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The call comes right as Shane is about to leave the locker room.
Days after the fact, Shane won’t know what possessed him to answer in the first place. He has a specific routine that he sticks to, which includes a pretty strict no-phone rule minutes before a game. (The rule was instituted after Rozanov sexted him before a meeting against Boston, and Shane had to play the whole first period with burning cheeks and a poorly concealed semi.)
Shane can’t afford to get distracted. Especially not today. This game will determine his team’s chances of making the playoffs. He’s not about to mess it up, especially not for Lily, who hasn’t given him the time of day in months. Shane knows his resolve is weak at times when it comes to Rozanov, but he’s not that pathetic.
Perhaps that’s only what he’d like to believe, however, because as soon as the ringing starts, his hand flies to retrieve his phone in his bag.
It is a WhatsApp call, but that’s not what makes Shane stop. The caller ID does. Rozanov has never called him before. This isn’t something they do. Ever.
Shane has a lot of rules for himself, including, but not limited to:
- Not eating saturated fat on weekdays.
- Not looking at his phone before games.
- Not letting himself get distracted by Ilya Rozanov.
Shane loves his rules. They help him keep himself in check. Yet, he’s about to break two of them in one go. His carefully laid out rules are designed to help him go through life unscathed, but Rozanov's call is just strange enough for Shane to throw them out of the window without a second thought as soon as the opportunity presents itself.
Maybe it isn’t that surprising. Shane wouldn’t have these rules for himself if resisting Rozanov were ever easy.
Shane won’t remember feeling worried about Ilya as he takes the call. He’ll only remember feeling frustrated at the interruption and making excuses to his teammates as they file through the doors. As if maintaining the fucking secrecy of their relationship (if it could even be called that at the time) was paramount. As if Shane’s reputation, his career, were more important than Ilya’s well-being. As if Ilya himself wasn’t the most important thing to him.
Shane couldn’t know what would happen, but he’ll spend months feeling guilty for what comes next.
The first thing Shane hears when the line connects is some screaming.
Right. The Raiders must be gathered to watch the game, bellowing like animals as the Metros make their way onto the ice. They’re probably on a plane right now, on their way to Ottawa. Shane is embarrassed about knowing that. He has memorized Rozanov’s schedule to a tee by now, although he’s never consciously decided to, and he refuses to think too hard about what it means.
“Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice is rough, but unmistakable. Shane has heard him pronounce his name like this enough times for his brain to conjure up filthy images of Rozanov, squeezing his eyes shut and moaning in pleasure. Shane immediately feels his stomach swoop, which is exactly why he shouldn’t have answered this call in the first place. How the fuck is he supposed to play if one word from Rozanov suffices to reduce him to this?
In reality, a better way to describe Rozanov’s voice would be to call it choked. A mix of terror, desperation and surprise at the fact that Shane answered his call wraps itself around the name like poison ivy, but Shane is too blinded by anger to detect any of that. What the fuck is Rozanov doing, calling Shane in front of his teammates? Has he gone mad?! Is he so determined to throw Shane off that he’s willing to endanger their secret?
“What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?” Shane spits. His knee is bouncing so violently that it ends up hitting his elbow, projecting his phone against his face. Shane winces, switching his phone to his other hand to rub his cheek. Then, he puts his hand back on his leg, willing it to stop moving.
For a moment, Shane can’t hear anything but some rustling sounds from the other side of the line. The screams continue, but they seem farther away, somehow. Then: “Fuck.”
“Well?!”
“I need… I need to tell you something, Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice continues to shake, but Shane refuses to recognize the signs. This call is a stupid prank. It can’t be anything else.
“Spit it out, I haven’t got all day.”
A wet laugh echoes from Rozanov’s side, but he doesn’t say anything else. A minute goes by. “Rozanov?”
Then, there’s a sniffle, and when he speaks again, his accent is thicker than Shane has heard it in years. “I am sorry, you know?”
Warning bells set off in Shane’s brain, but he forces himself to ignore them, ignore them, ignore them. This is a prank, nothing more. Some sort of hazing that you engage in to distract your rival before a game. Why would Ilya call him in front of his teammates if it wasn’t? They don’t do this. They simply do not do this.
Shane’s knee starts bouncing again. He grits his teeth, willing himself to focus on his annoyance, anything to brush off how fucking weird this call is. “Seriously? Couldn’t you do this at any other time? I’m about to go on the ice, asshole. I don’t have time for your apologies. So if you’d excuse -”
“Shane,” Rozanov interrupts, and the use of his first name alone suffices to reduce him to silence. A moment passes. Shane looks up and, for the first time, notices a paint stain on the wooden shelf above his head. He idly wonders what else he’s missed. What else sat in front of him in silence, waiting for years to be noticed?
Then, the words come. The ones he never thought he would hear. The one he didn’t allow himself to ever hope for.
“I love you.”
Shane stops breathing.
His head fills with static, and for a moment, he completely forgets about the hockey game he’s about to play. He stays frozen on the bench, as rigid as a stick. He doesn’t remember how to move. He doesn’t remember anything much at all, actually. All his thoughts have fled his brain, until nothing but fear remains, scratching his neurons as it’s trying to claw its way out, too. Shane couldn’t move, even if he remembered how. Everything suddenly hurts. His head throbs painfully. His heart slams against his chest like it’s trying to replicate the last time Ilya checked him against the boards, and if Shane lets himself think about what this phone call means, all the tears he’s repressed for the past five years will finally explode out of him.
Thoughts come back to him like water drops: one at a time, but somehow all at once, too.
Shane must have misunderstood. That must be it. The signal is bad, and he’s misunderstood what Rozanov said.
The moment Shane has convinced himself that he’s misheard him, Ilya — no, Shane corrects in his mind, Rozanov. The Boston Raider. The Russian player speaks again. “I think I have always loved you,” he says, his voice bordering on desperate. “Since beginning. Is stupid, I know, but now I think maybe you should know.”
In the locker room, the silence stretches on. It’s like the world has stopped to make room for Rozanov’s confession. Shane gasps because it is better than crying, and it’s a small, shaky sound that he thinks might be a little bit pathetic. Rozanov clears his throat, as if he’s embarrassed.
“Okay, I am done. You can hang up now, if you want.”
Rozanov’s guarded tone, coupled with some faraway screams, finish to bring Shane back to reality — a reality he’s built for himself, the one he likes best. His knee has stopped bouncing, but his hands are shaking so badly that he struggles to keep his phone near his ear.
Anger is the only option. Anger is really the only possible response, because this is a dare. Shane can’t think of a world in which this is anything but, because if he stops for one second to consider which circumstances might push Ilya to this kind of confession, he might break down and have the worst panic attacks he’s had in fifteen years.
“Oh, go fuck yourself, Rozanov!” Shane hisses. “What the hell are you playing at?!”
“Shane, please…”
Shane doesn’t let him finish. He hangs up on him, throws his phone in his bag with more force than necessary, and heads to the ice without looking back.
✈️❣️✈️❣️
Ilya thinks about death often.
It might have started when he was still young enough to think that love was enough to keep people alive, and the empty bottle of pills he had to pry from his dead mother’s hand proved him wrong. Or perhaps it started earlier, when he stood by the window of their Moscow apartment, hiding behind the curtains to avoid his father’s calloused hands, and spending afternoons watching the tombstones across the street, imagining they were sentries who watched over the cemetery.
Now, sitting in a plane that is plummeting towards the ground and, most certainly, propelling him to his death, Ilya is almost glad that he will die no matter how loved he is. The thought of love being able to save him, and then not —
Ilya doesn’t want to think about the implications.
And yet. The implications have achingly beautiful eyes, breathtaking freckles, the best backhand of the whole league, and Ilya can’t help but think about them anyway.
In a way, Shane Hollander is like the tombstones. He might have been a comforting sight in a previous life, but Ilya can’t face the thought of him because he knows now how much pain comes from being left by the one person you can’t stand to lose. The one person whose love you need the most, but cannot have.
Shane Hollander has always been the one person Ilya hasn’t allowed himself to think about, because he’s always known that considering his very real feelings for him would irrevocably derail his entire existence. All his efforts were in vain, though. Now that he’s standing in Death’s doorway, Ilya finds himself incapable of thinking about anyone else.
Suddenly, it seems of the utmost importance that Shane knows. And maybe it’s selfish, and even stupid — in fact, it really is, because love can’t save Ilya, he’s been over this — but if there’s even the slightest chance that Shane loves him back, Ilya wants to hear it before he dies. Then, maybe it won’t be completely in vain. And if he doesn't, well. It’s not like Ilya will be heartbroken for long.
His teammates are frantic around him. Carmichael is on the phone with his wife, openly sobbing. Connors has his hands joined in front of him, murmuring what sounds like a rushed prayer, and Marleau is laughing deliriously. Nobody is paying attention to Ilya. Even if someone was, he can’t say that it would be enough to stop him.
He’s clicking on Shane’s contact before he even realizes what he’s doing.
“What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”
Ilya could cry with how happy he is to hear Shane’s voice. He gets up and walks down the aisle, getting away from the group to hear it better. “Fuck.”
“Well?!”
“I need… I need to tell you something, Hollander.” Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mouth to stop trembling. Tears roll down his face, church-quiet, silent as prayers, and Ilya touches his cheek curiously, as if he didn’t know his eyes could do that. He can’t remember the last time he cried. It might have been behind the curtains, right after his mother died. Death seems to have this effect on him.
“Spit it out, I haven’t got all day.”
Ilya visualizes Shane’s furrowed eyebrows — his angry kitten face, as he likes to call it in his head — and thinks, No, I haven’t got all day either. In fact, I might not have any day left after this, and a miserable laugh escapes him at the thought. Is this how his mama felt towards the end? Like an unspeakable relief was coming, but a devastating one all the same?
Then, Ilya tells Shane he’s in love with him, reaching for a language that’s escaping him more and more with every passing second, and when Shane rejects him, Ilya can only nod and smile like a lunatic through his tears, because he realizes, a bit miraculously, that the crashing won’t be his undoing. As it turns out, love cannot save, but it can kill. Ilya has already died once today. What’s a second time?
✈️❣️✈️❣️
Shane has always prided himself on his compartmentalizing skills. His private life has never impacted the way he played hockey, for as long as he could stand on skates.
Today’s game is another story. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get Rozanov’s words out of his head. He’s distracted, misses shots he shouldn’t, and he can tell that his teammates are getting frustrated with him. Shane can’t blame them. His body is stiff, as if bracing for a blow that never comes. He’s got none of the grace or the agility he’s known for. There is no denying it: he’s playing like shit. He’s still leagues better than most of his opponents, but tonight, this isn’t enough. It’s a tight game, and if JJ hadn’t scored, it might have cost them their spot in the playoffs.
Shane wants to hate Rozanov for it. For a moment, he nearly manages to.
By the time the game is done, Shane is so angry at himself that he nearly smashes the door in the social manager’s face as he bursts into the locker room.
“Are you okay, buddy?” Hayden follows him like a lost puppy, his wide blue eyes filled with more concern than Shane can stand.
“I’m fine,” Shane says, but he knows he’s not fooling anyone. He’s always been the neatest person in the room, but right now, he can’t even be bothered to fold his clothes. He throws them haphazardly in his bag before heading for the showers.
Shane is only wearing a towel around his hips when he hears it.
“Holy shit!” JJ swears, his characteristic French Canadian accent as strong as ever. “The Raiders’ plane had to make an emergency landing.”
Perhaps the blow wouldn’t have been so devastating if Shane hadn’t been naked for it, his heart bare for all to see. Instead, it’s like the roof has just collapsed over his head.
This is what his body was bracing for.
Oh, god.
Oh, no.
Shane is frozen on the spot. The cold air bites at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s immune to the world. The war is happening in his brain.
Please. Please, don’t let it be true. Please. I’ll do anything.
“Shane? Are you okay?” Hayden is touching his arm, but Shane doesn’t notice it.
Around him, life continues, uncaring of his state. Raised voices, swear words, wild gestures. Nothing registers. The sounds are distorted, his vision blurred, making Shane feel like he’s trapped in a big block of jello.
“What the hell?!”
“Are they okay? Did anybody die?”
“I don’t know, man, the article doesn’t say.”
“At least it was good timing. We could do without Rozanov for the playoffs.”
The spell breaks, and Shane drops to his knees.
Within a second, he’s retching on the tile floor.
Hayden rushes to his side. “Shane! Shane, are you okay?”
JJ takes a step back, carefully avoiding Shane’s vomit. “Tabarnak, Capitaine, what’s gotten into you?”
Shane squeezes his eyes, shutting down the world behind his lids. The acidic taste in his mouth isn’t enough to distract him from the burning behind his eyes, and he has to brace himself on his hands to keep himself from toppling over as he heaves again. Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe? Is he having a heart attack? Is he going to die like this, surrounded by a group of men who never really knew him? Strangely, the thought isn’t as upsetting as it should be. Not now that dying means joining Ilya wherever he is.
“Leave him alone, JJ. I’m taking him to the doc,” Hayden says as he crouches next to him. “Come on, Shane, let’s get out of here.”
Shane groans, his hand clutching at his chest frantically. “No, no, I can’t…”
For the first time in his life, hockey doesn’t matter. Shane doesn’t give a fuck who sees him right now. Let them connect the dots; let them keep him from participating in the playoffs; let them fire him from the team. He doesn’t fucking care. He needs his phone. He can’t fail Ilya a second time. What if he is alive? What if he calls again? What if he needs his help? Shane can’t let himself think of the alternative. Of Ilya being gone, and this phone call being his last words to him.
“I need to talk to him…” he slurs, almost drunkenly.
“I know, Doc will know just what to do.”
“No, not him..” Shane can’t believe he did this. He cannot believe Ilya was brave enough to confess his feelings to him, only for Shane to shut him down so carelessly. He thinks he might be sick again.
“Come on,” Hayden insists, “we need to get you cleaned up, at the very least.”
Shane is too tired to fight. He lets himself be dragged towards the showers, away from his bewildered teammates. Maybe this is for the best, but he can’t bring himself to rejoice when he realizes that he’s being pulled away from his only way of contacting Ilya. How could he think of anything but the fact that Ilya chose to call him during his last moments, only to be rebuked most cruelly?
“Hayden…” Shane whimpers like a petulant child, trying to get away from his friend’s grip. “I need my phone…”
“We can get it later, bud, you need to -”
“I NEED TO GET MY PHONE RIGHT FUCKING NOW, HAYDEN!” Shane bellows in a scratchy voice that he hardly recognizes.
Around them, the locker room falls into complete silence.
Hayden gapes at him, his features painted with shock. “Okay! Jesus, okay! I’ll go get it…”
Hayden darts towards the benches, flailing his arms like a toddler. Suddenly deprived of his support, Shane crumples to the floor. He hugs his knees to his chest and starts rocking back and forth in a poor attempt to soothe himself. He hasn’t done this since his first night at hockey camp when he was seven. His sheets were itchy; one of his teammates asked him why his eyes looked like that earlier in the afternoon; he missed his parents desperately, and it was all a bit too much. His roommate, who was a lesser hockey player than he was despite being two years older, woke up in the middle of the night and caught him doing it. He looked at him with disgust, called him a freak, and asked to switch rooms the next day. Shane never did it again after that. Not in front of anyone, anyway.
It’s not like Shane can help himself right now.
By the time Hayden finds him again, he’s hitting his head against the shower wall. Every hit quietens his brain for a blissful second before thoughts of Ilya rush back in, and the relief is addictive.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey! Stop that, Shane! Fuck, what is going on with you?!” Hayden cries out, dropping Shane’s phone next to him as he rushes to slip his hand between the wall and Shane’s head to keep him from hurting himself.
It takes a while for Shane to calm himself, but when his vision finally clears enough for him to see his phone, he doesn’t waste a second and swoops down on it. His hands are shaking badly, though, and a knot forms in his throat as he fails to unlock it for the fourth time in a row.
“God, would you stop for a second?” Hayden exclaims, putting his hands around Shane’s to immobilize them. “Shane! Tell me what’s going on. I can’t help you if you don’t.”
There is no helping him, though. Not if Ilya is dead. Not if Ilya died thinking Shane didn’t love him. Shane drops his chin on his chest and looks at the way his tears wet his still naked chest. “It’s Ilya,” he says at last, his voice cracking pathetically on the name.
Hayden makes a surprised noise from the back of his throat. “Rozanov?”
Shane nods, his lips wobbling dangerously.
“Oh, Shane,” Hayden says, soft as a first kiss between two rivals who met as kids, soft as a giant hand on a freckled cheek, and it’s enough to blow up the last of Shane’s defences. He’s sobbing in Hayden’s arms before he even realizes his friend has moved.
“He’s Lily, Hayden. He’s Lily.”
“Oh. Oh, my god. Shane…” Hayden squeezes him against him. Shane can’t even celebrate the fact that his best friend has learned about the man he’s been secretly in love with for years, and the world hasn’t stopped, because that same man might be dead, and that’s somehow worse than the world stopping.
“He has to be okay, Hayden. I need to talk to him,” Shane hiccups in the wet spot between Hayden’s neck and shoulder.
“Okay… Oh god, okay. Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“You were going to call him, right?”
Shane leans back and nods silently.
“You’re shaking too much, right now. We don’t want you calling Crowell by accident, do we? Gimme it.”
Shane doesn’t even manage a smile at Hayden’s attempt at a joke, but he obliges and watches him successfully unlock his phone and swiftly navigate the device until he finds Lily’s contact.
Shane’s body still shudders as he takes the phone from Hayden, but he forges on. “Pick up, pick up, pick up…” Shane would give away his Stanley Cups for Ilya to be okay. The two of them, without hesitation. He would give away his apartment complex, give up his macrobiotic diet, even set fire to his cottage, if it could save him. He would strip himself bare in front of the entire NHL, renounce his career, or start believing in a god that hasn’t always been kind to him. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for a chance to tell Ilya what he’s understood today.
Hockey isn’t the great love of his life that he’s always thought it was. Ilya Rozanov is. Because Ilya Rozanov is hockey — what Shane loves most about it, anyway —, but he’s also gentle reassurance, wet kisses that quieten his mind at night, and teasing jokes that manage to make Shane crack a real smile, the one he reserves for his dad’s lame jokes and his mom’s sharp hockey analyses. He’s a 5’11 Russian boy who managed to carve a spot for himself around Shane’s heart. God knows it’s a hostile environment, yet he’s been here for years and has never left.
The dial tone stops, and the call goes to voicemail.
“Fuck!”
The phone falls from Shane’s hand, and he buries his face in his knees again as Hayden picks up the phone and tries to call twice more. The result is always the same — the tone rings, rings, rings, then goes to voicemail, and Shane cries, cries, cries, hiccuping through his tears as Ilya’s pre-recorded voice breaks through the silence.
“He tried to tell me, and I didn’t listen,” Shane cries nonsensically. “I didn’t say it back, and I didn’t listen!”
“Okay,” Hayden cuts him off. “You have to listen to me, then. Here’s what we will do, okay? Okay.” He takes a big breath, visibly trying to stay composed, even though his eyes shine with tears at the sight of his best friend’s distress. “You will get dressed, and I will call my manager and ask her if she’s heard something,” he says, and Shane realizes only then that he’s completely naked and sitting on the filthy floor of a locker room. “I’m pretty sure she’s friends with Marleau’s manager. Then, I’m going to drive us both to Ottawa, or wherever the hell they are, okay? You will keep your phone with you in case Rozanov calls, and we will be there in a couple of hours. Do you think you can do that?” Shane continues to breathe shakily, tears silently rolling down his cheeks. “Look at me, Shane. Do you think you can do that? For Ilya?”
Shane swallows and nods his head. For Ilya, he will do anything. “I can do it.”
“Alright. Let’s go, then.”
✈️❣️✈️❣️
Ilya should have guessed that fate would be cruel enough to let him live after he chose a really dramatic declaration of love as his last words. An unrequited declaration, at that. That will teach him a lesson: there was a reason he never let himself be vulnerable in front of people he cared about. He will be sure not to make the same mistake again.
What was he thinking, confessing to someone as good as Shane? What did he think would happen when he was truthful with someone he’s never been completely open with, someone whom he’s shut down again and again so he could never get a glimpse at his bleeding heart?
This is what he’s thinking about as he watches his teammates reunite with their partners and family members before being wheeled away to a room. Not all of them were able to make the trip to Ottawa on such short notice, but most of his teammates have someone here. He tries as hard as he can to ignore it, but the truth is that Ilya’s eyes burn as he thinks about the fact that no one is on their way to see him. No one from his family — the few who are still alive, he’d rather not see anyway —, not Svetlana, who is travelling in the Bahamas with a new flame, and certainly not his Shane, who’s made his feelings clear earlier today, and who was never even his in the first place. There is no world in which a relationship between them is possible, which is why Shane’s mind immediately went to the conclusion that Ilya’s call must be a joke — a prank, a malicious lie from the big, evil, Russian man who did not do serious relationships and who did not have feelings. All of this is his own fault, is what Ilya is trying to say. And yet. And yet.
Thankfully, no one was badly hurt — or god forbid, dead — but after the emergency landing, everybody was transported to the nearest hospital as a precautionary measure. Ilya’s right leg hurts like hell, and he can’t reach his phone without jostling it, which serves him as an excuse not to look at it. He doesn’t want to see how empty his inbox is. Or, worse, filled with angry messages from Shane. He usually loves getting on Shane’s nerves, but after his pathetic confession, he’s really not in the mood. He knows he’s throwing himself a pity party, but sue him, he’s just gone through a traumatic event. He gets a pass.
In the end, he just lets himself fall asleep, hoping that he’ll wake up in a world where he hasn’t confessed his love to someone who doesn’t want anything to do with him.
Ilya’s wish isn’t fulfilled. In fact, he’s woken up by the very voice he was dreaming about.
“Ilya…”
Ilya cracks his eyes open, his vision blurry with sleep. It’s dark outside, and only the bedside lamp is on right now, but the silhouette in front of him is unmistakable.
“Hollander?” Ilya rasps, utterly confused.
“Oh my god, Ilya…” Shane Hollander is here, in the flesh, more beautiful than ever. His big doe eyes are gleaming with unshed tears, his hair is a mess, as if he’s been running his hands through it, and, fuck, are those glasses on his nose? Is Ilya dreaming? “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…” Shane wrings his hands nervously, and the way his bottom lip trembles brings Ilya’s attention to it. He wants to bite it.
He doesn’t know what to say. Seeing Shane here is like stumbling upon his primary school teacher in Regina, Saskatchewan. It doesn’t make any sense. “You’re here,” he says, more dumbly than he’d like. Suddenly, the memory of his phone call rushes back to him (I think I have always loved you, I think maybe you should know), and he’s flooded with embarrassment. He averts his eyes to the floor, where he won’t see Shane’s eyes trace the flushing of his cheeks.
“Of course, I’m here. Can I hug you?” Shane’s voice is so sincere, so heartbreakingly tentative, that Ilya can’t help but bring his eyes back to him. He’s standing straight, his tightened fists stuck to his body, as if he’s physically restraining himself. As if he’ll leap on Ilya as soon as he hears the word.
Once again, Ilya finds himself at a loss for words. What does this mean? Shane doesn’t love him. Shane almost killed him with his words, and though it was Ilya’s own fault, it doesn’t mean Ilya wants to go through it again. Yet, this argument is moot because Ilya Rozanov is literally incapable of denying Shane Hollander anything, especially not when it’s asked like this.
“...Yes?” He says, hesitation clear in his voice, and the word isn’t even fully out of his mouth before Shane is in his arms, burying his face in his neck and squeezing him so hard that Ilya wonders if this is an embrace or a wrestling move. Ilya winces as the movement slightly jostles his injured leg, but the relief of having Shane in his arms more than makes up for it. After a few seconds, Ilya lets himself embrace Shane back, tentatively wrapping his arms around him. It’s like he’s able to take a full breath for the first time in months. Since the last time they saw each other, really.
“Thank god you’re okay,” Shane murmurs against his neck. “Thank god, Ilya, I was so scared…” His breath catches on the last word, and that’s when he starts crying in earnest. His whole body is shaking in Ilya’s arms, trembling like the fear is trying to escape through his pores.
Ilya’s heart caves in his chest. “Oh, Shane… Don’t cry, solnyshko, I am okay. I am okay, lyubimyy.” He runs his hand through Shane’s black strands, messing them up even more, but Shane doesn’t seem to mind.
After a minute, Shane leans back and puts his forehead against Ilya’s. He sniffles noisily, and one of his tears falls onto Ilya’s cheek. “I love you,” Shane says in a choked voice, before placing a reverent kiss on Ilya’s lips. “I love you so much, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry I didn’t say it back.” Shane kisses him again and starts migrating toward his chin, placing gentle kisses on his cheeks, his temples, his forehead, his nose, and finally, his lips again, like a round-the-world trip, from Canada to Russia, from Regina to Ottawa, from Shane to Ilya.
“Holy shit,” Ilya whispers, his eyes closed shut. “Am I dead?” He says without thinking. “Is this heaven? I wasn’t good enough to end up here, I’m pretty sure.”
He only intended for his words to make Shane laugh, but the joke lands too close for comfort after today’s events. Shane’s eyes turn shiny again, and he lets out a whimper that breaks Ilya’s heart in half.
“Don’t joke about that, please,” he asks softly, his nose burrowing in Ilya’s neck again.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Ilya apologizes, his hand returning to Shane’s hair. “I won’t do it again.”
“Thank you,” Shane murmurs. “I love you.”
They start hugging again, and that’s when it finally hits Ilya. Shane loves him. Shane Hollander is in love with him. He loves him enough to make the trip to Ottawa just to make sure he’s alive and well. Maybe saving people doesn’t have to be the point. Maybe loving someone and being loved in return is enough. Not to survive, but to live. To build yourself a life worth living.
“Hey, Shane.” His voice wobbles, but he ignores it.
“Hm?”
“I love you too,” he says when he realizes he hasn’t said it to Shane in person yet. “So fucking much.” They look at each other, and for the first time, nothing stands between them. No lies, no pride, no fucking media rivalry. Tears are streaming down both of their faces, and quite inexplicably, Ilya feels a bit self-conscious. “I’m sorry I said it like that. On the phone. Not very romantic, yes? But I really thought I was going to, you know…” Shane’s embrace turns impossibly tighter. “And all I could think about was you. Only you. I didn’t want to go without ever telling you.”
Shane looks at him for a while, his expression unreadable beyond his wet cheeks and his reddened eyes. Then, out of nowhere, he bursts out laughing. A big, startled laugh that Ilya has never heard from him before. Judging from Shane’s reaction, Ilya’s not sure he’s ever heard it himself. It makes his eyes shine in the dark, and his freckles are trapped in the little wrinkles around his eyes. He’s so beautiful that Ilya can hardly breathe. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re apologizing for this,” Shane giggles. “You’ve never apologized for anything in the entire time I’ve known you, and now I get three apologies in one day — one of them completely unnecessary, by the way.”
Ilya feels a beatific smile creep up on his face. “Don’t get used to it. I’m going back to being an asshole tomorrow, just so you know.”
Shane hums, a matching grin lighting up his features. “Good to know. I should really make the most of tonight, then, yeah?”
“Exactly,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s lips, before licking inside his mouth and melting against Shane as he lets out a soft moan in response.
They spend the next hour whispering in each other’s arms, exchanging hugs and kisses every time tears threaten to overwhelm them again. Then, exhausted by the hockey game he played, the intense emotions and his two-hour trip to Ottawa, Shane falls asleep on Ilya’s side, his arms wrapped around his neck and his mouth slightly open against his shoulder. Ilya watches him for a while, wondering how he got this lucky.
Unable to resist, he leans to place a tender kiss on Shane’s forehead and, softly, whispers, “Ya tebya lyublyu.” Somehow, it seems important to tell him in the most honest way he can, with words behind which he cannot hide. Ilya vows to teach them to Shane so that he can always recognize them.
Then, the pain in his leg flares up again, and it keeps him awake for another hour. This is when he suddenly remembers his phone. Now that Shane is here, the prospect of checking his messages is way less daunting. When he unlocks it, hundreds of messages are waiting for him. Some are from previous teammates, others from fitness coaches, neighbours, and even Svetlana, who’s threatening to end his life herself if he doesn’t answer her in the next thirty minutes.
For the umpteenth time tonight, Ilya feels himself tear up. But it’s not until he sees Shane’s texts that he lets the tears fall.
Shane, who never mispells anything, who never forgets a punctuation mark, who always proofreads his messages at least three times before sending them, has sent him a string of incoherent messages as he made his way to him.
Jane, 8:17
Ilkya
Plase be okaeh
I’m os fuckuing sorry
I’ms uch a fuckign idaiot pleaese forgive mae
Plaese call me whean you get htis
And abyut what you said
I do too, alrighht? Of course, I do. But Im’ not tellikng you via text. I’m gonna tell it to youer face, okah?
I’m cominbg as soon as i cna
Plzase ve okay. Icabt lose you Ilyuz
Fuxk I’m sisorry
Tomorrow will dredge up many difficult things in its wake. A serious conversation with Shane about their relationship, for starters, and the fact that Shane’s reaction to the crash basically outed them to his team. Also, fucking Hayden Pike, that Ilya apparently has to thank for Shane’s presence. But tomorrow will also mark the start of the rest of Ilya’s life. Tomorrow will be filled with many kisses, hopefully, and the knowledge that, somehow, at some point, the Canadian boy with the best backhand in the league and the most breathtaking freckles ever known to men has fallen in love with him.
But for now, Ilya closes his eyes, takes a big sniff of Shane’s hair to fill his lungs with the clean smell of his shampoo, and lets himself drift off.