Chapter Text
Ilya got the window seat. He may have been forced to pull rank and use the “I’m your captain. If you do not want me to make you skate laps around the rink until you collapse, you will give me what I want,” card. But that card always worked, especially with his team.
His team that was still so new to him, but still seemed so willing to give him what he wanted. So willing that, sometimes, he didn’t think he’d even have to threaten them with scenarios. Scenarios that, sometimes, he wasn’t really sure if he was going to force them to endure for his entertainment, his reputation, his need to make them know he kept his word…
And, of course, for their own good.
(Something that, later, would take on a new meaning when Troy vacated his window seat that was next to Haas.)
It was easier if people caved and went along with what he said and wanted, it always was.
The team knew that.
And they wanted to keep their captain happy.
(And their captain wanted to make them happy too. Even if, sometimes, he didn’t really show it.)
And maybe they didn’t want their captain to use his threats and promises that were both playful, sometimes empty, but always deadly to build more walls around himself. To make himself more untouchable, more distant (and more of an asshole everyone else saw him as) to them.
The Ilya Rozanov that was on the ice – that was terrorising and annoying people in interviews and seemingly everywhere he went – wasn't the same Ilya Rozanov that the Ottawa Centaurs had come to know. Had come to love and tentatively try to reel him into their orbit just a little bit more.
(Maybe that’s why they folded so easily– why they always conceded with what Ilya wanted. Because, sometimes, when they argued too much– when their words pushed a few buttons that could push him away, they saw something in Ilya’s eyes.
Something that they had only seen on the ice or behind the screen of a television. Something that had the opportunity to grow as cold and as distant as they feared he would become. Something that would take away the playfulness that crept into his tone whenever he played the “I’m your captain” card that everybody had grown fond of hearing.
Ilya threw out harsh words that were still sometimes like barbs that would cut much deeper than he sometimes intended (but mostly, those words were shot at other teams– teams he wanted to pierce with his words and hurt in a way they could always brush off), that was what was natural after all. But lately, his words sounded more tired. His demands sounded more like pleas that were trying to disguise themselves as something else.
Something that the Ottawa Centaurs could sense, and made them quickly relent and give their captain what he wanted.
Even if, like Troy, it would place him in a middle seat next to the small bathroom the plane possessed. The bathroom that, after someone had visited and dumped whatever was left of that food that everyone told him not to order– the food that his body had churned and transformed into something that nobody wanted to think about, was now out of order.
And the smell…
Well, the smell made sure that they did think about what had become of the food that everyone warned Hayes not to eat. The smell ensured that they would never forget it.
“I love you, Barrett,” Ilya shouted, tipping his head back like that would help the projection of his voice travel better– like it would help the words slip through the air that was riddled with the scent of Hayes’s shit.
Troy rolled his eyes, holding his tongue to resist parroting the words back. After all, right now, he did not love Ilya. He may never love Ilya ever again.
In fact, he may love Ilya less than Hayes right now, even though Hayes was the one responsible for the smell that clung to the inside of the airplane like its life depended on it. Even though Hayes’s elbow was digging into his side, somehow Troy liked Ilya a little less.
But he knew, with one smile (or with one round of drinks bought… or maybe even getting off this damn airplane and away from the smell of shit soaking the air with its scent) Troy would love Ilya like he did the rest of his team again.
But right now, he doesn't love Ilya. And he wanted the other man to know that. So, from a few rows behind him, he stayed silent. Almost petulant silent as Ilya teasingly declared his love for him again.
“Did you hear me, Barrett? I said I love you.”
Ilya was probably disturbing the rest of the passengers with his loud voice and even louder declaration of love that everybody could probably tell was false. After all, Ilya didn’t love him. He was just teasing him– being an lovable asshole like he always was.
And Troy? Well, Troy was not giving the asshole what he wanted.
He was now rising to the bait. He was not going to give Ilya the satisfaction of seeing (or hearing) him annoyed. Even though, deep down, he knew his petulant silence was probably bringing a knowing smile to Ilya’s lips.
And, of course, a question to Harris’s lips.
(When really there Troy should be putting something else to Harris’s lips, shouldn’t he?)
“You’re not going to answer him?” Harris asked from the other side of him as he was dutifully trying hard not to spill into the seat that didn’t belong to him.
That technically belonged to Ilya before Ilya worked his magic and transferred ownership of a middle seat to Troy.
Troy tugged his eyes away from the small screen embedded into the back of the seat in front of him. The small screen that was black and as out of order as the small bathroom was. And of course, like they had been doing so often recently, his eyes landed on Harris.
Harris whose eyebrow was curved into an arch– an arch that only increased when Ilya’s voice traveled through the plane again, “You’re not going to answer your captain?” He asked with a twinkle in his eyes.
“No,” Troy’s lips twitched upwards slightly before he gave a firm shake of his head, “I’m not.”
Harris gazed at him for a moment before he suddenly gave a small, almost nonchalant shrug like he didn’t care, “It’ll be your funeral if you don't," he commented a small reminder like it was an act of mercy before he turned his attention back towards the screen embedded in the seat in front of him.
A screen that did work– that did show him a moving picture.
(A moving picture that wasn’t as interesting as the one next to him. At least that’s what Troy thought when he captured a glimpse of the random movie the airline gave Harris the option of watching.)
Suddenly, the voice from a few rows in front of them went quiet. Before, of course, a loud and overexaggerated huff filled the air. A huff that, of course, was from Ilya. Ilya who only seemed to huff out a breath because he finally understood what everyone else on the plane did: he was being ignored. And that, for once, he wouldn’t be getting what he wanted after forcing Troy to take his seat near the rear of the plane.
“Barrett does not love me,” Ilya sighed like he was a damsel giving up on someone saving him, “But that’s okay. I do not love him, either,” he paused, head lolling to the side from where it was resting on the seat, “You will tell him I said that, okay?” Ilya asked the rookie next to him.
The rookie that just gave a terse nod, “I will,” and an answer he hoped would appease his captain for now, “Later.”
After all, he did not want to spend the rest of this flight relaying messages back and forth between Ilya and Troy. And he knew that, if he gave in and told Troy what their captain uttered after being slighted by his silence, he would never stay in his seat for longer than a minute.
Until maybe the pair dropped the fake (or maybe it was real for Troy) hurt and offence and decided that Haas should be the one to trade seats with Troy. So then the pair could make up and fill the cabin with laughter.
Ilya seemed to accept his answer with ease. Without another word that was petulant or barbed. And, well…
Haas wasn’t expecting that. Even though he knew he should. Because, lately, Ilya had been letting people have the last word. He hadn’t been ensuring he had one upped someone before the conversation naturally dissolved. He hadn’t been continuing to poke and prod people to reassure himself that they didn’t mean what they said.
Haas toyed with his lip for a second before he threw a look towards his captain, “It doesn’t matter if Troy doesn’t love you,” he uttered the words against his better judgement.
Instantly, a look of surprise, hurt and eventually acceptance that crossed Ilya’s features before he parted his lip and confirmed in a tired voice. A tired voice that somehow sounded even more defeated than Ilya did whenever they lost a game.
“Yes, I know.”
But maybe Haas’s better judgement was in fact the opposite of what he first thought it was when he uttered the next words.
“Because I love you,” Haas uttered those words with such sincerity it almost sounded like a vow.
A vow that Ilya wasn’t expecting considering the awestruck look that flickered to life on his features– almost like he couldn’t believe it was real. That someone could like him – love in him a way that was so different than how Shane claimed he loved him – even when he was such a bad captain. Even when he was certain his presence was dragging the team even further down. If that was even possible…
Which Ilya knew it was.
Their losses since Ilya joined their team were proof of that.
And their wins…
Well that was not proof of the opposite, no matter how hard his therapist tried to make him wrongfully believe it was.
A smile that wasn’t really a smile– just a small tug at one corner of Ilya’s lips appeared on the captain’s face at those words. Something sparking in his eyes as his hand reached up to ruffle the other man’s hair.
“I knew there was a reason you were my favorite,” Ilya commented, dropping his hand from Haas’s hair for a moment before he threw his head back as far as the top of the seat would allow before he raised his voice and let his teammate a few rows behind him know something, “Haas loves me, Barrett. I don’t need your love.”
Haas could feel the eyeroll from all the way over here. And he knew Ilya must feel it too. Because that smile that wasn’t really a smile transformed into something else. Something that nobody could deny was a smile. A small smile that was still twisted with a wrongness that felt artificial and wrong– but it was still a smile.
A smile that made Haas mirror it. For a moment, at least.
For a moment that passed like it normally did. A moment that didn’t feel like time stood still and went too fast at the same time. No, instead those moments that happened in a seemingly neverending succession that stretched on for an eternity that felt like it could (and maybe already did) cease at any horrifying moment would come later.
They would come when–
“What was that?”
They would come whenever they wanted.
Bang?
And they wanted to come now.
“What was what?”
And time would forever be changed when they did.
Ilya stared at Haas, his brow furrowed and his eyes filled with a question that had just woven itself between his words.
His words that Haas has yet to respond to. Instead, Haas’s eyes were occupied, flying around the cabin and catching on whatever he could see– almost like that would be able to provide an answer that Ilya couldn’t. And maybe their surroundings could give Haas the answer– if he was on the outside of the plane, at least.
“Haas,” Ilya uttered the other man’s surname, trying to draw his attention back to him, “What was what?” He asked, trying to push down whatever that uncomfortable feeling in his stomach was as he watched his teammate’s wide eyes flicker around the cabin like they were seeking out a danger.
A danger that he knew, deep down, was there. Even if he couldn’t see it (yet).
“That noise,” Haas hissed out, low and almost desperate as his eyes finally flew back towards his captain.
His captain who was looking at him like he had seen a ghost (from his past).
“What noise?” Ilya carefully pushed the sounds from his mouth like he had never uttered them before– like he was just trying to reproduce the sounds that formed words he had only heard other people speak before.
“The noise,” Haas insisted, like it was something Ilya must know, “The… bang,” Haas confirmed when he found a word that explained the noise he heard.
The noise that only he seemed to have heard.
“The… bang?” Ilya parroted back, almost matching Haas’s accent before his eyes flickered around the cabin like he would be able to locate a sound from the past.
Ilya was about to ask what bang he was talking about, Haas could see it in his eyes. But, for some reason, Ilya stopped himself from asking. He stopped himself from increasing Haas’s unease– he stopped himself from asking the question that would cast Haas’s mind back to the past. He stopped himself from forcing Haas’s mind to remember the sound– the sound that, if Ilya didn’t dismiss as nothing, Haas’s mind would come up with a million more possibilities about the cause of that sound.
The sound that caused Haas’s body to become on high alert.
(And tried to cause Ilya’s body to do the same, even though he wasn’t the one to heard that bang.)
Ilya looked like he wanted to ask more– to know more. But he knew it would be better to do something else.
He knew it would be better to try to calm the other man down– to try to snuff out that almost wild look in his eyes.
“It was probably bird,” Ilya gave an excuse he knew could be true (even if, for some reason, he didn’t feel like it was true).
“A bird?” Haas’s eyebrows scrunch up like he wasn’t certain if he heard the Russian man correctly– like he wasn’t sure if those words that just came out of his mouth were real.
“Yes,” Ilya gave a firm nod, “A bird,” he confirmed before he raised a hand and lazily flipped it in the air in a short gesture that everybody knew Ilya liked to do wherever he was trying to explain (or maybe just dismiss) something, “They hit planes all the time,” he paused before he uttered in an almost questioning voice, “Or planes hit them all the time?” His brow creased and made Haas almost part his lips and debate with Ilya what the correct phrase would be.
But Haas didn’t part his lips and fall for the bait that he wasn’t sure if Ilya was even aware that he was dangling in front of him. Before the second his lips moved just slightly away from each other–
Bang
– another sound shot through the air. And, this time, Haas wasn’t the only one who heard it. Who heard that sound that was undeniable, more loud, and seemingly much more confident in letting its presence known.
Its presence that made everything freeze. That made time as well as everyone’s hearts come to a screeching halt as they–
Bang
– as they waited.
Waited for something. Something that didn’t have a name.
But something that they all felt lurking in the thick air that was suddenly surrounding them.
“What was that?” Haas asked again, this time his voice quieter, less frantic, almost weak, almost hesitant…
Almost like he was praying that someone would tell him that they didn’t hear anything– that that heart stopping noise was all in his head.
That it really was a bird– a very big bird that was part of a flock of other birds. Birds that also were a victim of this plane tonight.
Because that was the only explanation, wasn’t it? Birds flying into the plane… or the plane flying into them.
“Birds,” Ilya gulped, breathing the suggestion that was almost a wish into the quiet air around them, “Just birds,” he added, like that would convince Haas (and himself).
And, if there one only one loud bang. If Haas was the only one to hear it, and it could easily be dismissed, maybe Ilya’s excuse would have been enough.
But there wasn’t only one sound that burst through the air like it was everywhere and nowhere at all.
And maybe, the sound that Haas’s ears picked up wasn’t the first in the series. Maybe it was the second, or third. But it definitely wasn’t the last.
And the sudden booming bang that made an unnatural and unnerving silence fall in the cabin wouldn’t be the last.
And maybe everyone knew that– or at least thought about it.
And maybe that’s what they were waiting for– waiting for more.
More of that mysterious sound that nobody knew the source of. But they knew it couldn’t be from something–
Bang
… good.
The crucifix secured around Ilya’s neck suddenly grew cold. As cold as his mother’s body was the last time his desperate (and so confused but so scared) hands flickered over her body and tried to shake her back to a consciousness that she ensured she would never meet again.
And the air inside the cabin…
Suddenly it grew hot. Very hot. Too hot.
As hot as–
Bang
– the sun.
“What the fuck?”
Bang
Or a lightning strike.
A lightning strike that Ilya could see– that he knew that he could feel even though there was the barrier of a whatever this fucking plane was made of between them.
A lightning strike that, at this time of night, was probably the hottest thing in the sky. Full of its own brand of heat…
And danger.
Danger that was close, so close.
And maybe, it was even touching them.
“Did you see that?” Ilya was the one asking the questions now, and Haas one the one with the furrowed brow riddled with concern and a new brand of fright.
“See… what?” Haas asked like he was both desperate to know… and feared to know the answer.
“Lightning,” Ilya breathed out as he watched the darkness like another bolt would appear and light up the sky that was like a void, “The lighting,” Ilya’s eyes flickered around the darkness that the window and the plane kept him safe from (for now), “I saw lightning.”
“Lightning,” Haas breathed out the word he stole from his captain.
And, for some reason, his body began to force itself deeper into his seat.
“Lightning– lightning’s good,” Haas nodded like he was mentally confirming the fact as true, “Pilots are trained for lightning,” he gulped, face flicking with something Ilya was quickly becoming used to, “They’re trained for all kinds of weather– all kinds of things.”
Haas’s eyes turned back to his captain, seeking out something that, now, only he could give him: a lie, a comfort…
And the ability to indulge in a naivety that didn’t come from age. That came from willfulness and a kind of desperation.
Desperation that Ilya could clearly see in his teammate’s tight and rigid face. His face that was still so soft and filled with the fat that he hadn’t lost from his childhood. And maybe he now wished he didn't lose something else from his childhood: the ability to be naive. To be ignorant and stick his head in the metaphorical sand.
And maybe Ilya could give him that right now.
And maybe he did– because it was the right thing to do. Because it was the only thing to do.
(Because he wished someone would do it to him, even if something inside of him told him it was a lie.)
Ilya forced a practiced smile onto his features, small but hopefully reassuring and not twisted into an ugly grimace before he gave a curt nod and tried to ease Luca’s worries, “They’re trained. They’re professional. That can handle a little–”
Bang
Ilya froze. Luca’s eyes widened, instantly seeking something that Ilya would give even though it was a lie.
(And, of course, Ilya would give him that piece of comfort that wasn’t really a comfort if they both didn’t believe it. But it was still a comfort they could cling to like a shaky lifeline that could slip through their fingers at a moment’s notice.)
“They can handle weather.”
And maybe they could handle the weather– the lightning that seemed to be dancing around and almost toying with the plane that was in their skies. Because maybe they had done this before– they had run away from a series of lightning strikes that seemed to be chasing them like the plane owed them money. Or like the lightning had a vendetta against the plane– a vendetta that they swore they would settle tonight.
“I’m sorry folks, we’re experiencing some turbulence,” the pilot’s voice crackled through the cabin like electricity that would never settle.
“Turblence?” Luca muttered word that the pilot used to explain this.
Ilya didn’t hum, didn’t confirm that Luca had heard correctly or that he even agreed with the pilot’s explanation that sounded more like an excuse, "Turbulence is normal,” Ilya said instead.
But was this turbulence normal? A turbulence that everybody trapped inside this airplane could sense deep within their bones that it wasn’t right– it wasn’t normal. It was wrong– so, so wrong.
(And, maybe, deadly)
“A little turbulence is normal,” the pilot’s voice once again crackled through the speakers of the plane like it could read the passenger’s thoughts, slipping through the air that seemed to be growing thicker and thicker with every letter that slipped from the cockpit to the cabin.
But, realistically, the air shouldn’t be growing thicker, getting harder to tug each handful of oxygen into their lungs. After all, this high up in the air, the air should be getting thinner. It should be slipping away from them every time they tried to take a breath like water slithered through the cracks of Ilya’s fingers that he attempted to transform into a makeshift cup, no matter how hard he tried to prevent it.
Maybe, this high up in the air, the air should be nothing. It should be filled with nothing but oxygen they could leisurely coax into their bodies without the side of unease that was so heavy it transformed the air trapped inside this cabin (that suddenly felt too small and too big) into something that it shouldn’t be.
Something that everybody could feel. Everybody, including the pilot.
Something that Ilya knew was true with the terse twinge he swore he heard in the pilot’s voice as he tried to speak reassurances to his passengers.
The air was wrong.
But there was something else wrong too. Everybody knew it– everybody could feel it.
Even if they tried not to feel it. Even if they tried to ignore it and force their bodies to relax back into their seats while their minds repeated the pilot's words in their heads like a mantra that sounded more like a prayer.
“See?” Ilya lifted a hand up into the air, towards one of the speakers that the pilot’s voice just poured out of, “Just turbulence,” he willed his teammate to believe the pilots’s words for some reason, "Nothing to worry about–”
Bang
Luca’s eyes widened, something in they desperately pleading Ilya to continue. Or maybe to stop lying to him.
“It’s just turbulence,” a flight attendant's voice from a few rows ahead was trying to reassure a few passengers with words that weren't her own.
And maybe they weren't the pilot’s either. Maybe those words belonged to a manual that everybody was forced to read and steal lines from when confronted with problems.
With things that were wrong.
And things were definitely wrong. Because, when the next bang sounded– the next time the lightning zapped through the darkness outside and promptly disappeared like it never existed, the plane jolted.
And Ilya knew, even though he couldn’t see the flight attendants’ face, her features must have fallen.
“Did you feel that?”
Or at least frozen, just like everyone else’s heart did.
“What the fuck was that?”
The chain around Ilya’s neck grew heavy, just like the air crammed into this cabin with the passengers that were packed into this airplane like sardines grew heavier.
And, of course, the questions did too.
Questions like:
“Are you sure it’s just turbulence?”
“What was that noise?”
“Should I fasten my seatbelt?”
Were replaced by one simple question:
“Are we going to die?”
And the flight attendant…
Well, what were the flight attendants supposed to do? Lie to the passengers that had a new brand fo fear in their eyes as this machine (that must look like an ant compared to their surroundings) they were in continued to fly, to jerk and jolt in the air like it was toying with them– like it was threatening to take a nosedive right into the darkness lurking outside the windows.
Of course the answer was simple. Just like it was for Ilya.
“We’re not going to die– everybody's going to be–”
Bang
– okay.”
Nobody let out a sigh of relief. Nobody believed the flight attendant’s words that correspond with another heartstopping jolt of the plane.
But the next words that came out of the flight attendant’s mouth? Well, everyone believed them.
“We’re going to need to brace.”
And they were so, so horrified by them.
“What?”
“Brace? What do you mean brace?”
“This can’t be happening.”
“Holy shit…”
“We’re all going to die!”
Ilya’s crucifix burned, his phone that was the only connection to the love of his life trembled in time with his rapid heartbeat.
And the plane? The plane began to shudder. No, it began to rattle.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God.”
Ilya took a deep breath as chaos began to erupt around him. Chaos that he wasn’t a part of. Because he couldn’t follow the herd and descend into panic (or grimly accept a death that he always knew was waiting for him earlier than others).
Because he was a captain, and his team was on this plane.
And they didn’t need to see their captain like that.
They needed a captain that was strong– that they could look to and follow like they always did. Like they were trained to do.
“Don’t panic,” Ilya told the man next to him, making his voice louder so that it carried to his other teammates– to anybody else on the plane who needed to hear his words, “Panic no good.”
“We need to brace,” Bood reminded his captain, raising his voice slightly and aiming it at Ilya and Luca who were in the row next to him, separated by the aisle that seemed to grown bigger since the last time he cast his eyes in that direction– seemed to have stretched out like lazy cat who didn’t realize the danger they were in and pushed his teammates further away from him, “We’re going to crash– I don’t think we can not panic.”
“We will need to brace for an emergency landing,” the flight attendant clarified, even though her voice wobbled with a lie that the passengers would either cling onto or ignore for their own peace of mind.
“See?” Ilya gestured in the air again, “Emergency landing,” he paused as Bood’s frown that looked like a grimace that was trying so hard not to transform into a wince like it always did when he stubbed his toe and willed his eyes not to begin pouring with tears, “Not crash…” Ilya trailed off, eyes still directed in Bood’s direction.
But they weren’t glued to the other man like Bood’s eyes were pinned to him.
Instead, Ilya’s eyes shifted slightly to the side. The side where, thanks to the way Bood and the other passengers on his row were positioned, he managed to capture a glimpse of something.
Something that flared to life the same second another bang erupted inside (or outside) of the cabin.
Something white.
Something that was just white.
A white that was so bright that it should have hurt Ilya’s eyes…
But it didn’t.
A white that was as frightening as it was (almost) welcoming.
A whiteness that, for a moment, made Ilya believe he was in heaven. That he had died, in a way that he didn’t think he would die in. In a way that didn’t follow in his mother’s (sometimes so tempting) footsteps.
But Ilya didn’t believe in heaven. At least, he didn’t think he did. Just like he wasn’t certain if his mother believed in heaven.
(Or, if she did believe in it, how sad and desperate she must have been to escape this earth if she believed she would end up in hell and endure a new type of suffering. Suffering that must have been more tempting, less tormenting, than the one she had to endure when she was alive.)
He knew that heaven couldn’t be waiting outside those windows for him. He knew that.
He knew that that almost impossible light must be something else– something that was as living as he knew he still was.
Something like lightning. Lighting that lingered for a longer than Ilya expected it to. But, eventually, that thing that Ilya believed was lighting vanished. Almost like it was never there.
And, once again, darkness waited for them outside the windows.
Darkness that, with some frantic movements, Bood covered with his body.
“Life jacket,” Luca uttered, already reaching under his seat for his.
Ilya furrowed his brow, “What?”
Luca flicked his head towards the flight attendant whose voice was now a steady stream of instructions and words that all turned to mush in Ilya’s brain, “She’s telling us to put our life jackets on,” he slowly uttered the instruction like he thought Ilya had missed what she said because she was talking too fast in a language he still struggled with, “But don’t inflate it,” he added when his was securely in his hands.
Ilya blinked at the man next to him. The man that he should be leading and instructing. But, instead, the opposite was happening. Haas was the one having to tell Ilya things he should already know– that his ears should have picked up and his mind should have already captured and translated to make some type of sense.
Ilya was, once again, being a burden. Being a burden that needed things explained to him– dring a fucking emergency where every second counted.
“Right,” Ilya muttered, following Haas’s lead and reaching under his seat for the life jacket that Haas had already slipped over his head and secured to his body.
And, of course, he didn't inflate it.
Because it wasn’t time to do that. Not yet. Not until they made it out of the plane.
Bang
That is, if they made it out of the plane.
“Holy shit!” A passenger exclaimed when the plane gave another quiver that felt like a small earthquake, the lights syncing in time with each shake that rocked the plane that erupted with cries of panic.
Cries of panic didn’t just come from the rows around Ilya. Because they came from the row he was one– they came from the man sitting next to him. The man clutching the armrests like his life depended on it.
“It’s going to be okay,” Ilya lowly whispered, hastily securing the life jacket onto his body as the overhead lights gave one last weak flicker before they regained the courage to grasp onto life and give the people on the airplane their sight back.
“We’re making an emergency landing in the sea– in a storm, Rozanov,” Haas huffed out a disbelieving sound that didn’t sound much like a laugh.
Instead, it almost sounded like the beginning of a breathless sob.
“I don’t think it's going to be okay,” Luca forced the pain ridden words from his mouth as his face twisted into something that made Ilya’s heart ache.
Ilya’s mouth parted, “In the sea?” He breathed out Haas’s words.
Words that he had never heard before from the flight attendant. Or maybe he did hear them, but his brain hadn’t processed them.
Haas looked at his captain like–
Well, like so many people had looked at him before.
And, instantly, Ilya averted his eyes and do the one thing he knew the flight attendant had told them to do:
Brace.
And when he did that– when he braced for impact just like every other passenger around him was quickly realizing they needed to do too when they felt the plane wobble in the sky and threaten to dip– he felt something.
Something that slipped free from where it was once hanging over his heart that was trapped beneath flesh and bones that would be so easy to piece and hit his face.
His crucifix.
His crucifix that was warm, probably not just from his body heat.
His crucifix that wasn’t really his own– that was inherited from his mother. Just like so many other things in his life. But it was warm, like his mother’s touch had once been before it grew cold and stiff.
It was warm in a way that, lately, his life hadn’t been.
It was warm in a way that Shane’s touch was. Shane’s touch that, even if Ilya made it off this place, he didn’t think he would ever be able to experience the careful warmth of again.
But maybe, Shane could experience a bit of the warmth that Ilya wasn’t really certain he ever gave him again.
Maybe Ilya could tell him, try to fix things between them, one last time.
(And maybe, he could hear those words he had always been so desperate to hear from anyone, but especially Shane.)
So, Ilya released one hand from where it was protectively curled over his head, slid his hand towards the pocket of his trousers and then–
Bang
Tried to ignore the cries of terror, the way the plane almost turned into one of those machines Ilya used to visit at the laundromats with the way it vibrated. He tried to ignore everything, block out everything and only focus on the one thing – the one person – who mattered most to him in the whole world.
Shane.
Shane who was probably tracking the flight like he sometimes likes to do. Shane, who might have already heard about the emergency landing they were forced to try to do in the middle of a sea filled with the same darkness as the sky, and was…
What would he be doing?
Hoping that the plane crashed, killed Ilya but spared the rest of the passengers?
Or hoped Ilya, and the rest of the passengers, survived. Hoped Ilya survived so they could fix things between them– so that they could utter three simple words that held much more weight than the air or this plane ever did.
I love you
Three words that Ilya typed into his phone along with so many more.
So many more that…
That didn’t send.
Maybe because they couldn’t.
Or maybe because the universe didn’t want them too. Maybe the universe knew better than to allow those messages to send to Shane. Maybe the universe knew that he was going to die in a way that he wasn’t originally destined to, and knew it would be easier if those messages weren't sent.
It would be easier if Shane thought Ilya died without loving him. Without the ability to send those messages that would prove the universe and Shane wrong.
Maybe the universe thought it would be easier on Ilya if those messages weren't sent. If they didn’t send, so they didn’t get a response that was forced because of the situation Ilya found himself in and no longer true.
But Ilya wanted to hear those words– he wanted to see those words ingrained in the screen of his phone before this plane crashed into the sea and killed him in a way that, strangely, Ilya was slowly becoming accepting of. A scenario that, for some reason, didn’t seem likely. That still seemed impossible. Maybe because of the smoke that wove itself into the air around them, threatening to suffocate everyone before–
Oh
Smoke. There was smoke. In the air, in the cabin, there was smoke. Smoke that visibly and invisible replaced the particles of once clear air that only held the memory of Hayes’s shit.
The next bang sounded more like a crackle. A crackle that the fire at Shane’s cottage likes to make whenever Shane coaxes them in front of it and forces Ilya to watch the flames dance with him. Something that Ilya now knew was a privilege.
“There’s a fire!”
A privilege that he would miss and mourn. Probably harder than Shane would mourn him.
“Holy shit, there’s a fire…”
Mourn his boyfriend that, with every passing day, was becoming a bigger and bigger burden to Shane and Ilya’s teammates.
Because that’s what Ilya was: a burden that dragged people down. He dragged his mother and her mood down, so far down that she was now under six feet of earth. He dragged Shane and his smile down until it was almost a permanent frown.
And his teammates? Well, Ilya literally dragged his teammates down. Because they were in this place because of him. Because he joined their team, ensured they had more wins than losses (but still had losses, so many losses) and agreed to let them take this later flight. So they could go out to a club and celebrate their win.
He was such a bad son, boyfriend (not liver– never lover) and captain. He really was.
But maybe, Shane would see that he wasn’t such a bad boyfriend. That he was capable of loving him in a way that Irina wasn’t capable of loving his joyless father. Maybe they would recover the phone, recover the messages that refused to send.
(But maybe Shane wouldn’t care.)
The plane jolted, the phone that had become moist from the sweat coating his hand slipping from his grip and hitching upwards in a short flight before it thudded against the ceiling, ricocheted before–
Before it didn’t let gravity drag it back down to earth. Or maybe it did. Maybe gravity had become sideways, and that’s why the phone shot that way.
The lights flickered, threatening to plunge them into a darkness that was filled with a sense of unknown but maybe not as much danger as what was lurking outside, ready to devour them at a moment's notice.
Bang!
The air was growing thicker, and that was mostly thanks to the smoke.
Creak
The smoke of a fire that Ilya couldn’t see, but could feel.
Thud
“Brace!”
They did. They all did.
But Ilya, he did more than that. He did more than curl in on himself after tugging his eyes away from the direction his phone flew off in– the direction the plane was leaning towards. Because, after he curled in on himself– after he placed his hands back into position, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye.
Something bright. Something not white, but red. A vicious red that burned with a fury– with a mission.
A mission that was taking place right outside Ilya’s window that was beginning to look a lot like hell.
“Oh my God…”
It was unmissable. Out there in the darkness, those almost luminous flames clinging to the wing of the plane burned brighter than anything Ilya had ever seen.
(Anything he thought he would ever see again.)
“Oh my God…” Luca repeated, staring with eyes that were wide with terror and unshed tears he refused to let fall as he caught sight of what had caused the man next to him to stiffen and freeze like he was staring down the barrel of a gun.
And maybe, in a way he was doing that. He was staring at the thing that had the possibility to kill him– that would kill him, without mercy. With only pain.
Ilya gulped, one hand sliding towards his crucifix and feeling its warmth that suddenly matched the fire that burned there in the twilight trapped outside of the window.
But maybe it wouldn’t stay trapped out there for much longer. Maybe it would fight through the darkness to get towards the other only source of light in this sky. A source of light that was waning with every jerk of the plane.
“Brace,” Ilya muttered the word like it was the only word he knew as he gazed into the fire.
Bang
“Brace,” he repeated, knowing it was the only thing to do– the only thing they could do.
Rattle
“Brace,” he insisted when Luca didn’t follow his order, “Brace, Luca,” the man who was so many years Luca’s senior almost pleaded before the hand that wasn’t clutching onto the crucifix that was wrapped around his neck like a lifeline onto the back of the head of the man who now looked more like a boy than a man.
A boy whose face still clung to the babyfat he had never lost– may never lose.
A boy who might never grow to reach Ilya’s age.
A boy who would die, when he looked like he was terrorized by that thought. Like he would do anything – give anything – to live.
(And really, could Ilya relate to that? That unnerving and strange look of desperation and horror in Luca’s eyes as the plane continued to jerk, to fling whatever wasn't strapped down through the air?)
And then, Ilya pushed. He pushed the head of the rookie back down as the air around them grew thicker with terror and smoke and hissed out one last order that sounded like a prayer, “Brace.”
And Luca, finally, did. He braced. He probably prayed.
(And maybe Ilya did too.)
The pair braced for impact– the whole plane did, signalling their descent by shouts, wails and screams that were calling for God and pleading that this was some kind of trick.
But then, Ilya saw something else. Something that made him realize that bracing might be useless.
Because next to his feet, he saw a slither of light. Light that wasn’t coming from within. Instead, it was a light that was bright and fury, crawling inside the cabin through–
Oh
Through a slither of space that wasn’t there before. A slither of space that was there now– and would only grow.
Because Ilya could see it growing. He could feel it growing by the increased rush of deathly cold air that surged inside the widening gap between the floor and the panel that held the window that was so close to Ilya’s head.
The air wasn’t warm. It was cold, it was so cold.
Almost like a corpse.
(A corpse that Ilya knew he would become.)
And the fire that waited just outside the window– just outside of the creaking panel that a pair of invisible hands began to tug away from the rest of the plane was warm. It was more than warm.
But it still threatened death, just like the darkness around it did.
The darkness that was coming for them, along with the storm that was shooting bolts of lightning at them. And now, along with a fire.
A fire that Ilya felt like wasn’t the only one.
After all, that fire…
That fire was outside. And the smoke– that was inside.
“What’s that?” Luca’s voice shuddered through the air, breaking free from the smoke and the noise before it pieced Ilya’s ears, “Is that–?” He quickly cut himself off, mouth suddenly dry.
Unable to finish his sentence. Unable to put in words what he was seeing– almost like he feared that, if he did that, it would be real.
But this was real, even if he didn’t want it to be. This was really happening, even if he and everyone else on the plane didn’t want it to be.
The light that held no heat in the bitter night air continued to grow next to Ilya’s feet, the creaking and rattling noises that almost seemed like both warnings and taunts next to Ilya’s head continued to sound.
Until, they didn’t. Well, they did. But the sudden sound of the thunderous wind whooshing drowned out everything else.
Everything except the screams.
Screams that Ilya didn’t know if he contributed to them as the panel housing the window continued to be torn away from the rest of the plane.
As the wing on fire continued to rise up and up as the plane continued to plunge down into the darkness. The darkness that seemed to welcome them with a scary ease.
Creak
But maybe the wing didn’t want the darkness below them to have the plane and the souls trapped inside of it. Because the fiery wing continued to rise, Ilya could see it out of the widening window that was no longer forced with a small hole and glass. Because that window was crackled, useless. And a new window had been formed. A window that the whole of the place could look out of if they wanted to.
Because it was big, and it would only get bigger due to the wing seemingly refusing to abide by the wishes of the plane’s descent. The wing that wanted to stay where it was in the sky, and wanted the plane to do the same. The wing that was tearing apart the plane, tugging parts of the plane free like a child would tug on the hand of its parent to get them to stop.
Or maybe just to get them to do what they wanted.
And right now, the wing wanted them to die. Maybe it wanted them to burn– to allow that fire that seemed to be getting closer as it ran along the wind towards the rest of the plane.
But the wing didn’t get its wish. Or maybe it did. Maybe because, when it stretched so far into the air, away from the plane–
Snap
“Help!”
Whoosh
It condemned them to death.
A death that was somehow a more unsteady descent into its clutches than before. And more lopsided.
Ilya’s eyes stayed transfixed on the wing as it seemed to levitate in the air for a moment, finally free from the plane. And then, Ilya watched, horrified, as it began to drop. Drop down. Drop faster than they were…
Right into the darkness that they were heading into.
The darkness of the sea.
Bang
The sea that, even with all the lightning trying to illuminate the sky, or with the fire that simply vanished almost like it never existed, Ilya couldn’t see.
Because there was just darkness now. Out there, there was only darkness. And in here?
There was only terror.
But they weren’t alone in it.
Ilya was reminded of that when a hand found his. A hand slid over his, latching onto his fingers like Ilya used to latch onto his mothers when he was a baby.
Ilya turned towards the owner of the hand. The owner who was seeking comfort from him. And Ilya gave it, the only way he could. With a gentle, quivering squeeze. An action that wasn’t enough– could never be enough. But it was the only action, the only comfort Ilya had left to offer.
And it was a comfort that Ilya couldn’t give to his other teammates.
His other teammates like Bood and Price, who were in the row next to them, separated by an aisle…
But maybe they wouldn’t be separated for long.
Creak
Because, when Ilya looked over towards the pair, he saw something. Something familiar in the slither of window Ilya caught sight of. Something bright and unmistakable.
Something that would tear apart the plane a little bit more.
Something that threatened to suck them out of the airplane and into the darkness.
(The darkness where they might find each other again.)
Something that, in the darkness, could only mean one thing:
The other wing was on fire.
The wing that, without its identical twin that would soon be fully identical to again, wasn’t much use. But it was still keeping them up in the air, helping with the descent. Even if they were more sideways than they had even been before.
“Brace!”
They braced, even though it was probably no use.
“Brace”
They braced, even though the darkness that lurked outside would probably hunt them down and consume them if they did survive this.
“Brace!”
They braced, even though there was no hope.
“Brace!”
They braced, because they were desperate.
“Brace”
They braced, because their loved ones were probably desperate (even if they weren’t).
They braced like they were made to do it.
They screamed like they had been born doing.
And eventually, they landed, and left the storm behind.
And the water, up close, didn’t seem so dark.
The water was cold. But when the boats filled with blankets and people possessing faces filled with shock arrived…
To Ilya, it felt like the water that was idly splashed onto him when people began to transfer themselves onto the boats was beginning to warm up. Not as warm as his crucifix was, but still warm. Warm enough not to be considered cold.
Warm enough to–
“It’s been years,” one of their rescuers finally let slip.
“Years?” One of the passengers was brave enough to ask– was strong enough to find their voice that everyone thought they would have lost during the descent, “What do you mean?”
The rescuer looked at them, confused. Confused that they didn’t know. Know something that seemed so obvious. And maybe it was obvious because–
“You’ve been missing… for years.”
And suddenly, Ilya felt like he had been plunged into the water. The same water they had landed in when there was nothing but darkness and bitter wind surrounding them.
And it felt cold.
(But maybe not so lonely anymore.)