Chapter Text
Twenty five seconds.
That's all they got to. He can't even remember who he was before those twenty five seconds.
a whole other person surely, someone that could stand to be parted from Shane's side for a single second.
Twenty five seconds of the Boston vs Montreal game before Shane is whipped off his feet, his body flying through the air.
His eyes had been on Ilya. He hadn't seen Cliff coming. And now, Ilya's eyes had to watch in horror as Shane's body slammed chest first into the ice, his head ricocheting against the surface as he continued to slide onward.
When he stopped finally, there was no movement aside from one large inhale and rattling exhale before complete stillness.
Ilya’s ears rang a high pitch as each and every single other noise in the arena ceased to exist for him.
The screams, the shouts, the skates and sticks against the ice fell silent to him and he was struck into a stupor. He stopped moving the second he saw the impact sweep him away, Shane's eye contact ripped away from him like a stab in the heart.
It was the strangest moment. Everyone in the room had immediately stood still drawing in a deep breath as they watched Shane's body fly across the ice to its stop. Hayden was the first to move, his eyes falling on Marlow immediately, his gloves flew off his hands onto the ice as he grabbed forward to clutch the jersey of the Boston player dragging him down to the ground in a brutal tug. Cliff didn't fight back.
An official pulls Hayden off of Cliff and away from him as the rest of the benched Voyagers jump into the rink ready to intervene or aid if the Bostoners want to fight. They don't. They're all too busy standing, watching Shane's limp body. They are herded back by the ref away from the body.
The medics jump into action passing Ilya in a blur.
For the first few seconds, Ilya tells himself it’s nothing. That it's just another hard hit, and just another moment where the crowd holds its breath and then cheers when a player gets back up. Hollander always gets back up. He’s built for this. He’s survived worse than this.
But, Ilya knows something is very wrong before anyone says it. After the first couple of seconds of no movement from Shane, his body filled with a deathly sense of dread. A dread that he hadn't felt for a very long time. Not since he was twelve years old, stood in a bathroom in his old Moscow home calling out “mama… ty spish'? mama… pozhaluysta, prosnis'." Mama… Are you sleeping? mama … Please wake up.
But, just like his mother, Shane does not move.
The medics are next to him, they are kneeling and focused. Ilya watches in silence, his face pale as though his body had been drained of blood—his feet locked in place unable to move closer yet unable to move away.
He watches as they flip him and then press two fingers against Hollander’s neck.
A whistle screams, shrill and endless, and his fellow players drift towards each other in silence. helpless, like they’ve forgotten what they’re supposed to do with themselves.
Ilya skates closer. He needed to be closer. An official steps into his path, a firm hand on his arm telling him to back away, “Rozanov, you need to check on Marlo–”
Ilya barely hears him, and he pushes closer now just ten steps away from the love of his life on the floor.
Shane’s helmet is off. His eyes are closed.
Ilya, having already dropped his stick, drops his gloves and unclips his helmet, pushing it back off the top of his head to the floor. He didn't want a visor between his eyes and Hollander’s face.
Ilya’s heart begins to pound so hard it drowns out the crowd.
No. No. No. No. he whispers to himself
“Shane,” he says, just a whisper. Just instinct. The name slips out the way it always does when it’s just the two of them, when no one is supposed to hear.
The official is back tightening his grip on Ilya’s arm. “You need to stay back.”
Behind him, he registers his teammate's voice calling to him, “Roz! Over here!”. He ignores the call.
Ilya doesn’t pull away from the ref. Not yet. He doesn't have the capacity to yet. He watches the medics work. They were cutting open the front of the Montreal Jersey and pressing a stethoscope against Shane’s chest.
He watches as the medics eye snap up to meet the others in a sharp concern.
Fuck.
Time does something strange then. It slows and stretches. His focus tunnels and for a moment all he can hear is his own panting—It's harsh and uneven ringing in his ears.
They begin CPR. Elbows locked, They push down on his chest in steady compressions.
One medic bolts off the ice with an order to find a defibrillator.
There's a faint voice Ilya doesn't recognise that reaches his ears from behind him. It must be a Voyager. A whisper sharply in disbelief to the next man, "Is- is Hollander fucking dead?"
That’s when his world crumbles. all moisture in his mouth evaporates. He can barely swallow. A tightness sticks in his throat.
His mind is impossibly loud and impossibly silent at the same time.
He’s dead. Shane is dead. The heart that Ilya had felt race under his lips when he pressed his face against Shane's chest. Just hours ago. The pulse he felt under his fingertips as he held Shane's wrists, now gone. The thump he felt against his nose as he sucked and licked against Hollander's neck, ceased. The powerful impact had caused his heart to stop.
He processes the gravity of the fact quickly. The man who he'd loved for so long - a love that he'd denied existed. He'd never even told Shane. Not in a language that Shane would understand. He'd never allowed himself the liberty of barring his soul to another.
The gravity and weight of the pure desire, hopes and affection that he had for the Canadian was paralysing. It was the kind of love that kept you up at night, that made his bones ache in anticipation, that gave him goosebumps thinking of the possibilities of a life they could have.
All this to say—that if this man really was dead—then what would Ilya do? How could he go on living with him? Where would he put this love without someone to receive it—without Shane to receive it.
Ilya was powerless at that moment but he couldn't help himself. Like a man being puppeted by an outside force, his body surges forward, shoving past the official.
“No,” Ilya says. Louder now. “No! Hollander! No!”
Someone grabs him from behind, a set of hands on his shoulders, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t stop staring at Shane’s still body, at the unnatural stillness of his face as they pump his chest.
“Shane! please,” Ilya shouts, his voice cracking. “Come on.”
His vision blurs as tears spill over. He doesn’t care who hears him. He doesn’t care about the cameras, the crowd, the league, the rules they spent years obeying. His knees feel weak.
“No! Please!”
Like one of those tiny wooden toys whose string-legged body collapses as you press against the mainsprings, his legs slacken at the sight of Shane's freckled cheeks. He collapses onto his knees, his hands pull and drag at his own hair. His tears streak down his face.
“Fucking wake up!”
Shanes mouth is covered by a medic pressing a cpr face mask against his mouth pumping air into his lungs. Ilya tries to breathe in the same timing as though his own breath was pushing into Shane's lungs.
The arena is in an alien-like silence, listening to the Russian who's in turn listening to the medics. He takes in the counts of the medics pushing against Hollander’s chest. He can't help the wails that escape him. The only two sounds echoing back around the expanse of the ice.
“Please! God! No! Ty, chortov ublyudok. Ochnis'.” You fucking bastard. Wake up.
The crowd is shell-shocked, not knowing quite what they're a part of. No one knows how to react to Shane's heart stopping or the pure devastation from the Boston captain.
The officials are wise enough to not go near him. His face is red and a vein is throbbing, in his wet sobs he looks almost rabid.
“I need you,” he says, choking on the words. “You can’t leave me. Please, Shane!.”
Teammates are behind him now murmuring his name, telling him to breathe. Someone says, “Rozanov,” softly, like he’s a frightened animal. They stand back like they dare not come closer. Their words fall on deaf ears.
“Talk, Hollander, please! Skazhite mne, chto my ne potratili vse eti gody vpustuyu!” Tell me we haven't wasted all these years. The words bellow, his throat raw as he shouts. Saliva sprays as he spits his words—tears dripping from his chin. “Hollander, wake up!”
Players on both teams meet each other's questioning stares.
Eyes asking… Did you know?
Eyes telling… No, we had no idea.
The reaction from Ilya is almost too painful to bear. They want to look away but their confusion, curiosity and care for the two men makes the scene impossible to tear their eyes away.
The distance between Ilya and Shane becomes too much for him to bear. He needs to touch him. He needed to kiss him while there was still warmth left in him.
He pushed his way close enough now that his head is above Hollanders.
"you can't leave me now. I don't know how to live without you anymore." He hiccups like a child as he cries. "I didn't get to love you enough."
He lets his fingers lace through Shane's thick, black hair. It's physically painful. The contact with the Canadian feels like fire on his palms—like someone had stuck their hand into his chest and ripped his heart out.
He'd do it himself. He'd rip his own heart out to save Shane.
He continues to wail, tears streaming down his face. There's snot running before he wipes his jersey's arm under his nose. “Moya Lyubov', I give you my heart.”
“Mr. Rozanov, is there something I can do? Do you need medical intervention right now?” the Montreal medic pumping air into Shane's mouth speaks to him. Ilya's bloodshot eyes meet his concerned gaze, and he shakes his head before looking back at his so-called rival's face. That beautiful face. His face crumples as he lets another sob fall from his lips.
Yuna and David Hollander, who had been stuck in the crowd at first too shell-shocked to move, had finally made their way onto the ice. They too fell to their knees just where Ilya had been and cried for their baby on the ice. David prays for a blessing on the hands that were trying to save him, while Yuna lets her tears fall to the ice as she watches her boy—the man that they'd dedicated their lives to. A mother should never have to bury her baby. This was cruel.
Four minutes had passed since they started CPR. That's what Ilya hears the medic say to the other.
For four minutes the others on the ice and in the stands have had to stand and watch in horror as an untouchable man and two devastated parents fall apart at the seams, as their life falls apart. Twenty thousand people and hundreds of staff are frozen still by the most devastating sight they'd ever seen.
Hayden stood limply, arms by his side, his eyes locked onto the face of his Captain and Bestest friend in the world. Shane had obviously been keeping a few things under lock and key. He wanted him back, the uncle of his children, his closest confidant. He glanced again to Ilya and watched him in his anguish. How did this even happen? How hadn't he noticed?
Ilya's face turns to the heavens, eyes closed as he presses his hands against each side of Shane's face.
“Mama, Bozhe, pozhaluysta, kto-nibud', pomogite mne. Ne dayte yemu umeret'. Zaberite menya. Ne zabirayte moyu lyubov'. Pozhaluysta. Pozhaluysta. My byli tak blizki. Mama, pozhaluysta, razbudite yego.” Rozanov's voice cracks repeatedly as he calls out in a desperate rage. His chest heaves desperate for air. Mama, God please somebody help me. Don't let him die. Take me. Don't take my love away. Please. Please. We were so close. Mama, please wake him up.
No one had understood the words but they understood the guttural scream of heartbreak as he sobbed.
His voice gives out completely.
He presses his forehead down, and just for a second, presses his lips to Shane's forehead.
“Please,” he speaks, his voice hoarse. “Please come back to me, I love you, Hollander. I love you. ya lyublyu tebya vsem serdtsem. Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy. Ya ne mogu bez tebya zhit'. I love you. I love you. I love you.” I love you with all my heart. I love you with all my soul. I can't live without you.
Six minutes feels like a lifetime.
Six minutes since CPR started, that's how long it takes for the medic returns with the defibrillator.
“About fucking time, Jamie”. The lead medic calls.
The returning medic was panting. “They fucking moved the machine, This is from the guest services offices”
“It’ll do. Everyone, hands off now!” the compressions stop, the face mask pumping air is removed.
They watch Ilya. “You too, Rozanov! HANDS OFF, NOW!”
He lets go and pushes himself back using the little remaining strength he had.
They charge. They press the paddles to Shane's chest. They fire. And again and again. And then.
Hollander gasps chilly cold air into his lungs.
His eyes fly open.
“-lya” he breathes out.