Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ilya Rozanov has mixed feelings about the yearly MHL Awards Show in Las Vegas.

He knows most of the guys in the League will claim they don’t give a shit about some fancy awards, that they only care about hockey and winning, and none of the other bullshit. If pressed, maybe some would admit that it’d still be a huge honor to even be considered for a trophy. In truth, the great majority of players will likely never be even considered for an award, and they look at the event with bitterness and longing like scorned lovers.

Ilya loves the awards. He loves the praise, the recognition, the look of envy in the other’s eyes when his talent gets recognized and he gets crowned, yet again, as top of the League.

He has been invited to every single award show ever since his rookie season and, most importantly, so has Shane Hollander. Vegas has become one of the few nights a year where Hollander and him get to exist in the same space in public without skates. Here, he gets to see Hollander’s freckles, his carefully put together hair, his perfectly tailored suit, and they get to exist here, carefully not too close to each other, and then spend the entire night exploring exactly how crazy they can get with “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”.

The awards, however, also mark the end of the season and are the last event before he inevitably has to go back to Moscow and acknowledge that his life in America as a successful, famous and powerful athlete is only a dream, an escape from his smothering gray reality.

So, yes, conflicted feelings.

But Ilya has decided that he will not let Russia, or anything else, ruin his night. He let it happen a couple times before. His first years in the league, he let the ugliness of Russia —of himself— creep into the night and later regretted how it tainted what should’ve been good memories to keep him afloat during the summer. No. Today he will celebrate his win, have fun, make Shane Hollander come undone again, and again, and again, and take all of that fire with him into the eternal winter of his family home.

In fact, Ilya plans to have as much fun as he can tonight. Which, for starters, means ignoring Hollander’s clearly panicked looks as he calmly approaches the table where he’s talking to Scott Hunter. Ilya senses how they both tense as he reaches them and his smile only grows wider, ready for the fun. It’s late in the night anyway, they’ve all had a few drinks, the old people and the guys with kids and very pregnant wives have already gone up to their rooms. Ilya has behaved long enough.

“Ah, Hollander and Hunter. New York and Canada’s golden boys, together. Maybe you should start boy band, yes?” He teases, leaning his elbows on the little cocktail table.

“Fuck off,” Shane rolls his eyes. “Still sore about your loss tonight?”

Ilya ignores Hunter’s clear moment of shock at Shane’s bite, too busy indulging his rival with a grin. This is one of his favorite versions of Hollander (when clothed), the kind so few get to see. The sharper edges of him.

“Yes, you win big league prize, Hollander, whatever. I intend to win at something else tonight, to make up for it.”

Shane blushes so fast, it’s like a natural talent.

“At getting drunk off your ass?” Hunter scoffs, oblivious as usual. “That’s the problem with the open bar.”

“Don’t worry, grandpa, most of us can take more than one drink before needing a nap.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Careful, Hunter, that’s not very sportsmanlike of you. If you are not careful, maybe they take your trophy away.”

Scott bristles. But, more importantly, Hollander looks like he’s holding back laughter. (It should worry Ilya how much it thrills him to make him laugh).

“Too bad they don’t give trophies to the biggest dick,” Scott bites.

Then, belatedly, realizes what he just handed Ilya in a fucking silver platter. Hollander chokes on his drink with what could be laughter or shock.

“Yes, Hunter, at least you know who the true biggest in the league is.”

“Shut up! You know that’s not what I- god, you’re such a huge-“

”Dick?” Ilya grins. “Biggest. Have had wonderful reviews.”

“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov,” Hollander laughs. Flirting, Ilya realizes with a shiver of anticipation. “You’re just jealous that you’re going home empty handed.”

Ilya is about to say that he’s very much not going to bed empty handed when Scott Hunter rudely interrupts.

“Let it go, Hollander. Better not stoop to his level.”

“Stoop?” Ilya arches his eyebrows.

“Lower,” Shane supplies like its second nature.

“Ah. Well, I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure Hollander’s knees could lower for me better than yours, old man.”

Incredibly, that makes both men flush bright red. Interesting. Also, they both look like they want to murder him.

“My knees are just fine, Rozanov. I’ll be happy to show you next time we play,” Hunter bites back, a bit harshly. Angry, now, in a different way. Ilya wonders if…

Ah, but Shane has that look on his face like he is horny and angry about it. He is definitely thinking about his knees on the floor right now. And that’s far more interesting to Ilya than Hunter.

“Relax, Hunter, I’m kidding, yes? I am sure dinosaur knees are very strong too. You can stoop all you want. I’m gonna take a piss.”

And with that, he leaves to the bathroom.

“God, fuck that guy,” he hears Scott huff.

“…yeah, definitely,” Hollander replies, and it’s really a shame that no one will ever know how unintentionally funny he is. No one but Ilya.

He has barely made it into bathroom when his phone buzzes.

Jane: wtf was that?

Ilya: u hard?

Jane: it’s not funny

Ilya: bathroom’s empty

Ilya: door locks from the inside

Jane: fuck you

Jane: be there in five

Ilya smiles, giddy. Oh, how he loves it when Hollander misbehaves. The way his brain and his body are constantly at odds is amusing, sure, but Ilya can’t help the bolt of excitement every time he sees desire trump fear. He loves that Hollander wants him enough to let go of caution.

This will be a great pregame for the rest of the night.

Ilya is practically bouncing on his heels, running his hands through his hair and trying not to mess up his curls, when the seven minute mark hits. Annoyance curls in his gut. Did Hollander get fucking cold feet? 

He checks his phone again. Nothing.

Fuck it. Fuck him. Ilya will make him pay for it later.

He’s about to unlock the door when his phone buzzes, no doubt with an apology or an explanation. Someone screams outside of the bathroom. There’s a loud noise. More screams. What the-

His phone buzzes again.

Jane: don’t come out

Jane: hide

Jane: guns

Jane: idk what’s happening

Jane: call the cops

He stares, wide eyed.

Ilya: wtf

Ilya: Hollander

Ilya: Hollander

Ilya: u ok?

Ilya: Shane

The loud noise again. Ilya recognizes it now. Gunshots. Oh, fuck.

This is a terrible idea, Shane repeats to himself as if that would change anything; as if he hasn’t been telling himself (and Ilya) these exact same words since their very first night together; as if he didn’t know by now, after six years of whatever this is, that when it comes to Ilya Rozanov his self-preservation instinct and common sense are non-existent… as if he hadn’t spent the last five minutes trying to figure out how to politely get fucking rid of Scott Hunter, whose only crime is standing in between Shane and a very ill-advised blowjob in a very public place.

“So I, uh, I gotta go make a call,” he tries, pulling his phone out and giving Hunter his best apologetic tight lipped smile before he steps away.

He doesn’t make it far.

Scott grabs him by the arm. Hard. Holding him in place.

For a terrible, horrifying second, Shane thinks he’s been found out.

Fuck.

Then he sees Hunter’s face. The Admiral’s captain isn’t looking at him. His face is pale like a paper sheet and his eyes are locked somewhere by the entrance of the hall. Shane frowns, following his gaze and sees four men walking in. Holding guns.

It’s a prank, his brain supplies hurriedly. It’s for a video. Maybe a reality tv thing or a movie.

Scott squeezes him harder. Most people in the room haven’t noticed the men yet one the one leading the charge says:

“Everybody on the ground!”

A few heads snap towards him, the crowd stirring awake. The music is still playing.

“I said,” the man raises his hand with the gun, “everybody on the ground!”

There’s a deafening noise. A woman screams.

Terror shoots through Shane’s veins, sharpening everything. Adrenaline is an old friend. Panic is too. They mix and fight a battle within him as he falls to his knees, phone still in hand and a sharp thought makes it through the noise in his brain:

Ilya.

He doesn’t know. He’s in the bathroom. Alone. Oh god.

Ilya, alone and confident and waiting to open the bathroom door for Shane. Ilya, handsome and powerful and dangerous to men who want to assert control. Ilya, who has never backed away from a fight in his fucking life on and off the ice.

Ilya.

With trembling hands he shoots two texts.

Shane: don’t come out

Shane: hide

And then, because he realizes that he might not grasp the reality of the situation, that he might think this just Shane being paranoid about a hookup, he adds:

Shane: guns

Shane: idk what’s happening

And then, as a fucking afterthought, because he’s an idiot:

Shane: call the cops

Laying on his stomach, he waits for a reply. Before he gets one, Hunter kicks him on the shin and probably saves his fucking life because he’s quick to drop the phone and put his hands on his head before a pair of feet appear in front of him. Shane’s heart thunders in his ears as the shoes stop.

The phone buzzes. A hand lifts it.

“Sorry, kid, girlfriend’s gonna have to wait,” the man says, same one that shouted before. “Mister Hunter, please.”

Hunter breathes heavily as he shuffles to pull his phone out and hands it over. The man grabs it, thanks him, and keeps walking, collecting phones.

Shane turns to look at Hunter, who is already glancing at him.

You okay? Scott mouths.

Shane manages to nod. He feels nauseous.

“Alright, ladies and gentleman, now that we’ve got your attention,” the same man from before says, voice loud and authoritative without yelling, “listen up. We are terribly sorry to interrupt your evening, but we want to assure you that as long as you do what we say, you’ve got nothing to-”

“Hey boss! Look what I found hiding away in the bathroom!” A rough voice breaks through the silence. “Kid thought he could skip class.”

Shane’s stomach falls. He looks up, sees one of the men dragging Rozanov by the collar, pressing a gun to his back. Everything in him wants to get up, do something, say something. Anything. He starts to move, without even thinking, but when their eyes meet, he sees the fear in Rozanov’s eyes, the warning. His lips form a single, silent, word: Don’t.

And Shane realizes that if he does what he wants to, he might get the man he- he might get him killed.

Shane gives the tiniest nod, even as his throat hurts with a lump of tears. He watches as they push Ilya down to his knees, then force him to lay flat on the floor, roughly even if he isn’t resisting.

“As I was saying,” the first man says, sounding maybe a little annoyed by the interruption, “you’ve got nothing to worry about. We will keep you here, until we get what we want, and then we will all get to go home. As long as you all behave and do as you are told… what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Chapter Text

As a rule, Ilya doesn’t panic. It’s useless and dangerous and it makes people do stupid things. It doesn’t mean he can’t be scared, or anxious, or careful. He’s not an idiot either.

(Is Shane okay? He needs to know. He’s out there. They were shooting. He heard.)

He gets in a quick call to 9-1-1 and maybe struggles more than usual with his words. He gives the hotel name, explains he’s a hockey player at the award show. Says there were gunshots. Asks them to hurry.

There’s a loud bang on the bathroom door.

“Sir?” The operator ask on the other side of the line, her voice still unwaveringly calm.

“Who’s in there?!” A man yells, before there’s door bangs loudly again.

Ilya prays silently that he gave enough information before he hangs up and shoves his phone inside the toilet water tank, hoping it’s as waterproof as the publicity promised.

“One minute!” He calls back.

He flushes the toilet. Washes his hands to keep up appearances.

The door slams open and he doesn’t even have to feign surprise as an armed man barrels in. Ilya raises both hands, it doesn’t matter. The man pushes him back against the wall, hard enough to make a couple little white tiles crack. Ilya’s had worse on the ice, against the boards, and his natural instinct is to fight back against his assailant… but there’s a gun pointed to his face. This isn’t a game.

Ilya raises both hands, lets himself slide slightly down the wall to look smaller, weaker.

“What the fuck did you think you’re doing?” The man shouts. He is big, with a dark beard covering half his face and a tattoo curling around his cheekbone all the way up to his eyebrow.

“Bathroom,” Ilya manages, his accent thicker than usual. Overselling it a little.

“Get the fuck up,” the man yells, grabbing him by the collar and all but dragging him out.

Ilya lets himself be manhandled.

He is not an idiot. He knows this kind of man. He grew up in a house with two of them. Pathetic, angry men who even when having the upper hand need to belittle others to feel powerful. Small men with guns trying to feel big. Like this one, who happily announces his ‘catch’ to his boss while he forces Ilya to the ground. He goes down without a fight.

But not without his eyes finding Hollander because, first of all, he simply needs to know where he is, that he’s okay, that he isn’t… and second, because Hollander is, sometimes, a panicky idiot who will try to get up and intervene in his polite Canadian way somehow. Like he is doing right now, moving to stand up. Idiot.

“Don’t,” he enunciates without a sound, as their eyes meet.

Good thing Hollander is also obedient. He stills again, his eyes never leaving Ilya as he’s forced to lay down flat on the floor.

The man in the center of the room keeps talking about cooperation and behaving and how everything will be alright, which Ilya guesses is easy to say when you’re the ones holding the guns. It all feels a little surreal to him, false, like something that should only happen in movies or bad tv shows. But that’s his brain lying, panicking, and Ilya doesn’t do that.

He breathes in deeply as he takes in his surroundings, like he is preparing for a play on the ice. There’s about a hundred people in this room, maybe less. The party had already been dwindling, particularly for anyone who didn’t win a trophy tonight. No children this late, which is a small blessing.

Hollander is still here, though, trembling next to Hunter. Ilya’s eyes keep drifting towards him. He sees the men and the guns and the whole fucking shit show and he thinks it would be easier to focus if Hollander wasn’t here.

Focus. Don’t panic. Focus.

Four armed men walk around the room, making a show of swinging their guns around. Big guns. Automatic stuff. He really hates how easy it is to get that shit in America. Not that Russia is too different.

The man from the bathroom roams like a lion in between the people, hissing “what the fuck are you looking at?” every now and then as if they weren’t all already scared. He’s an asshole, but definitely not a professional. Not like the guy in the middle, the boss, clearly. Clean-cut hair, shaved, a relaxed but warded posture. Probably former military or retired cop, which irks Ilya deep in the place where his memories of home reside. The third guy isn’t far behind, solid and steady, watching like a hawk from the sidelines, all business except for his fucking stupid ponytail. Then there’s the skinny guy, tattooed arms, tank top, a face made of sharp lines and anxious squirrelly energy. He looks nervous. It makes him dangerous.

“Alright, let’s make our guests comfortable, shall we? Three, Four, you know the drill. Like we talked.”

Three and Four (apparently squirrelly and angry-muscles respectively) start getting them on their feet.

“Move! C’mon! On your fucking feet!”

One by one, they are grabbing people, forcing them up, shoving them towards the far ends of the room and making them sit down with their backs against the walls.

He watches as they grab Hollander and Hunter and direct them to the far east side of the room. Connors is sent to the same side. His wife to the opposite. There’s a bit of a scuffle about it, quickly settled when Three points a gun at her. After that, everyone else goes smoothly. Ilya recognizes some faces. Most of them being sent on the same direction. The places aren’t random.

When his turn comes, Ilya only has one thing in mind. The big guy, Four, pushes him and he pretends to trip, as if he were drunk off his ass, and adds a few more steps than necessary.

“Get the fuck up!” The guy grabs him by the shirt and forces him forward again.

“Easy, easy. I go,” Ilya turns to look over his shoulder, hands up in the air, keeps walking. More than he probably should, they are already by the wall, but he pushes on.

“Alright, that’s enough, sit down!” The man yells.

Ilya keeps walking.

“I said, sit down!”

He feels himself being yanked forcefully to the floor and thrown against the wall. He hits his head hard against the concrete, but he knows it was worth it the second a pair of hands catch him firmly by the arms.

“Jesus Christ, Rozanov,” Hollander whispers under his breath.

Got him.

Hollander lets go and sits up very straight, not looking at him. Not looking at the men either. His eyes are very far away, his jaw clenched, his breathing slow and controlled, in a way that makes it clear he is fighting to keep it that way.

For a second, Ilya wonders if it was a mistake forcing this, coming next to him. He’d been acting on instinct, only knowing that out of all the people of the room he needed to be next to him. That he wouldn’t be able to truly focus on anything else until he could feel Hollander’s body pressed next to him, solid and real. But maybe he shouldn’t have-

Hollander’s knuckles press against his. Firmly. Purposefully.

Something inside Ilya unknots slowly. He takes his first real breath in almost an hour.

“You good, Rozanov?” Hunter asks, bending over just slightly to look at him.

“Good,” he says, pressing back against Shane’s knuckles softly. “You?”

“Considering the circumstances, yeah,” Hunter says.

Shane just nods.

“They are separating players,” Ilya says, lowering his voice.

“What?” Hunter frowns.

“This side of the room. Is all us. Look.”

Hunter nods. “Makes sense. Big guys, athletes, all drunk… if I wanted to contain them in a room and had only four guys, I’d want them where I can see them all at once.”

Ilya looks up. He sees Three and Four rounding them all up. He thinks of the wars, of the revolution, of History classes back in Moscow, the men of the villages pulled out of their beds and out against walls. Firing squads.

No. This isn’t that. It can’t be that. Not with some of the most famous hockey players in the world in the middle of fucking Vegas. Not with Shane Hollander, all gorgeous freckles and soft lips and gentle brown eyes by his side.

The leader comes back after a while, his energy far more relaxed than the two men he left watching them. But there’s an intensity to him that doesn’t let Ilya buy the act. Or maybe is just the gun in his hand.

“Alright, everyone, now that you’re all comfortable, I just need you to settle down and keep calm,” he says lightly but firmly. “We are talking to the cops right now, and I am sure that they wanna see you all back in one piece, so let’s hope they cooperate, get us what we want and we can all go home. Alright?”

See? Ilya tells himself. This isn’t that.

They’ll make it out alive. They are just… bargaining chips. It’s frustrating and stupid and infuriating, but it isn’t the first time that Ilya finds himself at the mercy of powerful angry men. He has survived it before. He will again. All he has to do is keep his head down and not lose his mind.

“Alright,” the man raises his voice. “Now, let’s see… we are gonna need one of you to come with me right now. Shane Hollander.”

Ilya panics.

“Shane Hollander!” The man calls again, firmer. “On your feet.”

It’s like he’s in a dream. His body isn’t his own. He moves to get up and feels Rozanov grip his wrist. Shane turns. Rozanov’s eyes are hard, intense... scared.

“Hollander,” he whispers, his voice barely a breath.

They can’t do this. Not here. Not now. Not with everyone watching. He can’t let Rozanov get shot on his behalf.

Shane clenches his jaw until his teeth hurt and pulls out of his grasp as he gets up. He sends Rozanov a look that he hopes he’ll understand. Don’t do anything fucking stupid. Then turns his attention forward.

“T-That’s me,” he says. “I’m- I’m Shane Hollander.”

The man looks him up and down. Shane stands there, feeling small and ridiculous in his taylored tux. He looks past the man, over his shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. 

“Of course you are. C’mon, kid. Come here.”

Shane thinks his legs might give out from under him, but he manages one step, then another.

Breathe, Hollander, a voice that sounds a lot like Ilya says in the back of his mind. Focus. In, out. In, out. Take another step.

“It’ll just be a minute,” the man assures him with a smile, grabbing him firmly by the shoulder and guiding him down the hall.

Shane’s heart beats so fast, it’s like he’s in the middle of a game. He feels like his ears are filled with cotton. There’s words, but they don’t make sense. A hand shakes him roughly.

“Kid!” The man’s face is right in front of him.

Shane tries to take an instinctual step back, but the grip holding him is like steel.

“Sorry, what?” Shane blinks, coming abruptly back to his body.

He’s in a… conference room? There’s a phone in the middle of the long mahogany table. Next to it stands another of the armed men. He’s got a ponytail. It looks out of place in his hardened face.

“Maybe kid’s gotten one too many hits to the head on the ice, boss,” he huffs, grinning.

“You better sharpen up, Hollander,” the man holding him snaps. “I don’t like repeating myself. Now, listen up. The cops want proof of life, and I figure they will take Canada’s Golden Boy’s word. So all you gotta do is reassure them that we are all good here and that you want them to cooperate with our demands. Can you do that?”

Can he? Shane breaths in slowly. They are giving him something to do, a task, and that helps. It makes him feel less out of control, less at their mercy (even if it’s a fucking lie). Because now he has something to do, he just needs to do it well. He can do that. Now that he’s gotten past the initial sense of distance from his body, he can feel something else past the fear. Adrenaline. Like he’s about to play a game. Like an old friend, he feels it shoot through his veins and quiet down everything else. Even panic takes a backseat. Thank goodness.

“Yes, I can,” he says, relived to hear his own voice is a little steadier now.

“Good boy,” the boss smirks. The words are familiar, but they land crooked inside Shane, lacking the Russian accent. “No funny business, Hollander.”

Ponytail guy clicks a button on the landline. 

“Alright, Mister Clay, you’ve got your proof of life here,” the boss says, then gestures at Shane with his gun.

“Uh, hi. This is- This is Shane Hollander speaking.”

Deep breaths. It’s just an interview. Just like a post-game.

“Hello, Shane,” the voice on the other side is warm, calm. “It’s good to hear from you. How are you holding up?”

Shane looks at the boss, forces himself to make eye contact. The guy nods once.

“I’m good. We are all good. A little shaken up, as you can imagine, but I don’t think anyone’s hurt so far,” Shane is very proud of how steady he manages to sound.

“That’s good to know, Shane,” Mister Clay replies. “We are working on our end to make sure that you can all go home soon, alright?”

“Thanks, sir. Looking forward to it,” Shane says automatically. “It’s been a long night. Would be great if you guys could get these guys whatever they need so we can all get some sleep.”

That earns him a chuckle, both from the guy holding a gun and from the other side of the line.

“We are trying our best, Shane.”

“Damn sure you are,” the boss says then. “Now, where are my codes?”

“Like I said on our earlier call, One, we are doing our best to get them to you. But it’s not that easy. The Casino manager has been very helpful and is trying to get in touch with their security team as we speak to get you access. But there’s a lot of bureaucracy in place to protect this kind of assets.”

The boss (One, apparently) sighs and presses the barrel of the gun to Shane’s forehead. The metal is cold.

“Now, Hollander, would you tell Mister Clay what I’m doing right now?”

“He’s pressing his gun against my forehead,” Shane replies, voice even, factual. Detached. His breathing is shallow to keep his body still.

“One, please, we are working on it, but we need more time. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt. Shane, are you alright?”

“I’ve been better,” he manages. “Would be great if you guys could hurry the fuck up.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Clay assures them. “One, can you give me an hour until our next call? I will see if we can get you the codes any faster.”

Shane holds his breath, while the man seems to ruminate the offer. He thinks of his parents. Has anyone told them what’s going on? They hadn’t come this year. He hadn’t wanted them to. He still feels a little guilty about it, but he’s also relived that they are safe and far away. He thinks of Hayden, who was so excited to come tonight and had to leave early because Jackie wants to fly back first thing tomorrow back to the kids. He thinks of Ilya. If he never sees him again, what’s the last thing he will remember of him? He hopes it isn’t this. Not the fear. Not this horror. He hopes he gets to be a good memory someday.

“Alright, Clay,” One sighs, dropping his hand. “You’ve got an hour. Then, we’ll talk again.”

“Thank you, One.”

The line goes dead. One laughs, shaking his head, and looks back at Shan.

“You’ve got some balls, kid. That wasn’t half bad.”

“Thanks,” Shane says, automatically. “Media training helps.”

“Media training,” the man laughs, clapping him on the shoulder and guiding him back into the room. “Sure thing, Hollander. Sure thing. What’d you learn from that?”

“Keep it vague. Tell them what they wanna hear, but never more. My interviews are usually boring,” he shrugs.

The man laughs again. Shane is starting to hate the sound.

“Well, I bet you’ll give some crazy good interviews if you make it out of here.”

If he makes it out.

His brain latches on to that word.

If.

Oh, god, they are so screwed.

Chapter Text

Shane gets shoved back into the ballroom by ponytail guy who, by elimination, he supposes must be called Two.

“Back to the wall,” he says, pushing him forward.

Every eye on the room falls on him. He avoids them all, unsure of what they expect. He’s got no answers, no solutions, no strategy this time.

Shane stumbles and looks at the line, momentarily lost until he sees a space waiting for him in between Rozanov and Hunter. The simplicity of the gesture, of them keeping space for him to return to, brings a lump to his throat. What if he hadn’t? He tries to swallow back the tears as he walks over, aware of Rozanov’s eyes locked in on him, roaming his body in a way that would be familiar if not for the lack of desire in them.

His legs are shaky as he sits down. Hunter grabs him by the arm and helps him down, his hold steady and comforting. On his other side, he feels the steady press of Rozanov’s body against his, foot to knee, knee to hip, elbow to shoulder.

“Hollander, are you alright?” Rozanov asks. His voice sounds thick.

Shane nods. He keeps his eyes locked in front of him, in a faraway point of the room.

Rozanov says, “words,” as if they were in bed asking if he’s still good with what they are doing.

It startles a shaky laugh out of Shane.

“I’m- Yeah, I’m fine,” he manages.

“What happened?” Hunter asks, still holding his arm.

“It was a call with the cops,” Shane says, slowly. “They wanted proof of life, so they had me tell them that we are all okay, and ask them to give them what they want.”

“How much are they asking for?” Rozanov whispers.

(Shane has half a mind to worry about if they are being obvious. They have never spoken this much, or been this close to each other, outside of hockey. But he’s got Hunter on his other side and that definitely helps make it all straight, maybe even normal. Just three captains trying to make sense of all this.)

“It’s not money,” Shane sighs. “They said something about codes? Something about the casino.”

“The vault,” Hunter sighs. “Well, shit. Ambitious bastards.”

“That’s big prize,” Rozanov nods. “Makes sense the big risk.”

“Well,” Hunter lets go of him and leans back against the wall, “we might as well get comfortable, this will take a while.”

Shane finally turns to look at him. “What?”

“These things take time. Vegas casinos have a million redundancies precisely to avoid this kind of thing. They usually operate through international security agencies which have protocols built for these exact situations. It’ll be hours before they even hear back, I’d bet.”

Shane stares. Ilya leans forward to look too. Scott blushes.

“Travel time. I, uh, read a lot of true crime books. And podcast.”

“Like grandpa,” Rozanov laughs.

“Fuck off,” Hunter grunts without real heat.

Shane has stopped listening. Hours. Hunter said hours. Oh, fuck. Oh, god. Oh, he’s dead. He’s so dead.

He thinks of the cold bite of metal against his forehead.

Will it hurt?

How long will his brain keep working with a bullet lodged between his eyes? Will it destroy his entire face or will his parents be able to identify his body? Oh god, his parents.

Mom is gonna break. No, dad is gonna break and mom is going to pretend to be okay to keep him from fully falling apart.

Oh, shit, she’s gonna have to put together a statement. While grieving him.

They will be alone. He has no uncles or aunts or cousins. Who will look after his parents? Will Ilya do it? Would he? How would he even explain it? Justify it?

Will Ilya feel his absence? Will he miss him? Will he leave an empty space in his life or will he just be an adventure of his youth that ended abruptly?

Ilya will never know. In the hour he has left, Shane won’t have time to find the words or the time or the space to let him know. Not without putting him in danger.

Ilya will never know. The space that Ilya holds in Shane’s life will die with him. No one, not even Ilya, will ever know.

Maybe it’s for the best. Here and gone. No one will ever know his secrets. No one will ever truly know him. He will forever be the mask he always has been. He will be a memory and he will be forgotten in time. It’s already over. He just knows it a little bit ahead of time. What a blessing, what a curse.

He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live. He wants to hug his mom. He wants to kiss Ilya Rozanov again. He wants to play hockey until his body can’t take it anymore. He wants kids. Maybe. Someday. He wants to be himself. He wants to be brave enough to find out who that is.

Oh god, he’s never even gonna turn thirty.

He’s going to die tonight.

He could’ve won another cup. At least.

He could be having sex right now.

He will never kiss Ilya Rozanov again.

The world narrows around him. He can’t breathe. He puts his head between his knees, shielded by his arms, trying desperately to block it all out and focus on breathing. In, out. In, out. He can’t. It’s not working.

“Hollander,” Rozanov’s voice breaks through the static in his head.

“Oh, fuck,” he manages to grunt. “Oh, I’m so- oh, I’m- fuck, I’m gonna-“

“Hollander, what’s wrong?” Hunter is there too. “What are you talking about?”

“An hour. He gave… the cops… an hour,” he whines, not sure if he’s talking loud enough to be heard. He feels like there’s no air in his lungs.

“Okay, so it takes longer, no problem,” Rozanov sounds relaxed, like that time he teased him about being too anxious about a plan to have sex for the first time. But this isn’t that. This isn’t fucking that.

Shane shakes his head.

“No?” Rozanov’s hand is on his back now, drawing small soothing circles between his shoulder blades. His voice gentle, too. “What do you mean no?”

“He pressed a gun… to my forehead,” Shane says, voice wavering. Rozanov’s hand on his back stills. “Made me tell the cops he was doing it. Then, they asked for the hour. And he agreed. But if they don’t he…”

“No. He won’t,” Rozanov’s hand travels up to the nape of his neck, and warm steady fingers spread across his exposed skin. “Shane. You’re best player in the League, yes? Too valuable. They will not hurt you. Would be stupid. You don’t kill the golden duck.”

“Goose,” Shane feels himself laugh, realizes that miraculously there is enough air in his lungs for it. “Golden goose.”

“Sure, goose,” Rozanov concedes. “They are not so stupid to lose heir bargain. They will not hurt you. You are too valuable. Okay?”

Is Rozanov right? He sounds so sure, so steady. But Shane doesn’t feel valuable right now, he feels like a pawn, a discardable piece in a game he doesn’t understand. What else is new, though? Hasn’t he always been? This is just a different game. One he isn’t necessarily good at.

But why him? Why did it have to be him? Okay. Okay. Maybe he is… something to this men. An important piece. They called him, right? They wanted him specifically. Rozanov seems to think so. Maybe he can count on that.

Shane dares peak from under his arm and finds Ilya’s warm eyes on him, a steady port in the storm. He is incapable of distrusting him. He trusts Ilya with his life, with his body, with his biggest secret… with something deeper and far more vulnerable at his core that he’s never put a name to. He makes the same choice he already made years ago and believes him.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Okay.”

His breath evens out, slowly he works to unclench his body. It takes a minute or two before he no longer feels like he’s having  a heart attack.

“Good,” Rozanov smiles approvingly.

Shane feels himself ease a little more at the praise. He even manages to send back a small thankful smile in return.

Ilya gives him a little pat on the cheek and pulls back entirely, leaning against the wall, his body lax and easy like he’s just bored with all this. Shane straightens up, too, finally able to breathe… and feels Scott Hunter’s eyes on him, trailing his every move. He doesn’t dare look, doesn’t dare think about what Scott might have seen or heard. What he might suspect. But Hunter just says:

“It’s gonna be alright, Hollander. You’re good.”

Shane just nods, not looking at him. Someone on Scott’s left leans over and the Admiral’s captain finally looks away to whisper something to another player, maybe filling him in on what Shane just shared. Shane lets his mind drift away, detaching from his body and his emotions. It’s easier if it all feels far away.

One hour. Then they’ll see if Rozanov is right.

Ilya doesn’t trust luck. He isn’t one to leave things to chance.

Luck has fucked him over since birth, dropping him in the middle of a family that didn’t love him, except for a mother who was eventually taken from him. After that, he learned quickly that any luck he wanted he had to earn. He had to work hard, if he wanted to leave Russia. He had to be the best, if he wanted to get drafted. He had to be the strongest, the scariest, the meanest one on the ice if he wanted to make himself a reputation that could never be questioned, if he wanted to make sure that no one ever dared try to take advantage of him again, that no one ever dared question his sexuality, that no one ever dared make him powerless again.

It wasn’t luck that he was the first player drafted on his rookie year. It wasn’t luck that Hollander and him were paired up for the CCM shoot. It wasn’t luck that he was the youngest captain to ever win a Stanley Cup.

He won’t trust Shane Hollander’s life to luck either.

Ilya can feel Hollander tense immediately as he moves. Half an hour had gone by and Ilya deems this is far enough waiting. Too much already. So he stand up.

“Rozanov,” Hollander hisses, grabbing at his clothes, “the fuck are you doing?”

“Hey! On the ground! Get down again!” Stupid nervous Three is yelling at him, pointing his gun.

“I need to pee,” Ilya says.

Four turns around, frowning.

“You already did!”

“Long ago,” Ilya says, selling the stubborn drunk Russian arc. “I drink much beer. I get nervous bladder. Need to pee.”

“No fucking way. Sit down.”

“Then I pee here,” he starts pulling down his trousers.

A chorus of annoyed and angry voices erupts around him as the other players try to move away from him. Only Hollander doesn’t move. He just hisses “Rozanov” again under his breath.

“For fucks sake, Three, just take the man to the goddamn bathroom already,” ponytail yells. He must be Two. The boss is definitely One.

With a grumble, the squirrelly man walks over to Ilya, grabs him by the arm and drags him to the hallway with the toilets. Ilya purposefully stumbles along.

The man kicks the bathroom door open and shoved Ilya inside. He lets it happen… but he’s getting tired of being thrown around against walls.

Ilya regains his balance and walks into the stall.

“What? Urinal nor good enough for you?”

“I can’t pee with pervert watching.”

“I’m not a-“

“Then why you wanna watch?”

“To keep an eye on you, asshole.”

“What am gonna do? Escape down the toilet? I just want a moment private. I am… shy, yes?”

That last bit seems to work, if only because the man deems it humilliating. As if Ilya was confessing to having a small dick or something.

“Just hurry up. No funny business.”

“Just pee,” Ilya says, closing the door. “Not funny.”

He is faced with the toilet that has his phone hidden inside the water tank. He stares at it frowning. He isn’t sure if he can get to it without making too much noise. He needs a cover.

“So what? You like movies?” He starts as his fingers carefully look for the lid’s edge.

“What?”

“Movies? You know. Fast and furious. Ocean’s Eleven. You watch a lot of them?” Ilya ever so slowly starts lifting the lid, hoping his voice will cover any sound. “You watch them and you think ‘oh this is easy’ so you think ‘yes i could do that too’ and then you try this shit.”

“That ain’t none of your goddamn business, you fucking commie. Just fucking pee and ger on with it.”

Ilya has his hand inside the tank now, feeling for the phone.

“I’m trying. Is hard with pervert listening and thinking of my dick.”

“I ain’t no fucking fag. Just fucking pee already.”

“I pee with my dick,” Ilya pulls the soaking wet phone out. “But yes, maybe if I relax.”

So he starts whistling as he closes the lid again, then pulls his dick put and starts to pee while he unlocks his phone one handed. The fucking thing actually is waterproof. He’ll leave a good review later.

Typing with only his thumb, he opens Svetlana’s chat and types as fast as he can in crilyc.

Ilya: Sveta call the Vegas police

Ilya: tell them you can help

Sveta: how drunk are you right now?

Ilya: it’s not a joke

Ilya: i swear

Sveta: did you get arrested?

Ilya: they need casino codes

Ilya: your father has influence, he can help them get it faster

Sveta: you’re not making any sense

Ilya is running out of time. And pee. He needs to think of something effective. Fast.

Ilya: You’re my best friend in the world

Ilya: I love you

If that doesn’t convey his desperation, he isn’t sure what will.

Sveta: Ilyushka whats going on?

Sveta: you are scaring me

Ilya: I only have half an hour left. Please.

“You done in there?!”

There’s a loud bang on the stall’s door. Ilya nearly drops his phone.

“Quit fucking stalling.”

“Shit. Fuck. Coming,” Ilya turns his phone’s norification’s off and shoves it into the inner pocket of his tux jacket with one hand as, with the other, he flushes the toilet. He dries his hand on the back of his shirt quickly before he opens the door.

There’s a gun to his face. Ilya raise a both arms.

“Can I wash my hands?” He asks, as innocently as possible.

“Fat chance, fucker,” the man grabs him by the elbow and yanks him towards the door.

Ilya feels the weight of the phone swinging against his left ribs. Possibly a death sentence if he gets caught with it… but it’s perhaps his only chance at making it out of here alive too… his only chance at Hollander making it out of here alive.

(Same thing, really. Ilya is pretty sure he wouldn’t survive this if Hollander doesn’t. And that’s a thought he can’t look at too closely right now.)

He tries to tell himself he isn’t leaving their lives up to luck. He is carefully setting their fate in Svetlana Vetrova’s hands. And she is far more reliable.

Chapter Text

Minutes go by like they are moving through syrup. Ilya watches the seconds tick on his watch, each a small death sentence for the man next to him. He can’t do this. He won’t. He needs a plan, a desperate gamble, anything to stop what’s coming, but he knows his chances of success are limited. A wrong move will only get him killed and he suspects it wouldn’t change Hollander’s chances much. He might even make them worst. So he has to trust that Sveltana’s father has been able to pull some strings. As a former goalie and a current minister in the Russian government, he has a perfect excuse and pull to do… something. Anything.

Next to Ilya, Hollander is unnaturally still. A man in the gallows, expecting his fate.

Earlier, when Ilya’d returned from the bathroom, his eyes had roamed his body anxiously, worry and anger clearly at war. The kind of look Ilya usually loved to elicit.

“Are you okay?” He had asked, as soon as he sat down.

Ilya had just nodded.

And then, Hollander stopped looking at him.

Something in his face is different now. He is still scared, clearly, but where anxiousness had made him jittery before he now wears the same sharp expression he usually saved their games. Shane Hollander, Montreal Metros Captain, is in the room now. It troubles Ilya, even if he can’t pinpoint why.

When the hour arrives, it’s like the air between them shifts. Charged with electricity. Shane is still looking forward, but there’s a new stiffness to his back, Ilya can feel it in the spot where their shoulders are still pressed together.

The hour goes by. Nothing happens.

Ten minutes later, Two comes back, whispers something in One’s ear, and they are left in the room with dumb and dumber, each facing one of the walls lined up with hostages.

This is it. This is when they find out.

When One returns, Ilya shifts his hand to press his fingers on top of Hollander’s. To feel him here. Still here. To hold him back if he has to, if the worst happens. Hollander doesn’t pull away from his hand. Ilya isn’t even sure that he’s breathing when One says, loudly:

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I am glad to let you know that the cops, with some encouragement and the collaboration of your other countries’ foreign officers, are starting to comply with our very simple demands.”

Relief hits Ilya so hard that he feels like his entire body might melt. Next to him, Hollander goes lax too. His fingers twitch under Ilya’s hand.

“We’ve still got some ways to go, folks, but so far we are sailing smooth. So stop all the crying and whining already and get fucking comfortable. Trust me, you don’t want to do anything that’d force my hand and make me get on the bad side of our friends out there. It’d just make this whole thing longer and worst for the rest of your friends. Understood?”

Deafening silence fills the room as the implied threat settles on them.

“I said, understood?!”

A rushed anxious mumble of affirmative answers filled the room.

Apparently satisfied, One gives Three and Four a nod and disappears again down the hallway.

“Well, that’s good. Mostly,” Hunter deadpans. “Hollander, you good?”

“Yeah,” he nods, sounding shaky.

Ilya presses his knee to his, checking, and feels him return the pressure.

“Guess now we just wait for them to get whatever this is. Money, I guess, though some casinos’ vaults also safeguard other things sometimes, specially because they have the most advanced tech to protect it.”

“Great story, grandpa,” Ilya says with a smirk. “Now tell us what it was like, back in your day.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hunter bites back. “I’m nervous.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Hollander says, like he wasn’t the one panicking an hour ago.

“Is going to be boring,” Ilya says, letting his body relax like he’s waiting for a plane and not a hostage that just spent the last hour quietly praying.

That finally earns him a look from Hollander. That angry kitten face is far better than the fear from before. It makes Ilya smile.

There’s not much time for boring. About an hour and a half later, one of the guests, an old man, starts hyperventilating. The woman next to him freaks out so much that she starts panicking too, crying and calling for help. Ilya hears a couple players down to his right shift, make attempts to stand.

“Don’t fucking move!” Four yells, raising his gun.

They all stare down the line, while a defenseman from Philly, big buff man who is probably a terror in the ice, tears up begging the gunman to let him help his dad. Four doesn’t budge.

Ilya clenches his teeth so hard they hurt, but he can feel Hollander’s hand wrapped around his wrist. Ilya chances a look, ready to free himself and intervene, but both Hollander and Hunter look as angry as him. And he suddenly has the impulse to push Shane the fuck down before he does something stupid.

In the end, the tension is cut by the arrival of Two, with his stupid fucking ponytail.

“The fuck is going on here?” He demands, looking around. He looks at the man, lying on the floor, and the desperate woman next to him, and rolls his eyes. “Is there a fucking Doctor or nurse or some shit in the room?”

A couple of hands raise shyly.

“I’m a nurse,” a young woman says, when pointed at.

“Paramedic. Retired,” another man says.

Ilya hears, to his left, other players squirm. Unhappy, probably, to see their loved ones on the eye of the hurricane. (He knows the feeling and doesn’t want to look too closely at what that means).

“Then get fucking on it!” Two says.

The man and woman hesitantly get up, then finally approach the two people in crisis.

Ilya is distracted by all this, so he nearly misses Two approaching them until he’s practically standing on top of them.

“On your feet, Hollander. Boss is asking for you.”

Shane freezes next to him, then squares his shoulders. Ilya catches the Captain Hollander face again. Before Ilya can move to stop him, Shane puts a hand on his shoulder and uses it to push himself up. Ilya gets the message. Stay down. And as much as he hates it, he won’t do anything to risk Hollander right now.

He pressed his gun to my forehead, Shane had said before. Ilya tries not to think about it as he watches the man drag Shane away. Ilya fails at it. He feels like dying.

“He’ll be okay,” Hunter says, watching them walk away.

Ilya turns, angry. He could kill Scott right now.

What does he know? How could he possibly know? He has no fucking idea of what Ilya is watching walk away right now. His heart just walked out of this room, held by a man that’s too good, too warm, too kind for a world hell bent on hardening him into something else. A man he has held and cherished and ruined and desired and feared for so long that he can’t remember what living without him in some form is like. What does Scott fucking Hunter know about that?

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Golden goose.”

Hunter shakes his head. “Hollander is smart. He’s tougher than he looks.”

“Yes,” Ilya repeats.

“I know you are worried about him, but doing something stupid won’t help him.”

“I’m not-“

“Rozanov. I’m old, not an idiot,” Hunter attempts a smile.

He must be a good captain. 

“I don’t know how long you two have been friends, but you’re clearly closer than the rivalry lets on,” Hunter says. And he sounds… careful, cautious, like he knows he’s possibly stepping on unsteady ice. Like he suspects the truth. Ilya is careful to keep his face blank. “I’m just saying, it’s okay to be worried.”

Ilya works his jaw, measuring his words. His eyes inevitably roam back to the hallway where Hollander disappeared, still weighing the possibility to chase after him.

“I am… concerned,” he says slowly, “that they have singled him. I do not like it.”

“No, me neither,” Scott nods, eyes narrowing in concern as he follows Ilya’s gaze. “But you were right, he is valuable. That probably protects him.”

“For now,” Ilya says. But he isn’t sure if it will be a problem later.

“He did good before. He just needs to keep his head down and play nice. Hollander is good at staying out of trouble.”

Ilya doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry.

Something switched inside Shane in between Ilya going to the bathroom and him coming back. He doesn’t know how to explain it, other than the panic that had been eating at him inside, has suddenly paused and turned into something greater, stronger. Because the moment Ilya was out of sight, Shane could no longer worry about himself, or some stupid threat a gunman had made while emboldened by power. All he cared about was making sure Ilya was alright.

And then he was.Thank God, thank God, thank God.

But then, when the panic threatened to turn inwards again, Shane pushed out. He forced himself to look around at the people trembling with fear. It was easier, it felt more important.

He sees older men and women. His parents didn’t come this year, but what if they did? Would his mom try to bargain? Would his dad have a heart attack? Would they be fearing for his life more than theirs? And what if Jackie and Hayden hadn’t left already? What if she was here and Hayd had to hear her crying from across the room?

He’s used to playing in a team, being captain, looking after others and trying to get them to the finish line, the win, the cup. He’s good at that.

This… well, isn’t like that at all. But if he can keep his head in the game, maybe he can figure something out.

Which is, maybe, why he doesn’t freak out when his name gets called again. His focus is on making sure Ilya doesn’t do something stupid, that Hunter and him don’t have to worry about him, that he does what he is told to make sure they all make it out.

Two leads him back to the conference room. He hears One even before the door opens. He is laughing, talking with the same laid back tone, but his volume is higher, his words sharper. It reminds Shane of Theriault after a shitty victory, when he’s mad but doesn’t want to say so entirely.

“Ah, Hollander,” the man smiles at him when he walks in. He’s holding the gun again. “Thank you for joining us.”

“My pleasure,” Shane replies, tersely.

One laughs.

“Let’s see if that media training helps us. See, Mister Clay here is being a little hard to convince about getting us our ride out. Let’s see if you can work your magic.”

“Hello, Shane, are you alright?” The agent’s voice is warm, friendly.

“I’m alright. Thanks for speeding up the code thing. Appreciate it.”

“Of course. Like I told One before, we are doing all we can on our end.”

“Yeah, sure,” One snorts. “You can get me the vault codes but you can’t get me a fucking chopper to get outta here.”

“You need to understand, One, I can’t put a pilot in danger like that. Not without certain assurances.”

“Assurances. How about I assure you that you can get your precious players with their brain still inside their skulls? Would that do.”

“Now, One, listen-“

“No, you listen! You think I asked for the fucking codes just to keep my bounty here and shoot my way out? Do I look like fucking Butch Cassidy to you?”

“Of course not, a shootout is the last thing we want.”

“Is it?” One cocks the gun towards Shane.

He sees it coming. Has time for one last thought. His eyes close. He wishes he wasn’t here. He wishes he was with…

Ilya.

The sound of the shot vibrates through his entire body. It’s painful. Feels like his skull is gonna crack open. His ears ring. His heart is pounding so hard that he his teeth hurt.

“…der? Ho…” the ringing comes and goes. “…kay?”

There’s someone shouting, but it’s muffled. Shane opens his eyes and shakes his head, trying to clear it.

“Hollander! Shane! Are you alright!?” Clay’s voice sounds distant and distorted.

“‘M’okay,” Shane says, through his voice sounds like he’s underwater. “M’fine. He didn’t- I’m alright.”

He hears the relieved sigh on the other side of the lone.

“Listen, One, this isn’t necessary,” Clay is saying, slowly becoming more audible as the ringing subsides. “This doesn’t help. You need to understand. My hands are tied here until we can reach an agreement. But if you don’t-“

“Clay, you’re about to make me do something I really don’t want to do. Now, if you don’t-“

“What if he released some people?” Shane says, breathless. “Hostages.”

“Wha-“

One mutes the call and points the gun at him again. This time aiming to his face. “The fuck do you think you’re doing, kid?”

“I told you,” Shane says, feeling his heart race like he’s in playoff’s overtime, but his head is clear, just like in a game too. “Give them something… and nothing. You’ve got, what, thirty players out there? That’s bargain enough. You’ve also got a bunch of scared women and old people. Vulnerable people. Two already having a medical crisis, ask your guy,” Shane nods his chin towards Two. “You let them go and you seem reliable, they trust you’re not just gonna gun us all down on your way out.”

One stares at him and, still holding up the gun to his face, unmutes the call.

“Clay? You there?”

“I am,” the agent sounds relived. “Are you really open to releasing hostages?”

One scratches at his slight stubble with his free hand. “What if I was?”

“Then maybe we can talk about what you want.”

One lowers his gun. Two takes a step forward, frowning at his boss. Clearly unhappy with the turn of events.

“Are we really gonna listen to-“

“Half. A bit more, even. I keep the players but you get the rest of the guests.”

“Boss.”

“Quiet,” One snaps, then turns to the phone. “You get the guests, if i get my helicopter.”

“Alright. I’ll have to take this up the ladder, but maybe we can work with this. If you let the guests out, I think I can get them to bring you a ride. After.”

“After,” One repeats, twisting his mouth.

“You’ll still have the players. We are not risking them. I assure you. But good will goes a long way with these diplomat types.”

Shane’s stomach twists into a knot at that thought. He tried but he couldn’t come up with an excuse for One to let the players go yet, but at the very least he’s confident that, so long as they keep focusing on him, the others will be safe. Ilya will be safe. Better out there than in this room.

“You can always just point the gun at me again if necessary,” he says, trying to drive Clay’s point home and keep the focus on himself.

One smirks.

“Let’s try to avoid that,” Clay sounds tense.

“Alright, run it up the ladder. Call us back.” One hangs up, turns to Two. “Get ready to move when the time comes. I want this to go smoothly.”

“Boss I-“

“Go. We are wasting time.”

Two shoots Shane a murderous look before he stomps away. Great.

“What kinda media training taught you all that, kid?” One laughs, grabbing Shane by the shoulder firmly and pushing him our of the room.

The first couple steps are shaky. Shane’s legs feel like jello. He barely manages to get his body to respond. But he does, slowly, because he doesn’t have much of a choice with One’s death grip on him and the gun he’s still holding in his other hand.

“That wasn’t media training,” Shane admits flatly. “That was my mom. She drives a hard bargain.”

One turns to him, smiling wider. Amused. Surprised.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re full of surprises, Hollander.”

Shane’s ears are still ringing a little. He sends one last look at the wall that was behind him, where the bullet lodged in the concrete.

Chapter Text

Shane hears the commotion before he sees it. He tenses as the sound of chaotic angry shouting becomes clearer. And then, he recognizes one of the voices.

He takes off running, out of One’s grasp, ignoring the armed man shouting after him, and rounds the corner in time to find that complete chaos has erupted in the ballroom.

Ilya is wrestling against Four, both screaming and punching and rolling on the floor like they are possessed beasts. He’s lost his tux’s jacket and in the wrestling his shirt has been half ripped open, there’s blood in his mouth and a murderous look in his eye. Shane has never seen him like this, not even on the ice. Hunter is on his feet, looking like he wants to intervene but held back at gunpoint by Three who is swinging his gun wildly aiming at the rest of the players like he’s afraid a full-on mutiny is about to take place.

Shane hasn’t stopped running. He sees the moment Four manages to roll Ilya onto his back, straddling him and pulling back his fist. Shane tackles him like he’s on the ice, knocking him off of Ilya. The man is huge, though, and he’s already getting back up when Ilya tries to lurch forward again.

“Ilya!” Shane intercepts him, wrapping both arms around his midriff and absorbing the hit of his fury like he’s shoving him against the boards. “Rozanov, stop!”

Shane knows the odds. Even if they outnumber the robbers, these men are heavily armed, and the result of fighting them like this will be someone getting hurt. Ilya’s gonna get himself killed if this goes on. And Shane cannot accept that. Not even at the price of their freedom.

“Rozanov!”

Ilya turns to look at him, all feral anger and red rimmed eyes filled with tears and, for a second, it’s like he doesn’t recognize Shane. He still struggles. Shane holds on. And then, the second passes and something else crosses his face. There’s so much pain there that Shane wants to tug him into his chest and take whatever hurt him away… but he can’t. Not here. Not right now. Not when he can hear One yell:

“What the fuck is going on here?!”

“Fucker caught me by surprise,” Four groans, standing up and picking up his automatic gun. He immediately points it up towards them.

Shane turns around, pushes Ilya back and places himself firmly between him and the gun. He feels his fists on the back of his jacket, tugging and trying to move him, but he doesn’t budge an inch. He stares down the three terrorists. Three and Four have their guns trained on them now, but Shane keeps his eyes on One.

You’ve almost got your deal. You wanna lose it now? He tries to convey. It’s a gamble. He’s betting his life on it.

They are stuck in that moment for what feels like an eternity. The rest of the hostages stare in absolute silence. Ilya tries again to pull Shane back and he holds his ground with strength born of pure stubbornness. He doesn’t budge. He forces himself to sustain eye contact.

“Put those down!” One yells, finally, stepping forward and pushing his men’s guns down.

“But, boss-“

“Enough. If they got the fucking drop on you that’s on you fucking idiots. We ain’t losing any goddamn assets unless I fucking say so.”

Shane remembers how to breathe. He doesn’t move.

“Now get these fuckers back in line!”

Three pushes Scott back to his spot on the floor and sweeps his gun wide towards the rest of the players. The few that had taken a couple steps forward during the fight quickly sit back down against the wall.

Ilya and him start moving like one towards the wall when One says:

“Not you, Hollander. Come here.”

They both freeze. Ilya’s hands grab him tighter, balling his clothes into his fists.

“Now,” One says, conversationally, as he raises his gun up towards his head.

Ilya lets out a breathy gasp against his neck. Shane doesn’t dare look at him.

“Alright. Yeah,” he says, mostly for Ilya’s sake, hoping it’ll reassure him somehow, as he moves away. He still feels the other man’s hesitation before he lets go.

Shane takes two steps before One grabs him, pulls him forward and around and presses the gun to his temple.

Ilya is still frozen there, watching.

“Back in line, Rozanov.”

Before he can even move, Four punches him across the face, hard enough to make him drop to the floor next to Hunter. Shane instinctively tries to move but is held back by One’s grip. He just watches as Ilya looks up, at him, then at Four. Suddenly subdued, he lowers his head and shuffles backwards until he’s sitting back in his place.

“Good,” One says. “Now, I’m gonna have a fucking smoke. And you two idiots are gonna do your damn job and keep these assholes in line.”

And with that, he drags Shane towards the balcony at the far end of the room.

The night is fresh. Even with the summer approaching. Shane automatically closes his tux jacket around his chest. One moves him, not roughly, and places him right in front of him before he leans against the window. Shane frowns, confused, swaying a little.

“Stand still,” One says, “I ain’t playing target practice for some fucking sniper.”

“Ah, great. Now I’m a fucking human bulletproof vest.” Shane deadpans before he can even stop himself, still on edge from the ordeal a minute ago.

Unbothered, One lights up a cigarette and blows the smoke upwards. Shane’s first instinct, if this was literally anyone else, would be disgust. If it was Ilya, he’d complain and remind him that smoking can kill him. But this asshole? Shane kinda hopes he chokes on the entire carton.

Shane doesn’t look at him. He sets his eyes just to his left, where he can see the others. He can see Ilya looking his way. He tries to find some comfort in it. 

“Whatcha thinking about, Hollander,” One reclaims his attention.

“My parents,” he lies. “I’m- I’m guessing they must know by now. About this. They’ll be worried.”

“If your mom’s as tough as you, I’m sure they’ll be alright.”

“She’s tougher. I… I take after my dad. He’ll be… not so good, probably.”

He’s not sure what he’s trying to accomplish here. Humanize himself to the man using him as a living shield? One doesn’t seem entirely cruel, or unreasonable, but he doesn’t seem like the mushy kind either. No one who does this kind of thing could be.

“You an only child?”

Shane nods. His stomach twists. His parents will lose everything if he dies.  They’l be wrecked.

“Well, guess one’s enough if they get fucking lucky to get Canada’s golden boy, right?” One smirks with the cigarette between his teeth. “Your folks must be proud.”

“I guess,” Shane says honestly. “I hope so.”

“Humility is fucking stupid in a millionaire.”

“I don’t care about that. I just wanna play hockey. And win, I guess. My parents are… they care about me, not the money.”

One barks a laugh and shakes his head.

“Well I’d bet your folks care a whole lot about money right now if it’ll get you back home. See, me? I never gave a shit about sports, except for betting on them. I know a thing or two about bets. This city is my fucking stadium. And you know what’s the toughest lesson I learned? Not to overplay my fucking hand.”

Steel fingers grab him roughly by the jaw and force him to face the man. Shane sees Ilya moving with the corner of his eye. Fuck. He glances, just long enough to see Scott holding him back with an arm across his chest. Okay, good. Relived, he turns his attention back to One, forcing himself to make eye contact.

“Do you think I won’t fucking shoot you if you try that bullshit again?”

Shane’s heart is beating too hard in his chest. He can’t breathe.

“No,” he says.

“No? No what, exactly?”

“No, I don’t think you won’t shoot me. I’m pretty sure you will.”

“Good,” he snarls, letting go of him. “But not before I shoot your fucking friends first.”

Shane’s stomach drops to the floor. He can’t find his voice. He tries to nod within the hold of his jaw.

Apparently satisfied, One lets go. Shane pulls back a little, relived. He watches as the man takes another long drag of his cigarette. The smoke he blows hits him right on the face.

“Attaboy,” he grins. “Now, let’s hope for your sake that the cops like your bargain plan. ‘Cause I’m telling you, I don’t think you’ll like the alternative.”

Shane clenches his jaw and says nothing. He prays if there really is a sniper they have good fucking aim.

One finally kills his cigarette on the floor and gestures for Shane to follow him back inside.

“Back to your corner, kid.”

Shane walks, at least doesn’t get shoved this time, and sits back down next to Ilya who immediately finds his wrist and grabs a hold of it tightly. Shane looks at him.

Ilya looks haunted.

“Are you okay?” Shane whispers, hoping his voice is low enough to shield his voice even from Hunter.

“Me?” Ilya arches his eyebrows.

Shane looks down at Ilya’s blood splattered white shirt. His busted knuckles. The bruise blooming on his jaw.

Ilya lets out a huff that sounds like half a laugh and half a disbelief. Then his face shutters again, except for his eyes that still look too sad.

“What?”

“The shot,” Ilya finally says. “I thought-“

Oh. Fuck.

That must have been fucking scary. Shane doesn’t have any delusions about what Ilya and him are, not after all these years, but he also knows that Ilya cares about him in his own way, that he’s empathetic, and even sweet sometimes. He was worried. He was fighting for him, Shane realizes with a little flip to his heart.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, turning his hand inside his hold to grab Ilya’s. He squeezes. 

Ilya’s eyes bore into him, like he doesn’t believe him. He opens his mouth to say something else when Two walks back in, and addresses the other half of the room:

“Everyone, on your feet. Now!”

The people stand up, shaking like leaves. A few players on their side of the room shuffle anxiously.

“What the fuck is happening?” He asks, voice lazed with distrust.

“Hostage exchange,” Shane says, sitting straight but not letting go of Ilya’s hand on his other side. “It’s a good thing.”

“You sure?” Scott frowns.

“I should know,” Shane says dryly. “I negotiated it.”

Both men turn to him, gaping. Shane closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall.

Ilya only half listens to Shane’s explanation. He’s stuck between the relief of having him here, alive and breathing and so fucking beautiful, and the absolute horror of finding out not only did he almost get shot in the fucking face but that even after that he had the guts to intervene in the hostage negotiation without permission, to break up his fight, to stand between Ilya and a gun.

Ilya is fucking livid at the realization that this man that means the world to him, that holds his heart and probably has for nearly a decade, has absolutely no fucking survival instinct.

Shane is going to get himself killed at this rate and Ilya along with him (because after those horrible minutes of believing him gone, Ilya is pretty sure that he will not survive long in a world without Shane Hollander in it). It’s a bone chilling realization. The world tilts on its axis and lands in a new uncharted land where only one truth remains: Ilya cannot let that happen.

“You’ve got some guts, Hollander,” Hunter finally says.

“Do not encourage him,” Ilya hisses. “It was stupid, Hollander. What good is that?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane says but doesn’t let go of his hand. “At least some people are safe now. And, if it all goes well, they’ll leave soon and this will be over.”

How can he be so fucking naive?

“What? You think they will just leave and let us go?”

“I hope so.”

“Hope so,” Ilya mocks. “Ah, good.”

Before Shane can reply, Two comes back and gives an order to Four, who is all too happy to come at them yelling once more:

“On your fucking feet! C’mon! Up! Move!”

“Is this part of your plan?” Hunter says, as they comply.

“No,” Shane mutters as he stands up which, terribly, requires for him to let go of Ilya’s hand.

Ilya makes sure to grab his jacket from the floor. He took it off before jumping the asshole earlier. In his grief, at least he’d had half a mind to hope Hunter or someone else could use the phone hidden in it after.

They follow Four quietly, letting him shout instructions at them as he leads them down the hallways and onto a secluded conference room. Once again, Ilya’s stomach twists with the possibility of them just taking everyone here down in a rain of bullets, but he forces the idea to the back of his head.

“You step outside, you’re dead,” Four says before slams the door closed.

Everyone stands there, watching it.

“Well, fuck,” someone whispers.

The tension breaks. Chatter grows like a tidal wave as people age finally able to reconvine with his friends or teammates and talk about the shit show they are stuck in. Ilya, Hunter and Shane stick together. It just feels natural after all that’s happened. And, in all honesty, Ilya isn’t stepping away from Shane right now unless they fucking drag him away.

A voice in the back of his head warns him to be cautious, reminds him that if they make it out of here they will still face the same dangers that they have their whole lives. But the fear of discovery, even by Russia, feels far away at the moment when a bullet could put an end to either of them any second.

“You sure you’re okay?” Shane says, eyes bouncing between him and the rest of the room, probably wary of seeming too close himself (as if all these people hadn’t just seen him fucking shield Ilya with his own body).

“Fine,” Ilya rolls his eyes. “Pissed off.”

“You and me both, Rozanov,” a voice appears from behind. Ilya turns over his shoulder to recognize some defenseman from Buffalo he’s never bothered to learn the name off. “I fucking thought you had him before Hollander here decided to intervene.”

“Yeah, man, what the fuck kinda pussy move was that?!” Another guy that Ilya can’t even place approaches. “We could’ve taken them all together!”

“I didn’t fucking see you fighting,” Ilya snaps back.

“I was gonna! We all were!”

“Then we’d be fucking dead,” Scott squares up too.

Hollander just looks confused, like he’s struggling to catch up to what is clearly happening in the room right now. It makes Ilya’s heart ache.

“You don’t know that!” A fourth fucking guy says, clapping a hand on Ilya’s shoulder like they are buddies. “Rozanov here had the right idea, while Hollander is playing fucking pet with that asshole.”

Shane finally jumps at that.

“Wha- I’m not-”

“Not what? His bitch?” The man steps forward. “He clearly likes you, uh? You suck his dick well enough to keep him from shooti-”

“Back the fuck off!” Ilya pushes the man off of Shane with enough strength to make him stumble.

“What, man, you’re defending him now? After he held you fucking back?”

“Calm the fuck down, Tanker, Hollander probably saved his life back there,” Scott steps in between Ilya can make the guy eat his own teeth. “I don’t think even Rozanov if faster than a bullet.”

“We had them!”

“We did not. You were too fucking busy staring and hoping someone else save your sorry ass!” Ilya yells. “You think I give a fuck about anyone other than-”

“Enough!” Shane yells, which is jarring enough to render the room silent.

He turns to the men yelling at him. He’s shaking, holding back tears but trying so fucking hard to stand firm as he says:

“You think I fucking like getting called by these assholes? I didn’t get a fucking choice! Every fucking time they call my name I’m sure I’m gonna die. Every fucking time I end up with a gun pointed to my fucking face while I try to talk that psychopath into not killing me, or anyone else for that matter!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Someone asks from the back of the room.

“It means,” Scott says firmly, “Hollander put his neck out there to convince One to give up over half the hostages as part of negotiations. Anyone who had family here tonight and just watched them get released, owes it to him.”

A murmur travels across the room, as men shuffle anxiously.

Then someone breaks through the crowd. Ilya squares up, ready to fight, until he recognizes the defenseman from Dallas. The one whose father wasn’t doing good.

The boy (shit he can’t be much older than a rookie), reaches Hollander and slowly wraps him in a bear hug. Shane’s eyes find Ilya, clearly panicking a little. He’s tense all over, not good with this kind of contact.

“Okay, enough crying and shouting,” Ilya says, prompting the guy to stand back. Shane smiles awkwardly at the boy, then sends Ilya a more sincere thankful look. “And I don’t wanna hear you fucking pointing fingers again,” he adds, sending a murderous glare to the four idiots daring to even speak to Hollander after what he’s gone through. “Whatever happens, we have to work together now, okay? As team.”

The room begrudgingly agrees and finally, slowly, they disperse.

“That’s nice and all,” Hunter sighs, “but I doubt there’s much we can do from in here. The door is our only way out and they will take us one by one if we try to make a run for it.”

“Great. Thanks for the visual,” Shane deadpan, still shaking a little.

Ilya fights back the urge to put a hand on his back to steady him. He knows in this crowded room and after what just happened it will only make his nerves worse. Instead, he sends him a playful smile. It works well enough to distract him.

“You have a plan,” Shane gasps.

Discreetly, Ilya pulls out his phone. He barely has any battery left and half the screen is busted, but right now they all know it’s their ticket out of here. The look Shane gives him screams I wish I could suck your dick right now which is even better.

Whatever happens, Ilya has decided they will have another night together. At the very least. He will have Hollander’s warm, trembling, living body against his again, to remind himself, over and over and over with every moan and kiss that he didn’t lose him tonight. Because Ilya won’t. No matter what.

Chapter Text

Ilya crouches next to Shane and Scott Hunter in the furthest end of the room while the rest of their colleagues cover them from view in case the door opens. Kenny, the goalie from Florida, stands by the door keeping watch.

After one last deep breath, Ilya calls 9-1-1. The phone rings once before a female voice chimes in:

“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Ilya Rozanov,” he says, trying to focus on making his voice clear and his pronunciation as good as possible. “I am a hockey player, held hostage at the MGM Grand Hotel. I called before.”

There’s a pause, Ilya imagines the young woman on the other side processing the information. It must be a lot.

“Hi, Ilya. My name is May. Are you safe, is everyone alright.”

Ilya tries very hard not to respond too sharply at that because no, mind you, nothing is alright. But he knows what she means, probably.

“I am with the rest of the players. We are okay. We- Ah, we wanted to talk to the agent in charge. Clay?” He turns a questioning look at Shane, who just nods, jaw clenched.

“Give me a second, I will try to connect you,” May says, dutifully. He likes her immediately.

Ten precious seconds go by before a new voice comes through the other end of the line.

“Hello? This is Agent Clay,” a man says. His voice sounds calm, professional and oddly… fatherly. Ilya doesn’t know much about hostage negotiation but this isn’t what he was expecting exactly. “Who is this?”

“Ilya Rozanov.”

“Ah, Ilya, it’s good to hear from you. How are you calling us, if you don’t mind me asking? And how did you know to ask for me?”

He sounds tense, suspicious, but trying to hide it.

“I had hidden phone. We are… alone now, all players, so I could call.”

“I told him about you,” Shane finally says.

“Shane.”

Ilya hears the clear relief in the negotiation’s voice, which goes nothing to reassure his own worries about what Shane’s been through today.

“It’s good to hear from you again. Are you alright?”

“As well as I can be, given the circumstances,” Shane says, with that post-game interview voice.

Ilya arches an eyebrow at him. Shane blushes and gives the smallest shrug.

“That’s good to hear,” Clay says. “So I gather we probably don’t have much time.”

“I don’t know,” Ilya says, trying to eye the door through the crowd of players. “And I don’t have much battery.”

“Alright, so let’s make this quick,” Clay says. “Where are you boys? Fill us in.”

“Conference room. East wing of the… fourteenth floor,” Hunter states, matter of factly, then mumbles, “this is Scott, by the way, Scott Hunter. Conference room fourteen ten.”

Shane and Ilya share a look. Turns out the universe has a sense of humor.

“Thank you, Scott,” Clay replies. “We’ve noted it down. Have you boys been there for long?”

“No. They moved us. After they took the guests away.”

“Did they let them go?” Shane jumps in, sounding anxious.

“Yes. We got them alright,” Clay says and Shane’s entire body looks like it will crumble with relief at the confirmation. “It was a bold move you pulled back there, kid, but I would advice not to push your luck again. We don’t want anyone getting hurt, you gave us quite a scare.”

Ilya thinks that’s the understatement of the fucking century because the moment that shot rang across the hallway he could feel his entire soul leaving his body. He still isn’t entirely sure he’s gotten all of it back, even when he can see Shane breathing and well next to him. He won’t truly recover until this is over.

“What can we do to help, then?” Shane asks, unsurprisingly. He would be desperate to have some control over this fucked up situation.

“Be safe and keep your heads down,” Clay says. “We are doing all we can to solve this as quickly as possible, but we are working with limited information.”

“We can tell you some things,” Ilya says. “The guys, the boss and his second, they look like military or police, the way they move and talk. The others are… different, angry but not controlled. The one they call Four has a tattoo over his cheekbone, and black beard. The other, Three, is smaller, has tattoos on his arms, a dragon and some naked woman, very tacky, it looks like they cover burn scars, like from cigarettes.”

“Alright, we can work with that,” Clay says. “Maybe they are in the system. We are still looking to place them. Anything else?”

“Are you really going to let them go?” Hunter says slowly.

Shane and Ilya frown at him. Wasn’t that the plan? The bounty, the helicopter, everything? They are counting on these assholes getting out and finally leaving them alone. Then, Clay says:

“No. I’m afraid we cannot let them get away.”

Well, there go their chances of getting out of this by simply being released.

“We are working on getting you boys out. You just stay put and-“

A murmur crosses the room.

“Someone’s coming,” the nearest player whispers. “Put that away.”

“Sorry, Clay. We talk later,” Ilya says quickly and hangs up before the agent can reply and shoves the phone inside his pocket.

“Alright! Everyone who wants to keep their knee caps, sit on the floor with your hands on your head, now!” A voice barks on the other side of the door.

They all comply quickly. Like well trained dogs, Ilya thinks bitterly even as he assumes the position too. The door opens. Two stands there, automatic gun casually resting against his shoulder.

“Hollander, you’re up.”

Every head turns towards their corner, where Shane just closes his eyes, like he’s gathering strength. Ilya desperately wants to touch him, to kiss his neck until he relaxes and smiles, to hug him and hide him from this horror. All he can do is watch him flinch as the man yells:

“Now!”

Shane quickly gets up, not sparing a single glance at Ilya or anyone else as he zigzags his way to the door. Two grabs him roughly by the shirt and drags him away. Ilya wants to kill him. All of them. Not fight them, not hurt them, but erase them from this earth for having the audacity to threaten Hollander.

(There’s a lot of more complicated emotions attached to that realization that have been buzzing insistently in the back of his brain ever since he heard that gunshot but he cannot look at them too closely right now or he might lose what’s left of his fucking sanity).

“Should we call again?” Hunter suggests once the door is closed. “Tell Agent Clay?”

“I have a feeling he will know soon,” Ilya sighs.

So they wait.

Ilya hates it.

Every time they call me I think I’m gonna die, Shane had said before. And Ilya did too. Every time Shane has been taken out of his sight tonight, he’s fighting the certainty that he will never see him again, never hear his voice, kiss his freckles, smell his hair. It’s agony to wait and it’s agony to pretend this isn’t killing him too.

Other players talk amongst themselves now, checking in, making idle small talk, grumbling about the unfairness of it all. Ilya ignores anyone who tries to approach him, eyes never leaving the door. Only Scott Hunter seems to persist, sticking by his side like a fucking mosquito no matter how many times Ilya tries to swat him away with a sharp look or a dry response. That is, until Scott says exactly what Ilya has been feeling for a bit:

“It’s been too long. He should be back by now.”

There’s not a “normal” amount of time for someone to be taken away and used to threaten negotiators, but Ilya can’t help but feel that this is dragging on. He doesn’t like it.

“Yes. Okay. We should call the Agent Clay again.”

“If he’s on the phone with them, that won’t work.”

“What if he’s not? What if he doesn’t know they have Hollander? Or if they-“ Ilya can’t bring himself to say it. He clenches his jaw. “I’m calling.”

He is taking the phone out when the door swings open without warning. Four is standing there, with his big stupid face scanning the room. Ilya knows what’s coming before it happens and barely has time to slip his phone behind his leg before those little angry eyes settle on him.

“You! Come here. Boss is asking for you.”

He feels fingers brushing his. For a delirious second he thinks Hunter is trying to hold his hand. Then he catches up and carefully passes the phone over, begging his face betrays nothing.

“I said fucking move! We ain’t got all day!” Four yells.

“Yes, yes, I know, very busy night for you,” Ilya rolls his eyes, walking forward.

Having a gun to your head should not be something someone grows used to. And yet, Shane thinks, at this point he’s either grown accustomed to it or is in a state of shock too great to process the feeling anymore. One holds the barrel of his gun to his head while Two receives the packages from the hotel staff.

The three men in white shirts and light blue vests have been reminded three times already that a wrong move will end with a bullet in Shane’s head. Honestly, Shane isn’t entirely sure that any of these people care about him enough to behave and deeply suspects they are complying to avoid ending with a bullet in theirs. That works for him too. They unpack eight black bags filled with cash that Two inspects meticulously one by one. They also hand over a sturdy-looking briefcase. This one, they don’t open, just hand it over to One who takes it with his free hand.

Finally, Two straightens up.

“This everything from the vault?”

“According to the records,” Two nods.

“Very well,” One turns to the staff. “Tell Clay he can count on our end of the deal. As soon as I have my chopper, we are off and he can have his players back.”

Shane tries and fails to hide his relief. The staff, pale and tense, nod and shuffle back into the elevator. Once they are gone, One finally puts his hand down.

“Good work, Hollander.”

“Didn’t do much.”

“Exactly. Now, help Two load these into the other elevator. Quick.”

Ridiculously, Shane is almost grateful to have something physical to do. He quickly helps load the bags into a new elevator. Once they are done, Two pushes him out, presses a button to the fifth floor, and steps out. The elevator leaves with all the money. Shane is left with One, Two and the briefcase.

His stomach sinks.

“This was never about the money was it?”

“That’s child’s play,” One says, as he pushes Shane towards the staircase and forces him to go up. “Just had to make sure it was all from the right vault.”

Whatever is in that briefcase, Shane figures must be the real prize. And now they are taking it up towards their ride out. And dragging Shane along.

He thinks back to the call with Clay. The one Ilya had made. The agent had admitted they couldn’t let the robbers go. Whatever is in that briefcase has to be important. Dangerous.

And so, One and his crew need a ticket out.

“You’re not letting me go.”

“I’m sorry, kid, but the job’s the job. We need insurance to make sure they won’t try to pull a fast one on us. And you’re such a valuable asset…”

“Please,” he tries. “I’m just- you don’t have to do this.”

“Relax, Hollander. As soon as we are safely out of town, I’m sure your folks will be happy to pay to have you back.”

“So you’re gonna ransom me.”

“Consider it my tip,” One grins.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shane doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to have to endure this much longer. He doesn’t want to be a bargaining chip. He doesn’t want to be taken to a second fucking location with this crazy man.

He’d be lying if he said that, deep down, he hadn’t seen it coming. He had. It doesn’t make it any easier.

Is Shane’s life really important enough for the American government or whoever is in charge not to blow them off the sky? God, he hopes so. But he isn’t so sure.

And even if they do make it out of here alive, how long will they keep him captive as insurance? What happens when he’s no loner useful to them? Sure, there’s the whole random thing, but who says they will really let him go once they collect? How much will they demand of his parents? Will Shane even be alive by then?

Hollander, breathe. A familiar voice whispers in the back of his head. Focus on right now. Like play offs, yes? One game at a time.

He’s not entirely sure if Ilya talking to him in hockey metaphors is accurate or just his brain default, but it’s comforting so he takes it and runs with it.

Okay, one game at the time. Don’t freak out.

They make it to the roof. The sun is raising in the distance, painting Las Vegas’s sky in beautiful pink, purple and orange tones. Three is already standing there, waiting for them, looking anxious.

Shane hears the distant rumble of an approaching helicopter.

“Where the fuck is Four?!” One yells over the growing noise.

“Had some business of his own,” Three shouts back, grinning.

“Motherfucker! I told him not to waste time in a fucking grudge! Go get him, tell him to get it over with. Go! Now!” He pushes Three towards the rooftop door.

The scrawny man stumbles away, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

The noise keeps growing. It’s not just in Shane’s ears anymore. The rumble grows louder and louder inside his head as the pieces of a horrific puzzle take form.

Four.

A grudge.

Get it over with.

The helicopter is close enough that the rooftop is a whirlwind. Shane’s heart is a storm. He doesn’t stop to think.

His elbow connects with One’s stomach, his shoulder pushes him away. He makes a run for it. He needs to go back inside. He needs to find Ilya. He needs to warn him.

He almost makes it to the door before someone grabs him by the tux jacket and pulls back of him.

“Where do you think you’re fucking going, princess?” Two shouts pulling him backward.

But Shane isn’t a princes. He isn’t a kid. He isn’t a wallflower. He’s a fucking hockey player.

He rarely gets into fights. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to. This is part of hockey as much as shooting a puck. And he’s a damn good hockey player.

More importantly: he needs to get to Ilya.

Shane takes off his jacket to free his arms and, when Two tries to raise his automatic gun, Shane grabs it with both hands and pushes it against the man’s face. Once, twice, until they both go down. He throws the fucking gun away and punches down.

His knuckles hurt but he punches again for good measure. He’s about to get up and run the precious few meters separating him from the entrance back into the building when something sharp collides with the side of his head.

His vision goes white. His entire body collapses, his head feels like it’s exploding from the pain, the world is spinning out of control. Ilya. He tries to get up but his arms and legs feel like jello. He gets on his hands and knees and something hard connects with his ribs making him fall again, twisting with pain.

On his side, the world keeps spinning, but he recognizes Two and One back on their feet. They are yelling, pointing their guns at him, at each other, at him again. He tries desperately to focus through the pain. His forehead is wet with something hot dripping over his right eye. He tries to clean it off, his hands are clumsy, his fingers come back sticky.

A pair of boots approaches his field of vision. Someone grabs him by the white shirt and half lifts him. Shane tries to get his feet under him, but he’s already being pushed forward, making his feet stumble and half drag across the cement.

“Sorry, kid! Not today!” One is yelling as he drags Shane towards the helicopter. “I’m not leaving without my fucking insurance!”

Shane’s vision refocuses just enough to see Two open the pilot door. A man in a flight suit raises both hands.

Two shoots him three times in the chest.

Horror sobers up Shane past the pain for a moment. Oh god. He just- he just- like nothing-

Two drags the body —the body, the body, the dead body— out of the seat and climbs in. Shane is still in shock with the horror of it all as One forces him into the helicopter.

He expects Four to rough him up immediately, but the man just steps aside and gestures for him to walk down the hallway.

Ilya complies, feeling the slight press of the weapon against his spine. One wrong move, and he is dead. He looks around, expecting to find Shane or one of the other goons. Nothing.

“Where are we going?”

“Keep walking.”

They take three turns. Ilya has the slight sense that the man is improvising. He doesn’t like it one bit. If Four is going off script, Ilya can only think of one reason.

“So what? You just kill me before you leave? Goodbye gift?”

“Shut up.”

“You can still just be thief, not murderer. Though I guess more time in prison is better for everyone else, yes? Less people have to see your ugly face.”

“Enough!”

The man grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around, already drawing back his fist. Ilya punches first, hard. The man stumbles and Ilya takes the opportunity to lunge at him like a bull, slamming him against the opposite wall of the hallway.

The man is big, the hit isn’t enough to drop him. A fist crosses Ilya’s face. The pain isn’t unfamiliar. Neither is the taste of blood in his mouth. He particularly enjoys the shock in the asshole’s face when he sees him grin. 

Ilya punches back. Again. And again. Lets the rage that has been building up for hours inside his chest take over. A couple hits get through his arms and his side, but it’s painfully clear this guy is used to fights where his size and strength do it all for him. He hasn’t faced anyone his size in a while. He hasn’t fazed Ilya fucking Rozanov. 

By the time the man seems to remember his weapon, Ilya grabs his hand and twists it outwards until something pops. Then he grabs the gun and hits the man across the stupid ugly fave.

Breathing heavily, sore all over and trembling with adrenaline, Ilya crouches over the unconscious man that had intended to kill him. He thinks he’s still breathing. That’s more than he deserves.

Ilya gets up, pressing a bloodied hand against the wall to steady himself.

“Four!” A voice approaches around the corner. “Where the fuck are you!? Stop wasting time and get it fucking over with! One and Two’ve got the golden boy upstairs already, we are just waiting fo-“

Words die when Three spots Ilya standing over his teammate. For a moment, they just look at each other. Ilya is half tempted to quip (well, this is awkward) but for once his voice fails him. He eyes Four’s gun, lying at his feet because he’s an idiot who didn’t hold on to it.

Ilya crouches at the same time as Three raises his gun towards him.

He knows he’s too late the moment it happens.

And then, out of nowhere, Scott fucking Hunter rounds the corner running at full speed and tackles Three with the nastiest illegal check ever. Mister Boy Scout slams the man so hard that he hits the wall and doesn’t get up. It’s a thing of beauty.

(It’s fucking hot too, but Ilya would rather die than ever admit to it out loud.)

“Ro… Rozanov,” Hunter pants, leaning on his knees. “You… good?”

“Are you?” Ilya walks forward, carefully eyeing the man who doesn’t look like he’s about to get up anytime soon. “Jeez, Hunter, you’re so old that a little running has you passing out?”

“You… dick…” Hunter huffs, straightening up. “Been looking for you everywhere. Looked like that guy was gonna kill you.”

“He tried,” Ilya says.

The fact that Hunter came looking for him, risking his life to save Ilya, moves something inside his chest. He’s not sure what to do with gratefulness. So he tries to ignore it.

“I talked to Clay. Let him know. He said they had the helicopter coming,” Hunter continues. “But there’s still no word from Hollander, I don’t know if-“

The golden boy.

He didn’t process the words when he first heard them.

One and Two’ve got the golden boy upstairs.

Ilya is running before he knows it, rushing to find the nearest stairwell. He’s hears Hunter curse and call after him.

“Rozanov, the police are coming! Where the fuck are you going!”

“No time!” He yells, slamming the stairs door open and climbing the steps three by three “He’s taking Shane!”

The words are like a knife to his heart.

He’s taking Shane. He’s taking his Shane.

Something inside him roars like a bear.

Over his dead fucking body.

Chapter Text

I should’ve taken the gun.

It’s a testament to Ilya’s panic that the thought even crosses his mind, but he’s quick to discard it as nonsense as he keeps running. He’s not a soldier, not even police like his brother or his father, and while he did have excellent aim the few times Grigori had taken them to the shooting rink, he hasn’t been to one in well over ten years. But, most importantly, he’s not some stupid American yankee from a movie that thinks things can be fixed with guns. Growing up in a house with them made Ilya wary of that kind of destructive potential. One gun might get shot. Two definitely will. Meaning, if he shows up right now to attempt to rescue Shane ‘guns blazing’ the most likely scenario will be Shane himself being caught in the crossfire, hit by a stray bullet, fuck probably even Ilya’s bullet.

No. Fuck that. He’s not risking that.

Then what’s the brilliant plan? His mind demands.

Well, he doesn’t have one. He’s not a planner. The plan is ‘whatever it takes’ to make Shane Hollander safe. He might try to fight, but he isn’t sure if that will help. He will probably plead and beg, even if he suspects it will do nothing. He might even offer to be taken in Shane’s place. He isn’t quite as rich as Shane ‘Mister Real State and A Million Brand Deals’ Hollander, but he is far more visibly rich with his cars and his public image, he might be able to convince them. Hell, if Sveta got her father’s contacts involved, he might even sell them the idea that the Russian government will pay well for his life (they won’t, and that’s a likely death sentence, but he isn’t letting himself think that far ahead).

In the end, none of that matters.

“Rozanov, wait!” Hunter shouts from behind.

Ilya, famously, does not listen. He crashes, panting heavily, through the last door of the stairwell and stumbles into the hotel’s rooftop.

(Not the one he smoked at years ago to forget about Russia, no, the one that had a fucking heliport and not much else).

Ilya takes three pieces of imminent information in the following order: there’s a body bleeding on the ground (not Shane, not Shane, thanks god, it’s not Shane); there’s a fucking helicopter already here, loud and wild and ready to leave; and inside the helicopter are Two (piloting, apparently), One, holding a big automatic weapons, and —most important of all— Shane Hollander, his forehead bleeding and his body crouched on the floor between both sets of seats.

Their eyes meet.

Even from the distance, with the helicopter hammering his eardrums and the wind throwing his hair on his face, Ilya sees Shane’s face with perfect clarity, he reads the fear in his eyes, mixed with determination. Brave little bunny.

Then, One raises the gun towards them.

And Ilya knows there was never a chance, never a choice, nothing he could have done. He’s out in the open, exposed and vulnerable and useless.

The gun rattles, hard enough for the sound to bounce off Ilya’s bones even above the helicopter’s noise. Ilya ducks instinctively, bringing his arms up to cover his head, turning sideways as if it could help him.

No bullets hit.

He turns his head and finds Shane struggling against One, both fighting for control of the gun.

Another swarm of bullets echoes through the air, noisy like those Fourth of July fireworks the kids in his neighborhood play with. Ilya flinches again.

There’s a scream to his left and he sees, from the corner of his eye, how Scott’s body drops fully to the ground.

Fuck. Fuck!

Ilya crawls over, while Hunter clutches his thigh with both hands, eyes closed and face twisted with pain and anguish.

“Hunter!” He screams but it’s like the noise swallows his voice. “Are you okay?!”

Scott opens his eyes, filled with tears, but still nods at Ilya valiantly. It halfway relieves him. If the wound is only his leg it doesn’t look immediately mortal. That’s something.

Then a whoosh of wind hits Ilya from an unexpected angle.

He turns in time to see the helicopter turning wildly, dangerously close to them (and to the building itself).

Shane and One have stopped struggling, in favor of trying to hold on for dear life to their seats or the floor or whatever they can while the helicopter tilts to either side without much control, hovering mere feet away from the rooftop. In the pilot cabin, Two is bent over, shoulders hunched and hands wrapped around his torso, not bothering with the controls (or unable to grab them).

The fucking trigger-happy idiot shot his pilot.

Ilya watches in abject horror as Shane falls flat on his chest and, when the helicopter bends to the right, slides down its floor until he’s hanging off its side, his legs dangling dangerously close to the building’s ledge.

Shane drops.

Ilya’s heart stutters.

But Shane is an athlete. He lands, gracefully, on both feet, swinging his arms a little to catch himself. There’s a second of relief, when their eyes meet again. Shane takes half a step forward. Then the helicopter swings again, its tail awfully close to Shane’s head, and he either dodges or gets pushed back.

All Ilya sees is how Shane Hollander’s fancy party shoes slide without proper grip on the concrete, then down to the building’s edge. Shane’s torso hits the floor and his hands desperately try to hold on to something, anything, before his legs drag his body down.

One moment there. The other gone.

Ilya watches Shane plummet from the rooftop.

Shane screams.

Friction burns his palms as he desperately tries to find leverage against the flat cement. It hurts, even more when his fingers finally curl around the edge. The weight of his body pulls him down, but he manages to hold on. Just barely.

“Fuck,” he breaths, shakily, terrified.

His heart is hammering so hard inside his chest he feels like it might fly away like a humming bird, save itself the trouble of exploding when his body hits the street.

Oh fuck. Oh shit.

He’s so dead. He can’t pull himself up. He has no leverage. Fuck he can’t even hold on much longer. He has strong hands, a good grip, but this is too much, his body still feels unsteady from the earlier hit to the head.

He’s going to die.

Shane’s going to die.

A sob bubbles up his throat but he fights it back. If he cries, if he breaks, he will just lose his grip faster. He’s not wasting his last few seconds crying.

The gravel under his left hand gives in, his hand falls. Shane only has time to gasp before his other hand fails.

The drop lasts a millisecond.

Shane finds himself hanging from his right arm, two strong hands gripping his wrist with an iron grip.

“Ilya!” Shane breathes.

Their eyes meet, both panting and shaken. Ilya’s face is twisted with effort, his mouth curled into a snarl, his white shirt still splattered with blood, his golden curls fly wildly around his face, sticking to his sweaty forehead. There are no words to describe this kind of terrible beauty in the soft pink light of dawn.

“Hold on!” Ilya’s voice cracks. His grip is bruising. His arms tremble as he tries, painstakingly to bring Shane up.

Shane manages to hold on to Ilya’s forearm with his right hand. He tries to bring his left arm up to better his hold, but before he can reach, he feels it: Ilya slides forward.

They both freeze.

Their eyes meet. A new fear reflected in both their faces.

“Hollander,” Ilya breathes out his name like a warning. Or a plea. Because Ilya knows him well enough to know what Shane is thinking.

Shane is deadweight. Ilya is just laying there, flat on the cement, with no leverage. If he tries to lift him, Shane will only drag him down.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes, and he’s shocked by the certainty in his own voice even as his eyes fill with tears. “Ilya, you have to-“

“Nyet!” His hold becomes even harder. “No, Hollander, don’t you fucking dare!”

“You can’t! You’ll fall!”

“Then we both fall!”

“I won’t let you-“

“Shane!” Ilya sounds young and desperate. A drop of sweat slides down his nose and drips on Shane’s mouth. “Don’t. Please. You can’t-“

They both slide a couple precious inches forward.

If he doesn’t do this Ilya will fall. Ilya will die. He can’t have that. He won’t.

“It’s okay,” Shane tries to sound reassuring even if he’s so fucking scared, and angry, and indignant that he doesn’t get to ever see this beautiful man again. Now that he knows- “I love you. I can’t let you die too. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Shane blinks furiously past the tears, trying desperately to look at Ilya’s face one last time.

“Shane, please-“

They slide again.

Upwards.

What?

Ilya gasps and looks back over his shoulder. 

“Hunter!” His voice is so filled with relief. He turns back to Shane, desperation gone and replaced by determination. “Don’t you dare let go, Hollander! I’ve got you! I’ve got you!”

Ilya starts pulling up again, his strong arms trembling as he fights for every inch. Shane feels himself slipping slightly and pulls himself up with a grunt until he manages to bring his left arm up to hold on tighter. When Ilya feels his grip, their eyes meet and there’s so much encouragement in them that Shane knows already that he won’t be letting go. Not if Ilya is begging him to stay.

It feels like forever until Shane feels the edge of the building against his chest. Ilya screams as he pulls him up the last few inches until Shane can rest his torso on the ground and use the leverage of his and Ilya’s weights to bring up his right leg. Then he rolls onto his back, panting and dizzy and safe.

Oh, he’s alive. Thank God. He’s alive. They are both alive.

Still shaking, he forces himself up on his hands and knees to look at Ilya, who is curled up on his knees with his forehead against the floor. Shane has no choice but to reach forward and touch him. As soon as his hand reaches his shoulder, Ilya looks up, face still soaked in sweat, eyes red rimmed and shinny with falling tears, face flushed with effort and exhaustion.

For a second, they just look at each other.

Ilya grabs him by the shirt and desperately pulls him into a tight embrace. Shane grips Ilya’s clothes, clenching the shirt in his fists. Both on their knees, still shaking like leaves, surrounded by a whirlwind, they just hug. Shane buries his face against the crook of Ilya’s neck and marvels at the strong pulse under his skin.

“Uh, guys…” Scott Hunter says, pulling them back into reality. He sounds weary first… then urgent. “Guys!”

Ilya and Shane pull back. Hunter is laying on the floor, clutching one of his legs with blood soaked fingers, pale like a ghost. But his eyes aren’t on either of them. He’s looking across the roof, to the helicopter that has once again managed to land.

From inside it, looking manic and disheveled, One points his automatic gun at the three of them.

This isn’t fucking over yet.

Chapter Text

Ilya’s entire body is still shaking with exhaustion and fear and anger and relief, every emotion warring inside him, as he turns and sees One with his fucking goddamn gun trained on them. He feels Shane tense inside his embrace and the beast in his chest gnaws at his ribs like it’s trying to break out of its cage.

“Good to see we are all alright!” One yells over the helicopter’s deafening roar. He is clearly trying to maintain the nonchalant mask he has been parading around all night, but he is failing spectacularly. His eyes are hard, his face twisted into the mockery of a smile. “Now, if you please, Hollander, it’s time to go.”

What is this motherfucker’s obsession with Shane?

Ilya lets go of Shane, keeping him within arms reach as he gets up. Shane follows, of course, but Ilya maneuvers them so that he’s standing behind him. He feels Shane’s hands on his back, grabbing him by the shirt.

“Just fucking go, One!” Shane shouts. “You’ve got a clear way out! Please, just- just go!”

One laughs and Ilya hates the sound ardently, especially because it makes Shane flinch behind him.

“I told you, Hollander. Not without my insurance! Now, get the fuck over here… or none of you will be useful to me anymore.”

Shane tenses. Ilya risks a look over his shoulder, but Shane isn’t looking at him, and he isn’t looking at One. His eyes are locked on the body laying on the floor in the middle of the landing pad. Ilya understands: this is what no longer being useful looks like. When his eyes turn to Shane again, his jaw is set. Captain Shane Hollander of the Montreal Metros is here.

“If I come with you, you let the two of them go! I won’t fight back, won’t give you any trouble, but they get to live.”

“Shane, no,” Ilya snaps.

“You’re not in a strong negotiating position here, Hollander! You really wanna play it that way?”

“You’re the betting man! You tell me!” Shane’s voice is firm, horrifyingly steady as if he wasn’t trading his life. “That’s the only offer you’re getting! Or you can shoot us all and leave without your fucking asset!”

Ilya forgets how to breathe.

“Hollander,” Scott groans, “just wait-“

“Mama would be proud!” One laughs. “You’ve got a deal, kid.”

“No, Hollander!” he yells, furiously. “You’re not fucking going with him!”

But Shane is already stepping around Ilya, positioning himself between the helicopter and them. His eyes are hard.

“He wants the ransom. I’ll be fine.”

“No,” Ilya whines, pleading even if his fucking brain can’t come up with an alternative. “I’ll go. I’ll do it. You can’t-“

Shane isn’t listening.

“I don’t know if he’ll keep his word,” he says, fully turning his back on the crazed gunman to look at Ilya. “So grab Hunter and go.”

“I won’t let you do this.”

Shane’s face pinches for a second, looking pained, then he grabs Ilya and pulls him into a heated kiss. His brain stutters, shocked and scattered, as Shane Hollander kisses him in the growing daylight. He barely has time to react, to kiss back, to bring his hands up to grab his face and hold him there, before Shane’s hands push against his chest. Hard. Ilya stumbles backwards while Shane steps away, further out of his grasp.

“I’m sorry,” Shane breathes, then turns his back on him and starts walking towards the helicopter.

Fuck that. Ilya takes a step forward. One raises his gun. Shane turns over his shoulder, his face a mask.

“Fucking go, Rozanov!”

Shane turns again and keeps walking… very slowly. Maybe because he is scared. Maybe because he is buying them time to run.

“Roz,” Hunter groans, still bleeding on the ground.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck his fucking life.

Ilya bends down and helps Hunter up on his one good leg, his eyes never leaving Shane, who is now halfway through to the goddamn helicopter.

The rooftop door slams open. Everyone turns as half a dozen heavily armored SWAT agents pour through, shouting and pointing their guns at them.

“On your knees! Hands up! Get on the floor”

Shane, Ilya and Hunter obey immediately (the later has little choice, being dragged down by Ilya with a pained whimper).

Shane turns to him, his face beautiful and bright with relief, a painting in the golden morning light. He doesn’t see the helicopter’s pilot’s door slamming open, Two leaning out with his hair sweaty and messy, his mouth filled with blood, his face twisted with fury. One sees it too, screams something lost in the noise and chaos.

Ilya is already running when the first bullets cross the hair between the cops and the criminals, with Shane in the middle of it all.

It all happens so fast. Shane barely has time to duck and cover his head with his arms, terrified, before a solid body slams against his and tackles him to the ground.

It doesn’t last long. The noise, the bullets, the shouting. It feels like forever, but it’s over before Shane’s brain can begin to understand.

Then he feels Ilya move on top of him, just enough to look at his face.

“Are you hurt?!” Ilya demands, sky blue eyes scanning him intensely.

Shane shakes his head. “I- I don’t think so. I’m not- I’m good. I’m okay.”

Ilya blinks, still frowning, like the words don’t register in his brain.

“But-“

He brings a hand up, covered in bright read blood.

Shane looks down to where their bodies meet, finds them both soaked through. Except he’s not in pain, he’s fine, he’s-

Ilya collapses on top of him, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Shane’s own confused brain finally kickstarts —with a rush of panic.

“No! No, no, no, no, no! Ilya!” He rolls them over, kneeling over Ilya while his hands frantically look for the wound. His hands move through the wet slick skin of his abs and find a fucking hole in them. “Fuck, fuck! Ilya! Open your eyes! Stay with me! Please!”

As Shane takes off his ruined shirt and balls it tightly, he sees Ilya’s eyes flutter open.

“That’s it! That’s it!” He encourages, pressing the fabric hard against the wound.

Ilya screams in pain, his body rolling under Shane’s in a sick twisted imitation of their nights alone.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Open your eyes! I need you to open your eyes!”

Blue irises focus on him, glassy and distant.

“Sh- Shane-“

“Yes, I’m here! I’m here!” He breathes quickly, before snapping his head up. “Help! Please, help!”

There’s chaos around him, police running towards the helicopter where two bloodied bodies half hang off its doors, someone is helping Hunter. Someone is already running towards them.

“Stay with me, Ilya,” he begs. “Don’t leave me. Please stay, please!”

Two men dressed in navy blue and carrying red bags rush over towards them.

“He’s been shot! I- I think it’s just one wound! I don’t- he’s bleeding so much!”

“It’s alright,” one of them says, voice steady and warm. He has short brown hair and gentle eyes. “We’ve got him. You did good. Now, I need you to move so we can take a look at him, okay?”

Shane nods, frantically. Then remembers that he has to do the moving. Shakily, he unhooks his leg from Ilya’s hip. Ilya whines, hands reaching for him.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Shane says, still putting pressure on the wound. 

“Sorry. Gotta check the wound, okay?” The second paramedic says, gently prying his hands away.

“Right. Shit. Yeah, yeah,” Shane’s hands tremble. Ilya’s are still hovering towards him and he grabs them immediately, squeezing.

“What’s his name?” The guy asks.

It’s such a ridiculous questions. How could they not know? How could anyone not know?

“I- Ilya. Ilya Rozanov.”

“He speaks English?”

“Yes, he does,” Ilya replies, frowning. “He can hear you too.”

“Good!” The guy doesn’t look deterred at all. “Ilya, can you wiggle your toes for me? Good! Good, that’s great.”

“Hear that? You’re doing great,” Shane says, voice shaking. “You’re gonna be fine. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

“You are terrible liar, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs.

“I’m not fucking lying!” Shane feels tears fall down his cheeks. “You are going to be okay. You have to be.”

“Yes. Or else who will beat you now?” Ilya has a soft smile, but he’s pale as a sheet and his skin is clammy in Shane’s grasp. “Not Hunter.”

“Not with his leg busted.”

“Ah, leg will heal. Old age not so much,” Ilya groans, closing his eyes.

“No, no, look at me,” Shane urges. “You’re right. Hunter is ancient. No one else can be on top with me. Only you.”

“Yes, I’m your only top,” Ilya smirks, looking at him.

“You fucking asshole,” Shane smiles and more tears fall. “Yes. You’re the only one. So you have to stay awake, okay?”

Shane has no idea of what the paramedics have been doing while they talk, or what they’ve heard, but a stretcher appears and Ilya is being put on it and pulled away from Shane’s grasp.

Theres a familiar awful sound filling his ears, but he only understands what it is when he feels the whirlwind over them. He tries to throw his body over Ilya’s but a firm hand stops him.

“It’s okay,” the first paramedic says, clearly catching his panic. “They are with us. We gotta take your friends here to the hospital. This is the fastest way.”

Shane looks up, notices the helicopter indeed is white and red and reads LVFD on the side.

“I’ll go with him,” Shane says. “With them. I’ll go with them.”

The two men share a look. Shane gets ready to argue, to scream, to fight whoever he has to. He is not leaving Ilya.

But they nod.

“Alright, kid. C’mon,” the second guy helps him up on his feet. “We gotta check that head wound anyway.”

“Yes, check him. His head bleeds,” Ilya mumbles, closing his eyes as they move him.

“I’m fine,” Shane protests, letting them lead him towards the aircraft alongside Ilya. It takes him about four steps before he stumbles and has to be caught by the paramedic. “M‘kay, maybe a little concussed.”

Ilya grumbles something in Russian. Shane doesn’t have to know the language to know he’s complaining about him.

“Shut up. I’m fine.”

“Do you two ever stop arguing?” One of the paramedics asks over the noise as they all take their seats.

“No, they don’t,” Hunter grumbles between gritted teeth as they slide him in on a stretcher of his own. “Trust me, you don’t know the half of it.”

Chapter Text

Ilya doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, either. All he knows is that he awakens startled and with the irrational fear that he’s about to lose something precious.

Waking up is hard. It’s like something heavy is pulling him under, dragging his consciousness beneath the waves. But he knows he has to try. He vaguely remembers that he promised he would stay awake. It’s hard, so fucking hard, but it’s absolutely worth it when his lashes part and the first thing he sees is Shane Hollander.

He has never seen Hollander sleep before. They play hockey, they fuck, they leave. Oh, but he has imagined it an embarrassing amount of times, late at night, early morning, during idle waits at the airport, when he’s is home alone, at the club knowing it’s way past Hollander’s bedtime. He has pictured it repeatedly and up to the most minimal details. Reality is better than he could’ve dreamed.

In his sleep, Hollander’s face is soft, devoid of all the tension and anxiety that he works so hard to mask all the time. The line of his brow is a gentle curve, his dark lashes contrast starkly against his tan skin and fan like a crown over his galaxy of freckles. His mouth is slightly parted, pink full lips waiting for either a word or a kiss. He looks open and vulnerable and precious.

He is gorgeous, even like this, curled up in a chair, with his knees tucked against his chest and his head oddly crooked against the backrest, wearing a soft navy hoodie and with a couple of butterfly stitches over his eyebrow-

What.

His mind stutters at that realization, his heart jumping a little as he properly takes in his surroundings. Oh, right, he’s in a hospital. What did-

Memories hit him all at once, like a freight train: the awards, the guns, the men, the helicopter, the gunshots.

He reaches forward instinctively, needing to feel Shane, make sure he’s really here, alive and safe. Safe. Before he even reaches him, the rustling of bedsheets seems to wake him. Shane’s eyes fly open, all that soft calm evaporates. His brown eyes find Ilya and he blinks a couple times.

“You’re awake,” he breathes, voice shaky. He smiles at him but his eyes are shinny with tears. “Oh, thank god.”

Shane stands up immediately, the movement a blur for Ilya’s drowsy brain. He frowns up at him, trying to follow his movements as he clicks a button insistently.

“Sorry. Just calling the nurse,” he mumbles under his breath, like he isn’t even entirely talking to Ilya but to himself. “Just wanna make sure you’re okay. I mean, you are. You’re alright. You’re safe. You just-“

“Hollander, slow down,” he begs, reaching to touch his arm.

The moment his fingers brush the exposed skin of his wrist, Shane stops. He grabs his hand, looking shaken.

“Sorry,” Shane closes his eyes and swallows. Ilya follows the movement of his throat. “You scared me. I just-”

Ilya squeezes his hand. “Are you alright?”

Shane opens his eyes wide, his eyebrows arching, his beautiful mouth forming a perfect little ‘o’.

“Me? I’m not the one that got fucking shot!”

“Ah… good.” He hadn’t been sure. His brain is having a hard time with everything that happened in the rooftop.

The door opens and Shane lets go of his hand like it burns him. Ilya pouts at him, even if he gets it. A nurse walks in.

“Hello, Mister Rozanov,” she greets softly. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” he replies honestly. “Thirsty.”

Shane moves immediately, bringing a paper cup to his mouth. He makes such a pretty dotting nurse. He wishes he could tell him. Perhaps he can tell what Ilya is thinking, because he blushes deeply as soon as their eyes meet.

“Thank you,” Ilya says, winking at him just to see him squirm.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” he grumbles.

“Well, your vitals look good,” the nurse says, upbeat and oblivious. “I will let your doctor know so he can come and explain everything to you. But it might be a while. We are a bit swamped today. As usual.”

“No hurries. Hollander will keep me company, yes?”

Shane rolls his eyes but nods, smiling. Apparently satisfied, the nurse leaves.

“Are you- does anything hurt?” Shane ask, eyeing him intensely up and down.

“Why? So you can kiss it better?” Ilya teases.

“What- I’m not- I just wanna know you’re not in pain, you asshole.”

Ilya laughs. It does hurt a little. Shane flinches, reaching out, his hands hover over Ilya’s stomach.

“Relax, Hollander. Is fine. They have me in very good drugs, probably. Just don’t make me laugh.”

“Should be easy, since I’m so boring,” Shane gives him half a self depreciating smile. That won’t do.

“Not to me. Never,” Ilya says. Shane’s blush deepens deliciously. “I don’t think fighting terrorists qualifies you as boring.”

“Oh, I didn’t- I mean, I mostly just went along. It’s not like-“

“So bruised knuckles are from fighting the nurses?”

Shane blinks and looks down, like he just noticed. As if it isn’t glaringly out of place for his beautiful hands to be this jarred.

“I- Well… yeah, I guess. But I didn’t. They still-“

“They are dead, we are alive, Hollander. Means we won.”

Shane’s shoulders drop, but he doesn’t look entirely relived.

“Right,” Shane twists his mouth. “Barely.”

“What did I miss? How long was I… out?”

Ilya takes in new things about Shane, like the rawness of his lower lip, the darkness under his eyes, the fact that he is still wearing the tux pants and dress shoes from the party. At some point, he must have washed the blood from his face, so the tear tracks on his cheeks must be fresh. He looks like hell. Beautiful hell.

“You passed out on the helicopter,” he says finally, voice rough. “You were in the operating room for like four hours. They won’t tell me anything, since I’m not…” Shane’s voice cracks painfully, but he tries very hard to hide it, “They called your emergency contact. She was already on the way. Anyway, they let me stay here given the circumstances, and they wanted to keep an eye on my concussion, but I don’t know much.”

“And Hunter?”

“He’s alright. He’s next door, actually. His was easier, the bullet went through, only damaged muscle.”

“Hm. Good. Maybe he should get new knees while he’s at it.”

Shane laughs. The sound is delightful. Ilya feels like he just won an award.

“Asshole,” Shane says, still smiling. “Everyone else is alright too. Cops got them out.”

Ilya hums, nodding. Does it make him a terrible person that he doesn’t care too much about the rest of them? Not that he wanted anyone to get hurt, but only one loss would have undone him.

“Well, looks like it all ended well.”

“You got shot,” Shane frowns.

Yes, but you didn’t, Ilya wants to say. Instead he says: “But I am okay now.”

Shane doesn’t look convinced. His expression looks fragile again, a far cry from the steel-eyed determination he’d worn back in the rooftop as he chose to trade himself away. Like this, just sitting near a hospital bed, is scarier. Ilya wishes he would grab his hand again. His eyes are wet and distant as he finally says:

“Listen, about-“

The door slams open. Shane jumps to his feet, immediately stepping forward like he intends to shield Ilya’s bed from the newcomer. And Shane isn’t a small man by any means, but Ilya heavily doubts he could’ve stopped Svetlana Vetrova if he’d tried to.

“Ilyushka!” She calls, from the door.

Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, her face bare and pale, her clothes uncharacteristically wrinkled and messy. She’s gorgeous as usual.

“Sveta,” he smiles, feeling the easy warmth of his childhood best friend.

She crosses the room in three long steps, breezing past Shane, and throws her arms around him, though she’s careful not to let much of her weight fall on him.

“I’m just gonna-“ Shane mumbles at the feet of his bed.

“You idiot!” Svetlana is crying. “Never scare me like that again! I thought you were going to die!”

“I am okay. I’m sorry that I scared you. It’s okay now, Sveta. You did great.”

She peppers kisses to his mouth, his cheek, his temple, his forehead. Ilya feels the warmth of her love and familiarity spread through him, feeling cherished. But something else stirs in his chest, uneasy, through the haze of the exhaustion.

He looks over Svetlana’s shoulder, but Shane is already gone. Disappointment curls in his gut.

His best friend follows his eye line.

“Was that Shane Hollander?”

Well, no point denying it. Not to her. “Yes. He is… very Canadian, very polite. He was keeping me company.”

“Mhmm,” she smirks, eyeing him with those knowing eyes. “He’s even prettier in person, don’t you think?”

And Ilya must really be tired, or high, or head over heels, because he replies, “yes, he is.”

Shane stumbles down the hallway, a little lost. His ribs hurt when he breathes, but they are just bruised from One’s kick, not broken. So that’s good. The concussion isn’t great either, the hospital lights are staring to make his head hurt right behind his eyes.

It’s been about an hour since he convinced Hayden and Jackie to go back to the hotel for their and Shane’s bags. His friend had been reluctant to leave him out of his sight again, but Shane had made up a halfway convincing lie about not being ready to step back in the hotel (maybe not entirely a lie) and managed to get himself some time alone with Ilya. Or so he thought. It’d probably been naive of him to assume he’d get him all for himself when they aren’t really… anything. Not even friends, officially. Just, what, rivals? Coworkers? Survivors, is the one that got the nurses to let him stay in his room. But he isn’t Ilya’s family, or his girlfriend… he can’t want more.

So now, here Shane is, feeling like an idiot.

His solution is to find refuge with the only other person here who is utterly alone.

“Hey, Hunter,” he says, walking in. “How are you feeling?”

“Hollander,” Scott smiles back, easy and welcoming as always. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be with your boy.”

Shane winces. “He’s not my-“

But Scott was in the rooftop, right there with them, watching them hug and kiss and… well, Shane was entirely sure that he would never see either him or Ilya ever again. He thought he was walking to his death (he kinda wish he had been, now).

“He has company,” he says, finally, sitting next to him.

Scott, to be fair, looks good. Not too pale for how much blood he lost. His leg is bandaged but he didn’t even break any bones with the impact.

“They say you’ll be playing by the time the season starts.”

“Yeah, sounds like it,” Hunter sighs. “If I’m honest with you, it’s not my priority right now. After… all that.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Shane nods, embarrassed.

One of the first things he asked the doctors was how soon Ilya would be allowed back in the ice. He didn’t get an answer, obviously. Because he is no one to Ilya, according to their paperwork.

“It’s just… this kind of thing, it makes you look at your life with a new perspective, you know?”

“Yeah, sure,” Shane lies.

“And, I mean, looking at you two, what you have-“

“Oh my god!” Shane whines, dropping his face into his hands, feeling hear crawl up his face. “Can we just- could you- just please, please, don’t tell anyone, I can’t-“

“Hollander. Shane. Hey, it’s alright,” Scott’s hand clumsily pats his back. “I get it, okay? I mean, not the whole Rozanov thing, I guess, but I know that things aren’t always easy for men like us.”

“Hockey players?”

“Gay men.”

“Oh,” Shane nods. Then he understands. “Oh!”

“Yes, oh.”

Shane straightens up, looking at Scott Hunter again. Really looking at him. Scott holds eye contact, as he says:

“You know, I’ve been so scared for so long. I only ever let myself find a hook up here or there, mostly out of the country. But I never… I don’t think I have ever had someone who would’ve done for me what you two did back there for each other. What you two have-“

“No, you- we are not. I mean, we have, I guess, something, but it isn’t… it’s not. It’s not what you think. We aren’t… it’s just-“

“Just sex? Hollander, I’ve had just sex. That wasn’t it. Rozanov took a fucking bullet for you.”

“He didn’t— he was just trying to help. He’s- I mean, he’s nicer than people know. He is a good guy. But it’s not like he wouldn’t have… for someone else.”

“Hollander.”

“No, no, listen, I’m serious, okay? I get it. I know what it looks like, maybe, but it isn’t- it’s never been like that. I mean, he’s with his girlfriend right now.”

“What?” Scott blinks, looking properly surprised for the first time since this conversation started.

“Yeah. She’s- I mean, they look happy. And it’s okay, you know? We aren’t not… anything. He’s always been clear about it. We can’t be more. Or… anything.”

“Okay, so maybe he has a… girlfriend, I guess. But, Hollander, whatever you two are isn’t nothing. I mean, you both-“

“I know! I know, okay?” Shane stands up, pacing. “It’s my fault. I’m just- I guess I’m not too good at the whole casual sex thing. And it’s always been just that. And that’s okay. That’s enough. I like it. Hell, maybe I like it a little too much. Because today I thought I was gonna die, and I…” Shane’s face twists.

Why, oh, why is he telling Scott fucking Hunter this?

Because he’s the only other person on Earth who knows. And he understands. At least part of it.

“You what?” Hunter frowns.

“I told him. I said- I said I loved him. And he didn’t- I mean, he hasn’t said it back.”

“Hollander, I think he was busy with other things,” Hunter sounds exasperated. “Like not letting you die or not getting killed.”

“Yes, but I was with him just now and he didn’t even- and then his girlfriend-“

“Hollander.”

“And it’s probably for the best, right? Like, I feel like he’s giving me an out. Because if he acknowledges it, then he has to tell me the truth. And then it’s over. Definitely. So this is, like, the only way I get to have this. No, I’m serious! Last time I pushed, in Sochi, he ghosted me for six months. And that sucked. So- so this is probably for the best.”

“Jesus, kid,” Hunter sighs. “You’ve been together since Sochi? I mean, figured that wasn’t exactly your first kiss…”

Shane laughs, a little hysterical. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

“How long?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Does it?”

“It’s been… years, okay? So I- I know what I’m talking about.”

“Okay, hey, it’s okay,” Hunter raises both hands. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to overstep. Like I said, I know it’s complicated.”

“Yeah… that’s an understatement,” Shane deflates. “Anyway, I… I should go. Gotta talk to my parents.”

“Shit. That must have been scary for them. Are they alright?”

“Yeah. I don’t know. Still shaken. They were sleeping, and no one really called them. I mean, Hayden tried but he couldn’t get a hold of them. By the time they woke up it was over so… probably for the best.”

“Still must have been scary.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Shane grimaces. “I’m still trying to talk my mother out of suing half of Las Vegas.”

Hunter laughs. “Good luck with that.”

“Anyway… I’ll see you around, Hunter. Take care of that leg. It’d suck to have to do next season without you.”

“Don’t worry, kid, I’m not letting you off that easy. I’m coming for the cup next year.”

“Whatever you say, old man,” Shane grins, feeling a little proud of himself at the chirp, before walking out.

His wandering feet take him back to Ilya’s room like it’s second nature. But when he’s about to open the door, he sees through the little glass window that Ilya is sleeping. Sveltana is on the bed with him, curled up on her side, her head resting on his shoulder and her leg wrapped around his, like they belong there tangled on each other.

A stabbing pain rips Shane’s heart apart.

He’s such an idiot. What was he expecting? That he could have that? That just because he wanted to do just that he would be allowed to? That Ilya didn’t already have someone to love him? Someone easier and safe, someone he trusts as his emergency contact, who speaks his language and shows up when he needs her and kisses him without fear or shame.

“Shane!” Hayden’s voice startles him. “There you are, bud. Here, I brought you a change of clothes. I thought you’d wanna change before the flight.”

Shane steps away from the door and takes the bundle of clothes handed to him. Hayden’s eyes are still red rimmed and darkened with lack of sleep. He still looks at Shane like he is afraid he’s gonna be taken away any second. Unlike his parents, he hadn’t been spared the hours of uncertainty and powerlessness. The guilt for putting him through that is just one more drop in an already overflowing cup of complicated emotions.

“Thanks, Hayd.”

“Don’t mention it. But… we should really need to get going. Your parents are driving to Montreal to pick you up. And before you complain, I know you can drive yourself home, okay? But it sounded like they needed to see you. And I get it. So…” Hayden looks at the closed door and frowns. “Did you want to… like, say goodbye or something?”

Hayden is struggling with his hatred for Ilya clashing with thankfulness for taking a literal bullet for his best friend. It would be funny any other day. It might be funny in the future.

“No. It’s okay. He’s fine without me.”

Hayden visibly relaxes. “Okay. If you’re sure. Then let’s get going.”

They walk out of the hospital wing and, right before they make it out, they run into Agent Connor Clay. Again, Shane thinks that his voice doesn’t fit his face. All that deep- voiced patience is attached to a small frame, with big brown eyes and a receding hairline. But his body language is still steady and self assured as he offers him a hand to shake.

“Hollander,” he says. “Again, I wanted to say thank you for your help. You did good back there.”

“Uh, thanks. It was… I mean, it fucking sucked. Hope I never have to do that again. But I’m glad I could be of help.”

Clay half smiles and shakes his head. “You and me both, kid.”

“If you’re ever in Montreal.”

“I will make sure to avoid any fancy parties you’re at.”

Shane laughs. He supposes that’s what you cling to after something like this. Humor. Maybe it will be enough. Maybe he will be able to laugh about this someday.

“See you around, kid,” Clay says.

“Hopefully not.”

Hayden laughs, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as they walk out into the afternoon heat. “C’mon, man. It’s finally over. Let’s just leave this entire weekend behind us, yeah?”

Shane’s heart hurts so much he thinks maybe the doctors that looked him over missed a stray bullet lodged in it.

“Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Jane: Sorry I didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t want to wake you.

Jane: But I think you’re in good hands with her.

Jane: See you next season.

It’s been weeks and Ilya is still staring at those messages with a sour taste in his mouth. He’s angry at himself for being disappointed. What did he expect? That Shane Hollander would stay here with him for weeks, playing doting nurse, checking on him with all that soft worry in his beautiful brown eyes? Of course not.

Of course not, right?

The only upside to nearly dying from a gunshot wound, really, is that he missed his flight back to Russia two days ago. Alexei had at least had the decency to sound concerned about him when he’d called to explain (though Ilya suspects his worry was truly over Ilya’s capacity to keep providing money once the season begins again). His brother had also, rather bluntly, told him that he already has his hands full with one cripple and can’t (meaning won’t) be looking after another, so it’d be better if Ilya didn’t go home this year. He did suggest Ilya send some extra money to make up for the help he wouldn’t be providing over the next couple months. That was as mushy as his older brother ever got.

The thing is that Alexei isn’t wrong. Ilya is quite useless right now. Svetlana had insisted on staying with him, but he’d pushed back until she agreed to go back to Boston. He can’t have her risk her job for him and, he told her in all honesty, it was a little humiliating to be this dependent on her. He’d rather grit his teeth and bare being bathed, taken to the bathroom and changed by a nurse while maintaining some small level of dignity with his oldest friend. Which is also why he plans to turn down her offer to stay with him when they fly him back there too.

But, for now, he is stuck in Las Vegas. In a hospital that, like every hospital in America, is filled to the brim and struggling for resources. So they, very apologetically, move him to another room, that he now has to share with none other than the oldest man on Earth.

“Rozanov,” Hunter sounds about as delighted as him to be roommates.

“Hunter, why are you still here anyway?” He asks. “Thought you’d be gone by now. They said your wound is not so bad.”

“Yeah, well, they were worried about blood clots and, with me living alone, they figured it’d be better to keep an eye on me for a few more days.”

“They couldn’t find you nice retirement home? Geriatric nurses too expensive for millionaire like you?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov. I shouldn’t have saved your ass.”

Ilya laughs, and regrets it almost immediately. “As if Boy Scout Hunter would ever make other choice.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t the only one risking his neck out there for others.”

Ilya thinks of Shane in that rooftop again, all determination and fire, as if Ilya couldn’t read the fear in his eyes clear as day.

“No, I guess not.”

To be fair, Hunter is a good enough roommate, probably because he’s not very interested in talking to Ilya. He just sits there and reads his stupid crime novels like the thrill of being in a hostage situation himself wasn’t enough. But, then again, Ilya is spending his days watching action movies so he’s not one to judge. He’s gone through the Fast and Furious, Mission Impossible and Bourn Supremacy movies. He’s getting started on Die Hard (he’s postponing the Ocean’s Eleven films for when he’s more inclined to feel sympathy towards the criminals).

Maybe Die Hard was a bad idea.

In his dreams, Shane falls. It’s the crispness of it that unsettles him the most. It’s closer to a memory than a nightmare. The sweaty warmth of his skin, the wind of the helicopter over their heads, the pull of his weight slowly dragging them both down, and that horrible moment of acceptance in his eyes when Ilya knew what was about to happen.

“It’s okay. I love you. I can’t let you die too. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Before he can beg, before he can stop him, his fingers let go and Shane sleeps from his grip, falling, taking Ilya’s entire heart with him.

“Rozy! Rozanov, wake up!” Hunter is shaking him.

Ilya wakes up with his throat still raw from screaming, shaking, with half an instinct to fight Scott off and half to curl into his chest like a child.

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay,” Hunter holds him steady, leaning heavy on his crutch next to the bed. “It’s okay. It’s over. He’s okay. We are all okay.”

Ilya looks at him, trying to get his bearings. He can’t see much of Hunter’s face in the dark, but he can practically feel the worry radiating from him. It’s humiliating. Ilya tries to clean the tears from his face. His hands are shaking.

“Sorry. I was just-“

“Hey, it’s alright. You don’t have to explain,” Hunter sighs. “You mind if I sit?”

Ilya pulls back his feet. Hunter sits down on his bed.

“You know, after my parents died I used to get nightmares all the time. It sucked. Like it wasn’t bad enough living it once, my brain decided to repeat it again and again and again.”

“Yes,” Ilya says.

He feels too raw to explain more, about his nightmares, about having experienced before after finding his mother’s body. About the absolute bone chilling horror that was realizing Shane was willing to die too, like her. And he knows Hunter isn’t stupid. He saw them back there, closer than anyone else, he must have figured out by now that what Shane and Ilya share is far more than a respectful professional friendship. It doesn’t mean Ilya feels like sharing his nightmares with him.

“Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s okay. I doubt I’d get this kind of action in the retirement home.”

Ilya laughs. It hurts but it’s worth it. “No, probably not. Maybe more people peeing the bed and more sponge baths.”

“Oh, god, don’t remind me. The first couple weeks here were hell.”

“Yes, very annoying for you to show little dick to the nurses. Mine were impressed. Probably happy that I have to be tended to much longer than you.”

“Fuck off,” Hunter sighs. “I’m guessing that’s why you haven’t gone home with your girlfriend?”

And Ilya’s brain, that was finally feeling at ease with the tempo of their usual banter, stumbles.

“My what? My girlfriend?”

Hunter frowns. “Uh… yeah?”

“Hunter you think I have girlfriend all this time? You see me kiss Hollander and take a bullet for him and all this time you think is, what, just side piece?”

Maybe Hunter is dumber than he thought.

“I- well, I mean. You do have a reputation.”

“You think I am cheater? I never cheat. Never! I never have partner either, okay, but if I do I don’t cheat. I would not.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry. I just thought-“

“Svetlana is not my girlfriend, she’s just good friend. Like, sure, we fucked before, but we are not-“

“Hey, look, man. None of my business, okay? Sorry.”

“No, no, is good. Honest mistake. She’s very hot, if I had girlfriend it would be her, probably, but we are not… not in love.”

Hunter hums, like he understands.

“When did she come see you? I told her she should not waste time with old dinosaur, but she does love her old hockey stats so maybe she wanted to hear from someone that was there when hockey was invented.”

“Oh, she didn’t. But now I wish I had met her.”

“But then how-“

Hunter squirms. “Well… Hollander said…”

“Hollander?” His heart drops. “Hollander said that?”

I leave you in good hands with her.

“No, he would not think that. He would know-“

“I thought so too,” Hunter shrugs. “But he,  well, he was under the impression that you two are just… you know… just, uh, physical…”

“Having sex, yes, Hunter, you are grown man you can say word. But is not that. He knows. He said, in the rooftop, he said…”

“Did you say it back?”

Ilya blinks. Did he? He’d thought about it, desperately.

Please, I love you, don’t make me lose you. I love you, I’d rather fall with you than live a day without you. I love you, I cannot watch you leave again. I love please stop trying to sacrifice yourself like that’s your only worth. I love you. Stay. I love you.

Did he say if?

“Fucking hell,” Ilya drops back on the bed, pressing his palms to his eyes.

How can he not know? He must know. He left because he had to go home, but he didn’t-

“Hunter, Ilya props himself up on his elbows, “did Hollander leave because he thinks I don’t love him?”

Just saying the words out loud is so incredibly stupid. He has been fighting his own heart for years, clawing his way into a hole of denial, but he has known for so long that he was lying to himself, that eventually it would have to end before it tore him apart. And then the possibility of losing him, of actually losing him for good, had evaporated any armor Ilya had built around his heart all these years. And he’d known in that moment that he never would let Shane Hollander go. He can’t.

“Do you?” Hunter asks.

“What do you fucking think?!”

“God, I think it’s no wonder you two have been doing this for so long. You suck at communication.”

“Wait. He told you?”

Ilya’s heart, already battered and bruised, does a little skip. The idea of Shane talking about him to anyone else makes him dizzy. It’s stupid. It shouldn’t make him this giddy.

“Yeah, he uh… well, we have a lot in common. So we talked a little bit the day he left.”

A lot in common. Ah, Ilya assumes Hunter isn’t just talking about the Golden Boy persona. Interesting.

“Maybe you should start boyband after all.”

“Okay, I’m done talking about this with you,” Hunter groans, standing up and limping back to his bed.

It’s mostly a relief. Ilya needs to think and he can’t do it while he feels like an exposed nerve under Hunter’s paternalistic gaze.

Ilya grabs his phone. He isn’t sure where to start: hey, sorry I have ignored you for a month, I was sad that you left without saying goodbye even though you said you love me. By the way, in case it wasn’t fucking obvious, I love you too, so much that I would rather die than losing you apparently. Is that okay? Also sorry for the late hour.

Maybe not that.

He opens his chat with Jane again.

Jane: Sorry I didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t want to wake you.

Jane: But I think you’re in good hands with her.

Jane: See you next season.

He rereads those words again, knowing now what was happening.

Oh, Shane.

Shane was letting him go.

Ilya does not want to be let go. He would like to be kept, under key if necessary, guarded safely in Shane’s arms forever.

“Was he okay? When you talked.”

For a moment, he thinks maybe Hunter has fallen back asleep. The silence stretches for so long that Ilya is again contemplating his text options when he finally replies:

“He seemed… upset. Heartbroken.”

Oh.

Ilya thinks of Shane, all soft dark eyes and nervous smiles, kindness and gentleness and steely determination. Shane, all these weeks, thinking Ilya doesn’t love him, that he loves someone else. That he has already chosen. He will have created an entire idea in his mind, let it eat at him like a worm opening its way through an apple heart. He will be ready to bolt again to protect himself from that pain.

No, if Ilya is going to fix this he has to be careful.

He waits until the morning:

Ilya: Hey

Ilya: I wish you’d say goodbye.

Ilya: I wanted to talk to you.

The reply comes almost immediately:

Jane: Hi

Jane: I’m sorry I had to leave. Couldn’t miss my flight.

Jane: My mom would have actually finished the job and killed me herself if I didn’t come back ASAP.

Jane: How are you? Are you okay?

Ilya’s heart melts  

Ilya: Better now.

Ilya: I wish you were here, you could nurse me back to health. Maybe with a cute little outfit.

Jane: fuck off

Jane: I can see you’re back to normal

Ilya: yes, almost ready to be discharged

Jane: good

Jane: I’m very glad you are ok

Ilya: yes, doctors say I got lucky, bullet didn’t hit any important organs

Jane: I think all organs are important

Ilya: eh

Ilya: I won’t miss my appendix too much

Jane: they took your appendix???

Ilya: yes but is okay i can still play great hockey without it

Jane: haha are you sure?

Ilya: you don’t have appendix right? And you are second best

Jane: first best, i have the trophy to prove it

Jane: right, I had it removed three years ago

Jane: how do you know that?

Ah fuck.

Ilya: it was in the news

Ilya regrets the message immediately. He deflected out of habit but that isn’t what he’s doing anymore. Not if he wants Shane to understand.

Jane: so you’re obsessed with me

Ilya: yes I am

Shane stops replying after that. And Ilya wonders if he maybe screwed up, let his hand show a little too fast. He spends the rest of the day trying and failing not to think about it, rereading the entire conversation. Was it too much, telling Shane twice he wishes he was here? Was it wrong to let him know how obsessed he had been with him for years? To let him get used to the idea that Ilya’s feelings aren’t entirely new? He’s not sure. Fuck, maybe Hollander already has cold feet. Maybe what he said was only the heat of the moment because he thought he would die.

The message comes in when he’s sleeping. At nearly two A.M.

Jane: I wish I was there too.

Ilya reads the message three times when he wakes up, feeling his heart ache with longing. Okay, he can do this. This can’t be scarier than falling off a building or getting shot. It shouldn’t be, at least. He can do this.

Shane absolutely cannot do this.

It’s humiliating enough that receiving the first Rozanov texts nearly brought him to tears with relief, after spending nearly a month torturing himself over his silence and convincing himself that he had finally fucked up for good, that this was worst than Sochi where he had barely expressed concern over his well-being, that this time his stupid love confession had done irreparable damage and that the silence would extend forever, that he’d finally lost what little piece of Rozanov he was allowed to have by being too much.

So, yes, if he teared up a little when he got those first three texts, sue him. The fact that Rozanov expressed desires to see him, even if it was just a sexy nurse fantasy, helped soothe some of the aches in his heart too.

He was stupid to admit, late at night, sick with longing and loneliness, that he wishes he was there with Ilya too, but Shane thinks he recovered well when Rozanov finally replied the next morning.

Lily: Yes?

Shane: I think I could pull off the nurse outfit ;)

There. Safe. Just sex. Nothing risky, nothing that will make Rozanov leave.

After that day, Shane is ready to relax and let his heart mend before the season begins again. The silence isn’t so scary over the summer, when Rozanov is usually busy and careful over in Russia. Shane can take it.

Except there is no silence. Rozanov texts him almost daily. Silly things, random little updates. He complains about Hunter being his roommate at the hospital, he sends him pictures of his sad bland hospital food with the caption “still probably better than your bird food”, he lets him know when they discharge him and let him go home. (To her, Shane reminds himself sternly, whenever his idiot heart does a little summersault at Rozanov’s attention). In return, Shane tries to find little things to share back. It only seems polite. That’s all. It’s not like he’s thinking about Ilya all day. He complains about his parents’ and Hayden’s hovering with worry, he sends him pictures of a dog he saw on a walk, he tells him about how much he’s looking forward to some alone time in the cottage.

He doesn’t tell Ilya about the nightmares, about his fingers soaked in blood, about the cruel relief of knowing Ilya isn’t alone while he’s healing even if it’s someone else tending to him.

Then there is one phone call, three weeks later.

Shane replies without thinking about it, even if he shouldn’t in his current state.

“Hello?” He says, voice rough.

His throat feels raw. Speaking hurts. He hears an unmistakable sigh on the other side of the line.

“Rozanov? You okay?”

“Hey, sorry,” he finally replies. “Yes. I just- I had to- did you see?”

“Yeah, I saw.”

It had been hard to miss. The news story had broken at prime time. The faces of the four criminals splattered all over the tv screen an immediately taking over the internet. Their names: Colton James (One), Tanner White (Two), Bart Norris (Three), and Daniel Hicks (Four), everywhere. Someone had followed the money trail and discovered their employer, some big shadowy mercenary agency working for either a powerful regime or a big corporation or both. They’d been cagey about what had been in the briefcase, but made it clear that it was something dangerous enough that the most likely scenario, whether Shane had been in the helicopter or not, would’ve been to have them blown out of the sky before they could leave town. It’d even been approved by the powers that be. If that wasn’t enough, One’s (Colton’s) records had been exposed, with a long list of hostage situations across the globe, usually lower profile people, businessmen, journalists, humanitarians. None had come back home alive.

“Are you okay?” Rozanov’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t. Don’t lie, Hollander. Not to me.”

Shane’s heart twists painfully.

“I’m… okay now. Just puked my guts out for an hour. Now I’m just… trying to talk myself into getting off the floor. I’m not sure I can, though. Feels like the nausea will come back.”

Rozanov hums, low and affirmative. The sound is oddly comforting. “Alright. Take a deep breath through your nose and try to let go of the toilet.” Rozanov’s voice leaves no place for argument.

“Okay.”

“Good boy. Now, get up. Don’t go to far, just put the lid down and sit on it.”

Shane does as he’s told. He closes his eyes to stave off the nausea.

“Good. Now, Hollander, stand up, splash some fresh water on your face and wash your mouth. Breathe slowly while you do.”

Ilya talks him through cleaning himself up, getting undressed, drinking two full glasses of water and getting into bed. Shane lets himself fall into autopilot. It feels good to let Ilya take control. He trusts him implicitly, always has.

When he is finally in bed, with his phone next to him on the pillow, his brain slowly catches up.

“Ilya,” he says, “are you okay?”

“Better now. Are you?”

“Yes. Better. Thank you,” Shane sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay to be upset.”

“No,” Shane sighs, feeling his brain sink with exhaustion. “No, m’sorry I made it weird saying… just, thank you, for not leaving.”

“I’m here for as long as you need me.”

But it’s not true, is it? Not really. Not how Shane would want, anyway. He feels tears gathering behind his closed eyes, and has to swallow around the lump in his throat as he forces himself to say.

“No. I- I should let you get back to…” her. He can’t bring himself to say it. “Goodnight, Rozanov.”

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice is hard to read through the phone and the exhaustion, but he sounds uneasy too. Fuck. He shouldn’t have brought it up.

“It’s okay. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Ilya says very quietly right before Shane hangs up.

The next morning it’s raining. The cottage is unusually dark, the clouds heavy across the sky, filling the woods with shadows. Every so often, thunder rolls over his head, lightning flashes far away.

Shane wakes up with the sour after taste of regret, mortified by that entire phone call but mostly by how it ended. He rolls in bed, smothering a groan against the pillows. God, he’s such a fucking idiot. He’s going to ruin it again. Why is it so hard? He went years without needing to put a name to the feeling, learning not to want more, learning not to ask for it. And now, what? A simple brush with death and he’s left feeling like he will fall apart from longing? He has to be stronger than that. He can be. He’s disciplined. He’s used to denying himself to get what he wants. He can do this.

Shane: sorry about last night

Shane: thanks for talking me though it

Shane: you didn’t have to

He gets no answer. He should have guessed.

Idiot.

Maybe if he plays it cool for a few days, Ilya will forget about it and let it go. Maybe he can still salvage this.

The doorbell rings in the middle of the afternoon. It’s so dark outside though that it feels like it should be later, middle of the night.

Shane sighs, already dreading whatever excuse his mother will have come up with to come check on him again. He already has a complain forming on his lips when he opens the door to a very wet, very rattled, Ilya Rozanov.

Shane freezes.

Ilya looks at him, eyes wide, like he too is surprised to find himself at Shane’s doorstep.

They stand there, on opposite sides of the threshold, with only their breathing and the rain filling the air between them. Then, Ilya says:

“I didn’t say it back.”

Shane’s brain, already in overdrive trying to catch up with what’s happening just malfunctions.

“What?”

“I didn’t say it back,” Ilya repeats, stepping forward.

This is cruel. Ilya isn’t usually cruel, just cold or distant, but not this. Why is he doing this?

“Yeah, I- I know. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I get it, I-“

But then Ilya has his hands on his face and he is walking Shane backwards into the cottage (dripping all over his hardwood floor, a little part of Shane worries). His back finally hits a wall, gently, and before he can catch his breath Ilya’s mouth is on his, wet and demanding and warm. Shane kisses him back, because it’s second nature, because he has been starving for too long, because he can’t help himself when it comes to Ilya. But even then, he can feel the knife twisting inside him, because this is cruel. This hurts too much. He lets out a whine into Ilya’s mouth and pushes him back gently, desperately trying to get his bearings.

“I don’t- I don’t understand,” his voice breaks. “Please, I can’t-“

Ilya’s hand still cradle his face, wet cold fingers gently brushing his cheeks. Shane isn’t sure if the wetness on his face is from crying or from the rain.

“You beautiful, stubborn man,” Ilya says, smiling. “I think you are dead and I am ready to die too. I tell you that I would rather fall with you than lose you. I take a bullet for you. And you still don’t see it? You need to hear the words? Okay. I tell you. I love you,” Ilya kisses his forehead. “I love you,” he kisses the point where his jaw meets his neck. “I love you,” he kisses the corner of his mouth.

Then Ilya pulls back, like he is expecting for something to happen, like he is looking for something in Shane’s face.

“I-“ Shane breathes.

Ilya’s face falls slightly. “Unless you just said, because-“

“No,” Shane hurries. “No, no, no. I meant it. I meant it. I love you. Oh my god, I love you so much it’s killing me.”

Ilya smiles and kisses him again, and Shane lets his mind go blank with pleasure. It lasts shortly, because then Ilya is kissing his neck and Shane has to know.

“Wait. You- your girlfriend, she-”

“Shane,” Ilya laughs and presses a wet kiss to his neck, “she’s my friend. Best friend. That’s it.”

“But she- you-”

“Shane, I almost die for you. I drove all the way here for you. To tell you that I love you. Only you.”

The relief and pleasure of those words is almost enough to quiet the alarms in his brain. Almost.

“Wait. D- Did you drive here?!”

“Yes, from airport,” Ilya groans against his skin, sending a shiver up his spine.

“How did you-“ Shane moans. “How did you know where I was? The cottage… how?”

“The boring documentary,” Ilya comes up to pepper kisses to his face. “I found producer. Bribed them with tickets.”

“You what?” Shane pushes Ilya back, holding him by the shoulders. “And they gave it to you?! That’s so unsafe. After what happened-“

“Shane,” Ilya whines, throwing his head back. “Is good. Is just me. I said I was sending thank you package for saving my life.”

“What, but you- you saved my life.”

“You put pressure on wound. They said it was good. Maybe I embellish a little.”

“Embellish,” Shane huffs, endeared despite himself.

But the mention of the gunshot sends a spike of worry through him.

“Oh my god, you are here.”

“Yes.”

“No, you shouldn’t be- and you were driving? You should be resting, not on your feet. You’re soaking wet, Ilya, you can’t get sick. You’re already-“

“Shane, stop panicking. I’m good, yes? I’m recovering well.”

“But you are- you shouldn’t be.”

“Okay, then take me to bed, Hollander.”

Shane blushes furiously despite himself. As if they haven’t been having sex for years.

“Stop it,” Shane sidesteps Ilya and goes to close the front door. “You’re soaking wet. We need to get you out of those clothes.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“Not like that. Come on,” Shane leads Ilya to his bedroom, fighting the urge to constantly glance over his shoulder to make sure he is following.

Ilya comes, and undresses as instructed, but when Shane gives him a pair of spare pants and a t-shirt, he throws the clothes away on the bed, instead approaching Shane, reaching for his waist.

“Ilya,” Shane sighs. “We can’t. You’re still hurt.”

To prove his point, he brushes his fingers around the edges of the bandage still covering Ilya’s wound. It’s a bad idea, through, because the moment his fingers touch the gene skin of Ilya’s abs his body has other ideas.

“But I want you,” Ilya groans, leaning in.

Shane tilts his head, chasing Ilya’s mouth until their noses brush. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Then let me watch,” Ilya says, pulling back.

“What?”

Something inside Shane ticks, uneasy.

“Let me watch. I cannot fuck you tonight, your rules. So let me watch you fuck yourself.”

“I-“ Shane stumbles. But Ilya’s eyes are hungry and pleading and he is powerless. “Okay.”

Ilya grins, sauntering back to the chair in the corner of the room. He sits, eyes never leaving Shane, as he undresses quickly. His heart hammers into his chest, as he fights off a memory. This isn’t that. It’s not. Because they are not in Las Vegas, they are in his cottage, and Ilya came to him, and he told him he loved him. And Shane wants to believe him. He does.

So he climbs into bed and closes his eyes and starts touching himself. Like the last time, nerves give way to pleasure, and he’s soon lost to it. He moans, and pants, arching his back against the pillows. But the memory is still strong, gnawing at him at the edges of his consciousness.

“Lube?” Ilya asks, bringing him back to reality.

Shane opens his eyes, finds Ilya sitting on the edge of the seat, hungry eyes on him, not bothering to disguise his desire.

“Nightstand,” Shane pants. “Top drawer.”

Back then, in Vegas, Ilya had playfully kept the lube out of reach before throwing it to the bed. Now, he hands it over to Shane, their fingers brushing. That touch alone sets Shane on fire with desire and longing and the still deep rooted fear that this isn’t more. Their eyes meet and Shane, pathetically, begs.

“Ilya,” he breathes, feeling tears prickle his eyes. “Please.”

Please kiss me. Please touch me. Please love me back. Please mean it.

Shane closes his eyes, cowardly terrified of how he might have ruined this again. For a moment that lasts a hellish lifetime, nothing happens. Then, the mattress shifts under a new weight. Shane’s eyes flutter just in time to see Ilya climbing on top of him in the mattress and leaning in to kiss him.

The kiss is spectacular. It’s like a glass of water after a day under the searing sun. It’s a breath of fresh air after drowning. It’s like an electric shock to his failing heart. Shane sinks deep into the pillows, Ilya kissing him hard and steady and purposefully, like he intends to carve a marble statue of this memory with his lips. He doesn’t realize what Ilya’s hands are doing until lubed fingers wrap around his and take over. Shane moans loudly into Ilya’s mouth, arching into his touch.

“Fuck, Ilya,” be groans.

“It’s okay, Shane,” Ilya pants, taking over completely. “I’ve got you. You can let go now. I have you.”

Shane’s hands come up to hold on to Ilya’s hair, pulling slightly and being rewarded with a moan in return as Ilya picks up the pace, faster and faster, pushing Shane to the very edge of sanity. And just when he is teetering there, hanging by a thread. Ilya undoes him with the simplest words:

“Shane. My Shane. I love you.”

“Ilya, fuck, I-“

Words are lost to him when he finally comes. Ilya captures his mouth and swallows the frankly loud noises escaping his throat. Shane thinks he actually passes out for a second or two. When he comes back to, he is jelly-boned and pliant under Ilya’s warm steady body, as he peppers kisses across his face and his neck.

“I love you too,” Shane finally says.

Ilya laughs against his neck, sounding giddy.

“Let me take care of you,” Shane reaches down, finds Ilya’s cock, hard as expected.

“You don’t have to.”

Shane pushes Ilya carefully onto his back, rolling them until he’s straddling him. “I want to. I’ve been wanting to for so long,” he says, trailing kisses down Ilya’s chest, around his bandage, down his hip until his mouth meets his cock. “I will go slow. Just let me know if anything hurts. Okay?”

Ilya is watching him with incensed eyes. He nods once. Shane takes him into his mouth. He takes his time, moves slowly. When Ilya tries to push for a faster pace, he pins his hips to the mattress and takes over slowly, relinquishing in the whiney little sounds he gets to pull out of the man he loves until he’s on the very edge.

“Shane,” Ilya warns, voice strangled.

He pulls out with a wet pop, cheeks flushed, mouth wet and red, and grabs Ilya’s cock, leisurely pumping his fist down his length as he admits:

“I love to hear you say my name.”

Ilya falls apart immediately, spluttering all over Shane’s face and chest.

“You will kill me,” he sighs in the end, going limb. “Oh god, you will be the death of me.”

“Almost was already,” Shane says, trying to sound light despite the statement. “How are your stitches?”

Ilya pats the dressing on his stomach and gives him a thumbs up. The simplicity of it makes Shane laugh.

“Great. Then, get up. We need a shower, and food, and then we can talk.”

Slowly, they follow those exact steps, getting distracted by slow gentle kisses along the way. By the time they settle against each other on the living room couch, the rain has stopped and the sky has opened up, letting faint rays of sunlight bathe the fresh green of the forest.

“What happens now?” Shane ask. “I love you. You- you love me. What do we do about it?”

Ilya hums, running a hand through Shane’s scalp. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “But I think, if we do it together, we can survive anything, yes?”

“I mean, after the crazy mercenaries keeping us hostage… this should be easy in comparison, right?” Shane laughs.

“Yes. Now they know what happens if they try to take you away from me,” Ilya kisses the top of his head. “I’m not letting you go again.”

Shane hums, content, closing his eyes and letting himself feel safe for the first time in weeks. “Good. You’re the only one that gets to trap me from now on.”

“Now, there’s a thought,” Ilya laughs. “You would look very pretty tied up in ropes.”

Shane perks up slightly at that, then turns to look up at Ilya. “How long until you’re fully recovered?”

“Impatient little thing,” Ilya laughs, and kisses his nose. “How I love you.”