Chapter Text
There were two and then there were none.
It all started about 6 months ago, before everything started going downhill; Before they had to prepare to say goodbye.
16 June 2036
It was the day after Ilya’s birthday. Shane wanted to take him to all the hot spots in Dallas and Saint Louise. They were both retired now anyway. They’ve been doing this for 9 years.
They thought they had all the time in the world now that they were out to the public and also married.
Little did they know that life had other plans for them.
They had rented this charming, warm and comfy house in Santa Barbara for a month, but after just a week, Shane’s body started betraying him by showing signs that he had tried for so long to hide from his husband, he was tired all the time and now his once sporadic coughs were turning into coughing fits that would leave him breathless, but despite all of this he reassured Ilya that it was probably something he caught while traveling.
He hated to see any hints of worry in his husband’s kind green eyes.
Despite all of Shane’s secrecy Ilya had noticed something was off with his husband but he didn’t mention anything to Shane, not wanting to disrespect his privacy. It was a random night in their second week of vacation in Santa Barbara that Ilya’s suspicions were confirmed.
That night after Shane had announced that he was too tired to go for a walk they had gone to bed early. It was well after midnight when Ilya got woken up by violent coughing sounds, Shane nowhere to be found.
He found him standing on the porch, leaning against the railing, shivering even though he was wrapped up in a blanket.
He looked like a China doll, beautiful and fragile.
Shane had never looked fragile before. Sure, he was not the NHL player, Shane Hollander number 24 anymore and had lost a lot of his muscle mass , but still, seeing him like this felt like watching a ghost.
Like if Ilya didn’t reach out and touch him he’d disappear right before his eyes.
When Shane’s coughs got better, he turned to get back inside, but froze when he saw Ilya standing by the door, worry etched on his face.
Ilya cupped his face and pulled him close “what’s the matter Moy Lyublu?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“Nothing, sweetie. It’s probably just a cold. I didn’t want to wake you up.”
Shane kissed Ilya’s cheek and took his hand. “I’m going to make some tea to soothe my throat. You want a cup too, Honey?”
Ilya shook his head no.
It went on like this for a few days; deep, painful sounding coughs rattling Shane’s chest and him blaming it on a nasty cold.
Shane was sitting on the bed waiting for Ilya to get ready so they could go on their dinner date when he suddenly started coughing again but something felt different this time. He looked down and saw blood splattered all over his crème pants.
When he saw Ilya rushing out of the bathroom, he knew his secret was no longer a secret.
He could see Ilya dropping to his knees in front of him while cursing in Russian, eyes instantly filled with tears.
“Shane… Shane Moy Lyubimi what’s…why are you…” and that’s when it all went black.
The next thing Shane saw was a white ceiling.
Guessing by all the beeping sounds around him he was at some hospital so Ilya must’ve brought him in after he passed out.
He could hear him yelling at someone just outside the room. “What do you mean he has cancer?! He can’t! what the-“Ilya was crying so hard he couldn’t continue. As soon as Ilya walked in Shane looked away, Ilya’s reaction was the exact reason he hadn’t told him before.
He couldn’t bear witnessing his beautiful husband’s despair.
He walked in and sat on the chair beside his husband’s bed.
He was silently crying, shaking his head like he was still in denial. “Ilya…?” Shane called out to him softly, offering him his hand.
As soon as Ilya heard Shane’s soft raspy voice he started sobbing uncontrollably.
At the sound of his beloved husband’s wailing, he started crying too, Not because he was sick, not because of all the pain in his chest and lungs, but because he knew he was going to leave his husband all alone.
“Zaychik…” Ilya started, “you knew about this?”.
Shane nodded his head, not trusting his voice; as Ilya’s face became a canvas of mixed emotions with the most prominent one being anger; Shane began dreading the conversation they were about to have before it even started.
Shame and guilt started swirling his body, maybe he shouldn’t have hidden his illness from Ilya.
“How could you do this Shanya? You thought you were what? Protecting me? I’m not a fucking child Shane, I’m your husband. I’m supposed to be there for you. In sickness and health, you forget?”
Shane couldn’t answer him, Ilya would never understand his logic.
After a while of just the sounds of their sniffling filling the room Ilya got up “I’m going to talk to the doctor…get some sleep.” Leaving Shane alone with his thoughts.
He couldn’t help but start thinking about all the time that they had wasted.
They always regretted that almost-a-decade of not being together, but Ilya always assured him they had all the time in the world. What a cruel joke the universe was playing on them now.
They had been through everything together and now Shane was understanding he hadn’t helped Ilya by hiding his illness, he had only made his husband feel incompetent and deprived himself of the care and love that he had needed.
For the rest of the trip, Shane kept pretending things were normal. Like they were still the same as they’d always been since getting married—easy, familiar, untouched by any of this. But they weren’t.
The cracks were there now, impossible to ignore, even if Shane kept trying to smile through them.
After two days, Shane was discharged with painkillers and a paper bag full of whatever else the doctors thought might keep him standing long enough to make it back to Ottawa in two weeks.
Every pill felt like a delay, not a cure. Every day felt borrowed.
And Shane, stubborn as ever, made everything harder.
His coughing never really stopped; it rattled through the quiet of their rented house in the middle of the night and echoed into the early mornings.
He’d slip out of bed before sunrise every day, probably thinking he was being subtle about it.
But Ilya woke up every single time.
The second the mattress shifted, his eyes would snap open, heart already racing before he was even fully conscious. Stress sat heavy inside him again, ugly and now familiar, curling tight around his heart until he could barely breathe.
The universe really did seem to have something against them. At some point, it stopped feeling like bad luck and started feeling personal. Even murderers probably caught a break once in a while. Them? Apparently not.
Another big obstacle for them to overcome was telling David about Shane’s condition.
Yuna had been dead for three years already, and after that loss, nobody had the heart to hand him another tragedy before they absolutely had to.
So they waited. They let Shane laugh when he could, let David talk to him while hiding the strain in Shane’s breathing over the phone, let everyone pretend everything was okay for just a little longer.
But there was no hiding it anymore, so on the last day of their cursed trip, they finally told David. Understandably, David had been in shock when they told him over the phone. At first he’d laughed−short and nervous, like if he treated it like a joke it would turn into one.
He’d complained that it wasn’t funny, that the boys needed to stop screwing around and just tell him what was actually going on.
But the silence on the other end had stretched for too long.
And eventually, horribly, he understood.
The laughter disappeared first. Then his voice did too for a few seconds, leaving only uneven breathing through the speaker. When he finally spoke again, he sounded older somehow.
“What do you mean cancer?” As if there was another meaning they could give him. Ilya had explained everything quietly while Shane sat beside him pretending not to listen, staring at the ceiling like he could detach himself from the conversation entirely.
The diagnosis. The suggested treatments. The fact that it had spread much quicker than they’d hoped.
David kept interrupting with desperate little questions, trying to stitch together a story that made sense.
“Since when?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How bad is it?”
“Shane, say something.”
But Shane couldn’t. a big lump of shame and sadness clogging his throat.
By the end of the call, David had gone painfully quiet. Not because he accepted it—not really—but because there was nothing left to argue against. There was no version of
reality where his son wasn’t sick just because he refused to believe it.
David picked them up from the airport like he always did. It had become tradition over the years—David waiting by arrivals with tired kind eyes and bad coffee, Shane making fun of his parking, Ilya carrying half the luggage because nobody else ever wanted to.
This time though, nobody joked.
The moment David saw Shane, his face crumpled.
God knows he tried so hard not to cry.
But it was his son standing in front of him looking half-faded already—paler than before, thinner than he’d been just a month ago. Somehow younger and older at the same time.
Fragile in a way Shane had never allowed himself to be before.
More than anything, though, he looked tired.
Shane had tried, for his own sake as much as anyone else’s, to stay charming through the trip.
Putting on a smile when people stared at him a little too long.
Still cracked jokes when the silence got heavy.
But in those last few days, even walking across the room left him breathless.
Ten minutes on his feet and it felt like the air disappeared before it even reached his lungs.
By the time they reached the car, Shane could barely keep himself upright.
As soon as Shane’s head hit the backrest he had gone to sleep.
The car ride was tense and quiet, Ilya and David not daring to talk in case their voices woke Shane up.
When they arrived home, David went to help Shane get out of the car but stopped when Ilya shook his head no, knowing his husband wanted to at least keep a resemblance of control in his life.
After a while, Shane got the energy to get out of the car by himself; still not used to Anya not welcoming them after months.
------
The months blurred together until somehow, impossibly, it was October.
Not that things had gotten any better.
Before all of this, retirement had felt like heaven to Ilya.
Slow mornings tangled in warm sheets, Shane asleep against his chest while sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains.
No alarms. No practices. No rushing to arenas or interviews.
Just the two of them existing in the quiet safe space they’d spent years fighting for.
Now every morning began the same way.
Coughing.
Sharp, violent sounds that tore through the silence and dragged Shane awake from his fitful sleep.
Ilya had started waking up seconds before them, body tense with anticipation, heart already sinking before the first rasp left Shane’s throat.
“It can’t get worse… right?’ he’d asked himself a month ago.
He didn’t say it anymore.
Halloween night settled cold and rainy outside their windows.
Orange glow of the street lights flickering weakly through the dark while some old horror movie played on the tv.
Shane was curled tightly against him beneath a blanket, thinner than he used to be, all sharp edges and tired sleepy eyes.
Ilya held him carefully, one hand rubbing slow circles into his side like he could soothe the sickness out of his beloved by touch alone.
Onscreen, dramatic violins screeched.
“…and Sweeney Todd just di—” Shane broke off suddenly, coughing hard into his sleeve.
Ilya immediately tightened his arms around him. “I know, malysh,” he murmured softly, pressing a kiss into Shane’s temple.
“You don’t have to talk right now.”
Shane let out a weak huff of laughter anyway, breath uneven. “Was ruining the ending.”
“You were saving me from hearing your terrible commentary.”
“My commentary is excellent.”
“Mm. Sure is.”
Another cough wracked through him, quieter this time but enough to make Ilya’s chest ache.
He reached for the mug of tea sitting on the coffee table and guided it into Shane’s hands.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The movie kept playing in the background, blood and music and exaggerated screams going unnoticed while Ilya focused on the warmth of Shane tucked against him.
Memorizing every little detail — the weight of him, the smell of his shampoo, the way his fingers curled unconsciously into Ilya’s sleeve.
As if loving him hard enough could keep him here.
Then Shane lifted a hand and cupped Ilya’s cheek gently, forcing him to look into his eyes.
“Ilyusha,” he whispered softly. His thumb brushed beneath Ilya’s eye before he leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “I’m still alive sweetheart.”
But the second he pulled away, his expression twisted. He turned his face into his sleeve, swallowing back another fit of coughing.
And then Ilya saw it.
A thin streak of red slipping from the corner of Shane’s pale mouth.
His entire body went numb.
“No, no, no— open your mouth, Hollander. Don’t hold it back.”
Shane tried to shake his head, but another violent cough tore through him.
Then another one. Wet. Deep.
Suddenly blood splattered across the blanket in dark red drops.
Ilya’s hands started shaking so badly he could barely hold him.
His vision blurred while he grabbed at Shane anywhere he could reach — his shoulders, his waist, his face — pulling him desperately against his chest like letting go would make him disappear right before his eyes.
“Ilya…” Shane winced, breath hitching painfully. “I can barely breathe, lyubimaya…”
The panic on Ilya’s face somehow hurt him worse than the coughing.
He let go immediately, horrified he’d been holding on too tight.
Shane’s pale blue T-shirt was stained now, blooming red across the fabric like crushed flowers.
With trembling hands, Ilya helped him pull it off before carrying him towards the bathroom.
“We knew that eventually these days were going to come, Rozy…” Shane murmured weakly.
He sat on the closed toilet seat in nothing but his boxers while Ilya ran the bath, hands fumbling twice just trying to turn the faucet on.
Shane looked at him sadly, pretending the room wasn’t tilting sideways every few seconds because of his dizziness.
Because Ilya already looked wrecked enough.
Like a lost little dog seconds away from breaking apart completely.
If Shane passed out on the bathroom floor right now, Ilya would probably die right then and there.
Steam slowly filled the room, soothing Shane’s throat.
Eventually Shane settled into the bathtub with his back pressed against Ilya’s chest, warm water rippling softly around them.
Ilya buried his face into Shane’s damp silver hair while his hands rubbed absent circles over his thighs, like he needed constant proof Shane was still there.
“You scared me,” he whispered hoarsely.
Shane placed his hands over Ilya’s where they rested against his legs.
“I thought it was…” Ilya continued. But Shane stopped him with a kiss before he could finish.
It still tasted faintly metallic.
“Ilyusha,” Shane whispered once they pulled apart, voice trembling now,
“I want you to know that—” Ilya was already crying.
Hot tears falling helplessly down his face. Shane’s eyes filled too.
“I don’t want you to stop living because of me.” His voice cracked badly.
“Of course… don’t go finding someone you love more than me—”
“you know that would never happen.”
Shane laughed weakly through his tears, “But I still need you to understand.”
He swallowed hard. “We both fought for this. For you. For your life. And all these years… I watched you fight your own mind every single day.”
Ilya shut his eyes tightly against another sob.
“I don’t want losing me to become the thing that destroys you.”
The bathroom fell silent except for their uneven breathing and Ilya’s quiet sobs.
“Just let me come with you,” Ilya whispered brokenly. “Please.”
Shane turned enough to kiss his cheek, smiling sadly despite everything. “Jesus. You’re already planning on joining me in death too, Ilya Rozanov?”
“I’m serious.” “So am I.”
Ilya leaned forward, pressing Shane’s pruny hands against his cheeks. “I lied during our wedding vows eleven years ago.”
Shane let out a breathy laugh. “That sounds concerning.”
“When we said until death do us part,” Ilya murmured shakily, “I was already trying to negotiate with death.”
Shane snorted softly. “Negotiate?”
“What’s the Japanese word? For death spirits?”
“…Shinigami?” Shane blinked at him. “Where did you even hear that?”
“Instagram. Maybe an anime. I don’t know.”
Shane gave him an exhausted you cannot be serious look, that made Ilya smile despite himself.
“Anyway,” Ilya continued weakly, “I told him to take me with you when the time came.”
The smile slowly faded from Shane’s face.
“What if it happens tomorrow?” he asked quietly. “You’d still want to come with me?”
Ilya nodded immediately, like there had never been another possible answer.
“What am I supposed to do without you?” he whispered. “Sit alone staring at walls until something finally kills me too? No.”
He meant every word.
Shane’s fingers slid gently into his damp curls. “Don’t be silly, baby…” he whispered, voice breaking entirely now.
Before he could say anything else, Ilya kissed him hard enough to silence the rest.
-----
They had unfortunately gotten used to waking up to blood staining the pillowcases within just a week,
Shane’s oxygen mask a constant reminder of how close the inevitable was.
He had grown thinner, weaker, and more exhausted than he’d ever imagined possible.
If he hadn’t once been a professional athlete in his prime, he probably would have been dead already.
But in the end, his body had betrayed him anyways.
They had both decided that Shane would stay home and forego being admitted to a hospital, managing his pain with strong opioids.
Ilya had become clingier than ever through all of it.
Desperate for every touch, every reminder that Shane’s heart was still beating, that his skin was still warm beneath his hands.
Around the apartment, he held him constantly — in the kitchen, on the couch, in bed — like Shane might disappear the second he let go.
And within barely a week and a half, Shane could no longer manage even the simplest tasks on his own anymore.
The next morning, Ilya woke up later than usual with Shane still wrapped safely in his arms. For one brief, fragile second, everything felt peaceful.
The pillow beneath Shane’s head was clean.
The blankets were clean.
And his body was cold.
Cold like the metal of the rings on their fingers.
Cold everywhere except the places still pressed against Ilya’s chest, where a little warmth stubbornly remained.
Ilya didn’t move.
He just held Shane closer beneath the blankets, as though he could keep death away by refusing to let the warmth leave him completely.
His trembling fingers wandered through Shane’s grey hair while he kissed him everywhere he could reach — his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelashes, his lips — over and over for
the last time.
He had known this day was coming.
They both had.
But reality was far crueler than fear had ever been.
By noon, Ilya finally called David and Hayden.
His voice barely sounded like his own.
“He is resting now.”
And until David arrived, Ilya kept Shane exactly where he was, safe in his arms.