Chapter Text
January 2017 - Montreal
Seeing Ilya at the club had been like a punch to the stomach. Shane knew, in theory, that Ilya was a player: that he was constantly hooking up with people, be it women or men. Shane knew this, logically. Ilya had never been shy about telling him how many people he slept with, and Shane was not an idiot to think that during the months they did not see each other, Ilya was practising celibacy. Shane would spend months waiting for the moment Ilya and he would reunite again (almost always in a hotel room), pent-up from all the sexual frustration. Because Ilya might sleep with countless people in between those months, but Shane… well, Shane only had Ilya, really (and Rose, but those few times they had done it, had been so incredibly uncomfortable and embarrassing that Shane couldn’t even think about them without cringing). But even counting Rose, Shane knew that no one would do it for him but Ilya. Ilya had ruined him, and now Shane could only fathom being physical with Ilya. And that meant something, of course it meant something… but if Shane started cataloguing that feeling—that warm, pulsating feeling lodged deep inside his chest—he was scared he would find the feeling not a fleeing emotion, but a permanent one. Lodged forever in his heart. That terrified him.
Looking at Ilya now, though, felt like a bucket of water being poured over Shane. Hearing about Ilya hooking up and seeing it were two different things, and in that moment, Shane finally, painfully, understood something.
I’ve fooled myself into thinking I was someone special to him.
Stuck to that one spot on the dancefloor, Shane felt like an idiot while watching Ilya grind against a blonde woman. His heart was constricting inside his chest, and he couldn’t understand why this revelation hurt so much. He knew they were nothing, that their arrangement meant nothing. “This is nothing, Hollander.” Ilya himself had said so, too.
But Shane had hoped, for a second… for something different. Something more. Even if the last time they had been together Shane had been the one to bolt, he always wished he could have something more with Ilya. Something that would fill the aching hole that kept growing in his heart.
In that instant, Ilya glanced his way. Shane stopped breathing. Ilya’s eyes were wild. Fire and ice mingling in them. And Shane had gotten really good at reading the other man's expressions. He knew a Rozanow’s challenge when he saw one. It was almost like hearing the words in his ear. You have Rose Landry, I have this. I call you Shane, and you freak out, but I will always have this.
Shane could’ve grabbed Rose in that moment. Could have risen to the challenge, could have thrown Ilya a look just as heated and charged. Could have made out with his girlfriend (his girlfriend) right in front of Ilya, too. Just to hurt him the same way. But Shane doubted Ilya would be as hurt, that he would feel this bottomless pit in his stomach that was, slowly, making Shane’s throat feel tighter and tighter. He couldn’t breathe.
From where he stood, Ilya huffed. He broke eye contact and went back to his dance partner, pushing her sweaty hair aside and peppering kisses down her neck.
That broke the spell for Shane. He could move again, and breathe again. He needed to get out of there, before he did something stupid like go up to Ilya and yank him away from the girl.
He found Rose still dancing with Miles, on the other side of the dancefloor. She smiled sweetly at him when she saw him, and Shane’s heart broke a little more. Beautiful, kind, amazing Rose. She liked him a lot, it was obvious. So why couldn’t he…? Why was he stuck in this cycle of hurt, and jealousy, and impossibility? Why couldn’t he be happy and dance with a gorgeous girl and forget everything.
“I need to go,” the words rushed out of him. He was breathing heavily, and his hand had started to shake. “I… I don’t feel so well. I’m sorry.”
“Aw, baby,” Rose reached for his cheeks, cupping them in both hands. They felt heavenly against Shane’s scorching cheeks. He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling that knot in his throat that only meant tears. But he wouldn’t. Not here. “Want me to come with you?”
Shane shook his head. He opened his eyes and tried to convey to Rose his most convincing I’m okay smile. “It’s okay. I really am just tired, I think. Long day and all.”
Rose nodded, but her eyes were worried. They hadn’t known each other for that long, but sometimes Shane had the feeling that Rose could see deep into his soul, into the real Shane. That, too, was scary. “Okay. Call me when you get home.”
“I will.” He bent down to kiss her cheek (he couldn’t force himself to do more). He clapped Miles on the back. And just like that, he exited the club.
He forced himself not to look back at the spot where he knew Ilya was.
* * *
Outside, the cool air entering his lungs felt soothing, a calming balm to his erratic heart. It was freezing, and he was most certainly not dressed for the weather. But it felt nice, nonetheless. He stood there a long time, catatonic, just letting the cold chill his cheeks and his heart and his hands. He wanted to feel numb. To not feel things so intensely anymore.
Someone coming out of the club bumped into him. Shane walked to his car almost in a daze. He could hear some people whistling his way, clearly recognising him and wanting to get a picture or something, but he ignored it all. He opened the door of his Jeep and got in, effectively blocking all the outside noise.
He started the car and drove without a destination for a few minutes. He didn’t necessarily want to go home, not yet. He needed to clear his mind, and a drive was never a bad idea for that. He didn’t have anything scheduled tomorrow, so he could just drive on and on until he was tired enough to crash on his bed without thinking about Ilya Rozanov’s lips leaving wet trails along a delicate neck. He gripped the wheel tighter, driving further and further away from the city.
Ilya liked girls. And boys. Ilya liked Shane, he had admitted that much. For sex, at least. Last time they had been together, Ilya had asked him to stay with him. They had eaten tuna melts, and watched TV, and made out slowly, without rush.
Two months later, and Ilya was making out with someone else. In front of Shane, wanting him to see.
And it hurt, but Shane guessed he deserved it, on some level. He had been the one to bail on Ilya that day in November. They hadn’t texted at all after that. That afternoon had scarred Shane, deeply. He couldn’t cope with how intimate it had been, how domestic it had been for Ilya to make tuna melts, for them to leisurely watch TV, for them to kiss without any rush. Hearing Ilya call him Shane had shifted something inside Shane. It had made him desire more. A connection beyond just hot, carnal sex—but, perhaps, just as intense.
But they couldn’t. They both knew they couldn’t.
And yet, it had been Shane, not Ilya, who had run away that day.
He wondered what would’ve happened if he had stayed. If he had let Ilya make tuna melts and comment on hockey plays and kiss him the entire night. Would that have changed the trajectory of things? Maybe they would have had sex again that night, slow and beautiful. Shane would have kissed Ilya, pushing his light brown locks out of his face. He would have kissed his golden skin, his crooked nose, the curve of his lopsided smile. He would have stayed curled up against him, as long as Ilya would allow him. In that imaginary timeline, would Shane have started dating Rose Landry? Would he have gone to a nightclub, without really feeling like it but trying to humour his girlfriend, and stumbled across Ilya Rozanov sensuously making out with someone?
“I think I will find someone.” That’s what Ilya had said, that November afternoon. He could have anyone.
So why couldn’t Shane? Why could Rose just be… enough? Why was he the one stuck, stuck, stuck.
He realised, belatedly, that he was crying. He was in his car, driving nowhere, completely alone, and he was pathetic, and he was crying.
Ilya, I think I might be a little in love with you.
He needed to get it out of his chest. He didn’t say it out loud—putting those words out in the world felt too irreversible—but that internal admission made him whimper. His hands started shaking again, and his tears wouldn’t stop streaming down his face.
Shane had been driving for close to an hour. He was no longer in the city, or even the outskirts of it. He was deep along a path surrounded by trees, no cars in sight. He knew Montreal pretty well, but the darkness was making it difficult to distinguish the road anymore. He decided it was time to turn around and head home. He used a hand to dry his tears and steered the wheel to the right.
I’m crazy about you. I miss you.
Montreal in January means snow. Montreal, in the woods, means animals. When Shane’s car slid across the snow-covered pavement, unable to finish the turning manoeuvre, he quickly grabbed the wheel and forced the car to the left, trying to stay in the lane and not smash into the trees. It would’ve worked, perhaps. But in that same moment, a deer, disoriented by the whirling of lights, ran, spooked, from his spot in the woods. Colliding head-on with the car. The front of the car buckled with a sickening crunch.
The car spun wildly, tires screeching against the icy pavement. And then, just as quickly, it smashed into a tree. A terrible, metallic sound echoed through the air.
Ilya. Let’s meet again. I swear I won’t run this time.
But no one was there to listen.
Ilya woke up with a terrible hangover.
He couldn’t remember where he was, or even what day it was. He was only capable of cataloguing two things at that moment: his pounding head, and his aching heart.
Shane’s eyes across a dancefloor. Hurt. Angry. Desperate.
Ilya.
Ilya groaned, turning in his bed and putting a pillow over his head. That whisper, his name so much like a caress when uttered by Hollander, wouldn’t stop haunting him. He didn’t want to think today. He didn’t want to do anything but stay in bed and let his sorrows eat away at him. The flight to Boston was sometime during the day, but he couldn’t even find the strength to lift a finger.
“Carmichael,” he rasped, slowly turning his head towards the other bed. He couldn’t open his eyes yet, but he could hear movement, and a yawn, from the other bed. “Wake up. What’s the time?”
“Um,” Ilya heard him clumsily palm the bedside table, probably looking for his phone. “Shit. It’s, uh, eight thirty.”
“Good,” that’s all Ilya said before burrowing into the sheets again. He heard Carmichael get up and head to the bathroom. Stupid morning people. Ilya was pretty sure their flight left at two, which gave him ample time for sleeping, eating, napping some more, showering, and smoking, all in that order. Maybe he would even go down to the restaurant and order one of those drinks that apparently helped with hangovers. Blood-something. He couldn’t remember. He would ask the guys, later.
He almost fell back asleep when Carmichael’s choked gasp drew him out of his stupor.
“... Holy shit.”
“What is it?” Ilya rolled over and peeked at Carmichael from under the pillow. He was standing right by the bathroom door, with his toothbrush hanging from his open mouth, his hair sticking in all directions, and his phone held close to his face. It almost made Ilya laugh at how wrecked he looked, but the expression in his eyes—wide with shock and horror—made Ilya pause.
“Hollander…” Ilya’s stomach dropped. He jumped from the bed and was next to Carmichael in less than two seconds. “His… uh, they found Hollander’s car smashed in the woods.”
For a moment, Ilya couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred at the sides.
”You’re lying,” he muttered. Recovering, he snatched the phone from Carmichael—dude! Why would I lie about this!—and made his eyes focus on what was written on the screen.
It was a news article. There, in big bold letters, read Hockey Star Shane Hollander involved in Angell Woods’ crash.
There was a ringing starting in Ilya’s ears. He drew in a big breath almost unconsciously, but he couldn’t make himself breathe. His lungs just weren’t responding.
It’s a mistake. That was all his mind could muster. Shane Hollander would never get in a crash. Shane Hollander was a good, polite guy who never got into fights, who followed the rules and had a perfect family and a perfect smile and was the most talented hockey player in decades. Crash, Shane Hollander? It was so unbelievably stupid that Ilya almost considered if there was another hockey player named Shane Hollander.
Not his Shane. Surely.
He shoved Carmichael’s phone at him again and started looking for his own phone. He had to… He needed to… His hands were shaking so badly, and he couldn’t find his damn phone.
His shin hit the corner of the bed. “ебать! Where’s my fucking phone?!” At last, he found it tucked between the mattress and the headboard. He forced his fingers to type in his password. He opened his messages. The Raiders group chat was going crazy, message after message popping up uncontrollably. Why had he silenced his phone?
“Dude, it’s all over the news,” he heard Carmichael say. “My God… Hollander…”
Ilya opened the chat with Jane. No new messages.
Ilya pressed call. It went straight to voicemail. A whimper escaped his mouth.
He started typing. Shane.
No response. Of course. Maybe Shane was sleeping still, or with Rose Landry. Maybe he would see the message and just choose not to reply to Ilya. Those were all very real possibilities.
His heart was beating out of his chest. Shane, answer. Please.
Another beat.
Who was driving your car?
Thump.
Please tell me you weren’t inside. Please.
Thump.
Please pick up your phone. You’re scaring me.
“Roz,” Carmichael’s voice came from behind him. Ilya closed his eyes, a tear escaping his eye. This couldn’t be happening. Shane had been there, last night. Just a few meters from Ilya. He had looked sad, and gorgeous, and all Ilya wanted to do was to drag him to a dark corner. Why hadn’t he talked with him, last night? I miss us. Do you also miss us? Why–
“It says he was in the car.”