Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ilya was acting stupid. 

He was acting so fucking stupid he couldn’t stand being in his own skin. 

He should talk to Galina. Maybe he could schedule an emergency session and assure he wasn’t a piece of shit who just fucked up the only good thing in his life. 

He was defensive and stupid and wanted to scream at himself as loud as he possibly could. 

Why did he even have to fight back? Why did he have to say something about Bood’s party in the first place even? Why did he do anything that he had done that day with Shane if it ended with Ilya wanting to internally die as Shane’s face fell? 

I mean, he knew why. Of course he did. He wanted to be loved out loud. He wanted to claim as boldly as he could that Shane Hollander was the love of his life and they were going to love each other damn it.

But it was pointless. Shane wasn’t ready. And maybe Shane would never be ready. 

And that’s what cracked Ilya’s heart. 

He had already given up so much. How much more did he have to give up before he could finally be fucking happy, truly happy, for the first time in this godforsaken life with no one by his side? 

“Oh, fuck you. Sorry I still want to win cups instead of smoking weed with my teammates between losses.” 

That was a low blow. It kept repeating in Ilya’s head over and over. It spread through his mind until it suffocated him so tightly it felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

His chest hurt. His throat hurt. His eyes hurt. He needed to breathe. He needed to stop standing in his fucking kitchen like a little bitch and run to Shane and apologize because he couldn’t breathe without him and every minute away from the love of his life felt like a million years of walking through hell to Ilya. 

“Would you choose me?”

What a silly question. Shane was truly sometimes such an idiot. In the most lovable way possible. And that made Ilya ache all the more. Because, like he said, he already chose Shane. And he would continue to choose him for the rest of his life. That was a no-brainer for Ilya. 

Except he fucked it up now. Shane would never choose him back now after this scene. Some part of Ilya always knew Shane would more than likely choose his career in the NHL over Ilya. He just didn’t want to admit it to himself. And Shane’s less-than-confident “Of course I would,” was all the confirmation Ilya truly needed. 

He didn’t realize his fists were curling until a sharp pain flashed through his left hand. He looked down and realized his fingernails dug so deep into his palms that they started to bleed. He really should cut them soon. 

And then he thought of how Shane would always so delicately cut Ilya’s fingernails when he let them grow out too long. Sitting in Ilya’s lap, carefully examining them, before cutting them as carefully as he could. And then he would intertwine his hand in Ilya’s and do the other hand and everything would feel right. Calm. Soft. Domestic. Kind. Warm. 

Ilya would feel like maybe he wasn’t anything but a burden when Shane would show his love for him in little moments like that. But who was he kidding? He was a walking mistake. A fuck-up of the highest degree. 

He needed to get out of here. Drive somewhere, anywhere. He needs to get out of this house that he literally bought for Shane, even though it was his. So he grabbed his keys and tumbled out of his front door, panicked breaths forming in white huffs in the cold winter air of Ottawa. Despite literally growing up in Russia, the cold caught him off guard more often than not. Tears stung in his eyes as the cold wind blew, causing him to shiver as he ran to his car somewhat frantically. He quickly started his car, pulling out of his driveway, not bothering to turn on the seat warmers. Once he numbed himself to the cold again it wouldn’t matter anyway. 

💙

He doesn’t remember how long he drove for. All he knew was that the further he drove, the more his eyes would swell with tears. He tried blinking them away, but a fresh new flood would coat his eyes all the same afterwards, so he gave up trying after the first ten minutes. 

It had been dark out when he started driving, so he didn’t know what time it was, but he felt like it was still somehow too early to do anything but mourn for how idiotic he was. The fight was still too fresh, still oozing with blood every time he remembered the expression Shane left his house with. Their house. His house. Fuck. 

Ilya didn’t know anymore if Shane would ever want to come back to their house. 

Which Shane had every right to. 

Ilya was a shitty person. 

There was no redeemable part of him. Not after this. Because Shane had been the only redeemable quality of Ilya for the past three years. And now that Ilya had fucked that up, (because it was only a matter of time before he did) it was over. Shane probably hated him and Ilya couldn’t go on living with that thought so the only option now was to die. 

But no. Shane would probably be sad if he died. If it was sudden like this, he would be shocked and wouldn’t know how to recover. He would probably feel like he’s dying every single day, like Ilya does whenever Shane isn’t around him. Like he feels now.

So he wouldn’t die quite yet.  

He would drive to Shane’s Montreal house and apologize to him, and if Shane didn’t forgive him, then he’d die. 

Sure. That was a plan. It was a shitty escape, but Ilya didn’t think about that because no life was worth living if Shane didn’t want to be part of it anymore. 

But he should probably stop crying like an idiot first. The only time he’s cried like this was seventeen years ago over his mother, and that made him feel so incredibly weak so he vowed to never cry like that ever again. So he needed to will the tears behind his eyes to stop building, and pull himself together so he didn’t look like a literal idiot to his boyfriend. Plus, the drive was starting to get foggy, so he needed to be careful and in full control of his sight.

But no matter how many times he swiped his arm over his eyes, they always blurred with more tears a moment later. His chest was constricted, and he couldn’t tell if he was whimpering or not. It felt like his heart was ripping in his chest every time he took one measly breath, so maybe he needed to focus on calming that down first. 

And then he thought of how Shane would rub his thumbs over his tears, and felt a sob suddenly escape his mouth. Oh god, he fucked up. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

But it would be okay, because he’d drive to Shane’s Montreal house, and even if Shane didn’t want to see him he would be nice, and kind, as always, and invite Ilya inside since the drive was long, and maybe he’d even be as lucky as to let Ilya sleep with him because he’d have to haul it back up to Ottawa really early if he wanted to make his practice tomorrow.

Yeah. They’d be okay. Because Ilya would apologize for ever saying anything, and making Shane feel anything less than what he is to Ilya. So yeah. He just needed to get there first. 

Ilya scrubbed at his eyes again, his vision still blurry and obscured by unshed tears. Idiot, idiot, idiot. His hands, white-knuckled and trembling, tightened against the steering wheel until his already bleeding palms screamed in protest. He leaned forward, trying to peer through the watery haze on his eyes and the streaked windshield, but the effort was useless. 

Just then, a set of headlights—massive, blinding, close, too close—materialized through the rain and fog. A semi-truck, barreling toward him. All Ilya registered was a split second of paralyzing fear, a flash of metallic screech, and the crushing, thunderous impact that tore through his car. The air bag exploded against his face, glass shattered in a million directions, and the metal around him crumpled like a soda can. 

Then, nothing.  

He drifted back to consciousness, seconds or minutes later, to a world of all-consuming agony. 

The car was silent, save for the hiss of a deployed airbag and the faint trickle of rain. 

He was twisted, half-collapsed into the passenger seat, his seatbelt biting painfully into his shoulder, completely unable to move. A searing, bone-deep throb radiated from his left arm, which was bent at an impossible, grotesque angle, a jagged spike of bone piercing the shredded fabric of his jacket sleeve and the skin beneath. Every shallow, terrified gasp sent a fresh, crippling pain through his ribs, at least four of them likely splintered and protesting inside his chest, making breathing feel like swallowing shards of glass. A horrifying numbness, a complete absence of feeling, encased his entire lower body, a chilling, absolute certainty that his spine was shattered. Both of his legs were utterly trapped, crushed and mangled beneath the crumpled dashboard, and a sickening, deep ache pulsed from his pelvis. His head felt dizzy and fuzzy as he tasted blood, metallic and sticky, from a deep, ragged gash slicing across his forehead that was rapidly blurring his right eye with warmth. 

His body felt heavy, broken, and impossibly cold, the frigid Canadian air rushing through the open, broken window.

Shane.

The thought was a desperate, panicked whisper in the ringing silence. He needed to apologize. He needed to tell Shane he loved him, not like this, not as he faded into the cold, crushing darkness. He couldn’t die yet. Not until he looked into Shane’s ridiculous, beautiful eyes one last time and said sorry for everything, and got to say goodbye. He had to make it to Montreal. 

He tried to move, to crawl out, but a fresh wave of pain brought a strangled cry to his lips, and he collapsed back into the ruins of his seat. The sheer weight of the pain and the rapidly draining exhaustion, a heavy blanket of shock and blood loss, was pulling him under. He fought to stay anchored to consciousness, to his desperate need for forgiveness. 

He needed to keep his eyes open. That’s what the team medics always said when a player was concussed on the ice. He couldn’t leave Shane. Not like this. 

Please, God. Please. Let me apologize to him. One last time. That’s all I ask. Please tell him I’m so sorry, my love. Please let him know he’s always in my heart. I’m always with him. Safe in his heart.

But his prayer, his love, and his very life felt too far away to cling to.

He faintly registered a hissing coming from his car, and as he slowly drifts into unconsciousness again he hears the engine explode. The explosion covered him, searing at his skin. The roar faded into a distant hum, the pain a numb background throb. 

He closed his eyes, the world spinning into a velvet blackness. 

💙

Shane felt sick to his stomach. He doesn’t remember how he got back home to Montreal. All he remembers is feeling like a fuck-up and thinking of a million solutions to make Ilya feel better. 

But something had gone wrong, and Shane hadn’t realized that until it was too late, and he was sure Ilya would never forgive him now. He was such a shitty boyfriend. 

How could he not realize? 

God, and the way Ilya looked? His tone when he asked Shane to leave for the last time? God, he should’ve stayed. He should’ve fought harder and said he wasn’t leaving, and they were gonna talk about this, right here, right now. 

But, that was the thing. He didn’t fight. He made Ilya fit into this perfect little box he had constructed, that fit perfectly into his life. And Shane hesitated when Ilya asked if he would choose Ilya over hockey. He never fought properly for Ilya. Never gave Ilya the recognition he truly deserved. Ilya literally upended his whole life for Shane, and Shane didn’t recognize all the sacrifices Ilya made for them. 

And now he resented Shane. If he didn’t break up with him now, Shane would praise whatever higher power there was on his hands and knees. He would spend every day from here on out showing Ilya how much he appreciated and loved him, like Ilya deserved. Because right now Shane felt like there was nothing more important in his life than Ilya. 

Wow. Going through your first big fight really puts things into perspective. 

Ilya really was too good for Shane. And Shane knew that. He just didn’t want to see it. But there was a simple solution to that now. He just had to see it. And do better from here on out. 

And that’s what he would do.

Lily [12:07pm]

I’m sorry. Call me when you want to talk. Please.

He would show Ilya just how much his love meant to him, starting now. He obviously wanted space, and Shane wanted to respect that, so despite his reservations of literally wanting to drive back to Ottawa right now, into Ilya’s arms, he would hold himself back. 

He just hoped Ilya would reply sooner rather than later.

He should go to bed. Don’t stress about it. 

But as he laid on his bed, he couldn’t stop thinking. His every thought was full of Ilya. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. His dear, sweet, precious Ilya. His Ilya.

Fuck. He couldn’t take it anymore. He dialed Ilya’s number, sitting up in bed and leaning against his headboard as he chewed on his lip. 

One ring. Nothing. Shane was used to it. 

Second ring. Nothing. Okay, still normal. 

Third ring. 

“Hello, Hawkesbury General Hospital.” 

Huh. That was…unexpected.

Wait, what?

“Uh…hello?” 

“Are you related to Ilya Rozanov by chance?” Shane heard what he assumed to be a nurse speak into the phone again.

“Uh…uh…” Shane blinked, tears instantly swelling in his eyes as his hearing filtered in and out. 

Ilya didn’t pick up. A nurse did. A nurse that works in a hospital. A hospital Ilya was at. 

Ilya was at the hospital. 

“Um…Mr. Rozanov was involved in a fatal car accident and was transported to our hospital. He’s currently undergoing surgery. Do you know an emergency contact we can get in touch with?” 

Ilya was at the hospital.

Ilya was in surgery.

Ilya was in a car crash. 

Ilya didn’t pick up. 

Devastation set into his bones, flowed through his veins, crowded his very being. 

He doesn’t remember hanging up. He just remembers scrambling out of his bed, grabbing his jacket and keys, and calling his mom.

“Shane, why are you up–” His mother’s sleep-laden voice came through the phone after two mere rings.

“Ilya’s in the hospital.” He cried out, shuffling into his car as he put his phone on the dashboard.

“Wha– why– how do you know that?” Her concern immediately set in. Shane imagined her sitting up in his parents’ shared bed and shaking his father awake. 

“I tried calling him but a nurse picked up instead. Said he was at, uh…Hawkesburg General Hospital. I’m driving there right now, but I thought you should know.” He drove into the deep night, GPS relaying that it would take over an hour to arrive there. Who in their right mind wouldn’t just send Ilya straight to Montreal so Shane could see him in under 15 minutes? God, apparently. Or whatever higher power there was.

Shane wasn’t a reckless driver. Shane wouldn’t speed there. He’d drive as normally as he always does, except the difference is he would be panicked, and teary-eyed, and would probably grip the steering wheel so tight his hands would ache. But he’d get there, safe and sound, because he needed to be there for Ilya but he needed to get there safe and sound first to assure that. 

Maybe the radio would help. Maybe it would soothe him. He rarely listened to the radio anymore, but his father always turned it on, and it brought him comfort when his father did that, so maybe it would do the same now. 

He clicked the radio on, tuning to the first channel he could. 

“Breaking news: Ottawa Centaurs’ Star Captain Ilya Rozanov involved in fatal car crash. Reports are coming in that he collided with a semi-truck after the driver had a heart attack at the wheel and spun out of control. The driver died upon impact, while Ilya Rozanov was transported to the closest hospital and is currently undergoing surgery.” 

He clicked the radio off, slowly pulling off to the side of the road as he turned his hazards on. He stumbled out of his car, immediately throwing up on the side of the road. He coughed roughly as tears fell from his eyes, body shuddering under the weight of its own existence. 

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. For all he knows, Ilya could be dead and he’d be clueless. Just driving to the hospital he was at, completely unaware that the love of his life was gone. 

No. No, that didn’t seem right. Just putting the two words ‘Ilya’ and ‘gone’ near each other, in the same sentence, isn’t right. Shane was sure that Ilya would outlive him long after he was gone. Because despite all the diets Shane was on, and despite the way he worked out way more than Ilya, Ilya would die at least ten years after Shane did. When they were old, and gray, and couldn’t do anything except remember the lifetime they spent together. Because that just made sense. Because Ilya was fated to outlive everyone he loved. First his mother, then Shane. That just made sense. Even if Ilya would be miserable. 

Shane needed to get back on the road. Because another minute away from the love of his life meant another minute that he couldn’t be there for Ilya. He would never waste his minutes with Ilya like that ever again. 

So he picked himself up, got back into the driver's seat, dried the tears brimming in his eyes, and continued to drive. 

💙

When he got there, his parents were already there, which he thought was weird, because surely they didn’t drive faster than him? 

And then he remembered he had been on that patch of road, trying not to expel the bile growing in his throat for at least thirty minutes. So that made sense. 

He buried his face in his mother’s shoulder, hugging her as tightly as he could without feeling like he was going to break her. 

“It’s okay, Shane. It’s going to be okay.” She whispered, emotion evident in her tone of voice. He pulled back from their hug, taking in her red eyes. He looked at his father, taking in his soft, concerned face as well. They loved Ilya so much. Shane was so thankful. At least they were there to pick up the pieces if Shane screwed up again. 

“Family of Ilya Rozanov?” 

All three of them simultaneously turned to the doctor behind them, taking in the tired, solemn expression coating his face. 

“Yes. Yes, that’s us. How is he doing?” Yuna stepped forward, grabbing Shane’s hand tightly. 

“He just got out of surgery. His condition is stable, but we’re going to need to monitor him for the next 48 hours so no risk of infection occurs.” The doctor folded his hands together, “However, his injuries are quite extensive. His car exploded, and he has second and third-degree burns covering most of his skin. His pelvis is also fractured, so we had to put plates in there to stabilize it. His left arm is broken, which we set and put him in a sling he’ll need to wear for at least two weeks. The impact from his airbag fractured four of his ribs which we shaved down in surgery because they were pressing against his lungs. Both of his knees were fractured, and his tailbone was broken. The most severe injury occurred with his head though.” 

“And what happened to his head?” David asked, stepping forward as his fists clenched. 

The doctor sighed, “He sustained a gash on his forehead. Which, normally, would be fine, except it extended all the way to his brainstem. The brainstem connects the brain to his spinal cord, and controls the basic rhythmic signals for walking. Because it was damaged in the accident, he’s going to learn how to walk again. Though…there’s a possibility his walking ability will never be the same again.” 

Wait. What? Shane felt his hearing filter in and out, the world slowing as his head tipped to the floor. 

Ilya never walking again.

Ilya never skating again.

Ilya never playing hockey again. 

The concepts made sense to Shane logically. But not mentally. And certainly not emotionally. 

Ilya might never play hockey again. 

Ilya, who loved his team more than anything else. 

Ilya, who didn’t have a plan to avoid getting deported if he ever had to stop playing hockey. 

Ilya, who was Shane’s “rival”. 

He falls to the floor, his hand still gripping his mom’s as tears fall to his cheeks. His knees will definitely hurt later, but he can’t bring himself to care too much. 

Ilya would never be the same. 

The Ilya that Shane had known for over a decade would never show himself to Shane again. 

Even if he fully recovered, his spirit would never be the same. 

And that’s what broke Shane. 

“Shane. Honey. Look at me.” His mom bent to his level, hauling him up as she lifted his chin to look her in the eyes. “He’s alive. Ilya’s still alive.” She smiled, red eyes glistening as a fresh wave of tears built in her eyes. 

Oh. 

That’s right. 

He is alive. 

Ilya is alive. 

Shane thinks it’s a little stupid of him to think about anything other than the fact that Ilya is alive. The love of his life is still by his side and not gone. So they’d be fine. They could figure out the rest later. Because all that mattered now was Ilya was alive, and Shane could still apologize for being the shittiest boyfriend in existence. 

“Can…can I see him?” Shane garbled out, looking at the doctor in the eye for the first time in their interaction. 

“Yes, of course. I will have to ask you to put these gowns on as he's in the burn ward and we can’t risk his skin getting infected.” The doctor nodded, guiding them to the nurses as they prepared the gowns and gloves for the family to visit Ilya. 

Shane scrubbed his face with his hand before gathering all the courage left in his body to put the gown on. He snapped the glove on his wrist, fist clenching as he stood in front of the door to Ilya’s private room in the burn ward. 

No matter how much he mentally prepared himself, he knew he’d never be ready for the sight he was about to see. So as the tears formed in his eyes, he creaked the door open. 

And he was right. He wasn’t ready for the sight he was seeing. 

Ilya's whole body was a stark, unnerving landscape of sterile white—wrapped entirely in thick, multilayered bandages. Only his face remained exposed, partially obscured by an oxygen mask resting over his nose and mouth, its clear plastic misting slightly with each shallow, automated breath. 

The right side of his head had been carefully shaved, exposing the stark white line of stitches that ran along the gash, a cruel scar marring the skin near his temple. Aside from the bandages, tubes ran from beneath the hospital sheets, connecting his broken body to the quiet machinery surrounding him.

Shane stepped closer, his chest aching with a pain so profound it threatened to shatter him. He looked down at the soft, fluffy blond curls that lay untouched near the shaved portion of Ilya’s head. Reaching out a trembling hand, Shane silently caressed the familiar texture, a small, safe patch of the man he loved. 

He pulled the chair closer to the bedside and sank into it, leaning his forehead against the mattress. The dam finally broke, and his tears, hot and frantic, fell silently onto Ilya's blond hair, wetting the familiar curls. He couldn't speak, could only stay there, praying the warmth of his presence might somehow penetrate the haze of medication and injury.

💙

Ilya felt himself swimming up from a deep, cold place, a place where sound was muffled and light was dull. Consciousness was less a sudden arrival and more a slow, thick seep. Every particle of his being felt heavy, detached, and profoundly wrong. The painkillers they had him on were doing their job too well; they weren’t just dulling the agony of his shattered body, they were dulling his mind, his emotions, his very sense of self.

He existed in a fog, a floating, unfeeling anchor tethered to a body that pulsed with a distant, agonizing throb. The world was a series of muted colors and indistinct shapes. The sterile white of the room, the mechanical hum of the monitors—they were simply facts, devoid of meaning.

He blinked slowly, the lids feeling impossibly heavy. His eyes tried to focus on the ceiling, where a harsh, fluorescent light glowed, then drifted to the periphery. That’s when he saw him.

In the corner of the room, near the foot of the bed, was a figure slumped in a stiff-backed chair. It was Shane.

Shane. His Shane.

He was fast asleep, his head resting awkwardly on his propped hand, his ridiculous long black hair falling across his forehead. He was still wearing the same clothes, the fabric looking rumpled and thin against the overwhelming whiteness of the room and the hospital gown he still had on. The sight of him, so close and yet completely unreachable, was the first thing that managed to poke a tiny, sharp pinprick through Ilya's heavily medicated wall of detachment.

He stared. He tried to feel the surge of protective love, the immediate sharp joy that seeing Shane always brought, but it was distant, like trying to remember the warmth of a fire from last winter.

He’s here. The thought formed slowly in his mind, heavy and deliberate. He’s right here.

His gaze traced the familiar lines of Shane’s face: the slight crease between his eyebrows even in sleep, the vulnerable curve of his mouth. It was the face of the man he loved, the face he had screamed at, the face he had driven away.

A sudden, sharp sting in his eyes made him blink rapidly. He didn't understand what it was until he felt the wet, hot trail running across his eyes and drop onto the sheets underneath him.

He was crying.

It wasn't a sob. It was a silent, effortless flow of tears, leaking from his eyes because his body was too broken and his mind too dulled to hold them in. The stinging was the only physical sensation that truly registered beyond the dull ache of his injuries. The realization that he was crying, that some fragment of his emotional core had managed to surface despite the drugs, was enough to make him whimper softly, a small, pained sound that was instantly swallowed by the quiet room.

He closed his eyes again, wanting to hide the sight of himself—a wreck, a failure, a burden. He couldn't move his left arm, couldn't feel his legs, couldn't even breathe without his ribs protesting. And seeing Shane, tired and broken in that chair, only amplified the single, consuming need that had haunted him on the road: the need to apologize.

Sorry. So sorry. The words screamed silently inside his head. Sorry for the fight. Sorry for making you leave. Sorry for the truck. Sorry for being alive and like this. Sorry for everything.

The whimper, small as it was, was enough.

Shane’s head shot up. In one fluid, panicked motion, he was out of the chair and at Ilya's bedside. His eyes, already red-rimmed and exhausted, widened as he took in Ilya's open, tear-streaked face.

"Ilya? God, Ilya, you're awake." Shane's voice was raw, thick with unshed tears, a sound of overwhelming relief and terror.

He quickly pulled his chair closer, his movements awkward in the restrictive gown. Shane reached out a gloved hand and gently, delicately, began to wipe the tears from Ilya's cheeks with the pad of his thumb. He did it with the same tender care he used to trim Ilya’s nails, and the familiar gentleness broke through the drug-induced haze.

Ilya tried to speak, tried to force out the apology. His throat felt dry, tight, and burned. The heat from the explosion had touched his neck, and every attempt at vocalizing was a fresh wave of stinging, searing pain. He tried again, his lips moving uselessly under the oxygen mask.

Shane leaned closer, his own tears finally spilling over and splashing onto the clean white sheet beside Ilya's head. "Don't try to talk, Ilya. Please. Just... just breathe. It’s okay. I'm here."

But Ilya pushed, desperate. He needed Shane to hear it, to know. He didn't want the last thing Shane remembered being his hateful words.

He pulled the oxygen mask down slightly with a monumental effort that jarred his neck and ribs, letting out a pained hiss. He forced air past his burned throat, the sound a horrible, raspy croak, thick and heavy with his Russian accent, a sound that barely resembled his own voice.

"S–sorry," he managed, the single word a testament to the agony he was in.

Shane’s face crumpled. He leaned his head forward, resting his forehead on the mattress beside Ilya’s shoulder, a muffled sob escaping him. He squeezed Ilya’s hand—the right one, the only one he could safely touch.

"No. No, Ilya," Shane choked out, pulling back just enough to look into Ilya's blurry eyes. His face was soaked, his voice a broken plea. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry. For everything. For not staying. For the fight. For being an idiot. I love you, Ilya. I'm so sorry."

The overwhelming relief of hearing the words, of seeing the depth of Shane’s pain and love, was the final pinprick. The dam inside Ilya didn't shatter– it was too drugged to shatter– but the flow intensified. He tried to squeeze Shane's hand in return, a promise that he heard, that he understood, that they were still them.

He managed only a shallow, pained gasp, and let the darkness of the heavy medication pull him under once more, this time with the quiet comfort of Shane’s hand in his, and the knowledge that the man he loved was right there, forgiving him.

🩵

The hours bled together in a monotonous loop of pain, dim light, and the soft, rhythmic beeps of the monitors. For Ilya, the greatest struggle wasn't the searing ache in his limbs or the pressure in his chest; it was the fight to keep his eyelids from sealing shut. The heavy-duty narcotics were both a blessing and a curse—they kept the agony at bay but insisted on dragging him down into a thick, black velvet abyss. Staying awake for longer than ten minutes felt like scaling a sheer cliff face.

Shane was his anchor. Every time Ilya’s eyes drifted closed, a gentle pressure on his right hand, a murmured Russian endearment, or the rustle of Shane adjusting his position in the chair would draw him back. Shane never left. He only took brief, mandatory breaks to use the bathroom or grab a coffee, and even then, he looked like a panicked satellite desperate to return to its orbit.

When the nurses– who had quickly become Shane’s exhausted co-conspirators– began trying to get Ilya to ingest anything, the struggle intensified. Swallowing was a painful ordeal, a mix of the internal trauma and the burns around his throat. Every spoonful of thin, lukewarm broth felt like sandpaper scraping against raw tissue. He often shook his head under the oxygen mask, his eyes pleading for a return to the unconscious void, but Shane was relentlessly, heartbreakingly patient.

"Just one more, moj ljubimyj," Shane would whisper, lifting the spoon to Ilya’s lips. "Just for me, okay? You need strength."

It was the tenderness, the utter lack of judgment, the soft, tear-filled plea in Shane’s ridiculous dark eyes that always made Ilya give in. He would manage a few more sips, each one an act of will, driven solely by the need to alleviate the palpable distress on Shane’s face.

Late that first afternoon, Yuna and David came back in their sterile gowns. Yuna’s eyes were still red, but she wore a fragile, determined smile. David looked older, his face etched with worry, but his gaze on Ilya was pure, unqualified warmth.

Yuna immediately came to the bedside, resting her gloved hand near Ilya’s heavily bandaged left arm. "Oh, Ilya," she breathed, her voice catching. "My brave boy. You scared us, you know that?"

Ilya managed a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The effort caused a spike of pain in his neck, but he bore it.

David stepped up on the other side, leaning down slightly. "You just focus on sleeping and healing, son," he said, his voice unusually soft and deep. "You hear me? You’ve got nothing to worry about. We’re here. We’ll take care of everything. We’ll take care of him," David added, nodding towards Shane, who was watching the interaction with exhausted gratitude. "And we will be here every single day to help you get through this. Every step of the way."

Yuna’s eyes glistened again. "We love you, honey. We’re your family. We are not going anywhere."

The sincerity of their support, the depth of their acceptance, broke through the medication fog and the pain. A single tear tracked down Ilya’s cheek, and Yuna immediately wiped it away. He closed his eyes, a feeling of weary, profound love washing over him. It was a choice, this family. And they were choosing him, unequivocally.

🩵

By the middle of the second day, the hospital staff—likely alerted by the media frenzy surrounding the Centaurs’ captain—allowed a brief, managed succession of visitors from the team. Ilya was slightly more stable, awake for longer stretches, but still non-verbal and completely reliant on the medical team.

Shane had been briefed by the charge nurse and sat with his parents in another room, his jaw tight with worry as he heard the door open for the first time.

The first two were the dynamic duo: Wyatt, their goalie, and Luca, a fresh-faced rookie who idolized Ilya. Wyatt, tall and usually outwardly unflappable on the ice, looked visibly shaken. He simply stood near the foot of the bed, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes wide as he took in the broken figure of his captain.

Luca, however, was immediately overwhelmed. He took two steps into the room, saw the bandages, the tubes, and the oxygen mask, and stopped dead. His face crumpled, and he flinched back as tears swelled in his eyes, turning quickly to hide his tears against Wyatt's shoulder.

"Hey, Luca. It’s okay. He’s stable, man. Just… just really beat up." Wyatt comforted the rookie, rubbing his back softly. 

Ilya managed to turn his head a fraction. He saw the genuine, heartbroken concern on the rookie’s face. Even through the pain and the fog, the need to comfort his teammate asserted itself. With monumental effort, Ilya managed to lift the corner of his mouth—a minuscule, shaky movement that resembled a smile.

It was enough. Luca pulled away from Wyatt, rubbing his eyes, and saw the faint gesture. A watery, hopeful smile broke across the rookie’s face. "Captain," he whispered, his voice thick.

Wyatt nodded, his own smile more stable but clearly forced. "We got the next game for you, Ilya. We’re gonna win it for you."

A few minutes later, after a nurse gently ushered them out, the door opened again for Troy, Ilya’s newest linemate, and Harris, the team’s social media manager. Troy looked grim, his hands twitching nervously, while Harris— used to managing crises, albeit usually PR ones— looked professional but anxious. They both offered brief, sincere words of support, focusing on his recovery rather than the game.

Finally, Coach Wiebe entered. The coach, a man built like a brick wall and known for his soft, comforting demeanor, stood by the door, removing his ball cap respectfully. There were no platitudes, just a quiet seriousness.

"Rozanov," he said, nodding. "Good to see you awake."

He looked directly at Shane, who was back by Ilya's side. He thought after enough minutes away from the love of his life, he really didn’t care if they got outed to Ilya’s team anymore. Let them see. Let them know how much he loved Ilya. Let the whole world know for fucks sake. His boyfriend almost dying put quite the perspective into Shane’s idiocy over the past three years.

"Shane, I’ve spoken with David and Yuna, and the league. The official word is this: Ilya is being placed on long-term injured reserve, effective immediately. He is going on hiatus." The coach paused, his gaze sweeping over Ilya's bandaged body. "There is no timeline for his return. No pressure. Zero. His only job right now is to heal. He is the Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, and he will remain the Captain. He is fully covered, his contract is protected, and he will not be rushed. He is to return to the team only when he is fully recovered and well enough to play again—and not a minute before."

It was the most direct, definitive reassurance Ilya could have received. The fear of being dropped, of losing his career, of the whole world moving on without him, had been a cold current beneath his pain. Hearing the coach confirm his place, his value, and his security, without him having to utter a single plea, felt like a crucial suture closing a deep, unseen wound. Ilya closed his eyes, relief—raw, profound, and exhausting—finally pulling him under the welcome darkness of sleep. Shane gripped his hand tighter, a silent acknowledgment of the future they now had permission to fight for.

🩵

By the fifth day after the accident, a new face entered the routine: Sarah, the hospital's dedicated occupational therapist.

"Good morning, Ilya," Sarah said, her voice bright and professional, pulling his chart into view. "We're going to start mobilizing. We need to get you standing."

Ilya’s stomach clenched. Standing. Here it was. 

"I can't feel my legs," Ilya rasped out, his voice a dry whisper.

"We know," Sarah replied gently, adjusting the height of his bed. "But we need to start retraining the signals. Even with the nerve damage, we can work on the motor pathways. It's going to be frustrating, Ilya. But we have to try."

Shane, who had been sitting quietly reading a book, immediately put it down and moved to the head of the bed, his face set in a look of determined support. David and Yuna hovered near the doorway.

The first attempt was a disaster. Sarah and a nurse managed to slowly, painstakingly rotate his body to a seated position at the edge of the bed. The vertical change in his body position sent a dizzying wave of nausea over him, and the pressure on his pelvis was unbearable. Shane had to gently support his head as Ilya fought the urge to vomit.

Then came the standing. Using the motorized bed and the help of Sarah and the nurse, they began to lift him. The blood rushed from his head. His legs, useless and heavy, were dead weight. They braced him, but as they lowered the safety bars of the bed, Ilya's knees immediately buckled. A sharp, hot spike of pain from his fractured tailbone made him gasp.

He fell back onto the bed, tears of pain and sheer humiliation stinging his eyes. He hated it. Hated feeling so broken, so useless. The thought of never skating, of never feeling the speed and power in his legs again, was a terrifying abyss.

"Again," Ilya croaked, staring at the ceiling.

Shane leaned down, his voice low and fierce. "Ilya, you don't have to push this hard. Let's wait a minute."

Ilya shook his head minutely. He couldn't afford to rest. He saw the flicker of worry in Shane's eyes, the deep concern of his family. If he was going to be an unmovable, broken object for months, he needed to give them this—a sign of the fighter they knew. He needed to be good at his recovery so they didn’t have to worry about him quitting.

"Again," he managed, louder this time. I will walk for you. He didn't say it out loud, but the silent promise was the only thing holding the fractured pieces of his will together.

💙

Shane was a relentless, quiet fixture. He drove from Montreal to Hawkesbury every single day, often arriving late after Voyageurs practices and leaving before dawn to make it back for morning skate. He brought coffee for the nurses, extra pillows for Ilya, and a stream of quiet anecdotes about Yuna and David's home life and the team. He'd sit by the bedside, carefully reading aloud from novels or simply holding Ilya's non-bandaged right hand, offering a silent, solid presence against the chaos of the recovery room. He never complained about the commute, the exhaustion, or the state of his own season, which he played in a constant, worried haze.

David and Yuna were equally devoted, trading off shifts at the hospital. They dealt with the insurance nightmares, managed the growing media circus with stern efficiency, and were there for every doctor’s consultation. They brought Ilya’s favorite soft blankets from their house, helped the nurses feed him, and provided the quiet, familial background hum that kept the sterile room from feeling like a prison cell.

But for Ilya, the constant presence of their love only amplified his internal despair. He was weary of being an object of pity, a broken monument to a stupid argument. He was sick of the pain, the smell of antiseptic, the utter dependence. He couldn't move, couldn't scratch the unbearable itch, couldn't even regulate his own temperature. He was nothing but a fragile husk swaddled in gauze and tubes. His depression, always a dark undercurrent, surged and swelled, suffocating him. He was trapped in his own head, his thoughts spiraling into self-hatred and fear.

A burden. 

That was all he was now. A massive, expensive burden. Shane was ruining his season, driving himself into the ground. Yuna and David had put their lives on hold. He couldn't bear to look at their faces— faces etched with exhaustion and profound worry— and add his own misery to their load.

He kept his darkness locked away, hidden behind stoic silence and tiny, forced smiles whenever Shane made a joke. When Shane or Yuna asked how he was feeling, he would give the non-committal Russian shrug they couldn't see under the sheets and croak, "Fine. Just tired." He told himself it was an act of love, sparing them his true feelings.

The subsequent five months were an unending, brutal marathon of pain and stagnation for Ilya. The doctors had been clear: recovering from second and third-degree burns covering over eighty percent of his body was not a quick process. It was a daily, agonizing ritual of debridement, dressing changes, and skin grafting—each one a fresh wave of blinding, searing agony that the painkillers only dulled to a thick, nauseating throb. The constant, intense itching beneath the bandages was a relentless torture, a low-grade madness that no amount of medication could truly touch.

🩵

The five months had passed, but for Ilya, the passage of time was measured not in weeks, but in the agonizing inches of progress he failed to make. He was no longer in the oppressive white hell of the burn ward, having been moved to a specialized rehabilitation floor where the walls were a slightly less clinical beige and the air didn't constantly smell of antiseptic and burnt flesh. The major skin grafts had taken. His face, chest, and legs were a patchwork of pink, taut, and angry scar tissue– visible, permanent maps of the trauma he’d endured. But the external healing masked the glacial pace of the internal recovery.

Physical therapy was still the most brutal hour of his day.

Today had been a disaster. Sarah, his occupational therapist, had been pushing him to transfer himself from the bed to the wheelchair with minimal assistance. He’d tried three times, and three times his shattered pelvis and damaged spine– realigned but still screaming in protest– had given out, leaving him sweating, shaking, and gasping back tears of frustration and blinding pain. He had failed the drill in front of a rotating physical therapy student, which only multiplied his humiliation.

Now, he was back in his hospital room, having refused all further movement. He lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, the IV port in his arm the only thing connected to a machine.

Shane, ever the human sunbeam, entered the room, shedding the sterile gown and gloves he still insisted on wearing when touching Ilya’s bandages. He looked tired– his eyes had permanent shadows beneath them from the commute and the worry– but he was smiling, a bright, determined thing that Ilya currently found grating.

"Alright, Captain," Shane said, pulling his chair close. "What’s the verdict? Did you wow Sarah with your phenomenal upper body strength, or are you still saving the gun show for the ice?"

Ilya didn’t move. "The verdict is I am failure." His voice was flat, thick with self-pity and the heavy Russian inflection that always seemed to intensify when he was exhausted.

Shane waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense. You’ve been out of the burn ward for two weeks. Your skin is mostly closed. You’re sitting up for meals. That’s insane progress, lyubimyy."

"I cannot stand," Ilya bit out, turning his head slightly to glare at the beige wall. "I am five months in, and I cannot stand by myself. I cannot walk. I am half a man."

"You are not half a man," Shane countered, his voice softening, but his tone remaining upbeat. "You’re my man. And you’re going to walk. We talked about this. You just had a bad day. You know what we need? Fresh air. It’s a beautiful spring day out there. Mom sent a note about the new rose bushes on the grounds. Come on. Get in the chair. We’ll go for a push, just around the grounds. You need to see something besides this beige box."

Shane moved to the closet where the sturdy, specialized wheelchair waited, ready to unfold it.

Ilya tensed. "No."

Shane paused, looking over at him. "What do you mean, no? Ilya, you need to get up. You’ll seize up if you stay in bed all day."

"I said no, Shane. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be left alone."

Shane walked back to the bedside and placed a gloved hand on Ilya’s ankle, right where the scar tissue was thickest. "Come on. Just a short one. I’ll do all the pushing, you just relax. We can race my mom and dad when they get here."

The lightness was too much. The gentle pressure of Shane’s hand, the insistence, the sheer refusal to acknowledge the depth of Ilya’s despair– it all collided in a white-hot flash of rage.

Ilya shoved Shane’s hand away. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, hissing at the pain, and fixed Shane with an incendiary glare.

"Stop!" Ilya roared, the shout tearing at his still-healing throat. "Stop pretending this is a small thing! Stop smiling and pushing me! I can’t do it, Shane! I cannot stand! I might never skate again! I will never play against you again! I will never play for my team again!" He was panting now, the effort of yelling too much for his battered body.

Shane recoiled, his face instantly hardening into the defensive, wounded mask Ilya knew too well from the argument five months ago. "Hey! I’m trying to help you! Don’t take that out on me, Ilya! I drive every day to sit here, to hold your hand while you tell me nothing, and I’m just trying to make you feel better!"

"I don’t want to feel better! I want to die!" Ilya screamed, tears of sheer frustration finally boiling over and streaming down his scarred face. "I wake up every morning and I am angry that I did not die in that car! I am a burden! I cost everyone everything! I look at my legs and I see garbage! I see the end of my life! I see never going back on the ice, never feeling the speed, never seeing the puck! I am dying here, Shane! Every day, I am dying, and you just tell me to go look at fucking roses!"

The raw, devastating intensity of Ilya’s outburst silenced the room. Shane stared at him, his face losing all trace of anger, morphing into shock, then sheer, unadulterated heartbreak.

"Why didn’t you just tell me that, then?" Shane yelled back, the volume still high, but the emotion completely changed. It wasn’t defensive; it was agonizing, filled with confusion and grief. "I’ve been asking you how you are for five months! You say, ‘Fine,’ or ‘Just tired!’ Why didn’t you tell me you felt like you were dying? Why did you hide it? Do you think I wouldn’t care? Do you think I wouldn’t listen?"

Ilya couldn’t speak. He just stared, the shame of his admission and the naked pain on Shane’s face making him hiccup on a fresh wave of sobs. He had wanted to spare Shane, but all he had done was make him feel shut out.

Shane dropped his head into his hands, taking one huge, shuddering breath before he looked back up. The intensity was gone, replaced by a profound, terrible softness. He gently sat on the very edge of the bed near Ilya’s right hip, being careful not to jostle him.

Reaching out, Shane took Ilya’s exposed hand– the healthy one, the one that still felt like his own– and brought it to his lips, kissing his knuckles softly. Then, with a tenderness that made Ilya gasp, Shane leaned down and pressed his lips softly to Ilya’s, the kiss brief, chaste, and entirely focused on comfort.

"I love you," Shane whispered against Ilya’s mouth before pulling back an inch. He rested his forehead against Ilya’s, his breath warm and familiar. "Look at me, Ilya. You are not a burden. You are my life. Everything that happened, it started because I was an idiot who wasn't ready to choose you out loud. And I almost lost you. Please understand. I regret that fight every day. I regret taking you for granted"

He squeezed Ilya’s hand. "But I’m not doing that again. I don’t care if you never skate another shift. I don’t care if you stay in this bed for another year. You are alive. You are here. You are everything I want in this life."

Shane traced the edge of a bandaged section on Ilya’s chest. "You need to tell me the bad stuff. The anger. The fear. The death wishes. You share it all with me, okay? You don’t have to put on a brave face for me. We’re in this hell together. I need to know what you’re feeling. I need to know everything, because I am never, ever taking you for granted again."

Ilya’s grip against Shane’s hand tightened, a small but fiercely determined anchor. He whispered, his voice thin and raw, "Okay. I will try."

It wasn’t a cure for the crushing despair that had become his constant companion, not a magic solution to the self-hatred that simmered beneath his skin. But it was a promise. It was the first honest surrender of his pain, given not to the nurses or the doctors, but to the man whose forehead rested against his own. It was a crack in the wall, a willingness to let Shane see the wreckage. And for Shane, it was everything. A start. A reason to fight.

🩵

Another month folded in on itself, marked by the same relentless cycle of physical therapy, the oppressive weight of recovery, and the ever-present ache of his injuries. The beige walls of the rehab unit felt less like a temporary stop and more like a permanent enclosure. Ilya still couldn't stand unaided, and the failure of his nervous system to properly relay signals to his legs remained the greatest, most terrifying hurdle.

Then, one Sunday morning, the calendar clicked over. It was June 15th. Ilya’s 30th birthday.

He woke up feeling heavier, the milestone only amplifying his sense of failure. Thirty years old, the prime of his career, and he was confined to a hospital bed, a patient instead of a Captain. Shane had already been there for hours, having driven through the night. He was sitting in his usual chair, meticulously organizing Ilya’s collection of protein bars, humming softly.

"Happy birthday, moj tsvetochek," Shane murmured, leaning in to deliver a soft kiss to Ilya’s temple, avoiding the still-tender scar tissue.

"Thirty years old," Ilya rasped, his voice still thin from the throat burns, "and I am still a baby, who needs help to sit up."

Shane ignored the self-pity, pulling back with a dazzling, determined smile. "Thirty and fabulous. And you’re getting stronger every day. Now, close your eyes. I have a little surprise before the nurses come in."

Ilya raised a skeptical eyebrow but complied, closing his eyes. He heard the door creak open and the sound of hushed movement. When Shane told him to open his eyes, the room was full.

"Surprise!"

Shane, Yuna, and David were standing around his bed, smiling brilliantly. The sterile room had been temporarily transformed. There were balloons shaped like giant gold '3' and '0' anchored near the window, and a small, brightly wrapped gift sat on his bedside table. Yuna held a tiny, non-flammable cake– a hospital-approved, single-serving sponge cake– with a single, glittering plastic candle.

Ilya felt a sudden rush of emotion, a painful twist of gratitude and shame. He was profoundly touched by the effort– the commute, the decorations, the risk of a hospital surprise. But the setting was a stark reminder of his current reality.

"Thank you," he whispered, tears immediately welling in his eyes. "It is too much. I wish…" He trailed off, unable to complete the thought: I wish it wasn't here.

Yuna stepped forward, gently taking his hand. "We know, honey. We wish it too. But you are here, and you are alive, and that is the only gift we need. We’re celebrating you."

As Shane began to sing a hilariously off-key 'Happy Birthday,' the door opened again. This time, it was Luca and Wyatt, followed by Troy, and Harris all wearing civilian clothes but looking distinctly uncomfortable in the overly bright, sterile setting.

"Captain!" Luca exclaimed, holding up a small box. "We brought you a team cake!"

Ilya stared. His teammates, his chosen family, standing in his hospital room. He suddenly felt a surge of energy, a fierce, protective fire that had been missing for weeks. He looked from Shane to his family, then to his teammates. This wasn't about pity anymore; it was about loyalty.

"Thank you, boys," Ilya said, his voice finding a surprising amount of strength. He met Coach Wiebe’s gaze, who had slipped in behind the group.

"I know the doctors say no rush," Ilya continued, looking directly at the Coach, then sweeping his gaze across the room to include his family and Shane. "But I am setting a timeline. I will not spend New Year’s in this place. I will be out of this hospital before the end of this calendar year. And I am playing next season. I am coming back."

The declaration wasn't a question or a hope; it was a statement of intent, a warrior's promise. It hung in the air, electric and fierce. It was the first time since the accident that Ilya had articulated a timeline, a goal that demanded more than just survival. It demanded victory.

Shane's eyes, wide with surprise and awe, were the first to glisten. He squeezed Ilya’s hand tightly, a silent, powerful pledge of support. The rest of the room erupted in a chorus of affirmations— the loud, messy, unconditional love of his family and his team. For the first time in six months, Ilya felt truly himself— a fighter, not a failure.

💙

The summer melted into a relentless cycle of heat, sweat, and excruciating effort. For Ilya, June, July, and August were measured in degrees of movement: the agonizing transfer from bed to chair, the dizzying half-step with the parallel bars, the dull, deep ache that never truly left his pelvis and legs. His declaration on his birthday had injected a fierce new resolve into his recovery, but progress remained agonizingly slow. By the end of August, nine months post-accident, he could manage a few halting steps with the heavy support of the parallel bars, a monumental feat that still left him breathless, shaking, and consumed by frustration. His legs, though regaining some feeling, remained unreliable and uncooperative.

Shane, true to his word, had been his shadow. He completed his own season, ending in a crushing early playoff exit that he barely registered, and then immediately shifted his focus entirely to Ilya. He became the hospital’s most dedicated lay-assistant: charting Ilya’s calorie intake, timing his stretches, and acting as a human brace during therapy sessions. The two of them had found a painful, profound rhythm, a life built on tiny gains and honest, shared despair. Ilya, slowly but surely, had learned to articulate the darkness, and Shane had learned to listen without judgment.

Then came September, and the NHL season loomed, bringing with it the inevitable separation. The Montreal Voyageurs’ schedule was released, and Shane’s face was drawn tight as he pointed to the first long stretch on the calendar: a two-week, four-game road trip across the Pacific Division.

"Three weeks," Shane said, staring at the itinerary on his laptop screen as he sat on Ilya’s bed, careful not to jostle his still-fragile body. "That’s… that’s a lot of minutes away, moj ljubimyj."

Ilya leaned his head against Shane’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of sweat, expensive soap, and anxiety. "Nine months, Shane. Nine months and not one serious complication. Your parents are here. Sarah is here. What do you think is going to happen in three weeks? I am not going to shatter an arm trying to reach for the remote."

"I know," Shane whispered, his thumb tracing the curve of Ilya’s ear. "I just… the last time I left…" He couldn’t finish the thought, the memory of the phone call from the hospital and the sight of Ilya’s wrecked car still a searing trauma in his mind.

"The last time you left, I was acting like an idiot because of a stupid fight," Ilya finished softly. "This time, I am acting like a patient because I am a broken man trying to put himself back together. The circumstances are different. I need you to go play hockey, Shane. You love it. You deserve to play. I will be here. I promise. We will Facetime every single day, twice a day. What more do you need?"

Shane turned, looking into Ilya’s eyes, which, despite the weariness and the dark circles, held a fierce, stabilizing calm. "I need you to promise to tell my mom everything. Every itch, every ache, every dark thought. No more ‘fine,’ okay?"

Ilya managed a small, genuine smile. "I promise. Go. Play. Score a ridiculous amount of goals. I will watch every game."

The goodbye was a slow, agonizing process. Shane clung to Ilya, kissing his face, his temple, and his hands, looking like a man being dragged from a life raft. When he finally walked out of the rehab unit, his parents, David and Yuna, were already settled into the waiting room, having agreed to stay at a nearby hotel for the duration of the trip.

The first few days of the road trip passed exactly as planned. Ilya spent his mornings with Sarah, managing to take a few unassisted steps between the bars (a triumph that Sarah cheered like a Stanley Cup goal). His afternoons were spent on Facetime with Shane, who looked exhausted but relieved. He scored twice in the first game, and the joy on his face when he showed Ilya the game clips was a balm to Ilya’s heart.

On the fourth day of the trip, however, a subtle shift occurred. A dry, hacking cough appeared, a small nuisance at first, but by the evening, it became a persistent, deep rattle in his chest that burned in his throat. By morning, a low-grade fever had set in, and the exhaustion that had been a dull background noise intensified, pulling him down like an undertow.

Shane was already on the ice for morning skate when Yuna’s text reached his phone, lighting up the dashboard with the urgent notification. He checked it after practice, sitting in the locker room, scrolling through his notifications while toweling off his face.

Yuna [7:35 AM]

You’re not going to like hearing this, honey. 

Ilya developed a fever last night, and they moved him to the ICU. They say he developed viral pneumonia. 

He’s stable, but they had to intubate him a few hours ago. He’s on a ventilator. 

He’s fighting against it hard. I’ll keep you updated. Don’t panic. He’ll be okay. Call me when you get the chance. 

Shane dropped the phone. It clattered against the tiled floor, the vibration setting off a new stream of notifications. The towel slipped from his shoulders. His hearing, his vision, the whole world narrowed down to the stark white message on the screen. Ventilator. ICU. Intubate.

The first thing he did was call his coach, a choked request for the immediate-release of his travel bag already forming in his throat as he taxied back to his hotel.

The second thing he did was Facetime Ilya.

He barricaded himself in the narrow, clean, hotel bathroom, the only place he could find a sliver of privacy. He pressed the call button, his hand shaking so badly he almost dropped the phone again. Yuna answered, her face a mask of weary, tear-stained worry. She gently held the phone so that the camera faced Ilya.

Ilya was a terrifying tableau. He was pale, lying flat, the familiar, comforting face now dominated by a massive, clear ventilator mask strapped tightly to his head. Tubes ran from the mask to the machine beside the bed, pumping rhythmically. The machine hissed and sighed with every forced breath.

But as Shane’s heartbroken face swam into focus on the screen, Ilya’s eyes— the familiar, brilliant blue eyes— found him. And then, slowly, under the plastic of the mask, Ilya curved his lips into the smallest, most determined smile. A silent, ‘I told you so’ mixed with a fierce, ‘I’m still here.’

Shane couldn’t hold back. The floodgates opened, and the sheer terror, the guilt, and the overwhelming helplessness of being three thousand miles away crashed over him. He pressed his back against the bathroom door, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold floor, his head resting on his knees.

"Ilya," Shane sobbed, his voice cracking into a million pieces. "I told you. I told you I should have stayed."

Yuna’s hand, gentle and worn, reached out and rested beside Ilya’s head. She let the phone angle down so only Shane’s distressed face was visible to Ilya.

Ilya blinked slowly, then gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible shake of his head under the ventilator. He lifted his right hand— the uninjured one, the one that felt like Shane’s own— and gestured weakly toward his eyes, wiping away the tears that were tracking down his cheek.

Shane understood the gesture. Don’t cry, Shane.

But Shane couldn’t stop. "I’m flying back, Ilya. I’m coming home. I’m leaving right now. I love you, I love you, I love you."

Ilya smiled again, the simple, broken gesture a more potent promise than any words. He lifted his hand again, and this time, pointed to the phone, then to the hotel room wall behind Shane, then back to the phone. Focus on the game. Focus on what you’re doing.

Shane wanted to scream. He wanted to shatter the phone and the distance between them. But he looked at the man he loved, fighting for his life yet again, his every breath forced, and still, still prioritizing Shane’s career.

He wiped his face roughly. "Okay," Shane choked out, leaning closer to the camera. "Okay, lyubimyy. I’ll play. But you fight this, you hear me? You fight, and I’ll come back with a win for you. You fight, and I’m going to be there when they pull that thing out of your throat."

Ilya blinked once, a fierce, determined agreement. Shane stayed on the floor of the hotel bathroom, watching the rise and fall of the ventilator and the steady, unbreakable presence of his love, until Yuna gently took the phone away, promising to call as soon as the doctor had an update.

🩵

The ventilator was pulled less than twenty-four hours after it went in, a testament to Ilya's fierce, stubborn refusal to be sidelined by anything less than a catastrophic injury– and even then, he fought. Viral pneumonia was a severe setback, but his lungs, strengthened by years of elite-level training, managed to win the battle quickly. The tube, once removed, left his throat raw and his voice a painful, reedy whisper, but the relief was instantaneous and profound.

Yuna immediately called Shane, who was in the locker room, still dripping sweat from his game. Shane had played in a state of controlled fury, channeling his terror and helplessness into a hat trick, a brutal, exhausting victory he had promised Ilya.

He saw his mother's name, took a huge, ragged breath, and answered. "Mom? How is he?"

"He's off it, honey," Yuna's voice was thick with exhaustion and relief. "They extubated him about an hour ago. He's furious about the tube, but he's breathing on his own. He's asking for you."

Shane didn't wait. He stripped off his gear, threw on a hoodie and a pair of sweats, and found a quiet, dimly lit corner of the media lounge. He Facetimed Ilya, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Ilya’s face appeared on the screen, startlingly pale, his eyes ringed with purple, but gloriously, miraculously free of the ventilator mask. He looked fragile, exhausted, and utterly defiant.

"You look like a drowned rat," Ilya rasped, his voice a dry, scratchy thing that was almost swallowed by the sound of his supplemental oxygen machine.

"I look like a man who just scored three goals for his idiot boyfriend who almost gave him a heart attack," Shane countered, the tears finally starting to fall, blurring the edges of the screen. "Ilya, you need to stop doing this to me."

"I am fine, Shane," Ilya insisted, managing a shaky, small smile. He lifted his right hand and made the universal 'stop' gesture. "I know what you are thinking. I need you to stop thinking about it. You are not coming back."

"The hell I'm not. I'm literally going to the airport right now," Shane argued, wiping his face roughly. "You were just intubated, Ilya. I need to see you."

"No," Ilya said, the single word holding surprising weight. "You will not. You played like a maniac. You won. You are staying with your team. This is a virus, Shane. I am over it. I am not having my boyfriend lose two weeks of hockey because he is stubborn and has bad luck. I need you to finish this road trip. For yourself. For the team. And for me."

Shane hesitated, running a hand over his tired face. "I promised I'd be there when they pulled it out."

"And I promised I would fight," Ilya whispered. "I fought. Now, you finish what you started. I need you to be strong right now. I need you to play. Do not come back until your work is finished. Then you come home and tell me everything, okay?"

The sincerity, the sheer demand for normality, finally broke through Shane's panic. He looked at Ilya’s determined, exhausted face and gave a defeated sigh. "Fine. Fine, Mister Captain. I'll stay. But you are Facetiming me after every single one of those goddamn therapy sessions."

"Deal," Ilya croaked, the small victory visibly draining him.

They talked for a few minutes more– about the goals Shane scored, about the embarrassing way Luca reacted to Ilya’s condition, and about the endless frustration of the IV port in Ilya’s arm. Ilya kept his eyes wide, struggling to appear alert, but the heavy medication and the fight for his life were taking their toll.

"I'm not tired," Ilya stated, a yawn immediately betraying him.

Shane chuckled softly, his heart aching with love and exhaustion. "Sure, sure. Just relax. I’ll probably fall asleep soon anyway."

Ilya blinked slowly, his eyelids fluttering. The breathing machine behind him hissed softly, a steady, comforting rhythm. After a moment, his eyes closed, his breathing evening out, his face slack with the profound relief of sleep.

Shane stayed on the line for another five minutes, just watching the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. His heart, which had been racing since he got the text, finally slowed.

"I love you, Ilya," Shane whispered, leaning close to the phone. "I love you so much. Be safe. I'll see you soon."

He ended the call, tucked his phone into his pocket, and stood up, ready to face the long flight to the next city, anchored by the knowledge that Ilya, broken but unbroken, was still fighting for them both.

🩵

The viral pneumonia, terrifying as it was, served as a brutal, final catalyst. Having faced death twice– first the wreck, then the swift, suffocating embrace of the ICU– Ilya returned to the rehab floor with a fierce, almost terrifying new resolve. The fear of dying had been replaced by the fear of staying broken, the fear of permanently being the patient Shane had to protect.

He attacked his physical therapy sessions with a grim, relentless intensity Sarah hadn't seen before. The minimal movements that used to exhaust him were now only warm-ups. He pushed through the pain of his fractured pelvis and the resistance in his still-healing nerve pathways until his body was shaking, slick with sweat, and screaming in protest.

"Ilya, please, take a break," Sarah would plead, watching him grit his teeth as he attempted to hold a half-squat against the wall– an exercise that, nine months ago, would have been simple.

"Nyet," Ilya would gasp, his throat raw, forcing himself to hold the burning position for another thirty seconds. "Shane is coming home. I am walking to him."

The plan was a secret, a singular focus that anchored him through the pain. He told David and Yuna about it a few days later.

"I want him to see me," Ilya whispered, sitting on the edge of his bed, flexing his hands nervously. "He has played this season for me, sacrificing his focus. He has seen me only with tubes in my throat, only as a broken thing. I want him to come back to something… whole."

Yuna’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She reached out and gripped his hand. "Oh, honey. That is the most beautiful thing. We will help you. We will make it happen."

David, ever the strategist, outlined the logistics. "Shane gets back late Thursday night. We’ll meet him at the airport, tell him the team needs to drop off his gear, and make him take the scenic route here. We will tell him you are sleeping and we can’t disturb you, so he has to wait at the door. I’ll keep his eyes closed until you’re ready."

And so, the conspiracy was born. Ilya worked himself to the bone. He spent hours practicing his gait, transforming his halting, shaky steps with the parallel bars into a slow, deliberate shuffle with a sturdy quad cane, and finally, into a clumsy, unassisted walk that relied entirely on sheer will and the tenuous connection between his brain and his legs. The steps were wobbly, his balance precarious, and the effort left him gasping, but they were his.

On Thursday, the tension in the rehab unit was palpable. Yuna had brought in a fresh change of clothes for Ilya— a soft, grey sweater and thick sweatpants— hiding the scars and the still-visible pink of the skin grafts. He sat in his wheelchair at the end of the long, beige hallway of the rehab wing, the door to his room open behind him, his heart hammering against his ribs.

At 7:00 PM, the door at the end of the hall swung open. David, looming large and protective, led a tired, rumpled Shane, who was carrying a heavy duffel bag and looked utterly exhausted.

"He’s sleeping, son," David said in a low voice, resting a heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder. "Big day for him today. We don’t want to wake him, so we’re waiting here at the door. Just settle in for a minute."

Shane sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "God, I just want to kiss him."

"Not yet," David insisted, and then, as Shane moved toward the door, David acted. "Wait. You’ve had a long flight. Just close your eyes for a second. Get your bearings." David used the pretext to deftly position himself, covering Shane’s eyes with his large hand. "Just take a deep breath. He’s right here."

Ilya took that as his cue. He gripped the arms of the wheelchair, his knuckles white, and pushed himself up. The initial pain was a sharp, blinding spike in his pelvis, but he ignored it. He stood, shaky but upright.

"Okay, dad," Shane whispered, leaning into David’s touch. "I’m ready. Just let me–"

Before Shane could finish, Ilya took his first step. It was a slow, agonizing shuffle, accompanied by a faint scraping sound as his left foot dragged slightly. He took another. Then a third.

The sound reached Shane. He instantly stiffened beneath David’s hand, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What was that? What’s that noise?"

"Just… cleaning crew, son. Wait one more second," David lied, his voice tight with emotion.

Ilya took four more steps, closing the distance. He was hyper-focused, his eyes fixed on Shane’s oblivious face. He didn’t stop until he was only three feet away.

"Open your eyes, Shane," Ilya croaked out, his voice hoarse but clear.

David immediately lifted his hand.

Shane blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim hallway light, and then he froze. His mouth dropped open. The exhausted confusion instantly drained away, replaced by shock– a complete, profound, tearful shock. He stared at Ilya, standing there without support, his shoulders back, his whole body held upright by sheer, magnificent effort.

"Ilya?" Shane whispered, the name a broken question.

Ilya managed a small, shaky, triumphant smile, the effort of standing finally becoming too much. His legs trembled violently. He took one final, desperate, lunging step forward.

"Welcome home, lyubimyy."

That was all Shane needed. The tears broke instantly, flooding his eyes. He let his bag clatter to the floor, his arms flying open as he rushed forward.

"No! No, no, no!" Shane cried out, catching Ilya as he swayed.

Ilya fell forward into Shane’s embrace, his weak legs giving out completely. Shane caught him, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist and holding him up against the wall of his chest. The two men held each other, Ilya resting his full weight against Shane, his forehead buried against the comforting scent of his neck.

"You walked," Shane sobbed, the sound muffled against Ilya’s hair. "You walked. You crazy, beautiful idiot. You actually walked."

Ilya simply held him tighter, breathing in the familiar safety of Shane’s presence. "We are okay. We are fine."

🩵

Two weeks before Christmas, the rehab unit walls felt less like a prison and more like a temporary home. Ilya was unrecognizable. He was fully mobile now, walking with a confident, though still slightly stiff, gait, only occasionally needing a cane when his legs fatigued. He could transition from chair to bed effortlessly, and his upper body strength was returning to near-normal levels. He still had lingering, frustrating difficulty with quick pivots and explosive movements— the kind necessary for skating— but the doctors were thrilled. He was out of the deep valley of recovery and firmly on the incline.

His discharge date was tentatively set for the day before Christmas Eve. Ilya was going home.

The morning of December 23rd was a masterpiece of crisp winter light and profound relief.

Ilya stood at the entrance of the rehab unit, dressed in the fresh clothes Yuna had picked out: dark jeans and a heavy, soft black sweater. He leaned lightly on a sturdy, silver-tipped cane, his posture still stiff, but his eyes were bright, almost feverish with anticipation. Shane stood beside him, a hand resting lightly on the small of Ilya’s back, his face split by an unrestrained, joyous grin. Behind them, Yuna and David looked on, their exhaustion from the past year momentarily erased by this single, momentous occasion.

"Ready, Captain?" Shane asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Ilya didn’t answer with words. He gave a sharp, decisive nod, pushed the heavy glass doors open, and walked out into the cold, clean Canadian air. His steps were slow, deliberate, and undeniably his own.

The drive back to the Hollanders’ Ottawa home felt like traversing a bridge between two lives. For Shane, having Ilya beside him, alive and relatively whole, was an overwhelming reality after a year of hospital rooms and panic attacks. He drove carefully, his eyes flicking constantly to Ilya, who was staring silently out the window, occasionally flexing his right hand— the one that had remained untouched.

The house was a sanctuary. Yuna had transformed the main floor guest suite into Ilya’s temporary recovery haven, complete with a specialized bathroom and rails for stability. The first few days dissolved into a blur of quiet domesticity. Christmas Eve was spent in front of a massive stone fireplace, the warmth soaking into Ilya’s still-tender skin.

Christmas Day was a symphony of small, profound joys. Ilya sat patiently, helping David assemble a complicated 5,000-piece puzzle of a European cityscape, the shared focus a silent balm. Later, he leaned against the kitchen counter, offering Yuna quiet, expert advice on making pierogi, the scent of flour and savory filling momentarily eclipsing the sterile smell of the hospital.

At night, the real healing happened. Ilya and Shane slept curled together in the large bed, skin to skin for the first time in a proper home, not a twin-sized hospital cot. Shane held Ilya tightly, his breath warm against the scars on Ilya’s chest, anchoring them both. Ilya would wake occasionally, checking to ensure Shane was still there, the trauma of the night Shane left still a quiet ghost between them. But Shane was always there, breathing, solid, real.

"I love this," Ilya rasped one night, his voice barely audible. "I love being here. Being normal."

"This is our normal now, moj tsvetochek," Shane murmured back, kissing the top of his head. "Just us."

The New Year arrived, celebrated with champagne toasts (ginger ale for Shane) and a quiet dinner for four. Two days later, on January 3rd, Shane and his parents sprang their surprise.

"Time for a proper outing, Ilya," David announced, his face suspiciously neutral.

Ilya, still relying on his cane and feeling a familiar weariness, looked skeptical but allowed Shane to help him into the car.

"Eyes closed, please, lyubimyy," Shane said, pulling a soft, black blindfold over Ilya’s eyes once they arrived at their destination. "No peeking. It’s a very sensitive, top-secret operation."

The air, when they finally got out, was cold, sterile, and smelled faintly of chlorine and rubber. Ilya felt the familiar thunk-thunk of his cane on polished concrete, then the sudden, smooth glide of specialized flooring. They went through a heavy set of double doors, and the air shifted again. It was immediately colder, sharper, and carried a metallic scent.

"Okay," Shane whispered, his voice close to Ilya’s ear. "Ready?"

Ilya nodded, his heart pounding a nervous, excited rhythm.

Shane slowly lifted the blindfold.

Ilya blinked, his vision adjusting to the dimly lit vastness. They were standing at the edge of a rink entrance, the Zamboni doors open. The seats— thousands of them— rose in empty, hushed tiers around them, painted in the Centaurs’ familiar deep blue and gold. The silence was profound, broken only by the low hum of the refrigeration system and the soft, cold slap of the ambient air.

It was the Centaurs’ home stadium. Completely empty.

Ilya looked from the ice to Shane, his eyes wide, a flicker of panic replacing the initial awe. "Shane, what…?"

Shane squeezed his shoulder. "It’s cleared. They ran the Zamboni just for us. No one else is here. Not the team, not the staff. Just us. And Mom and Dad in the box." He nodded toward a small, dark shape high above them.

Ilya stared at the sheet of ice, its surface an untouched mirror. The sheer, terrifying distance of it overwhelmed him. I cannot skate that.

"I know what you’re thinking," Shane said softly, putting his hands on Ilya’s arms. "You don’t have to do anything. We can just look. But… I thought maybe… just a little bit. If you’re ready. Just to feel it."

Ilya swallowed hard, the rawness in his throat returning. He wanted to say no, to retreat back to the safety of the puzzle and the bed. But he looked into Shane’s hopeful, earnest face and remembered his promise to fight. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I will try," Ilya croaked.

Getting his skates on was a joint effort, a painful, awkward dance where Shane did most of the work, his movements tender and careful. Once the laces were tied, Ilya stood, the blades sinking slightly into the rubber matting, the familiar weight on his feet oddly comforting and terrifying all at once. He handed his cane to David, who had walked down to the entrance.

Shane took Ilya’s right hand, pulling him forward gently. "I’ll be your cane, lyubimyy. Just lean on me."

They stepped onto the ice together. The immediate chill bit at Ilya’s face, and the blades scraped briefly on the fresh surface. Ilya’s knees locked instantly, his arms flailing for balance, fear gripping him.

"Slow," Shane whispered, his voice calm and steady, skating backward slowly so Ilya could hold his hands. "Just push, I’ve got you."

Ilya gripped Shane’s hands, his own trembling. He pushed off the ice with his left foot, then hesitantly with his right. He was skating. Slow, clumsy, but moving. He focused entirely on the familiar, grounding sight of Shane’s determined face.

After a minute, the initial terror subsided into a shaky concentration. Ilya looked down at the ice passing beneath his blades, then back up at Shane, a flicker of nervous doubt in his eyes.

Shane didn't say a word. He just smiled– a wide, loving, confident smile– and nodded, his eyes saying: You are doing this. You are perfect.

They skated like that for perhaps two minutes, a slow, gentle glide around the nearest face-off circle. Then, with excruciating slowness, Shane began to loosen his grip on Ilya’s hands. He let go of the left first, then the right, moving back an inch so he was gliding backward directly in front of Ilya but no longer touching him.

Ilya panicked, his balance immediately dissolving. He wobbled, his hips fighting for stability, his legs shaking violently beneath him. He was about to fall, about to reach out for Shane and admit defeat. But then, he realized: he hadn’t fallen. He was still moving.

He was skating. Alone.

A hopeful, disbelieving smile broke across Ilya’s face– a smile that was genuine, radiant, and utterly free of the pain and worry that had shadowed it for a year. He looked at Shane, who was watching him with wide, tear-filled adoration.

From the quiet heights of the box, Yuna and David erupted in a cheer– loud, unified, and utterly uncontrolled.

A sudden, overwhelming rush of adrenaline, the kind only the ice could ever provide, flooded Ilya’s body. He dropped his shoulders, bent his knees, and pushed off with a familiar, fluid power. His left leg lagged slightly, his movements still stiff, but the feeling was there, the pure, unadulterated sensation of soaring. He picked up his pace, gliding across the vast, empty expanse of the ice, a dark, graceful silhouette against the white.

He was flying.

The joy was intoxicating. Ilya curved, soaring back toward Shane, stopping with a controlled spray of ice shavings that dusted Shane’s skates. Without thought, without control, Ilya reached out, grabbed Shane’s face, and delivered a fierce, surprising kiss that tasted of cold air and pure, unadulterated triumph. He pulled back only to wrap his arms around Shane’s waist, hugging him tightly, pressing his face into his neck.

"I love you," Ilya gasped, the words choked with emotion, "I love you. Thank you."

Shane simply held him, burying his own face in Ilya’s hair. "You’re welcome, moj lyubimyy."

🤍

Two months melted into the electric anticipation of the new NHL season. The Centaurs’ schedule opened with a high-stakes divisional rivalry game, and the atmosphere in the arena was thick with a year’s worth of pent-up energy. For Ilya, the transition back to full-time play had been astonishingly swift after his return to the ice in January. The stiffness in his gait was gone, the tentative movements replaced by the powerful, fluid drive that was his signature. His legs– his precious, hard-fought legs– were answering every command with the explosive speed and agility he thought he had lost forever. He was back. Not a shadow of his former self, but the Ilya Rozanov who ruled the ice.

Tonight, as he stood at the mouth of the tunnel, the roar of the crowd was a physical entity, a wave of sound crashing over him. The lights of the arena were blindingly bright, and the air was sharp with the scent of hockey ice and anticipation. When his name was announced, the ovation was deafening, a visceral, prolonged cheer that shook the very foundation of the stadium. It wasn’t just a cheer for the Captain; it was a salute to the man who had clawed his way back from the edge of oblivion. Ilya felt a powerful surge of emotion– gratitude, pride, and an almost overwhelming joy. He tapped his stick on the ice, offering a small, acknowledging nod to the stands, feeling the familiar, rightness of the moment. He was home.

The game was a masterpiece of control and aggressive play. Ilya was a dynamic force, skating with a controlled ferocity, setting up plays, and scoring a stunning wrist shot in the second period. The Centaurs dominated, and when the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard glowed with a decisive home-team victory.

The relief and pure elation of the win were immediate. His teammates, buzzing with excitement, poured onto the ice. Luca, no longer a tearful rookie but a confident winger, was the first to reach him, followed closely by Wyatt. The team quickly formed a circle, their sticks raised, and in a spontaneous eruption of joy, they hoisted their captain onto their shoulders. Ilya was laughing, his helmet slightly askew, his face flushed with triumph. He looked down at the faces of his team, the men who had fought for him while he was away, and felt the immense, unconditional love of his family in hockey. 

The post-game adrenaline carried him through the media scrum and the long, slow process of cooling down. By the time he walked out of the Centaurs’ locker room, the arena was almost empty. His muscles were pleasantly exhausted, his mind already spinning forward to the next practice. He was so wrapped up in the analysis of the third period that he barely registered the car waiting for him— a dark, familiar SUV driven by David— until he was standing at his own front door.

He fumbled with his key, his mind already anticipating the blissful relief of a long, hot shower. But before he could insert it, the door swung open.

Shane was standing there, leaning against the frame. He was out of his Voyageurs gear, dressed simply in a loose t-shirt and jeans, but the look in his dark eyes was anything but casual. They were wide, glistening with a profound, almost desperate softness.

"Shane! What are you doing here?" Ilya exclaimed, his exhaustion dissolving into happy shock. He dropped his heavy duffel bag right where he stood and lunged forward. "I thought you had practice tomorrow!"

Shane barely had time to brace himself before Ilya’s arms were around his neck, pulling him into a fierce, triumphant hug. Then, Ilya pulled back just enough to pepper Shane’s face with rapid-fire kisses– his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and finally, a long, deep kiss on his mouth, tasting of game-day sweat and victory.

"I had to see you," Shane whispered against Ilya’s lips, his voice husky. He gripped Ilya’s wrists, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Ilya pause. "Come inside, lyubimyy. You’re freezing."

He took the duffel bag and gently ushered Ilya across the threshold. The front hall was dark, but the air was warm. Shane didn’t lead him toward the kitchen or the bedroom, but toward the living room.

"Close your eyes," Shane commanded, his tone now a little shaky.

Ilya complied, trusting him completely. He felt Shane’s hand slide into his, leading him a few more steps. When Shane said, "Okay. Open them," Ilya blinked.

The living room was cast in a soft, flickering amber glow. Hundreds of electric candles were scattered everywhere– on the mantelpiece, the coffee table, the shelves– creating a silent, warm constellation of light. The effect was breathtaking. But his eyes were drawn immediately to the center of the room, where Shane led him. The space was empty, bathed in the candlelight, ready.

Shane stopped, took a deep breath that visibly trembled in his chest, and then, he dropped to one knee.

The action was so sudden, so absolute, that Ilya’s breath hitched. Everything– the victory, the exhaustion, the long recovery– vanished. All that existed was Shane, kneeling before him, looking up at him with a raw, unprotected vulnerability Ilya had rarely witnessed.

Shane fumbled inside his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He flipped it open to reveal a single black ring with a gold interior, glittering fiercely in the candlelight.

"Ilya," Shane started, his voice thick and wavering. "I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this past year. When I got that call– when they told me you were in a car crash, then the ICU… I felt like I was dying. Every day. I couldn’t breathe. And I realized… the thing I hesitated on a year ago, the loyalty I thought I had to choose, it’s nothing." He swallowed hard, tears finally welling up in his eyes. "Hockey is a game. Cups are trophies. But you, Ilya. You are my actual life. You are the only thing that matters. I love you, more than I love myself."

He reached out, taking Ilya’s right hand, and brought it to his lips, kissing his palm.

"I choose you. I choose you for the rest of my life. I want to spend every single day of my existence with you, fighting you, loving you, making pierogi with you, and watching you soar. Will you marry me, Ilya?"

Ilya was speechless. Tears, hot and fast, burned in his eyes, blurring the glittering light of the candle-filled room. It was the choice he had always wanted, the validation he thought he’d never receive. He looked down at the most beautiful, foolish man he had ever known.

A familiar, small spark of cockiness returned, cutting through the overwhelming emotion.

Ilya wiped his tears with the back of his hand, gave a dramatic sniff, and managed a shaky, radiant smile. "Da. Of course, you idiot."

He reached down, pulling Shane to his feet, and wrapped him in a kiss so profound it felt like a silent renewal of vows.

When they finally broke apart, Shane’s face was wet with his own tears. Ilya still gripped his arms, the weight of the moment still heavy between them. Shane slipped the slightly-too-small ring onto Ilya’s finger, both of them giggling softly as Ilya attempted to remove it. With some effort, he finally took it off of his finger, before looking at Shane.

“I have idea,” he muttered, already removing the crucifix around his neck. “I’ll wear it like this, yes?” He slipped the ring onto the chain of his crucifix, sitting right next to his mother’s cross. 

“It’s perfect,” Shane muttered, slightly biting his lip. His gaze creeped down to Ilya’s lips, before they shared a quiet, passionate, perfect kiss. 

When they pulled away, Ilya looked at him, his voice soft with joking curiosity. "Is this because I almost died?"

Shane smiled, a pure, incandescent thing, and shook his head, his eyes shining with the depth of his commitment.

"No," Shane whispered, pulling Ilya close again, his forehead resting against Ilya’s own. "It’s because I almost died."

This wouldn’t be the fix-all to their problems. Far from it. Ilya still needed to talk to Shane about the depression that filled his psyche for the past couple of years. But they’d make it. As long as they stuck by each other, they’d make it through every terrifying thing in their lives from here on out. And that was enough for them at that moment.

Fin