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.)
Chapter 2
Summary:
He sits like that for a while— eyes closed, holding Ilya’s hand against his face— and when he looks up, his parents are watching him through the observation window.
Dad pokes his head in.
"The surgeon just got here to talk to us. Wanna come listen?"
Shane nods.
"Yeah, sure."
He gives Ilya’s hand a gentle squeeze, then carefully lays it back down on the bed.
Notes:
this is my third attempt at posting this chapter… ao3 don’t piss me off bro just let me do it without crashing 😭
anyways!! i was blown away by the response to chapter 1 - thank you all for your kudos and lovely comments!! please enjoy chapter 2!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He’s back at the hospital, first thing in the morning, with Mom and Dad.
(Ilya’s nurse convinced him to go home and sleep, shortly after midnight.)
(I’ve talked to his next of kin, Miss Vetrova, and she named you as her proxy while she’s out of the country— this means you’ll be the first person we call if anything changes. Ilya has been completely stable all evening, so I’m truly expecting that he’ll just sleep until morning, and we’ll do his next CT scan around five AM. I’m hoping that gets him into the OR by about eight.)
The hospital lobby is decorated for the holidays. Shane finds himself staring at the giant Christmas tree while his parents wait in line at the Tim’s counter. There’s collection bins underneath the tree instead of gifts, where you can drop off donations for the children’s hospital toy drive. The sign says today is the last day to donate— there’s a QR code to make a cash donation, to make sure they can buy specific toys off kids’ wish-lists.
Shane scans it, types in his credit card information, and donates a couple thousand dollars. He’s not looking forward to spending Christmas in the hospital, and he can’t imagine how much harder it’d be for a little kid. They deserve good gifts.
"Here," Dad says, handing him a black decaf. "Wanna lead the way upstairs?"
Shane nods.
He hasn’t said much today.
Thankfully, they understand him. Mom rubs his back while they wait for the elevator, and Dad bumps their shoulders together as they ride to the third floor.
"We’re here to see Ilya Rosanov," Mom tells someone sitting at a desk. "We’re family."
"I’ll grab his nurse," the woman says. "She can give you an update, and I can get you guys signed in here."
Shane stands quietly. He doesn’t sip his coffee.
It’s a different nurse from last night who comes to greet them. Paige, her badge says. She’s pretty, Shane thinks, in the same way he finds girls like Rose pretty— less about how she actually looks, and more about the way she smiles, the way you can tell she’s genuinely nice. He decides she’s probably been taking good care of Ilya.
"He had a good night," she explains, once they’re outside his room. "There were a couple of times that his blood pressure spiked a little, but nothing that lasted very long or got dangerously high. The fluid draining from his nose has slowed down, and his neuro checks stayed stable. He had his repeat CT this morning, and it looked really similar to last night’s— there was no sign of the bleeding getting worse, and everything looked just right for surgery. They’re gonna take him down in about an hour, and the surgeon will come tell you all about it beforehand."
Mom and Dad nod. Shane looks past them, trying to see into Ilya’s room.
(He probably looks exactly the same as last night.)
(Still, Shane needs to see him. He needs to check.)
"Can I go in?" Shane blurts.
"Shane," Mom sighs, in that way she does when he’s embarrassing her.
"Of course you can," Paige says. "We’re still sticking to one visitor at a time, and you’ll have to mask up and sanitize your hands, but you can absolutely head in there and keep him company. I’ll just ask that you leave your drink out here."
Shane nods and moves to do just that. Dad squeezes his shoulder, then takes his coffee from him.
"Shane," Mom repeats, a little gentler and quieter. She stops him before he can grab a mask, holding his elbow. "Are you okay, baby?"
He realizes he’s barely said a word since they got to Montreal. He’d texted them last night from Ilya’s bedside, sent a long message with all the details he knew, then told them to go straight to his house— he can only have one visitor, and they want me to leave soon anyways, he needs to rest overnight. I’ll be home soon.
"I’m fine," he mutters. "Just worried."
"Look at me," she says. He hates this, when she wants to see his eyes. It makes his skin crawl. He does it, though— he manages a flash of eye contact before looking away again. "Hey… take a couple breaths, alright?"
Slowly, he nods. He takes some deep, careful breaths— the kind that slow his nervous system right down.
"Good," she says. "Sorry, I know I’m being a helicopter. It just scares me when you’re this quiet." She lets go of his arm. "Go sit with him. I’m sorry."
Shane nods again.
He goes.
-
Ilya looks the same as last night.
The dark circles under his eyes seem a little more prominent, and there’s more swelling and bruising at the back of his head, but nothing else has really changed. The ventilator, the cervical collar, the wires and monitors— everything is still in place.
"Hey," Shane sighs, making his way to the same chair from last night. He sits. "They said you had a good night. That’s good."
He touches Ilya’s arm again, brushing his fingers along his skin.
It’s kind of nice that he doesn’t have to say anything. Ilya can’t hear him anyways. Shane can just be here, quietly keeping an eye on him, and there’s no pressure to do anything else.
"I love you," he says, after a while. His voice barely even comes out. "Ilya, I’m so sorry. I love you so much."
He can’t get over the fact that he just went back to his fucking bench last night. He was so— Ilya was so scared, and Shane wouldn’t even hold his hand. He should’ve gotten over himself, they would’ve figured out what to tell the press. Hell, he probably would’ve won the sportsmanship award at the end of the season for putting their differences aside and supporting his injured rival, being there for him in a terrifying moment.
But the ref started pushing him away, and Shane just went. Didn’t even try.
Ilya was asking for him.
(If Ilya doesn’t make it through this surgery, their last moment together— truly together, with Ilya awake— will be Shane abandoning him. That can’t be how this is supposed to go. Their story has to be longer than this; they need to get to the good part, the happy ending.)
He can’t kiss Ilya’s knuckles with the mask on, but he lifts Ilya’s hand to his cheek and holds him there.
"I’m sorry," he repeats. "I love you. I know you’ll be okay. I’m so sure, Ilya."
He sits like that for a while— eyes closed, holding Ilya’s hand against his face— and when he looks up, his parents are watching him through the observation window.
Dad pokes his head in.
"The surgeon just got here to talk to us. Wanna come listen?"
Shane nods.
"Yeah, sure."
He gives Ilya’s hand a gentle squeeze, then carefully lays it back down on the bed.
-
He follows his parents to some kind of family room, a quiet space with a couple of couches and some fake plants in the corners. They meet a tall, serious-looking man there, who shakes each of their hands.
"My name is Dr. Denis Lévesque," he says, in a heavy Québécois accent. "I’ll be performing Mr. Rosanov’s surgery today. I’ve spoken to his team doctor this morning, and I understand you are his family, yes?"
Mom takes the lead, thankfully.
"Yes, close family friends. His family, including his primary emergency contact, are all in Russia right now, and they’ve named Shane as his substitute decision maker for the time being."
Shane nods along. He swallows the lump in his throat.
"I see. It seems like he has an excellent network of support around him." Dr. Lévesque pauses, pulling something up on the iPad he’s holding. "So, I’d like to show you the latest CT scan to help give you an idea of what we’re going to be doing in the OR today. This is an image of Ilya’s skull— you can see right here, this is where the puck hit him and broke the bone. This dark area next to it is the hematoma— the collection of blood from the vessels inside his head that were damaged with the impact. It’s been stable in size all night, meaning the bleeding stopped on its own, and we’ll just need to clear out the buildup, because it’s putting some pressure on his brain."
Mom and Dad both lean over to look at the scan. Shane can’t bring himself to do the same. He feels sick.
"Today’s surgery will involve making an incision in the back of his head, removing the broken bone fragments and the blood clot, and repairing a small tear in the lining of his brain," Dr. Lévesque continues. "We waited until morning to make sure the bleeding was stable and that we have the full neurosurgical team available— we’re operating under the best possible circumstances today. There are risks to this procedure, of course, but the risks of not performing it would be much greater."
"What kind of risks are we looking at?" Mom asks.
Dr. Lévesque seems like he’d been expecting that question.
"Brain surgery is very delicate, and we’ll be working in a sensitive area, near the cerebellum— there’s a chance for bleeding, infection, stroke, or neurological damage, however I can assure you that I have fixed hundreds of skull fractures over the years, and I have very steady hands. I believe these risks to be low." He smiles. "We’re also going to place a small drain that allows us to monitor and release pressure in his brain after surgery, so the team will have a close eye on anything that could arise after the fact."
Shane wrings his hands together. The tag of his shirt is suddenly driving him crazy, rubbing against his skin.
"Is there a chance he doesn’t make it?" he asks. "Or, like, doesn’t wake up after?"
Dr. Lévesque sighs.
"The chance of a catastrophic outcome is low, but unfortunately never zero." That doesn’t really make Shane feel much better. "I never make promises, but I can tell you that I have a great deal of confidence in my team and I’s ability to perform this operation safely and smoothly. Barring any complications, we should have Ilya back in his room in three or four hours."
Shane focuses on his breathing again.
(He saw a sport psychologist for a couple sessions in high school. They’d watch this video of a dot slowly moving around the outside of a square, and he was meant to time his breathing with it. In… hold… out… hold. It was helpful. He still thinks of it sometimes.)
(And he thinks of little Shane sometimes, the youngest player in the OHL, who started failing grade ten science and got sent to that psychologist by his school counsellor. He was playing on a team with guys who were, like, twenty, and seemed like real adults to him; he was living with a billet family in Kingston; and he was adjusting to a weird new schedule of school all morning, hockey all afternoon, games in the evenings, and trying to fit homework into the gaps. It was hard. He was a kid. Anxiety was eating him alive.)
(He wonders if Ilya’s teenage years were similar. They’ve never really talked about it.)
(They’ll get the chance to talk about it someday. Ilya will be alright.)
He realizes the conversation has continued while he wasn’t listening.
"Do you have any other questions about what we’re doing, or why we’re doing it?" Dr. Lévesque asks.
Shane is quiet. Mom and Dad both shake their heads.
"Wonderful. If you’re comfortable proceeding, Shane, I’ll just have you sign this consent form, and we’ll take Ilya down shortly."
Right. Shane is the substitute decision maker, because Sveta asked him to be. He needs to sign off.
It feels like a lot of pressure.
He takes the iPad, though, and signs the bottom of the page without reading it. He’d say yes to anything that’s supposed to help Ilya right now.
"Can I see him for a few more minutes before you take him?" he asks.
Dr. Lévesque smiles.
"Of course. Anesthesia will probably be up to do some pre-op evaluations in… fifteen minutes or so? But you’re welcome to wait with him until then."
"Thanks," Shane mutters.
He’s been bouncing his leg, he notices when Mom puts a hand on his knee.
He sits still while Dr. Lévesque leaves the room.
"Once they take Ilya down," Mom says, really gently, "I think we should go home, have an early lunch, and come back in a couple hours. The nurse told me they’ll give us a call when the surgery is done, or if anything happens."
Shane swallows.
"I think I’ll stay here."
"Shane," Dad sighs. "You haven’t eaten today, buddy. Come home, lie down for a bit, and get something in your stomach. Ilya will be here when we come back."
Shane shakes his head. He can’t get himself to look up at either of them.
"I’m not leaving him."
(I already left him last night. I can’t do it again.)
Dad puts an arm around him.
"You’re not. Whether you’re in the building or not, the surgery will go how it goes. You’ll have an easier time being there for him later on if you’re looking after yourself, right?"
Shane is silent.
"We’ll make sure we’re back in time to see him as soon as he’s done," Mom says. "Sitting here and stressing won’t do anyone any good."
He scrubs his hands over his face.
"I’m gonna go sit with him for now."
He can feel his parents share a look, over his head.
"Okay," Mom sighs. "We’ll be here."
-
He holds Ilya’s hand, even once Paige comes in to check on him.
(He’s decided that, within this room, they don’t have to hide. Fuck what anyone else thinks— it’s not like a hospital employee can go around talking about their patient. They’re safe here.)
"I hope this isn’t weird of me to say," Paige says, as she adjusts something on one of the machines. "But like— Hollander and Rosanov. I thought you guys hated each other. This is blowing my mind a little bit.”
Shane can’t help but smile a little. He’s getting a sense that his first impression of Paige was right— bubbly and funny and kind, a lot like Rose.
(Probably very trustworthy, considering her career.)
“If I tell you something crazy,” he says, on an impulse, “you can’t tell anyone else, right? Like, patient confidentiality?”
Paige nods.
“One hundred percent. World’s best secret keeper right here— you wouldn’t believe the things you find out about people, doing this job.” She grins. “Sometimes when it’s something really crazy, I write it in my diary, but I don’t use names and it even has a little lock. Completely secure.”
Going by her bubblegum pink scrubs and the bow tied around her ponytail, Shane can picture the diary, probably covered in glitter and hearts. He laughs a little. He really likes her.
“I hope you have a free page for this one, because it’s about to sound completely insane.”
He squeezes Ilya’s hand. Part of him feels bad for spilling the secret to someone behind his back, but having someone know is going to make this whole situation a lot easier.
Paige stops what she’s doing, and leans against Ilya’s bed rail, completely attentive.
“Spill. I’m ready.”
Shane sighs, but it comes out as more of a laugh.
"Okay… Ilya’s my boyfriend. We’ve been hooking up for our entire careers— we only started actually dating more recently, but we’ve been, like, a thing since before our rookie season. We never hated each other."
Paige’s jaw has dropped. She looks delighted.
“Oh my god. You’re actually fucking with me. What?”
Shane laughs a little harder.
“I’m completely serious.”
She looks back and forth between them, still stunned.
“Holy shit. Oh my god, I shouldn’t be swearing this much. I’m sorry for being unprofessional, but— what? That is legit one of the craziest things I've ever heard.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Shane adds, a little rush of anxiety bringing him back to his senses. “My parents are basically the only people who know… and Rose Landry, but that’s a long story. This is a huge secret, but I just— it’s really hard to keep pretending right now. I can’t sit here beside him and pretend I’m not in love with him.”
He watches Ilya’s face, looking for any sign that he might be listening somehow. There’s nothing.
“This must be so hard,” Paige sighs. “I’m so sorry. I promise, nothing I see or hear in here leaves this room, okay? I’ve got you guys. Pinky swear.”
She extends a pinky, and Shane— feeling mildly ridiculous— extends his own, on his free hand, and they wrap them together for a moment.
“Thank you,” he says. “I really appreciate you being nice about it.”
“Of course.” She checks something on one of Ilya’s lines, then gives Shane a sad smile. “Okay, I really have to start getting him ready for surgery, but I’ll see you later, okay? He’ll be back in this room when he’s done.”
Shane nods. He rubs Ilya’s knuckles before he can get himself to let go.
"Ya tebya lyublyu," he mutters. "More than anything, okay? You’re my fucking rock. You’re gonna be alright. You have to be."
He stands up, then takes a second to run his hand through Ilya’s hair— it might the last time he can do that for a while. He wonders if they’ll have to shave his head for surgery, and the thought of it almost makes him cry.
(Hair grows back. It’s okay.)
"See you later. I’ll be with you again when you’re all done."
Ilya doesn’t hear him, obviously.
Shane nods, watches him for a second longer, then leaves.
He finds Mom and Dad, and he lets them take him home.
-
He falls asleep on the couch, and wakes up to the clinking of silverware that says his parents have made lunch. He doesn’t bother to move or open his eyes yet.
(Someone put his weighted blanket over him while he was out. It’s settled something in him, a little. The buzzing under his skin has gone down to a faint hum.)
"I don’t wanna wake him up," he can hear Dad saying. "Our little guy… he’s just so cute."
"David," Mom sighs. "He’s twenty-seven."
"But he’s our baby."
"You’re such a sap."
"I know. I just love him."
"I know. So do I."
(Shane knows he wasn’t an easy kid to raise. He threw a lot of tantrums, always wanted things his way, was picky and particular about everything under the sun. He can remember screaming and crying on the floor of the Rideau Centre because he hated shopping, and the mall was too crowded, and the lights were too loud. When they finally dragged him back to the car, Mom whispered: I just don’t know how to handle him, David. What are we doing wrong?)
(Then came the appointments and evaluations, and the neuropsychologist, and the piles and piles of books about raising a child with Asperger’s.)
(They never talked to him much about the diagnosis. They told him not to worry about it, that nothing was wrong, that he was just like everyone else. He heard them talking one night about leaving it off of his medical records for his peewee AAA team, to make sure the coaches wouldn’t treat him differently.)
(That was kind of the end of it, really. It never got mentioned again, because no one in the hockey world knew. He’s never bothered to google whether it’s something you grow out of, or if he still technically has it.)
"Shane, honey," Mom says, her voice coming closer to him. "Ready to have some lunch?"
He nods, slowly peeling his eyes open. He’s not sure how long has passed, or if it’s almost time to go back to the hospital.
"I didn’t mean to fall asleep," he mutters.
"You clearly needed it. Come on. I made soup— the recipe you had stuck to your fridge."
Miso soup with tofu and wakame. It fits his diet, it tastes the same every time, and it’s Japanese. It’s perfect. It’s his staple for a day that he doesn’t have practice or a game, doesn’t need as many carbs or calories as usual. He probably would’ve made it himself, had he been awake.
"Thanks, Mom." He pauses. "The hospital hasn’t called?"
"Not yet. They said the surgery would take three or four hours, and it’s only been two."
"Maybe we should just go back once we eat, to make sure we’re there when he’s done."
She looks at Dad, then back at him, and nods.
"We can do that."
It makes him feel better. He might even be able to get some food down.
-
It’s a little over four hours since Ilya went for surgery when Dr. Lévesque comes into the family room.
He’s smiling. That’s good.
"I’m happy to tell you that it went exactly as expected," he says.
Shane finally exhales. He slumps into Dad’s side.
"We were able to lift the bone fragments, remove the blood clot, and repair the tear in the lining that was causing the fluid to leak from his nose," Dr. Lévesque continues. "There was no unexpected bleeding, and his brain looked excellent apart from some swelling in his cerebellum, which is entirely expected. We placed a drain to monitor the pressure, and right now it’s telling us that it’s in a safe range. His vitals are looking good."
"Thank god," Mom sighs. She’s squeezing Dad’s hand. "That’s such a relief."
"Swelling tends to peak after surgery, so we’ll be watching him very closely in the ICU for at least the next forty-eight hours. He’s still sedated for now, so we can’t fully assess his neurological function, but what we’ve seen so far is reassuring." He pauses. "Recovery might be a long road, but having a good support system is a key piece in helping him along. He’s lucky to have you all."
Shane has tears in his eyes, but he’s not going to let them fall yet. Dad holds him close and rubs his shoulder.
"I’ll check on him later tonight, and again tomorrow, and if anything changes, we’ll let you know right away. His nurses are still getting him settled, but you should be able to see him soon."
"Thank you," Shane croaks. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this relieved. "Will he wake up today?"
"Likely not completely awake, but the plan is to ease off the sedation later this afternoon, if the pressure in his brain is stable— we’d expect him to slowly start showing signs of waking up. It’s a gradual process, though, with an injury like this, and it can be hard to put a timeline on it— so far, there’s nothing to suggest that he won’t recover well. He’ll simply do it at his own pace."
"Thank you so much, Doctor," Mom says. "We appreciate the update, and everything you’ve done for Ilya."
Shane closes his eyes for a moment. He still can’t fucking believe this is happening.
(They were supposed to have a nice Christmas together. They’re supposed to be at the cottage right now. The crushing disappointment of a plan having to change is only making this harder.)
He doesn’t mean to zone out, but he doesn’t catch the rest of the conversation.
-
Ilya’s face is so swollen.
For some reason, that’s what stands out. Not the bulky bandage around his head, or the way he’s propped up with that fucking cervical collar still on, or the ventilator, or the patch of missing hair, or all the lines attached to him, including the drain coming out of his head.
He just looks… sore. His eyes are puffy, and the dark circles below them are starting to go purplish, looking more like bruises. There’s a bruise darkening behind his ear, too— they’ve got his head propped up and turned to the side, probably to take the pressure off the incision on the back of it, and he looks incredibly fucking uncomfortable.
"Jesus," Dad whispers.
"I know," Shane replies.
(Ilya can have two visitors at a time, now. Mom and Dad are going to take turns while Shane stays. Ilya’s team doctor is keeping in touch with the hospital, but heading back to Boston now that he knows there’s family here. His teammates and coaches have probably all been told the same thing— Roz has family with him, and he can only have so many visitors, so it’s best just to head home for the holidays and let them be together. We’ll keep you updated.)
(Svetlana is on her way from Moscow. Her flight should get in tomorrow afternoon.)
(Selfishly, Shane doesn’t want to have to share Ilya with her.)
"Hi sweetheart," Shane finds himself saying. He’s scared to touch Ilya, who looks so much more delicate now. "You did it. Surgery’s all done. It’s just about getting better now, hey?"
Of course, Ilya doesn’t react. The monitors keep beeping.
(Shane wonders if fifty-one is too low of a heart rate, glancing at the screen. He reminds himself that his own usually rests in the fifties, too— they’re athletes. That’s okay.)
"Hey Ilya," Dad says, approaching the other side of the bed. "Way to hang in there, buddy. You’re doing great."
There’s a moment where it almost looks like Ilya’s eyelids flutter.
Last night’s nurse said something about reflexive movements— even this deeply sedated, he might twitch or make faces, because there’s still signals flying around his brain while it tries to repair itself. It doesn’t mean he’s waking up or reacting to anything, but it does mean his brain and his body are working on communicating properly again, which is better than nothing.
This is the first tiny movement Shane’s caught. He fucking wishes it were more, but it’s still a relief to see.
They’ve been in there for a while, mostly sitting in silence, when a terrifyingly ominous alarm on a monitor starts to ring. Shane’s heart is immediately in his throat, ready to go running to find someone to help.
Paige walks in, perfectly calm.
"Hey, guys. I’m just going to play with a few things, and then do his neuro check," she says, turning off the alarm like it’s no big deal. "You’re welcome to stay."
She readjusts the little clip on the end of Ilya’s finger, then watches the screen with his vitals. The O2 statistic goes from 82 to 99.
"Someone must’ve been twitching his fingers, messing up the reading," she chuckles, giving Ilya a look. "Trying to flick your O2 monitor off, were you? Too bad, man. It’s staying on."
Shane likes Paige’s energy. She’s good at keeping it light in here.
"Just to preface this— I’m not expecting him to wake up right now," she says, moving to the head of the bed, "but hopefully later today he’ll have some reaction. We do the same things at every check." She leans in close. "Hey— can you hear me? Ilya. Wake up for me."
Nothing.
"No worries," she says. "That’s normal."
(It still breaks Shane’s heart.)
She takes his hands, one at a time, and presses down hard on his nail bed. Both times, his fingers and wrists flex, and his brow scrunches a little; on his right, he seems to even try pulling away from her.
"Reacting to pain, that’s good."
She keeps doing tests— shining a little flashlight in each of his eyes, lifting his arms and dropping them, watching his chest rise with the machine, checking the drainage from the tube in his head— and nods as she goes.
"He’s doing what I’d expect right now," she says in the end, once she’s typing on the computer. "This is a good sign. Everything’s steady."
Shane feels sick to his stomach anyways.
(His big, strong Ilya isn’t supposed to be like this.)
He finally takes Ilya’s hand again, and watches his heart rate bump up to sixty-two. That has to be something.
-
They start lowering the sedation in the late afternoon.
Nothing really happens, at first.
(The important part is that his vitals are keeping steady and the pressure in his brain isn’t increasing. He’ll become more responsive on his own timeline, but so far we can see that his body is tolerating being slightly more awake pretty well. This is a good start.)
"Come back to us when you’re ready," Shane tells him, acutely aware that he might be listening this time. "I’m right here. You’re okay."
Still, nothing.
(It’s disappointing, but it’s okay.)
-
Something hurts.
He’s vaguely aware of it.
There’s a pressure in his head, and something is tight on his neck, and something is warm on his hand, and there’s a blanket of heaviness over him that feels thicker than sleep.
There’s a muffled kind of sound around him. Voices, maybe. It’s all hazy and unclear, and he can’t make sense of what anyone’s saying. There’s one voice that cuts through a little sharper— he still can’t understand it, but it’s familiar. Low, steady, gentle.
He tries to focus on it, but he can’t.
He lets sleep wash over him again.
Notes:
welcome back ilya POV! we missed you baby!
a little note about shane’s ASD diagnosis - it’s referred to as asperger’s here, because that’s the diagnosis he would’ve received in the 90s, even though it’s now considered part of the autism spectrum :)
Chapter 3
Summary:
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.)
Notes:
hello again!! in a bit of crummy news for me but great news for you guys - i tore my achilles and can’t walk or go to work rn… so i have a LOT of free time and have been obsessively working on this fic <3 i won’t make any lofty promises but i’m hoping to keep cranking out chapters at a decent pace! kind of a bright side of this sucky situation lol
anyways, please enjoy this update!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
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.
Notes:
ilyaaaaa :’( <3
Chapter 4
Summary:
"You’ve been in the hospital for a couple days," Shane tells him, rubbing his shoulder. "It’s Christmas. I’m happy we get to spend it with you."
Ilya looks up at him.
"At the cottage?"
Shane’s heart breaks a little. He slips his jacket off, hands it to Dad, and goes right back to touching Ilya.
"Soon. When you’re out of the hospital, I’ll take you straight to the cottage, I promise. I’ll leave all the decorations up until you get to see them."
Notes:
yeah baby!! we’re back already!! thank you to everyone who’s been enjoying this fic so far 😊 i love you all
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Some of the hospital staff are wearing Santa hats and holiday accessories today— even Dad has a Metros-branded Christmas sweater on, looking absolutely ridiculous.
Mom brings a tiny Christmas tree for Ilya’s windowsill— they can’t have real plants in the ICU, so no flowers or anything, but the plastic tree is okay.
(They should be waking up in bed together at the cottage right now, having a slow morning and making some kind of indulgent breakfast— overly sweet, too many empty calories, the way that Ilya likes. Shane would probably even have a few bites to humour him.)
"I want to give you a quick heads-up," Paige tells them, on the way to Ilya’s room. "He’s much more awake today, which is great, but he’s pretty confused and restless. His brain is waking up faster than it can organize information right now, so he’s having a tricky time processing what’s happened; this is very, very common after a brain injury, and doesn’t necessarily mean anything is wrong. It’s all part of the process."
Mom and Dad nod. Shane fidgets with the edge of his hoodie.
"Is there anything we can do?" Mom asks. "Just talking to him, mostly?"
"Yeah," Paige says. "He’ll probably ask the same questions over and over— his memory isn’t quite up and running yet, so the answers won’t stick. You can tell him that he’s safe, that he’s in the hospital, that you love him… just reassuring him is the biggest thing right now. He’s anxious, and the world isn’t making a lot of sense to him"
Shane swallows his nausea.
(Ilya is the least anxious person he’s ever met. Shane’s never been able to understand how absolutely unshakable he is— nothing gets to him. It’s scary to think that this injury might’ve taken that away from him.)
"Is he understanding what you tell him?" Shane asks. "He was mostly speaking Russian yesterday— when he’s, like, stressed or tired, he says English is too hard. That might be why he’s so confused."
"I figured that’s probably part of it," Paige sighs. "I called translation services this morning, but since it’s a holiday and they’re understaffed as it is, I haven’t been able to get ahold of someone. Do you guys speak any Russian?"
Mom and Dad shake their heads, Shane winces a little. Looking back, he wishes he’d started trying to learn it years ago, but until this past spring, that felt like doing too much for a guy who’d pretty much only text him for sex.
"Tiny bits and pieces, not well enough to be helpful." He pauses, then remembers Svetlana. "He’s got family on the way, coming from Moscow— her flights keep getting cancelled, but she’s thinking she’ll finally be here tonight. She’s fluent in English and Russian."
They stop outside Ilya’s room, where a curtain has been pulled in front of the observation window, and the door is closed.
"That’s awesome." Paige smiles. "I think that’ll be really helpful. In the meantime, like— he has been talking to us in English when he’s awake, so I think there’s at least some comprehension there. His doctor thinks the confusion really is mostly related to the swelling in his brain."
"And that should resolve soon?" Mom asks.
"Hopefully in the next day or two."
Shane walks into Ilya’s room, too impatient for any more conversation, but stops in the doorway.
Most things are the same. The monitors, the dim lighting, Ilya’s bruised raccoon eyes and swollen face. There’s some things that seem a little better, even— the cervical collar is finally gone, after yesterday’s MRI confirmed that his neck is okay, and he’s not even on oxygen anymore.
But Shane finds himself stuck, staring at one thing.
The restraints on Ilya’s wrists— pale blue fabric, secured with Velcro straps, tethered to the bed.
"I meant to warn you," Paige is saying, hurrying to follow Shane into the room. "He’s been pulling at his lines. He ripped out his catheter overnight. This is just to keep him safe until he’s a little calmer."
Shane feels fucking sick.
Ilya stirs, restless and visibly frustrated; his hands twitch, unable to move very far. His eyes open up— they dart around, searching for something, then land on Shane with a flash of recognition.
"Hey," Shane breathes. He keeps his voice as level as he can. "Good morning. Merry Christmas."
Ilya looks down at the straps on his wrists. He pulls against them, muscular forearms flexing as he tests their strength. His head lolls to the side, defeated.
"Shane. Why is— this?"
"It’s to keep you safe." Shane walks over and pets Ilya’s hair, the part poking out from the bandages, brushing it out of his eyes. "Okay? You got hurt. You’re in the hospital. The doctors put those there to help you."
Ilya shakes his head. There’s a haze of confusion in his eyes.
"No, no— I don’t want."
Shane rubs his thumb over Ilya’s temple.
"I know, Ilya. It’s okay. You’re safe."
"People don’t usually remember this part, once they’re lucid again," Paige offers, quietly and gently, as she adjusts something on an IV pump. "It doesn’t last."
"Shane," Ilya repeats. He squirms in bed, agitated. "Otpusti menya. Mne eto ne nravitsya."
Shane sighs.
"I don’t know what you’re saying, baby. I’m sorry. Can you tell me in English?"
Ilya gives a pained, frustrated sort of moan as he shakes his head. His eyes are getting teary, and it’s so visible in his expression that he has no idea what’s happening right now.
"Good morning, Ilya," Mom says, walking in with Dad to show the little tree she’s holding, like she’s trying to distract a toddler who’s on the edge of a tantrum. "Merry Christmas. We brought some decorations."
Ilya stares at her, brow scrunched in confusion, while she takes it over to the windowsill. There’s a row of cards from his teammates and other Raiders staff there, probably sent to make up for not being able to visit. A care package from the team arrived yesterday— it’s back at Shane’s house for now, until Ilya’s coherent enough to open it.
"You’ve been in the hospital for a couple days," Shane tells him, rubbing his shoulder. "It’s Christmas. I’m happy we get to spend it with you."
Ilya looks up at him.
"At the cottage?"
Shane’s heart breaks a little. He slips his jacket off, hands it to Dad, and goes right back to touching Ilya.
"Soon. When you’re out of the hospital, I’ll take you straight to the cottage, I promise. I’ll leave all the decorations up until you get to see them."
He has no idea how long that’s going to be, but he doesn’t care, at this point. He’ll stay by Ilya’s side for as long as he needs to— for the first time, something in his life feels more important than hockey. He doesn’t even care how many games he misses; he’s going to be here.
"Take this off," Ilya suddenly says, like he’s just remembered the restraints again. He pulls at them. "Shane. Get it off."
"I can’t," Shane sighs. "Ilya, you had brain surgery. You need to rest. Let’s try to relax."
"I didn’t," Ilya insists. "No— I am fine. I don’t—" He loses the thread, confusion clouding his eyes again, his voice trailing off into a mumble. "I don’t know why— this is."
The bed frame creaks a little as Ilya pulls again.
"It’s okay," Shane tells him. "They’re just there so you don’t pull your lines out."
Ilya frowns. Shakes his head.
"I… would not do that."
"You did, last night."
Ilya drops his head against his pillows, then winces in pain, having bumped the surgical site.
"Why?" he moans, distressed. "I want to go home."
"We will. Not today, but eventually."
Ilya gives a deep, heavy sigh. His eyes start to close, but then flutter open again, stubborn.
"My head… hurts."
"I know. Maybe they can give you something stronger for the pain." He rests his hand on top of Ilya’s wrist as he finally sits down, careful of the strap, letting his fingers rub the warm skin underneath it. "Why don’t you try to rest, okay? I’m right here."
Ilya’s eyes dart around the room, somewhat sluggishly. He watches Mom and Dad pulling up their own chairs, then looks back at Shane.
"You— stay," he says, slurring a little. His tone is sharp, almost aggressive, but Shane can see it for what it is— fear. He’s scared to be left alone again.
"I’m staying," Shane promises. "I’m not going anywhere."
Some tension finally drains out of Ilya. He looks pained, and so, so tired.
"Shane…" he mumbles, eyes heavy. "Why— am I here?"
"You got hit in the head with a puck, you scared the shit out of me. You’re okay, though. You’ll be okay."
Ilya frowns. Shane can see the information slipping through his disoriented brain, not sticking.
"Okay," Ilya says.
His eyes fall shut, lashes resting delicately on bruised, purple skin. His breathing slowly evens out.
Shane leans his head against the bed rail and sighs.
-
It’s this dream he has sometimes.
Maybe it’s more of a memory.
Mama is holding his hands, teaching him to skate on the pond behind their house. She’s so light, and so graceful. Ilya is stumbling along, trying to move like her, but his clumsy little body can’t do that yet.
She has so many trophies and medals inside, and a jacket that she loves that says: Russian National Figure Skating Team, Sarajevo 1984. Ilya loves when she’ll sit and tell him all about the Olympics and all the places she’s travelled to skate. She says she loved when she got to visit Canada for competitions.
Alexei is inside with Papa, never very interested in playing outdoors— or rather, never interested in anything that Ilya likes to do. Ilya has decided he doesn’t mind, and he likes his precious time with Mama out here.
Only… the dream shifts.
Something feels wrong.
Mama lets go of his hands, and she’s skating away. Ilya is trying to catch up with her, when— blinding pain in the back of his head. He hits the ice.
"Mama!"
She’s skating away from him.
It hurts so bad. He can’t move. He can’t see. He can’t think.
"Mama, please!"
Someone is pushing her away. She’s not fighting it, just going. Watching him lie there in pain, letting this person take her away from him.
He’s crying. He’s trying to get up, but he’s slipping on the ice and he’s in so much pain.
She’s leaving him. He doesn’t know why.
"Mama!"
-
"Ilya, stop. Please. Stop!"
His eyes fly open.
He doesn’t know where he is.
"Ilya, you’re hurting yourself." The voice sounds desperate. It takes a moment for the English to make sense. "You have to stop."
He jerks, his body already moving, already fighting against— something. He arches against the bed, trying to chase an itch that isn’t really an itch so much as a feeling of wrongness. A weird, painful pressure.
There’s something on his head. It hurts.
"Ilya, please, baby."
He tries to reach for it— to scratch or pull or do something to stop this horrible feeling— but his hands stop short. They catch against something. They won’t do what they’re supposed to, and he can’t reach.
"My— my head," he gasps out, struggling for breath. "What— I don’t— what is—?"
He tips his head forward, chin to his chest, trying to rub it against the pillows for any kind of relief.
He pulls too far though, and a jolt of pain suddenly runs through him, stopping him with a gasp.
"That’s what I mean— you’re gonna hurt yourself." That’s Shane talking to him, he realizes, and it sounds urgent. "You’re pulling it. You have to stop."
Pulling what?
He tries to look around, to get any sense of what the fuck is happening, but all he can focus on is Shane’s worried face.
"Take it off," Ilya moans. He twists his head again— to rub, scrape, pull, or something. "Shane, please."
Shane gets closer. He’s frowning, but then he reaches his gentle hands out and cups both of Ilya’s cheeks.
"Ilya. Look at me. I know it feels awful, but you have to hold still."
"My head," Ilya repeats. He hiccups, and realizes he must be crying. "Help me."
"You have bandages on your head," Shane tells him, slowly and carefully. "You got hurt. You’re in the hospital. You had surgery. There’s a drain attached to your head right now, and you can’t touch it."
A drain.
Ilya should know that word, but he can’t place it. He doesn’t know what it means, but Shane said it so seriously, so it must be important.
"Why?" he mumbles. "It feels… bad. Pulling on me. I want it out."
Shane’s fingers press a little firmer against his face. It’s warm, sort of grounding.
"I know. I know. That’s why we’re keeping your hands down, okay? You’ve been trying to pull it. It’ll hurt you if you do."
Ilya sniffles. He’s definitely crying. Shane is the only person he ever cries in front of.
"I don’t want."
There’s another person in the room, he realizes. A second voice.
"Your doctor wants to remove the drain soon." He turns his head to see a girl on the other side of his bed. She’s wearing little reindeer antlers, for some reason. "It’s helping your brain right now, but as long as the pressure stays stable, you won’t need it anymore. They might take it out tomorrow."
"See? That’s okay." Shane is still holding him. He pats Ilya’s cheek gently. "You’re getting better. That’s good, baby."
(Shane just called him baby in front of a stranger. What?)
"Shane… I don’t— know what is happening."
"I know. Your brain is swollen. That’s why it’s harder to think." He looks over his shoulder, then back at Ilya. "You’re safe, okay? It’s just me and my parents here, and the nurses and doctors. Sveta is coming later. We’re all taking good care of you. You’ll feel better soon."
If Shane says it, it must be true.
He’ll feel better soon.
He’s already kind of forgotten what he was so upset about, and he’s hanging onto Shane calling him baby and still touching his face. It’s nice.
"I’m okay," he mumbles, as if saying it will make it true. "Okay?"
Shane laughs a little.
"Okay. Yeah. You’re okay."
-
@BostonRaiders
DECEMBER 25 // The Raiders would like to provide an update on #81 Ilya Rosanov, who sustained a head injury in our December 22 game against the Montreal Metros, after being struck by a puck.
Rosanov was transported immediately to Montreal General Hospital, where he was evaluated and admitted for further care. He underwent surgery on December 23 to repair a fracture to the back of his skull and address other complications.
The procedure was successful, and Rosanov is currently recovering, surrounded by loved ones. He is awake, responsive, and being closely monitored by a team of professionals. The Raiders would like to thank the hospital staff for their exceptional care, as well as our fans and the hockey community for their support and well wishes. Out of respect for Rosanov and his family, we ask for privacy at this time. Further updates will be shared when appropriate.
-
He gets a text from Hayden.
Merry Christmas! Hope things are looking up a little. How’s "Lily"? My mom got carried away with holiday baking - can I swing by the hospital and drop some off for you?
Ilya has been napping for a while, loaded up with stronger painkillers, and Mom and Dad are out for a walk.
Shane texts back.
He’s getting better, but it’s slow. Still in ICU, waking up more now, just still super confused/drowsy. Baking would be very appreciated. Montreal General.
He’s not sure if Ilya can actually eat anything— maybe he’s not allowed, since he’s got a feeding tube in his nose now— but if he can, he’ll be excited about some Christmas cookies.
Sweet I’ll be there in about an hour. Anything else I can bring you? Coffee? Ginger ale? Sneak you in a beer?
Shane rolls his eyes.
Honestly I could go for a ginger ale
It feels silly, but it might be nice right now. The vending machine by the elevator didn’t have any.
You got it, cap. See you soon.
Shane tucks his phone away.
Moments later, Ilya is blinking awake again, tugging idly on the restraints and looking around the room.
"Hey, babe." Shane puts a hand on his arm. "I’m right here."
Slowly, Ilya turns his head. His brow furrows, and his eyes search Shane’s face.
"I… know you," he mumbles, his words slow and slurred, "but I don’t— can’t think of… your name."
(This is normal. Dr. Lévesque came in earlier, talked about how Ilya’s memory will be patchy for the next few days, while the swelling in his brain is still going down. He’ll remember something one minute, and forget it the next. Amnesia is normal at this stage, and it’ll go away.)
"That’s okay," Shane says. He rubs Ilya’s bicep. "I’m Shane. I’m your boyfriend. You have a brain injury, so it’s hard to remember things right now."
Ilya sighs tiredly, still staring at him.
"Shane. You are so pretty. Freckles… are nice." He pauses. "You’re… mine? Lyubimyy?"
My love— that’s another one Shane knows.
"Yeah. I’m yours, and you’re mine."
Ilya lets his head drop back against the pillows. He doesn’t even wince in pain, giving away how strong the drugs he’s on must be.
"I am luckiest man."
Shane smiles.
"You’re ridiculous."
"No… I have boyfriend with pretty face, big arms…" His accent is a little thicker now, his English choppier than it’s been in years. "Is so hot. So sexy. Lucky for me."
"Ilya."
"I just met you," he continues. "And— boyfriend already. Is nice."
"You met me ten years ago."
Ilya’s brow scrunches up.
"Ten years… so, you will marry me soon? Or what? Why wait?"
Shane laughs.
"Someday, yeah. Eventually. That’s the plan."
(It might be sooner than anticipated, Shane realizes. If Ilya can’t play hockey again, and he’s out of a job, his visa could get complicated. In theory, he’s probably been in the States long enough to just apply for citizenship and find a way to stay, but Shane would much rather have him in Canada. They could get married to get him his papers, and not have to worry about him having to go back to Russia.)
Ilya hums happily, closing his eyes.
"Good plan. Smart boy."
"Go back to sleep," Shane half-laughs, half-sighs. "We can wedding plan when you’re feeling better."
"I feel great."
"I’m sure you do."
Ilya tries to reach for him, but he’s stopped by the restraint on his wrist. He opens his eyes, looking down in confusion.
"Why you did this to me?"
Shane takes his hand, locking their fingers together.
"Your doctor put that on, to keep you safe. Like… um, like a seatbelt."
Ilya seems too tired to investigate that idea any further. He huffs out a breath, then yawns dramatically.
"Okay."
"Get some more sleep," Shane tells him. "I’ll be here."
Ilya hums.
"Okay."
And that’s that.
-
He meets Hayden in the lobby, leaving Mom and Dad with Ilya.
"I heard this is where Rosanov is, too," Hayden says, once they’ve exchanged pleasantries and Merry Christmases. "Did you see the update about him?"
"Nah, I’ve barely been on my phone," Shane lies. "Is he okay?"
Hayden shrugs.
"I think so. They said he had a skull fracture and needed surgery, but it sounded like he’s hanging in there. I hope he’s alright."
"Maybe I’ll go see him. You know… captain to captain. Give him our best."
"You’re a nice fuckin’ guy, Hollzy."
"Did I ever tell you about last season? He came and checked on me before he went back to Boston, after my concussion."
"Really?"
"Yeah. He’s honestly pretty decent off the ice. I mean— we hung out a bit at the All-Star game, got to know each other better, since we were linemates and all. He’s nicer than you’d expect."
"Crazy." Hayden laughs. "He just seems like such an asshole."
"Well, he is, but… kind of in a funny way sometimes, I guess. Not always bad."
Hayden shakes his head.
"Weird. Anyways." He hands Shane the box of treats. "Promise me you’ll eat, like, one cookie. I know it’s not in your weird rabbit food diet, but it’s Christmas. You have to."
Shane laughs.
"Fine. Lily’s gonna tell me the same thing, I’m sure."
"Sounds like a smart guy. I can’t wait to meet him."
(Shane can’t believe Hayden hasn’t put it together yet, honestly.)
(Lily is a man, from Boston, admitted to the same hospital as Ilya Rosanov, with the same kind of injury, and had surgery on the same day. Shane was rattled at the game, after Ilya’s injury, and then disappeared to go see Lily in the hospital as soon as it was over. This has to be obvious, right?)
(Trying to get through the holidays with four kids must be enough of a distraction, though— Hayden clearly hasn’t thought too hard about it. Thank god.)
"I’ll introduce you eventually," Shane sighs. "Once he’s doing better, we’ll talk about, like… maybe telling more people. I had to make up a whole story about why I was even here to visit him, because no one knows we’re together. It’s been so shitty."
Hayden pulls him in for a hug.
"I’m so sorry, bud. That’s brutal. I’m here for you, okay? Anything you need."
Shane manages a tight smile.
"Thanks, man. You should get home— tell everyone I say hi. I have presents for the kids, I’ll bring them over sometime soon."
"Woah, no way— presents from Uncle Shane are still banned. I’m not having another drum incident."
Shane laughs.
(He got Ruby and Jade matching child-sized drum kits for their birthday— ninety percent as a ploy to antagonize Hayden and Jackie, ten percent because the girls seemed interested in music.)
"I got them giant teddy bears this time, I swear. They don’t make any noise at all— the only annoying part will be finding somewhere to put them."
Hayden breathes a sigh of relief.
(Shane did, however, buy Arthur the loudest toy fire truck he could possibly find, and then superglued the battery case closed so that Hayden can’t get them out.)
"My door’s open whenever you wanna come over. The kids’ll be glad to see you. Good luck with Lily, keep me posted."
"Of course, yeah. See you."
Shane stands there for a moment, after Hayden has walked away, and exhales.
(This is all such a fucking mess.)
-
The only thing Ilya is allowed to eat is ice chips, Shane finds out.
"He’s just not alert enough to swallow safely," Paige explains, "which means he’s at really high risk of something getting into his lungs, because he might not even notice or cough if it were to go down the wrong way. The speech team will see him tomorrow— as soon as they say it’s safe, he can start sipping on things and building up to real food, but the feeding tube is gonna have to do that job for now."
Shane hands the box of baking to Mom.
"Make sure he doesn’t see what’s in here, then. He’ll want some. He has such a sweet tooth."
"I’ll stick it in the freezer tonight," Mom says, "and we can save it for our belated Christmas. I’m sure cookies and squares will keep okay."
Shane nods.
"Good idea."
Ilya starts to stir again as Paige leaves the room, but doesn’t fully wake. He mumbles a little in Russian, tossing his head to the side, then goes back to sleep.
(For apparently being more awake today, he’s certainly sleeping a lot.)
Shane moves over to the bed, to pet his hair a little.
"Shh, you’re okay." He knows Ilya probably isn’t listening, but it makes him feel better just to talk. "Keep resting."
Ilya relaxes under his touch, some tension in his brow finally smoothing out.
"This still feels crazy sometimes," Dad notes. "You know, watching you two together. For a decade, I thought you hated each other’s guts."
Shane shrugs.
He’s suddenly so, so tired of explaining himself. He’s tired of people questioning their love. He knows Dad’s not trying to bother him, just making conversation, but a wave of annoyance crashes over him anyways.
"We don’t."
"I know," Dad says. "Still wrapping my head around it, is all."
Shane tries not to let irritation flare.
Why do you need to wrap your head around it? Why can’t you just be normal about it?
And he’s being unfair, thinking like that, but he can’t help it. He just wants something normal in his life, for once.
(He’s never been normal, and he knows that— there’s the Asperger’s thing, and the generational hockey prodigy thing, and the gay thing, and everything else that makes him so unlike anyone else— but when he’s with Ilya, it all goes away. He’s able to take his mask off, in a way, and just be himself. Their two weeks at the cottage was the most normal he’s ever felt.)
(So it doesn’t feel good to have everyone question them, all the time. Oh, Hollander and Rosanov, I thought you wanted to kill each other. It’s fucking infuriating.)
"Shane," Mom says, all gentle. "Is something wrong?"
She can see that he’s working himself up, probably.
She can see that her weird son, whose brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s, is building up into one of his episodes. He probably looks the same as he did when he was five years old and about to pitch a fit over the seams in his socks feeling horrible on his toes.
"What do you think?" he snaps. He gestures around him. "Is something wrong? Is this how you were hoping to spend Christmas? We had plans. We were gonna—"
He cuts himself off, rubbing his hands over his face.
Kids with Asperger’s tend to be obsessive or inflexible about routines, and struggle to handle even slight changes in plans, one of the books from when he was little said. The text is still burned into his head, somewhere. A small deviation from an expected plan may spiral in to a meltdown or reaction that feels out of proportion to the situation. It may seem like the outburst has come out of nowhere.
"Shane," Mom tries again. "I know. This isn’t what anyone wanted to happen. I wish we were all at the lake right now. This is frustrating."
He digs the heels of his hands against his eyes, until his vision goes all blotchy and colourful. The hospital smell is invading his nose, and the beeping of Ilya’s monitors is ringing in his head like a jackhammer.
"I hate this," he grits out. "I hate it."
He’s being selfish. He’s not the one hurt, not the one whose career is on the line with a devastating injury. This whole mess is far more terrible for Ilya than for anyone else.
But Shane is so upset. He’s disappointed. This isn’t how it was supposed to go, and when he gets this kind of feeling, it has a tendency to swallow him whole. He can’t move past it.
They had a plan, and they were supposed to go to the cottage, and now they can’t, and it’s all ruined.
"This is hard," Dad chimes in, "but you’re handling it really well, buddy. We’ll take Ilya to the cottage as soon as we can, it’s gonna be okay."
That doesn’t make it any better, going to the cottage later. It won’t be Christmas. It won’t be the same, and it won’t be what he planned. He needs them to stop talking.
"Shut up," he snaps. "Sorry, that’s rude, I just— please. Stop. I don’t want to talk."
Everything is too much.
He needs to get out, but he’s not leaving Ilya again.
He presses his hands harder over his eyes, and finds himself rocking slightly in his chair. It feels like there’s ants under his skin, crawling up and down his legs, viscerally uncomfortable.
Mom and Dad are quiet.
(Ilya would know how to calm him down. He’s the only person that’s truly good at it.)
(He tries to picture the feeling of Ilya’s warm hand on the back of his neck, tries to hear the low rumble of his voice telling him he’s okay. It kind of works, just imagining it.)
He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he finally takes a deep breath and uncovers his eyes. Probably a good while.
Mom and Dad are holding hands, watching him with sad, worried faces. That’s sort of standard for when he has a moment like this, so he mostly ignores them.
He looks to the bed, though, and realizes that Ilya is awake now, and also watching him.
"Shane," Ilya whispers, sounding tired but mostly coherent. He looks nervous. "You are okay?"
He’s reaching out, but the restraint is stopping him from getting very far. Shane hurries to take his outstretched hand.
"I’m okay," he mumbles, not able to make eye contact. "Just… freaking out a little. I’m fine."
Ilya squeezes his fingers tightly.
"Why? What is… freaking you?"
Shane almost manages a laugh at the word choice, but ultimately just swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head.
"I’m just upset. I’m sorry. It’s stupid."
"No. Not stupid. Never you." Ilya frowns. "Lyubimyy. Tell me."
Shane sniffles.
"Everything’s just… a lot, right now." He finally meets Ilya’s eyes. "Nothing you need to worry about, okay? I want you to focus on resting and getting better."
Ilya blinks, slow and sluggish, clearly confused.
"Better from what?"
Shane’s not sure how many more times he can handle explaining this. Fuck.
"You’re in the hospital. You got hurt during a game. You had surgery. You’ll be okay, but you need to rest."
Ilya’s gaze goes very soft. The bruising under his eyes is so obvious like this.
"You’re sad because I’m… hurt?"
"I mean— yeah. That’s part of it. I’m worried, I’m sad… I want you to be okay."
Ilya takes a deep breath, clearly losing steam. Being this lucid must take a lot out of him.
"I am okay. Yes? No… no worrying. You do too much. Enough." He’s barely keeping his eyes open. "I go to sleep, you should too. Come here."
"Ilya," Shane huffs out, almost a laugh. "I cannot get in that bed with you. We won’t fit, and I think your nurse might kill me."
Ilya shakes his head, eyes closed.
"You are so worried. Stop. Just come here."
Shane sighs. He’s acutely aware that Mom and Dad are still in the room.
He lowers the bedrail, scoots his chair closer, and leans his head onto Ilya’s chest, careful of any lines in the way. It’s an awkward angle, and his back will hurt if he stays like this too long, but it gets Ilya to settle.
"Good?" he asks. He squeezes Ilya’s hand.
"Good," Ilya hums. "I love you."
Shane can feel his heartbeat. It makes everything else that was bothering him sort of fade out.
"I love you, too."
Notes:
i love my babies. please enjoy the mental image of two six-foot absolutely jacked hockey players trying to cuddle in a hospital bed <3
EDIT: just reiterating, because there’s been a couple comments about it - i am well aware that “Asperger’s” is not an appropriate term for autism in this day and age, due to its origins! i made a deliberate choice to use it within Shane’s narration here - in the context of this fic, it’s the diagnosis he received as a kid in the 90s, when the term was still in use, and it’s still how he conceptualizes his neurodivergence due to the lack of follow-up he’s had about it throughout his life. TLDR: i know “Asperger’s” is not the current term, Shane Hollander does not, and you are reading his internal monologue <3 love u all xoxo
Chapter 5
Summary:
Ilya mumbles something unintelligible, shifting in bed.
"Yeah, I know," Shane soothes him, without even thinking. He squeezes Ilya’s hand. "It’s okay."
Sveta watches them.
"You’re gentle with him," she comments. "He likes that. He needs someone gentle."
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Dad goes to pick Svetlana up from the airport, just after the sun starts to set.
Ilya is still in and out of sleep, totally variable as to whether he’ll be coherent when he’s awake. Sometimes he’s completely there, sometimes he’s confused and mumbling nonsense, and sometimes he’s agitated and freaking the fuck out.
Shane stays by his side, though.
"It’s okay," he finds himself murmuring, rubbing Ilya’s arm. "Just sleep. You’re okay."
Ilya is restless, but not awake— he’s tossing his head back and forth, probably irritating his wound, and he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists. His heart rate is a little high. Shane thinks he must be having a bad dream.
"Ilyusha," he tries, low and gentle. "Relax. You’re safe. It’s okay."
Ilya settles a little.
"Ilyusha?" Mom asks. "Is that a nickname?"
Shane nods.
"Yeah. It’s like— I guess it’s kind of a thing, in Russia, to use a lot of nicknames with people you’re close to. He told me it’s weird to him that you guys just call me Shane, because in his culture, that seems super formal. Like, he said his mom would’ve never called him Ilya, even if he was in trouble; it was always some kind of nickname, like Ilyusha or Ilyushenka."
Mom smiles.
"We tried to give you nicknames, y’know. You hated them. Even, like, Shaner, Shaney… you’d get so mad, and tell us that’s not your name."
He laughs a little. He remembers that. He just took things so literally, growing up— he couldn’t wrap his head around someone calling him something other than his proper name. He still barely tolerates his teammates calling him Holly or Hollzy.
"I still don’t like those," he says, "but I do think it’s cute when he calls me Shane-chik. It just feels, like… I know it’s special to him."
Mom has kind of a sappy smile on.
"I’m so happy you have him."
Shane watches Ilya’s face finally relax a little. Maybe the hum of their voices is enough to break through whatever haze he’s in.
"Yeah, so am I."
(He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to go back to pretending to hate Ilya. It’s so much easier to just be in love like this.)
-
The look on Sveta’s face when she sees Ilya for the first time is something Shane thinks might be burned into his memory forever.
She looks so scared and sad, and she rushes to him immediately, talking to him in quiet Russian.
(She also looks incredibly glamorous for someone who’s been travelling for two days straight, but that’s neither here nor there.)
Ilya is asleep, but then stirs a little, blinking up at her. He mumbles something back, when he realizes it’s her.
She shakes her head. Touches his face. Whispers something gentle and soft.
He closes his eyes and nods. Mutters something— Shane thinks he recognizes the word tired.
She smiles down at him. She says something that must be it’s okay, go back to sleep, because Ilya does. She watches him a moment longer, then looks up at Shane.
"Hi."
"Hey," Shane replies. "I’m glad you made it."
"Longest couple days of my life," she sighs, sitting down in the chair that Mom recently vacated. "Next time, I will suck it up and fly private."
Shane laughs.
"Yeah, it’s worth it sometimes."
It’s quiet for a moment, slightly awkward without Ilya to bridge the conversation between them.
(Mom and Dad have gone back to Shane’s house, since they can’t all sit in Ilya’s room and crowd him. Mom said she’ll try to put together a late dinner for tonight— a sad little Christmas dinner, but something, at least— and Dad will come pick him up when visiting hours end.)
"I’m glad he has you," Sveta says, after a bit. "If you weren’t here, and it took me so long to get here… it would hurt me, if he were alone all this time."
Shane nods.
"We were planning to do Christmas together anyways. Sucks that it’s in the hospital, but— yeah. I guess the bright side is that the injury happened in Montreal, so I can be here for him a little easier. I dunno what I would’ve done if this happened while he was in, like, LA or Florida or something."
She nods along.
"Small bits of luck, yes?"
"Yes, exactly."
She looks at Ilya again.
"He’s been like this all day? Sleeping, resting?"
"Pretty much. He wakes up for a couple minutes at a time— sometimes he’s really confused, sometimes he’s a little more with it. Sometimes he tries to pull on things or hurt himself, which is why they’ve got his hands held down."
She looks down, seems to notice the restraints for the first time. She mutters what must be a curse in Russian.
"It’s not hurting him?"
"I don’t think so. Most times he’s awake, he either doesn’t notice it or he’s okay with it once I explain, y’know— it’s just to keep you safe, they’ll take it off soon. I mean, I’d rather he be a little upset and confused than able to rip the drain out of his head, because he’s been trying to."
"What is the drain for?"
Shane winces slightly.
"I don’t entirely know. It’s to do with the pressure in his brain, from the swelling— I think they can let out a little fluid when it gets too high. Apparently they might take it out tomorrow, though, because he’s doing well."
Sveta nods.
"He’s strong. He’ll get well soon."
"Yeah. I think so. He’s… there haven’t been any complications or anything, so far. Everything the doctor’s been telling us is, like, best case scenario stuff. He’s doing great."
Ilya mumbles something unintelligible, shifting in bed.
"Yeah, I know," Shane soothes him, without even thinking. He squeezes Ilya’s hand. "It’s okay."
Sveta watches them.
"You’re gentle with him," she comments. "He likes that. He needs someone gentle."
Shane watches Ilya’s sleeping face.
"He likes that I’m boring," he offers. "I think he likes… how we can relax together. Just be ourselves. I like that about him, too. I mean— he’s not boring, far from it, so we kinda balance each other."
She’s smiling.
"You know… I had a feeling you were Jane. For a long time." She pokes Ilya’s face, and he squirms a little in his sleep. "He would sit and watch your highlights, your interviews… and go oh, Mr. Perfect, Shane Hollander, so annoying, but I could see it."
Shane bites back a laugh.
"He watches my interviews?"
"On his gigantic TV, even in French." She shakes her head. "He is hopeless. Obsessed with you."
(He can picture it— Ilya all spread out on his couch, glaring at the screen like he’s still trying to hate Shane’s guts, even though he hasn’t been capable of that for a long time.)
(Shane does the same thing, occasionally.)
"Ilyushenka…" Shane teases, petting his hair. "I knew you were my biggest fan. Secret’s out."
Again, Ilya just sort of squirms.
Maybe he’s vaguely aware that he’s being antagonized while he’s too out of it to do anything about it, but Shane is ninety-nine percent sure he wouldn’t mind, anyways. When he introduced Shane and Sveta, months ago, he was giddy at the idea of bringing his two favourite people together. He’ll just enjoy that they’re getting along.
"Sad, pathetic, in love, little boychik," Sveta sighs. "What will we ever do with you?"
They both laugh. Things feel okay, for a moment.
-
He thinks he must be having some kind of lovely, perfect dream, because he’s listening to Shane and Sveta talk about him and giggle together.
He can’t open his eyes, because then it’ll be over.
He’s comfortable right where he is, so he decides to just lie back and listen.
"Did he tell you about the time he thought we were surrounded by wolves, up at my cottage, when it was really just a bird?"
He should be embarrassed by this, maybe, but Shane sounds so fond that Ilya really just feels loved, more than anything.
"No," Sveta laughs. "He is such a city boy. Of course he was terrified. Tell me the story, I will never let him forget it."
Ilya feels so warm.
This is nice. He likes this dream.
-
It feels like an actual Christmas present when, the next time Ilya wakes up, he seems totally coherent.
He’s relaxed, and even though he has questions about what happened and why he’s in the hospital, he just nods to Shane’s explanations.
"Whose puck?" he asks. "Who hit me?"
"Couillard," Shane tells him. "He feels awful. He thought he killed you."
Ilya’s brow furrows.
"Tell him… is okay. Was accident. All good."
Shane smiles, stroking Ilya’s cheek.
"I can do that."
He turns to Sveta next.
"Did you…? My gifts for Yulia— you gave them?"
She answers him in Russian, but Shane thinks she must be saying yes. At the same time that Shane was shopping for the Pike children, Ilya was asking what to get his niece, who’s close in age to Ruby and Jade. He was planning to send a suitcase to Moscow with Sveta, mostly things for Yulia, because she’s the only person there that he still cares about.
Sveta pulls up some pictures— a dark-haired, bright-eyed little girl, holding some of the toys Ilya picked for her. There’s a little video, too, of her cheering: Spasibo, dyadya Ilya!
(Those ones are Duolingo words, too— thank you, uncle Ilya! Shane feels oddly satisfied at managing to understand it.)
(He hasn’t told Ilya he’s working on Russian yet, apart from echoing back things Ilya teaches him in conversation. His Duolingo streak is private for now; he can only imagine the ribbing he’d get for always doing the most, Hollander. Ilya would laugh at him. English, French, Japanese, wolf bird— all these languages are not enough for you already?)
(And sure, trying to pick up a fourth language feels slightly crazy, but he’s always been a little intense about the things he loves.)
He zones out for a while, not following the faster Russian conversation but happy to see Ilya so at ease.
It’s mostly Sveta talking, maybe telling him stories about what she was up to in Moscow, or her ridiculous two-day travel adventure trying to get here, but Ilya watches her and listens and—
Ilya looks like he’s in pain, Shane realizes.
An alarm starts to ring on one of the machines.
(Which is normal… the machines make noise all the time, and Paige always comes in to shut them off. It’s never a big deal.)
"You okay?" Shane asks, noticing the way Ilya has stiffened over the past few minutes.
Ilya frowns. He tries to reach up to his head, but can’t lift his hand high enough against the restraint.
"My head," he mumbles, words slurring a little. "It’s tight, I think. It’s— I don’t know."
The panic that undercuts his voice is unsettling. Paige is already rushing in. She looking at the monitors, eyes flicking between Ilya and the various screens, and her perpetual calm seems slightly rattled.
"Ilya, I’m your nurse. My name is Paige," she says. Subtly, she reaches down to press the call bell, then moves to examine the tube coming out of his head. "You’re… about to be very popular, okay? But it’s alright. We’re taking good care of you."
Ilya suddenly gags— almost a dry-heave, nothing comes up— and the clarity that was just there in his eyes starts to slip.
"Ow," Ilya moans, desperate. "Feels— bad."
More people are streaming into the room, and Shane finds himself literally backed against the wall. The alarm is getting more frantic.
"What’s happening?" he asks, with an embarrassing wobble to his voice.
"We’re seeing a big spike in his intracranial pressure," Paige says. "This can happen, with the swelling in his head."
That’s what the drain is supposed to be monitoring, Shane remembers. The pressure. That’s why Ilya is still in ICU, so they can keep an eye on the pressure.
Ilya groans, pulling on his restraints again, trying to lift his hands towards his bandages. He’s breathing fast, sounding terrified.
"Don’t move," one of the extra people instructs. "We’re going to fix it. I know it hurts."
Dr. Lévesque hurries into the room, pulling on a pair of gloves, followed by a young resident.
"What are we seeing?" he asks.
"ICP’s climbing," Paige answers him. "It was fourteen, it’s up to twenty-five. Drain hasn’t put out in about thirty minutes. He’s verbalized his head feeling tight."
"EVD is probably blocked somehow." He inspects the tubing as the resident adjusts the position of the bed. "Let’s give it a flush, see if we can clear it. Saline, slow and gentle."
It feels like there’s a million hands working, handing things to the doctors and adjusting things on monitors. In the middle of it all, Ilya is pale and hyperventilating, fists tangled in his sheets, clearly in pain.
It takes an excruciatingly long moment for anything to happen. Shane’s heart hammers in his ears, and he thinks he might be sick.
Then—
"There it goes," the resident breathes.
Clear fluid starts to slowly drain out.
Ilya exhales a long, shuddering breath, like the tension has suddenly left him.
The alarm that was ringing slows down.
"ICP is coming down," Paige says, watching the monitor. "Twenty-one… eighteen… fifteen." She turns to Ilya. "How’s that feel?"
Slowly, Ilya nods.
"Better," he croaks. "My head, um— not… so much exploding."
Shane could collapse with relief. Holy fuck. People start to leave, and there’s room for him to get close again; he grips the bedrail with white knuckles. Sveta is there on the other side, looking equally as rattled.
Dr. Lévesque stays in the room, waits until everyone else has filtered out, then pulls up the chair that got brought in for Dad earlier.
"I want to explain what just happened," he says, looking at Ilya. "I know that was a bit scary."
(A bit is a fucking understatement, in Shane’s opinion.)
"You have a drain placed in your head, to help relieve pressure around your brain while you’re healing. The drain wasn’t flowing properly, just now— there was probably a little kink in it, or some kind of blockage."
Ilya looks so tired, and so confused.
"I don’t know what is that," he grumbles. "Some of those words."
Thank god for Sveta. She translates for him immediately, and his expression gets a little clearer.
He nods, then asks her a question in Russian, which gets her to turn to Dr. Lévesque.
"He’s asking… it was a problem with the tube, then? Not a problem with his brain?"
"Exactly," Dr. Lévesque says. "We were able to fix the position of the tube, and get it to start working again. The pressure in your head got very high, but it went right back down. Your brain is doing just fine."
"Okay," Ilya says. He looks like he’s already fighting sleep again. "Feels… fine, now."
"Good. This kind of thing can happen with these drains— we caught it early, and that’s exactly why we’re monitoring everything so closely. I want us to do an extra CT scan tonight, just to make sure everything’s looking right, and keep the drain in place for the time being."
Shane’s been chewing the side of his finger.
"Everything’s okay, though? He’s not getting worse?"
Dr. Lévesque smiles.
"Ilya is still right on track with his recovery. This was a scare, I know, but something we anticipate and prepare for— it’s been handled now, and we know what to do if it happens again. We’re still moving in the right direction." He stands up, turns to Ilya again. "The biggest thing tonight will be rest, alright? Get some sleep, and if you start to get a headache or nausea like that again, let your nurse know right away. Someone will take you down for a CT in a little while."
Ilya nods, eyes half-shut.
"Okay." He glances over at Shane. "I… scared you?"
Shane half-laughs, half-sighs.
"Yeah. A little."
"Sorry. I’m okay."
"I know," Shane breathes He strokes Ilya’s cheek. "I know. You’re okay."
(The monitors are back to a steady rhythm, but Shane’s own heart is still racing.)
"I think… I will sleep," Ilya mumbles. "You stay?"
"Of course. I’m right here."
He waits until Ilya’s face has gone slack to rest his head on the bedrail and let out a long breath.
"Holy fucking shit."
-
Leaving for the night feels harder after a scare like that.
"He’s in the safest place he can be right now," Dad says, walking him to the car, after Sveta’s Uber to her hotel has picked her up. "He’s got all the right people. If anything happens, they’ll take care of him."
"Yeah, I know," Shane grumbles, still on edge. "I know how hospitals work."
Dad sighs.
"I’m just trying to help."
The irritation from earlier today flares again.
"Well, some quiet would help."
He doesn’t have to look over to see the frustration on Dad’s face. It’s like— Shane knows he’s being unreasonable, but he just can’t stop it right now.
Dad doesn’t say anything.
The quiet does help.
"I’m sorry," Shane mutters, once they’re pulling into his garage. "I keep snapping at you. I feel bad."
Dad reaches across the console to squeeze his forearm.
"You’re having a really, really shitty day. No hard feelings." He smiles. "It reminds me of teenage Shane all over again."
Shane hides his face in his hands.
(He wasn’t that bad as a teenager, but he definitely had an attitude sometimes. Only at home, really— he’d get sick of playing nice and polite for his coaches and billet family, so when he visited Mom and Dad, he could be a bit of a nightmare. It wasn’t so much teenage angst as it was exhaustion and anxiety and overwhelm… he crashed hard on his weekends at home, and it came out as snappy comments and passive-aggression.)
"I’m sorry," he repeats. "I’ll try to calm down."
"Eating will help." They both get out of the car. "Dinner should be ready. It’s nothing fancy, but better than takeout."
Shane nods.
"Thanks, Dad."
As they walk up to the house, Dad ruffles his hair.
"Don’t worry about it, champ."
-
He sleeps in later than he normally ever would.
It’s after nine, by the time he actually rolls over and looks at his phone— he can hear Mom and Dad moving around and talking downstairs.
"Fuck," he groans, throwing himself out of bed and heading straight for the shower. "You fucking idiot."
He doesn’t sleep in. That’s not something Shane Hollander— the best hockey player in the world— ever does. He can’t remember the least time he slept past six. He’s always in the gym by seven, at the latest, except for mornings after he’s spent the night with Ilya.
Ilya is probably wondering where he is.
He fucks up his routine even further by skipping his post-shower skincare, just throwing on some clothes and rushing down the stairs.
"Morning, sunshine. There you are," Mom says, before stopping short and staring at him. "Uh-uh. Nope. You are not wearing that out of the house."
Shane looks down at himself.
He’s in a Boston Raiders hoodie.
"Jesus," he grumbles. "Yeah, no, you’re right. I’ll change. Ilya probably left this here."
(He knows Ilya left it here. In fact, he doused it in his fucking cologne and left it shoved under Shane’s pillows. It smells like Ilya, and Shane wears it to bed sometimes.)
(He was in such a rush, just now, that he grabbed it without even looking.)
"What can I make you for breakfast?" Dad asks.
Shane isn’t hungry, and doesn’t care, but he stops himself from snapping.
"Um, there’s ziplocks in the freezer with everything portioned out for my smoothies. Just throw one in the blender with a cup of soy milk and a scoop of pea protein."
"All you want is a smoothie? You gotta have some real food."
Shane forces a breath. He’s being calm today. Not a brat.
"That’s all I usually have for breakfast. It’s got everything in it— my dietician made the recipe. It’s fine."
"Alright, suit yourself."
"I’m gonna post on your Twitter, Shane," Mom says, and Shane almost fucking explodes because he doesn’t care about Twitter, no matter how much she talks about it. "There were some photos of you leaving the hospital, and an article ran this morning speculating that you were visiting Ilya."
Shane sighs.
"What are you even posting? It’s not weird that I’d stop by and check on an opposing player who got hurt in a game— it just makes me look like a good captain. We can ignore it."
"Well, now that people are watching for you, it could get suspicious if they see you there again. I’m just gonna—"
"I don’t care, Mom. Let people talk. Whatever."
"Shane. Relax. I’m just gonna get ahead of the rumours. One tweet— I have a family member admitted to the same hospital right now. Yes, I stopped by to give Rosanov my best, but in the future some privacy would be appreciated while my family navigates a difficult holiday season. That’s it."
"That makes me sound like an asshole! I don’t even talk like that."
"I know it sounds a little corporate, but I’m sure everyone knows you’re too famous to be writing your own tweets. It’s fine. It gives a reason for you to be at the hospital every day, gets ahead of the announcement that you’re taking some time off for a family emergency, and squashes any rumours that might come up about you two."
"It sounds stupid."
"Shane."
Shane storms back upstairs to change, and spends a moment looking at himself in the mirror.
His head is being really fucking loud today, and there’s a buzz of anxiety pulsating under his skin. He feels like an elastic band pulled to the verge of its breaking point.
(His hair looks awful. The blender downstairs is too loud. He has a fucking pimple on his chin.)
(It almost breaks him.)
He’s literally in his own house right now, but he’s still struck with an overwhelming sense of I want to go home. Maybe home is Mom and Dad’s house, or maybe it’s the cottage, or maybe it’s just Ilya. Whatever it is that he’s longing for, he needs to get over it.
He tries to blink the tears out of his eyes. He pulls a hat on to hide his hair, and takes several deep breaths. He’s in a Reebok hoodie now, and it doesn’t smell like Ilya, but that’s okay. He’ll be with Ilya soon enough. Maybe that’ll fix whatever’s wrong with him today.
"Smoothie’s ready!" Dad yells from downstairs.
Shane clenches his hands until his nails dig into his palms.
He’s okay. He can do this.
"Coming!" he shouts back.
Fuck.
Notes:
oh shane baby :(( and poor yuna and david who just want to help, but our boy is a little too stressed to respond well to it right now
Chapter 6
Summary:
"Shane," Ilya breathes. "Look at me, lyubimyy. Is not real, any of that. I am not dead. I am right here. Don’t need to think about those things, yes?"
Shane bites his lip, clearly holding back tears.
"I know. I just— it really scared me."
Ilya lifts his hand and kisses the back of it.
"Yes. When you got hurt last season… I thought I would die if you were not okay. Is not a good feeling."
Notes:
welcome back ao3, you were dearly missed during the downtime yesterday 🫡
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The floor feels too far away.
Everything is titled on its axis, the whole world offset a little to the side. He can’t quite orient to where he is in space.
"You’re doing really well, Ilya. Your vitals look great. Can we stay like this a little longer?"
He’s a little worried that if he tries to nod, he’ll spill his guts down the front of him, so he just purses his lips and breathes for a second.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed. It shouldn’t be this hard.
"Yes. Is good."
"Good. Awesome."
He doesn’t know who this person is, crouched in front of him and talking to him. He can’t focus enough the read his name tag, either.
"Who are you?"
The man laughs.
"My name is Jake, I’m a physical therapist. Behind you, holding your shoulders, is Courtney. She’s an occupational therapist."
Ilya blinks. Frowns.
"Occupation is like… job?"
There’s a little laugh from behind him.
"I get that a lot. I help people with all their daily activities— anything that occupies your time. We’ll probably work together some more while you’re in the hospital, to make sure you can do things like getting dressed or getting to the bathroom on your own."
He’s never heard of that before. He wasn’t aware there was a job title for helping someone go to the bathroom… but, he supposes, someone has to do it. Good on her.
"Okay," he says. "I can do those things. Is fine."
(He realizes he might be lying. The thought of getting up and doing anything on his own right now sounds impossible. Just sitting here is hard.)
"Or maybe not," he adds.
"We’ll work on it," Courtney says. She’s holding his shoulders from behind, keeping him upright, and he can’t see her. "How are you feeling right now?"
He takes a breath.
"Um, weird. Dizzy, a little."
"That’s normal," Jake says. "You’ve been lying down for a few days. Can you try to get your feet flat on the floor?"
Ilya may have temporarily forgotten he had feet. He wiggles his toes, trying to sort out where exactly his legs are and see if they’ll be willing to work properly, then carefully adjusts so that his bare feet are planted.
It stops his vision from swaying, just a little.
"Good," Jake says. "There. Let’s just sit, okay?"
Nausea comes on in a wave, but he holds it back.
Just sitting is stupidly difficult.
There’s a knock at the door, but if he tries to look and see who it is, he’ll definitely topple over.
"Woah, look at you," a voice says. "Holy shit, Ilya. This is awesome."
Ilya blinks.
Shane is here.
"Hollander," he says, because he knows not to be too friendly in front of strangers. "Hi."
Shane laughs.
"Hi. You look like you’re feeling a little better today."
Ilya doesn’t know what to say to that, because he can’t really remember much before today— he doesn’t have a fucking clue how he ended up in the hospital. He tries to shrug.
"Maybe, yes."
"Good," Shane says. He’s coming into the room, taking his jacket off, like he’s not nervous to be here at all. "I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier. I slept in, and then— whatever. I’m here now."
A bead of sweat drips down Ilya’s temple. His arms are shaking a little from the strain of holding himself upright— even with the lady whose name he already forgot’s help. This is stupidly hard.
"How long…?" he grits out. He’s not entirely sure what he’s even asking.
"Let’s try for a full minute," the man in front of him says. "Twenty more seconds. Sound okay?"
Ilya takes a slow, deep breath, once again worried that the slightest movement might set him off vomiting. He drops his chin to his chest, beyond exhausted.
"Okay."
(He’s a fucking NHL player. Sitting shouldn’t be this hard. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.)
It feels like years— simply focusing on his breathing and trying not to tip over, too dizzy to even look up and try to find Shane— before the guy says:
"Alright. Great work. Back to bed?"
"Please," Ilya sighs.
The people help him lie back down, even lifting his legs back onto the mattress for him; the room finally goes still, and the dizziness recedes from a roar to a dull hum.
He exhales, and every one of his muscles goes loose and relaxed. He feels like he just ran a fucking marathon.
"Why… is so hard?" he asks, out of breath. "I am in very good shape."
The guy laughs softly.
"You’re definitely in shape, I don’t doubt that. Your body is doing great— your brain is just lagging a little behind right now. You have an injury to the area that controls balance and coordination… we just asked it to do a lot of work."
Ilya sighs.
"I feel so tired."
"You’ve been lying down for a few days," the lady offers, stepping over to where Ilya can see her. "Your brain hasn’t had to work against gravity in a little while, so it had to reset itself all at once. It took a lot of energy."
"The important part was that your vitals looked good— I was keeping an eye on your blood pressure and your ICP, and they didn’t get too high," the guy adds. "Your body reacted exactly the right way. I would’ve been more concerned if you weren’t tired from that."
Ilya finally manages to find Shane in his eye line— he’s settled into a chair beside the bed, like he’s here to stay.
"This is normal, then?" Shane asks, all worried, the way he always is. "It’ll get easier?"
"Definitely. This is day one of trying to move around again, and it went better than expected… we can only go up from here."
"Good. That’s great," Shane says. He smiles at Ilya. "Overachiever already, eh?"
Ilya blinks.
(Shane is being nice to him in front of people. Something about this situation doesn’t make sense, but he’s not going to complain about it.)
(He’s also having trouble placing what overachiever means. The word is familiar, but his brain is moving a little slowly.)
"Yes," he says, slightly unsure. "I think."
"We’ll see you tomorrow, Ilya," the guy says, dragging his name out in a funny way, like some North Americans do— Eeeleya. "Get some rest, alright?"
Ilya nods.
"Okay."
And finally, he’s alone with Shane.
"What are you doing here?" he blurts. "We can’t— in front of people."
Shane just smiles again.
"I love that you’re awake enough to worry about that." He scoots his chair closer to the bed. "It’s okay, though. We’re safe here. We’ve got a cover story, my mom made sure there’s NDAs, we’re good."
Ilya finds himself smiling back.
Of course Shane has it handled. Why wouldn’t he?
That brings him to a bigger question, though.
"What happened?"
He’s sure someone’s already told him— if he’s been here a few days, he’s probably been told multiple times— but he just can’t remember. He’s tired, and his head hurts, and it’s too hard to think.
Shane sighs softly, and grabs his hand. Ilya gets a sense that maybe he’s tired of being asked the same question over and over.
"In our last game, which was a few days ago, you took a slapshot to the head." Shane looks really serious. Ilya winces at the thought of a puck flying at him that fast. "It hit below the rim of your helmet and cracked your skull— you had surgery, and you’re gonna be okay, it’s just a bit of a process while your brain heals. Everything’s really swollen, still."
Ilya nods slowly.
"You were there?"
Shane looks so, so sad.
"Yeah." His voice comes out very quietly. "We were playing against each other. It was… really scary."
Ilya plays idly with Shane’s fingers, thinking about that.
(Is he okay? Fucking tell me! It was terrifying, seeing Shane unmoving on the ice. Not responding, one hand stretched out… just like… fuck.)
(Being on the other end of it is even worse, he decides. He can’t stomach the thought of Shane going through the same thing, seeing him like that.)
"I’m sorry," he whispers.
"No," Shane says, right away. "No, no, Ilya— there’s nothing to be sorry for. I mean, I’m sorry. You were asking for me, you were so scared, and I didn’t—" his voice breaks a little— "I didn’t go with you, off the ice. I felt so awful, but I just thought about what people would see, so I went and finished the game, but god— I felt sick. I wanted to be with you."
Ilya frowns.
"You couldn’t go with me. Of course not." He squeezes Shane’s hand. "You had to finish the game. Is okay. And… if it helps, I remember nothing. Makes no difference now, anyways."
Shane is frowning, and his lower lip is wobbling, and his eyes are all shiny.
(Ilya loves him more than anything.)
"I’m just sorry, okay? I was so— I was so scared that you wouldn’t make it, and our last moment together would be… you asking for me, and me going back to my bench. Fuck, Ilya. That would’ve killed me." He pauses, shakes his head. "And I wouldn’t even be able to grieve properly, because we’re a secret, so I’d just have to go back to playing hockey again like nothing happened, but I don’t think I could. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’d be dying, all alone, forever."
"Shane," Ilya breathes. "Look at me, lyubimyy. Is not real, any of that. I am not dead. I am right here. Don’t need to think about those things, yes?"
Shane bites his lip, clearly holding back tears.
"I know. I just— it really scared me."
Ilya lifts his hand and kisses the back of it.
"Yes. When you got hurt last season… I thought I would die if you were not okay. Is not a good feeling."
Shane’s throat bobs as he swallows. He breaks into a watery smile, with a quiet laugh.
"You know… your team thinks you’re dating my best friend, now. You’re gonna laugh— it’s the stupidest story."
Ilya blinks.
"You told them I’m dating Pike!?"
"What? No!" Shane is laughing harder now. "Jesus, no. They think I’m besties with Jane." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I showed up here at the hospital, and I tried to explain, like— your emergency contact was out of the country, so she asked me to come here and check on you, because she’s a mutual friend. That part is true, Sveta was texting me from Moscow, freaking out." He pauses. "Somehow, they assumed I was talking about your Montreal girl, though, and I was so confused that I didn’t even correct them, so now they think we’re, like, friend-in-laws who hang out when you’re in the city, because you’re dating my friend Jane."
Ilya’s jaw has dropped.
"Hollander. That is insane."
"I know," Shane whines. "It just spiralled so fast— I didn’t even know what I was saying, but it meant I got to come be alone with you before your surgery, so it worked out. Your team went home for Christmas and got told that Jane and her family would be here with you while you’re recovering."
Slowly, Ilya finds himself starting to laugh.
Holy shit.
(Maybe this means they can be seen together before even starting the charity. Friend-in-laws. That’s absolutely crazy, but he fucking loves it.)
"You are crazy person, Hollander. And liar."
"Yeah, maybe." Shane leans over the side of the bed to kiss him, which Ilya happily indulges. "Crazy about you."
"Shut up," Ilya laughs. "So stupid."
Shane’s phone buzzes, and he peeks at it.
"Sveta’s coming soon. She’s jet-lagged, she wanted to sleep in and, like, wash her hair and stuff today."
Ilya blinks.
"She came? From Moscow?"
"Of course she did. She was so worried about you— she got on the first flight here, and it took her like two days of travelling, but she’s here."
Ilya is so tired, but so happy. He’s hurting, but he has his people. He’s okay. Shane told him he’s going to be okay.
"I think… I need to sleep," he says. "But you will be here?"
"I’ll be here." Shane kisses him again. "I’ll be right here."
And Ilya finds it very, very easy to relax.
-
@MontrealMetros
26 DÉCEMBRE // Shane Hollander prendra un bref congé pour s’occuper d’un malade dans son famille. Les #Métros le soutient pleinement pendant cette période difficile 💙❤️
DECEMBER 26 // Shane Hollander will be taking a brief leave of absence to attend to a family illness. He has the #Metros full support during this difficult time 💙❤️
@MetrosFanClubOfficial
Take care, @ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer! Sending our best to the Hollander family.
@NousSommesLesMetros
Certaines choses sont plus importantes que le hockey. Prends tout le temps qu’il te faut, capitaine.
@Gord_MetroFan
Losing streak starts now, I guess.
@ihearthollander
@Gord_MetroFan have some respect. Family comes first. Pike and Boiziau always pull through anyways, the boys will play hard for him.
@hollanovlover
Saw this coming, he’s obv spending time with his injured bf 🥰💐
@ihearthollander
@hollanovlover seriously where do you people get off?? He JUST tweeted this morning asking for privacy, and clarifying that he has a family member in the hospital. Leave your weird fan fiction out of real life.
-
"He was really, like, with it, when I got here. Wide awake, talking in real sentences— they even had him sitting up for a bit."
Shane hasn’t moved, still holding Ilya’s (now unrestrained) hand. It’s been an hour or so of Ilya napping, and Shane zoning out to the rhythm of the monitors. He finally feels like he’s coming down from his horrifically high-strung morning.
"Amazing," Sveta says, hanging her coat over the back of a chair. "And there was nothing else, with…" She gestures to her head. "This tube? The drain?"
Shane chews his cheek.
"His nurse told me it happened again in the middle of the night— like, his pressure going up really high. They fixed it, obviously, but they’re gonna keep an eye on it; if it keeps happening, his surgeon might want to replace the tube and see if that helps. It sounds like this is pretty normal, though."
Sveta hums.
"Makes me nervous."
"Yeah," Shane agrees. "But everything’s been going well, so far. I’m trying not to worry too much about it. Everything they tell me is like— he’s on the right track."
"Ilyushenka," Sveta says, nudging him softly. "Privet, dorogoy."
Ilya is slow to wake, but he gets there.
"Sveta," he whispers, smiling. "Chto ty zdes' delayesh'?"
"Ty ne pomnish'?" She looks worried, at whatever he’s said. "Ya tebya vchera videl."
Ilya frowns, his brow creasing.
"Nyet."
Sveta looks up at Shane.
"He doesn’t remember, from yesterday. He asked: what are you doing here? Is that— shouldn’t he know?"
"His memory is in and out," Shane says. "Ilya, babe— do you remember why you’re in the hospital?"
Ilya thinks for a moment, then gives a slow nod.
"Hockey. Um… is something with my head. You told me, but— is not remembering." He pauses, then gets a little clearer. "Hit with a puck, yes?"
"Yeah. Exactly. Do you remember what I told you about Sveta coming?"
Ilya takes a long, deep breath.
"She had to wash her hair. But is here. Coming." He turns to her. "Sorry. Am not remembering good."
She gives him a sad smile.
"U menya chistyye volosy, ya zdes'. Kak dela?"
He shrugs.
"I feel okay. Sore head."
She makes a face.
"What, and you forgot how to talk to me in Russian?"
Ilya gestures weakly in Shane’s direction.
"Don’t want to— make him not know what I say. We use English for now."
(Ilya’s English is usually a lot better than this, and he’s clearly having a hard time with it right now— yet he’s still trying to use it to make Shane feel included. He’s amazing.)
"Fine," she laughs. "Other than your head, how are you?"
Ilya sighs, somewhat dramatically. Gestures to himself.
"I am so good. Do you see?" he drawls, sarcastic. "Just… could not be better. So fucking healthy and good." He pauses. "And my head is very good. Shane does not ever complain."
She rolls her eyes.
"Disgusting. At least you’re being yourself again— an asshole."
Ilya grins at her.
(Shane adores him.)
(Seeing him awake and coherent again is everything.)
(It’s all going to be okay.)
-
Ilya gets quieter after a while, but Shane chalks it up to fatigue— this period of twenty minutes or so that he’s been awake and with it is the longest he’s managed so far.
"It’s okay if you’re tired," Shane tells him. "You can go back to sleep. We’ll be here."
Ilya hums.
"Okay. I feel… not so good. Tired. Head hurts a bit."
"I know," Shane sighs. He runs his fingers through the curls poking out from Ilya’s bandages. "Just sleep. You were awake for a while, it was really good, but it’s hard on your brain."
Ilya nods. His eyes fall closed.
"Shane…"
"Yes, babe."
"I feel sick. Like… toshnotvornyy."
"Nauseous," Sveta translates. She presses the call bell. "Let’s call your nurse. She can bring a bowl, maybe, if you need to throw up."
"I don’t like it," Ilya mumbles. He sounds like a kid, for a moment. "I don’t want to throw up."
"I know," Shane tells him. "It’s not fun. Maybe try to sleep it off."
Ilya whines quietly, rubbing his head against his pillows, like he’s trying to scratch an itch under the bandages.
Paige comes in. Shane is glad she’s back today.
"He feels nauseous," Sveta says. "Is there— something he can puke into?"
Paige chuckles.
"Definitely, yeah. I’ll grab a bowl." She pauses, looking at the screens and machinery. "You’re draining slowly, but decently… pressure’s not doing anything crazy… vitals are stable. Good. I’ll be right back."
She is, in fact, right back, with a cardboard bowl that she hands to Ilya.
"I’ll ask your doctor to order some Zofran," she says. "It should help settle your stomach."
Ilya nods up at her, looking utterly miserable. He gags over the bowl, spits a bit of watery bile, then simply closes his eyes again.
"I try to sleep for now," Ilya mutters.
"Good idea," Shane sighs. "Just rest."
(They had a good morning. This isn’t a huge setback, just part of the process.)
(He’ll be okay.)
-
An hour later, Paige comes in for a neuro check.
Ilya’s been asleep— a little restless, reminding Shane of how he was a couple days ago, but sleeping nonetheless.
"Hi Ilya," she says, leaning over the side of the bed. "Can you wake up for me?"
It takes him a while to get there.
"Ilya," she repeats. "Hey. Open your eyes."
She rubs a hand in the middle of his chest, when he still doesn’t respond.
He blinks a few times, slowly coming to awareness. He opens his eyes, but they’re oddly vacant, not really looking at her.
Shane watches Paige’s brow pinch a little.
"Can you tell me where you are right now?"
Ilya hums. He’s slow to respond.
"Russia, I think."
Paige frowns for real now.
Shane locks eyes with Sveta, who looks about as worried as he feels. Ilya knew where he was, as of this morning.
"You’re in the hospital in Montreal, hon. I’m just going to check your eyes, quickly."
She shines her little flashlight in his eyes, like she does at every check, but frowns even deeper.
She looks at the monitors, taps the little chamber connected to the drain in Ilya’s head, looks up and down the length of the tube.
"I’m just gonna go get a doctor."
(Shane wishes he were better at reading people’s tone. She’s clearly worried, but he’s having a hard time figuring out how worried.)
"Hey," Shane says, putting a hand on Ilya’s arm. "You okay? I’m here."
Ilya takes a heavy breath.
"My head feels like… full. Exploding. Bad."
Shane’s stomach twists. This must be the same thing from last night, another blockage.
(At least that means someone can fix it.)
The resident or junior doctor or whatever the term is from last night follows Paige in, moments later. He’s probably Shane and Ilya’s own age, which seems on the younger side for a doctor, but he looks confident enough to trust. Dr. Rahman, his badge reads.
"Drain output’s down," Paige says. She points to one of the screens. "ICP’s slowly trending up. Pupils are sluggish, he’s very slow to respond, told me he was in Russia. A big change from this morning."
"Ilya," Dr. Rahman says. "How are you feeling?"
Ilya has closed his eyes again, and he doesn’t even open them this time.
"Not… very good. Bad."
"Can you look up at me?"
Ilya is quiet and still for a moment too long.
"No," he mumbles, eyes still closed. "My head is… wrong. I feel sick."
"Can you lift up your right arm?"
It takes a long moment, but Ilya eventually lifts his hand just off the bed— it’s the same when Dr. Rahman asks for the left. There’s another check of his eyes, a few more questions that Ilya barely mumbles answers to.
Dr. Rahman nods.
"Okay. I don’t like the look of those pupils. Let’s page neurosurgery and go for a stat CT." He pauses, and Shane’s stomach drops. "Ilya, we’re going to have a look at your brain again. We’ll do our best to get you feeling better."
"What’s happening?" Sveta asks. "What’s wrong?"
"I’m worried this might be more than just the drain getting blocked," Dr. Rahman says. "His pressure is rising slowly, not a big spike like it was before, and he’s showing some new symptoms, so something’s changed. The swelling in his brain might be making it hard for the fluid around it to circulate properly; it’s also possible that there could be some new bleeding around the injury site, or a clot somewhere. The scan will be able to tell us more."
Shane’s chest feels tight. He can’t look away from Ilya, who’s taken a complete one-eighty from how well he was doing this morning. He’s already gone back to sleep.
"A clot— like a stroke?"
Dr. Rahman stays completely neutral and professional.
"It’s not what I’m suspecting right now, but it’s possible. I’m gonna get my attending involved, see what he thinks, and we’ll see what the CT says. Whatever is happening, I promise you we’re on top of it, and we’re going to figure it out."
Paige is busy messing with monitors and machines, getting Ilya ready to go down for yet another scan. Shane feels sick. Svetlana has clamped both her hands onto Ilya’s arm.
"Ilya Rosanov, ty ne imeyesh' prava umirat' u menya na glazakh," she whispers, sounding harsh. "S toboy vso dolzhno byt' v poryadke."
Shane doesn’t understand it, but he notices the use of Ilya rather than a nickname. She must be saying something serious.
Ilya glances tiredly at her, and doesn’t respond.
(He could be having another brain bleed, or a fucking stroke, or whatever’s going on with the fluid not moving properly. Holy fuck. He looks bad.)
Shane kisses his knuckles, because that’s all he can think of to do.
"You’re gonna be okay." He tries to sound calmer than he feels. "Just keep hanging in there. They’re gonna take good care of you. You’ll be okay."
Ilya, pale and tired and barely responsive, squeezes his hand. At least it’s something.
(There’s no alarms screaming at them, no one is running or panicking, but the tension is so fucking thick. Something is wrong, and they don’t know what, and Shane might fucking throw up.)
"I love you," he adds, while the transport staff is getting ready to wheel Ilya away for the CT. "Ya tebya lyublyu. More than anything."
Ilya’s eyes flash open for a moment, and he meets Shane’s gaze. He manages a hint of a smile, and a twitch of his fingers.
Shane gets the message.
I love you, too.
Notes:
ok i promise things will look up eventuallyyyyy i just need to be evil and keep you all on a bit of a roller coaster first hehe <3 the icu is not typically a smooth ride!!