Chapter Text
CBC’s Hockey Night in Canada
December 22, 2017
Oh, wow, you do not expect a brick wall like Rosanov to go down like that. It doesn’t look like he’s even moving.
I mean, a slapshot to the head will do it, though— it looked like the puck caught him just below the back rim of his helmet. That’s gotta smart.
Not something you want to see… even Hollander looks worried, he’s heading over to check on him.
That’s one thing you can count on with these two: rivalry or not, they’ve got a lot of respect between them. They’re good guys.
It almost gives you déjà vu, doesn’t it? A little over eight months ago, end of last season, it was Hollander who went down, and we got the same reaction from Rosanov. Captain to captain, keeping an eye on each other— that’s what this game is about.
We've got medics on the ice, bringing out a stretcher. And— oh, we’ve got the replay here. Jeez. That’s awful. Right in the back of the head, and just low enough that he had no protection from his helmet.
It’s got every player on the ice looking worried, not a pretty scene at all. I think we’re gonna head to commercial here, and we’ll update you in a couple minutes.
-
"I can’t move," Ilya’s saying, though he’s not sure what language he’s saying it in, because all he can focus on right now is the blinding pain in the back of his head. "I can’t— I can’t—"
"Rozy, I can’t understand you, man," Marleau says, kneeling right next to him, flashing in and out of his vision. "You gotta tell me in English. The medical guys are coming, okay?"
"I can’t move," he tries again. "It hurts— fuck."
He must’ve gotten it right, because Marleau’s eyes go wide.
"You can’t move!?"
Ilya doesn’t know if he’s just scared to move, or if he actually can’t; he’s in the exact position he hit the ground in, curled up on his side, and everything feels vaguely numb. He’s definitely got no shot at standing up or skating to the bench right now.
"Where is Shane?" he asks, only realizing afterwards that he shouldn’t be asking for Shane Fucking Hollander in front of everyone. He’s just scared. "I need—"
The medics are pushing past Marleau, getting in close to him. Ilya knows these guys. He’ll be okay.
"Rozy," Brian, the team doctor says, "talk to me, buddy. That puck clipped you pretty good, how’s the pain?"
Ilya blinks. He clenches his jaw against a wave of nausea. He rests his cheek on the ice, and the cold helps a little.
"Bad. Very bad." He swallows. "Is Shane here?"
Brian frowns.
"Shane Hollander? Yeah, I mean, he’s behind me, but— let’s focus on you right now. Can you move your feet for me?"
"He said he couldn’t move," Marleau cuts in. "I don’t know if he meant—"
Ilya manages to flex his ankles as much as he can with skates on. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels weird— like a shock went through his whole body at the impact, and he’s still reeling from it.
"Okay, that’s good. I’m gonna grab your hands, give me a good squeeze. As hard as you can."
At some point when he fell, his gloves flew off. His hands are cold, but he squeezes. Brian looks relieved.
"Great. Good." Someone hands Brian a piece of gauze, and then he’s holding it to Ilya’s face. "Your nose is bleeding here, bud. Did you hit your face when you fell?"
Ilya tries to remember.
"I don’t know." He’s trying to look past the swarm of people, get a look at Shane. "I want— tell Hollander I’m okay."
"What is your obsession with him?" Marleau asks. He looks up, though, and waves. "Hollzy, get over here. He’s talking about you for some reason."
Shane is there in moments, sliding in on one knee. Ilya immediately feels much better.
"Hey," Shane breathes, looking terrified.
"Hi," Ilya says. He wants to reach out and touch his face, smooth the worry out of his brow. "I’m fine."
"Right," Shane says. "Yeah, sure, you look totally fine."
(He doesn’t do sarcasm much. That’s kind of funny. It hurts too much to laugh, but Ilya smiles a bit.)
"Roz, focus on me," Brian says, sounding urgent. "I think you’ve got spinal fluid coming out of your nose with the blood, kid. We need to get to the hospital. We’re gonna move you, okay?"
"Spinal fluid?" Ilya hears Shane ask, while several sets of hands carefully maneuver him onto a spinal board. "That’s— like, really bad, right?"
"It’s not great," Brian replies, "but we’re awake and talking, we’re able to move— that’s all good. Rozy, we’re gonna put a collar on you to keep you from moving your head. Easy… good. Now, I want you to follow my finger with your eyes."
Everything’s a little too blurry for him to do that. His eyes start to close instead.
"Hey, no. Eyes open. We’re moving you onto the stretcher now. One, two, three, lift."
Another wave of nausea hits as the medics lift him like he doesn’t weigh a thing. He can’t turn his head much with the collar on, can’t see Shane. It’s starting to freak him out.
"Okay, elevate the head," another voice says, maybe a paramedic, while they’re strapping him down. "Let’s get him sitting up a bit so his nose isn’t draining down his throat."
"Roz, you’re gonna be fine," Brian tells him, getting into his line of sight. "We’re gonna move fast, we’ll get you checked out at the hospital. You’re okay."
He can faintly hear sticks tapping as they start to roll the stretcher, alongside the applause of the crowd.
"Everyone back to your benches," a ref is saying. He’s pushing Shane away. "Come on. Out of the way, okay?"
"Shane," Ilya says, coughing in the middle of it. He spits up a mouthful of blood, probably from the nosebleed. "You have to— tell him I’m okay."
"What?" someone asks. "Buddy, I can’t understand you. Just relax."
"I need my—" Ilya cuts himself off. Words are fucking hard right now, especially in English. "I don’t know."
"Your coach is calling your emergency contacts, okay?"
He has no family left. His only emergency contact is Sveta, who’s in Russia right now, where it’s early enough in the morning that she likely won’t be awake.
(He’s been wondering about maybe adding one of Shane’s parents’ numbers to his file— he still doesn’t know them that well, apart from the few dinners they shared together at the lake this summer, but they’ve been insistent that he’s part of the family now. He just thinks it might be nice, if he were hurt, to have a parent come for him.)
"No one will answer," Ilya mumbles. It’s getting harder to stay awake. He wants Shane. "I need—"
He can’t keep his eyes open.
Fuck.
-
"Was Rosanov asking for you?" J.J. says, following him to the bench. "What was that about?"
Shane wants to throw up. He feels like he’s dying.
"He, um— he thought the puck clipped me, too, since I was right there," he lies. "He was asking if I was okay."
J.J. raises an eyebrow. Shane wasn’t that close to Ilya when Couillard’s slapshot came flying, but it’s a decent, quick excuse for why he might’ve been waved over.
"Really? He was checking on you?"
Shane doesn’t have the fucking patience for this.
"He’s not a complete piece of shit, okay? He just got cracked in the skull with a fucking puck, he’s super out of it, and he wanted to make sure no one else got hurt. He can be nice sometimes. We’ve known each other for like ten fucking years."
"Okay, calisse, relax," J.J. laughs. "You are sucking each other’s dicks too, or what?"
Shane shoves him.
"Can you not fucking joke right now?" He’s got his captain voice on, in full force. "He’s seriously hurt. Have some fucking respect."
J.J.’s expression sobers as Hayden joins them.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine," Shane snaps.
"I’m sorry," J.J. offers. "I’ll shut up."
Hayden glances back and forth between them.
(The crew is cleaning Ilya’s blood off the ice.)
(The clock is stopped at ten minutes left in the third. Ten minutes, plus however long cleanup takes, where he has to be Shane Hollander and not Shane, Ilya’s boyfriend. Those are two separate lives. They’re not supposed to conflict like this.)
"You alright, Hollzy?" Hayden tries again, squeezing Shane’s shoulder through his pads. "What was going on back there?"
Shane sighs.
"Rosanov thought I got hit, too. He asked if I was okay, I went over to tell him I was. He was not doing good, even the medics were freaking out."
"Shit." Hayden shakes his head. "I don’t like the guy, but holy hell. That was a bad spot to take a puck. I wonder if it broke his skull."
Shane genuinely throws up a little in his mouth. He finally steps into the actual bench and sits down, trying to let the nausea pass.
"Right before Christmas, too," someone else says. "Just bad luck, eh? Brutal."
Shane drops his head in his hands.
(Ilya was supposed to spend Christmas with him at the cottage, with Mom and Dad. It was such good luck that the schedule worked out like this— they’re in Montreal, they have the next four days off for the holidays, and they were planning to go straight there tomorrow morning.)
(So much for that.)
"Shane, you’re freaking out, man," Hayden says, sitting next to him, a hand on his back. "That really shook you up, huh?"
Shane shrugs.
"Never wanna see anyone get hurt like that," he mutters, pulling a line from a script he might give the media, then shakes his head. "He was coughing up blood, they said he was leaking fucking spinal fluid out of his nose, that’s scary as hell."
"Jesus," Hayden breathes. "Yeah, that’s not good. I hope he’s okay."
And Shane simply can’t think about it yet. They’re Hollander and Rosanov until the end of this game— ten fucking minutes. And then he can lose his mind.
-
CBC’s Hockey Night in Canada
December 22, 2017
And we’re back, here in Montreal for the final Metros-Raiders matchup of 2017, which Montreal leads 4-2. If you’re just joining us, moments ago we saw Boston’s Ilya Rosanov getting some medical attention after taking a puck to the head— he went off on a stretcher just now, but he did look to be awake and responsive, so hopefully he’s doing alright.
As we wait for the rink staff to finish cleaning up the ice for the last ten minutes of play here, you can see how rattled these players are on both sides. You never like to see an injury like that. Over on the Metros bench, Shane Hollander looks to be a bit shaken up.
Well, we saw him get right down there and check on Rosanov, which was just a great show of sportsmanship. As much as they play up the rivalry, I've never gotten a sense that there’s actual bad blood between these two off the ice— you see it in moments like this. They’ve known each other their entire careers, and maybe they’re not best pals or anything, but after seeing them work together in the last All Stars game, there’s gotta be some kind of "hey, this is a guy who can kind of relate to what my career’s been like, maybe we can get along when we’re not going head to head" type of feelings there.
I agree. And Hollander’s just such a truly nice guy, so it doesn’t surprise me at all to see him showing some empathy here for an opposing player. I wouldn’t be shocked if we hear a story tonight or tomorrow that he’s stopped by the hospital to give Rozanov his best— that’s just his style of being a captain, and you’ve gotta respect it.
Absolutely. Alright, it looks like we’re getting ready to get back into play, here— let’s see what Boston can do with ten more minutes, down their best player. I hate to say we might see insult added to injury by the end of this period, but what are the chances they can even this score up?
-
He doesn’t say a word for the rest of the game.
He scores on the empty net when Boston pulls their goalie.
Montreal wins.
It’s fine.
(The buzzing of anxiety under his skin is almost painful. He can’t stop thinking of Ilya looking so fucking scared on that stretcher, asking for him. It’s all he can think of between shifts.)
He checks his phone as soon as he gets to the locker room.
From: Mom
3 minutes ago
Dad and I are on our way to Montreal. We were basically packed for the weekend anyways, and we figured you and Ilya could use some extra love around you tonight.
Are you okay? Call me when you can.
He takes a deep breath.
Presses his phone to his ear without even leaving the room.
"Mom," he breathes, the only word he can get out.
"Oh, Shane… honey. Are you alright?"
"Yeah."
Because it’s technically true. He’s not hurt, or anything.
He just… doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to blow off the team’s plan to go out, he doesn’t know how to kick himself into action to actually get from here to Ilya, he doesn’t know how to breathe.
She can sense all this, he realizes.
"Tell your teammates I just called you about a family emergency— say you have to leave, and that you can’t stick around for any media. Shower, change, and drive to Montreal General. That’s where the press release said they’re taking Ilya. We’ll meet you there, we’re on our way."
He takes a shaky breath.
"Okay."
A plan. That’s helpful.
"Shane, try to breathe, okay? You can call me again when you get to the hospital, we’ll talk through going inside. Focus on getting there first."
He’s really, really glad that she knows him so well— knows he won’t be able to go in there without some kind of script, knows he’s too overwhelmed to come up with one himself. She’ll tell him where to go, who to talk to, what to ask. She’ll make sure he gets to Ilya.
(As much as she can be overbearing sometimes, he’s so, so grateful for his mom.)
"Okay," he repeats. "Um, thanks. See you soon."
"I’ll see you soon, honey. I love you."
He nods, even though she can’t see him.
"Love you too."
He holds his phone to his ear for a moment longer, letting her hang up first. He focuses on his breathing.
Obviously, Hayden notices something’s wrong.
"Who’s on the phone, cap?"
Shane rubs a hand over his face, finally setting his phone down.
"Um, my mom. She’s been trying to get a hold of me— there’s, like, a family emergency, someone’s in the hospital. I really need to go."
"Oh, shit. Want me to go tell Coach?"
Shane nods.
"Yeah. Please. That would help."
Hayden gives him a quick side hug.
"I got you, bro."
And Shane strips his gear off faster than he ever has in his life, to jump into the shower and get the fuck out of here.
-
Things fade in and out.
Everything’s loud and bright and moving fast, and Ilya is still stuck in the stupid collar that makes it hard to look around. He thinks he might’ve vomited at some point, and his nose is still dripping blood, or whatever Brian said was leaking there, and everything hurts.
"Mr. Rosanov, you’re in the hospital. You took a hit to the head while you were playing hockey," someone says. "My name is Dr. Martin, and I’m one of the emergency doctors taking care of you. We’re about to give you some medicine to help you breathe and let your brain rest."
Ilya doesn’t know what that means.
"You keep passing out on us, and the blood from your nose is running down your throat, so we’re worried about you choking," she explains. "We’re going to put you to sleep for a bit, which will make it easier for us help you. Just focus on breathing for me, alright?"
"Where the fuck am I?" he tries to ask, but he thinks he might be speaking Russian again, and he can hardly get the words out anyways. "I don’t— I don’t understand."
There’s this pressure in his head. He thinks it might explode, it hurts so fucking bad.
"Don’t try to talk, dear. You’re okay. I’m right here with you."
Suddenly, he finds himself vomiting again; he can’t turn his head because of the stupid collar, so he just makes a mess of himself.
"I need suction," another voice is saying. "Clear the airway and prep for intubation."
"You’ll feel sleepy in a few seconds, here. You might notice a warm feeling in your arm— that’s just the medicine working. All you need to do is relax."
"You need to call Shane," he tries, but he doesn’t think he’s making much sense. "Please."
Everything’s starting to fade out.
"I know this is scary, but nothing bad is happening right now." He likes the doctor’s voice. She reminds him of Yuna. "You’re safe. Just keep breathing. Let yourself sleep."
-
He leans his forehead against his steering wheel.
"Fuck."
He breathes it out, more like a sob, but he’s thankfully not crying. Once he starts, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop, so he needs to hold it together.
(He’s picturing Ilya, terrified, sitting on that stretcher, barely able to keep his eyes open, coughing up a mouthful of blood and asking for him.)
(And Shane went back to his bench. He didn’t follow beside Ilya, didn’t hold his hand— he chose keeping their secret over being there for his boyfriend. In the moment, it made sense— they were still on the ice, thousands of eyes on them, they had to be Hollander and Rosanov— but looking back… Ilya could be dead, and his last memory would be Shane skating away from him. He’ll remember Shane choosing the fucking closet over him.)
"I’m sorry," he says, to thin air. "Fuck, Ilya, I’m so, so sorry."
He sits up straight, sniffles, and wipes his eyes.
The hospital isn’t far, but post-game traffic is crazy, so it’ll take forever to get there. Between finishing the game and getting packed up, it’s probably been at least an hour since Ilya was carted off the ice— anything could’ve happened by now, and he’s been all alone the whole time. He must be so scared.
Shane forces himself to start his car.
He’ll call Mom again when he gets there.
All he can do is keep moving.
-
"I’m here to see Ilya Rosanov. He came in by ambulance an hour or two ago. His only emergency contact, Svetlana Vetrova, is out of the country, so she asked me to come see him."
That’s not even a lie— Ilya introduced him to Sveta on a quick weekend together in Boston during the preseason, and she’s sent several panicked texts tonight asking if Shane has seen him yet, so Mom said he should just open with that.
The triage nurse’s eyes go wide.
"Shane Hollander?"
He sighs.
"Yeah."
Thankfully, there’s a lot that he can I’m Canada’s Golden Boy his way in to— including being led straight to a private waiting room.
"Mr. Rosanov is still being evaluated and waiting for CT results, so I can’t take you to him just yet," the nurse says as they walk, "but you can have a seat in here and someone will update you as soon as possible. He’s stable and in very good hands."
Stable. That’s good.
Shane finally finds it possible to exhale a little.
"Thank you so much," he says, pausing outside the door. "My, uh— my parents will be here in a while. Can they come wait here, too?"
"Of course, Mr. Hollander."
"Just Shane is fine."
"Right, yes. No worries, Shane. I’ll bring them right to you. A couple of the Raiders medical staff are waiting in here as well, if that’s okay."
Well, that’s less than ideal, but it’ll have to be fine.
"Yeah, good," he sighs. He’s slowly losing his capacity for words again, the stress coming on in waves. "Thank you."
The nurse gives him a smile as she heads back to the triage area, and Shane enters the room.
Both of the Raiders staff look up at him.
(Shane’s never been great with facial expressions, but he can definitely tell these guys are confused.)
"Um, hi. Sorry." He pauses. "I’m just— Rosanov doesn’t have a lot of family around here, and the only person he does have is away for the holidays, so she texted me and asked me to come by and see him. It’s a long story."
"Huh," one of the guys says. "I knew he had a girl here— everyone’s always joking about Jane, his Montreal chick. I was not expecting her to be friends with you. What a random connection."
Shane has to stop and put the pieces together for a moment, but he nods when his brain catches up.
"Yeah, yeah. I know, it’s kind of weird— but, yeah. I know Jane, and she’s got a thing with Roz, so him and I actually hang out pretty often now. It’s more fun to make people think we still hate each other, with the whole rivalry thing, but we’re pretty good friends at this point."
(He hates lying, it leaves a weird taste in his mouth, but… this isn’t his lie. The guy just got the story wrong, and all Shane is doing is playing along with it. That’s fine.)
"Crazy," the other man laughs. "I was wondering why he was asking for you, on the ice. What a small world, eh? I’m Brian, I’m the team doctor for the Raiders, and this is Colton, one of our physios."
They both stand up, Shane shakes their hands, and then they all sit down in the horrible plastic chairs.
"Do you guys know anything about how he’s doing?"
Brian grimaces slightly.
"We haven’t had a real update yet, but from checking him out on the ice, I wouldn’t be shocked if he’s got a skull fracture back here." He gestures to the back of his head. "Definitely concussed. He was pretty confused in the ambulance, but stayed awake for the most part, which was a good sign. He’s a tough guy."
Colton nods.
"They took him for a CT scan when we got here, so I’m sure they’ll have some news soon, it’s been a while now."
Shane nods.
"Cool. Yeah, hopefully soon."
(He’s stable, and it sounds like his team doctor thinks he’ll be okay. That’s good.)
(A skull fracture is scary, though.)
He texts what he knows to Mom and Svetlana— not a lot of info yet and I haven’t got to see him, just waiting to find out CT scan results— and then answers a text from Hayden, checking in— yeah I’m good, just waiting at the hospital, a family friend was in an accident. He tucks his phone away after that, worried that any app he opens will start showing him replays of the injury, given his hockey-centric algorithm.
It’s about ten minutes before a doctor steps in.
"Hi, family of Ilya Rosanov?"
"As close as he’s got right now," Brian says, gesturing to Shane, "and Raiders medical staff."
The doctor nods, shutting the door behind her and sitting down with them.
"I’m Dr. Carrie Martin, and I’m an emergency medicine specialist here, looking after Ilya. Thank you guys for waiting— I know this has probably been a stressful night. I’m gonna walk you through what we know right now, and then I’m happy to answer any questions you have."
Shane nods and tries to ignore the lump in his throat. He feels sick with nerves.
"So, as you’re aware, Ilya took a significant blow to the back of his head. The CT scan shows that he has a six millimetre depressive fracture of his occipital bone—" she gestures to the area that the puck hit— "and a small amount of bleeding underneath that fracture, an epidural hematoma that’s about nine millimetres thick, putting some pressure on his brain. Right now, it’s not a dangerous amount of pressure, and things like his breathing and heart rate aren’t being impacted."
Shane scrubs his eyes— he got the gist of that, but some of the language is going over his head, clearly meant for the professionals in the room. He notices Brian looking somewhat relieved, though.
"When he came in, he was going in and out of consciousness and vomiting," Dr. Martin continues, "so we did sedate him and place a breathing tube to help maintain his airway. He's also got a low-volume cerebrospinal fluid leak, which can happen with this type of fracture; we’re treating it with antibiotics and watching it closely. He’s headed up to ICU right now."
That’s bad, Shane’s pretty sure.
ICU is really, really bad.
"At this point," she continues, "our neurosurgery team has decided that Ilya won’t need to go to the operating room tonight. He’s going to need surgery to repair the fracture, but because he’s fairly stable with a minimal amount of bleeding, our safest bet right now is to observe him overnight, repeat some imaging, and assess in the morning. He’ll be in the neuro ICU tonight, having hourly checks and constant monitoring. If there’s any sign of him deteriorating— the bleeding expanding, ventricular compression, or neurological changes— he’ll go for surgery immediately, but the safest option with his current condition is to watch and wait."
Shane wants to fucking vomit. Holy shit. This is real. Ilya needs brain surgery.
"Will he be okay?" Shane blurts. "Will he play hockey again?"
(Why the fuck was that his question? It’s not about hockey right now. It’s about Ilya being alive. Who gives a fuck about hockey?)
Dr. Martin sighs.
"As far as being okay, he’s stable right now, which is very good. Brain injuries can be unpredictable, especially in the first couple of days, but a lot of people with this kind of injury do recover well." She pauses. "It’s far too early to say anything one way or another about hockey, unfortunately. Our priority right now is the next twenty-four hours— trying to predict anything beyond that would be unfair, because we truly don’t know."
"Right," Shane breathes. "Of course. Sorry, that was a stupid question."
"Not at all," she says. "I’m sure he’ll be asking the same thing when he’s awake, I imagine it’s very important to him. It’s a valid concern."
Shane shuts his eyes.
(If the tears don’t fall, he’s not crying.)
"Can he have visitors?" Colton asks.
"We can let one of you sit with him for a bit," she says, "and then it’s important that we let him rest overnight with as little stimulation as possible. We want to reduce the demands on his brain as much as we can— we’re keeping him sedated for a reason, and we don’t want him trying to wake up until after surgery, so a quiet, dark room is the safest place for him."
"You should go, Hollander," Brian says. "I’m sure he’d rather have his buddy with him than the guys from work."
His buddy. Shane almost wants to laugh.
"Sure, yeah, I’d love to," he says.
Dr. Martin smiles at him.
"I can show you where you’re going," she offers. "Are there any other questions right now? I know that was a lot of information."
Shane shakes his head. He’s too overwhelmed to even come up with a question right now, or to have any idea what he should be asking. Mom and Dad would probably have good questions, but they’re likely just getting into the city now, still a good half hour from the hospital.
"I’m his team physician," Brian offers, "and I’d really love to hear about his CT in a little more detail if you don’t mind, but that can wait until you have a minute."
"Sure, we can definitely do that," Dr. Martin replies. "Here— why don’t you come with me, Shane, and I’ll send you up to ICU, and then I’ll come back in a bit for a doctor-to-doctor chat."
Shane nods and stands up to follow her. Words are getting hard again, because his brain’s feeling fucking crowded with all this new information, but it’s okay. He can go sit quietly with Ilya, not stimulate him too much, and it’ll be alright.
He’s stable. He’s safe enough to wait until morning for surgery. Those have to be good things.
It’s going to be fine.
-
"Ilya," Shane breathes. "Fuck."
It’s bad.
It’s so bad.
Ilya is surrounded by machines and monitors. He’s still wearing the stiff cervical collar, there’s tubes down his throat and little wires stuck all over his bare arms and chest, and he just looks so small.
(You can go in and talk to him, hold his hand, be there for him, the nurse in the hallway said. Just try to be quiet and calm. We want him to rest. Don’t try to wake him up.)
(You’ll have to wear a mask— the fluid draining from his nose is a sign that he’s pretty susceptible to infection right now. We want to keep the room as sterile as possible. You can touch him, but make sure your hands are clean, and please don’t touch his face.)
(Shane sanitized his hands three times in a row before coming in here, and spent far too long making sure the mask was fitted properly on his face. He’d never be able to live with himself if he made this worse by getting Ilya sick.)
"You still look so beautiful," he finds himself saying, moving closer to the bed. "God, I missed you. I was so excited to see you for Christmas. I guess we’ll still spend it together, it just won’t be… it won’t be what we planned."
He sits in the single chair the nurse brought in for him, and touches Ilya’s arm. He strokes his fingers gently back and forth.
Ilya looks tired. He’s pale, and there’s some subtle dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept well lately. Maybe he’s been as miserable in Boston as Shane’s been in Montreal— after their summer together, it’s been hard to go back to long-distance. The short hours they get together are never enough, and now what was supposed to be their chance to catch up and relax a little is ruined.
"You’re gonna be okay," Shane sighs. "I know it. You’re strong, and you’re brave, and— it’s okay. You’ll be fine. I love you. Ya tebya lyublyu."
Ilya doesn’t so much as twitch. His chest rises and falls with the ventilator, but apart from that, he’s still.
(That’s a good thing. He’s supposed to be sleeping. His brain is resting.)
(Still, it’s fucking hard to see him like this.)
Shane keeps carefully rubbing his arm.
He’s not sure what else to do.
(The tears finally fall.)