Chapter Text
Chapter 1
(Note: This takes place during the middle of Shane’s hockey career / Ilya’s hockey career, but the two of them had never started any sort of relationship or flirtation.)
Shane Hollander had just finished celebrating a win against Boston in Montreal. It’s always nice to go out with his team after a win, especially on home ice, but as the night draws on and Shane grows tired, the idea of curling up in bed with a book for a bit before hitting the hay sounds more enticing than another drink.
He wishes his teammates goodnight and sets out to walk back to his house— it’s not too far, and it is a nice night. The cool air is refreshing on his skin and in his lungs after how warm and crowded the bar had been.
As he walks further from the bar, the amount of cars on the road and people on the sidewalk begin to get fewer and fewer, until there are none at all. It is very peaceful— the air quiet except for the rustle of trees in the gentle breeze and the muted sounds of traffic in the distance. He finds himself lost in thought, walking mostly on autopilot while thinking about the game today. They had won, yes, but there is always room for improvement— how he can improve his form, improve his speed, etc.
He is so lost in thought as he walks by an alleyway that he almost doesn’t notice what is going on down it. However, some movement in his peripheral catches his attention, and he reflexively looks in that direction to check it out.
—He feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over him as what he sees sends him reeling.
He freezes in his steps and his eyes grow wide. His brain stutters too, because what he is seeing does not make sense. It just doesn’t.
There’s a person in the alley who Shane at first glance thought was Ilya Rozanov, but that can’t be Ilya Rozanov, because Ilya Rozanov doesn’t look… like… that.
Not-Ilya Rozanov is also holding a dead body, upright, in his hands and in his… just—just in his hands, and Shane knows it’s a dead body because the person’s head is barely on their shoulders. They’re also covered in blood, and several large chunks have been taken out of them.
Not-Ilya Rozanov’s hands are covered in that blood too, where his fingertips are digging into the body’s midsection to hold it upright, the rivulets rolling down his forearms, his hands and forearms looking black from the dim light and how much blood is on them. The front half of his torso is also covered in blood, as is his neck and jaw. And the reason why his neck and his jaw is covered in it is because… is because…
Shane’s brain refuses to process what it’s seeing, because it… doesn’t make any sense. He has to be hallucinating, he has to be, but no matter how many seconds go by, the image doesn’t dissipate, or change. It feels like his heart is in a vice grip, pounding yet struggling in great effort with each beat. He can’t breathe. He needs to get out of here, but it’s like the fear or the shock has paralyzed his body, and he can’t move.
It’s when Not-Ilya Rozanov’s eyes flick to his, the streetlight catching them and making them seem to glow against the darkness, that Shane is able to tear himself away.
He breaks out in a sprint, faster than he thinks he has ever run before, in the direction of home, the direction of safety. His heart pounds louder in his ears than his footsteps do, and all he can think of is putting one foot in front of the other to put as much distance between him and whatever that was in the alley. He doesn’t dare turn around either, in case it’s following him; he knows that would cause him to trip and fall, and then he’d be doomed.
The adrenaline surging through his limbs makes him feel like a scared rabbit, but luckily it carries him like one too, and he makes it to his house without feeling any sort of hand or… anything else landing on his shoulder or wrapping around his waist.
When he arrives at his front door, he wills his hands to stop shaking enough to shove the key into the lock and turn it as fast as possible. It is only when he has entered the house and slammed the door behind him that he dares to stop moving.
His chest is heaving with exertion, his lungs burning, his skin feeling like it’s flaming as he leans his body against the cool surface of the door, trying to get his brain and body to calm down before it has a heart attack from overexertion or fear.
When he’s calmed down just a fraction, he forces himself to turn slowly, and look out the window beside the door.
With trembling breaths, his eyes scan his front yard, and the street beyond it.
There’s nothing there. No one.
He lets himself calm down a bit more.
There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. It didn’t follow him.
After a couple deep breaths to try and steady himself, he turns to walk further into his house, but when he turns his body, he walks right into the very sturdy chest of Ilya Rozanov, those unreadable hazel eyes staring right back into his.
“Hello, Hollander.”