Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Shane parked his car outside of Ilya’s house, his eyes stared forward through the windshield. He glared towards Ilya’s front door instead of the figure getting off the bike in the rearview mirror. Ilya shrugged off the helmet, shaking out his curls before placing the helmet under his armpit as he walked in Shane’s direction. 

Shane wiped at his eyes hastily, worried that Ilya could tell he had been crying. He sniffled and got out of the car, his hands trying not to shake as he closed his car door and finally looked up. 

Ilya didn’t even meet his eyes; he was too busy looking around his front yard as if someone was going to jump out of the bushes. He didn’t notice how tense Shane was, instead focusing on opening the back door and gathering his things. Ilya straightened, and when their eyes finally met, Shane couldn’t find the energy to speak. It’s as if Ilya sucked it out of him once he looked up. 

After a long pause, Shane watched in real time as the gears turned in Ilya’s head. There was a mix of doubt and concern as he looked Shane over. Maybe he already knew Shane had found out. 

No, if he did, Shane wouldn’t be standing aimlessly in his driveway like this. 

“You should stay the night.” 

“I should go home.” 

They spoke at the same time, and both with very different words. A flash of hurt appeared on Ilya’s face, but he hid it well with a bite to his lip. Shane took a step back to grab the handle of his car door, desperate to leave. His brain felt like mush. 

“Shane…” 

“I’m fine, I just-I need my bed tonight, I think.” Shane was always a bad liar, but he didn’t let Ilya look at him any longer. He turned away and reopened his door to fall back into the driver's seat. As he turned the engine back on, Ilya stood looking like a kicked puppy at the side of his car. He looked into Shane’s window, his mouth tugged into a frown.  

“Shane,” Ilya said again, this time in a wobbly voice. It was muffled with the car window between them, but Shane heard it loud and clear. Ilya’s hand moved to rest against Shane’s side mirror, saying Shane’s name one last time to get something out of him. But Shane was already pulling out of the driveway and reversing into the street. 

Shane didn’t look back. Tears blurred his vision once again as he hit the gas as hard as he could and drove home. 

-

Shane couldn’t avoid Ilya. That was impossible. He didn’t realize how much his life had revolved around Ilya’s until he actively tried to get out. This was probably what Harris had been talking about, how that fork in the road made a difference. In the end, since he chose this, there was no going back. 

But a car bomb? Shane had only heard these things in the movies or on true crime shows. He’d look at the news and see violence like that in Chicago or Los Angeles. But here? In Montreal? 

And not only that, but had Ilya planted this bomb? Shane had nightmares of it. A different reenactment played out each night, all with Ilya somewhere in the middle of the crime scene, ready to pull the trigger and play God. 

Ilya wasn’t that type of man; he couldn’t be. 

Shane knew the only closure he would get from this would be to talk to him. Due to them arriving a day earlier than planned, Shane had an extra two days to organize his thoughts before he had to go back to work. It was there that Shane would have to answer to Ilya, and Ilya would have to do the same back.

Throughout all that, Ilya hadn’t even texted him once. He might have known Shane needed space, but it was more likely that he was too busy running from the police and the rival gang. Shane would catch himself staring at his phone when it was settled on his bed or kitchen table, waiting for it to light up with Ilya’s name. He felt sick to his stomach; he couldn't believe he had grown this attached. 

Shane drove to the bar for his shift once the two days passed in a blur. Immediately, he noticed the line of motorcycles where they usually were. They used to give him so much security when he turned into the parking lot, but now he could only gulp down the rocks in his throat and turn his head away with nerves. 

Everyone else was thankfully normal around him when he started work. More importantly, Hayden and Rose were back to their ordinary selves. Shane had leaned on the both of them a lot throughout this chaos, and without them, he didn’t know what he’d do. They distracted him throughout most of the night, Rose with her quirkiness and Hayden with his consistent rambles, when Shane had the chance to sneak to the back.

Ilya didn’t show up until the bar closed. It was a long shift, and Shane was constantly on edge despite the distractions. He’d look over whenever the front doors opened, expecting to see dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes sweeping the crowd. He expected at least Troy, Wyatt, Marleau, or even Luca to show up, but none of them revealed themselves either. 

It was a good call on everyone’s part not to show up in public like this. With such a serious crime on their shoulders, Shane wouldn’t be surprised if they were planning to live in a cellar until things calmed down. Or maybe they’d flee to Vancouver, or somewhere like Saskatchewan, where people went to disappear. 

The air felt different in the bar, Shane realized, the longer the night had dragged on. People whispered more, and their eyes wandered to the empty booth or to the basement door. It was as if Ilya and his gang were going to spawn from the floorboards and appear from the shadows to wreak havoc. They were suddenly a scary ghost story or an urban legend. Yeah, these boys hid for a reason. 

Were these people scared of Ilya now, too? 

Was Shane even scared? He had very little time to look into himself and recover since finding out the news. So many questions were in place, and so many of them needed to be answered. For Shane’s sanity, he couldn’t be scared. He needed to be strong. He needed to puff out his chest and look Ilya in the eye. 

Even when Ilya entered the bar as Shane cleaned one of the glasses behind the bar, Shane gulped down the complicated emotions and looked his way. He immediately felt himself wanting to fold under Ilya’s gaze, but he stiffened up and focused. 

Ilya still sported the cuts on his nose and lip. But the swelling had gone down since last seeing him. He had his regular Centaurs jacket on, the leather shining in the bar light as he walked. Overall, despite having the police breathing down his neck, he looked collected as he waltzed towards the booth. 

Shane followed, shaking off his fears; the glass he was cleaning was left half-smudged on the bar counter. He tried to smother all the questions rising to the surface and dangling from his lips, but the desperation was eating him alive. 

Ilya still hadn’t said a word. He slumped into the booth and fished out his pack of cigarettes. He fiddled with the opening as his eyes dragged over Shane’s form. 

“You are not wearing your jacket,” Ilya pointed out flatly. He finally opened the cigarette pack and plucked out a stick. 

Shane shifted on his feet and tried to decide if he should sit with Ilya or not. The echo of Ilya’s lighter igniting bounced off the walls of the bar. 

“I’m working, it’s not part of the uniform,” Shane’s voice was small. He cleared his throat and decided to walk forward. He got to the other end of the booth, but didn’t sit down. 

Ilya looked to be dissecting Shane. His eyes wandered around Shane’s form with consistency and seriousness. It was as if Shane’s heart was laid out and beating in the middle of the table between them. 

“Did you do it?” Shane’s voice barely went over a whisper. 

“Speak up,” Ilya’s voice was much louder. It didn’t hold any bite to it, but the words were so commanding that it made Shane flinch. 

“Did you do it?” His volume was too loud as he repeated himself, but Shane didn’t care. Ilya wanted him to speak up, so he did. 

Now there was no turning back. 

“What did I do?” Ilya’s expression hadn’t changed, he breathed smoke through his nostrils and stared at Shane as if he were bored. It made anger blossom in Shane’s chest. 

“Don’t do this,” Shane growled out, stepping away from the booth. No, he didn’t want to sit across from Ilya; he didn’t want to be near him. He needed his space; he needed to see every inch of this man as he explained himself. 

“Tell me what exactly I did-” 

“Did you plant the fucking bomb?!” Shane yelled, his voice cracking at the end. His breathing became uneven, and he began to pace. He shook out his hands, feeling the sweat build in his palms.

His words hung in the air, almost as if he had yelled into a deep tunnel, and the only reaction Shane got was a sniffle before Ilya flicked ashes off his cigarette and placed it on the ashtray. 

“You are listening to the news now,” Ilya always knew how to say the wrong words. 

“You can’t do that…you can’t deflect like you always do. Not now!” Shane wanted to cry, and his voice wobbled dangerously. But he kept going. “People died, Ilya, what the fuck are you doing? You’re a gang leader, not-not a fucking terrorist.” 

“I didn’t plant it,” Ilya said. But it fell on deaf ears. Shane couldn’t be stopped in the middle of his ramble. 

“Fuck, h-how do you even get your hands on a fucking bomb, Ilya? How?!” 

“It was a setup!” Ilya yelled, cutting Shane off before he spiralled out of control. Shane was close to crumbling, his hands finding purchase in his hair as he tugged it off his scalp roughly. 

“What?” Shane asked, his ears ringing. 

“Someone from an opposing gang set us up. We do not know who, but they somehow got our jacket and tipped people off to frame me. I was not on that side of the city when it happened.”

Shane blinked, his breathing slowing. But how could he believe Ilya’s words after this? After Ilya had lied to his face and said they needed to get out of Montreal for business in Ottawa? Why did Ilya not come clean to him about the bombing if he had simply been framed? 

Was this all to protect Shane from the reality of being in a gang? Well, now it was backfiring. Now the trust was broken. 

“Why don’t you ever tell me these things? H-how am I ever supposed to believe your word when all you do is lie or shut me out?” Shane’s hands balled into fists at his sides. The panic attack had died down, but the anger was still vibrating inside him. 

“I’m doing this to-” 

“If you say you’re doing this to protect me, I’m walking out,” Shane snapped. Ilya looked taken aback by his outburst, and finally shuffled out of his seat to begin his walk towards Shane, to stand eye to eye. 

“There are bad men out there who want me dead and buried, baby. The less you know, the better,” as Ilya walked forward, Shane took a few steps back to maintain the distance. Ilya looked hurt. 

“And you carry this burden alone? You’re gonna go insane, Ilya—all this paranoia and pain. If you’re scared, you need to tell me. Just fucking…be honest with me. Cause right now all I’m hearing is that you’re a murderer.” 

Ilya flinched, and Shane almost felt bad for saying those words. 

“You want the truth?” Ilya asked, and suddenly Ilya had aged before Shane’s eyes. A shadow cast upon his face, his eyes darkening, and his mouth frowning. Years of guilt fell onto Ilya’s shoulders as he began to speak. 

“My brother died when I was 17 years old. He was a member of the Raiders; they owned a bar here in Ottawa. My brother, his entire life leading to his death, protected me from the gang. But when we moved to Canada, we were surrounded by it. Before he died, he was always on edge, didn’t wear his jacket anywhere, and even took me out of school to protect and train me to fight. He was desperate to keep me alive.” 

Ilya sighed shakily, and Shane could only watch.

“He died in a drive-by shooting outside the Raiders bar. I, uh, I saw it happen. I was very angry at myself for thinking I did not protect my brother enough. I joined the gang, thinking I could get revenge. But I found out two years later that it was all a setup, that the Raiders put a hit on my brother because he was pocketing money from drug deals.” 

Ilya sniffled again, and Shane could see the shine in his eyes reflect off the chandeliers above them.

“I did many bad things and was betrayed by many people. So it is…hard for me to trust. It is hard for me to stop protecting the ones I love.” 

Shane’s breath hitched. Love. Love. Love.

“Ilya…” Shane couldn’t find the words. His brain was stuck on what Ilya had said. From the disturbing truth of his brother's death, to his off-handed declaration of love. What could he possibly say? 

“I am sorry, Shane. I am possessive, and cruel, and I have done some very bad things in my past, but I swear to you I did not plant that bomb. I would not do a stupid thing like that when I have you.” 

Shane’s eyes watered, but Ilya beat him to it. Crystal-like tears began to stream down Ilya’s face, and his bottom lip wobbled dangerously as he turned away to hide from Shane.

“Sorry,” he said again.

Shane rushed forward, the sudden need to be connected to Ilya overwhelming. He crashed into Ilya’s body and forced Ilya’s head down to his neck. As soon as Ilya’s forehead hit Shane’s throat, a hard sob wracked through Ilya’s form.

Shane held him, and they migrated to the booth so Shane could straddle Ilya’s lap and anchor him. Eventually, Shane found himself humming softly, his nose buried in Ilya’s hair as he serenaded the broken man underneath him.

-

It gets easier between the two of them. With Ilya’s heart on his sleeve, he was more vulnerable with Shane. He still hid a lot of his emotions and didn’t talk about the gang, but there were little moments where Shane and he would sit in the bar or at Ilya’s house and just…be together. 

It had been a week since the news about the bomb. Shane never brought it up, because he was too busy living in the bliss of the newer, more present Ilya. It made Shane happy to see Ilya frown or smile more, to see tears and laughter. It made Ilya human. 

It made them real. 

They were at the bar now, Shane was finishing up the cleaning behind the bar when Ilya suddenly turned on the music from the speakers. He smiled wickedly toward Shane, a cigarette kissed between his lips as he swayed his hips and waltzed his way over to the bar. 

Shane smiled and shook his head; the tiredness was weighing on his eyelids, and he was so close to being done. He just needed to put the glasses that he had cleaned away, and then he’d let Ilya drive him home. 

He had stopped bringing his car. Shane was with Ilya, so it became a daily routine to get a ride to and from work. Most of the time, he stayed at Ilya’s place anyway. It was nice to know he didn’t have to wonder where Ilya was now, because he knew the man would eventually pick him up. They had made a comfortable routine. 

“Dance with me,” Ilya said as he shuffled behind Shane; his hands rested upon Shane’s hips, guiding him along with his movements while the music played. He kissed Shane's leather shoulder. He had convinced Shane to wear it for his shifts now, and Shane couldn’t deny how powerful it made him feel. 

“I don’t dance,” Shane answered bluntly. It was too late for shenanigans like this. 

But Ilya wasn’t giving up. He rested his chin on Shane’s shoulder, and Shane could now see the cigarette in his peripheral vision. But Ilya had it clamped between his lips so it didn’t fall. 

“But there is big dancefloor in front of us with no one dancing on it!” Ilya teased, pinching Shane’s hips and tugging him by the apron towards the other side of the bar and onto the open floor. Shane allowed it, his hands safely placing the glass back on top of the bar so his hands could be filled with Ilya. Ilya tossed his cigarette into the ashtray to do the same. 

They began to sway, it was a joke at first. They giggled and Ilya playfully made Shane dip and spin. Shane forced Ilya to spin after him, humming along to the tune. But then the music became background noise, their eyes meeting and nothing mattering but one another. 

With their foreheads pressed together, Shane and Ilya slow-danced. They moved in sync, breathing one another in. It was just them and the music, in their own little world. 

But then tires screeched outside, it was so fast that Ilya and Shane only flinched at the noise. Shane didn’t understand. Why were the boys coming back to the bar so late? 

Two things happened at once. Ilya’s face fell, his eyes widening into the headlights that flashed across the front of the bar. Then someone screamed outside, it was so loud Shane could hear it from where he stood.

“Fuck the Centaurs!” 

Ow. That’s what immediately came into Shane’s mind. He didn’t understand. Pain shot through his entire body, his ears rang, and fireworks were going off all around him.

No, not fireworks. Oh, he wished. 

They were being shot at.

He should have screamed, but nothing came out of him. The messages his brain was sending to his body weren’t working. All he could do was whimper and stare up at the ceiling as shock took over him. 

Oh, he was lying on the ground now. He didn’t know how he got there. They were only dancing moments ago. Their foreheads pressed together, hands entwined-

“Blyat’! No, no!” That was Ilya, his voice a light at the end of the tunnel. Shane focused on it, his eyes desperately searching for a face to match. He tried to call out, but his mouth wasn’t working.

Finally, Ilya came into view. But he had blood in his hair and tears in his eyes. He looked down at Shane like he was dying. 

Was he?

Arms hooked under his armpits. Someone screamed in pain, maybe it was him. Shane couldn’t tell. He was dragged through bullet casings and smoke, and when he looked down at his feet, he nearly threw up.

A snail trail of blood came from his body, leaving a stain on the floor as he was dragged. It reminded him of Pete and Tom, how their blood caked the floors of this bar and had to be mopped up. Now it was his own.

They were behind the bar now. Shane couldn’t see anything but the ceiling, and glass pinched at his back. Had all the glasses he was going to put away been smashed? Was that also why he was bleeding so much? 

He sobbed out Ilya’s name, hoping it had come out of his raw throat.

Ilya was too focused. Shane could see him out of the corner of his eye. He had shoved away the cash register and thrown some objects out from the lower shelves of the bar, and Shane’s eyes widened when he saw a shotgun get pulled out. It must’ve been hidden, only for Ilya and the gang to know of its existence.

So when stuff like this happened, they could retaliate.

Ilya was saying something to him; his voice sounded destroyed. His left bicep was bleeding profusely, and Shane wanted to put pressure on it, but his body just wouldn’t fucking move.

“Is okay, baby,” Shane blinked at Ilya’s words, the lights darkening. 

“-stay with me!” Ilya yelled, his hands on the shotgun as he propped it over the counter and scanned the outside for the shooter. 

‘I’m okay,’ Shane wanted to say. But all that came out was a choke. 

“-with me, don’t close your eyes!” 

Two teeth-rattling shots rang out, followed by two heavy thuds. Then silence. It was so jarring that Shane thought he had dreamed it all, but when he reopened his eyes, he was still lying on the ground.

Ilya had stepped over him at some point; he was on the phone with someone. Shane could see his lips moving frantically as he looked down at Shane and then back up towards the doors of the bar. 

“He needs hospital!" Ilya growled, Shane wheezed.

“Yebat, he will die on this fucking floor, Marleau. I will call-“ 

Someone was yelling so loudly on the other end of the call that Shane could hear it. They weren’t happy with Ilya’s words. 

Shane frowned. He needed help. Why was this a debate? 

‘Help me,’ Shane whispered in his head. 

“Call the fucking doctor then. If you are not here in five minutes, I am calling ambulance. Do you hear me?” 

Shane flinched when a hand was on his forehead. It was Ilya’s, his fingers cool against Shane’s sweaty skin as they brushed away his bangs. They were trembling, and Shane wished he had the energy to grab them.

“Ilya?” Shane sobbed out. It took everything in him to speak.

“Yeah, yes, baby, I am here,” Ilya got off the phone and pocketed it. He left Shane’s vision for a second and came back with a cloth in his hand.  

“Hurts,” Shane croaked. He couldn’t follow Ilya’s movements; he was too fast and it made him dizzy.

But then he cried out, grunting loudly as white-hot pressure rocketed from his left thigh. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart,” Ilya was grinding his teeth, his eyes wild and bloodshot as they tamed a wound on Shane’s thigh. He wouldn’t look Shane in the eye, now. 

“What…ngh…’appened,” Shane slurred his words. Maybe speaking wasn’t the best, but now that he found his voice, he forced himself to use it. It was either that or sleep.

He couldn’t close his eyes. He knew that if he did, there was a chance that he wouldn’t reopen them.

“Shh, you were shot in thigh and shoulder. We are bringing doctor here, okay?” Ilya had grabbed for a clean cloth and moved up to Shane’s upper half. 

“Call 911,” Shane whimpered. 

Ilya shook his head, and a tear fell down his face. He didn’t answer Shane, instead putting pressure on Shane’s right shoulder.

Shane screamed. More pain pierced through him, his eyes crossed, and his body jerked upwards. Ilya forced him back down to the floor. 

“Stop, stop please!” Shane cried, and Ilya was shaking all over as well; his head was trembling back and forth, and his cheeks were red. Ilya looked ready to explode. Was it due to his pain or Shane’s? Or was it both?

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” Ilya sobbed. He kept pressure on the shoulder wound and leaned down.

His wet lips pressed into Shane’s forehead. It was a strange feeling, the deep, aching compression from Ilya’s hands on his wound, with the mix of the loving, soft kiss of his lips upon his head.

“M’gonna die,” Shane whispered. 

“No,” Ilya answered firmly, and Shane blinked as tears fell on his eyelids and cheeks. They were not his own.

“You will not die. Too pretty to die.” 

Shane sobbed. 

He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but he did. 

-

Ilya Rozanov stared down at the love of his life. Bleeding, crying, and begging for medical attention. 

And Ilya couldn’t give that to him. He had promised Shane the world; that he’d burn it all down so he could see a smile on his face. 

But he didn’t even have the balls to call an ambulance. 

‘If you call the ambulance, it’s gonna be a full-on investigation, Ilya. You want Shane involved with this shit even more? You’ll be arrested on site.’

Marleau’s words repeated in his mind as he kept pressure on Shane’s wound. It was true, Ilya would be put in jail if he called anyone. He had killed two guys from the Raiders, both of them now spread out at the front of the bar, dead from two shotgun bullets to the face and chest. There was also the fact that the police still believed Ilya was the bomber. 

He needed to think of the bigger picture. How could he protect Shane if he was locked behind bars forever? Who would avenge him? Because this was the work of someone bigger than these two bikers shooting up his bar. He was being targeted by someone powerful. 

They’d kill him in prison, too. Ilya heard stories of past leaders getting that fate. Ilya refused to go out like that. 

So Marleau had convinced him to stay on the floor and keep pressure on Shane’s wounds. Just until he got their regular doctor and made their way over to them. All the boys planned to be here, some to help Shane and Ilya, others to get rid of the bodies and clean up. 

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice was incredibly shaky, and he hated how pale Shane had become. Shane’s bottom lip was trembling consistently, and it was the only movement that made Ilya aware that he was still alive. 

Shane didn’t answer; hot tears were still falling down his cheeks. Ilya’s tears were glistening on his forehead. 

It felt like forever as he kept changing from the shoulder to thigh. He pressed on them an equal amount and cursed at all the blood that stained the once-white shirt and grey pants. And oh, Shane’s jacket. The fabric was black, and Ilya couldn’t see the damage. He was too terrified to try and remove it. 

As Ilya put more pressure on Shane’s thigh, more blood oozed from the wound in a consistent flow. It was particularly bad.

Had the bullet hit an artery? Please, no. 

“Fuck,” Ilya went to grab for his phone, ready to call an ambulance and defy whatever words Marleau had growled at him, but then thunder roared into the parking lot. 

Ilya scrambled for the shotgun, his hands slippery with blood as he propped it over the countertop. Broken glass littered the floor and the bar, all from the glasses Shane had been cleaning before all hell broke loose. 

Maybe it was Ilya’s own wounds and the way his eyes couldn’t focus properly from the adrenaline, but all he could see was shadows and headlights. His grip was shaky, breath coming out in short tufts as he tried to focus. 

“Ilya?!” A voice came from outside. It sounded familiar, but Ilya’s ears were still ringing. 

“Tell me who you fucking are, or I shoot!” Ilya roared, his finger hovering over the trigger. There was no way anyone was walking in that door without announcing who they were. 

“Fuck, it's Marleau! I’ve got the doctor here! Wyatt and Troy, too! Come on, man!” 

Ilya gulped, his skin vibrating as he processed the words. He didn’t even realize how much time had passed, or that Marleau had entered with his hands up. 

“Lower the gun, buddy. Where is he?” Marleau was staring at Ilya intensely. He stepped over the bodies at the door and approached Ilya as if he were taming a lion. 

The doctor came in next. His name was Rex, an older gentleman who had been the doctor for the Centaurs for a while now, even before Ilya had become leader. The man was loyal and well-trusted, and had patched up many of Ilya’s men and Ilya himself. 

“Ilya? You gotta focus, where is Shane?” Marleau called again, and Ilya flinched at how close his friend had gotten. Marleau had placed a hand on the barrel of the shotgun, forcing it to the side so if Ilya did shoot it would rocket into the wall instead of someone’s body. 

The movement awoke Ilya enough to begin talking. 

“Behind the bar with me,” Ilya answered, his head jerking towards Shane’s body on the floor. 

Everyone immediately went into action. Marleau took the gun from Ilya, and then Rex was striding behind the bar with Troy in tow. Wyatt was with the bodies, his expression grimacing as he lightly kicked at one of the men’s arms. 

“Shane?” Rex called out as he frantically put on his gloves and began to assess the wounds. From this new angle, looking down at Shane’s body, Ilya nearly vomited. 

There was too much blood. It coated the floor with a deep, dark crimson. It got into the floorboards, pooling at the sides of the bars counter. 

“He’s responsive but barely. We gotta get him somewhere I can work.” The bar was too narrow for Rex to work at his best, and Ilya knew that. But the thought of moving Shane made his chest throb. There was a greater risk of him bleeding out. 

“Ilya? Man, you gotta fucking focus!” Troy was grabbing Ilya’s shoulders and shaking him; he had been spacing out a lot. Maybe he was losing too much blood as well. 

“Basement,” Ilya answered bluntly. That was enough of a response for the boys, because now they were gathering around Shane to move him. 

It was going to be rough. Marleau had to stay at the front in case anyone else showed up unannounced, so it was just Ilya, Troy, Wyatt, and Rex. They got Shane’s legs together and arms at his sides, keeping him in an easy position before they counted to three and lifted. 

Shane awakened from unconsciousness and screamed, his eyes flying open as they walked him to the basement door. Ilya was near Shane’s ankles, and he sobbed at the sound. 

They couldn’t stop now. Ilya could see that Shane’s screams were painful for Troy and Wyatt to listen to, both men wincing the entire time they made their way down the stairs. 

There was a pool table in the basement, and they laid Shane on top of it. 

As soon as Shane was settled, Rex went back to work. They began to cut off Shane’s pants and shirt, and Ilya surged forward to stop them from cutting at the jacket. 

“Take it off him, don’t fucking cut it!” Ilya growled. He didn’t care about the glare he received from Rex, about the time that was being wasted gingerly taking off Shane’s jacket. Ilya refused to cut it, mostly because he knew Shane would be heartbroken if it were ruined. Troy and Rex lifted Shane by the shoulders so he was forced to sit up, and it caused a low moan to gurgle in Shane’s throat. Ilya ignored it and carefully but swiftly removed the jacket, leaving Shane only in his briefs. 

Rex immediately went to work. The blood still pooled out of both wounds, and he held onto Shane’s pants and used them as a tourniquet. 

As they tightened the pants and Shane moaned with pain, Ilya grunted in his own discomfort. He held onto Shane’s jacket tighter. 

“Ilya, your arm…” Wyatt was at his side, and Ilya didn’t even realize he was swaying until Wyatt had put a hand on him. He brushed him off immediately, eyes locked on Rex working on Shane’s shoulder. 

“M’fine,” Ilya deflected. Wyatt frowned at him but didn’t retaliate. 

“Fuck…” Rex huffed out all of a sudden, and that was not what Ilya wanted to hear. 

“What?” Ilya hissed, walking forward to lean heavily onto the pool table. 

“The bullet is still lodged in his shoulder. It went through his thigh, thank God, but we gotta get this one out,” Rex explained, his fingers lightly prodding at the bullet hole. 

Ilya’s skin went cold. They were working with nothing that the hospital had. Maybe some numbing shots and random surgical instruments, but it wasn’t enough.

“Do you have anything to make him sleep?” Ilya asked. He tried hard to not sound like he was begging, but his heart was beating out of his chest. 

But when Rex looked up at him, his eyes were hollow and cold in the dim basement lighting. The doctor opened his mouth, ready to explain the bad news, but he closed it and looked down in shame. 

Then Ilya knew this would be the worst day of his life. 

“I’m going to need you to hold him down,” Rex said, his hands grabbing for the forceps in his bag. 

Ilya has been shot before. He had a bullet stuck in his shoulder, almost exactly where Shane’s was. He had been laid out on a kitchen table and held down as Rex fished out the bullet. 

He remembers screaming so loud they had to stuff his shirt into his mouth. He remembers passing out from the pain and being happy that he did. 

But this couldn’t happen to his Shane. This can’t happen.

But it was. Ilya shook the thoughts out of his head and regained his focus. Shane was dying; he needed to stay in the present.

He and Wyatt moved to either side of the pool table. Ilya threw Shane’s jacket onto a chair and went to Shane’s injured side, and on the count of three, they forced Shane’s arms to the table and let Rex work.

They didn’t give Shane an option to prepare; he was too out of it for them to explain either. Rex went in with nothing but those tweezers drowned in alcohol.

The screaming erupted across the basement. It stabbed through Ilya’s brain and made him double over like it was painful for him, too.

It was a scream like a mother losing their child. A scream that Ilya had let out when he saw his brother's dead body littered with bullets. It was something so entirely full of pain and suffering that it rattled your bones.

“Is okay, baby. I’m here.” Ilya sobbed, his hands holding onto Shane as hard as he could. Shane was struggling, his back bowed off the pool table uncomfortably, and his hands were attempting to scratch at Ilya’s torso as he pinned him. 

“Fuck, hold him still!” Rex yelped. Shane was slippery with blood and sweat, and it was hard, even though Wyatt and Ilya were stronger than he was. 

“Can we get something for him to bite on?!” Wyatt yelled over Shane’s screams. Ilya searched the room, finding nothing.

“In my bag, there should be another cloth!” Rex pulled out the forceps and stepped back, allowing Ilya to rush over to his bag and grab it. 

“No, no, please, no!” Shane sobbed, his voice wrecked from the screaming. He was crying so hard that spit, sweat, and blood coated his face. He looked up at the ceiling as if the moment was his day of reckoning.

“Malysh, bite down on this, okay?” Ilya tried to let Shane choose, but Shane thrashed his head from side to side wildly, fighting him. 

So all Ilya could do was repeat what happened to him when he was shot. He forced the cloth in, making Shane gag. He cried with Shane, snot running down his face as he pleaded.

“I’m so sorry, so, so, sorry.” 

Shane wasn’t listening. He sobbed and roared into the cloth. 

Ilya went back and grabbed Shane’s arms. Wyatt did the same, his own tears forming in his eyes. 

Rex went back in.

The teeth-rattling screams returned. They were muffled and less loud, but it was like a lobotomy in Ilya’s brain.

“Got it!”

Rex whipped his hand out of Shane’s wound, and between the tweezers was the bullet. 

Shane slumped hard against the pool table. Motionless.

“Shane? Shane?!” Ilya cried out, his hands shaking him. But Shane didn’t move.

Ilya quickly went to Shane’s pulse point. Faint but there. 

“I need to stop the bleeding, please, Rozanov, back up!” Rex lightly pushed Ilya out of the way to work. Ilya all but stumbled backwards and fell into a chair.

The world spun.

“Ilya? Hey, Ilya?!” Wyatt shook him, but Ilya didn’t respond. His eyes were locked onto Shane’s deathly pale form slumped in his own blood, the green felt on top of the pool table had mostly turned black and stained.

Shane’s head had flopped towards Ilya; he looked peaceful despite the speckles of blood across his freckles. 

“Hey, Rex, you almost done over there? We’re losing Rozanov!” 

Ilya looked up and glared. He wanted to tell Wyatt to fuck off because all that mattered was Shane. Rex had Shane’s thigh to deal with as well. He could wait.

But words couldn’t be formed; his mouth felt dry. 

“I’m so sorry,” Ilya said, staring into Shane’s closed eyes. He wanted to see them again. He needed to.

“Rex! Troy?!” 

Wyatt sounded scared now, but Ilya couldn’t ask why before he was tipping forward and face-planting onto the floor. 

-

Shane wakes slowly. He doesn’t know where he is.

There’s a ceiling lamp blinding him; it lightly sways as he stares at it. 

There is a moth, too, it flaps against the lightbulb, its soft body making soft ‘tink’ noises as it hits the glass. It reminds him of that night in the bar, when he was riding Ilya and the world disintegrated around them. When he stared up in a blissed out coma, staring at the little moth that flew towards the light. 

He feels pain, but it's a dull ache that Shane doesn’t understand. Carefully, he turns his head. He notices a slight pain when he does that, it jolts from his shoulder, but he perseveres. 

He’s in a basement on top of a pool table, that’s the first thing he notices. The second thing he notices is that he’s only got his briefs on. He can’t look down, the pain too great, but the cool air against his skin is clear enough. He immediately wondered where his jacket had gone, the anxiety stiffening in his gut. But as he searched the room, Ilya was revealed to him; the man was slumped in a chair beside him, staring at him with eyes that had seen horrors.

They weren’t their usual dark and mysterious. Nor were they sparkling with love. They were something Shane had never seen before.

Completely dull. As if his soul was sucked from his body, leaving nothing behind but a shell of a man. 

And he was injured. Shane could see the bandages wrapped around his shoulder and bicep. He was lathered in dried blood. His hands and arms were the worst; it went to his elbows. It dried into a disgusting brown against his skin. 

Shane licked his chapped lips, a shuddering breath passing them as he gathered the energy to speak. 

“I-Ilya?” Shane croaked out. He barely got his name out; his throat felt like he had swallowed glass.

Ilya blinked as if coming out of a dream. He refocused, eyes staring into Shane’s soul.

Ilya’s bottom lip wobbled dangerously. He stayed where he was, leaning forward and running a hand through Shane’s hair. Because of the height of the pool table, he had to reach for Shane. He noticed Ilya wince with pain. 

“Hi, baby,” Ilya choked out. 

“You’re hurt,” Shane points out dumbly. 

Ilya laughs, but it comes out as a sob.

“I’m okay. You’re going to be okay too, da?” 

Shane nods, or tries to. He’s getting sleepy again and blinks as loose tears fall down the sides of his face and into his sideburns. He fights the desire to close his eyes. 

“What happened?” Shane asked.

Ilya bit his lip; his hand never stopped petting Shane’s hair. Shane had a good view of the blood tangled in Ilya’s curls. 

“Attempted drive-by. They are dead now.” 

Shane blinks at the answer; he doesn’t know what to say to that, but he also didn’t know what answer he expected. Shane stares back up at the lone moth and its frantic movements against the light above him, giving it one last look before he closes his eyes again.

There was an empty silence, and Shane had lost track of reality. The hand on his hair attempted to ground him to the moment, but he was floating away.

“I said no one would ever hurt you…” Ilya began to speak. Shane was too tired to acknowledge him, his brain felt foggy. Ilya continued despite his lack of attention, his fingernails scratching Shane’s scalp. 

“I caused this, and I will end this. No one…blyat…no one will hurt you ever again, moya lyubov.” 

Shane wanted to smile, but unconsciousness consumed him instead. 

He fell for a long, long time. His consciousness returned in waves, and his body felt like it was floating on a cloud. Shane called for Ilya many times when the darkness got too much to bear, but he never received an answer. He wanted to open his eyes and search for him, to see that Centaur logo acting as a beacon of light that would lift him back into the real world. But he was falling. 

When he would manage to resurface, his eyes could never adjust. The lights blinded him, the noises were muffled, and it was as if he were underwater. His lips didn’t work, and his limbs felt like cinderblocks. 

Shane thinks he heard crying. Someone was holding him, but the feeling was wrong. Then he knows he got picked up. He could feel hands on his back and under his knees, even his moan of pain and the intense nausea that flowed through him. Throwing up wasn’t an option; he wasn’t lucid enough to feel that.

And when the cool night air hit his face as he was being carried outside, he tried to look up into the sky to count the stars. 

His eyes opened, but his vision was filled with dark spots. Shane could only make out Troy’s grim expression staring down at him. He looked at Shane with so much pity that it was sickening. 

‘Where is Ilya?’ He wanted to say, but as Shane’s lips parted all he could do was moan in pain some more. 

Troy cringed and looked away as if Shane’s presence was too much to bear. Softly, Shane recalls being placed in a car. 

It looked like his car, the seats felt familiar against his skin, and he realized he was wrapped in a jacket. He buried himself deeper into it, bottom lip trembling as he glared at the car's ceiling. 

Darkness flooded his vision again. He tried to claw his way to the surface, but to no avail. 

He fell. 

-

Ilya sat in the chair for a long, long time. Hours passed in a blur because all he could do was stare at Shane’s pale form, lying faded and vulnerable with blood stains and bullet holes piercing his flesh. His once white briefs were now stained into a deep maroon, but Ilya just wasn’t brave enough to touch him. 

Footsteps slowly made their way down the stairs and into the basement. Ilya didn’t look in that direction; he kept his eyes on Shane and the soft up and down of his chest. 

“Fuck,” Marleau breathes out. He sounded exhausted, and his Centaur’s jacket was nowhere to be seen. He had blood and dirt on his clothes and skin. They must’ve gotten rid of the bodies. 

“Where did you put them?” Ilya asked, devoid of emotion. 

Marleau couldn’t take his eyes off Shane, as if he were traumatized at the sight. Ilya would’ve felt protective of that glance if it weren’t for the circumstances. Marleau and the boys haven’t seen any of the old ladies or boyfriends hurt like this before. It was shocking. 

“Far out into the swamp area, they’ll be rotting quicker out there.” Marleau spat out, the venom clear in his tone. 

Ilya nodded. 

“Good,” he answered. 

“Will uh…” Marleau trailed off, his eyes blinking to the floor as he shook his head in disbelief. He turned to Ilya, but Ilya didn’t meet his gaze. “Will he be okay?” Marleau finished, his voice wobbly. 

“Eventually,” Ilya didn’t like his own reply, but it was all he could come up with. English was too hard right now, and all he could do was repeat angry swearwords in Russian in his head, or the rants his brother would yell when shit hit the fan like this. None of them helped him in this situation, because he’s never been so fucking in love before. 

This needed to stop. 

“I need to call Hayden,” Ilya’s voice hasn’t sounded this authoritative in hours. He found it again easily once his mind was made up and the plan solidified in his brain. 

“Hayden Pike? One of the cooks?” Marleau asked with a raised brow. He wasn’t familiar with Hayden, and Ilya hadn’t brought him up until now. It didn’t matter. 

“Yes. Troy will have his number.” Ilya fished for a cigarette in his jacket that was hooked on the chair behind him, but hesitated. Shane shouldn’t be exposed to that right now. 

“Can I ask why?” Marleau pushes. 

Ilya doesn’t answer. Not even thirty seconds go by before Marleau nods to himself with a huff of disappointment, and he walks back up the stairs to get the number. 

While Marleau was upstairs, Ilya slowly turned to stare at the second jacket still slung over the chair with his own. The ‘property of’ stitching was vibrant even in the dim lighting. 

What sickened Ilya was the bullet hole ripped at the shoulder; it was a perfect circle. He grabbed for the jacket with his uninjured arm, and choked at the way the back was completely unscatched because the bullet hadn’t gone through Shane. Due to the black leather, blood wasn’t obvious across it, but it was slippery to the touch along the collar and near the bullet hole. 

Bile rose in Ilya’s throat, and he had to put it down before he started crying again. 

When Marleau comes down with a phone, it already has Hayden’s number punched into it. All Ilya had to do was press call and bring it to his ear. He uses the arm that is not wrapped tightly to his body due to the wound.  

It’s early in the morning by now, maybe 6 am, Hayden should be sleeping…

“Hello?” It's a groggy, half-asleep voice on the other end of the call. But it's Hayden.

“Pike,” Ilya says, his voice calm and collected. 

A pause. Hayden is processing the voice. 

“R-Rozanov?” Hayden’s voice is shaky and concerned, the sleep falling from the tone quickly. Maybe he knew something was wrong by the sound of Ilya’s voice. 

“I need you to come to the bar as soon as possible. Bring Shane’s car.” 

Another pause. Ilya tried not to get impatient with the other man, but his patience was running thin. He had been through so much tonight, it felt like he’d walked through a warzone. He couldn’t handle these awkward silences. 

“Pike?” Ilya spoke up again, his voice rising to shake out whatever emotions Pike was going through. It seemed to do the trick, because there was frantic shuffling on the other end of the phone. 

“Y-yeah, uh, give me twenty minutes!” Something crashed on the other end, but Ilya had heard enough. He ended the call silently, his hand moving back toward Marleau so he could take the phone again. 

“Pike will be here in twenty minutes, driving Shane’s car. We will meet him outside.” 

“Roz, your wounds-” 

“Marleau,” Ilya interrupted Marleau’s concerns, his voice sharp as he began to attempt to stand up. He was still a little light-headed, but with a few painkillers in him and his wounds cleaned, he knew he could push through. 

He needed to get Shane the fuck out of here. That was the number one priority. 

Marleau kept his mouth shut. Ilya could see it in his friend's eyes, how much he wanted to retaliate against Ilya’s words and actions. But Ilya was the leader, end of story; if he made these decisions, then they were final. Even if it got him killed. 

He leaned heavily on the railing as he made his way up the stairs; his breathing was still short and distorted, but he soldiered on. When Ilya got to the top of the stairs, he hobbled over to the bar counter and sat himself on one of the stools. 

Morning light shone through the front windows; most of them were shattered from the bullets. It was beautiful to see the broken shards of glass reflecting off the sunrise. It promised a better day. 

Ilya heard the slide of a glass on the counter and looked up. He stared down at a double shot of vodka placed between his stained hands. He wordlessly took it, tipped it towards Wyatt, who had given it to him, and then downed it in two large gulps. 

Now all they did was wait. No one said anything to Ilya for fear that he would snap at them, so they aimlessly cleaned around him. Resetting overturned chairs, throwing out furniture with bullet holes or burns in them, and cleaning glass off the tabletops and booths. It was as quiet as Ilya could handle, and he focused on the bottom of his glass until he heard the sound of a car engine.

Troy lifted his head and looked outside; all the boys were on high alert, even though they were warned of Hayden’s arrival. But their bodies immediately deflated once they recognized Shane’s gold Mazda parked in front of the bar. 

Ilya got up before Hayden could walk inside. He bit his tongue and held his head high as he forced the pain out of his system to walk forward. He clumsily shoved out the front doors of the bar, having to stop himself for a moment to readjust. Then he met Hayden at the car.

Hayden was getting out of the vehicle when he spotted Ilya. It was almost comedic how his jaw instantly dropped at the sight of him. Ilya knew he looked terrible, all Shane’s and his blood mixed on his arms, elbows, and torso. He knew he had some in his hair, and the bandages were wrapped around his bicep, shoulder, and stomach to keep him from moving too much. He looked like Frankenstein’s monster put back together again.

“What the fuck happened?” Hayden was concerned, and Ilya knew it wasn’t for him. The way Hayden’s eyes frantically searched behind and around Ilya, and the more Hayden absorbed the surroundings of the bar, the more intense his expression got.

“Where’s Shane?” It was impressive how Hayden’s voice went deeper and scarier. He looked like a bubbly guy every time Ilya had seen him speaking with Shane. But now, in front of Ilya and being faced with a shocking discovery, Hayden Pike looked ready to kill someone.

Good.

“Do you want to know what the reality of being in a gang is? Look at me,” Ilya held one of his arms out, allowing Hayden to take it all in. He wanted him to see each blood stain and wound across his body. He needed Hayden to be hit hard with the facts. 

Hayden’s face morphed in rage, and Ilya could see the way his eyes hardened and lips thinned out. The realization of something catastrophic formed in his brain. In a flash, Hayden charged forward and attempted to tackle Ilya to the ground. 

“What the fuck did you do to him?!” Hayden growled out, his hands gripping Ilya’s shoulders and shoving him backwards. Ilya winced, but Troy, Wyatt, and Marleau were on him in a second. 

Marleau and Troy held Hayden back while Wyatt checked on Ilya; they all awaited Ilya’s response. 

“You think I hurt him?” Ilya asked. The evidence was all over him; Ilya couldn’t blame Hayden for thinking that way. 

“It wouldn’t be the fucking first time!” Hayden shoots back, and it cuts deep like it was meant to. 

Ilya nods, absorbing the emotional and physical pain that hit him. 

“It was a drive-by shooting. He was caught in the middle.” 

Hayden looks devastated, and his eyes lowered to the ground as they filled with tears. His mouth moves, but nothing comes out, and he stops fighting against Marleau and Troy’s grip. 

“Is he…?” Hayden can’t finish; the words lodge in his throat.

“Alive? Yes,” Ilya doesn’t bother watching Hayden deflate with relief. Instead, he turns on his heel and shakes off Wyatt’s attempts at stabilizing him. Ilya nods his head toward the direction of the basement, silently telling everyone to follow, including Hayden. 

God, he needed a cigarette. 

Many footsteps follow him, and Ilya grips the railing hard as he steps down into the basement where his sleeping beauty is. Shane is exactly where they left him, not even his head had moved. He looks dead, like another corpse for them to throw into the swamp lands. 

“F-fuck,” Hayden’s gasp hits the air hard, and he rockets past Ilya to get to Shane. A sob shakes Hayden’s shoulders as he leans forward, pressing his chest into the blood-stained felt on the pool table to place a shaky hand on Shane’s bicep. 

“Shane?” Hayden whispers, his eyes wide and begging for a response. Ilya cringes and looks away, the sight being too intimate for him. Hayden had been friends with Shane for a very long time. Ilya had heard stories from Shane when they were at their special spot. When they’d shoot hockey pucks at Hayden’s garage door, or set up a net in the middle of the street to play with the neighbourhood kids. They had a deep connection, and one Ilya had shaken tremendously as soon as he came into the picture. 

Ilya takes a deep breath, reminding himself why he sent Hayden here, truly, in the first place. 

“Do you still want to be part of this gang, now that you see your friend lying on this table half dead?” Ilya is very serious, and he sucks in a breath before mustering up the courage to look at Hayden after speaking. 

Hayden pauses, his eyes grow distant as he thinks. That second of hesitancy is enough for Ilya. 

“Tell me what your decision is right now. If you don’t want to, then you take him now and never come back,” Ilya kept his chin held high, and he could see each phase of emotion filtering through Hayden’s eyes. He could read that man like a book. 

First, a shy nod. Ilya sees Hayden jerk his head up and down ever so slightly. The nodding continues and grows more pronounced.

“Say it,” Ilya says. He needed the words coming out of Hayden Pike’s mouth.

“I want to be a part of the Centaurs,” Hayden doesn’t miss a beat. He rises from his position where he knelt over the pool table, squaring his shoulders. 

“Good,” Ilya approves. He can see the other men around them looking extremely confused, and Marleau was biting his tongue from behind Hayden. Ilya did not have time to explain.

“Your first task is to keep Shane the fuck away from me.” 

There is silence after Ilya’s words. It’s a level of shock that blankets the room. Ilya sees every head turn towards Shane’s still form. Ilya forced his eyes on Hayden only. He couldn’t back down from this. 

“He will try to get to me, and you will not let that happen. You will take care of him during his recovery, and I will get Rex to do regular visits. He will ask you about me, and you will simply tell him the truth: I have moved to Montreal in fear that he will get killed.” 

“Roz-“ 

Troy’s voice tries to butt in, but Ilya’s death-glare that was snapped toward him caused him to shut his mouth instantly. Ilya didn’t have the time to debate this. Shane was in danger with him; this was clear. 

He couldn’t stay with him during his recovery. Ilya has done nothing but give Shane pain and suffering since they first met. Bringing rival gang members into the bar to beat in front of him, smashing a guy's face in for flirting with Shane. What kind of man did that? The answer was jealous, pathetic, and not a real man at all.

Ilya was a coward, and now he needed to embrace it. The truth was, he couldn’t love someone. Not as the leader of the Centaurs. Shane will hate him; he’ll kick and scream his way to Ilya, but he’ll get over it eventually. Maybe he’ll find himself another man, one who will treat him right. 

“What if he gets really bad? He’s been shot and didn’t get proper medical care…there could be infections!” Hayden tried to hide the panic in his tone.

Ilya shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal. 

“Then you will call Rex or me and make sure it gets dealt with.” 

Hayden looked at Ilya like he was a stranger. His eyes hardened, and that rage filled them once again. Hayden stepped forward in a challenge; they were almost nose to nose.

And now none of the other guys stopped him, as if they wanted Hayden to swing at him. 

Fine. He deserved it.

“And if he fucking dies? Hm? What then?” Haden’s voice is dripping with venom, all saved to spit at Ilya.

Ilya’s jaw tightens; he doesn’t stop the staring contest with Hayden. He could do this all day, even when he’s barely on his feet from being shot twice.

“You won't let that happen.” 

Hayden stepped away, suddenly gaining some common sense. He knew fighting Ilya wasn’t going to be a good decision. 

“Now take him home in his car. He is high on pain medication, and we will give you some on the way out.” Ilya was back to business.

The boys were hesitant, and their faces showed it all. As Ilya bossed them around and told them to grab Shane and bring him to Hayden’s car, none of them acknowledged him. Of course, they did what he said, but their eyes never met Ilya’s, and they wouldn’t dare nod their heads to his words.

Ilya deserved that. He knew Shane was important to those boys, too, but this needed to happen.

Troy was the one who picked Shane’s frail body up the stairs and into Shane’s backseat. Ilya trailed behind them, observing how Troy stared down at Shane with pity. He was ever-so delicate when he placed Shane down into the backseat of his beat-up Mazda, and he gave Shane’s body one last longing glance before closing the door.

Hayden didn’t get into the car right away. He was standing near Ilya and glaring at the backseat like there was a monster inside it. 

“You’re asking me to lie to my friend, you know that, right?” Hayden was grim.

Ilya finally pulled out a cigarette and happily hugged it between his lips, lighting it. He took in a long, drawn-out drag and forced Hayden to wait impatiently for his response.

“What? About you joining the gang? You said yes, Pike, I did not make you do anything.” 

Hayden’s eye twitched, and he looked down at the ground.

“I think you knew I’d say yes,” Hayden finally found his voice after the comment. 

“Mm, yes and no. I show you your best friend bleeding and give you an understanding of reality. Are you telling me you can’t do this, Pike?” 

With no other words spoken, Hayden shook his head in defeat. He took his time walking to the other side of the car, where the driver's seat was. When he opened the door, that’s when he looked up to lock eyes with Ilya. 

It was a silent understanding. A quiet agreement between them both. As Ilya puffed on his cigarette, Hayden nodded his way and then slumped into the car. 

Ilya didn’t leave the parking lot until Hayden had pulled out and disappeared down the road. The taillights are a blurred pair of dots along the horizon. Ilya said his goodbyes in his head, wishing Shane the best and that he’d find peace. 

It was time to consume himself with revenge.