Chapter Text
It’s a cold comfort, but it is a comfort— Rozanov looks just as surprised to see him as Shane feels.
Shane barely manages to stop himself from stumbling over his feet when he spots him—sprawled out across five full seats of the waiting area, as if there aren’t dozens of other passengers waiting alongside them. Shameless in the room he takes up; in denying access to it to all others.
Someone knocks over their suitcase, snapping Shane out of his surprise and making him realize that he’s just standing there, openly staring at Rozanov.
Shane jerks his eyes away from him, determinately looking anywhere except the other man. He casts a quick look at the other passengers but thankfully no one seems to be looking at him. No one seems to have noticed him openly staring at another player—at his fucking rival.
Not for the first time when it came to Rozanov, Shane is left with the distinct feeling of having gotten away with something.
He still can’t quite stop himself from chancing another glance back at Rozanov once enough time has passed that his heart rate has just about fallen back to normal, but Rozanov isn’t even looking at him—his attention back on his phone, held above his face.
Now unaccountably annoyed, Shane heads for a seat that’s as far from Rozanov as he can get without being worried about missing the boarding call. Tossing his bag onto the floor next to the seat, Shane sits, pulling his phone out as he does. It’s a movement that’s more habit than anything, an unthinking move made in service of sparing him the discomfort of sitting on his phone.
Still, since he has it out anyways—
Jane: What are you doing here?
Lily: stalking you
Lily: what the fuck do you think I’m doing here
Jane: I meant why are you flying out of Toronto?
Lily: I am not. I flew out of Boston. this is layover. you’ve heard of those, yes?
Jane: Fuck off.
Hitting send, Shane chances another look towards Rozanov. He’s still not looking at Shane, but there’s a brightness in his face as he looks up at his phone. The cross that he never seems to take off is pinched between his lips, curled up in a near-invisible smile as he reads whatever is on his phone screen. Shane’s text, maybe. Probably.
Shane’s stomach does something he really can’t afford to think about.
In Shane’s hand, his phone buzzes.
Lily: 😢
Shane stares down at the emoji and does not look at Rozanov, even though he’s pretty sure that the other man is now looking at Shane—can practically feel the weight of his eyes against the side of his head. He debates replying—the urge to draw out the conversation a hungry, insistent thing in the centre of his chest—but he has no idea what to say to that. And, more importantly, he shouldn’t be replying.
He shouldn’t be doing a lot of things, but maybe chief amongst them, he shouldn’t be encouraging Rozanov.
Shane’s phone screen times out before he can make a decision either way, going black, and he’s left staring at the dim, warped reflection of his own face. He shoves his phone into his hoodie pocket before he can give into the impulse to unlock it and keep staring at Rozanov’s last message. Now more annoyed with himself than anything else, Shane sinks down until he’s practically falling out of the chair, until he’s low enough to thud his head against the back of the seat.
Fuck.
This was going to be a fucking long flight. He prayed that he at least wouldn’t be sitting anywhere near Rozonov, though with his luck, they’d be sitting right next to each other, and— god, Canada had better win gold. He could only imagine how fucking insufferable Rozonov would be if Russia beat them.
He was bad enough after he beat Shane in a regular season game, bad enough after he’d beat him at Juniors. He’d be a fucking nightmare, if he beat Shane in the fucking Olympics. Though the way he got after winning was—
Shane cut that thought off with a shake off his head. He wasn’t thinking about that, the same way he wasn’t thinking about what they’d done the last time Rozanov had been in Montréal.
Or what they’d done three days ago.
Shane would never, ever admit it—break his legs, threaten to take away hockey forever, whatever, he would still never, ever admit it—but he’d been watching the highlights from that night’s Boston v. Edmonton match-up.
Rozanov had been playing like a demon that night, putting up five points with two goals, three assists, and clearly feeling pretty fucking good about it too. Cupping his hand around his ear whenever the crowd boo’d him, spreading his arms and tilting his head back after each goal, like he was letting the curses and insults wash over him; anoint him. A god receiving his worship, a devil fuelled by hate.
It wasn’t until the second goal—Rozanov deking around Zach Warner like the other player didn’t even exist for a fucking filthy one-timer from the dot—that Shane had realized what he was doing. His hand sliding beneath the waistband of his sweatpants entirely without his input or permission. He’d at least been more cupping his cock than anything, so it wasn’t like he’d been actually jerking off to Rozanov scoring. Just, y’know. Resting his hand. There.
The problem was, once he’d noticed it, it was really hard to think about anything else—how heavy his cock felt beneath his palm, the feeling of emptiness deep in his stomach, the steady growth and inexorable hunger of the heat spreading through him. On the screen, Rozanov had been smiling, a rictus of an expression, cruel and delighting in it. Shane had had no idea what he was saying, but whatever it had been, it had had Wheeler looking like he was seriously debating the merits of giving up battling Rozanov for the puck along the boards in favour of putting his stick blade through Rozanov’s eye.
It was so fucking hot, and god, Shane really didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with him.
Like always, it had been against his better judgment that he’d picked up his phone. Against his better judgment that he’d opened up his text thread with Lily. Against his better judgment that he’d typed in hey, and then hit send.
It was definitely against his better judgment—against all measures of common sense, really—that he’d picked up the FaceTime call when it had come through.
“Hello,” Rozanov had practically purred when the call had connected. “To what do I owe this honour, hmmm? Is very late—past your bedtime, no?”
“Fuck off,” Shane had said.
“No,” Rozanov had said. “I don’t think that is what you want.”
“You don’t know what I want,” Shane had said.
“I think I do,” Rozanov had said. “I think you miss me. I think you are dreaming about my cock, yes? Laying awake, thinking about how good I fuck you.”
“Fuck,” Shane had said without really meaning too, the word coming out embarrassingly breathy. Rozanov’s eyes, already shadowed in the low lighting of whatever hotel room he’d been in, had darkened further.
“You were,” he’d said, voice confident in a way that had made Shane want to hang up on principle. “What were you thinking about? Tell me.”
Shane should have hung up.
He didn’t.
Shane didn’t know what the worst part was—the way he’d moaned Rozanov’s name when he’d cum, helpless to keep the word buried behind his teeth, his eyes fixed on the sight of Rozanov’s fingers wrapped around his own cock, jerking off to the sight of Shane riding his dildo, or how weirdly delighted Rozanov had been to finally get the answer to the question he’d asked Shane years earlier.
What colour?
If Shane was being totally honest, it was probably the way his stomach went all twisty and strange in response to the way that Rozanov’s face had lit up when Shane had finally, begrudgingly, pulled the dildo out of his bedside table.
But he refused to acknowledge that, so it couldn’t be the worst part of the whole thing.
It was the fact that Shane had even texted Rozanov in the first place, he’d decided instead, and swore that he’d never do it again.
Shane isn’t sitting next to Rozonov, which Shane refuses to feel anything but relieved about. He’s not far away—one row in front of Shane’s, in the window seat on the right-side of the plane. Separated only by an aisle and one of the other cushy first class seats that somehow still didn’t feel like they were big enough for one hockey player, much less two sitting side-by-side.
Speaking of which—
“Shit, sorry Hollander,” Carter Vaughn says with a grimace as his leg knocks into Shane’s. Again.
“It’s okay,” Shane says, waving him off with a distracted gesture.
Vaughn is doing some sort of complicated quasi-yoga, trying to get something out of his bag, tucked under the seat in front of them. Shane’s more impressed that he’s managed to bend himself the way he has than he is annoyed that this is the tenth time Vaughn has knocked into him since he sat down.
Shane’s not really paying much attention to what Vaughn is doing anyways—he’s more concerned about whether or not Rozanov is looking at him.
He thinks he is. It’s quick, subtle. Nothing more than flicks of his eyes, but Shane’s pretty sure he’s caught him glancing back at Shane a few times. Glancing blows, given away in the oil-splash of accidental eye contact that only happens when the person you’re trying not to be caught looking at is looking back at you.
Maybe.
It’s hard to tell for sure—the lights are lowered in deference to the late hour, and everything about the way that Rozanov is sitting seems to imply that he’s already asleep too, less than thirty minutes after take-off. Not that Shane’s buying it for a second. Shane’s seen how loose-limbed Rozanov gets when he’s actually relaxed, and Shane can see the tension in his shoulders from here, even with the added obfuscation of the fluffy first class blanket that Rozanov’s got draped over himself.
Not that Shane cares whether or not Rozanov is looking at him, of course.
He’s just not buying it, is all.
“So, you excited?” Vaughn asks, finally settling back into his seat, and Shane drags his eyes away from Rozanov. Vaughn is smiling at him, his expression open, friendly. Shane finds himself mirroring it without even thinking about it.
“To beat you for gold?” Shane asks. “Hell yeah man.”
Vaughn snorts. “You wish,” he says, bumping his shoulder against Shane’s. “It’s USA this year baby, we’re fucking coming for you.”
Shane shakes his head, smiling. “You’ll look great in silver Vaughnny, don’t even stress.”
“Oh yeah, good one,” Vaughn says. “Real clever. Very original.”
“Hey man, just trying to be polite,” Shane says.
Vaughn snorts, rolling his eyes. “Sure, sure,” he says. “But seriously. These are your first Olympics, right?”
“Yeah, and yeah, I am excited. I mean— lifelong dream, right?”
“You know it,” Vaughn says.
“You played in Vancouver though, right?” Shane asks, and when Vaughn nods in confirmation, adds, “yeah, so you should be used to wearing silver.”
Vaughn laughs, loud enough that Shane catches Gabriel Paquette shooting an annoyed look at them over his shoulder. Shane smiles apologetically, not sure if it lands or if Paquette even notices—he’s already turned back around, burrowing even deeper into his own blanket.
Shane chances another look at Rozanov—still pretending to be asleep, fucking faker—before returning his attention to Vaughn.
“Damn Hollander, didn’t know you had it in you,” Vaughn says.
You don’t know the half of it, Shane thinks. He doesn’t look at Rozanov.
Shane wakes with a jolt.
For a second he thinks he’s kicked himself awake—some distant, quickly fading echo of a dream of falling propelling him to wakefulness. And then the whole plane abruptly drops, sending his stomach up into his throat, and Shane realizes that no, it wasn't a dream.
He is falling.
Next to Shane, Vaughn is pushing himself upright in his seat, looking around and blinking rapidly. Trying, as Shane is, to orient himself after being so violently yanked from sleep. Not that there’s much to see—the lights still set to low, casting everything into shades of grey and black. You don’t need to see to feel it though—around them, the entire cabin is shaking with what has to be the worst turbulence Shane’s ever experienced.
The plane jolts again, an abrupt, startling drop, and Shane hears someone behind him scream, sharp and bitten-off—a sound that’s more surprise than fear, but one that still sends a surge of adrenaline rushing through his veins.
If anyone had still been asleep, they certainly weren’t anymore.
Not that Shane can blame whoever screamed—Shane’s been on so many flights at this point that he’s completely lost count of how many times he’s stepped onto an airplane, and he’s never experienced anything this bad. He can feel the way the plane is shaking in his teeth.
It’s not getting any better either, Shane realizes after a few minutes. The whole plane is shuddering, almost constantly, interspersed with what seems like random, startlingly sharp drops. The kind of motion that sends your stomach up into your throat—the same sort of feeling that other people have always insisted to Shane is the “fun” part of rollercoasters.
Peering over the top of the seat in front of him, Shane tries to spot one of the flight attendants. He has to stretch to see over the head of the man who’s sitting in front of him, the hulking form of Zayn Roth—who won gold with Shane at Juniors and now is one half of Vancouver’s top-line defence pairing—rising nearly a full head above Shane’s line of sight. It doesn’t help that the flight attendant isn’t where Shane expects her to be; the jump seat empty, buckles hanging loose.
Still, eventually, he does manage to spot her—pressed close to the bulkhead of the plane, half-obscured by the wall that separates first class from the service area. She looks shorter than Shane remembers, and it takes a second for him to realize that it’s because she has one of her legs braced against the dividing wall, keeping her steady as she holds the plane’s phone to her ear—listening, Shane assumes, to the pilot.
It’s hard to see much of her expression in the dim light, but her eyes are wide enough to catch what little light there is. And Shane’s had enough panic attacks that he doesn’t need to see her clearly to recognize the look in her eyes.
The plane drops again, and Shane’s stomach drops with it.
Vaughn seems to have tracked where Shane is looking, has joined Shane in leaning up over the top of the seats, trying to figure out what’s going on. They watch as the flight attendant nods, seemingly to herself, and then presses a button before lowering the phone away from her ear. For a moment she just stays like that, the phone resting against her chest as she takes the type of careful, intentionally deep breaths that Shane is as familiar with as he is the look in her eyes.
Turning her head, she says something to the other flight attendant, still in her jump seat. Again, the low lighting isn’t quite enough to completely obscure the way that the other attendant visibly blanches. Like the first attendant, she takes several deep, intentional breaths, before stiffly nodding her head. Standing, she reaches for something out of Shane’s line of sight.
A second passes, and then the cabin is suddenly flooded with light.
Shane blinks, willing his eyes to adjust. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but something in his gut is telling him that he can’t afford to miss a second of whatever is coming next.
He wants to look at Rozanov. He wants to make sure that he’s awake. That he’s paying just as much attention as Shane is.
He forces his eyes to stay where they are.
The other flight attendant is still doing something out of Shane’s line of sight, so Shane turns his attention back to the woman holding the phone. He watches her take another deep breath. Close her eyes. Silently mouth something to herself.
When she opens her eyes, Shane can practically see the way that she’s managed to steel herself—a stiffening that Shane recognizes as much as he has anything else she’s done. With a steady deliberateness, she raises the phone back to her ear, looking over her shoulder as she does, pressing something on the keypad.
A moment later, the plane’s speakers crackle to life. Her voice is cut-through with static but her tone is calm, steady. If Shane hadn’t been looking directly at her—hadn’t watched her gather herself—he’d have no idea that something was wrong. At least, not until he’d processed what she was actually saying.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could please have your attention,” she starts, and all around him the other passengers straighten, joining Shane and Vaughn in craning their heads in her direction. A pause as she takes a deep breath that has all the air draining from Shane’s own lungs; a perfect inverse. She continues:
“The Captain has requested that we prepare the cabin for the possibility of an emergency landing.”
The reaction is immediate—a surge of noise filling the cabin, wordless exclamations of fear followed by demanding questions. A rush of equal parts fear and annoyance flows through Shane, because they haven’t even given her enough time to explain. Are actively preventing her from telling them anything else, by shouting over each other. Filling the cabin with their useless, crowding words.
Shane shoves down the feelings as quickly as they come, forcing himself to ignore it all—his own fear and the other passengers both. Keeping his attention locked on the flight attendant.
Her voice doesn’t waver as she continues.
“The crew has been thoroughly trained to handle this type of situation,” she says, her own volume rising in an effort to still be heard over the chaotic overlapping chatter now filling the cabin. “With your attention and cooperation, we can do everything necessary to prepare. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. Bring your tray table and seat back to the upright and locked position.”
She keeps talking—giving further instructions without acknowledging any of the questions being shouted at her. The increased volume of her voice the only concession given to the rising tide of noise coming from the passengers; dozens of voices all speaking over each other. The other flight attendant steps out into the aisle, finally revealing what she’d been doing out of Shane’s line of sight—she’d been grabbing the safety demonstration kit.
Together, the two women go through the same safety steps that they’d gone through before takeoff. Shane watches the attendant holding up an unattached seat belt demonstrate how to fasten the clip, how to pull it tight over your hips. He looks down to check that his own belt is fastened—notices, with a distant, detached sort of observation, that his hands are shaking. He ignores it, tugging to make sure the clip is secure, before raising his head to follow along with the next steps.
Shane doesn’t mean to. He wants to—needs to—be paying attention to the flight attendants. He has no idea what’s going to happen next, how bad it’s going to be, but he knows that if he’s going to have any chance of surviving this, he needs to listen to what they’re saying. Needs to follow their directions down to the last letter.
He raises his head, but he doesn’t look at the flight attendant. His head instead turning—without his permission or seemingly any input from his conscious mind—to the right.
Towards Rozanov.
This time, there’s no guessing at whether or not Rozanov is looking at Shane, no need to try and catch his eye.
Rozanov is looking directly at Shane.
His head is turned, not even a little bit subtle in the way that he’s craning to see over the seats between them, to catch sight of Shane where he’s hidden behind Vaughn’s broad shoulders.
Rozanov doesn’t look away when Shane meets his eyes. His face seems paler than usual, his eyes are wide as he stares at Shane. He looks—
He looks—
He looks scared.
Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rozanov look scared.
Shit, Shane thinks. This is really happening.
The plane is going down.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
The flight attendants are shouting, the phone long-since returned to the receiver, now relying on nothing but their own lungs to punch the words through the thin air. It’s the only thing they’ve said since they strapped themselves back into their jump seats and bent over their own legs—a final, visual demonstration for the passengers to follow along with.
The same four words, shouted over and over again. Spoken in near perfect synchronicity, with only the slightest slip. They get smoother, steadier, the longer it goes on. Turning into something less like a shouted command and more like a chant. A prayer.
As if, if they just say it enough times, it’ll be enough to save them.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
The bright lights of the cabin flicker, once, twice. Stabilize, then surge, brighter than ever. Go out.
For a second, there’s nothing but darkness and the sound of screaming, and then everything lights back up, the emergency lighting kicking in, washing the cabin in an eerie, dim red glow.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
No one is asking questions anymore. From around Shane, there’s only screaming. Sobbing. Something in Russian that might be a prayer.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
There’s so much noise that it’s hard to identify what any of it is. What’s coming from the passengers and what’s coming from the plane. There’s something coming from behind Shane that he’s never heard before—something that might be the sound of metal groaning, straining.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
There’s no mistaking the sound that follows as something that could have come from another passenger. It’s impossibly loud, leaving Shane’s ears ringing as the entire plane rocks with the force of the sound that tears through it.
No, not the sound, it must be the source of the sound, the—
A wave of heat rolls through the cabin and the plane drops, hard and fast. Shane feels himself leave his seat, stopped from rising any further only by the strip of woven nylon that binds him to the seat beneath him. Gravity strains against it with a bruising force, but the belt holds. Shane stays grounded.
Somewhere behind him, there’s a horrible, meaty thud. Like someone being checked into the boards without any protective gear. Like someone maybe didn’t have their seatbelt done up, or not done up all the way. Like they just hit the ceiling.
The plane stabilizes. Stops dropping.
Behind him, another thud. Gravity reasserting itself.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
Someone is shouting—a name. Over and over. Terrified and desperate.
Unanswered.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
There’s another deafening, brutalizing thunderclap of sound. Shane can’t even tell where the sounds are coming from anymore, his ears still ringing from the last explosion of noise. He doesn’t have time to recover this time either—a second later, the cabin is rocked by something new. A horrible, rending, screaming noise, like nothing Shane’s ever heard before.
He thinks he might know what it is anyways—instinct, maybe, or just fear.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
The sound of metal, tearing.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
Everything’s shaking, harder than ever, and Shane feels—
Cold.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
A vicious, freezing, burst of wind whips through the cabin, and that should be impossible, because they’re sealed in here, and—
The cold is bitter and biting, clawing at Shane’s exposed skin, and there’s only one way that could—
The fuselage, it should be protecting them from—
Except it’s not, so it must have—
It must have—
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
Pressure, bearing down on him. Pressing Shane hard into his seat even as the shaking gets worse and worse, the drops longer and longer.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
Shane doesn’t think he could sit up even if he tried.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
He can’t breathe, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s panicking or if it’s because there’s no air left in the cabin.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
Everything lurches, tilts forward. Shane feels himself slam into the seat in front of him, feels a rush of pain bloom from his face. They jerk to the side, still tilted down, and Shane bites the inside of his cheek, tastes iron as his mouth floods with something hot and thick—blood. His own blood.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
They’re falling. The pressure in Shane’s head is growing, black spots blooming across his vision as he struggles to try and take in even a single, desperate swallow of air.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
Shane thinks about his parents. How grateful he is, that they’re not here.
He thinks about them being told about what’s happened to him. That his plane crashed. That he’s gone. That they’ve lost their only child.
God, he hopes they get told—that someone calls them. Hopes they aren’t watching it on the news.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
Shane closes his eyes.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
He wishes he had something to hold onto other than his own legs. Wishes that he felt less alone. Wishes he had someone to hold onto instead.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
It’d be nice, Shane thinks, to be holding someone’s hand when he dies.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
He wishes he was sitting next to Ilya.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
He wishes he could hold his hand.
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
“BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.”
“BEND OVER, STA—”