Chapter Text
Shane felt a familiar wave of relief as he was getting away from the reporters after the post-game interview.
Another duty done, and without having to answer too many hard questions. He mentally ticked the boxes from today’s to-do list.
Which brought him to the next item.
He looked back just for a second before slipping completely out of the room and smirked at Rozanov, who was taking his place at the conference spot, placing himself on top of the little “x” marking the floor.
He was glad they didn’t make them do the post-game interview together today. He was so excited for the after-game that he was not sure he could tell his face to calm the fuck down in front of the man he loved.
God, he was so in love, it was stupid. And now that they had kind of admitted they had feelings for each other, had let themselves just have this, the feeling seemed to only grow stronger with each passing day.
He looked at the TVs along the corridor as he walked.
A second later, the live feed began just as the first reporter asked a question.
Shane focused on Ilya’s lips moving, his curls slightly damp from his shower, and the contrast of his eyes with the dark grey suit he had put on, similar to the one Shane was wearing.
God. He was so beautiful. He felt a rush of heat spread through him and his steps slowing down.
He really had to pull himself together, so he quickened his pace and tried to ignore the little smile on his face. He was past the televisions now but could still hear the voices of the reporters and Ilya’s occasional remarks, his "Oke" curling its way up Shane’s body.
Shane had just reached the turn to leave the conference area of the arena when he stopped in his tracks.
“Just one more question, Mr. Rozanov. How did you manage to keep your focus on the game while being in a vulnerable personal situation?” a reporter’s voice sounded.
Shane froze. Vulnerable personal situation? Ilya had been fine when they talked on the phone before the game.
He was just stuck in his place, shoes glued to the floor, not moving an inch so as not to miss Ilya’s response. It was quiet for what felt like an eternity.
“…Situation?” Ilya asked, apparently confused.
Something in Shane eased a little. Okay, it was just paparazzi stuff as always. He’s fine. He told his legs to start moving again, but something deep within him wouldn't let them.
“Yes, of course. It surely is really hard to play a full hockey game after receiving the news of a passing father. My condolences.” the reporter said again.
Shane’s muscles, already tense, went entirely rigid. Passing father.
Something in him snapped. He spun around, sprinting back toward the nearest monitor. He just needed to look at Ilya. He stopped dead in front of one of the many screens lining the corridor.
His heart dropped.
Ilya was just standing there, eyes glued to the camera, not moving an inch. It almost seemed like the television had glitched. His eyes were staring into a void, his jaw shut so tight the muscles leaped under his skin. On the screen, his chest was barely moving, his breath turning dangerously shallow.
Shane hadn’t even acknowledged what he was doing until he was already shoving the heavy doors of the conference room open.
A cold spike of adrenaline hit him as he crossed the threshold. He knew exactly what this looked like, knew the media storm he was walking right into, but the terrifying emptiness in Ilya’s eyes killed any hesitation before it could take root.
Immediately, a loud murmur started to spread where silence once was. Some cameras flashed, but Shane focused only on the curls in front of him.
“Hey… I-I think Rozanov is done here for today.” He moved purposefully towards the palanque.
He could hear some voices protesting, asking for another question. Shane shot a venomous glare toward the row where the voice had come from, wanting nothing more than to find the bastard who had blindsided Ilya with his father's death just for a fucking headline. Couldn’t they fucking see Ilya wasn’t okay? Where the hell was his agent? Why was everyone just staring at him like he was a spectacle instead of a human being?
A few reporters near the front slowly lowered their microphones, their murmurs dying down as an uneasy tension crept over the room. Someone in the second row half-stood up, looking around awkwardly, unsure of what to do, but nobody actually stepped in.
He reached a careful hand to Ilya’s back, giving him a little squeeze to get him to move. Ilya didn't budge. He was a statue.
Shane realized the room had gone dead silent now, the only sound the occasional camera automatic flashes. He was acutely aware of the lenses tracking his every move, but looking at Ilya, none of it mattered. He gave the room his most polite smile while telling them to go fuck themselves with his eyes, and fully turned his head to Ilya.
“Hey… Rozanov.” He pressed his palm against his back again.
Now that he was closer and looking directly at him, he saw the true extent of it. Ilya hadn’t blinked once. His eyes were completely glassy, frozen wide. His jaw shut so tight the muscles leaped, his fists closed with white knuckles. And his chest… his chest wasn't moving at all now. The shallow breathing had stopped completely. Oh no.
In a fraction of a second, Shane stepped into his space, using his broad shoulders to block the cameras directly pointed at Ilya. He stood right in front of him, his hands grabbing Ilya’s arms.
“Hey, hey… Ilya, don’t go there on me.” He started to squeeze Ilya’s arms hard, first the right, then the left, establishing a firm, rhythmic pace. “Focus on my hands on your arms,” he murmured, his voice dropping low.
He kept up the alternate squeezing, hoping desperately to anchor him, but Ilya’s expression didn't change. His eyes remained fixed on a point behind Shane, and his lips were starting to lose color.
Fuck.
“No, no. Ilya, you need to breathe.”
Shane let go of his arms. His fingers went straight to Ilya's neck. With a swift, practiced urgency, Shane hooked his fingers into the knot of Ilya’s tie, jerking it down to loosen the grip around his throat. Without a second thought for the cameras, he popped open the top two buttons of Ilya’s dress shirt, exposing the pale, sweating skin of his collarbone.
Ilya’s face was turning darker, his knuckles whiter by the second.
“Hey, focus on me, breathe.” Please breathe.
Shane was getting desperate now, a silent scream roaring in the back of his head for someone, anyone, to do something, the utter stillness of the room making him sick. Even the camera flashes had completely ground to a halt now, the photographers too stunned by the sheer anomaly of the breakdown to press the shutter.
He slid his hand from the open collar up to the back of Ilya's neck, squeezing the base of his skull firmly, while his other hand clamped down hard on Ilya’s shoulder. His thumb dug into the muscle at the top of Ilya's shoulder, deliberately applying enough pressure to hurt. He needed the pain to break the trance. He needed him to breathe.
He pressed even harder.
That did it.
Ilya gulped in a violent, ragged breath, a sharp, choking sound that echoed faintly through the microphones of the nearest reporters. The sound shattered Shane completely while delivering a blinding wave of relief.
For a couple of agonizingly long seconds, Ilya stayed perfectly rigid, his eyes blinking rapidly now as if the world was suddenly rushing back too fast, his expression entirely dazed and disoriented.
Then, the absolute rigidity in Ilya's frame vanished in an instant and his knees gave out entirely, his body slumping forward.
Shane was already there to catch him.
Ilya’s head dropped heavily onto Shane’s shoulder. He was hyperventilating now, his chest heaving rapidly against Shane’s. Shane widened his stance to absorb the sudden weight, wrapping his arms securely around Ilya’s waist and upper back, squeezing him as hard as he could, giving him that heavy, grounding pressure.
“Hey, you’re okay. I’m here, Ilya,” Shane whispered into his hair, shielding Ilya’s face entirely from the room. “Focus just on my arms around you, on my voice.”
Ilya was still panting, short, terrified gasps.
“Hey, breathe. Mirror my own breathing, feel my chest.” Shane took a long, exaggerated breath, letting his chest rise and fall slowly against Ilya's.
Slowly, the frantic rhythm of Ilya’s breathing began to hitch, then stutter, trying to match Shane's.
“There we go. I’m here, Ilya.” Shane pressed his forehead firmly against the side of Ilya's head, burying his face into those damp curls, the contact desperate and grounding.
He knew every single pair of eyes in the room was burning into them, processing the undeniable intimacy of the gesture, but he forced the thought out of his mind, Ilya was the only thing that existed.“That’s it, good.”
The only response Ilya gave was slumping his weight entirely into Shane’s right side, his strength spent. Shane didn’t need anything else. He hooked his arm firmly around Ilya’s waist, pulling Ilya’s arm over his own neck to carry most of his weight.
He started to drag him off the palanque. The people in the room were still frozen, staring in absolute, breathless shock. Fucking unbelievable.
“I just need you to help me out a little,” Shane muttered against Ilya’s ear.
Ilya nodded almost imperceptibly, his shoes dragging slightly but finding just enough traction to help. He could work with this.
Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw a reporter step forward, opening his mouth to say something, microphone in hand.
Shane snapped his head around, his eyes locking onto the man. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarled quietly. The reporter stepped back.
They broke through the doors and into the hallway. The endless, televised corridor was quiet now, the monitors showing only the back of an empty conference room.
A couple of arena staff members and PR reps were standing frozen by the water cooler further down the hall. As Shane dragged Ilya past them, they hurriedly scrambled backward, pressing themselves against the concrete wall to clear the path, staring with wide, silent eyes.
“Let’s get you to your locker room,” Shane whispered, more to himself than to Ilya, mapping out their surroundings and exit options. He just needed to get Ilya behind a locked door.
Ilya didn't answer. His fingers only tightened weakly in the fabric of Shane's jacket.
_____
Shane was moving on pure adrenaline now, his head rushing at a speed that was making him dizzy. Or that could be the sickening worry for the man slumped on his side, heavier and quieter by the second.
The Boston locker room was now four feet away. Just a few more steps and they would be able to get there, and then Shane could sit Ilya down and take care of him.
“I got you. We’re almost there,” Shane muttered, his voice strained under the weight. He reached for the door handle and opened it.
There were loud voices, the thick smell of shower steam, and someone yelling, “Cap!!! Done w—”
The voice cut off instantly. Shane stood in the doorway of a locker room full of hockey players who were clearly oblivious to what had just happened in the conference room.
Now, there were a dozen men ground dead in their tracks, staring in absolute, slack-jawed shock at Shane Hollander, their fiercest rival, practically carrying their captain into their inner sanctuary.
“Hollander, what the fuck did you do to Rozanov?” One of the guys started moving towards them, his expression turning aggressive. “Get your hands—“
“Hey, hey!” Cliff Marleau stepped swiftly behind the other man and reached for his shoulder, his hands cutting off the confrontation before it could start. Concern filled his face, his eyes darting between Shane’s frantic expression and the hollow, pale state of the man clamped to his side.
Ilya tightened his fists in Shane’s jacket, a sharp, involuntary twitch that Shane felt right against his ribs. Both men just stared at him.
“Where is his stall?” Shane was struggling a bit now with Ilya’s weight, and the blunt demand was the first thing that got out of his mouth.
Apparently, Marleau was a perceptive one, because he just reached for them, silently helping Shane by supporting Ilya’s other side and guiding them through the stunned maze of players to Ilya's things.
They finally sat him down, and Ilya slumped his head back against the padded stall, closing his eyes. His hand slid down Shane’s body in a slow, weak motion as he sat down, but his fingers hooked desperately into the end of Shane's jacket, leaving his hand there, as if he needed to not break connection with him. His chest was still heaving, a shallow, erratic rhythm.
“Okay, what the fuck is happening right now?” Connors, one of Ilya’s teammates, asked behind them. A low, uneasy muttering from the other guys agreeing with him could be heard. They were shifting on their feet, caught between defensive team loyalty and the obvious reality that their captain was coming apart.
Shane was looking at Ilya, taking in his expression and body language. His eyes were squeezed shut, his head slumped back, and his leg was shaking a little. The knuckles on Shane’s jacket were white.
Shane couldn’t risk another episode and was annoyed he had to pause taking care of Ilya to explain something that shouldn’t need explaining. He covered Ilya’s hand with his own, hoping to ground and calm him, and turned his head, his gaze icy as he swept it across the room.
“As you can see, Rozanov is not alright.” He ever so slightly brushed his thumb against Ilya’s skin, feeling the unnatural chill there. “You obviously weren’t paying attention to the TV, but he received bad news live and panicked, so I helped him.” He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the lie they would all see right through.
“We… We are friends, and I will not be leaving his side.” He tightened his hand on Ilya now, defiant. “So if you care about your captain, please just hurry up, be quiet, turn off some of the lights, and don’t ask questions.” He turned again to look at Ilya and continued.
“I hope I don’t even need to say this, but once you leave, give no information to the reporters.” The silence that followed was heavy, but a second later, one of the main overhead lights clicked off, plunging the room into a softer, shadow-filled quiet. Shane took that as a sign that at least some of them had understood.
He dismissed them from his mind and crouched in front of Ilya so he could stay more at eye level with him, gently prying Ilya's frozen fingers from his jacket and holding his hand instead, refusing to break the physical contact.
“Ilya, hey…” He squeezed his hand a little again.
Ilya just took a deep breath, one that shook violently in the middle. He didn't look at Shane. His gaze was fixed entirely on the rubber flooring between his feet, his mind clearly a thousand miles away, drowning in the shock.
Shane placed his free hand on Ilya’s knee, hoping to continue to ground him, and if he was being honest, ground himself, too. His eyes closed again.
He knew the players who hadn’t moved yet were still watching him, watching Ilya, but he truly didn’t care. The whispers, the rumors, the massive breach of protocol… None of it registered against the terrifying need inside him to just help Ilya, to make him stop hurting.
“Ilya…” Shane’s voice was soft.
Ilya reacted at that, his shoulders flinching slightly as he opened his eyes a bit. They were glassy and completely unfocused.
“What do you need me to do?” Shane asked, gently brushing his thumb on Ilya’s knee. He hated to have to ask, but he really didn’t know what he needed in this scenario.
Ilya's face was still a little flat, the shock numbing his features, but he seemed slightly calmer now. Maybe being asked a question helped him focus. He sat a little straighter, his movements slow and clumsy as he lifted his free hand to try to get to his bag on top of the stall.
Shane was up in an instant. “I got it.” He carefully picked up his bag and placed it on the floor beside them, returning to his previous position.
Ilya just stared at it for a moment, the silence stretching between them like a physical weight. Shane didn’t pressure him, sensing he was getting somewhere.
“Can you check?” Ilya's voice was small, stripped of all its usual cockiness, sounding entirely hollowed out.
Shane must’ve given him a confused expression, because Ilya leaned forward a little and reached for the side pocket of the bag. He took out his phone and dropped it quickly into Shane’s hand, his fingers trembling so hard he couldn't hold it, treating the device like it burned.
Shane just stared at it.
“If is true,” Ilya said even quieter, though he tried to force his voice to sound a little firmer. His eyes didn’t lie, though, and as Shane looked at him, he saw so much fear and confusion that his heart broke once again tonight. The tough persona Ilya usually wore like armor had completely vanished.
“Of course…” Shane said, his left hand reaching for Ilya's knee again to keep him anchored.
He unlocked the phone and saw a sea of unanswered calls, several from a Russian number and a lot from Svetlana. He knew it in his bones that it was true and not some fake news swarming around. He opened his mouth to talk when the phone in his hand buzzed.
Svetlana.
“Svetlana’s calling you,” Shane said, tilting the screen to Ilya.
Ilya quickly picked up the phone and put it near his ear. “Sveta..?”
The moment her voice must have traveled through the line, Ilya completely lost his composure. He slumped back again, his spine hitting the locker, and his eyes watered. He closed them tight, a single tear cutting through the dried sweat on his cheek.
Shane’s heart was in his hands. He couldn’t hear what was being said on the other side of the phone, and even if he did, he wouldn’t understand. He mentally kicked himself for not having spent more time on the Russian learning he had started a few weeks ago. Ilya just nodded, eyes still closed, his free hand coming up to blindly clutch at Shane's sleeve, holding on like a vice. He murmured little Russian words softly, responding or agreeing to whatever was being said, his voice cracking on the syllables.
Shane just stood there, holding Ilya's hand, holding his heart, while Ilya gripped his sleeve, trapped in a bubble of grief while the remaining Boston players quietly shuffled past them toward the showers, keeping their eyes down.
At some point, through the stream of Russian, Shane heard his own name. Ilya’s hand squeezed his sleeve even tighter at the same moment.
Shane watched Ilya's face intently, trying to read the micro-expressions slipping through, but he couldn't make sense of any of them.
He took that time to really think about what he had to do. They were in Montreal, so he would obviously take Ilya with him tonight, not leaving him alone in some hotel room. Ilya would probably have to go to Russia, so he could help him book the plane tickets.
Hell, right now he would go with him if he asked.
Ilya also probably had to take care of some paperwork Shane had no idea how it worked, and he wondered how he would take care of Ilya while taking that burden out of him but getting things done at the same time. He realized he didn’t even know how things worked there. Would Svetlana go with him? He didn’t want him to be alone.
His mind was racing, and when he realized Ilya was lowering his phone, he blurted out, “Wait!”
Ilya paused, looking up with heavy, exhausted lids.
“Can I… Can I talk to her?” Shane said before he started questioning himself.
Ilya's expression turned soft, his eyes still wet but his body more relaxed. “She’s waiting.” He placed the phone on Shane’s open palm.
“Oh..” He put the phone to his ear, his other hand never leaving Ilya. He watched him put his head back against the stall and close his eyes again, looking utterly spent.
“Hello?” Shane said into the phone.
“Hi, Shane?” A soft, tired voice came from the other side.
“Yes, uh, Shane Hollander.” A soft sigh was heard, but Shane started talking, entering logistics mode to keep his own anxiety at bay.
“So, what do you want me to do? I have my apartment here in Montreal and I was thinking about taking him there so he isn't alone.”
“I don’t really understand the paperwork or... or if you have it handled, but I know my mom can help if needed,” he just spilled, the words tumbling out maybe because he was afraid of her shutting him down, and not even thinking about the fact that he'd have to explain all of this to his mother. He just really didn’t want to leave Ilya’s side right now. He wouldn’t.
“Oh,” Svetlana said.
Shane could feel more and more of Ilya’s teammates leaving without saying anything, keeping the locker room quiet and not overstimulating for Ilya. He was thankful for that. The room was clearing out, leaving just the low hum of the ventilation system.
“I am in Boston right now, at an important work event. I can leave in about two hours, then I will take the first flight there. If it takes too long, I’ll just take a cab...the fastest way, really,” she exhaled. “I just received the news, too, so I wasn’t able to see any paperwork, but I will as soon as I can. I have to take him to Moscow. The funeral will probably be in two days, but I don’t think anything is arranged yet.”
Shane looked down at Ilya. The silence of the room seemed to have eased something in him. His breathing was more even now, his jaw slightly unlocked. Maybe he fell asleep. Shane tried not to move just in case, only continuing with his absent thumb strokes over Ilya's knuckles.
“God, sorry for giving you these details, you don’t have to deal with this now. Just… how is he?” Her voice was softer now.
“Better than about twenty minutes ago, but not good, I think. I’ll take care of him.” He paused a bit. “And thank you for the details. I will text you my address so you can come as soon as you arrive.” He assumed they made a silent vow not to ask anything right now about this strange interaction and just focus on being there for the person they loved.
“Thank you, Shane Hollander,” Svetlana said. “Keep me in touch.”
She hung up before he could say anything.
Shane just stood there, phone in hand, silently thinking about the next steps. He would take Ilya home and take care of him, then he could think about the rest. Right now, Ilya needed him.
“Ilya,” Shane said softly.
He opened his eyes, apparently not being asleep at all, just resting in the now quiet locker room.
“Do you have all of your things here?” Shane stood, his legs hurting after so much time crouched down.
Ilya nodded, and reached for Shane's hand, using the grip to pull himself up, his movements heavy and uncoordinated.
He used Shane’s body to steady his balance and looked at Shane for a split second. Eyes dark, brimming with everything he couldn't put into words.
And then he stepped in, wrapping his arms around Shane's neck and hugging him tightly. Shane caught him instantly, holding him against his chest as the last few murmurs of the locker room faded away. They stood there for a while, and he could feel the final remaining people leaving, leaving them entirely alone in the dimmed room.
After what felt like forever, Shane spoke. “Come, let’s get you home.” He squeezed him a little before parting from him, seeing that Ilya's face was wet with silent tears. Shane reached for his face and wiped some away with his thumb. Ilya leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a brief second.
Shane picked up Ilya’s bag from the floor and slung it over his arm, placing Ilya's phone that was still in his hand in the side pocket. In the meantime, Ilya swayed a little, still not too sturdy on his own, so Shane guided Ilya’s arm to go around his neck.
The locker room was completely empty now and they were moving to the door when Marleau appeared, with Hayden beside him.
The two men just stared at them, eyes going back and forth between Shane's grip on Ilya and the bags. Hayden opened his mouth and closed it at least three times.
“I just thought I could go get your things,” Marleau said, his tone carefully neutral, nodding toward Shane. “And the things came with Pike?”
Hayden lifted his arms a little, holding Shane's discarded gear bag.
“Oh.” Shane didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Marleau.”
Hayden finally spoke. “I’ll take it to your car, buddy.” He looked at Ilya with a strange, softened expression, realizing the gravity of whatever was happening.
“Thanks, Hayd.” He knew he would have to explain later, but not now.
“Let me just take my bag and I’ll help you carry him,” Marleau said, stepping around them.
As they walked out, Shane could feel Ilya go slack again, his expression turning completely flat as the exhaustion of the panic attack fully set in. “Hey, I’m here… Stay with us, yeah?” Shane murmured next to his ear, the best he could while carrying him.
Marleau was right there, sliding under Ilya's other side, instantly relieving Shane from half the weight. “You heard him, Cap. No going all numb on us, all right?”
Ilya just opened his eyes slightly, but his face remained the same, blank and distant.
They carried him in silence to Shane’s car. When they arrived, Shane and Marleau put him in the front passenger seat so Shane could see him and touch him while driving. Shane tried to close the door, but Ilya gripped his wrist tight, his fingers digging into Shane's skin with surprising, desperate strength.
“Hey, I’m not going anywhere. Just to sit on your side, okay?” Ilya nodded very slightly and reluctantly let go.
Shane went as fast as he could to the other side, sat himself in the driver's seat, and immediately placed a hand over Ilya’s so he could feel anchored once again. Marleau and Hayden were putting the bags in the back seat and then came around to his side.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Marleau asked.
“Yeah… I’m not really sure what’s going on, but I’m here if you need me, buddy. Always,” Hayden said a little awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Thank you, guys, really. But I got it now,” Shane said softly and closed the door. He opened the window just an inch so he could still hear them and Ilya would feel the cool night air on his face.
“Keep us updated, please,” the men said.
“I will,” Shane said, and started to drive home, his left hand resting firmly on Ilya’s knee.
He ignored the buzzing of his phone, which had been going on for a while now. He would deal with the world when they arrived.