Chapter Text
Ilya
Ilya
“-Unconfirmed reports of an emergency landing by the Ottawa Centaurs-“
“-seeing emergency vehicles arriving at the tarmac-“
“-current status of the passengers and crew aboard is still unknown – “
“-harrowing experience for all aboard – “
“-extent of their injuries is still unknown-“
“-have to wonder, what goes through your mind in what could be your last moments -“
--
4 Hours earlier
“Rozy, dude! That last-second goal against Carolina was fucking unreal!” Bood exclaimed, his hip smacking into Ilya’s shoulder as he made his way down the narrow aisle of the team bus bound for the airport.
The exclamation was made for what felt like close to the hundredth time since the Centaurs left the ice in Raleigh, much to Ilya’s chagrin.
“Yes, Bood, I am aware. I’m the one who hit the puck,” Ilya turned and retorted from his seat. “You should be used to this by now, no? Having the best player in the world on your team for many years now.” Ilya’s hands went up in the air dramatically in exasperation.
“Hey, I didn’t know Shane Hollander joined the Centaurs!” Dykstra chirped a few rows up on the team bus heading towards the airport, prompting barks of laughter from the other Centaurs.
Ilya’s head snapped around towards Dykstra after his comment, jumping to his feet. “No, no, this is no good. Where is doctor? That check by Reynolds in second period must have given him concussion. He is talking nonsense! Doctor! Doctor!”
The resounding roars of laughter from his teammates broughtsome of the warmth back to Ilya’s chest that had been missing since his fight with the aforementioned hockey player, his boyfriend, just a week prior.
Ilya settled back into his cloth-covered seat, moving over one to avoid being hip-checked again, with a quiet sigh. The wounds from his fight with Shane were fresh but healing, a slow-healing scab still tender for the Russian.
It wasn’t that he was still angry with Shane. Ilya knew that what he asked of Shane was too much. And he meant it when he apologized, saying his request was unreasonable, but it didn’t erase the hurt that Ilya felt. Something he was working through with Galina.
Ilya was brought back to the moment by a particularly loud cheer from the rookies at the front of the bus. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The energy of the newly victorious team was palpable in the air of the bus, inescapable even for the grouchiest of teammates. It had been far too long since Ilya felt such energy from his team. Maybe they could build on this feeling, get some real momentum going. The thought alone wasalmost enough to make the Russian giggle with joy like a schoolboy offered his favorite treat.
The bus rumbled beneath Ilya’s feet as the driver put it into drive, pulling away from the exit of the Lenovo Center. He shifted his shoulders against the seat back behind him. These buses were certainly not made for large hockey players. Ilya was lucky enough to score a row to himself, even though it meant sitting across the aisle from Chouinard, who had the tendency to fall asleep and snore like a lawnmower. He mulled over the funny expression he had learned from his teammates, which he had learned from a conversation in which Chouinard’s snoring was the main topic. The Russian shook his head slightly. English was a stupid language.
Preemptively, Ilya slipped his headphones over his ears, playing his current favorite song from Bad Bunny’s recent album, antes que se acabe. As the opening notes of the song and Bad Bunny’s ever-present “yeah” filled his headphones, Ilya threw his legs into the seat next to him as he leaned against the side of the bus, closing his eyes.
Typically, this was the part of the journey where Ilya was the most jittery, filled with anticipation of seeing Shane again. His body followed the previously agreed-upon script, even though Ilya knew he was heading for Tampa, not back to his life, his Shane. You would think that after so many long road trips with multiple legs, his body would realize by now that not every time he left an arena other than the Canadian Tire Centre meant he’s heading home. And yet his body never stopped hoping that his next bus ride will take him home to Shane.
Attempting to calm his body, Ilya tried to practice the deep breathing exercises he’d been working on with Galina. Before he knew it, the team bus slowed, forcing Ilya to tighten his abs and throw his arm out in front of him, hitting the back of the seat in front of him to stop him from slipping forward.
Ilya slipped his headphones off his ears, down to rest around his neck, as he reached down to grab the small black leather backpack at his feet that he kept with him while traveling. Inside the backpack were many chargers for his phone and iPad, some chewing gum, a handful of protein bars (some more crushed than others), his iPad, and a small, inconspicuous yellow sticky note that simply said ‘I love you’ in Shane’s handwriting.
The note was a memento from last Valentine’s Day when Shane made Ilya breakfast in bed and served it with the sticky note attached. The encounter ended with a cold breakfast that wasn’t spilled on their bed only because Shane insisted he would not let Ilya fuck him if there was food smashed into their sheets.
When Ilya had brought the tray back to the kitchen hours later to heat it up, he had paused for a moment, the morning light shining into their kitchen, seemingly making the note glow. And before he could think about it, he had folded up the note and placed it in his pocket. He had almost forgotten about it until he was gathering up his clothes from the floor of his closet that evening at Shane’s request (okay, insistence), and the note fell out of the pocket of his pajama pants. Ilya paused, looking at the note, tracing the edges of Shane’s handwriting, before making a decision and slipping it into his backpack sitting at the entrance to his closet.
When Ilya’s longing for Shane became unbearable, he would pull out the note, relishing in the connection to his Shane. Ilya was sure some of the guys must have noticed it by now. Hayes had even asked about it once, only to be met with a soft smile laced with sadness and a simple “it is from moy lyubimyy”.
The mood was still high among the Centaurs as they disembarked the bus, heading for the plane that would take them to Tampa. The smack of shoes attached to large professional athletes climbing the metal stairs onto their plane was a familiar cacophony to those on the team. Ilya could hear Harris ahead of him complaining about the stairs. “I know I’ve been on these before, but every single time I feel like I’m just going to go flying over the railing!” He complained.
Ilya caught a soft “I wouldn’t let that happen” from Troy just behind Harris. He attempted to cover his slight smirk, rubbing his face to help the muscles release back to a more neutral position. Troy’s feelings for Harris grew more painfully obvious by the day, to the point where if nothing happened between the two of them by the end of this roadie, Ilya himself might have to intervene.
Ilya took the last step onto the plane, the gray carpeting beneath his feet familiar by now. He moved a few rows back, choosing the seat across from Harris, and sank into the blue leather seat, sliding his backpack between his knees. He rooted around inside, grabbing his iPad and a charger for his phone before zipping it back up and sliding it under the seat in front of him. Ilya plugged the charger into the outlet between the seats in front of him and slipped his now-charging phone and iPad into the seatback pocket.
The mood remained jubilant as the remaining stragglers trickled in and settled into their seats. While most of the players had stopped discussing the actual details of the game, there were repeated cries of “we fucking beat Carolina!” followed by cheers from the rest of the team and support staff every few minutes as everyone got settled onto the plane.
Ilya smiled, tucking his chin into his chest. In that moment, he resolved to keep the team’s spirits high and their winning momentum going. The team was finally coming together. Plays were running more smoothly, passes were connecting better than ever, and in each game, things seemed to improve. If they really kept things going, they might even get a shot at the playoffs.
Ilya took a moment to absorb the jovial mood surrounding him. The grins spreading across the faces of his teammates, men he now considered to be close friends, almost family. There were several bouts of laughter emanating from many areas of the plane at once. The unadulterated joy of a team high off a win that just a year ago would have been inconceivable.
Soon, the flight attendants were closing the doors to the plane and did the same standard safety demonstration Ilya had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times by now. Paying the presentation little mind, Ilya pulled his iPad from the seatback in front of him, tapping the screen as he connected to the plane’s wifi and began browsing for a movie to occupy him for the two-hour flight ahead.
The plane lumbered along the tarmac, briefly pausing before turning and speeding up into the sky. The sensation of the plane speeding up to quick speeds was by now a familiar one to Ilya, who only acknowledged the change in speed with a shift in his seat.
Before he knew it, the flight attendants were making their way through the cabin with a drink cart, taking drink orders. Ilya looked up as she approached, offering a brief smile and requesting a Diet Coke, for which a can was handed over with a glass filled with ice. Ilya heard Harris order a tomato juice, causing Ilya’s face to twist in disgust.
Once the flight attendants passed by, Ilya leaned forward, addressing Harris, who had at some point taken out his laptop, which was resting on the tray table in front of him, in addition to a cup of tomato juice.
“Harris,” Ilya began, “why are you drinking a cup full of ketchup?”
Harris turned his head from the screen of his computer, his fingers still typing as he finished the sentence he was working on, as he addressed the Russian with an eye roll. “It’s tomato juice, not ketchup.”
Ilya waved his hand in front of him. “Is the same thing. Why would you do this? Is this some sort of method you are using to impress Troy? It will not work. Nobody thinks drinking ketchup is attractive.”
A slight flush rose to Harris’ cheeks as he narrowed his eyes in a slight glare at the Russian. “I will have you know that tomato juice has a unique flavor on planes. The low cabin pressure and increased noise from the plane make it taste different.” As if to punctuate his point, the young man reached for his fresh glass of tomato juice and took a large sip.
Harris’ face contorted and twisted in disgust before he remembered Ilya was watching his reaction. He quickly schooled his expression, but not before the Russian caught his reaction, a booming laugh escaping Ilya.
Harris rolled his eyes, muttering to himself, turning back to his computer as the flush returned to his cheeks. Ilya called the flight attendants back over and, with a shit-eating grin, sweetly asked the flight attendants for a Sprite for Harris, who waspretending not to be aware of the interaction in order to preserve his dignity.
Ilya smugly placed the can of Sprite on Harris’ tray table, who bashfully muttered his gratitude before quickly taking a gulp of his Sprite to get rid of the taste of the tomato juice. With a smug grin on his face, Ilya put his headphones back on and selected a movie to watch.
The revelry aboard the plane continued throughout the flight and had yet to cease, even an hour and a half into the flight. Bood was currently making his way up and down the aisle hyping up the various members of the team for their performance in the game, regardless if said player was next to him or across the plane. The other Centaurs were periodically switching between rows, celebrating the win with their teammates. Thankfully, without alcohol, since Coach Wiebe was present. The lack of alcohol did not mean that the hockey players were well-behaved.
The poor flight attendants had come out more than once to ask players not to climb on the seats. LaPointe and Holmberg had gotten a particularly stern talking to after Lapointe had tried cartwheeling down the aisle of the plane after a challenge from Holmberg, resulting in Lapointe’s feet landing in Chouinard’s lap, knocking over his drink and computer, while Lapointe’s upper body was stuck on the ground. The width of Lapointe’s shoulders had made it difficult for the rookie to untangle himself, and it required the combined efforts of both Ilya and his alternate captain, Boodram, to get the rookie upright.
Ilya had just resumed his movie after chatting with Boodram, who had just stopped by, chatting with him and Harris, when he noticed Troy approach Harris across the aisle. He subtly paused his movie with a tap to his headphones in order to listen in on the conversation between Troy and Harris. Shane would accuse Ilya of snooping, but Ilya was merely invested in the two men finally admitting their feelings for each other. And if that meant he had to … listen discreetly without the other men being aware of it… then so be it. Perhaps Ilya’s persistence in getting the two men together stemmed from his own longing to be with his boyfriend. But that was a thought that Ilya was unprepared to handle at that moment.
“Two goals!” Ilya heard Harris say to Troy as his movie paused.
Troy slipped into the seat next to Harris, nodding his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, it was a good game,” the player spoke, though noticeably lacking the enthusiasm that most of his other teammates were displaying.
“Lots to do?” Ilya heard Troy inquire.
“I’m afraid so. Nobody ever thinks of the poor social media guy.” Harris responded with mock melancholy.
“That’s not true,” Ilya heard Troy protest. “I mean, sorry. For making you work harder.”
Ilya fought the urge to slam his head against the seat in front of him. Sometimes, he worried Barrett was completely hopeless after too many years in the orbit of Dallas Kent.
“No, you’re not,” Harris responded with a pleasant teasing note in his voice.
“Not really, no.” Ilya heard Troy respond. It sounded as though his tone had lightened. Hopefully, the new player was easing up, relaxing into the team.
Ilya fought the urge to turn his head to examine the two men, but was saved by the plane lurching suddenly, splashing his Diet Coke onto his white shirt. The brief yells of alarm that arose from his teammates at the sudden movement from the plane were quickly followed by guffaws of laughter from several teammates.
Absently wiping at his slightly damp shirt, Ilya slipped his headphones off and craned his neck to see what the commotion was about. He spotted Boodram lying in the aisle, who was apparently still engaged in his one-man mission to make sure every single Centaurs was properly enthusiastic about their win. Unfortunately said mission, coupled with the sudden movement of the plane, seemed to have caused him to fall. The assistant captain, however, seemed no worse for the wear as his head was thrown back with hearty laughter.
Ilya turned his attention back to his now ruined shirt. If Shane were here, he would probably have some sort of stain remover in his bag. The thought made his heart ache ever so slightly. They hadn’t talked much since their phone call a few days ago to address their fight, during which they apologized to each other. And while Ilya felt the space was probably necessary in order for him to untangle his words and feelings so that he could have a calm conversation with Shane, Ilya couldn’t help missing him.
At the thought of his boyfriend, Ilya pulled his phone out of the seatback pocket in front of him, where it had been charging for the duration of the flight. He wondered how Shane’s game was going against Washington.
As Ilya typed in his passcode, 2481, a sound like a cannon exploding rocked the cabin as the plane began to vibrate and shake beneath his feet. Ilya’s Coke vibrated off his tray table, falling just as the plane dropped. He felt his stomach in his throat, choking him as he screamed. With a vice grip, Ilya grabbed the arms of his chair, the leather creaking beneath his hands.
The plane was falling. Ilya screwed his eyes shut as thoughts flew through his mind.
They were going to crash. The plane would crash, and Ilya would die. And he wasn’t ready to die. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye at the thought, his heart beating like the wings of a bee with the force of a Mac truck against his chest. After all these months, feeling numb and lonely… depressed. Wondering if he was like his Mama and would succumb to the same darkness. Yet when faced with his own mortality, with the possibility of dying, Ilya found he didn’t want to die. Maybe he was sad sometimes, maybe sometimes he felt as though he was sitting in a fog with nobody around to hear him. But he had never wanted to die, and he didn’t want to now.
Despite his certainty, Ilya knew the choice was not his. He could feel bile burning the back of his throat, his lungs fighting for air as panic gripped him.
Ilya was going to die. He wasn’t supposed to die yet. He hadn’t had the chance to have his happily ever after, or whatever the bullshit was they told kids, with Shane. The unfairness of it all caused another tear to fall.
He would never get the chance to marry Shane.
To have children of their own.
To watch Yuna and David become doting grandparents.
To adopt more dogs, Shane pretending to be annoyed but secretly doting on each one just as he does with Anya.
Suddenly, miraculously, the plane leveled out with a terrifying shudder. The cabin went silent, each player holding their breath, as though if they didn’t breathe, it would keep the plane from falling. Ilya could hear the engine behind him clanging like a vacuum that had sucked up metal coins.
Over the sound of the engine, Ilya heard the pilot come on the intercom. The panic had clouded Ilya’s mind, coupled with the noise coming from the engine, making it so that Ilya could only catch a few words of what the pilot was saying. The words ‘emergency landing’ and ‘engine’ stuck out to Ilya.
Ilya’s grip got impossibly tighter on the armrests; he was sure that if he looked down, there would be tears in the leather. His thoughts were running at the speed of light, too fast for him to latch onto a single one. He heard Chouinard shouting behind him, his voice high with hysteria, about the engine being on fire.
Fuck.
This was happening. The plane was on fire. It might not be falling anymore, but the ride was slightly more bumpy, as though they were in the world's longest patch of turbulence. And while Ilya didn’t remember the pilot saying anything about crashing, how could Ilya’s mind not consider the possibility?
The plane was filled with the panicked cries of his teammates. Ilya looked across the aisle for Harris, only to see him gripping Troy’s hand. Ilya’s heart shattered in his chest. He wanted to be holding Shane’s hand.
Shane.
Ilya was gripped by an urgent need to speak to Shane. But he was on the ice. He wouldn’t see his phone for hours still. And all Ilya wanted was to hear his voice. To tell the love of his life what he meant to him. Sorrow and panic gripped Ilya in a chokehold. If he died now, he would never see Shane again. Shane’s last memory of Ilya would be of him telling Shane to leave.
It was with that thought that Ilya grabbed his phone, which had fallen to the floor in the chaos before. His screen was cracked, but thankfully still functioning. The sharp edges of the cracks bit into Ilya’s fingers as he quickly typed out his password, navigating to Instagram. If he tried to send a text message, it might not go through. But his phone was blessedly still connected to the wifi, so he navigated to Instagram, which he and Shane would sometimes use to message when on flights.
It felt like everything was moving at warp speed around Ilya as his hands shakily tapped out what was in his heart, not pausing to think. It felt like words alone could never express everything he felt for Shane, but Ilya needed Shane to have something in case he didn’t make it.
Shane, you are the best thing in my life.
I love you. Always. Maybe since the first time I saw your beautiful freckles.
You have brought me light and love. A family. Thank you for sharing yours with me. It has meant more than I could ever say.
I am thinking only of our life together. A million memories. Thank you for those.
Love Anya for me. Remind her that her papa loved her very much. Though I think nothing could ever compare to the way I love you.
Please tell Yuna and David thank you for treating me as a son, for welcoming me into their lives. I love them. They gave me you.
You have been my motivation, my inspiration, my everything.
No matter what happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I know it.
I love you, always.
Ilya would have typed for hours trying to express his love for Shane and their family if not for being interrupted by the flight attendant making her way down the aisle. Ilya could see that while she was pretending to be brave, she was just as terrified as the hockey players on board.
“Tables up. Remove your ties, glasses, and necklaces. Anything like that, get into a position to brace for impact. Duck your heads and rest them against the seatback in front of you. Feet firmly on the floor.”
Ilya moved to follow her instructions, dropping his phone on the open seat next to him. Instinctively reaching for the chain around his neck at her instruction, he paused. He pressed his palm into his chest where the crucifix lay under his shirt. He closed his eyes, his head tilting upwards, murmuring quiet prayers long forgotten under his breath.
As the flight attendant hurried her way back towards the front of the plane, having delivered her message to the players, Ilya flipped up his tray table with shaking hands to make room for his head. His hands instinctively went in front of him, his head resting between them against the seatback.
As a million memories and thoughts flew across Ilya’s mind, he distantly felt the floor of the plane rumble again beneath him, accompanied by a whirring sound. Was that a good sound? Were the wheels coming down? Or had something else gone wrong?
Suddenly, with a great thud, the plane jolted, rocking Ilya’s body with the impact.
They had landed.
A bit of the tension was released from Ilya’s shoulders, and he raised his head. He could feel the seatbelt cutting into his waist as the plane tried to slow down. Yet the Russian felt far from safe. The plane was violently bumping along the runway, and Ilya could hear the single working engine working overtime trying to slow the plane down. Yet the plane seemed not to be slowing, going far too fast. Ilya straightened, his head leaving the seatback and his arms landing in his lap as he glanced out the window, only to see the plane go running past a swath of emergency vehicles.
Suddenly, the plane shuddered even more aggressively, followed by a terrible screeching noise. Ilya instinctively reached his hands out in front of him, returning them to the back of the seat in front of him, locking them to keep himself upright. The plane kept moving for another few seconds before jolting violently. The screeching ceased only to be replaced with a loud bang, signaling that something important had broken.
It was the only warning the passengers had before the plane pitched forward, the nose dropping violently towards the ground. The sudden movement made Ilya’s arm, still braced on the seat in front of him, twist unnaturally. His left wrist bent backward with the force of his body slamming forward, his shoulder twisting as the plane slid, and his body tried to compensate for the pain emanating from his wrist, resulting in a new bolt of pain shooting across his shoulder. A few moments later, the plane came to an abrupt final stop, throwing the passengers forward, sending a fresh wave of pain tearing across Ilya’s arm, emanating from his wrist.
Everything stood still for a moment. An eerie silence fell as everyone on board seemed to be holding their breath again. The plane was tilted forward, making everyone feel the pull of gravity. The silence was only punctuated by the sounds of emergency vehicles fast approaching the plane. Slowly, sound returned to the cabin, injured individuals groaning as their injuries became apparent. Ilya tried to sit upright, cradling his throbbing left wrist to his chest. He turned his head and saw Harris and Troy looking at each other with a mixture of relief, hope, and disbelief playing across their faces.
His inner captain moved forward, and Ilya craned his neck to try to see the rest of the cabin.
“Is everyone okay?” He shouted.
Please, please let everyone be okay. He had finally settled into this team and had become emotionally attached to each and every one of them. The team called out various versions of “I’m okay” from the players.
“Does anyone see anyone not okay?” Ilya followed up. Because if someone were really, truly injured, they might not be able to say so. He heard shuffling as players shifted in their seats, checking on their teammates, with each player slowly reporting that they did not see anyone hurt.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot came over the intercom. “We now need to evacuate. Please stay calm and listen to the flight attendants so we can get everyone off safely. Flight attendants, evacuate.”
Ilya wanted to scoff. Safely? They were just in a goddamn plane crash. Even so, he looked forward, searching for the flight attendant to tell him what to do next. Ilya could hear the flight attendants moving swiftly through the area at the top of the cabin. He heard one let out a distressed gasp, followed by urgent whispers.
The same flight attendant who handed Ilya his Coke earlier came out into the aisle, looking frazzled and afraid. She held her hands up and raised her voice to be heard over the chaos of an entire professional hockey team and support staff panicking.
“Line up in the aisle! We will evacuate through the left-hand doors! One at the front of the plane, the other in the middle, as described during the safety briefing. Please move quickly and carefully! Go to the door in front of you, do not go backwards!” Her voice was urgent with a tinge of panic coloring her words. She quickly turned around, hurrying back towards the front of the plane, bracing herself on the seats in front of her so as not to slip on the tilted ground. As she did, the other flight attendant hurried past her, presumably to open the other door.
Fuck. Where was the emergency exit? Why hadn’t Ilya listened to the safety briefing at the start of the flight?
The flight attendant passed Ilya, his head turning to follow her path. He saw her stop just a few rows behind him, where the emergency exit apparently was.
The players who had been seated in the emergency exit row were ushered to standing by the flight attendant. She performed a complicated series of maneuvers just as Ilya heard the door at the front open, followed by a loud noise. The same sounds came from behind Ilya, and he looked backward, seeing a flash of yellow.
“Leave everything behind! Move quickly and calmly!” The flight attendants were yelling. The passengers were exclaiming in fear and panic as they tried to follow the instructions.
Around him, the Centaurs were fumbling with their seatbelts, making their way into the aisle. Ilya’s hands shook from the adrenaline as he tried to unbuckle his seat belt.
“Ilya,” he heard from above him. He looked and saw Harris standing in the aisle. “Are you okay? Do you want some help?”
It was in that moment that Ilya became aware again of how badly his wrist hurt, his shoulder a close second, both aching so badly he could cry. He forced back the tears that threatened to choke him, swallowing thickly.
“I think maybe yes,” Ilya bashfully admitted.
Harris quickly reached over, offering Ilya a wobbly smile, and undid Ilya’s seatbelt. Ilya quickly stood up, gesturing for Harris to go in front of him. He shuffled down the aisle with Tanner Dillon, who had been seated in the row behind Ilya, close behind him.
The plane was full of loud, panicked voices as everyone was trying to get off it. The sirens from the emergency vehicles grew closer, only adding to the feeling of mayhem. Ilya could hear the flight attendants yelling instructions to the passengers as they reached the doors. Ilya only made out the words once he got closer to the front of the plane. “Jump and slide! Move away from the aircraft as quickly and safely as possible! Jump and slide!”
Slide? Ilya thought.
Sure enough, as Troy and Harris, ahead of him, reached the door to the plane, Ilya could see that the emergency slides were out, a disconcerting shade of yellow. He watched as the players ahead of them jumped and slid down the slides.
If not for the fact that they were evacuating a plane crash and Ilya was panicking inside, the sight of professional hockey players jumping and sliding down a large yellow slide would have been enough to make Ilya laugh. But in this moment, there was nothing funny about the scene before him. He watched as Troy turned and asked Harris if he would prefer to go first, to which the other man declined. Troy took a deep breath, and at the urging of the flight attendant, who wouldn’t stop fucking shouting the same phrase over and over again in Ilya’s ear, jumped.
Troy rocketed down the slide, hitting the patchy grass with a thud, somehow landing on his feet. He beckoned Harris down, who turned and grabbed Ilya’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze and offering him a wobbly smile before turning and following the same path as Troy.
Troy was hovering close to the bottom, prepared to catch Harris or help him up if needed. The bearded man landed with less impact than the hockey player, reaching a hand out and letting Troy haul him to standing. Ilya couldn’t help but notice that the pair seemed reluctant to part their hands once Harris was standing. Ilya took a deep breath, tapping the crucifix on his chest briefly before jumping and sliding down the slide. Ilya’s arms instinctively reached out on either side of him to try to slow his descent, only for him to jerk his left arm back to his chest with a hiss, reminded of his injury.
Ilya landed less gracefully than the men before him, unable to use both arms to try to stabilize himself, landing hard on his knees as his momentum carried him off the slide. With his right hand, Ilya reached down and, with a grunt, pushed himself to standing.
He moved away from the plane, god knows the flight attendant yelled it in his ear enough that he knew what he should do, pausing at the sight in front of him.
The tableau the Russian faced was like something out of a movie. The flashing red, white, and blue lights from the emergency vehicles reflected off the faces of the men and women around him. Ilya turned and faced the plane. The nose was tilted down, almost touching the ground. Ilya could see an orange glow emanating from the other side of the plane.
Fuck. Was the plane still on fire?
Unable to look at the sight any longer, Ilya turned around, once again taking in the chaos surrounding him. He unconsciously took a deep breath, letting out the air in a stuttered sigh. The air smelled of smoke and burned rubber. But it was the next thought that rocked Ilya to his core. He could smell the air. For a few moments there, he didn’t think he would have the chance to feel his feet on solid ground, let alone take in lungfuls of fresh air, ever again. It was with that thought that Ilya tilted his head upwards to the sky, looking for stars that were not visible because of the lights of the airport.
Overwhelmed with emotion, Ilya closed his eyes, once again taking in a deep lungful of air. As one final thought entered his mind, he grabbed onto it with both hands, letting it linger.
He is alive.