Chapter Text
It was good for Ilya to spend time with Svetlana and Sasha. He'd been looking forward to the trip, as much as he could with the regular pre-Christmas stress. From his excited texts and blurry photos of heaps of Russian food, he'd been having fun.
Shane got worried sometimes. The amount of time Ilya spent in Russia had dropped sharply after his father's death. Ilya wanted it that way, he knew. But he couldn't help wondering about the things Ilya had to miss sometimes, even if he never said anything.
Time spent with his childhood friends, and not having to speak English all the time, would do him some good. (...And he wasn't a house plant whose needs Shane catalogued carefully, no matter how Ilya teased him, and he definitely did not have spreadsheets anywhere.)
They weren't even staying in Moscow. Shane could barely pronounce the name of the small town, but he'd looked it up online, and it seemed cozy and snowed-in, perfect for wintry hikes and traditional cuisine. The quietude would be good for Sasha, who had just finished a stint of rehab.
It was far away from everything that had made Ilya cry when he'd called Shane during his father's funeral. But Shane still had a low-level anxiety buzzing under his skin. (A part of him had wanted to come along to glare at everyone who did not meet Ilya with a welcoming smile. Or hover with his arms crossed, like some cartoonish bodyguard.)
In the living room, Hayden was placing baubles on the Christmas tree with surgical precision. He'd brought over a massive dish of low-carb high-protein lasagna that Jackie had made, taken one look at the bare tree and the unopened boxes of decorations, and hip-checked Shane out of the way: "Fuck off, Hollander, I've got this."
Shane was on a ladder by the window, carefully pinning a few select pieces of tinsel to the curtain rod. The backyard was snowed in, glistening in the early dusk. The lake shimmered like a sheet of slate, the still surface undisturbed save for tiny ripples made by the winter breeze.
It was mostly his Dad who was big into Christmas decorations. Shane usually didn't bother. But Ilya liked them; the look on his face when they'd walked into David Hollander's exquisitely decked-out house for the first time had been priceless.
But anyway, by his own account Ilya had had fun. Sasha was "okay," whatever that meant, and Svetlana apparently cheated at cards. Right now, Ilya was on a plane back home. And Shane would pick him up from the airport in a few hours.
Ilya had texted him before leaving the hotel for the airport; some grouching about how bad the wifi would be there, and a promise to fuck "Jane" into their mattress as soon as humanly possible. Shane had checked their lube's expiration date and already set out fresh sheets.
"... and Jackie's oldest aunt has threatened to get the kids a toy drum set," Hayden was saying. He was holding up several red baubles, comparing their colors. "If we don't visit her at least once this year. Since we didn't make it, I guess she'll follow through."
Shane smiled. "Sounds great," he said. "For the kids, not for you and Jackie."
His phone rang. The vibration made it skitter across the kitchen counter. Over by the tree, Hayden swore, then something clattered to the floor.
Shane stepped down from the ladder. He'd been getting some spam calls recently. People trying to sell him vacuum cleaners or subscriptions to magazines he'd never heard of. He missed the times when data leaks had still been big and scary news. Nowadays they were mostly met with weary shrugs.
His thumb hovered over the red 'decline call'. Then he saw the +7. A call from Russia, from an unsaved number. He frowned--had Ilya gotten stranded at the airport somehow, having to call from a public phone?
He picked up. For a second he considered saying, 'privet,' but then settled for, "Hello?"
"Mr. Shane Hollander?"
It was a male voice, with a thick Russian accent. His H was as rough as Ilya's had been when they'd first met. "Yes," Shane said. "Um... da. Kto govorit'?" He over-compensated, making an odd 'tshhh' sound at the end.
The man continued in English, undeterred by Shane's fumbling attempt at Russian. "You are friend of Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov?"
A foreboding chill raced over his skin at Ilya's full name. It doesn't mean anything, he chided himself. It was just politeness. Formality.
"Yeah," Shane said. 'Friend,' indeed. "What's going on?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you." The man paused for a moment, solemn. "I call from hospital. Mr. Rozanov is very sick."
The bottom fell out of Shane's stomach. He was glad both of his feet were on the floor.
"What?"
"I am calling to confirm financials with you," the man said. "Mr. Rozanov needs 850,000 rubles..." Papers rustled busily on some desk. "That is about... 15,000 Canadian dollars. For treatment."
He pronounced the numbers with the careful precision of a non-native speaker. Shane groped for the kitchen counter and held on to it. The adrenaline was making him shaky-limbed, but also hyperaware: the seam of his shirt, laying against his neck. A lingering scent of frozen strawberries from his breakfast smoothie.
"What... what's wrong with Ily-- Mr. Rozanov?" he managed to say. Clammy sweat started to bead on his forehead. "What happened?"
Hayden looked over at him, suddenly alert. He put down the box of wooden decorations. "Shane?"
Shane waved frantically at him to be quiet. "I am sorry," the man on the phone said somberly. "I cannot say. Confidential."
He cleared his throat. Perhaps he was uncomfortable, having to tell some distant Canadian about his sick friend, and in a second language, no less. "He needs important surgery. But will not happen without money."
"But-- he's got insurance," Shane protested weakly. Hayden was coming towards him, his eyes wide with concern. "He's--"
He stumbled towards the office. His first few steps were unsteady, then he was half-running. "I have the, the papers here, somewhere..."
Ilya kept a digital copy on his phone, too, but-- the man was not calling from Ilya's phone. Maybe it'd gotten lost in the whirlwind of being transported to the hospital.
Here was their shelf with neatly lined up folders. Shane ran hasty fingers over their backs, his own neat handwriting blurring before his eyes.
Even if he found the documents, would the hospital accept simple photos from his phone? Or would they need a notarized file? Was there such a thing as digital notarization?
"It is a special operation. Not in insurance." Some impatience sharpened the man's tone. "You have pen for writing?"
Shane froze, his nerveless fingers holding a folder marked 'I.R. - Health.' Hayden stood in the doorway. He didn't say anything, but he tried to catch Shane's eye, asking wordlessly what he was looking for.
...What kind of illness would have such a sudden onset and require surgery? Appendicitis, maybe, or... or some late-stage concussion complications. Unnoticed until their effect snowballed suddenly, shaken loose by a simple, innocuous turn of Ilya's head.
He could almost see it. Ilya collapsing at the airport. Travelers scattering like startled birds. Someone-- please, please let there have been someone-- turning his 185 pounds of muscle into the recovery position. Paramedics, a gurney, a siren-wailing ride to a hospital...
And Ilya's brain, bleeding into itself. Quiet, deadly fluid accumulating, putting pressure where no pressure should go. Neurons dying, drowned by blood. And Ilya waking up far from home, confused and disoriented, barely able to remember his own name, let alone how to move or speak...
"Yes, sorry, yes, hold on." Shane looked around wildly--there had to be pens somewhere, but somehow he wasn't seeing any.
Hayden finally made eye contact. Shane mimed a scribble with his free hand, and had a notepad and pen a second later.
He copied down the bank details the man read out to him. He repeated them back twice, just to make sure. His face felt hot, blood-flushed.
"I'll-- I'll transfer it right away. Sorry." Shane winced--why was he apologizing again? "I mean-- thank you..."
"Good." The man was calm again, the impatience gone. "I wait for money. The operation starts when it is here."
"Okay," Shane said, frazzled. "I--"
The dial tone answered him. Shane pulled his phone away from his ear and stared at it. The whole call had lasted barely five minutes.
His hands shook so badly it was difficult to pull up his contacts. He tried to call Ilya three times in quick succession. It went to voicemail instantly. "Hi, this is--" Ilya said in his recorded message before Shane hung up, and even just the little snatch of him was like taking a puck to the chest.
Too late, Shane realized he hadn't asked the man how to reach Ilya. He-- fuck, he hadn't even asked the hospital's name. Had the man mentioned it? Shane couldn't recall. How would he find out what was happening? He could call back... but would he even be told any news? He was a continent away, and also just a 'friend'...
Shane dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Stars bust behind his eyelids, embers of silent, screaming panic. He was suddenly cold all over. His stomach roiled, sour nausea climbing up the back of his throat.
"Shane?" Hayden said.
His best friend's voice jarred him out of the stuffy, airless place he'd gone to. Sound rushed back in: the wind through the trees outside, the faintest electronic hum from the fairy lights along the windowsill, and his own heartbeat in his ears.
Somewhere, Shane found a scrap of composure. He took a gasping breath. It felt like sucking in air through a straw, but it would have to do. He could lose it later. Now, Ilya needed him.
"Ilya's sick," Shane said, a rough monotone. He leaned over his desk and opened up his laptop. "He's hospitalized. He needs money for a surgery."
Hayden's eyes widened. "Fuck, man," he blurted out. "Is he alright? How-- how much?"
He took out his own phone, unlocked it with his thumbprint without looking at it. "D'you need..."
Shane stared at him, then the penny dropped. "No, it's okay. I've got it. But-- thanks."
15,000 CAD was... well, it wasn't nothing, but it was doable. He sat down abruptly, dropping into his desk chair with enough force that the supports creaked. The laptop was booting up.
Just a few weeks ago he'd sat here, budgeting aggressively while Ilya made him coffee and joked about being Shane's kept man. That had turned into Ilya crawling under his desk and nudging his legs apart with an impish smile, and Shane coming down his throat mere minutes later, banging his knee up against the desk hard enough to leave a bruise.
(Ilya, unrepentant, sitting back and licking his lips. His curls, unstyled and now mussed by Shane's hands. "You're such an asshole," Shane had said, his voice rough from moaning. "I'll never be able to look at an Excel file again without getting hard."
Then he'd had to climb under the desk to kiss Ilya's gorgeous mouth, swollen and pink, because he couldn't not. Not when he got Ilya like this, relaxed and mischievous. Hard and leaking in a loose pair of sweatpants, and later spilling all over Shane's hand with a broken little noise that embedded itself warmly behind Shane's ribs.)
The loading screen flipped. But instead of showing his desktop, it turned blue. The operating system was running a mandatory update.
Shane almost sobbed. "Fuck!" he gasped, and slammed the heel of his hand against the desk. The pain was distant, although the skin turned white and then red from the impact.
"Hey, hey," Hayden said, alarmed. He came over to Shane, not touching, but standing close enough that Shane felt his warmth. "It's okay. It'll only take a minute."
"I'm an idiot," Shane said. His stomach felt tight and sick. He stared at the laptop screen, willing it to work faster. "I didn't even ask which hospital he's at."
Hayden's phone unlocked again with a click. "Where were they staying?" he asked.
Shane told him, then spelled the small town's name. Hayden's thumbs flew over his screen. "Okay, I've got a list of local hospitals here," he said, mere moments later. "I'm gonna put some things through Google Translate."
Under the desk, Shane's right leg had started bouncing uncontrollably. A tendon inside his knee was starting to cramp, sending twinges of pain up and down his calf, but he couldn't stop. He nodded tersely.
A minute passed. Shane stared at the spinning loading icon until his eyes burned. Hayden mumbled to himself as he read through his translated phrases, trying to figure out the right pronunciation. It made Shane's heart ache. Hayden vocally disliked Ilya, on the ice and off, but when Shane needed him he was there, no questions asked.
Then Hayden suddenly stared hard at Shane, jolted out of his thoughts. "Wait," he said. "You've got Ilya's friend's number, right? Svetlana?"
Shane's eyes widened. Fuck, why hadn't he thought of that? "Yeah, I do," he said, already reaching for his phone again.
The fresh surge of adrenaline left a stale taste in his mouth. He had to wipe his palm against his pants before he managed to scroll through his contacts and hit 'call'.
The call connected. Shane could have gasped with relief at the dial tone. If he'd reached only Svetlana's voicemail, he would've... well, thrown his phone against the wall, probably. He pressed it against his ear, sucking on his lower lip hard enough to hurt. Don't cry, he thought, willing away the prickling in his eyes, don't fucking cry, Ilya needs you.
Svetlana picked up after the fifth ring. "Kto?" she said thickly. 'What?' She sounded like she'd been asleep.
It was around midnight in Russia. But how could she just sleep? Shane gritted his teeth against a hot wave of anger. He wanted to shout at her--Ilya was sick, possibly dying, and why hadn't she called him? To spare his fucking feelings?
"Shane?" Svetlana said, a little more awake. She must've seen the caller ID now. "Is that you?"
Words crowded up into Shane's mouth. Curses, mostly. "I just got a call from the hospital," he said, his voice tightly controlled. "They said Ilya is ready for surgery, but they've got to wait until I send over the money."
A moment's silence. "...What?"
"15,000 Canadian dollars," Shane said. He had to force each word out individually. And then it burst free anyway, a lot angrier than he'd meant it to: "Why the fuck didn't you call me?"
There was a pause. Shane wanted to scream. He felt every microsecond drag by like molasses. The laptop's little icon spun on and on. Of course there was no fucking progress bar to tell him when it'd be ready.
How much time had passed since the phone call? He didn't know. Ten minutes, maybe more. Too much.
Rustling in the background, then audible footsteps. "No," Svetlana said, confused. "Ilya is on a plane back to Canada, Shane. I dropped him off at the airport myself."
So she hadn't known anything was wrong. Shane dug the nails of his free hand into his thigh. The sting was all that kept him from shouting. It was maddening to have to speak calmly, and update her when he'd hoped she would have more answers.
"He must have, I don't know, collapsed or something." He tried to inhale and found he couldn't. His lungs were blocks of wet cement. "They said--"
A door opened. "Sasha!" Svetlana called. Distantly, a man answered. She spoke insistently: "Shane, don't do anything yet. Let us figure this out. Just wait. Five minutes."
"Ilya might not have five minutes," Shane bit out. "If it's a brain bleed or a heart attack..."
Then Hayden's hand was on his shoulder. "Breathe," he said quietly.
Shane listened to the snatches of talking that came through the phone. Svetlana, tense and clipped. Sasha spoke and paused a few times; perhaps he was on the phone too. Shane thought he heard Ilya's name, but he couldn't be sure.
"C'mon," Hayden said, jostling him. Shane forced another straw-sucking breath into his lungs. The tiny dark spots that'd begun to creep into his vision faded.
Shane sat, his leg bouncing, his body clenched and fever-hot. Avoiding Hayden's concerned gaze, staring instead at a small, frayed thread that'd come loose from Hayden's jeans near his knee. Jackie would leave it on the mending pile the next time she did laundry. Hayden was surprisingly handy with a needle and thread.
Every minute Shane wasted now was counting against Ilya. Maybe the surgeons had been ready for a while, scrubbed in like in the medical dramas his father liked to watch sometimes. Gloved hands held up, faces masked. Waiting for the administrator's call that the money had arrived.
"Shane?"
Svetlana again, audibly stressed. "Listen, I don't know what happened, but he's on the plane. On the travel... list?" She sounded frustrated as the English escaped her. "Sasha called the airline. Ilya checked in and boarded the plane."
Shane's palm was damp around his phone. Belatedly, he realized he should've put the call on speaker for Hayden to listen in. "But..."
Finally, the laptop finished its update. The desktop looked like it always did, a photo of him and Ilya in full hockey gear at the rink, the stands empty behind them.
"Passenger manifest!" Svetlana said, after a murmur in the background, almost shouting into his ear. "Thanks, Sasha..."
The mouse hovered above the browser icon. Just one more step and he'd be logged into his online banking. But...
Now that he'd had a moment to pause, enforced by the slow laptop, something niggled at him. It grew from an afterthought into an insistent clamor.
"Wait," Shane said. "Just-- two seconds."
He checked the number that had just called. The hospital number. +7, and then... a Moscow area code.
His ear had left an imprint on his phone's glossy screen. He hit the speaker symbol. "Svetlana," he said. His heart hammered against his ribs. "How... how far are you from Moscow?"
"Over 12 hours, and that is if you do not care about traffic laws," Svetlana said. "Why?"
"The number that called me--it's from Moscow."
Hayden's eyes widened. He went back to typing furiously on his phone, probably compiling a list of Moscow hospitals.
"... Oh," Svetlana said, after a pause. She sounded suspicious. "Read the full number to me, please."
Shane did. He was sweating, the back of his shirt damp and clinging to his skin. He felt a certain kinship with the Russian man who'd called him; Shane had spoken English all his life, but somehow it was hard to wrap his tongue around the syllables now.
"What was that last one?" Svetlana asked him, incredulous. "Six and four? Shane?"
Shane scanned the digits on his log of calls again. "Yeah. Six four."
Svetlana said... well, Shane didn't understand most of it, but from his growing familiarity with Ilya's occasional Russian cursing, he got the gist.
"That piece of shit!" she spat. The speaker fuzzed into static for a second. "--useless fucking shitstain--"
Shance winced. He'd always found Svetlana a bit intimidating, even when she wasn't trying to be, but hearing her genuinely angry was... scarier. "Shane--it's Alexei," she said, speaking quickly. "Ilya's brother. It's his phone. His landline."
"...Alexei?" Shane said.
The name bludgeoned him, not unlike a hard check from his blind spot out on the ice. But there were no boards to slam into, no roaring crowd to cushion him as he caught his bearings. Only Hayden's hand, on his shoulder again, gripping tight enough to hurt.
The edges of Shane's phone were digging into his fingers and palm. "What... but..."
Svetlana released a long breath, probably biting back a longer slew of cursing. Ilya had said once, somewhat wistfully, that Russian swearing was an outright art form, and that English was far inferior.
"Ilya is fine," she said. "Alexei is trying to-- to trick you."
"A scam," Sasha said, closer now. "A grift. When people lie about family crisis. And want money."
"Yes. He's scamming you, Shane." Svetlana paused. "Damn him," she said, helplessly angry. "He's done this to Ilya many times. His daughter is sick, he needs 500,000 rubles. His car needs new parts, it'll be another 300,000. Then I call his wife, and she says the car is fine, and little Dasha is okay too. You see?"
"Fuck," Shane whispered. He stared at Hayden without really seeing him. Hayden was starting to smile, bright and relieved. But Shane found himself almost clinging to the icy fear, afraid to believe. "You-- are you sure?"
Then Sasha spoke up again in rapid Russian. He sounded excited. Shane heard Ilya's name. "Shane!" Svetlana said, triumphant. "I'll send you a picture. Wait. Just a moment."
She'd barely stopped speaking when Shane's phone chimed. It was a screenshot of VKontakte, a popular Russian social media site: a photo of Ilya in the window seat of a plane, a beaming middle-aged man next to him, arm extended to hold out his phone for the selfie.
Ilya wore the same sweater from the bathroom selfie he'd sent before leaving the hotel. He had his Russian Smile on. It was different from his rakish Public Smile, more controlled and serious. He looked rumpled and travel-ready, one earbud in, his phone plugged into the seat's charging port.
Shane didn't recognize the wheezy, punched-out noise he made. The photo seemed to burn itself into his vision: Ilya's curls, wild and tousled after a few days without his Canadian hair care products, because of course he'd forgotten to pack them. The collar of his sweater, folded up against his neck. His gorgeous eyes, shuttered and professional for the photo.
He couldn't read most of the attached text, but he recognized a star-struck emoji and many exclamation points, and the graceful Cyrillic of Ilya's name.
"The man sitting next to him is Boris Antonovich," Svetlana was saying. "He asked for a selfie. The text is... um... 'I'm not a hockey fan, but I still can't believe I am sitting next to Ilya Rozanov on the way to Canada. I wanted to be polite but he noticed that I knew him. He was kind enough to let me take this photo.'"
"He's on the plane," Hayden said, half-incredulous. He jostled Shane by his grip on his shoulder. "He's fine."
The fight went out of Shane in a dizzying rush. If he hadn't been sitting down, he might have staggered. He shut his eyes tight but couldn't stop them from burning.
"He's fine," he breathed. A tight, bubbling sensation suffused his chest, like he'd drunk too much sparkling wine. "He's really... he's okay."
"Yes," Svetlana said. She laughed, and if it sounded a little damp, Shane didn't blame her at all. "He is on his way to you. Probably tired and cranky, but healthy."
Shane loosened his death grip on the phone, finger by finger. His joints ached. "Cranky," he whispered.
"Have you ever sat next to him when he is flying to you?" Svetlana asked. Her voice was warm and fond. "He gets antsy. Tries to break his teeth with his jaw. His leg bounces. It is very annoying. He wants to get out and push the plane to fly faster."
Shane laughed weakly. It felt like his sternum would burst open. He hunched forward and hid his teary eyes behind his palm.
"Fuck. Thank you." He sniffled. "Really. Thanks. Sasha, too."
"Of course!" Svetlana said loudly, almost affronted. Then, quieter, "Of course, Shane."
More Russian in the background. Svetlana chuckled. "Sasha says take deep breaths. With your stomach, not just the lungs. And breathe out longer than in. He learned some exercises at the hospital."
Shane cleared his throat. "Yeah, I... I know a few of those."
Svetlana let out a long sigh on the edge of a groan. "I will take some breaths as well. And perhaps a shot or two. ...of water!" she added hurriedly. Sasha said something, his tone dry, that Svetlana didn't bother to translate.
A pause. "Shit, what a night," she said.
Shane lowered his hand. Hayden had seen him cry before, but Shane made himself swallow the lump in his throat. His limbs were floaty, shaky, almost like after a thorough workout. "I'm sorry for waking you up..."
"No," Svetlana said sternly. "Don't start. I'll fly over there and hit you. I'll be the stereotype of an angry Russian woman."
"Okay, okay," Shane said. He was smiling, he realized. The expression felt almost foreign on his face. "I take it back. I'm not sorry."
"Good. You have a friend there?"
"Yeah. Hayden." He tried to meet Hayden's eyes, found them bright and fond, and quickly looked away again as his sinuses stung anew. "My best friend."
"Good," Svetlana said again. "That's good."
There was a pause. The four of them sat, silent, and listened to the very faint crackle of the connection. Shane looked down at his phone, at the glowing letters of Svetlana's name. He felt tongue-tied. He wanted... he wanted some water, and to rush to the airport right now, and his gut was churning unpleasantly.
But how did you end a call like this? Shane's whole world had just shrunk and pinned itself to this phone, to the lifeline of Svetlana and Sasha's voices--only to expand again so suddenly that it left an odd, phantom ache.
"Well, Sasha and I need sleep," Svetlana said, like she'd heard Shane's train of thought. "And you probably want to go to the airport soon."
The relief of it, of not having to find a way to be polite and end the call, made Shane's throat tight again. "Yeah," he breathed. "Okay. Yeah."
He swallowed hard, struggling to marshal at least a little bit of composure for her. "Thank you, again. And... good night."
Svetlana hummed. "Good night." Sasha spoke, and she added, "From both of us. Say hi to Ilya later."
The line went dead. The phone slipped out of Shane's nerveless fingers. It wasn't a long way down from the chair, and the floor was carpeted anyway, so it fell with only a muted thunk.
"Fuck, Shane," Hayden said, and then he was pulling Shane up by his shoulder, which kind of hurt, and yanking him into his arms.
"I'm fine," Shane said against Hayden's shoulder. The two words wobbled and cracked.
He took a breath, the first real one he'd had in ages, filling his lungs. A shiver raced over his skin. The cottage was well-heated, but he felt cold suddenly, like something vital had seeped out of him.
And Hayden was warm. Shane gave up and clung. Too hard, probably, too desperate. Hayden squeezed him right back, though, forcefully enough to make Shane's ribs creak.
When they parted, Hayden's eyes were a little red. "Fuck you," he said automatically, when he saw Shane looking. His voice wasn't entirely steady either. "I thought I was gonna have a fucking front row seat to my best friend becoming a widower--"
Shane flinched. His stomach turned. "Shit, sorry," Hayden said quickly. He gripped Shane's arm tight. "Too soon. Sorry."
"It's okay," Shane said. It sounded too flat, like the raw tide of feeling had gotten lost somewhere on the way to his mouth. "Ilya and I aren't even married."
Hayden shrugged one shoulder. "You might as well be."
It was a simple enough sentiment, but from Hayden, who had hated Ilya for most of their careers, it hit unexpectedly deep. Shane's eyes stung again. He breathed slowly through his nose.
Hayden looked at Shane critically, from his clammy forehead to the tremor in his hands. "Ginger ale," he decided. "And a snack. You look like you're gonna keel over."
He pressed on Shane's shoulder, trying to coax him back down. "Sit. I'll get you food."
Shane pushed Hayden's hand away. "Not here," he said. He couldn't explain it, but the room felt... soiled. Like the carpet and the laptop and even the wallpaper had absorbed some of his distress, and now leaked it back at him like a poisonous mist.
He didn't want to stay in here, between the folders of paperwork he'd pulled off the shelves in his panic. Maybe Hayden understood some of that. His gaze softened. "Okay. But you do have to eat something."
Shane nodded. He let Hayden herd him into the kitchen without protest.
His stepladder was still up. The box of decorations still rested next to the half-finished Christmas tree. There was a precise cut-off in the tinsel above the window, where Shane had stopped when his phone rang.
His phone. Shane pried his fingers loose with some difficulty; he'd been clutching it again without quite realizing it. Hayden nudged him to sit, then rummaged around the cabinets for a bowl.
Ilya wouldn't see any of this until his plane touched down. Shane texted him anyway. He knew what he'd feel if he found three missed calls and nothing else from Ilya's number. It wasn't much, but he could spare Ilya at least those few seconds of panic.
To: Lily - 16:32
Sorry about the calls. Can't wait to see you later. I love you. x