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“Oh my God…”
It was early the next morning by the time Ilya was able to get to the hospital to visit Shane. He’d spent the night talking himself down, convincing himself not to panic, telling himself that if things were really bad, he would have heard something. But flashes of past hospital visits kept bullying their way into his head, making absolutely mortifying tears prickle at his eyes. Anger, terror, regret, and the reeling feeling of having no control gripped at his windpipe, making it impossible to breathe fully. He knew the whole thing had been an accident, but it took all of his very little self-restraint not to copy Hayden Pike and go for Marlow’s throat himself.
He had to keep calm, though. He’d already been obvious enough when the injury had happened, trying to get past the ref to see Shane, yelling and demanding to know how he was. Whenever he thought about it, his stomach flipped…how stupid could he have been? The whole arena probably thought he’d gone insane. It was just…he’d gone into a haze. Suddenly, none of it had mattered. Pretending he didn’t care, that this thing between them was casual, having the upper hand, hiding who he was, the fact that thousands of people were looking on…it didn’t matter. The only thing his shattering heart and reeling brain could focus on was moving forward, grabbing Shane’s hand, ensuring, with his own eyes, that the other man was okay. That maybe, at some point, Shane would smile at him like that again.
It was petrifying how much he would do for that smile.
Half of him wanted to end this. It was too much of a risk, too much to put on the line, all for something that might not even work out, something out of his control. The other half of him just desperately needed to see Shane’s eyes again.
So even though it was a very stupid risk, here he was: standing in the door of Shane’s hospital room. He just….he needed to know. He couldn’t play the next game without making sure. Even if it broke him, to end things like this…he needed to see Shane again.
He’d thought the whole thing through: going early in the morning when nobody was around. Wearing clothing that he normally didn’t, to avoid being recognized. Using the back entrance of the hospital so less people would see him.
He’d thought everything through, of course, except for Shane, himself. Because as incredibly boring as he claimed Shane was, that wasn’t true at all anymore. Sure, Shane folded his clothes before sex and adored painfully dull things like doing crossword puzzles, but the reality was that Shane had Ilya in a chokehold because the other man’s actions couldn’t stop fucking shocking him.
Wide, hazy, bloodshot brown eyes gaped at him as Ilya entered, Shane’s stupidly beautiful lips stretching into a smile. And that was it: Ilya realized there was no way he would be the one to end this. He was forever entranced by that smile.
There were worse fates, he supposed.
At first, Ilya thought that the other man was happy to see him, and his heart leapt at the thought. He was so thankful to see the other man in one piece that for a few moments, all he could do was let out a huge sigh of relief. There, Shane was okay. He could move on now, go back to his normal, uncaring, teasing act. But then Shane spoke.
“Oh my God…” he said again, slurring his words a little as his head lolled on his neck and his horribly long eyelashes brushed those fucking beautiful freckles. “You look just like him.”
Ilya froze. Eyes scanning the room, he noticed the IV in Shane’s arm and put two and two together. “You are on pain medication,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes. It was clear by the bandages why it was necessary, and he hated that Shane was in so much pain.
“Fuck, yes,” Shane answered, beaming. “But shit. You look just like him, don’t you? Am I dreaming? S’a very nice dream.”
Confused but desperate to touch the other man, Ilya walked forward. “Like who?” he demanded, refusing to allow his hands to shake as he gave himself the gift of squeezing Shane’s arm once, then quickly letting go, terrified of showing too much affection. He wasn’t supposed to feel this much.
But the other man just continued to give him a loopy smile. “Ilya.”
Shane’s voice was breathless. Punched-out and dopey; full of raw emotion. Ilya’s knees nearly buckled as he heard Shane say his first name: he’d heard him say it so few times before, and every time was like seductive music, making him want to fall to the floor and devour Shane on the spot.
But Shane wasn’t referring to him as Ilya. He was saying… “You say…I look like Ilya?” Ilya clarified, unsure of what to make of this information.
The man in the bed nodded happily. “Yeah. You’ve got that whole…” he gestured a bit with his hands in a way that Ilya could not begin to interpret, “...thing.”
Well, this was interesting. He bit back a smile. “Thing?” he questioned, tilting his head to the side, feigning ignorance. This would be so much fun to tease Shane about next time they talked.
Shane’s bloodshot eyes widened. “Mhm. A sexy asshole vibe, you know?”
Now Ilya had to laugh. “Yes, that sounds like Ilya Rozanov,” he agreed, clenching his hands to stop them from doing something embarrassing like tracing over the freckles on Shane’s face.
The man smiled. “D’you know him?”
Ilya quickly sobered up as he considered this, his heart squeezing uncomfortably in his chest. He remembered the doctors in Russia telling him that it was best, when his father was particularly bad, to not argue against his false memories and delusions. It caused more confusion. Was the same idea true with patients on pain medication? He didn’t want to trick Shane, but he also was terrified of making things worse.
Smiling a tight, uncomfortable smile, he nodded once. “I…yes. I know him very well,” he said, figuring this wasn’t exactly a lie. He’d like to think he knew himself well, after all.
This, however, just seemed to make Shane more excited. Looking half-asleep and eyelids drooping, he asked, “Does’e ever…talk about me?” face flushing a beautiful shade of red.
Absolutely dumbfounded and not having a clue how to answer, Ilya opened his mouth, but he was quickly cut off by Shane’s next statement. “Actually, never mind. He wouldn’t, s’not…” he trailed off, head lolling to the other side and eyes closing as his lips twitched into a pouty frown.
And that wouldn’t do, because Ilya’s heart began to crumble right in his chest. “He talks about you often,” he murmured, reaching for Shane’s hand, reveling in the softness of the skin there. Fuck, it was an exercise in restraint to not lean down and graze his lips over those knuckles. The truth was, if he could, he would probably talk about Shane all the time. So he added softly, “Is annoying, really. How much he thinks of you.”
The other man’s eyes shot open, and he looked like Christmas had come early. “Yeah? Fuck, that’s…” he grappled with his words a little, licking over his lips like the phrases were getting stuck in his mouth. “That’s…” He blearily furrowed his eyebrows at Ilya, like he was trying to decide something. “Has he mentioned…?”
Now Ilya could feel his heart in his throat. “He…has,” he nodded, chest feeling heavy. “But he told me not to tell. I won’t.”
Shane let out a shaky breath, eyes closing again. “Cool. Yeah, man, I…” he made eye contact, stealing what little oxygen Ilya had in his lungs. “What does he say about me?”
Ilya should have been ready for this question, but it still knocked him sideways. “He says…” he swallowed, trying not to panic as Shane looked at him with watery, red, mostly-closed eyes that were still, somehow so full of hope. What could he possibly say to that? Should he be honest, admit how his brain never seemed to not be stuck on Shane? Or should he lie and say that he only talked about playing hockey with Shane? Neither seemed right…“He says he wants to see you more.”
There. That was safe. The statement could be taken as one merely about sexual fulfillment or something more. He could have plausible deniability later, if Shane remembered any of this.
Still, Shane grinned happily, head flopping on his pillow. “Yeah. Me, too. But y’can’t tell ‘im. He’ll get a bigger head, the asshole.”
Ilya couldn’t resist. “I have heard that his head is very big, actually,” he murmured with a smirk and a wink, wondering what Shane would say about that. “And a bigger head…it’s always good, no?”
But to his shock, the man in the bed instantly lost any hint of a smile, his eyes narrowing and his face going stony. The expression made Ilya’s whole body go cold, because he hadn’t meant for it to happen. Something wild and feral inside him growled, making his fists clench. What had made Shane upset? Was he in pain? How could he fix it? He was the only one who could tease Shane; piss him off. “What is it? Does something hurt?” he demanded quickly, hands fluttering helplessly over various wires. He was halfway towards pressing the call button for the nurse, again completely uncaring about getting caught.
The other man just snorted humorlessly, though. “No. You know how big his…hm,” Shane murmured shortly, shaking his head a little and glowering. “What, did he sleep with you, too? He sleeps with all his friends, right? You, and Svetlana, and…”
This made Ilya’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You…you are jealous?” he asked, unable to hide his shock and glee. This was good information to have.
Shane threw a look of pure loathing at him. “Fuck off, man, I don’t need you judging Rozanov and I’s relationship or whatever–”
But the word relationship did absolutely diabolical things to Ilya’s heart, and he quickly interrupted. “We did not sleep together,” he clarified, making Shane pause. “And…he has not slept with Svetlana in long time. He…” he paused, swallowing, wondering what the likelihood was that Shane would remember this in the future, remember it was him talking. But, deciding this was probably the best opportunity he’d ever have to share his feelings, he continued. “He loves Svetlana. But with you, is…different.”
His own body reacted to this admission, Ilya’s cheeks heating and his pulse thrumming. Fuck, it was different. Terrifyingly so. When he was with Shane, the world melted away, and everything was simple. Just them, together, in a way that seemed absolutely, ridiculously easy but horribly complicated all at the same time. Shane’s voice, his eyes, his stupid, boyish smile…he made Ilya feel relaxed. Safe. Like he could take a deep breath, after spending his whole life struggling to inhale only through a straw.
It was petrifying, to know that kind of feeling was possible. And that Shane had the power to take that feeling away.
“Different,” Shane repeated, dopey smile finding a way back onto his face again. Ilya wanted to kiss it, make it permanent somehow.
“Da. Yes,” he whispered nervously, squeezing Shane’s hand to stop his own from trembling. He felt more naked than he ever had in front of Shane before. Fuck, ya lyublyu tebya, he thought wildly.
The other man gave him a hopeful look. “I wanted t’ask him to come with me. To my cottage, this summer. Spend time together, y’know? I want to just….” he trailed off wistfully, completely unaware that while Ilya remained stoic on the outside, his internal organs were doing gymnastics. “I was supposed to ask him, but then I got hurt–” Shane grimaced, gesturing with his chin to his beat-up body. “But, d’you think…if I ask him later…will he say no?”
Ilya should have told him that of course Ilya would say no. That this thing between them had to stay what it was. That the idea of spending days, even weeks alone together was absolutely nerve-wracking, and he’d rather die than be that vulnerable, than allow Shane in his life like that–because then Shane could take that wonderful feeling away. This wasn’t–could never be–anything meaningful. If they treated it like it could be, they’d both end up crushed.
No, the cottage was a horrible idea, just a pipe dream for another lifetime, one that didn’t involve NHL careers and the Russian police, and rivalries that they hadn’t even really agreed to.
But fuck.
He wanted to breathe. If only for a few weeks.
“Maybe,” he murmured, feeling his fingers tighten around Shane’s hand, never wanting to let go. “I will ask him.”
It was Shane’s smile that broke him, in the end. “Thanks,” the man in the bed beamed. “And…thanks for coming to see me. Tell Ilya I say…I’m alright. I’ll text him soon.”
Choking up, Ilya nodded. “He will be waiting pathetically for your message,” he murmured honestly. “Is embarrassing.”
Shane just laughed, eyelids fluttering closed. “He has no idea, does he?” he murmured, shaking his head a little, like he was almost disappointed, even though his lips were curved up in a smile. “How much I feel…” But he trailed off, head relaxing completely.
He fell asleep with Ilya’s hand in his own, Ilya wondering desperately what he had no idea about, wanting to know more than anything if he was the only one about to burst out of his chest with the need for more, for everything.