Chapter Text
By evening, they’ve increased Ilya’s sedation again.
The pressure in his head started climbing. There was a moment where his blood pressure skyrocketed and his heart rate dropped— he was overstimulated, apparently, and his brain is still too swollen for him to start waking up safely.
They’d gotten as far his eyes opening blankly for a few seconds during a neuro check, and his hand squeezing weakly around Shane’s once, but it was too much for him. He needs more rest. They’re going to wait overnight and try again in the morning.
"This is what the surgeon was talking about," Mom says, squeezing Shane’s arm as they walk out to the car, after sitting with Ilya until nearly midnight. "They’re going at his pace. They’ll try again tomorrow."
Shane says nothing.
He watches out the window as they drive home, sitting in the backseat of his parents’ SUV like he’s a kid again. The whole city is decorated for the holidays— there’s tinsel and twinkling lights all over, city buses with MERRY CHRISTMAS flashing across the front of them, a blanket of perfect snow on the ground. He thinks about the decorations he put up at the cottage earlier this month, excited to finally have a reason to do so— he’d bring Ilya there, they’d wrap gifts, and they’d sit there together in the glow of the tree’s lights. He was planning to give Ilya a proper Canadian Christmas.
(In Russia, our Christmas is in January, but is less important holiday— more religious, you go to church then have a big meal. We do big parties for New Year’s instead, with all the presents and everything. My family does not do much, but— some do. Sveta’s does, I used to go along with her mostly.)
(He’d been excited to do Christmas with the Hollanders. He’s been talking about gift ideas for Mom and Dad for months, and ordering constant packages to Shane’s house, with instructions not to look inside. Shane wasn’t even sure all the stuff would fit under the tree.)
(I like gifts. Is exciting to me, giving things— then I remember that I get presents too, and get even more excited.)
(He’s so fucking cute.)
But Shane looks at the pile of boxes in his living room tonight— an abundance of presents for him and his family from his kind, perfect boyfriend, next to the already-wrapped ones with Ilya’s name on them— and he fucking cries. This isn’t fair.
"We’ll just reschedule," Mom whispers to him, approaching behind him and hugging him. "Maybe by New Year’s or Orthodox Christmas, he’ll be doing well enough for something lowkey. Even if he’s still in the hospital, he might be ready for a day pass to come have dinner and do presents… or maybe we bring it to him instead. Whenever he’s ready, okay?"
"I have a bunch of road games," Shane mumbles. "I leave on the thirtieth and I’m gone for almost two weeks."
"You’ve had a family emergency, and it’s a very valid excuse to miss some games," Mom corrects him, as if the idea of her telling him to skip hockey isn’t completely insane. "You wouldn’t expect Hayden to travel if Jackie were in Ilya’s shoes."
But that’s his wife, Shane wants to say.
He thinks about it, though, and like—
If he tells the guys that Boston Lily is in the hospital— that she came for Christmas and something happened and he needs to be with her— everyone would get it, because they know he’s been involved with Lily for years. On and off, calling her just a friend, but involved nonetheless. Ilya, or Lily, is his long-term partner. They wouldn’t expect him to be practicing and playing like everything’s normal. Any of the guys with a wife or a serious girlfriend would take time off for something like this.
He nods.
"Okay. I might call Hayden and— he thinks I have a girlfriend. I’ll tell him she’s in the hospital. He’ll have questions, but… I don’t know. I’ll figure it out."
Speak of the devil, his watch lights up with a text.
Hey. Sorry for messaging so late, JUST got Amber to sleep 😭 I wanted to see how you’re doing though, call me when you can.
He pulls his phone out.
I can call now if you want
Hayden responds by immediately phoning him. Shane jogs up to his room to answer it.
"Hey."
"Hey, man. How are you?"
Shane sighs, sinking onto the edge of his bed.
"Pretty shitty, not gonna lie. I just got home from the hospital. It’s been a day."
"Shit. I’m so sorry to hear that. What’s going on? I mean— you don’t have to tell me, but if you wanna talk about it."
Here goes nothing.
"It’s Lily." He pauses, hears Hayden’s breath catch a little in surprise. "She, um— she came up here for Christmas, but she got in an accident, and— it’s really bad. She’s in ICU, she had brain surgery today. She hasn’t woken up yet."
"Holy fuck," Hayden breathes. "Oh my god, Shane, that’s awful."
Shane swallows thickly.
"Yeah. Yeah, it’s— not good. They keep saying she’ll probably be fine, and we just have to wait, but the waiting fucking sucks."
"I bet. How are you holding up?"
"I’m hanging in there. My parents are here, they’ve been really good. I sat with her for most of today." He pauses, his throat getting tight. "Um, you know I’ve been casual with her for years, right, but we finally made it official in the summer, and this was supposed to be our first real holiday together. I’m just really fucking sad, man."
"God, I’m so sorry, Shane."
He thinks about Ilya all alone, back at the hospital. They should be lying next to each other tonight, but they’re not.
"I’m so scared. I love him so much."
He realizes it as soon as he says it.
Him.
Shit. No, no, no— he can’t believe he let that slip.
"Shane?" Hayden asks. He definitely heard it.
He’s about to start lying again, trying to explain the slip of the tongue, but he cuts himself off. He can’t fucking do this anymore, not to Hayden.
Fuck it.
"Shit. Yeah. I love him."
It’s quiet for a second.
"What do you mean?"
Shane swallows.
"I’m gay." He pauses to breathe. "Lily is a fake name. He’s my boyfriend. I can’t keep fucking lying to you, I’m so sorry— please don’t tell anyone."
He hears Hayden exhale.
It’s quiet for too long. Shane starts to panic.
"That’s why you were so cagey about her. Or, him. Jesus, that makes so much more sense. I figured something was weird, but I didn’t know what." Hayden finally says. "I mean— thank you for telling me, man. I support you one hundred percent. I’m a… what is it? An ally. Hell yeah. Rock on."
"Oh my god," Shane can’t help but laugh. "You are so fucking stupid."
"I’ll even buy that rainbow tape for my stick."
"Hayden."
"Shit— sorry. I got so excited about the boyfriend thing, and forgot the part where he’s in the hospital. I’ll calm down." He pauses. "What’s his name?"
Shane blinks.
(The gay part was one thing, but the Ilya Rosanov part is another. That might be too far.)
"I wish I could tell you, but he’s in the closet too," he starts, "and I think outing him while he’s in a coma would be, like, kind of fucked up. We haven’t really talked about telling our friends yet, and I don’t know what he’s comfortable with." He chews the side of his fingernail. "Sorry. I’ll keep calling him Lily for now, but— yeah."
"Makes sense," Hayden replies. "This is such a shitty situation, bro. If there’s anything I can do to be helpful, just let me know— we’ve got a busy couple days while my parents are in town, but that also means I’ve got someone to watch the kids if you need me to, like, bring you lunch at the hospital or something. Say the word."
"Thanks," Shane sighs. "If anything, I might just need you to wear the C for a few games. I think I’m gonna take some leave while he’s still in the hospital."
"Of course. You should. Take as long as you need."
"Thanks, Hayd."
"Speaking of leave… have you heard anything about Rosanov? Boston hasn’t posted about how he’s doing at all— I still can’t believe he got hit like that."
Shane rubs a hand over his face. This is too complicated, thinking about Lily and Ilya as separate people.
"I haven’t heard anything, but I mean, I’ve been a little busy."
"Yeah, fuck. Fair enough. I know Couillard feels awful— not his fault obviously, it was an accident, but he’s kinda freaking out. He was scared he killed him."
"Jesus," Shane breathes. "Yeah, it’s scary shit. If I hear anything, I’ll let you guys know."
More lying. This is ridiculous.
In the background of the call, there’s a high-pitched cry.
"Amber…" Hayden groans. "Listen, if you and this Lily guy ever have a kid somehow— like, adopting or something— get ready for the six-month sleep regression. This is fucking horrible. She screams all night. I gotta go."
Shane laughs.
"Have fun."
"I always do. Goodnight. Keep me posted about your boy, let me know how he’s doing. I’m here for you."
"Thanks, man. We’ll talk soon. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
And with that, Shane flops back on his bed, utterly exhausted.
-
He’s breathing wrong.
It’s like— he’s not doing it himself. The air is getting pushed in and pulled out on its own. It’s happening to him from the outside. It’s not right.
He’s too fucking tired to think about it. Everything’s fuzzy, some part of him hurts, and he can tell without a doubt that something is wrong.
He tries to take a breath, carefully timing it to the same moment the air is pushing in, and—
His body relaxes. It worked.
He’s so tired that he can’t really do it again, but he doesn’t have to. The breathing keeps happening. He’s fine.
He sleeps.
-
"I saw him trying to take some spontaneous breaths," today’s nurse, Kara, explains. "You can see sometimes that his chest will rise a little bit before the ventilator actually pushes air, which means he’s trying to do it himself— his doctor will probably order a breathing trial later this morning, and then extubate if it goes well."
Shane kisses the back of Ilya’s hand.
(Even with a different nurse today, another new set of eyes on them, he’s here as Ilya’s boyfriend. The bubble of the hospital room is safe. He’s going to be as affectionate as he wants.)
"Awesome," he says. He turns to Ilya. "You’re really trying, hey? That’s so good. You’re doing so good."
They’re trying to lower the sedation again this morning, and it’s finally going smoothly. His vitals have stayed good, and he’s had more little reactions to things. He looks like shit— it turns out the dark circles under his eyes were in fact bruises, because they’re getting even worse today, and Shane’s never seen him this pale before.
"Ilya," Shane says, softly, once Kara is gone, just to watch the way it makes his face twitch— his eyes flutter and his lips purse around the tube in his mouth. He can hear, he can recognize his name. "You’re coming back to us, aren’t you?"
His jaw drops slightly as he watches a tear slip from Ilya’s eye.
"You’re okay," he rushes out, quickly moving to wipe it. "Hey, I’m right here. You’re fine, baby. You’re safe."
-
He knows that voice.
He wants to go to it, but he doesn’t know where he is. He’s underwater, swimming somewhere, and he wants to get out. He wants to go home.
That voice sounds like home. Why can’t he go to it?
-
"He started crying," he tells Mom, when she comes in after switching off with Dad. "I don’t— I didn’t know he could do that, while he’s still out."
"Oh, Ilya," she sighs, looking sad. She touches his arm. "This must be so scary. You’re okay, dear."
"Do you think that’s what it is? He’s scared?"
Mom shrugs, and doesn’t look away from Ilya’s face.
"He probably doesn’t know what’s going on. He can hear you, but he can’t move. I’d be scared."
"Ilya, I promise you’re safe," Shane tells him. He strokes his hair. "You’re in the hospital. You got hurt, but you’re okay. It’s Shane. I’m right here. You’re gonna be alright."
Ilya’s eyes open for a second. They’re blank and unfocused. They close again.
-
It’s bright.
Too bright to see, too blurry to know what’s there.
He doesn’t know how he got his eyes to open, but he can’t keep them that way, because it’s too much. It’s so hard. He’s so tired.
The warm blanket of nothingness is coming back, and he lets it tuck him in. It’s a bit like Mama tucking him into bed, he thinks. It’s nice.
-
The breathing trial goes well.
Ilya breathes on his own for the full forty minutes that the ventilator is turned off, and his vitals stay where they should.
He’s reacting more and more— last time he opened his eyes, he seemed to be tracking a little, trying to see. Last time the nurse pinched his finger to get his reaction to pain, he tried to shove her away. He’s been moving his mouth around the breathing tube, almost like he wants to talk. There’s still long, frustrating periods of stillness between those moments, where Shane wonders if anything’s even happening at all.
He is waking up, though, as slow of a process as it is.
"The doctor has decided he’s strong enough to extubate," the respiratory therapist says. "It’s a bit of scary process to watch— he’ll probably gag and cough while we pull the tube out, he might vomit, but he’ll be okay. We’ll have suction and oxygen ready. He might be in some pain, but it’ll pass. This is a quick procedure, and he’ll be much more comfortable once it’s over."
"He’ll be able to talk, once the tube’s out?" Shane asks.
"He might talk, or he might not be ready yet, but he’ll at least have the option to try." She smiles. "If you’d like to stay in the room for the extubation, it might help keep him calm if you hold his hand. Once we coach him through the first few breaths, you can start talking to him. He probably knows your voice, even if he can’t understand you, and it’ll help orient him."
Shane nods.
"I can do that."
(A task is helpful. He’s here to help Ilya stay calm. That’s something he knows he can do.)
"We’ll probably go for it in about fifteen minutes, then, once his nurse is ready. Do you have any other questions?"
Shane shakes his head. He looks over to Dad, who doesn’t seem to have any either.
He wonders if Ilya’s listening to any of this, if he’s aware enough to really hear it. He wonders about, like— Ilya has a harder time with English when he’s upset or tired. What if his brain’s defaulted back to Russian and he’s not understanding a word they’re saying? What if, even when he wakes up, he’s all lost and confused?
That’s not a problem for right now, though. They’ll cross that when they come to it.
-
Not only does Ilya gag and cough when the tube comes out, but he thrashes— his eyes fly open, he jerks his arms and legs, grabbing onto his blankets, and he makes this awful choking noise that Shane is never going to be able to erase from his memory.
"Take a big, deep breath," the RT is telling him, incredibly calmly. "You have to breathe, Ilya. Come on."
His face starts to go red while his monitors all start beeping and freaking out. His eyes are squeezed shut now, tears running from them as he twists his head against the pillow, coughing hard.
The RT rubs his chest while Kara puts an oxygen mask over his face.
"This is good. Cough it out. You’re okay, the tube is gone." She gives his chest a couple of pats. "Let’s breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
Ilya gags again, truly looking like he’s about to vomit… but nothing comes up. His coughs get a little weaker.
In fact, he finally starts to settle. The coughing fades out, he gags again on whatever he’s coughed up, but Kara’s quick to suction it away.
Shane hadn’t noticed himself holding his breath, but he finally exhales when Ilya does.
"You did so good, baby," Shane finds himself saying. "Hey, I’m right here. I’m right here." He squeezes Ilya’s hand between both of his own. "I’m so proud of you."
Ilya opens his eyes again, but it doesn’t last long. He looks a little more focused, in the half-second that he tries to look around, but it simply seems to take too much effort to keep it up.
"Ilya," Shane continues. "Ya tebya lyublyu. More than anything."
The noise Ilya makes isn’t quite a word— more of an exhale, really, with a suggestion of a sound attached to it— but it’s enough to make Shane’s chest ache with relief.
He’s here. He’s still here.
"I hear you, babe. Okay?" He kisses Ilya’s hand. "I hear you."
(It still feels weird being like this in front of people, but for the sake of his sanity, Shane refuses to think about it. They’re Shane and Ilya here, not Hollander and Rosanov.)
-
It’s nearing evening when Ilya starts to mumble.
It’s in Russian, Shane’s pretty sure, or it might even just be nonsense— it’s a couple of words at a time, barely audible, eyes closed and brow furrowed. He’ll squeeze Shane’s hand as he tries to talk, and Shane tries to listen, but he can’t make any of it out.
(It would help to have Sveta here to translate, but she’s currently texting Shane from England, where the rush of holiday travel and shitty weather has her stuck halfway here with delays and cancelled flights.)
"Ne volnuytes," Shane tries, the syllables moving clunkily off his tongue as he tries to copy the pronunciation from his translation app. "Ty v bezopasnosti."
Don’t worry. You’re okay.
Subtly, Ilya turns his head toward Shane’s voice, but doesn’t open his eyes. He tugs on the sheets with his free hand.
Shane types and translates another sentence.
"Ty v bol'nitse. Vse v poryadke."
You’re in the hospital. Everything is fine.
Ilya frowns and a few tears fall.
He mumbles:
"Ya khochu svoyu mama."
(That one, Shane knows.)
(Duolingo recently taught him the verb to want, and he definitely recognizes that last word.)
(I want my mama.)
There’s an immediate lump in Shane’s throat.
He carefully wipes Ilya’s tears away.
"Oh, Ilyusha," he whispers, cradling his face.
There’s nothing else he can say. He doesn’t have the words, in English or in Russian, for this kind of heartbreak.
-
Holding hands.
Someone is holding his hand.
That’s what that feeling is. He knows that, he recognizes it, he wants to feel it more.
He wants to know who it is.
A low, gentle voice— the one from before that made him feel warm and happy— calls him ‘Ilyusha’.
He still feels so tired, but he squeezes the hand he’s holding. He doesn’t want to let go yet.
-
"Shane," Dad says. "You should go eat. I picked up some dinner, it’s with Mom in the family room."
Shane nods.
(He’s stopped paying attention to his body’s cues, at this point. He doesn’t feel hungry. He’s too focused on Ilya to even notice.)
(He needs to eat, though. He’s totally ruined his diet already. His calorie count is all off. He had a late lunch while Ilya was having an MRI earlier today, but he’s been back in the room since then.)
"I know," he sighs. "It’s just—"
He tries to let go of Ilya’s hand.
Ilya squeezes his fingers like a vice, then grimaces and mumbles:
"No…"
Shane swallows.
"He won’t let me leave," he tells Dad, showing off their intertwined hands. "I think I’m stuck."
(It reminds him of how Ilya will roll on top of him and trap him in bed when they both know they need to leave. Half-asleep, won’t even open his eyes, just mumbling things like: do you really have to go?)
Dad laughs softly.
"Yeah, he’s got you good, eh?"
"He’s just scared," Shane replies, not looking away from Ilya’s face. "It’s okay. I’m gonna stay with him. I’ll eat later."
This not-quite-awake stage is hard to watch.
Ilya keeps groaning in pain, twisting around in bed, and opening his eyes but not managing to focus them. He’s restless, but so tired, and he constantly looks like he’s in the midst of a bad dream.
Maybe he is, honestly. God knows what his brain thinks is going on right now.
"You’re taking good care of him," Dad says. "I’m proud of you, buddy."
"Thanks, Dad."
-
He’s in a bed.
He’s lying in bed, his head hurts, and the lovely voice that he likes so much belongs to Shane.
His Shane. His beautiful, kind, careful, loving Shane.
He’s missed Shane lately, he thinks. He can’t really remember why— they don’t live together for some reason, but he thinks he’d be happier if they did. He wants Shane beside him all the time. He sleeps so much better when they’re in the same bed.
Slowly, he comes to the surface of the weird, floaty place he’s been. That’s where Shane is. He needs to get there.
He opens his eyes. He’s in control of it, this time— the world isn’t too bright or too much, and he’s able to search his field of vision for the familiar shape he knows should be there.
"Ilya," Shane says. There he is. "Hi. You look more awake this time."
Everything else is hazy, but he lets his gaze cling to Shane’s face. He tries not to blink, in case he can’t get his eyes open again once they close.
"Sh—" he starts, but he coughs, and all that comes out is a puff of sound. He tries again. "Shane."
He watches Shane’s eyes immediately get teary— that thing he does where he thinks no one can tell he’s about to cry, as long as he holds it in.
"Yeah, it’s me. You don’t have to talk, baby. I know it’s hard," Shane says. He leans closer and strokes Ilya’s cheek. "I’m just happy to see you."
Ilya stares at him.
Shane looks tired. He has his glasses on. It’s dark, maybe nighttime. Did Ilya wake him up?
"It’s really late, I need to go home now, okay? I’m glad you’re awake for me to say goodbye."
Ilya’s head aches with the strain of staying awake.
Shane is leaving. That’s all he can make sense of. The word goodbye is the only one that sticks.
Why? he wants to ask. What did I do? Why are you leaving me?
(Hollander… Hollander. That was all he could get out, sitting stunned on his couch as Shane walked away from him. He’d planned a whole day, he couldn’t understand how it went so wrong.)
He musters the energy to move his fingers, and finds himself grasping weakly at Shane’s sleeve.
"No."
Shane sighs.
"I know," he whispers. "I know. I’ll be back in the morning, I promise. I’m just going home to sleep, and I’ll be right here again."
Ilya doesn’t know when morning is.
But Shane is coming back. That’s good.
He manages a nod—maybe it’s just gravity dragging his chin down.
"You should sleep, too," Shane tells him. "Okay? You had a big day, I’m so proud of you. Tomorrow’s gonna be even better."
Ilya watches him. He loves him so much.
Shane leans down and rests their foreheads together for a moment. The contact is enough to make Ilya’s chest ache.
He wants Shane to climb into this bed with him, can’t understand why he won’t.
"Shane."
"I love you so much. I’ll see you soon."
The world feels empty when Shane stops touching him.
Ilya feels tired again. His eyes start to close.
Shane is coming back.
It’s okay.