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April 7, 2017
Montreal, Canada
Shane is flying high. Everything is perfect. The ice is smooth, the crowd is roaring, and he won the face-off. Ilya is right behind him.
Tonight, he's going to ask Ilya to come to his cottage this summer. After their time together at the All-Star game, Shane thinks Ilya might even say yes.
It's going to be a beautiful night, but first he’s going to beat the Raiders into the ground. He glances back, grinning, at where Ilya is stuck behind him. It'll be a great view of this goal.
Something heavy slams into his shoulder.
Time slows down. He feels the moment his skates leave the ice, the gut-churning sensation of falling without any way to stop himself. All he has time to think is oh, this is gonna hurt.
His head cracks against the ice.
Everything goes black.
May 27, 1813
London, England
It's been hours and Jane is reaching the end of her rope. Her inner layers are sweaty, creating a horrible damp sensation that grates at her nerves. There are also far too many pins poking into her head. All she wants is to let her hair down. The shoes her mother purchased for her pinch and rub uncomfortably, making it harder than usual to dance, which she doesn't like to do anyway.
The dancing grates at her, too. She's been smiling politely and hasn't refused a single dance yet, but every man’s touch makes her skin crawl. Luckily, her gloves serve as something of a protective barrier, keeping her from losing her mind completely. They're made out of the same silky fabric as her light blue dress and they aren't too unpleasant a texture.
What seals this as a horrible night is the fact that most of the men are so distracted by the new Russian girl that they're terrible dance partners.
Jane can't blame them. Liliya Rozanova is beautiful in a slightly foreign way, with a well-defined jaw, strong nose, and bright blue eyes. Her golden curls have been pinned up elegantly, leaving her brilliant smile on full display. She is undeniably beautiful. If Jane were a man, she would be obsessed as well. She might be a little obsessed anyway.
For now, however, she's cursing Liliya’s existence, because yet another man has spent more of the dance eyeing her than paying attention to Jane. He stepped on her feet. Twice.
When the song finally ends, Jane curtsies politely and makes a quick exit from the dance floor. It's all too much. Every little thing chafing against her combined with the touch of a stranger has her nerves on edge and she could just scream. She steps out onto a blessedly empty balcony and sucks in a breath of cool night air. For a long moment, she revels in the relative quiet.
“Is beautiful night,” comes an accented voice from behind her, making Jane jump. The enchanting Liliya herself steps further out onto the balcony, her rose-colored gown shifting elegantly with every step.
“It is,” Jane agrees with an unsteady smile.
Liliya holds out a drink – a second drink, clearly brought specifically for Jane, for some bizarre reason. Jane takes the drink with a practiced smile and takes a sip. Her eyes widen as she’s met not with the sour taste of wine, but the sweetness of juice.
“Nobody will know,” Liliya says with a wink.
“Thank you,” Jane replies sincerely. “You, ah, you look beautiful tonight.”
“I look beautiful every night,” Liliya says, her rosy lips curving into something like a smirk, and Jane has no idea if she's being serious or not. Given her reputation, she probably is.
“Are you always so confident?” Jane can't help asking.
“Yes, probably,” Liliya says, then sips her own drink. Jane is so busy staring at her mouth that she almost misses what Liliya says next. “I think we should be friends.”
Jane blinks in surprise. “Friends?”
“Best friends,” Liliya specifies with that dazzling smile. “You are more interesting than these men.”
A flush spreads across Jane’s cheeks, much to Liliya’s apparent delight.
“You blush so pretty!” She makes a move like she's going to reach out to touch Jane’s cheek, but Jane flinches back. Liliya withdraws her hand immediately.
“Why do you want to be friends with me?” Jane asks, ignoring the heat in her cheeks.
“Because I like you,” Liliya replies, like it's simple.
Jane frowns slightly. “We haven't spoken before, have we?” It seems like it would be impossible to forget a girl like her.
“No, but…” Liliya glances around at the otherwise empty balcony and leans in, bringing her rosy lips close to Jane’s ear. “I like the way you watch me, krasivaya.”
A shiver runs down Jane’s spine. Her eyes go wide. She doesn't know what Liliya just called her, but something flutters in her stomach.
“I wasn't–”
“You were not watching me?” Liliya pulls back slightly with a dramatic pout. “That is sad. I was watching you.”
Those little flutters explode into full butterflies. Jane could swear her face must be a brighter pink than Liliya’s dress. She opens her mouth, but can find no words. Liliya just grins.
“Come, let us walk in garden,” she suggests, taking Jane’s hand and pulling her along. For the first time that night, Jane doesn't even notice the way her shoes pinch.
June 15, 1942
New York City, USA
John Hollander knows better than to walk around alone at night, especially as an Asian-American man in this political climate. He really does. It's just that the store he works at needed a full, proper inventory done and the boss asked him to do it. That sort of trust has to be earned and it was so hard to get the job in the first place. What was he supposed to do, put that to waste?
Now he’s regretting his choice.
Three men have him cornered in an alley. They’re all spitting slurs and taking turns throwing punches. He could take one in a fight, probably. Even though he's got a smaller frame, he can pack a punch. It's just that there are three of them.
His mom will be so upset when he gets home.
If he gets home.
He’s managed to stay on his feet so far, but it's only a matter of time before they get him on the ground and really start in on him. His mouth is already filling with blood from the first punch. Would spitting it out make them more mad? He doesn't have time to wonder further as he dodges a fist, only for another to catch him in the jaw again, sending a spray of blood from between his lips as his head snaps to the right.
If there's one thing about John Hollander, it's that he won't go down without a fight. He doesn't like it, but he'll raise his fists if he has to. And he does. Even gets in some good hits, bruising his knuckles on their faces, and initially he feels some hope. Unfortunately, three on one is a losing battle. John can already feel himself tiring.
“Hey!” someone calls from the mouth of the alley, drawing the attention of his tormentors.
There's a blonde man standing there, tall, imposing, and well-dressed, like maybe he was out for a night on the town.
The distraction is enough to give John a fighting chance. He grabs the metal lid of a trash can from behind him and swings it hard, hearing the clang as it hits the side of one man’s head.
“Oh shit!” he hears, but he doesn't take the time to see who said it.
With a solid kick to the gut, he sends the man he just hit stumbling into one of his friends. There's a red spot by his temple and a shocked look on his face. John swings at his third attacker, who was too distracted by his friend to see it coming. Pain bursts through his hand yet again, but this time blood spurts out of the asshole’s nose and the man cries out in pain.
The newcomer grabs the bleeding man by the shirt collar and throws him towards the entrance of the alley. Then he turns to face the other two, who are recovering from being thrown off balance. John swings at the one he hit before while the helpful stranger swings at the other with a broad grin on his face.
It takes less than a minute for all three to run off with their tails between their legs. John is left breathing hard and spitting blood onto the pavement.
“Thanks,” he says to the man who came to his rescue.
“No problem,” the man replies. Russian accent, that's interesting. Shane doesn't meet many Russians. “Come on, into the light. Let me see what they did.”
They both step back into the street and John gets his first look at this mysterious man under the streetlights. He's a little taller than John, broader in the shoulders, and has the muscle of a working man. His golden hair is cropped close on the sides, much like John’s own, but the top is a little longer, revealing his curls. Those eyes, though. They're the most beautiful blue John’s ever seen. His mouth goes dry.
“Oh, ow,” the man says with a sympathetic wince as he looks over John’s face. “You're going to be bruised in the morning.”
“I'm better off than I would have been, thanks to you,” John manages to say with a crooked smile. He's never been good at talking to strangers so casually, especially when they're this attractive. “John Hollander,” he says, holding out his hand.
The man laughs, but not meanly. “Ilya Rozanov,” he says, returning the shake firmly. Their hands linger together for just a moment before John pulls away. “Are you far from home?”
“Not too far. Fifteen minute walk, maybe,” John says.
Ilya looks John over slowly before meeting his eyes. He smirks, ever so slightly.
“Or I can get you a drink first,” Ilya suggests.
John should say no. The bars around here have a certain reputation and Ilya was very clearly checking him out there. It's not safe to play that game, no matter how much John wants to. Even if nobody saw him, those places get raided all the time. He doesn't need to bring down more trouble onto his family’s head. Hell, it could get them sent to that camp the government set up on Ellis Island.
Perhaps Ilya can see the concern on his face. “Or you could come over for a drink,” Ilya suggests instead.
There's a tense pause. John really shouldn't, but when is he going to have another chance like this? Especially with such a beautiful man?
“Alright,” John finally relents, against his better judgement.
Ilya grins like a cat who got the cream.
“Follow me, krasiviy” Ilya says and turns to walk away. He’s so confident that he doesn't even turn around to check that John’s following.
John shouldn't find it as hot as he does.
October 11, 1987
Washington DC, USA
The noise grates at Shane’s nerves. There are hundreds of thousands of people, all clamoring and shouting and chanting, and that's good. It's amazing. Shane has never known this level of support, of community, in his life. Rose was right, it was worth the trip from Ottawa to Washington D.C. to become part of this piece of history.
But this noise is going to kill him.
He claps his hands over his ears, but it doesn't help. Shouting people jostle him on every side. There's nowhere to go, no way to escape, and he's starting to feel that horrible tightness in his chest. The people around him don't notice. They march on. He has to keep moving.
Suddenly, there’s a hand on his elbow, tugging his arm away from his ear. He whips his head around and finds…
The most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
He’s a bit taller than Shane and his jaw could cut glass. Perfect, golden curls fall perfectly into a well-kept mullet. His eyes are a crystalline blue, muted slightly by the overcast sky.
“This way!” the man shouts over the crowd in an accented voice, tugging Shane’s arm again. This time, Shane follows, allowing himself to be pulled and keeping his eyes trained on the man’s red backpack. Anywhere is better than here, especially with this gorgeous man.
It's easier to cut through the crowd with the stranger’s broad shoulders doing most of the work for him. Shane isn't exactly small himself, but this stranger has a sort of presence that makes people step out of his way.
It still takes a few minutes for them to reach the edge of the marching crowd. When they do, the man turns to face him, resting his hands on Shane’s upper arms in a way that's unexpected grounding.
“Are you okay? You looked overwhelmed,” the man says in that accented voice. It sounds Russian, maybe.
“I'm fine, but thanks,” Shane lies with a shaky smile. They're still speaking loudly to be heard over the shouting of the marchers, but it's nothing compared to being in the thick of it.
“Okay,” the man says flatly, raising an eyebrow and looking Shane over. He swings his backpack off of his shoulders and opens the small pocket on the outside. From within, he pulls out a plastic container and opens it up. Inside are a few sets of foam earplugs. With a wink, he holds them out to Shane. “Put them in, krasiviy.”
“What?” Shane asks, not expecting the sudden Russian word.
The man turns his head slightly and Shane realizes he’s wearing the same earplugs. He gestures with the container, pushing it towards Shane.
He takes them. What else can he do?
“Thanks,” he says and quickly rolls the ear plugs between his fingers, then inserts the foam into his ears.
It's an immediate relief as the foam expands. There's still sound, but it's dull and distant instead of pressing relentlessly around him. With the noise lessened, it's easier to ignore the uncomfortable sweat he’s built up from marching among so many people.
The beautiful man unzips the main compartment of his backpack next and pulls out an unopened water bottle. Shane takes it when it's offered, but he only drinks a little. Apparently, that’s not enough. The stranger just gestures and mouths “more” until Shane has drained half of the bottle. Only then does he finally accept the bottle back, drinking the rest himself.
Shane can't help watching the long line of his throat. The way his adam's apple bobs with each swallow. He suppresses a shiver, but he knows he's probably blushing. Maybe he can play it off as being flushed from marching.
“What is your name?” the man shouts – muffled by the ear plugs, of course – after sticking the empty water bottle back into his bag. He swings it back onto his muscular shoulder smoothly.
“Shane Hollander,” Shane replies. His voice sounds weird with the ear plugs in.
“Ilya Rozanov,” the man replies. “Want to march together?”
He offers his hand to Shane and… well, what's he supposed to do? With a grin, Shane takes it.
April 7, 2017
Montreal, Canada
The first thing that Shane hears is a steady beeping sound. His head throbs in time with it. He pries open eyes and a pained groan escapes him at the searing light. Tears well up as he tries to blink through the agony of his head and his shoulder.
On the side that doesn't hurt as badly, a woman’s bare hand rests in his. But Liliya almost always wears gloves, he thinks to himself.
Except the woman sitting there isn't Liliya. It’s his mom and she’s saying something to someone – maybe his dad – about pressing a call button. Shane looks around as much as he can, but Liliya isn't there. Neither is Ilya.
He remembers being in hospitals with Ilya, but they didn't look this high-tech. The rooms were smaller, the beds less comfortable. Shane would know. He spent most of his time right by Ilya’s side.
But that's not right. He and Ilya have never been in the same hospital, let alone the same hospital bed.
His head feels crowded with memories that don't match. He remembers Liliya’s broad smiles, Ilya’s confident smirk, and another Ilya’s warm hand in his. Dancing. Fighting. Marching. Remembers some of what came before, some of what came after. It's all hazy, like a dream, but it feels so real.
“You took a bad hit, sweetheart,” his mom tells him. “You're okay, though. You're going to be just fine.”
He groans again, because the alternative is to play for Ilya. Right now that's all he wants. Instead, he gets a doctor. She steps up to him wearing a white coat and holding a clipboard.
“Mr. Hollander, it's good to see you awake. Can you tell me what you remember?”
Too much, that's what he remembers.
When he doesn't answer, she tries again. “Can you tell me what year it is?”
No, he really can't.
“Mr. Hollander?”
“Hurts,” he finally manages to rasp. The doctor reaches out to the medical equipment beside him and does something. Within seconds, the pain in his shoulder fades slightly and his mind starts to get sluggish.
He closes his eyes again.