oui, that. So what do you think? About Hollander?”

Well, it’s not ideal to tell him this over the phone, but other than that, it’s the perfect opening.

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “Yes, Shane was gay.”

“Really?” J.J. sounds shocked. “You can tell that from gaydar? He was fully gay? But he was such a jock – I mean, I guess you are too…are you sure? About him being gay?”

“Yes, I am sure. But not from gaydar,” Ilya clears his throat. “We maybe, um, hooked up.”

On the other side of the phone, J.J. is silent for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is dry and humorless, “Rozanov, this isn’t a joke.”

“I am not joking,” Ilya says, equally serious. “J.J., I am sorry I did not tell you before, but it felt like too much to say at once. But yes, Shane was gay. Rose can confirm this.”

Again, J.J. is quiet for a beat as he processes this.

“You hooked up?”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. “Many times.”

“What? Many times?” Another pause. “Wait… were you… Boston Lily?”

“Yes,” Ilya confesses.

“Putain de merde,” J.J. curses in French. “Rozanov,” J.J. breaths, processing his shock. “Am I a bad friend? Why did he think he could not tell me?”

This part, Ilya has thought through, he is ready to answer. He sighs, his heart hurting as he thinks about how ashamed Shane felt about this part of himself, how much fear he had over being caught.

“I think he was scared. Scared to tell anyone, to even admit it to himself. He loved hockey so much, yes? And I don’t think… he thought he could have both, be both. Be the best and be gay. I know it is hard, but do not take it personally. He had not told anyone. Only me. And Rose guessed. You are a good friend, J.J.”

J.J. is quiet for another long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is tight, like he is trying to keep it together.

“Thanks, Ilya. I… I’m really glad he had you.”

Ilya’s heart swells. “I am glad he had you, J.J.”

 

It’s not J.J. is magically cured because he’s now friends with Ilya Rozanov. That would be crazy. It’s more like, Ilya has a better idea of what’s going on, of how J.J. is doing, of when support might be needed, because, like everyone, it fluctuates. And now, an actual, real, substantial friendship begins to blossom. They start going on runs together, for one. At first it’s a one-off, and then J.J. keeps hitting him up, at least once a week. When the seasons change, the air turning colder, Ilya ventures to ask what gym J.J. goes to. And so begins their gym buddy arc, where things really kick into high gear for their friendship.

At one of their gym session, Ilya learns that J.J. chose not to rejoin the MLH simply because he didn’t see the point.

“Most of the Metros disappeared,” J.J. says. “And now the league is mostly assholes who think hockey is still important, or didn’t lose anyone, or don’t care. Like Dallas Kent.”

Ilya grimaces. “I did now know he survived. Unfortunate.”

J.J. laughs. “Exactly. C’mon let’s do another set.”

 

Part VIII: Memory

Ilya starts to fear that he will forget. About Shane, about all their moments together, the fleeting touches, the stolen glances, all of it. His newfound fear begins a few weeks before the fourth anniversary of the Snap, when he tries to think back on Shane’s coat, the color of it, the coat he was wearing on that first day when they met properly, when Shane came outside and introduced himself to Ilya. And Ilya suddently can’t recall if the coat was black or navy. It’s such a small thing, nothing that matters, but it makes him realize how fuzzy his memories are becoming, even just a few years after the Snap. It’s not like his father’s dementia or anything, it’s just… the passage of time. Things carrying on, moving forward, and Shane left in the past.

It puts Ilya into a funk. Or depression, maybe, is more medically accurate. It sticks with him through the summer, and he spends long days trying to stay active. David invites him back to the cottage, for “however long” he wants, so Ilya takes his depressed ass to the lake, where he can watch the stars and question the meaning of mortality and take the kayak out on the lake and smoke weed on the back deck and flip through baby photos Shane and mourn the time they could have had together, all the years, if only Ilya had the courage to do something about all his feelings for Shane. To say something, anything, earlier.

As the summer eases to an end, David sits Ilya down and tells him he needs to find someone to talk to, a professional.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” David says, his face etched with concern. Ilya cries, of course, because he’s so touched that David cares.

“Okay, I will,” he promises, and he makes good on his promise when he finds a Russian-speaking woman named Galina. She’s technically in Ottawa, which is too far to drive for weekly sessions, so after the first one they decide to do videocalls.

It’s slow, and hard, and Ilya hates therapy, but it helps a little. Still, it seems there is no cure for grief. It’s just something he must learn to carry.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

umm guys i’m sorry i accidentally posted this without the whole first part abt ilya’s graduation & summer vacation. 🤦‍♀️ my bad. it’s all there now!

Part IX: Commencement

Ilya’s graduation is a few weeks after the fifth memorial of the Snap. The university gives him four guest tickets to the ceremony so he invites David, Jackie, Rose, and Svetlana. They hear his name called, watch him walk across the stage, witness him shake the university president’s hand, photograph Ilya excitedly receiving his diploma. And then there’s the party at the Pike household afterwards. Everyone is there: in addition to all the closest family and the rest of the Pike clan, there’s Marie, Reid, a couple more of his cafe coworkers, J.J., Sveta’s partner Mal, a few of Ilya’s younger classmates who aren’t yet graduating. It’s a beautiful little community, Ilya realizes, all here to celebrate his achievement.

J.J. grills an assortment of meats (and some veggies for Marie, who has sworn off anything with four legs), everyone sips beers (not the kids, but Ilya does give Ruby and Amber the kind of sparkling grape juice that feels fancy because it comes in a glass bottle), laughing and grinning and in the best of spirits. It’s a good day, a great day even, and Ilya feels so surrounded by love and support, and he is so proud of all he has accomplished in the last five years. Not just the degree, but how he has dealt with this tragedy, how he found a path forward, even with everything ripped away from him. He gives every single person a hug, makes sure they know exactly how much he appreciates their presence.

At the end of the day, he and David and Rose drive back to Shane’s secret sex building (Ilya still likes to think of it by this name, it’s just objectively funny at this point), and climb the stairs to the second floor apartment, and each crawl into their respective beds (Rose and David’s being guest rooms, naturally), and Ilya falls asleep full of joy. And he dreams of Shane, of Shane being there in the crowd at graduation, eyes brimming with tears, and Shane saying, “I’m so proud of you, Ilya. I’m so proud.”

Ilya wakes up, and sighs into his sheets.

He will be single forever, maybe. That’s okay with him, as long as he keeps dreaming of Shane.

 

Over the summer, Ilya travels. He and Sveta go to Italy, to Rome, where they explore historical sites and walk cobble-stoned streets. Shane would like Rome, Ilya thinks.

And then Ilya meets Rose in Greece, where they spend a week swimming and sunbathing and eating too much food, drinking too much wine. Shane would like that too.

After Greece, he flies back to Canada and spends five whole weeks at the Hollander cottage. David joins him for most of it, and then for one week, Ilya is by himself. Not really alone, per-say, because he has Shane in his thoughts, which is sometimes comforting and other times very lonely. So it varies. He spends a lot of time on the kayak, rowing, watching the water ripple, gazing at the stars. It’s in those moments he feels closest to Shane, even though he’s gone. And he’s not coming back.

 

At the end of the summer, Ilya returns to Montreal to prepare for his new job, his very own classroom. It’s the same school where he student-taught in his final university year, and he even has some familiar faces in his class. Ilya is fucking thrilled. Jackie helps him decorate the classroom where he’ll teach history, with maps and diagrams, posters and a reading corner. He’s determined to be good at this. And then the first day of school arrives in late August, a flurry of last minute printing and chaos, and Ilya loves every second, every student (even the most difficult ones), and despite being bone-tired by the end of the day, he is so grateful to be there.

It’s only been a few weeks, it’s mid-September, when it happens.

Ilya is at the board, writing out the directions for their next activity, not even looking, when Elise, one of his brightest and most quiet students, screams. At the sound, he spins around to see… something he doesn’t quite understand.

All the around the room, there are people – children – materializing. Slowly, as if pixel by pixel, cell by cell.

“Everyone stay calm,” Ilya tells his students, even though that seems like an insane thing to say. He is their authority figure after all. He needs to keep it together.

Time stretches and slows, and then their little classroom is suddenly holding at least eight additional kids.

One of his students, Kyle, breaks the shocked silence, saying, “Lenore?” He’s staring at one of the children that has just appeared, his face white, like he’s seen a ghost.

“Kyle? What– what just happened? Why are you in my classroom?” the girl looks around the room, eyes Ilya with confusion. “Where is Ms. Roy?”

“Lenore,” Kyle is sobbing now, throwing his arms around the girl. She pushes him off, annoyed. “Why are you crying? And how are you so tall…”

It can’t be. It can’t be. Ilya’s mind is going a million miles a minute.

“Eyes on me,” Ilya calls out to the class, trying to keep a grasp on the situation. “For those of you that just joined us, my name is Mr. Rozanov. Everything is okay, yes?”

Kyle is still sobbing, snot dripping down from his nose. “Mr. R, it’s my sister. She was gone, Mr. R, she was gone. My sister. She was dead. She’s back, she’s back.”

The girl named Lenore stares at Kyle in confusion. “What are you talking about? I–” Panic starts to bubble in her expression.

“Okay,” Ilya tries to say in his most steady voice. “How about we all sit down, and I am going to write down everyone’s names, yes? We will get in contact with your parents.”

“Why?” one of the recently appeared boys asks. “Who are you? How did you get here? A second ago–”

Ilya raises a hand to stop him. “Everything is okay. We are all okay, yes? Can everyone say yes?”

The students slowly, shakily repeat the word back to him. Ilya takes a careful breath.

“This is the most important thing to remember. We are all okay. Everyone is here now. We are all back.”

 

Part X: Return

Shane’s head is ringing, buzzing. The stadium lights have been turned off, which helps a little. He hears voices around him, one of the EMTs checking his vitals. “M’okay,” he tries to tell her, but she’s distracted, she calling out to other people. Where’s Ilya? He’s probably so worried, Shane thinks. He needs to tell Ilya he’s okay.

Hayden appears above him, eyebrows furrowed. “M’okay,” Shane tries to say again.

“Yeah, you’re okay, buddy,” Hayden confirms. “We’re gonna get you to the hospital, okay?”

“Tell him to keep his eyes open,” comes an unfamiliar voice, probably the EMT.

“Keep your eyes open,” Hayden repeats.

“Where’s Ilya?” Shane attempts to say, but his words come out garbled and wrong.

“What?” Hayden asks, still perplexed above him. Where’s Ilya?

The EMT is barking out orders, Shane is being lifted, his neck slotted into its position on the spinal board.

“Keep your eyes open,” Hayden repeats again, more urgently. Shane tries to, he wants to listen, he wants to ask about Ilya again, for Ilya to appear above him. But he fails on all accounts, and instead his heavy eyes shut.

 

 

David is working from home, because he does that most days now, enjoying the solitude and the ability to work on his puzzles or read his book when his schedule is light. It’s a regular day, a boring day even, so he’s in the kitchen, waiting for the pot to boil, when he hears a noise in the living room.

What could that be? Mildly curious, David takes a step forward, only for the source to reveal herself, waltzing into the kitchen like it’s not ground shaking, earth shattering, and completely insane.

“I thought we were watching the game?”

She looks like Yuna – her hair pulled into a practical ponytail, her skin smooth and clear and freckled. She’s wearing sweats, a soft cashmere sweater. The same thing as when she faded into the air.

She can't be real, and yet.

“David? Are you okay, honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

His wife, the woman he’s loved, the mother of his child, steps forward and places a hand on his forehead, checking for a temperature. Her touch is electric, warm and alive and David has no questions now.

“You’re back,” he breathes the words out.

“Back? I didn’t go anywhere,” Yuna says with an amused smile. David shakes his head. How can he explain this, when he himself barely understands?

“Yuna,” he starts slowly, realizing how close he is to crying. “I missed you so much.” Yuna’s amusement fades into genuine concern, soft affection.

“Baby–”

“Listen,” David interrupts her, placing his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her arms, confirming her presence. “I’m going to tell you a lot of things. I need you to pretend you believe me, until you do. Because it’s all true. Okay?”

Yuna’s eyes widen a little, but she nods, “Okay.”

So he tells her. About the Snap, how she vanished, Shane too. How David grieved them, made their stones, visited them often. How the world struggled without half its people, the global ramifications. And then, how one day, Rose Landry showed up on the doorstep with Ilya Rozanov. Here, David stops himself short, suddenly wondering… is Shane back? He’s been so captivated with convincing Yuna of her reality that he has not even considered that this miracle might also have touched his son. Where would Shane be?

David remembers, the game, the hit. Shane on the ice, not moving.

Yuna grips his shoulders, pulling him back to the moment. “What is it?”

“We need to get to Montreal. Shane is hurt.”

 

 

Jackie and Amber are the park, sitting on a bench eating the goldfish and apples that Jackie packed them as a snack. They have a half an hour before it’s time to pick Ruby up from school.

When it starts.

It’s almost horrific, time-bending and body altering, to watch people re-materialize into their bodies. Jackie at first doesn’t realize what she's seeing. Amber, beside her, grabs for her mother, crying out in terror.

All around them, there are children, adults, people that were not there seconds ago, appearing from nothing into something. Jackie pulls Amber into her arms, dropping the goldfish, and realizes, hopes desperately, that there are two small children back at their house.

With Amber in her arms, Jackie doesn’t think, she doesn’t stick around to watch the scene unfold. She sprints for home

It’s just a couple of blocks, but it feels like forever. The landscape only feeds her sense of urgency; people, confused, cars, honking, swerving, moving erratically.

She makes it to the front door, and sets Amber down to fumble with her keys.

“Mommy, what’s going on?” Amber sniffles.

“It’s okay, baby, hold on,” Jackie placates, and finally the door is open.

And there, standing in the entryway, is Jade. Four years old, dressed in her little jean overalls just like the day she disappeared.

“Arthur has a stinky diaper,” Jade announces, and Jackie races to her, drops to her knees, and squeezes Jade tight against her body. “Oh my god,” Jackie sobs. “Oh my god.”

“Mommy, you’re hurting me,” Jade complains, trying to wiggle out of her grasp. Jackie loosens her grip, but keeps her hands on her baby, her precious little girl.

“Sorry,” Jackie wipes her nose with one hand, laughing wetly. “Where’s your brother?”

Jade points to the living room, and then notices Amber, staring at her warily.

“Who’s that?”

“This is your sister Amber,” Jackie says. These kids are going to need therapy, she considers. She shelves that idea for later. “Come,” she takes each of their hands, leading them into the living room, where baby Arthur is sitting on the floor, wearing his cutest yellow-duck print onesie.

Jackie reaches for him, and he gives her the sweetest toothless smile. “Oh, baby,” she coos, bouncing him in her arms.

She feels her phone buzzing in her pocket, reaches for it, and stops breathing for a moment. She slams her finger on the accept button.

“Jackie?” Hayden’s voice comes through crisp and clear, real and alive. “They’re saying I disappeared for five years. Is that true? It sounds like a prank.”

Jackie starts laughing, hysterical. “It’s true,” she manages to say. “You were gone. You and Jade and Arthur and so many fucking people Hayd. You’re back. You’re back, I can't believe it.”

“Oh,” Hayden voices comes back softer. When he speaks again, he's determined, fierce. “Okay I’m on my way home then. I’ll be there soon. I love you.”

Jackie laughs again, tears streaming down her face. “I love you, Hayd. Can you pick up Ruby from school on your way?”

 

 

Ilya rushes to the check-in desk, sweaty and frazzled and completely out of his mind. “Hello, I am here to see a patient. Shane Hollander.”

The woman behind the desk looks at him warily. “What your relation to the patient?”

“Family,” Ilya says quickly.

“Okay,” she says without further question. “Let me scan your ID and I’ll make your a visitor pass. Typically visiting hours are over at this time… but today is different.”

Right. So much is different about today. Ilya fumbles his ID out of pocket, handing it over with shaky hands. The woman accepts it, presses it into her scanner.

“So. You new, or you been around?”

“I did not disappear and then reappear, if that is what you are asking. Is it done scanning?” Ilya is bouncing out of his skin. He spent so many hours at the school, making sure each one of his students, and the additional eight children, all made it back to their parents. Every reunion was emotional – parents who had been Snapped, coming to collect their kids who had aged five years, who had grieved them, kids who had been Snapped, confused at their parents’ emotional reactions. And siblings, like Kyle and Lenore, who are now suddenly the same age.

Ilya couldn’t let himself think about Shane until every student was squared away, safe and in their loved ones’ arms.

Then, and only then, did he check his phone. A missed call from David, and a couple of texts. I’m sure you know what is happening. Shane is back. They’re taking him to Montreal General. And then a couple hours later: Yuna and I are with him now. Concussion and a fractured collar bone. A separate text: I hope the school is okay. I can only imagine. Take your time, he is mostly sleeping, he’s out of it, doesn’t understand what happened.

“Here you go,” the lady hands Ilya a sticker visitor tag, which he slaps onto his chest. “Fourth floor, room 409.”

Ilya dashes to the elevators, waits anxiously for the next one, jumps inside quickly. When the doors open to the fourth floor, David is standing there, waiting for him.

“He is–” Ilya’s eyes widen, fear taking hold. Despite all he’d seen with the kids today, he can’t quite comprehend that Shane is back, not until he sees him. He can’t let himself believe it, is afraid to let himself feel relief, even though he already does.

“He’s asleep, he’s okay,” David says quickly. “I just wanted to come meet you. You okay, Ilya?”

Ilya swallows, uncertain if he can speak, if words will come out that make any sense. David reads his expression. “Come, see him. Then we’ll get you some water, a hug, maybe a nap.”

Ilya lets out a strangled laugh. “And Yuna..?”

David’s face goes impossibly soft. “She is in the room with him. Healthy, and happy, if not a bit confused. I told her… you were coming. And that there’s more to it. I didn’t want to overwhelm, or say anything you aren’t okay with. And I don’t know what Shane wants.”

“Yes, is okay, thank you, David,” Ilya gets out. “I am glad she is okay. Can I–”

“Yes! Yes, follow me.”

David leads him past the nurses’ station to the room marked 409. He pauses in front of it, letting Ilya go first. Hand shaking slightly, Ilya pushes the door open.

And there, in the hospital bed, cheeks pink with life, bearing the same light bruising from the impact of his helmet which Ilya had seen all those years ago, is Shane. His eyes are closed peacefully in sleep, but as Ilya stumbles forward, he sees, for certain, the steady rise and fall of Shane’s chest, breathing, alive.

Ilya’s slow, shocked march forward takes him right to Shane’s side, where he dares to reach out, to touch Shane’s face, lightly stroke his thumb over Shane’s freckles. His free hand flies to mouth to stifle the sound of the sob that escapes him. And then David is there, beside him, holding him as he falls apart.

He’s not sure how long he’s sobbing for, but the sweetest sound breaks him from the trance.

“Ilya?”

Ilya pulls away from David, whipping back to Shane, to see his eyes are just barely open now.

“S’okay,” Shane mumbles, groggy and barely coherent. “M’okay.”

“Shane,” Ilya cries, reaching for Shane’s hand on the bed. Shane is out of it, too groggy and high on pain meds to worry, or even realize, that his parents are in the room. He twists his fingers messily into Ilya’s.

“M’okay,” Shane repeats, seemingly worried for Ilya and his endless tears.

“Yes, moy lyubimyy, you are okay,” he repeats, bringing Shane’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles tenderly. “You can sleep.”

At this, Shane smiles happily, something beautiful that Ilya thought he would only ever see again in his dreams. It tears right through him, and Ilya swallows back a sob, fearing it will panic Shane and keep him from the rest he desperately needs.

David pulls a chair over for Ilya, so he can stay by Shane’s side, holding his hand, and Ilya collapses into it. Exhausted beyond belief, Ilya lays his cheek next to Shane’s side, oriented so he can see Shane’s face.

He fights sleep, wants to stay awake, to stay in this moment, because he’s sure if he succumbs to his exhaustion, he’ll wake up to find it’s all a cruel dream. But Ilya’s day has been too long, everything so much, too much. With the warm comfort of Shane, their fingers interlocked, his bed warm, his face right there, proof of life, Ilya finds a peace so thorough that he can’t possibly convince his body to stay awake.

 

Ilya wakes sometime in the middle of the night, his back aching from the angle of being hunched over on the hospital bed. But it doesn’t matter. Because Shane is still here, breathing, living. Here. Not a dream.

Ilya has to pee, so he regretfully frees his hand from Shane’s, giving Shane’s knuckles a quick kiss before quietly stepping into the hall.

He finds a bathroom down the hall, and then wanders further down to find a little coffee vending machine. It will probably taste like shit, but Ilya needs it, so he selects a regular black coffee, taps his card, and waits while the machine magically concocts his beverage.

As it’s sputtering out the last dripples, Ilya hears the sound of footsteps approaching, turns his head to see none other than Yuna Hollander. She's wearing one of Shane’s hoodies, bundled into it despite it being too large for her. She looks sleepy, but her eyes are warm and welcoming.

“Hi,” Ilya starts, suddenly nervous. It’s not the best conditions to meet Shane’s mom. Or – maybe it’s the best, actually. Considering they were both dead until yesterday. The perspective shift helps Ilya stand a little taller. He knows who he is – a man who loves this woman’s son and has grieved him quite openly for the past five years. There’s nothing for him to be ashamed of. “I’m Ilya.” He sticks out a hand for her to shake.

Yuna accepts it. “Yes, I know,” she says, smiling awkwardly. “I’m Yuna.”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya parrots, and they exchange a wry smile.

“Listen,” Yuna starts, looking uncertain about what she wants to say. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around this whole five-years-gone thing. But… David won’t tell me much about you, why you’re… here. Says it should come from you.”

Ilya nods. “Yes, he is not wrong. But what I have to say… it impacts Shane. And since he is not dead anymore… I do not think I can share it.”

Yuna sighs. “I thought you might say that.”

Ilya smiles apologetically. “But I can tell you other things. I can tell you I have lived in Montreal for the past four years.”

“Oh?” Yuna perks up, happy for any bit of information.

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “And I don’t play hockey anymore. I went to college, and I graduated in the spring. David came to the ceremony. Jackie, too. And Rose.”

“Wow,” Yuna says, her eyes wide as she processes this information, the reality of so many years passed by.

“I teach grade six now,” Ilya tells her, proudly. “History and government. Oh– and I am a Canadian. I have been for four years now.”

“Wow,” Yuna whispers again, sadness creeping in. “So much time. So much life you have lived, but for us it was just one moment to the next.”

Ilya retrieves his coffee from the dispenser, taking a careful sip. “Yes,” he agrees. “I think it will be hard, this transition. But will not be nearly as hard as living the rest of my life without Shane. So it will end up okay.”

Ilya’s said more than he’s meant to, because he’s lived so long out of the closet, so long freely admitting his affections, and dipping into somber poetries in an effort to understand the cruelties of life, of surviving when others do not.

Yuna wipes her eyes. “How was David, all those years? Was he lonely?”

“He missed you so much,” Ilya admits. “It is impossible to escape, this grief. I think even with everyone back, we may carry the scars. But it was not all bad, like I said. We had many holidays, trips to the cottage. David did a lot of puzzles.”

Yuna laughs, high and clear, despite the tears still in her eyes. “I’m sure he did,” she says. “Thank you, Ilya,” Yuna adds, her words soaked in feeling.

“Of course,” Ilya responds, because all he did was be himself. It’s easy.

 

In the morning, while Shane is still sleeping, they sneak out to the hallway to talk, the three of them. David suggests that he and Yuna go to Shane’s penthouse and prepare it for him, for when he’s discharged. Ilya opens his mouth to argue that Shane should just come stay with him, at his place, when David cuts him off gently.

“He's going to be disoriented. I think we should try to give him a familiar space.”

And fuck, that's true. “Okay,” Ilya agrees half-heartedly.

“And this way, Ilya,” David continues. “You can talk to him without us around. I think when he wakes up more, he might be more… anxious. About…”

Ilya nods, understanding. “Yes you are right. Good idea, David.”

Yuna looks between them, trying to decipher. “With time, Yuna,” David appeases, smiling at her. She hums, restrained acceptance.

 

When Ilya goes back to Room 409, the nurse is just leaving.

“Oh, he’s all drugged up now. Just a heads up,” the nurse tells him. Ilya nods his gratitude, and pushes the door open.

Shane is sitting up now, and when he sees Ilya, his eyes go soft, an almost drunken grin spreads across his face. “Ilyaaa!” he exclaims. Ilya bites the inside of his cheek so he’s not beaming like an idiot, but… he’s still beaming like an idiot. An idiot in love, who grieved this person for five years.

Ilya strides across the room, reaching Shane’s side, sinking back into the chair, taking Shane’s hand.

“Yessss,” Shane says in response. “Be-tter.”

Ilya reaches out to softly stroke Shane’s cheek. “How are you feeling, Shane?”

Shane leans into Ilya’s touch, closing his eyes and basking in it. “Mm, I’m okay. Hey Ilya, I had a whole plan to ask you something…”

“Oh?”

“Will you… come to my cottage this summer?”

Ilya is overcome with emotions, feelings that tangle and coil and overwhelm his system. Five years ago, while Ilya had been plotting to break things off, Shane had been planning to invite Ilya to his favorite place on earth? What did he do to deserve this, this treasure, this reunion, this very conversation, every moment with Shane?

Shane continues, more to say, “It’s soo nice, and no one will know, and we can have a week or even two, just us. Alone! Togetherrr."

I love you, I love you, I love you, Ilya thinks on repeat.

“Yes,” Ilya says, brushing his fingers through Shane’s hair. “Yes, yes, Shane, I want this.”

They’ve already decided to wait until Shane is off the pain meds to explain the whole you-disappeared-into-thin-air-for-five-years thing, so Ilya doesn’t try to break it to him that summer just ended. It doesn’t matter anyways. What matters is that Ilya chooses Shane, and Shane chooses Ilya. “Yeah?” Shane opens his eyes, his grin wide and almost goofy.

“Yes,” Ilya repeats, fervently.

“You won’t go to Russia?”

“I would never go to Russia when I can be with you in Canada instead.”

Shane smiles, dopey. “Gooood. I want you here! With me!” Shane blinks heavily, like he’s fighting slumber.

“You can sleep, Shane,” Ilya tells him. “I will be here when you wake up.”

“Really? What if… someone… my parents…”

“It's okay,” Ilya soothes. “It's just us right now. We’re okay.”

Shane hums, letting his eyes shut. “O-key,” he agrees, drifting off.

 

While David and Yuna take Shane back to his penthouse (which has been thoroughly cleaned, or at least decently dusted) and David figures out the best way to break the news to him (Ilya and David decided it’s probably best if the bomb comes from his dad), Ilya calls Jackie and offers to help, if she needs.

“Yes,” she agrees without question. “Please, Ilya. This is hard. I need you and your Amber-and-Ruby expertise, please.”

So he turns up on Jackie’s doorstep, but it’s not Jackie that opens the front door when he rings the bell. It’s Hayden.

“Rozanov,” he says, serious. “Jackie said you were coming, but I hoped she was kidding.”

“I’m glad you are back,” Ilya says, skipping all the bullshit. “Jackie really really missed you. And Ruby. And Amber needs her dad.”

Hayden’s brow furrows, complicated emotions flashing across his face.

“Since when did you get so nice?” Hayden quips.

“It’s been five years,” Ilya reminds him. “A lot has changed. Jackie and I are besties and I am also nice now.”

“Uncle Ilya!” Amber races up from behind Hayden, bursting through to hug Ilya’s legs.

“Hi Amber!” Ilya squats down to give her a proper hug. He expects Hayden to scoff something about this, about his kid calling Ilya uncle, but when he looks to Hayden, he finds that Hayden wears an expression that can only be described as devastation. Of course. Because Amber doesn’t even know Hayden.

“Amber, you met your dad? He is very cool guy, I think you will like him. And your Uncle Shane, too,” Ilya says. Obviously, he’s not solving anything, this is too big for a quick fix of any kind, but it feels like a sentiment that should be expressed. Amber nods.

“Yes, Mommy said. I have a sister and a brother, too. Do you want to meet them?”

Ilya looks to Hayden, not wanting to overstep more than he already has. Hayden’s eyes are complicated, but soft. He holds the door open: an invitation.

“I’ll come in for a little,” Ilya tells Hayden. “And then leave you to it.”

“It’s fine,” Hayden says, halfway genuine and half reluctant. “Jackie said you were a big help. I guess I didn't really believe it until now. I–” Hayden somewhat suddenly chokes on his words, staring at the ground before glancing back at Ilya nervously. “Thanks,” Hayden utters.

Ilya shakes his head. “Do not thank me. It was all Jackie. And really, I should thank you. For coming back.”

Hayden shrugs, frowning. “I didn’t do anything. That’s kind of the problem.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “It’s not your fault, though. And everything will be better now, regardless.”

Hayden smiles, something real, that’s a little sad still, but also, encouragingly, quite hopeful.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

a big THANK YOU for reading! i appreciate you all <3

Part XI: True Reunion

Shane starts to notice things. The date is the first – the nurse has written it on the little whiteboard on the wall, along with her name.

“She wrote the wrong month,” Shane points out to his parents, because to him it seems like an obvious mistake. His dad hums, not really responding. Weird. Writing October when it's actually April is a pretty big error – he thought his mom, at the very least, would laugh about it.

Whatever. He asks for his phone, and that’s the next indication that something is off. Because no one will fucking give him his phone.

“It’s at your apartment,” David tells him, but he's clearly lying because he’s doing the thing where he doesn’t look Shane in the eyes. He only does that when he’s being evasive.

“Well, didn't you go there earlier? Can't you go get it?”

His dad winces, caught.

“You’re not supposed to be on screens,” his mom jumps in, and immediately Dad is nodding along in agreement.

“I know,” Shane moans. “But I need to check if… people are probably worried about me, texting me.” He remembers, vaguely, Ilya coming earlier in the day to see him, being sweet, and maybe saying yes to coming to his cottage over the summer, though Shane fears perhaps he’s imagined this, in his drugged-up stupor. And he's definitely imagining that Ilya came to visit last night. Has Ilya texted him since this morning? Maybe he’s said something that might indicate if Shane made up the whole thing or not. Shane’s head aches, and he wishes he could be in his bed, alone. Or maybe with Ilya again.

“Is there someone you want to call?” Mom asks, placing a light hand on his bed.

“No,” Shane lies, laying his head back against the bed and closing his eyes.

“Okay sweetie,” his mom says in response, which is really annoying that she's talking while he's obviously trying to sleep.

Things really start to seem off when they get to Shane’s apartment.

“Did you move stuff?” Shane huffs, bothered that his parents would reorganize his apartment.

“We had to clean,” Mom says. “It was dusty, you would have gotten a cough.”

Shane doesn’t miss the way Dad shoots Mom a warning glance. What the hell was that? They’re being so fucking weird.

“How’s your head, Shane?” his dad asks.

“I mean, it hurts,” Shane grumbles. “Where’s my phone?”

He watches his parents exchange another one of those looks, and maybe it’s just the constant ache in his brain, but Shane is irritated beyond belief.

“What?” he snaps at them, blinking expectantly. They both freeze, panic across their expressions. “I know something is up. What is it?”

“Shane…” Dad starts slowly, so fucking slow, swallowing nervously. “We need to tell you something. Let’s sit down,” Dad suggests, tentatively walking to the living room couch. Shane doesn’t know what to do. He’s annoyed, yes, but there’s an edge of intensity in his father that he can’t decipher, that he doesn’t understand. All he wants to do is go to bed and put his head under the covers, in the darkness.

“Fine,” he sits in the sofa chair, his parents positioning themselves carefully on the couch adjacent to him. Why couldn’t his dad just say whatever it is while they’re standing? Now it’s just dragging out. “Okay, can you tell me? I want to go to bed.”

Dad clears his throat, leaning his forearms on his legs. “Shane,” he starts, hands open in front of him. “Right after you got hit on the ice… something happened. Something that affected the whole world.”

Shane frowns. What does that even mean?

“It sounds crazy, but… roughly half the planet’s population was… snapped out existence.”

Shane’s annoyance grows. What the fuck? “What?” he says aloud, doing nothing to mask his lack of patience for this.

“Listen, Shane,” Mom cuts in, combating his brattiness with a stern voice. “This is very important.”

Dad nods, and keeps speaking, “I know it’s a lot to comprehend. But yes, people just vanished into thin air. And…” his dad glances to his mom, a pained look in his eyes. “You disappeared. Your mom, too.”

Shane’s brain is fuzzy already, this new data does not compute at all. He winces at the pain, his frustration fading into confusion. “I don’t understand. We disappeared? I don’t remember anything.”

“I didn’t really either,” Mom sets a hand on his knee, her eyes soft. “Not at first. Slowly, it came back to me, the memory of fading away, and then coming back. But you were injured Shane, and with the concussion… it might be even more disorienting.”

Shane closes his eyes, tries to make it make sense. Opening them again, he confirms, “So half the world disappeared? But not you, Dad?”

“Not me,” his dad states steadily. “I saw it happen, though, to your mom. She just started to fade away, starting at her feet, into thin air.” His voice is soaked with pain, that’s the only way Shane can comprehend that what his dad is saying is not a fiction.

“Why?” Shane asks the real question, the big one. And Dad shakes his head.

“That’s something we don’t know. It was random, we think. An anomaly. The researchers proposed it was something from a faraway galaxy, some dimension or science we can’t understand.”

“But why me and Mom and not you?” There’s no logic to it, it doesn’t make sense to Shane.

“I don’t know,” Dad says, smiling sympathetically at Shane’s confusion. “They say it was random. True random.”

Shane wants to curl up into a ball. “But,” he gazes at his parents. “It was only for a second? Or–”

He cuts himself off, because his dad just wears such heartbreak, something so crestfallen in his expression that Shane has never seen before, not on his dad. “Longer than that,” Dad says the words low and shaky, his voice hollow.

“Well, how long then?” He can’t help how his voice pitches upwards, panic rising. Dad swallows.

“Five years and five months.”

“Five…” Shane’s eyes drop to the floor as he processes the number, the units of time, the scale of it. Five fucking years?

“I thought I had lost you both forever,” his dad’s wet voice shakes Shane back to reality. He looks up, refocusing, to see his father with tears streaming down his face, his mom rubbing his back. Dad sniffles, and continues. “Until yesterday. I was home, and I heard a noise, and then… your mother walked into the room. I thought I was dreaming.”

Five years?

Shane finds his face has grown wet with tears, the salty flavor dripping onto his lips. He wipes his cheeks, his numb mind trying to think, understand.

Five fucking years?

And then he remembers Ilya coming to hospital room that morning, coming to his side, holding his hand, caressing his cheek.

Five years. And five months.

“Where’s my phone?” Shane blinks at his parents, who are both crying, just like him. His dad sniffles, and reaches into his pocket, swiping into his own phone.

“Your old phone is back in Ottawa, in storage,” Dad explains. “You can use mine.” And then his dad hands Shane his own, open to a contact: Ilya Rozanov.

Shane’s breathing hitches, his eyes widening as he fumbles for the phone, head whipping to his dad.

Dad just smiles and nods. “He missed you.”

Shane opens his mouth to speak, but finds his throat dry. “I–” he manages to utter, but he finds he doesn’t know what to say. Five fucking years? Five years? And his dad has Ilya as a contact in his phone? Shane glances back down at the phone, and he notices the photo on the contact. He squints at it, even though the glare of the screen makes his head scream.

It’s Ilya, wearing a cap and gown, and a grin so wide it could break the screen. Before he can think through what that means, what five years means, Shane is standing, hitting call, and pacing towards his room.

The ringing stops after the second tone.

“David?” Ilya’s voice pours through the phone speaker, and Shane has hold back a sob. Five years?

“Is it true?” He’s trying to keep his voice steady, but it comes out rocky, shaking. “Five years?”

“Shane,” Ilya breathes his name with so much relief it aches to think about. “Yes, five years,” Ilya confirms. He sounds so fucking sad. Five fucking years?

“I–” Shane can’t hold back the sob this time, and it rips through him painfully, his collarbone sharply reminding him of its tenderness. “Fuck,” he winces, holding his arm still in attempt to stabilize the injury.

“Shane,” Ilya says, full of concern. “Are you okay? Can I– can I come see you?”

God, he wants Ilya here right now. Nothing would make him happier. But–

“My parents are here,” Shane reports regretfully. “Maybe I can–” He remembers how Dad has Ilya in his phone, how Ilya answered the phone saying his dad’s name. Five years is a long time. What happened in that time?

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice returns, more uncertain than before. “Your dad… I told him. About us. And… you. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it alone. I didn’t know you would come back or I wouldn’t have–”

“Ilya,” Shane cuts him off, desperate. “Come over.”

“Okay, yes, I– I’m sorry,” Ilya says again.

“It’s okay, Ilya, please, just get here, yeah? I’ll have my dad text you the doorcode.”

“Okay, yes, okay,” Ilya fumbles out his words. “Okay, I will be there soon.”

“Drive carefully,” Shane reminds him.

“Yes, bossy,” Ilya somehow manages to tease him, and it causes Shane to release a sort of half-sob, half-laugh.

 

His head is pounding, and now his collarbone is starting to hurt again, whatever meds the hospital had last given him wearing off, but Shane doesn’t want to take anything too strong, so he accepts acetaminophen and water from his mom, and then he goes to lay down in his bed while he waits for Ilya to arrive.

His sheets are fresh, his parents must have washed them, but his room in general is a little musty, a bit stale after so many years of stillness. Shane wraps himself in his fluffy duvet and closes his eyes, willing the throbbing in his brain to pause. He doesn’t even realize he’s drifted off, until he hears the sound of his bedroom door opening, footsteps on the hardwood floors.

Shane sleepily pushes the duvet off his head, and there in front of him, is Ilya.

Ilya looks worn thin, desperately tired, but his expression is so soft, so loving, so tender. So grateful. “Shane,” he says, and Shane’s surprised by the difference in his accent, how the sharpness of it has faded with time.

Shane throws the blanket open further, an invitation for Ilya to join him here in his cocoon of coziness. Ilya mind seems to aboslutely melt at the prospect, his eyes widening, his jaw going slightly slack. Then he’s laying down, Shane’s dropping the blanket over him, and the warmth of Ilya’s body wraps around Shane.

Ilya lays his head next to Shane’s, their faces a whisper away. His hands find Shane’s hair, his cheeks, caressing, holding him. Shane hadn’t known Ilya could be this affectionate. He fucking loves it.

“I missed you,” Ilya says, tears brimming. “I missed you so fucking much, Shane, oh my god.”

“I’m so sorry. I missed so much,” Shane whispers, ashamed of how little time has passed in his own psyche, while Ilya was all alone. For so many years.

“No, no, you do not apologize for this,” Ilya holds Shane’s face, staring into his eyes intensely. “You apologize for nothing. You came back to me. You were gone, Shane. You were–” Ilya chokes on his own words, tears streaming down his face. Shane’s heart twists horribly, he reaches up to wipe Ilya’s face, and finds himself just touching Ilya, his curls, his neck. God, Shane has wanted this for so long. Even without five years, he’s so fucking grateful to have Ilya here in his home, in his arms.

They are both a little too emotional to speak for a bit after that, so they just cry and hold each other, and then Shane breaks the balance by pressing his lips to Ilya’s, tenderly, softly, because he doesn’t want to jostle his collarbone too much, and Ilya is almost too overwhelmed to kiss back at first. But then he does, something chaste and sweet, so full of careful affection.

“You are okay? Your head hurts, your collarbone?” Ilya finds his words, caressing a thumb over Shane’s cheek.

“It’s fine,” Shane says, because seriously, these injuries are nothing compared to what Ilya has had to endure. For five fucking years. “Are you…” Shane doesn’t know where to start, what to say. Ilya sniffles, smiling sadly.

“Oh, right now I am very happy. I think maybe a little in shock. I am worried you are a dream. I dreamed of you so much, and it would always feel so real. But this…”

“I’m pretty sure I’m real,” Shane says, which gains him a laugh from Ilya.

“Yes, I think so,” he agrees. Shane swallows, rephrases his original half-spoken question.

“But, I mean,” Shane says. “Five years… I– what happened to you?”

Ilya’s face falls a little, an uncertainty creeping in. “Shane, I don’t know… is a lot, yes? And your brain needs to rest.”

“I know,” Shane says, because yeah, his head is hurting again, his eyes are heavy. “And you can tell me everything later. But just for now, are you… are you okay? Before I came back, I mean.”

Ilya’s mouth gets small as he rolls the question around in his brain. Finally, when Shane is thoroughly on the edge of his seat, Ilya speaks.

“For awhile, I was not okay, in a bad way. I missed you, and I felt so far from you. And then… I moved here. I moved into your secret sex building actually,” Ilya laughs, which causes Shane to smile fondly, even though he’s still thinking about what Ilya said about not being okay in a bad way. Because what the hell does that mean? Ilya's brushing past it though, moving on. “And I found a community here in Montreal. I made friends, got a job, oh, and I became a Canadian citizen.” Ilya pauses at that, beaming with pride, eager for Shane’s reaction.

“Holy shit, really?” Shane returns his earnestness with a wide grin, matching Ilya’s excitement.

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, still grinning. Shane wants to eat him, god he loves Ilya so much. “When half the world disappears, countries really want you to stay,” he laughs again when he says it. Shane gets a little hung up on the logistics of that – he hadn’t considered all the ramifications of half the world’s population just vanishing. It must have been a shitshow.

“Anyway, things got easier for me,” Ilya continues. “But grief doesn’t really get smaller. So maybe I was not okay sometimes, but I learned to be okay with that.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say. It’s sort of bizarre, hearing such beautifully phrased emotional intelligence from the man that (like Shane) could not communicate his feelings for so many years. “Wow,” Shane manages.

“I am profound now,” Ilya jokes, smiling, stroking a thumb across Shane’s cheek again. Shane giggles softly, sighing, content. His eyes are getting heavier, which he hates, because he doesn’t want to waste a moment of time with Ilya.

“It’s okay,” Ilya reads his mind. “I will sleep too. We can talk more in the morning. I have to tell you how all your friends are obsessed with me now. And your dad. And I think your mom might be a fan, too.”

Shane laughs, unable to feel anything besides joy at the prospect of waking up next to Ilya, for the first time ever, in his very own bed. Yeah, deep in his gut he’s anxious as fuck about people knowing – about him, and being gay and… being in love with his rival. But right now, it’s just him and Ilya. Nothing else has to matter right now.

Shane yawns, smacking his lips sleepily. “Okay, tell me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Ilya promises.

 

“You apartment is very you,” Ilya says, smiling as he looks around, scooping coffee grounds at the same time. Shane’s dad had been kind enough to stock them with some essentials before his parents went to stay at Ilya’s for the night. Which is crazy, that whole concept, for Shane to wrap his head around – his parents staying at the building he specifically bought in order to fuck Rozanov.

“Be careful,” Shane chastises. “You’ll get coffee everywhere if you don’t pay attention.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, grinning. He sets down the scoop, loops around the side of the kitchen island, right up to Shane, where he plants a kiss on his forehead.

“What was that for?” Shane asks, confused but touched by the affection.

“I have to make up for five years,” Ilya shrugs, his hands swiping through Shane’s hair. Shane decides not to care if there’s residual coffee grounds now in his hair from Ilya’s hands. Instead, he tilts his head up, perfectly angled so Ilya can lean down and kiss him on the mouth this time. Which he does. When Ilya pulls away, he does so slowly, opening his eyes to gaze at Shane. There’s so much emotion in his eyes, a galaxy of thoughts, half a decade of memories, so much depth. Shane wants his lips again, needs more, but Ilya stays hovering an inch away, maintaining the eye contact.

“I love you,” Ilya says. He says the words easily, freely. Shane is too stunned to speak, his eyes wide on Ilya.

“I told you in Russian,” Ilya continues. “Back when I called you from Moscow, after my father died. I told you in fucking Russian, because I was a coward. I have hated myself for five years because I did not have the courage to say it in a way you could understand.”

Oh, Ilya. Shane reaches a palm up to Ilya’s face, like he can wipe away the pain and regret he finds there. “I love you so fucking much,” Shane says, the weight of the words pulling something loose in his chest, something he didn’t know he was holding onto. “So fucking much, Ilya. Oh my god.”

Ilya crashes his lips into Shane’s, a bit recklessly given how injured Shane is, but the passion overrules. It goes a little too far though, and Shane winces, so Ilya immediately pulls back, instead running his fingers through Shane’s hair, a safe, soothing touch.

“I can’t believe I get to have you in this life,” Ilya whispers. Shane hums, sighing contentment.

 

“You profile photo in my dad’s phone,” Shane starts the question as they settle into the couch, each holding their coffees, Ilya’s feet in Shane’s lap. “You… went to university?” He feels dumb asking the question, but Ilya is nodding, smiling.

“Yes,” he says. “I studied to be a teacher. I just started full-time. Grade six.”

Shane’s jaw drops. Rozanov is a teacher? “Really?”

“Yes!” Ilya smirks. “You have sexy teacher fantasy?”

“What, no?” Shane says, but it comes out sounding more like a question, which sends Ilya into a fit of giggles. “Shut up,” Shane grumbles, but he’s smiling too, unable not to at the sound of Ilya’s joy.

“Will you show me pictures? From your graduation,” Shane says, recentering the conversation. Ilya brightens, if it’s even possible for him to be brighter than he already is.

“Of course,” he agrees. “But only a little, yes? Because you are not supposed to–”

“Screens, I know,” Shane waves him off. “God, you sound like my mom.”

“Good,” Ilya smiles. “Yuna is a very smart lady.”

The photos say a lot, tell Shane who supported Ilya through everything. There’s Ilya with Dad and Rose, all three beaming and holding onto each other with easy affection. There’s Jackie Pike, frowning at the camera. “I said something annoying,” Ilya explains. “But she laughed after this.” And sure enough, Jackie is doubled over in the next picture, hysterical. And then Ilya with two girls: one of them is obviously one of the Pike twins, but the other… “Ruby and Amber,” Ilya says. “Amber,” Shane repeats, processing the new child, the stranger to him. “And Ruby. What about…”

Ilya presses his lips together. “They are back now. Arthur, Jade, and Hayden. I was at their house right before I came here yesterday.”

Shane’s head aches. His best friend is surely devastated that he missed so much of his children’s lives. And Arthur and Jade? What would it be like for them now, with a new sister, Jade’s twin now five years older than her.

“It will be okay,” Ilya reminds him, a tender hand on Shane’s shoulder. “They were gone, and now they are back. Anything is better than that.”

Shane hums, too overwhelmed to come up with a good answer.

“Do you want to rest?” Ilya asks, concern in his voice.

“It’s okay,” Shane says, finding his own voice. “We can keep going.”

The next photo is Ilya and a woman he doesn’t know.

“Svetlana,” Ilya provides. “My old friend from Russia. I stayed with her in New York, in the beginning.” His voice gets a little restrained, like there's something more to the story. Shane doesn’t push; he can't imagine what he would have done if he were in Ilya’s shoes, how he would have coped. It makes him deeply upset to think about Ilya like that, “in a bad way.”

“Let me know you pictures from the party,” Ilya says excitedly, swiping to another set of images.

And there’s J.J., holding a beer in one hand and tongs in the other, a full grill beside him. “J.J.,” Shane breathes out his shock. Ilya nods. “We are bros, we go to the gym together.”

Well that’s awesome. Shane loves it. He loves how the people he loves, the most important people to him, they’ve all cultivated beautiful, individual relationships with the man he’s been secretly pining over for years.

But, there’s maybe the fact that his parents know – or at least his dad knows – that he’s gay. Does anyone else know?

“What is wrong?” Ilya’s voice pulls him from his anxious thoughts, his tone warm, his hand comforting on Shane’s thigh. “We can stop, Shanya, is okay.”

“Um,” Shane swallows, his throat thick. “I just– I–”

“You are wondering who knows about you,” Ilya says, his eyes drenched in concern, no judgement present. He’s clicked his phone off, set it down beside him.

“I don’t blame you,” Shane adds quickly, because the last thing he wants is for Ilya to feel badly about it, about reaching out to others for support, about forging relationships with Shane’s family and friends.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” Ilya says. “It was tricky, at first, and I didn’t want to tell anyone. But… Jackie I think figured it out. And then, I talked to Rose. And together we told your dad. Um, I also told J.J. Or, well, he guessed actually.”

“He what?” Shane goes bug-eyed.

“I told him about me, and being in love with you,” Ilya amends quickly. “And then he came to me and asked me if I thought you were into guys. And I told him, then.”

Shane blows out a breath, more anxious than he’d prefer to admit. Though it might be obvious. “And? He was okay about it?”

Ilya tilts his body so he’s facing Shane more directly, takes both of Shane’s hands in his. “Shane, yes. They accept you. Everyone loves you. But I am sorry I took away your chance to tell them.” Shane opens his mouth to cut him off, but Ilya barrels forward. “I know it was a very strange situation, but I am still sorry. Everyone should get to choose. But you tell you mom, and Hayden. And everyone else. When you like, if you want.”

Shane nods, and feels his eyes start to brim with yet-to-be-shed tears.

“What about hockey?” because it affects everything, everything for Shane.

Ilya’s face falls, he looks down at their hands linked together.

“I am… Shane, I do not know. I do think I want to go back to that world. But if you do… I will support you. Whatever you want, I will be on your side. If you want.”

Shane’s not sure what to do with that information. It’s not a surprise, really, to hear Ilya express that he’s done with hockey, given everything he’s been through. But for Shane, it was only days ago that they were facing off on the ice, and the change is dramatic, a lot to understand. How will things change if he doesn’t have Rozanov to compete against?

The second sentiment sticks a little harder. Ilya will be by his side. Could Shane do that? Be with Ilya and play hockey? But he wants, desperately, to be with Ilya. He needs to be with Ilya. His head hurts.

“You do not have to decide it all now,” Ilya soothes, squeezing Shane’s hands. “You recover, and in the meantime, the MLH will figure themselves out, and then we figure out what it looks like, yes?”

“Okay,” Shane agrees, because his head is starting to throb now, and it’s so much to wrap his mind around, too much to decide. “But to clarify,” he adds, because he needs to say it. “I want to be with you, too. I just don’t know about the rest of it yet.”

Ilya smiles, something that reaches his eyes, something true. “Yes, that’s okay. Like I said, we will figure it out.”

Shane nods, growing lethargic.

“Do you want to lie down for a bit? Take a pain med for your collarbone?”

Shane nods numbly, and lets Ilya situate him on the couch so he’s laying facing the inside, a blanket over him. “Will you stay?” Shane asks, his voice gravelly as he hurdles towards a nap.

“I’m right here,” Ilya affirms, lifting up Shane’s feet to lay them in his lap. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Shane settles with that feeling, that whole body assurance, that Ilya is here with him, that Ilya loves him.

“I love you,” Shane sighs, and somewhere far off, he hears Ilya say in Russian, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

 

Part XII: Adjustment

Ilya doesn't know how he got so fucking lucky.

He plies his injured Shane with water and ice packs and low-grade pain killers and home cooked meals and love. For nearly two weeks, they lounge around together in bliss. At least, Ilya is in bliss. Shane is maybe a little bit, except he does have a concussion and a fractured collar bone. So it’s less of a vacation for him.

After two weeks, Ilya has to go back to work.

“Really?” Shane whines, which is cute, and reflective of how Ilya feels too.

“Yes, these kids must learn,” Ilya says with a teasing smile.

David comes to pick him up, take him to Ottawa for the next few weeks where he can finish recovering under his parents’ watchful eyes. Ilya isn’t thrilled about it, the separation, but it’s best for Shane. “I’ll see you on Friday,” Ilya promises his boyfriend (his boyfriend!). “I will come stay for the weekends. And I will call you after school.”

“You better,” Shane grumbles. He’s been moody with the constant headaches. Ilya’s obsessed with moody Shane. He’s such a diva about stupid shit, it’s endearing.

“Shaaaane, do no be mad at me,” Ilya draws out his syllables, teasing, planting a kiss on Shane’s forehead that he pretends to dodge, but clearly still very much wants.

“I’m not mad,” Shane huffs, and based on the smile on his lips, this seems accurate. “I’m just…” his tone peters off, his eyes growing heavier. Ilya drops his silliness, takes Shane’s hand.

“I know,” Ilya guesses, caressing his thumb over the backside of Shane’s hand. “It will be okay, though, yes?”

Shane looks up, his eyes shining. “Will you be okay?”

Ilya smiles, something soft. “I will do my best, yes?”

The answer doesn’t seem to appease Shane, who frowns sharply.

“Ilya–”

“Shane,” Ilya cuts him off, giving him a skeptical look. “You are not dead, you are just in Ottawa. I will be fine.”

“Alright boys,” David says, interrupting as he comes around to the other side of the car. “We gotta hit the road if we’re going to beat the traffic.”

 

When Ilya arrives on Friday evening, Shane is in his childhood bed, wearing nothing but his boxers. Fuck. Ilya has to be strong; Shane still has that stupid fucking concussion that keeps giving him headaches. Besides, it’s immediately obvious he has something on his mind.

“What?” Ilya prompts.

“I thought maybe… I mean I want…” Shane huffs, almost frustrated with himself for the time it’s taking to get the words out. “I want to come out to my mom. And I guess my dad, too, properly. Maybe tomorrow. Would you… be there? With me?”

“Of course,” Ilya releases the tension in his shoulders, the stress he didn’t realize he’d been carrying all week, the intensity of working with the kids, who were so raw and emotional and struggling to integrate back into regular, everyday life. “Of course, Shane. Anything you need.”

 

They sit at the dining room table, coffees in front of each of them.

“So… Mom… I know you’ve been wondering why Ilya… uh, yeah, just about it. And I guess, while we were gone, Ilya told Dad. Which is good, actually, obviously, uh,” Shane swallows his words. Ilya taps his foot against Shane’s, gives him an encouraging nod. Shane takes a breath, nods determinedly back at Ilya. He looks back towards his mom.

“I’m gay,” Shane states. “And I’ve been wanting to tell you, I guess. But I wasn’t… ready? I don’t know. Uh, and Ilya and I… we’re… I mean, we didn’t use to be, but now we’re together. Like, I love him.”

Yuna blinks. “Wow.”

“You didn’t guess?” Shane says, a little breathless.

“I mean, I thought, probably. But it’s different, hearing you say it out loud. Confirming it. I– wow,” Yuna sighs, takes a steadying sip of her coffee.

“Thanks for telling us, Shane,” David says, reaching a hand over to rub Yuna’s back.

“Oh,” Yuna looks up suddenly, at her son. “Yes, Shane, I–” Yuna doesn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence she’s started. Instead, she tries again. “How long have you and Ilya been together?”

“Uh,” Shane swallws nervously again, his eyes darting to Ilya. “Awhile. But not… like exclusive.”

“But now, yes, exclusive,” Ilya says, a little proud in a way that makes David smile at him.

“Yeah,” Shane confirms, eyes soft on Ilya now, the connection seeming to melt some of his anxiety away. “Yeah now exclusive.”

“And before now?” Yuna presses, looking between Shane and Ilya. Shane winces.

“Uh, our rookie reason.”

“Your rookie season?!” Yuna exclaims, her mouth falling open.

“No, that’s not true,” Ilya says, glancing at Shane. “Since the summer before.”

“Not helpful,” Shane frowns at him, but Yuna is nodding, understanding dawning on her.

“The CCM photoshoot,” she says, and Shane balks.

“What? How did you– how–” Shane sputters, his cheeks heating red.

“The photo,” Yuna says. “You haven’t seen it? It’s hanging in Ilya’s apartment, in the entryway.”

“Photo?” Shane is growing panicked, eyes wide.

“Not that kind of photo,” Ilya reaches over to cover Shane’s hand with his, trying to soothe him quickly. “The photoshoot. When we were laughing. I tracked down the photographer.”

Shane’s stress snaps away, replaced by a light shock, and then, “Oh,” he says, his voice small. “I’ve never seen that photo.”

“Well, you’ll just have to come over then. Is very nice building,” Ilya teases, smirking. Shane tries to look annoyed, which fails miserably, because he only looks cute.

“I get it now,” Yuna interrupts, drawing both of their attention back to her, watching them across the table. “There was no rivalry.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighs, content, a soft smile on his lips. “Never was.”

 

Part XIII: Forever

“Are you ready to go?” Ilya calls down the hallway, fixing his own hair in the entryway mirror.

“Ready,” Shane says casually, like he’s not a whole fucking snack. Ilya’s jaw actually drops at the sight of him, in his glasses and his gray polo.

“You couldn’t have put this on twenty minutes earlier?” Ilya growls, looping his fingers in the hem of Shane’s pants. Shane snorts, smirking.

“Twenty minutes wouldn’t be enough time anyways. Pervert.”

Ilya barks out a laugh. “You think I can’t make you come in twenty minutes?”

Shane’s cheeks turn pink, which fucking rocks, and Ilya presses their bodies together, puts both hands on his face. “I love you, Shanya. You make me fucking crazy. Let’s go to concert, yes?”

Shane responds by hungrily shoving his lips against Ilya’s, like he wants to eat him whole. When he pulls away, his lips are swollen and red, irresistible. Ilya kisses him this time. When they finally break apart, they’re both breathless and hard.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters. “We're going to be late. J.J. will–”

“J.J. is not going to care. Antonia is with him, yes? They can survive in a gay bar for ten minutes without us,” Ilya points out. Shane scowls, but he’s clearly not that put out.

“But Reid– I want him to like me–”

“He is always late, he will not care if we are. Come on, Shane, let me suck your dick before we go to a crowded club. Only if you want, though,” Ilya snags Shane’s waistband, pulling him closer again.

Shane’s eyes turn dark and hungry. “I want. Yes.”

Ilya smiles evilly as he drops to his knees. He looks up at Shane, taking his time. Shane’s hands find Ilya’s hair, gripping into it. “Fuck,” he murmurs, and Ilya works harder, just to get him to say it again.

“Fuck.”

 

 

“Can we metro back?” Ilya asks Shane as they exit the club.

Shane wraps his arm around Ilya’s torso, pulling him into his side. “Of course, baby. Whatever you want.”

So they sit, side by side on the train, and Shane yawns and curls his head onto Ilya’s shoulder, twists their fingers together. And Ilya sighs, content.

“I will miss this, when your season starts,” Ilya murmurs softly. Shane hums.

“Nah, it’ll be fine. The schedule’s gonna be half what it used to be. And anyway, that’s months away from now. Maybe not even til next year, if they can’t get the contracts, uh–” Shane yawns, interrupting himself. “–sorted.”

“Mm, yes, you are right. And we will have the summer regardless.”

“Right,” Shane says sleepily. “We can go to my cottage.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Your cottage.”

Somewhere out there, Ilya used to hope there was a version of him that got to be with Shane, just like this. He knows now that he is one of those versions. Maybe, he hopes now, every version of himself gets this too. This version of himself just also knows what it's like to grieve, and then have Shane returned to him, whole.

“Hey Ilya?”

“Yes, Shane?”

Shane picks his head up, tilts towards Ilya’s face. “Love you.”

Ilya smiles, full of happiness. “I love you, too. So much.”

“So fucking much,” Shane sighs, tucking his head back onto Ilya’s shoulder.