Chapter Text
In the long list of things Hayden would like to be doing right now —kissing his wife, tucking his kids into bed, hugging his best friend— the very veeeeery last is talking Ilya Rozanov out of having a full-blown panic attack in his living room.
(It’s not. The very last is having to plan his best friend’s funeral but he will not let himself entertain that thought for longer than half a second).
“Rozanov, I need you to fucking breathe, bud,” he says, voice snappier than is probably helpful right now.
The man doesn’t even react. He’s still hyperventilating on Hayden’s couch, his head between his knees, eyes lost somewhere far, hands shaking. Hayden’s hands hover around his hunched shoulders, unsure on whether to touch or not.
His brain is still playing catch-up. Rozanov says he’s Shane’s friend. Hayden doesn’t buy it. But, then, here is Rozanov claiming he cares, asking about Shane and fucking losing his mind over it. And, well, he’s kinda really really freaking Hayden out because Rozanov never loses his cool unless it’s to fight someone on the ice and even then he has that shit-eating grin like he meant for everything to happen exactly that way. This? This is far more terrifying.
“I need you to breathe, man, I’m serious,” Hayden insists, because he’s pretty sure Rozanov’s lips are looking a little pale, not blue yet but close, and he really doesn’t need the Boston Raiders’ Captain to pass out on his couch right now.
Something snaps in his brain. He will deny it later, on account of this being Ilya fucking Rozanov, but Hayden’s parental instincts kick in. Because he has been faced with toddlers crying so hard they can’t breathe before and Rozanov might not be crying (thank god) but that’s pretty close and so he rushes to the kitchen for a glass of cold water and all but forces it into the Russian’s trembling hand. Rozanov must really be out of it to obey Hayden’s firm “drink” order. But once he does, forcing him to hold his breath, it manages to even out his breathing. Just enough to pull him from the brink of hypoxia, hopefully.
Finally, Rozanov’s eyes focus on him, like he’s waking up from a nightmare. He looks young and vulnerable, which are two things that do not fit him at all inside Hayden’s brain.
“What happened?” Rozanov’s voice is rough, as if he’d been screaming, though he hasn’t made a sound this whole time.
“Pretty sure you just had a panic attack.”
“Not to me, you idiot! What happened to Hollander?”
Aaaaaand there he is.
“I already told you!”
“And that’s all you know?! Pike, you’re fucking useless.”
“Hey!” Hayden snaps back, but whatever he was doing to reply just dies before it even reaches his tongue. “Look, man, I can’t do this. Not tonight, okay. I just-“
He is not going to cry in front of Rozanov.
“Sorry,” Ilya Rozanov says, shocking him back into stunned silence. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he adds: “I just need you to tell me. I need to know. Please, Hayden.”
It’s either the use of his first name or the pleading that twists the final cord inside him. Fuck this. Fuck it. Fine. Fucking fine.
Hayden sits down on his coffee table, right across Rozanov, and runs a hand through his hair, straightening the facts into something that resembles sense before starting.
“Someone was stalking Shane,” he finally sighs.
Rozanov’s eyes focus on him, suddenly, and it’s clear he’s going to interrupt with questions, but if Hayden is doing this he needs to stay on track before he loses his mind. So he pushes on.
“I don’t know who and I don’t know for how long. He didn’t tell me, or his parents, or fucking anyone, at first, because, apparently, when you’re Shane Hollander and everyone has been obsessed with you since you were, like, seventeen, you don’t think it’s a big deal when some rando manages to get a hold of your phone number and starts texting you out of the blue. And that’s insane, right? But this is Shane and he probably didn’t want to bother anyone, so he just blocked the guy and moved on. Except, apparently, the guy kept getting new phone numbers to text from and just continuing the conversation like nothing had happens. And it was harmless stuff, according to Shane, shit like commenting the Metros games, or asking what he’d done during practice, or what he ate in a regular day. He thought it must have been a journo or something, so he just kept replying ‘no comment’, and blocked them and tried to move on. Which is, like, classic Shane, by the way, because he’s way too fucking polite. But then the calls started coming.”
“What calls?” Rozanov’s self control finally gives in.
“To his fucking house.”
Something flickers across Rozanov’s face.
“He told you?” Hayden asks, hurt.
“No. Not really. He just- he texted me, two months ago, asked if I’d called his house.”
“Why would you call his house?”
“That’s what I said! He thought it was prank.”
“You guys prank each other?”
“We are not children, Pike. We don’t prank. We… tease. We joke,” Rozanov seems to be choosing his words carefully. Hayden cannot imagine what him and Shane could possibly joke about. “I told him: Hollander, why do you even have a landline. What are you, ninety? He said it came-“
“It came with his wifi,” Hayden sighs. “Yeah. Did he say anything else?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Hayden feels anger swell in his chest. What kind of friend is Rozanov that he didn’t push the matter? Maybe they just aren’t that close.
(He knows, deep down, how secretive and private Shane is even about the most normal things so maybe it makes sense that he didn’t give Rozanov enough information to even suspect something weird was happening, but he isn’t feeling very magnanimous at the time).
“Well it wasn’t a fucking prank!” He snaps, standing up. “It was the same fucking asshole, apparently, who kept calling and calling and calling, not saying a word, just being a creep until Shane hung up. Until he had to fucking unplug the landline.”
Rozanov stands up. For a second, Hayden thinks he’s gonna punch him or something for yelling, but instead he pushes past Hayden and starts pacing around the living room.
“That’s when he told you?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“No! Fucking, Shane still didn’t want to fucking bother anyone about it. Except you, apparently. And then-“
“Then what?”
“Well, then it started involving- Hey!” He reaches and slaps the cigarette out of Rozanov’s mouth. “What the hell, man? You can’t smoke in here, you asshole. I have kids!”
“They aren’t home,” Rozanov says flatly.
Hayden reels back. It’s true, but hearing it is like a punch to the gut. He clenches his jaw, narrowing his eyes at Rozanov, a million suspicions bubbling up.
The Russian has the nerve to roll his eyes.
“You have been yelling and swearing at one in the morning, not caring about waking anyone up. Pretty sure lady Pike isn’t here either or she would have come down to kill you already.”
Hayden blinks, swallowing around a lump in his throat. The house’s silence seems amplified around them. Something like pity crosses Rozanov’s face.
“Where are your wife and children, Pike?”
“They are staying with Jackie’s parents for a while. At least until this is solved.”
“‘This’ meaning Shane.”
The fight drains out of him in one fell swoop. Hayden catches the name, like it slipped out of Rozanov’s mouth without permission. Doesn’t comment on it for now.
“Yes.”
“Why?” Rozanov pushes. “What happened after the calls?”
“The photos. That’s when Shane finally freaked out. He got… packages with pictures of himself. At home. With his parents in Ottawa. With my fucking kids, when we took them to the aquarium,” his voice shakes but he fights to keep speaking. “It was so fucking creepy man. They even-“
He shouldn’t.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Pike, I swear, if you don’t fucking tell me-“
“It’s none of your business, okay?! Just his girl.”
“His… girl?” Rozanov repeats slowly, like Hayden said something completely incomprehensible.
“Yes, man. His… not girlfriend, I don’t think so, but this chick, Lily, he’s been talking to her forever, always visits her when we go to Boston.” Rozanov’s eyes open wide, he goes very very still. But he doesn’t interrupt and Hayden keeps talking because now the floodgates are open. “Fucking Boston, man! They had pictures of him at her house or something. Like, they followed him all the way there. And Shane was fucking furious. Which, like, I get it. If it was Jackie I would’ve done something drastic, too. But he was- he was losing it, for real. And I told him- I told him he had to go to the police, take it all, especially the Lily thing because if anyone was willing to follow him that far, well that had to be fucking dangerous, right? They had to take it seriously. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t. And I just- I don’t get why. I don’t-“
Rozanov tackles him. Hayden trips and falls on the couch. He’s an athlete, though, a hockey player, and he’s back on his feet and ready for a fight in a second. Except… Rozanov isn’t there. He’d apparently kept running, to the kitchen where he-
Oh. Ilya Rozanov is puking his guts out in the trash can under his sink. Fuck.
Hayden approaches, hesitantly. Rozanov doesn’t acknowledge him. A string of Russian mumbled words comes out in between retches. After a minute or two that feel like an eternity, he stops. Hayden retrieves the panic attack glass of water, refills it and hands it to Rozanov, who takes it wordlessly and drinks it full. His face is wet with what could be sweat or tears. Hard to tell.
“You good?” Hayden asks, unsure on how to react. “Are you… drunk?”
“No,” Rozanov replies, roughly. To either of the two questions. Hard to tell which one. “I-“ he takes a deep breath, standing back up.
Rozanov carefully takes the trash bag out, closes it and carefully ties it, (a polite move that strikes Hayden as so Shane-like that he momentarily wants to cry again), clears his throat and finally meets Hayden’s eyes. He seems to be searching for something there. Hayden holds his gaze until he speaks again.
“You love Shane, yes?” He sounds… careful.
Hayden’s eyebrows rise high, he can’t believe the fucking question.
“You are Hollander’s friend,” Rozanov insists. “You would not- you would not say something to hurt him, or hate him if he wasn’t… how you would like. You would protect him. Yes?”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” Hayden screams. “Are you —you of all people— seriously asking me if I love Shane? If I am his friend?! He is my best fucking friend! Do you even understand that?! What it means to me?! He’s the godfather of my children! If he killed you, I’d be grabbing a shovel and asking where to hide your fucking body! And if I had to kill you to get him back, you would already be six feet under! How fucking dare you ask-“
“And if he slept with me?” Rozanov asks, slowly. “If he had been with me all these years behind your back? You would still protect him.”
“Is this some kind of fucking sick joke?!”
“Sick joke?” Rozanov takes a step forward and, for a second, the wreck of a man turns back into the dangerous, murderous, Russian that has been terrorizing grown men the better half of a decade. “You think it is sick? Depraved? Something to make fun of?”
The seriousness in his voice, the fury in his eyes- shit. Hayden raises his hands.
“No. Fuck you. I didn’t mean- I would never-! That not what I fucking meant! But why would you even say-“
“Because it’s the truth!” Rozanov yells, but the cold murderous rage is gone. “Jesus, Pike, you’re such an idiot. Boston Lily. Why do you think Shane didn’t want to take the photos to the police? Did he show you the pictures? No, right? Think! What am I telling you?!”
Realization is like a bucket of ice thrown over his head. Lily. Ilya. Ilya Rozanov.
“You two are… together?”
“Is just sex,” Rozanov says. Even he must know how false it sounds, right?
But there’s something else, something bigger, taking form in his brain now.
“He was protecting you. That’s why he wouldn’t show the police.”
“Protecting us both,” Rozanov amends. “Neither of us is interested in this getting outed. But yes. I was… I suppose I was in the pictures.”
“Fuck. Fuck, man.”
“Yes, is my fault. I didn’t know but… it is. So I puke in your kitchen. Sorry.”
“Fuck,” Hayden repeats, feeling how the world as he knows it reassembles itself into something different and unknown.
“Pike, focus, you can have life crisis later, yes? If he didn’t go to the police, what happened then?”
“The stalker got mad. Shane said- he said that after Boston the messages were getting worse. Like, scary bad. He finally went to the police. He didn’t tell them about the photos, but he showed them the messages, told them about the calls… they put officers outside his house for security but-“
“But what?”
“Two or so weeks ago, someone got in. Through the building’s back door or something.”
“Who?”
“I don’t fucking know. I just- I don’t get it. Shane is usually such a paranoid guy. He’s careful about everything. But he had no security cameras. Not on the backdoor, or the hallways, not even inside. I just-“
“My fault,” Rozanov’s voice is so low that he nearly misses it. Hayden turns his attention to the Russian, who looks like he’s about to be sick again. “We would, ah, meet. At his place. Sometimes. He did not want cameras because… me.”
“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fucking Christ, Shane.”
“Yes,” Rozanov murmurs, and he sounds so pathetically broken that Hayden doesn’t even have it in him to be angry. He is already angry. As in general.
They stay there, standing silent in the empty kitchen, feeling the weight of this whole mess settle between them. Fuck, Hayden misses Jackie. He needs to hold her, to cry on her shoulder, to let her assure him everything will work out.
“Has there been a, uh, call?” Rozanov finally asks. “What you call it? Ransom. Proof of life.”
Hayden shakes his head. He sighs, tries to get his head straight.
“Okay, so the police don’t have the fucking photos and we don’t have any fucking video of what happened because Shane is fucking paranoid that someone would find out about you two. Which, I guess, someone did, because he said there were pictures of Lily’s, well, your house, I guess-“
“The cameras,” Rozanov gasps.
“I told you, there are no cameras.”
“Not those ones. Mine. I am… not as paranoid as Hollander. I have security cameras.”
“Wait. Wait. You think you could have caught it?” Hayden blinks, feeling suddenly very awake.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Where were the pictures taken?”
“Hell if I know! He didn’t show them to me. Obviously. Pretty sure he destroyed them or something.”
“He wouldn’t. Shane is paranoid, like you said. He would keep them just in case.”
“What? Where?”
“His house. Somewhere close, where he could check them when he got anxious.”
“Rozanov that’s- I mean, the police searched the whole place. They didn’t find anything.”
Ilya Rozanov meets his eyes, suddenly looking whole again as he states with a ridiculous certainty: “They don’t know Shane Hollander like I do.”
Later, Hayden Pike, husband and father of four, will worry about his life choices and priorities. Later, he will tell himself it is probably a terrible choice as a father to risk going to prison for a hunch. Later, he will admit that breaking into a crime scene with Ilya fucking Rozanov is up there in the top three most idiotic things he has ever done.
But here’s the thing: when he said he would do anything to get his best friend back, he meant it.
He tries not to think too hard about it.
(He is working overtime at ‘not thinking too hard’ about a lot of things, like the fact that Ilya Rozanov has a set of keys that open Shane Hollander’s backdoor, or that the way he moves around Shane’s place is entirely too familiar, or how he hesitates just for a second before stepping into the master bedroom, which he clearly knows well too.)
“What are you doing?” Hayden finally hisses, when Ilya rolls under the bed.
“He tapes things here,” Rozanov says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “When the cleaning service comes. He doesn’t want them finding his… sex stuff. So he made a bag, he stuffs it… here…”
“Dude, what the fuck,” Hayden kneels to peer under the bed, finds Rozanov blindly touching under Shane’s bed. He pulls out his phone to give the idiot some light. “I meant- I mean, that too, but mostly, like, this is a crime scene. You’re gonna leave your DNA all over the place or wherever.”
Rozanov turns his head towards him, a shark-like grin across his face, which is extremely out of place given everything fucked up that’s going on.
“Pike, I assure you, my DNA is already all over this place.”
“Wha- oh, gross, man!” Hayden winces.
“Ah, here!” Rozanov says. “Move.”
Hayden stands up as Rozanov rolls out from under the bed, holding a beige envelope. He takes it from his hands, and spreads it over the bed as the Russian stands back up. His stomach turns when he sees his and his kid’s faces again. Shane had shown him these pictures. A nice day together, they’d had fun, they’d talked about Jackie’s new pregnancy, they’d laughed. Now it is here, staring at him like a threat.
Rozanov starts shuffling through the pictures until he finds- oh, fuck, yeah… okay, yes, that is definitely his best friend sucking face with Ilya Rozanov, seen through a window. Hayden’s chest twists and he isn’t sure if he is angry or hurt or sad. But Shane… he looks so damn happy.
He looks… alive.
Fuck it. Hayden blinks back tears. He doesn’t care. He really doesn’t give a damn. He just wants his best friend back.
He turns around, probably too late to hide from Rozanov’s apparently all-seeing eyes. He is expecting a chirp, an insult, a demand he pull himself together and stop being a fucking baby. Instead, he feels the unexpected weight of a hand on his shoulder. It startles him enough to make him turn around. Rozanov’s eyes are red rimmed too, but there’s steely determination there as well, as he shows him an app on his phone. A home security app.
“We will find him, yes? He is okay. He has to be. And we will get him back.”
And, damn, it’s a cold day in hell when he trusts a word out of Ilya Rozanov’s mouth. But it’s been a damn cold winter. So be it.
“Alright. Okay. Let’s find Shane.”