Chapter Text
Shane returned to the locker room with the rest of his teammates after the loss against Washington. He checked his phone, expecting a smug test from Ilya, whose own team won their game, but there were no new messages.
On the bus back to their hotel room, Shane Shane checked his phone again.
A news notification flashed across his phone. NHL Private Jet Crashes in Northern Florida.
No. Shane’s breath catches in his throat.
“Oh, fuck,” a Voyageur exclaimed softly.
“The Centaur’s plane, did you see…?”
Hayden moved from his seat to Shane. “Hey buddy -” he sat down in the empty seat next to his best friend.
Shane continued reading, The Ottawa Centaurs were en route this afternoon for Thursday’s game against Tampa, when the jet crashed just outside of Belleview, FL. Recovery teams have been deployed -
He called Ilya. The call went straight to voicemail. Shane held his phone out in front of him, staring at it in disbelief. A slow dread crawled into Shane’s chest.
“Hey,” Hayden repeated softly. He put his hand on Shane’s shoulder. Shane ignored him and attempted to call Ilya again, willing the other man to answer.
The call went directly to voicemail.
The chatter of the Voyageurs grew louder around Shane, discussing the shocking news.
Tears burned in Shane’s eyes, obscuring his vision.
“Hey, Shane. No one knows what happened yet. Maybe….maybe…” Hayden's attempt to offer comfort went unheard.
***
At the hotel, Shane, desperate for any information, called Ilya again. He tried Wyatt, the Centaur's goalie. Next, he called his parents.
“Did you see the news?” Shane asked his mom thickly, his throat swollen with grief.
“Yes, sweetie. How are you doing?” Yuna’s worried face filled Shane’s phone screen.
“I can’t lose him. Not now. Not after all we’ve been through.” He swallowed , finally allowing tears to fall down his face.
“I know. I know.” Yuna cried silently with her son on the phone. After a moment, Yuna said, “We will have to wait for more information. The latest update says they found the aircraft in a field and are checking for the- the passengers.”
Shane ignored the fact that his mom almost said survivors.
“I’m going to go to him, whether he’s alive, or - as soon as I get a plane ticket, I’m going to Tampa. Once there’s more news …”
“Yes, wait until you hear more. Your father and I can fly down, too.”
After a few more moments of silent grief and vague planning, mother and son ended the call.
Shane opened his phone again, and attempted another call in vain. It went to voicemail. He opened up the Instagram app, to see if maybe Ilya contacted him through there, as he sometimes did while on a flight.
He saw a new message waiting for him. It was from Ilya.
“You are the best thing in my life. I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you. I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those. Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.”
Whatever happens…I am with you.
Shane collapsed in a flood of tears, grief clawing at his heart, his vision darkening as if traveling through a tunnel.
Ilya was gone.
***
One month later.
Shane was sitting on the bench carved out a tree trunk that rested on the back porch of his summer cottage. He gazed out at the lake, watching the small waves formed by the gentle breeze drift towards the large boulder adjacent to the dock. The same dock where he posed doing different yoga moves for the documentary. The same dock where Ilya snuck up on him three years ago and pushed him in. The same dock the two men had jumped off into the lake countless times over the past three summers.
It was quite difficult, legally, but the Hollanders were able to recover Illya’s remains. His ashes rested in an urn in the living room.
Shane spent the last week sitting by the lake, bundled heavily against the cold, and looking out towards the water. He relived a hundred memories. At times his grief was as sharp and as sudden as the first time he felt it, and at other times, the grief thudded dully against his chest like improperly healed scar tissue.
He had three days left of his bereavement leave before he needed to return to Montreal to play out the rest of the season.
Shane had no idea how he would manage to return to the ice. Every day he tried to bring himself to spread his boyfriend’s ashes over the lake. Every day, he could not bring himself to do it.
Tomorrow. Shane would properly say his good bye tomorrow and spread Ilya’s ashes over the lake.
That night he slept on the leather sectional couch, rather than his bed, and he dreamed.
***
A golden skinned woman with bronze, curly hair and sad, hazel eyes stood near the lake. SHe was dressed simply in a sleeveless white dress, an odd choice for February in Canada. SHe took no notice of the biting wind coming off the lake in short, sharp blasts. She just - smiled, crookedly at Shane, beckoning him to come closer.
As Shane approached the woman, he was overwhelmed with a sense of familiarity. Of teasing hazel eyes and a crooked smile reserved only for him. Of warm, tight hugs and slow kisses….his throat tightened in grief, but he did not slow his progress towards the woman who stood by the lake.
Shane, the woman, said his name.
Yes, Shane responded. The sense of familiarity intensified. Could this be Irina, Ilya’s mother? Am I visiting the place where the dead go?
In a manner of speaking, yes. Irina responded to Shane’s thoughts as if he spoke them out loud, He recoiled in fear. How was that possible?
Don’t be afraid, Shane. Irina spoke again. She smiled reassuringly at Shane, and beckoned him to come closer.
Shane stopped an arm's length from Irina and stared into her eyes, Ilya’s eyes, for several long moments.
Finally, he spoke. I die every day. Every day that Ilya is not with me, I die, alone and in secret. And I don’t know how to move on, he finished helplessly.
In the woods tonight, you will find someone who can help you. If you want to see Ilya again, Irina paused, hesitating to say more. Ilya was not supposed to die -
Yes, we never had a chance to live in the light. Shane interrupted. His grief overcame him and he sank to the ground, wailing. I want more time. We need more time. We were supposed to have more time!
Irina knelt down next to Shane, and did not speak for several long moments. She comforted him, stroking his head in long, slow movements.
I know, she said quietly. Ilya was not supposed to die. That plane was not supposed to crash. If you want to see him again, you need to seek out Marena. She can help you.
What? Shane looked up in surprise. Who is Marena?
When you are next offered tea, accept it. Irina replied. She stood up, straightened her dress. And stepped away from Shane. Shane, now more confused than calm, rose also.
I don’t understand. What do you mean, who is Marena, where can I find her?
Irina stopped smiling and stared seriously at Shane, the same serious expression as her son. It unnerved Shane.
Do not spread his ashes. When you find Marena, drink the tea that she offers you. And in time, you will find your way back to Ilya. Or rather, my dear son will find his way back to you.
***
Shane awoke with a jolt, and a splitting headache, and a stiff neck. He was curled up awkwardly on the couch. He scrambled for his phone to check the time. 3:30 AM
Shane headed towards his bedroom, for the first night since he arrived at the cottage, carrying along with him the urn. He would keep Ilya’s ashes on his bedside table. It was silly (just a really, really vivid dream!) but he would look for a Marena. He would accept her tea. And then maybe, maybe he would see Ilya again. For the first time since the plane crash, Shane felt strange. As if his grief would end. Almost as if he really would see Ilya again.