Chapter Text
Boston, MA
365 days until vanish
“As you all know, Matthew and I only have a few years left on our timers. With my retinitis pigmentosa, I’m doing what I can with the time and eyesight I have left by illustrating…”
Shane scrolls past the video, sighing. He’s been getting a lot of soulmate content recently on his algorithm, and he wishes it could go back to his normal feed. Hockey videos, animals, and all. The concept of soulmates and vanishing never really interested him, not when he still has a Stanley Cup to win. Not when it’s essentially a ticking time bomb made by whatever creator is up there to shorten the already limited timespan humans have on this planet.
Shane doesn’t want his life decided by a timer.
His phone dings. A text from Lily. Rozanov.
Lily
Come over
I know you want to.Jane
Fuck you.
WhereLily
You know the address.
Rozanov wasn't doing… banter, like they usually do. Almost like he just wanted to talk to someone. To have someone in his home. Shane doesn’t know why it’s him, out of all people, that he wanted to see, but it didn’t matter when the sex was good. The sex was always good.
There’s a sadness he sees in his eyes, something he’s never seen even during the worst of their fights, and they fight more often than Shane is willing to admit. So, wordlessly, he lets Rozanov lead him to his bed, because at the end of the day, this is what they know. This is what they’re here for, and Shane is fine with that.
But even when Rozanov is inside him, even when Shane is riding him the way he knows the curly haired man loves, his eyes shine differently. They look at Shane like they haven’t hated each other for years, like they haven’t been rivals on the ice and enemies in private since rookie season. Pale blue eyes just never leave his brown ones, even as their hips roll to meet the other’s, even when larger hands wander to explore every dip and stretch mark on his body.
It slips out in the heat of the moment, when Rozanov fucks into him faster, when—
“Fuck, Ilya,“
Shane comes undone, breathless against Ilya’s lips, and the man below can’t say anything but “Shane,” coming out in a gasp, hips pressing deep as he finishes into the condom, inside Shane.
Shane’s catching his breath against Ilya’s neck when he feels a tingle on his arm, a sort of pinching feeling on his wrist, and he raises his hand in front of his eyes that blink to adjust to the newfound glow in the darkness.
365:00:00
All at once, Shane’s blood runs cold. The timer starts to tick down, a number going down with each minute that passes as he stares, and stares, and… stares.
He has a year left to live, and it’s all because of Ilya Rozanov.
Shane pushes himself off Rozanov’s thighs, biting back the moan that threatens to escape as he feels his dick slip out of him. Rozanov is still dazed from the sex, but he looks up at Shane with confusion, eyes furrowed and head tilted. He hasn’t seen his wrist yet.
Like he reads Shane’s mind, Rozanov raises his own hand, and his face falls when his eyes land on his wrist.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck,” Shane repeats, letting out a large exhale before picking up his clothes from where they lay on the floor. It’s so unlike him to be this messy, and… fuck. Fuck.
“Hollander, what are you—“
“No, we’re not doing this.” Shane shakes his head, almost tripping over himself while putting his underwear back on. “Not now. Not ever.”
“Hollander.”
Shane is aware of the panic that’s brewing inside himself. Tries to breathe through it. After seeing Rozanov so vulnerable earlier, he wants to say something nice, something that would leave them on good terms, but he’s shaking, and the timer feels like it’s burning against his skin.
Instead, he says, “I don’t believe in this shit, okay? We’re not even friends. Just— don’t, Rozanov.”
“Hollander.”
But Shane’s put all of his clothes back on, breaths labored as he fights against the panic. He can’t let Rozanov see him like this. He needs to get out of here.
By the archway leading to the exit, he hesitates, a shaky hand on his thigh as he tries to muster up something else to say, but when he turns, Ilya only stares back at him, a crestfallen expression on his face.
“I’m sor— I’m…” he starts, but he shakes his head while he’s at it, heading for the exit. He can’t do this.
Montreal, QC
362 days until vanish
Out of all people. Out of the billions of people on Earth, the one person Shane is meant to have his soul connected to is Ilya fucking Rozanov? It feels like a sick joke from the universe, a nightmare he can’t wake up from. Because of course it had to be his worst enemy. Of course it makes sense.
“He’s never been nice to me, ever. I don’t think he’s capable of forming a single kind word, on or off the ice. Since we got fucking drafted, can you believe it? The summer before.” Shane scoffs, swirling the drink in his hand. Quieter, he says, “When we started sleeping together, I felt like I could take all the anger out on him that way. That it was better than yelling at him all the time, dropping my gloves on the ice each time he checked me too hard. He’s such a fucking asshole, with his fucking curls, his fucking physique, his— His—”
Shane exhales. Inhales. Repeats. The restaurant is empty save for him and Rose, who looks at him with a look he knows all too well.
“Are you done?” she asks, an eyebrow raised.
Shane shrugs. Leans back on his chair. “No. But, whatever.”
“I thought so. Look, Shane, sweetie,” Rose sighs, taking one of his hands into hers. “I don’t… You know I love you. You’re my best friend. But when are you going to stop lying to yourself about your hatred for… For him?”
Shane gapes at that. “I’m not lying. I fucking hate Rozanov.”
“Shane.” Rose leans closer. “Is he your soulmate?”
He feels his skin go cold at her words. It took Rose Landry, of all people, saying his truth out loud for it to feel real, to feel its heavy weight on his chest. To let the genuine devastation set inside him, paired with her sad eyes that see through his anger.
Rose takes his silence as a yes, looking down at his wrist. She traces the timer there, soft to the fingertips, but Shane flinches at the touch. Takes his hand back, maybe a bit too roughly. She doesn’t take it personally though, instead opting to wrap a hand around her wine glass.
Rose is gentle when she asks, “What triggered it?”
Shane looks down. Swallows. “Names. We’ve never… Each other’s first names, before.”
She nods, but her surprise is clear. “I’ve never heard of names being the trigger. Usually it’s first kisses or touches. Names is… wow,”
He blinks, hard. “Yeah.”
Rose takes his other hand instead, light in her touch. “I know you’re afraid. It’s okay, Shane.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s really okay. You… You still have a lot of time. More than others have had.”
“Not long enough,” Shane shakes his head, lip quivering. “It’s not enough.”
“But I know you. You’ll make it work. You won’t say you’re afraid, but you’ll make things work.”
Shane sniffs. He’s determined to win the Cup this year, timer be damned. “I will.”
“I’m not talking about hockey, Shane.” Rose frowns. “You really don’t want to work things out with him?”
He recoils like he's been burned. “I don’t like him like that, Rose. If anything, he’s just a distraction. I need to get the Cup before my time is up. I need to get through the playoffs before I vanish.”
If Rose is sad because the revelation unlocked a part of Shane she doesn’t recognize, she doesn’t say anything. Not when she sees the genuine fear in Shane’s teary eyes, not when he avoids her eye contact.
“Please just… Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Shane. I really think you’re missing out on connecting with your person.”
But Shane doesn’t listen to her, not when he nods absentmindedly and downs the rest of his drink. “Thank you for meeting me. I— I’m sorry for being difficult.”
“Hey. You’ll always have me. Just… think about what I said? Please?”
Shane can’t promise that. Instead says, “I’ll try,” and for now, that’s enough for Rose.
They leave the restaurant and wrap each other in a warm hug before parting ways, and Shane starts to walk to his car, breath coming out in white puffs of air, until his phone buzzes.
Lily
Can we talk?
Shane swipes the notification away. Considers blocking the contact, but opens up the messages with his mom instead, who asks how he’s doing. She doesn’t know about the timer yet.
Good, he lies, talk to you soon. Then, he turns his phone off. Pockets it.
The snow crunches hard under him when he moves.
Boston, MA
339 days until vanish
The Metros keep winning, and Shane intends to keep it that way.
Each win brings an all-time high, a rush that he’s sure to bring all the way to the playoffs which this win against the Raiders will grant them. Nothing will stop him, even if he feels hollow inside.
At the face-off, Rozanov tries to speak to him, but Shane doesn’t acknowledge him. His eyes are on the prize, the puck goes to him, and the game ends and as quickly as it begins. The Metros are set for playoffs, and the Raiders are right behind them, even after this loss.
What he doesn’t expect, however, is Rozanov basically shoving him against his locker after the rest of Shane’s team file out of the area, eager to get a drink, and Shane sees red.
“You’re not allowed to be in here, asshole!”
“I do not fucking care,” Rozanov seethes, tightening his grip on Shane’s shirt. “Tell me, Hollander, why you are avoiding me.”
“I don’t owe you any fucking explanation. Back off, Rozanov, or I will fucking report you.”
It’s an empty threat—the shove really wasn’t much compared to what they experience on the ice—but he is in fact not allowed in the opposing team’s space. Rozanov backs away anyway, fuming.
“You know we are soulmates, da? Why do you run away?”
“I already told you. I don't believe in the concept, nor am I interested in spending the rest of my life with someone I barely know.”
If Rozanov is offended, he doesn't show it. “You are being unfair. I have timer too, Hollander, and I want to make it work.”
“You don't get to dictate how I spend the rest of my life.”
“So you get to choose to be fucking lonely?”
Rozanov tries to take Shane’s hand in his, wanting to see his timer up close, but Shane pulls away like he's been burned.
“What the fuck is your issue? We don't even like each other,” Shane knows he's being mean, but his anger takes over. “Whatever you want from me, it isn't going to work. This is just a stupid fucking curse meant to fuck with us. I want to succeed with the time I have left, and that plan does not include you, Rozanov. Get off my back.”
Rozanov glares at him. For a moment, he's silent, staring his rival—his enemy—down, because this is what it's come to. Years of nothing but sex off the ice, but what matters the most to Shane happens to be on it.
“Fuck you, Hollander,” Rozanov says, almost defeated in his tone, before storming out of the locker room.
Shane takes a seat on the bench. Glances at his wrist, timer ticking fast.
Whatever. Fuck.
Eyes on the prize. It's the Cup that matters. Nothing else.