Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes & Ilya Rozanov, Luca Haas & Ilya Rozanov, Zane Boodram & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Irina Rozanova, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas, Zane Boodram, Irina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Relationship Reveal, Near Death Experiences, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Depression, The Plane Crash Remix, Character Study, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of found family *hockey edition

Collections:

god bless Wyatt Hayes, AHRFC, Hollanov Plane Crash

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-16 Words: 5,759 Chapters: 1/1

what do you say to a brand-new ghost?

Summary

Ilya did not want to die. It’s a natural thought as the plane seems to fall around him. He’s twenty-nine, he does not want to die. It’s the intensity that surprises him, the desperate need clawing at his heart, pressing against his ribs, surging in his throat. He’s choking on it, aching with it, burning with it.

The plane is falling around him, and he wants to live so badly it’s all he can see.

-

Or, The Plane Crash nearly goes as wrong as possible when Shane's game is cancelled, and he sees Ilya's messages in real time. To make matters worse, Ilya spends fifteen minutes falling out of the sky and mourning all that he would never have. Or, Ilya's pov of i pray this love changes me (this grief will) ft. the very confused but supportive Centaurs

Notes

i am back with Ilya's POV of my other fic "i pray this love changes me (this grief will)" because i craved violence and Ilya being horribly angsty. go read that for angsty soulmates bc both Ilya and Shane when faced with death/irreversible loss only think about each other. anyways enjoy my desperate, love sick babies and the centaurs being an amazing, supportive team <3 (Montreal Metros I'm going to take your kneecaps)

also yes, Ilya is lowkey having a panic attack for the entirety of the fic but like who wouldn’t??

tw - canon typical - just brief mentions of Ilya's depression and suicidal thoughts bc I need his pain and Irina Rozanova to haunt the narrative.

title from End of The World by Searows, and yes, that is the vibe of the fic and so Shane & Ilya coded

I saw the end of the world last night

I ran to you 

- Searows 

LEO 

I will haunt you. 

CATHERINE

( through tears ) Promise it. 

airports see more sincere kisses

than wedding halls & the walls of

hospitals have heard more prayers

than the walls of churches - because

love is felt most when it's leaving.

Ilya did not want to die. It’s a natural thought as the plane seems to fall around him. He’s twenty-nine, he does not want to die. It’s the intensity that surprises him, the desperate need clawing at his heart, pressing against his ribs, surging in his throat. He’s choking on it, aching with it, burning with it.

The plane is falling around him, and he wants to live so badly it’s all he can see.

Shane, soft with sleep and still half gone as he leans over to kiss Ilya. Sunlight coming through the Cottage’s windows, turning the whole world into shades of gold. A fluffy, clumsy puppy scratching at their door, and the embarrassed blush on Shane’s face as he has to tear his mouth away to open it. Years of smiles carved into Shane’s face, curving up towards his glasses as he reads the news, and they learn domesticity like a third language.

It flashes beneath his eyelids as the plane shudders, and he hears faint cursing from Troy – Shane, mustering all his bravery to introduce himself to Ilya while baby fat still clung to his flushed cheeks. Shane, at seventeen, at nineteen, sweet and pliable beneath his hands despite how unworthy he was, at twenty and twenty-two and twenty-eight, still sweet, still so unworthy.

Shane, shoulders taut, body tense as he argues with Ilya and for the first time in years, they’re on uneven ground again – stumbling and falling at all the wrong times. Shane and the warmth beneath his hand as he shoves him against the wall, the way it lingered when he tore his hand away because Shane is Shane and he is not his father.

Why had they fought? Why had he brought up the stupid party? Why had they wasted time arguing about something so – impermanent? There would have been other parties, other days where he could have loved Shane in public. Now, there wouldn’t be anything else. Now, they would only have ten years of hovering in between nothing and something with only a fraction of that time spent loving each other, unafraid and unquiet.    

The plane drops again, his neck aching from the whiplash. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Troy and Harris clutching each other, bodies hunched over and curving together as the world ends around them. Oh God, oh Mama – Shane and his freckles and his crooked smile.

He pulls out his phone, because beneath his desperate need to live is his decade-long want to live on with Shane. He needs to know, he has to know that he’s everything to Ilya, that he’ll always be with him even when he’s gone, even as the sky does it’s best to swallow them whole.

Shane should be in the middle of a game against Washington; he can’t call him, can’t replace the howl of the plane, the chorus of screams with Shane’s voice saying I love you. But he can message him on Instagram, he can give Shane this, he can give himself this one last comfort before his Mama reaches out and takes him back into her arms.

ilyarozanovofficial: Shane

What could he say? What exactly could encompass the extent of his love in the seconds, minutes before Ilya’s body was broken and burned? What could he say to keep Shane comforted for the rest of his years after – after Ilya?

ilyarozanovofficial: You are the best thing in my life.

The screen is blurry; the letters jumbled as the plane shakes and tears burn in his eyes. Ilya doesn’t bother swiping them away, there’s no point anymore. Shane is worth all his tears, all his grief.

Oh God.

In between the aching in his heart and the strain in his neck, a message pops up in his private chat with Shane. Oh, the game must have been postponed. Oh, I’m so sorry moya lyubov'.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Ilya? What’s wrong?

Years, they were supposed to have years.

ilyarozanovofficial: I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.

ilyarozanovofficial: The plane is crashing, on fire, I am sorry.

ilyarozanovofficial: I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those.

Do you know that my heart beats for you? Do you know that it’s been yours since the day we met and my stupid, broken brain took years to catch up? Do you know that as long as you’re alive, I’m with you? I’m in your heart, in your bones, in the faint scar on your hip from a bad check you held over me for weeks. I’m always with you, even now, even when I’m not.

I love you, I’ll continue on with you.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: ilya please

The plane tips downward, there’s no other word for it. Nothing else to describe the lack of gravity as Ilya pitches forward. His hips ache from the pressure as they strain against the seat belt, his entire body weightless and wrong as his heart breaks. He hopes Shane isn’t alone, he hopes Pike is there, he hopes that if he isn’t, Hayden finds him. He hopes that Shane doesn’t have to mourn his loss alone, quietly in front of a world that doesn’t know.

ilyarozanovofficial: Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.

I love you, please continue on for me, please, please, please. I can wait fifty years, I will not be alone – don’t join me.

Ilyarozanovofficial: You will be okay. You will survive. I will never leave you, I will haunt you, promise. I will keep loving you.

He presses send while Hayes calls his wife. He’s in the row behind him, talking in a low, calm voice – even now, sure and steady as he says the same thing as Ilya, I love you, you’re going to be okay, it’s going to be okay, I love you, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa.

A tiny x pops up beside his message as the Wi-fi goes. Hayes curses behind him, then the plane abruptly surges up and down. It’s almost time then. It’s not enough, he’s not done, they haven’t had enough time. He’s not ready. Ilya. Is. Not. Ready.

But the world has never bothered with what he wanted.

It jerks again, and his phone goes flying, clattering against the seat in front of him and sliding across the floor. Ilya can’t even mourn the loss, the last tether to Shane even though it’s useless at this point, because the plane seems to vibrate around him. His bones shudder with the force as he braces himself, folding over, head pressed to his knees, hands braced against the back of his neck.

It won’t do shit when the plane hits the ground, because if the flames don’t get him then the force will just break his body apart. His neck snapping beneath the same hands that cupped Shane’s face, that bruised his hips, that felt his cock pulse and soften, that traced his crooked smile and cooked Shane’s stupid bird food. God, God please.

Shane is the executor of his will; Shane is the inheritor of everything. Shane will plan his funeral, or maybe Yuna and David will shoulder the responsibility – No, he wouldn’t let them. Shane will plan his funeral and decide on a casket or cremation, if it’s an option once they pull him from the wreckage.

God, please, Lord, Mama. Don’t let him see my body, don’t let him read the report of my injuries, a list of how scattered I was when they found me. Just let it be over quickly, for me and for him, Mama, please.

Shane, live, keep living even with the pain. It’ll kill you but it can’t, you have to live, you have to keep living for me. Keep breathing, even though it hurts, even though it would be so easy to just let go. Keep continuing on, a dog, another lover who you don’t have to hide with, holding his hand in broad daylight, children’s laughter beneath the golden glow of the cottage.

The life that should be mine – take it if you’ll keep him happy, take it if you’ll love him right.

Shane, I’m sorry for the grief you’ll have to endure, I’m sorry I only had ten years to love you, and I didn’t even do that right. Shane, Shane, Shane, Shane, Shane –

The plane shudders and screams, or maybe that’s Haas, twenty-year-old Haas huddled under Bood’s arm. It’s not fair, none of this is fair, they haven’t won yet, they have so much more to do. Ilya has so much more to do. Even with the weight of his hereditary sickness, his preemptive grief, he still had so much hope left for Shane, because of Shane.

Prosti, ya lyublyu tebya, moe serdtse.

A shriek fills his ears, swallows him whole, metal against metal against flames. Ilya curls further into himself, becoming smaller than he thought possible, as if that would save him, as if his bones would remain unbroken if he pressed himself further against his bent legs. Mama, Mama I’m coming to you too soon, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I tried. I really tried. Mama you would have loved him; he’ll grieve the both of us. Mama, please wait for me.

Mama, I’m so scared.

The shrieking turns into a roar, a rumble that echoes in his head, bouncing around in his skull until – Until it stops, until the plane seems to hit the ground, rocking him forward as it drags against whatever they landed on. Ilya waits for flames, he waits for a wing to rip off, for the hull to crack open and suck someone out. Ilya waits for the crunch of metal and bone as the plane crumples in half like all the wreckage in the freak accident videos Bood watches. But it never comes, the screeching continues, the plane jerking and stopping as it slows to a halt.

In the silence that follows before the pilot’s announcement, Ilya can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t comprehend anything beyond the pounding of his heart. The miraculous, desperate thudding in his chest as his heart continues to beat, as air continues to fill his lungs in ragged breaths. He’s alive. The plane is on the ground in one piece. He is alive.

The announcement system crackles on and the English is unintelligible, his brain too busy reeling from the shock to piece it together. He stays down, fingers bruising against his neck and head as his heart races, as his lungs fight to work. It’s only when he hears Hayes broken sob of “Oh my God, oh my God,” does his body seem to register that it isn’t seconds away from breaking, from burning.

Ilya is alive. His phone is gone; the plane is not moments away from exploding, Hayes is hyperventilating behind him. He is alive and somewhere in Washington, Shane thinks he’s dead. Fuck.

He straightens his back, knuckles white as he grips the seat’s armrests and surveys the state of the plane. Troy and Harris are still holding hands, blinking at each other in shock. Behind him Hayes is crying, a hand pressed to his chest as his breaths come in uneven, short pants. Ahead of them, Dykstra and Chouinard are leaning over a flight attendant who must have fallen during the trip down, blood staining her temple. In the row behind Hayes, Bood is calming Haas down from a panic attack.

The rest of the team are spread out, a group of rookies standing up, aimlessly looking around like they can’t fathom what just occurred, players braced together, other passengers crying or praying or trying to call their loved ones. It’s chaos, it’s a mess, it’s – fuck, his phone is gone, it probably slid to the other end, knowing his luck.

Shane, Shane, Shane.

He shudders, digging his fingers into the tendons of his thighs until the pain becomes the baseline of existing. Ilya can’t use another teammates phone like anyone else would because no one knows. No one knows and Shane just lost it about coming to a team party as a friend, not even his boyfriend. No one knows, so it’ll be hours before he can talk to the love of his life after almost dying, after spending god knows how many minutes thinking about the life he’d never have.

Fuck. I’m sorry, he thinks, to Shane, to himself, to the little boy his mother kissed goodbye to, I’m sorry for all this hurt, for all the waiting. I’m so sorry.

Ilya bites back a whine, his eyes burning because Oh God, he almost died, he almost left Shane, and forces himself to breathe. He can’t cut through space and time to break in Shane’s arms, he can’t call him now. He can get up and make sure that Hayes is breathing normally again. He can get up and drag his teammates off this shitty plane and see if he can find his phone in the mess. He can do that, he can help them.

Shane is out of reach and – Ilya is still here.

He gets up.

Several phones are broken or lost, Deveron, a rookie, hit his head pretty hard at one point and is leaning on Dykstra’s shoulder. He has a grip on Hayes’ shoulder and hasn’t let go in fifteen minutes, and Bood still has Haas underneath his arm at they stumble into the tiny, completely unprepared airport. They stick together, huddled against one of the walls as the other fifty passengers fill up the airport in a crying, shock-ridden wave.

The pilots have just made it off when Harris makes a small sound that has half the team flinching, “I have a signal now, the phones are working again.” He’s staring down at his phone like it’s the holy grail and –

It is.

There’s a brief, second-long pause as the team comprehends his words. Then, all at once, a jumbled mess as people grab for their phones, others crowding the nearest teammate because theirs is one of the several lost in the rough landing. Hayes pulls out his phone, hands shaking as he brings up the most recent calls. Lisa is the first number on the list. She is the only constant in the dozens of calls over the season, and she picks up immediately judging from Hayes near sob.

All Ilya can think about is Shane.

If he had his phone, he could call him as long as he was careful and avoided using his name. But he doesn’t, and so the only other option would be using one of his teammates’ phones and hoping they don’t have Hollander’s number saved, hoping they don’t overhear the voice on the other end, hoping they didn’t piece together the way his heart only beats for Shane Hollander. Somewhere in Washington, Shane is falling apart, Ilya won’t break him further by outing them to whoever happens to be closest to him.

He can wait, even though it kills him. He can wait, even though all he wants is to hear Shane say his name, soft and desperate and so loved.

Shane may not hear back from him but surely, he’ll see some news report or article. He can barely hear anything over the chaos of his teammates talking to their girlfriends, wives, parents, and kids. They’ll spread the news and Shane will be able to save his breath for yelling at Ilya about taking hours to call.

It hurts, the lack of Shane, the knowing that Shane is alone and hurting. The knowledge that sits right beneath his bruising ribs and bloody heart, that even though he’s breathing and hurting in fuck knows Carolina, Shane still felt him die. Somewhere in Washington, he’s dead in Shane’s mind and Ilya can’t change that, he can’t –

Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu tebya, prosti, prosti, prosti.

His hands are shaking, his entire body is trembling, Ilya is on the verge of falling apart in a huddle of his teammates. Hayes is almost vibrating against his hold; eyes closed in relief as he talks to Lisa. Ilya hates him, he hates him so strongly it’s nauseating. It rises in his throat, clawing at the fresh bruises from screaming as the plane fell and the world rose up to swallow him.

He’s a selfish, horrible man who hates his teammate for having the luxury of calling his wife to let her know he isn’t fucking dead. Ilya has a fucked up, cruel brain, and he’s a shitty captain for it – utterly unhelpful, swaying back and forth when he should be rounding up the rookies and making sure that the blood on Dykstra’s hands belongs just to the flight attendant. He should be helping his team instead of aching for Shane.

But he can’t stop, he can’t do anything else.

Bood shoulders his way through the crowd, Hayes handing over his phone easily. Ilya vaguely remembers that their wives are friends, that they got so drunk at a party Bood and Hayes had to carry them out together because they refused to let go of each other’s hands. He remembers wishing Shane could have been there, that Ilya could love him out loud just like his teammates.  

God, he is so tired. His knees nearly buckle but Hayes uses his free hand to hold him up. Now that Bood is talking to his wife in a language Ilya doesn’t recognize, Hayes turns his freakish, goalie stare on Ilya. “Cap? Who do you need to call?”

You wouldn’t fucking believe me, he thinks with a joyless humor. Shane, he thinks, Shane, Shane, Shane.

His knees are still weak, which is the only reason he allows himself to keep clinging to Hayes. He’s warm and solid, slightly taller than Shane, more dense than lean muscle, he’s all wrong but he’s a living, breathing human being so it’s something. Ilya stumbles over his words in a way he has not done since he was young. He feels clumsy, he feels out of it. He is so very lost despite the solid ground beneath his feet. “No one, is fine. I will wait for my,” He nods towards the plane, words dying off as Hayes keeps looking at him.

Ilya wonders, slow and drawn out in a way that should scare him, if he can see it – if maybe Shane has loved him so well it’s branded onto his skin, carved into his bones, sewn into the very marrow of him. Can Hayes see Shane in the mole on his cheek that he loves to kiss, or the space between his neck and shoulder where Shane loves to bite, to worry his teeth until there’s a neatly defined mark that’ll linger for days? Can Hayes see him in the white, wispy scars on his knuckles that Shane subconsciously rubs with his thumb every time they hold hands? Can Hayes see all the many, many things Shane loves more than he could ever manage?

He feels hollow, he feels like his bad days when the world is slow, but Ilya is even slower, days when he is left to rot in the past. It’s the adrenaline crash, the fear of death, the shock of it all, he knows this on some level. But, as Hayes stares at him in a way that’s akin to surveying the other team for any tells or weaknesses, he can’t think of much beyond Shane.

Shane could not save Ilya, but he certainly gave him something to fight for.

Ilya swallows, aching and only half there, “Is fine, I am fine – shaken but fine. Russians are made of tough stuff, I will survive.”

Hayes furrows his eyebrows, and Ilya dully notices that this time it is him who hasn’t let go. It’s comforting, the hand settled against his shoulder, the weight of bodies crushed against his, the warmth of the Centaurs merging together. It’s nice, it’s almost safe. It’s probably the only reason he hasn’t fallen to his knees, gasping for air and clutching his chest.

Once this is over, once the storm has passed and this is a story they tell around their third round of beer, Ilya will love his team fiercely for their existence.

Now, though, he can only note the way Hayes is refusing to let him fall – to the ground or to his own mind. He is a good man, better than Ilya deserves for his horrible thoughts, so he tries to reassure him. “I am fine, Hayes. Sveta, my friend, is asleep now, I can wait.” He forces himself to survey the rest of the team, to at least pretend to be their unshaken Captain. No one is dying, some tears, and just a little blood. They are fine. He is fine. “Check on the rookies.”

Hayes fingers tighten on his shoulder, “Cap, are you –”

Bood nearly sends him sprawling to the ground with a heavy hand on his shoulder. He’s holding Hayes phone awkwardly and staring at Ilya with an odd look in his eyes. Before Ilya can even comprehend his sudden interruption, he’s shoving the phone into his hand. “It’s for you, um, Cassie was on the line then Lisa interrupted and she said,” He cuts himself off, wincing like he’s managed to fuck up whatever conversation they’re having. “I think you should take this.”

Ilya stares at the offered phone like it’s going to kill him. There is no one to call him, no one to cry with the other Centaur WAGs and end up in a depressing game of telephone. There is no one who would even be able to get into contact with Lisa Hayes, for him. There is no one calling him through Hayes' phone and wife, no one except –

He holds the phone to his ear, all too aware of Hayes gripping one shoulder and Bood holding the other, like they’re both ready to take his weight and keep him standing. It’s quiet, nothing but clunky phone static, and for a moment, Ilya thinks his heart is going to break. For a moment, the wave of disappointment that hits him is almost enough to need the steadying hands on his shoulder. Then he hears a raspy exhale, and he’d know Shane blind; he’d know him from across the country through Hayes’ phone in a horrible game of telephone.

“Shane?”

Across from him, Hayes doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t look at Ilya with disgust, he doesn’t leave. He just keeps staring, eyes warm and concerned, hands steady and as sure as they always are. Please, he thinks, let this be real.

Then, a broken sob comes from the phone and the world narrows done to Shane’s voice, “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. I thought – I sent texts, I tried to, but they didn’t go through and I thought. God, I love you. I love you so much.”

This time, he does need Hayes and Bood’s grip as his knees buckle. He pitches forward slightly, leaning heavily on both of them as Shane sobs, Shane breathes, Shane tells him he loves him. Shane, Shane, Shane, he thinks desperately, shutting his eyes and pressing his head to Hayes's shoulder. Moya lyubov, moe serdtse, moya zhizn.

Shane is alright. Shane is breathing. Shane – Shane is somehow talking to him in stuttering French through Hayes' phone and at least four more people know now. Shane, who couldn’t handle a team party as a friend, somehow got into contact with two Centaur WAGs, not even the teammates Ilya trusts, because he had to find him, because he had to know that Ilya was okay.

Oh, oh. You would choose me.

He doesn’t bother trying to shove down the tears that well in his eyes, or the relief-fear-love clawing at his throat. He could have died without ever holding Shane again, his tears are inevitable. “I know, I love you too. I’m so sorry for scaring you. I thought that it was,” The end of our story about five decades ahead of schedule, my mother’s – my inherited tragedy, a grief I could not protect you from, “You had to know, I needed you to know. You’re my life, I need you to know that.”

My life has been yours since the day we met, you stupid Canadian. How the fuck could you not know that?  

“Oh shit.” There’s a subtle shift beneath his shaking body as Hayes elbows Bood. Ilya loves them and this awful team and even worse country whose only saving grace was housing Shane Hollander.

“I know, you’re mine, you’re – it all starts and ends with you, everything.” Ilya had lost count of the nights he spent staring up at his cracking, Moscow ceiling, praying for this sort of love. His sleep driven away by the increasingly loud voice whispering that he was nothing, that he was less than the dirt waiting to fill his grave, that he inherited all the worst parts of his father and only the sickness of his mother. The sickening, cruel voice that was his, hissing that he wasn’t worthy of love, of life.

What exactly did he do to deserve this? How did his filthy mouth and cruel words somehow earn him a taste of peace? How did Ilya Rozanov, bastard of the league, a careless whore who was an ocean away when his father died, how did he end up here – so very loved.

The tears come, ugly and somehow painless because Bood is quietly turning away an extremely concerned Chouinard and Hayes is still holding him. He could have had this, in a kinder world, in a gentler one that Ilya isn’t fit to live in. He could have had this months ago, and some part of him aches for the months of fear and quiet and the sadness he could not explain.

He could have had this months ago, maybe, but he'll have it now. Shane will have this too; Ilya will make sure of it. If his teammates are cruel, if they try to shake the one good thing to ever come out of Montreal, than he will surround Shane with friends, with people who will love him for his crooked smile and quiet humor and beautiful fucking mind. Shane will never be alone again, even when – even if Ilya drifts, if he loses himself to that gray nothingness.

His heartbeat has almost steadied again when Shane decides to just rip it out, to take back what’s been his for a decade. “I chose you, Ilya, over everything. I’d give it all up for you, without hesitating, without question. I’ll always choose you, and I’m sorry I haven’t been.”

Ilya can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t do anything but shake in Hayes's grip. Oh God Mama, did you send him to me? Did you love me so well that it echoes in every breath he takes? “Shane.”

He needs to say something, anything. He needs to remember all the English he knows and respond with something worthy of that declaration. But the only word he can wrap his tongue around is Shane, Shane, Shane, Shane.

Somehow he knows it gets the message across

“I love you.” Shane, Shane, Jesus fucking Christ. His heart can’t take it, it might actually stop in this tiny, shitty airport.

Ilya has to pull back and brace a hand on his chest to make sure it’s still working. He’s as solid as ever, heart roaring beneath layers of muscle, fat, and bone. He’s breathing, he’s alive, he’s real and Shane Hollander is telling him he loves him where anyone could hear.

He finally looks at the crowd around him – Hayes still has his hands half up, like he’s ready to catch Ilya if he passes out, Bood somehow manages to look small despite towering over him, Haas is a half-step behind him with his hands actually in his pockets, staring at the ground because the plane took his phone too. The rest of his teammates are spread out, huddled around him in a way thats almost defensive. He can hardly make out the other passengers, and he knows in return they can’t heart his call.

It is purely defensive, the way the Centaurs close rank around him.

He’s certain a good chunk heard enough of his conversation to know. The rest will know by the end of the night, not that they’d spread it or gossip, but it’ll come out, one way or another. But even with only half the picture, they’re still backing his play, still protecting him.

Maybe there is no God, because Ilya certainly did not deserve this.

He forces himself to breathe despite that, to find comfort in the knowledge that he will be okay. He forces himself to have faith, in his teammates, in himself, in a world that has yet to kill him. It will be okay, they will be okay, and now that his body has finally processed that Shane is okay, it’s become rapidly in tune with the others.

Hayes and Bood are fine, more worried about him than anything else because they’ve both talked to their wives. Haas on the other hand is visibly on edge, a tenseness to his shoulders that Ilya’s only seen after a particularly bad game. His glasses are crooked, jolted at some point during the fall, and that only serves to make him look so damn young.

Fuck, he has to get off the phone now and make sure his rookie talks to his worried sick parents. Ilya swallows, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I love you too, moya zhizn. I’ll call you again tonight, but Haas phone is broken and he needs to talk to his mother.”

Haas blushes at that, making a strange movement like he’s caught between nodding and rapidly shaking his head. Baby, he is an actual baby, and Ilya is going to have to fight the world for him.

“Okay.” Shane lets out a huff that he would fervently deny is a whine, but Ilya knows him better. Ilya loves him more than life itself.

He’s no better, equally as desperate for any hint of Shane, to continue this conversation for a sentence longer. “Wait for me?” Let me come home to you, let me spend the rest of my days safe in your arms. I want to come home, let me, please.

Shane’s response is immediate, like it’s the truth. For a single moment, Ilya is certain that it is. “Always. Always.”

“I’ll call you soon.” The airport is quieting down, the sound of sobbing slowly dying out as the reality falls over all of them.

We’re alive, we’re alive, we’re alive, a chorus of desperate love consuming a tiny airport in fuck knows Carolina - it's a story that fits all his jagged edges and barred teeth. It's a story Ilya can swallow this time because Shane Hollander loves him enough that it might actually save them both.

“You better, or I’ll come down there myself.” If it weren't for how pathetic Haas looks - like a sad, sad puppy, Ilya would keep Shane on the phone. He'd talk about anything and everything, he'd fall to Shane's feet somehow, find a way to cross the country just to wind up at his door. Pathetic, utterly pathetic, and all of it is for Shane. All of him is Shane's, every damn inch. He'll remind him of that when he gets back to Ottawa, thoroughly. 

But until then, he'll have to make do with just imagining Shane in his bed, in his jersey, calling his name loud enough for the entire world to hear and done caring. He clicks off the calls, pretending that his chest doesn't scream at the tiny click, and presses the phone into Haas's hand. "Call your mother before she comes to Ottawa and kills me."

"Um - She wouldn't, for the record, she's actually a big fan, but thanks." Haas takes the phone and does not mention the whole, my Captain is madly in love with his number one rival, and also a homosexual, thing.

Bood is not that graceful, because while Haas is calling his mother, he places a hand back on his shoulder. "Of course, your dramatic ass wouldn't settle for anything less than your equal, Roz." 

"What the fuck, Boodram?" Wyatt glares daggers at him in between giving Ilya a concerned-caring look he's somehow mastered. "We won't tell anyone, your secret is safe with us for as long as you want it to be." 

He elbows Bood again and somehow drags Chouinard into their huddle, "We all know how to keep our mouths shut, and if not, we'll take care of it." Chouinard nods, clapping his shoulder with a small smile, which may as well be his version of hugging Ilya and jumping up and down with joy. 

Ilya had gone through the five stages of grief, mourning the life he and Shane would never get to have. Ilya had gotten so close to death that he could have sworn he felt his mother's arms closing around him. Ilya had prepared himself to mourn a loss that never even happened alone and - 

Shane had found a way to call him somehow. Shane had gotten in contact with Lisa and Cassie, a mess of phone calls he's certain involved the better Pike. Shane had called him without a care for who heard, for what came next, because they could weather the storm so long as they were together. 

The world had ended, then it began so sharply he's still a little breathless, and his teammates were being the utter idiots they always were. At least three of them were caught between avoiding his eyes and smiling reassuringly. Hayes was scolding Bood under his breath, and Troy fucking Barrett gave him a grimace and a thumbs up. Oh, he thinks, this isn't home, but it's close, it's so very close. 

Ilya throws back his head and laughs. For the first time in months, there's no gray, no void of nothingness threatening to consume him, no decades-old disease trying to drag him away. The world is in color, it's horrible, and it's beautiful, and he will be okay.

They will be okay.