into your earthly hands

-

"Just to preface this— I’m not expecting him to wake up right now," she says, moving to the head of the bed, "but hopefully later today he’ll have some reaction. We do the same things at every check." She leans in close. "Hey— can you hear me? Ilya. Wake up for me."

Nothing. 

"No worries," she says. "That’s normal."

(It still breaks Shane’s heart.)

She takes his hands, one at a time, and presses down hard on his nail bed. Both times, his fingers and wrists flex, and his brow scrunches a little; on his right, he seems to even try pulling away from her. 

"Reacting to pain, that’s good."

She keeps doing tests— shining a little flashlight in each of his eyes, lifting his arms and dropping them, watching his chest rise with the machine, checking the drainage from the tube in his head— and nods as she goes. 

"He’s doing what I’d expect right now," she says in the end, once she’s typing on the computer. "This is a good sign. Everything’s steady."

Shane feels sick to his stomach anyways. 

(His big, strong Ilya isn’t supposed to be like this.)

He finally takes Ilya’s hand again, and watches his heart rate bump up to sixty-two. That has to be something. 

-

They start lowering the sedation in the late afternoon. 

Nothing really happens, at first. 

(The important part is that his vitals are keeping steady and the pressure in his brain isn’t increasing. He’ll become more responsive on his own timeline, but so far we can see that his body is tolerating being slightly more awake pretty well. This is a good start.)

"Come back to us when you’re ready," Shane tells him, acutely aware that he might be listening this time. "I’m right here. You’re okay."

Still, nothing. 

(It’s disappointing, but it’s okay.)

-

Something hurts. 

He’s vaguely aware of it. 

There’s a pressure in his head, and something is tight on his neck, and something is warm on his hand, and there’s a blanket of heaviness over him that feels thicker than sleep. 

There’s a muffled kind of sound around him. Voices, maybe. It’s all hazy and unclear, and he can’t make sense of what anyone’s saying. There’s one voice that cuts through a little sharper— he still can’t understand it, but it’s familiar. Low, steady, gentle. 

He tries to focus on it, but he can’t.

He lets sleep wash over him again. 

"Thanks, Dad."

-

He’s in a bed. 

He’s lying in bed, his head hurts, and the lovely voice that he likes so much belongs to Shane. 

His Shane. His beautiful, kind, careful, loving Shane. 

He’s missed Shane lately, he thinks. He can’t really remember why— they don’t live together for some reason, but he thinks he’d be happier if they did. He wants Shane beside him all the time. He sleeps so much better when they’re in the same bed. 

Slowly, he comes to the surface of the weird, floaty place he’s been. That’s where Shane is. He needs to get there.

He opens his eyes. He’s in control of it, this time— the world isn’t too bright or too much, and he’s able to search his field of vision for the familiar shape he knows should be there. 

"Ilya," Shane says. There he is. "Hi. You look more awake this time."

Everything else is hazy, but he lets his gaze cling to Shane’s face. He tries not to blink, in case he can’t get his eyes open again once they close. 

"Sh—" he starts, but he coughs, and all that comes out is a puff of sound. He tries again. "Shane."

He watches Shane’s eyes immediately get teary— that thing he does where he thinks no one can tell he’s about to cry, as long as he holds it in. 

"Yeah, it’s me. You don’t have to talk, baby. I know it’s hard," Shane says. He leans closer and strokes Ilya’s cheek. "I’m just happy to see you."

Ilya stares at him. 

Shane looks tired. He has his glasses on. It’s dark, maybe nighttime. Did Ilya wake him up?

"It’s really late, I need to go home now, okay? I’m glad you’re awake for me to say goodbye."

Ilya’s head aches with the strain of staying awake. 

Shane is leaving. That’s all he can make sense of. The word goodbye is the only one that sticks. 

Why? he wants to ask. What did I do? Why are you leaving me? 

(Hollander… Hollander. That was all he could get out, sitting stunned on his couch as Shane walked away from him. He’d planned a whole day, he couldn’t understand how it went so wrong.)

He musters the energy to move his fingers, and finds himself grasping weakly at Shane’s sleeve. 

"No."

Shane sighs. 

"I know," he whispers. "I know. I’ll be back in the morning, I promise. I’m just going home to sleep, and I’ll be right here again."

Ilya doesn’t know when morning is. 

But Shane is coming back. That’s good. 

He manages a nod—maybe it’s just gravity dragging his chin down. 

"You should sleep, too," Shane tells him. "Okay? You had a big day, I’m so proud of you. Tomorrow’s gonna be even better."

Ilya watches him. He loves him so much. 

Shane leans down and rests their foreheads together for a moment. The contact is enough to make Ilya’s chest ache.

He wants Shane to climb into this bed with him, can’t understand why he won’t. 

"Shane."

"I love you so much. I’ll see you soon."

The world feels empty when Shane stops touching him.

Ilya feels tired again. His eyes start to close. 

Shane is coming back. 

It’s okay. 

Everything is too much. 

He needs to get out, but he’s not leaving Ilya again. 

He presses his hands harder over his eyes, and finds himself rocking slightly in his chair. It feels like there’s ants under his skin, crawling up and down his legs, viscerally uncomfortable. 

Mom and Dad are quiet. 

(Ilya would know how to calm him down. He’s the only person that’s truly good at it.)

(He tries to picture the feeling of Ilya’s warm hand on the back of his neck, tries to hear the low rumble of his voice telling him he’s okay. It kind of works, just imagining it.)

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he finally takes a deep breath and uncovers his eyes. Probably a good while. 

Mom and Dad are holding hands, watching him with sad, worried faces. That’s sort of standard for when he has a moment like this, so he mostly ignores them. 

He looks to the bed, though, and realizes that Ilya is awake now, and also watching him. 

"Shane," Ilya whispers, sounding tired but mostly coherent. He looks nervous. "You are okay?"

He’s reaching out, but the restraint is stopping him from getting very far. Shane hurries to take his outstretched hand. 

"I’m okay," he mumbles, not able to make eye contact. "Just… freaking out a little. I’m fine."

Ilya squeezes his fingers tightly. 

"Why? What is… freaking you?"

Shane almost manages a laugh at the word choice, but ultimately just swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head. 

"I’m just upset. I’m sorry. It’s stupid."

"No. Not stupid. Never you." Ilya frowns. "Lyubimyy. Tell me."

Shane sniffles. 

"Everything’s just… a lot, right now." He finally meets Ilya’s eyes. "Nothing you need to worry about, okay? I want you to focus on resting and getting better."

Ilya blinks, slow and sluggish, clearly confused. 

"Better from what?"

Shane’s not sure how many more times he can handle explaining this. Fuck. 

"You’re in the hospital. You got hurt during a game. You had surgery. You’ll be okay, but you need to rest."

Ilya’s gaze goes very soft. The bruising under his eyes is so obvious like this. 

"You’re sad because I’m… hurt?"

"I mean— yeah. That’s part of it. I’m worried, I’m sad… I want you to be okay."

Ilya takes a deep breath, clearly losing steam. Being this lucid must take a lot out of him. 

"I am okay. Yes? No… no worrying. You do too much. Enough." He’s barely keeping his eyes open. "I go to sleep, you should too. Come here."

"Ilya," Shane huffs out, almost a laugh. "I cannot get in that bed with you. We won’t fit, and I think your nurse might kill me."

Ilya shakes his head, eyes closed. 

"You are so worried. Stop. Just come here."

Shane sighs. He’s acutely aware that Mom and Dad are still in the room. 

He lowers the bedrail, scoots his chair closer, and leans his head onto Ilya’s chest, careful of any lines in the way. It’s an awkward angle, and his back will hurt if he stays like this too long, but it gets Ilya to settle. 

"Good?" he asks. He squeezes Ilya’s hand. 

"Good," Ilya hums. "I love you."

Shane can feel his heartbeat. It makes everything else that was bothering him sort of fade out. 

"I love you, too."

Ilya is still in and out of sleep, totally variable as to whether he’ll be coherent when he’s awake. Sometimes he’s completely there, sometimes he’s confused and mumbling nonsense, and sometimes he’s agitated and freaking the fuck out. 

Shane stays by his side, though. 

"It’s okay," he finds himself murmuring, rubbing Ilya’s arm. "Just sleep. You’re okay."

Ilya is restless, but not awake— he’s tossing his head back and forth, probably irritating his wound, and he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists. His heart rate is a little high. Shane thinks he must be having a bad dream. 

"Ilyusha," he tries, low and gentle. "Relax. You’re safe. It’s okay."

Ilya settles a little. 

"Ilyusha?" Mom asks. "Is that a nickname?"

Shane nods. 

"Yeah. It’s like— I guess it’s kind of a thing, in Russia, to use a lot of nicknames with people you’re close to. He told me it’s weird to him that you guys just call me Shane, because in his culture, that seems super formal. Like, he said his mom would’ve never called him Ilya, even if he was in trouble; it was always some kind of nickname, like Ilyusha or Ilyushenka."

Mom smiles. 

"We tried to give you nicknames, y’know. You hated them. Even, like, Shaner, Shaney… you’d get so mad, and tell us that’s not your name."

He laughs a little. He remembers that. He just took things so literally, growing up— he couldn’t wrap his head around someone calling him something other than his proper name. He still barely tolerates his teammates calling him Holly or Hollzy. 

"I still don’t like those," he says, "but I do think it’s cute when he calls me Shane-chik. It just feels, like… I know it’s special to him."

Mom has kind of a sappy smile on. 

"I’m so happy you have him."

Shane watches Ilya’s face finally relax a little. Maybe the hum of their voices is enough to break through whatever haze he’s in. 

"Yeah, so am I."

(He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to go back to pretending to hate Ilya. It’s so much easier to just be in love like this.)

-

The look on Sveta’s face when she sees Ilya for the first time is something Shane thinks might be burned into his memory forever. 

She looks so scared and sad, and she rushes to him immediately, talking to him in quiet Russian. 

(She also looks incredibly glamorous for someone who’s been travelling for two days straight, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Ilya is asleep, but then stirs a little, blinking up at her. He mumbles something back, when he realizes it’s her. 

She shakes her head. Touches his face. Whispers something gentle and soft. 

He closes his eyes and nods. Mutters something— Shane thinks he recognizes the word tired. 

She smiles down at him. She says something that must be it’s okay, go back to sleep, because Ilya does. She watches him a moment longer, then looks up at Shane. 

"Hi."

"Hey," Shane replies. "I’m glad you made it."

"Longest couple days of my life," she sighs, sitting down in the chair that Mom recently vacated. "Next time, I will suck it up and fly private."

Shane laughs. 

"Yeah, it’s worth it sometimes."

It’s quiet for a moment, slightly awkward without Ilya to bridge the conversation between them. 

(Mom and Dad have gone back to Shane’s house, since they can’t all sit in Ilya’s room and crowd him. Mom said she’ll try to put together a late dinner for tonight— a sad little Christmas dinner, but something, at least— and Dad will come pick him up when visiting hours end.)

"I’m glad he has you," Sveta says, after a bit. "If you weren’t here, and it took me so long to get here… it would hurt me, if he were alone all this time."

Shane nods. 

"We were planning to do Christmas together anyways. Sucks that it’s in the hospital, but— yeah. I guess the bright side is that the injury happened in Montreal, so I can be here for him a little easier. I dunno what I would’ve done if this happened while he was in, like, LA or Florida or something."

She nods along. 

"Small bits of luck, yes?"

"Yes, exactly."

She looks at Ilya again. 

"He’s been like this all day? Sleeping, resting?"

"Pretty much. He wakes up for a couple minutes at a time— sometimes he’s really confused, sometimes he’s a little more with it. Sometimes he tries to pull on things or hurt himself, which is why they’ve got his hands held down."

She looks down, seems to notice the restraints for the first time. She mutters what must be a curse in Russian. 

"It’s not hurting him?"

"I don’t think so. Most times he’s awake, he either doesn’t notice it or he’s okay with it once I explain, y’know— it’s just to keep you safe, they’ll take it off soon. I mean, I’d rather he be a little upset and confused than able to rip the drain out of his head, because he’s been trying to."

"What is the drain for?"

Shane winces slightly. 

"I don’t entirely know. It’s to do with the pressure in his brain, from the swelling— I think they can let out a little fluid when it gets too high. Apparently they might take it out tomorrow, though, because he’s doing well."

Sveta nods. 

"He’s strong. He’ll get well soon."

"Yeah. I think so. He’s… there haven’t been any complications or anything, so far. Everything the doctor’s been telling us is, like, best case scenario stuff. He’s doing great."

Ilya mumbles something unintelligible, shifting in bed. 

"Yeah, I know," Shane soothes him, without even thinking. He squeezes Ilya’s hand. "It’s okay."

Sveta watches them. 

"You’re gentle with him," she comments. "He likes that. He needs someone gentle."

Shane watches Ilya’s sleeping face. 

"He likes that I’m boring," he offers. "I think he likes… how we can relax together. Just be ourselves. I like that about him, too. I mean— he’s not boring, far from it, so we kinda balance each other."

She’s smiling. 

"You know… I had a feeling you were Jane. For a long time." She pokes Ilya’s face, and he squirms a little in his sleep. "He would sit and watch your highlights, your interviews… and go oh, Mr. Perfect, Shane Hollander, so annoying, but I could see it."

Shane bites back a laugh. 

"He watches my interviews?"

"On his gigantic TV, even in French." She shakes her head. "He is hopeless. Obsessed with you."

(He can picture it— Ilya all spread out on his couch, glaring at the screen like he’s still trying to hate Shane’s guts, even though he hasn’t been capable of that for a long time.)

(Shane does the same thing, occasionally.)

"Ilyushenka…" Shane teases, petting his hair. "I knew you were my biggest fan. Secret’s out."

Again, Ilya just sort of squirms. 

Maybe he’s vaguely aware that he’s being antagonized while he’s too out of it to do anything about it, but Shane is ninety-nine percent sure he wouldn’t mind, anyways. When he introduced Shane and Sveta, months ago, he was giddy at the idea of bringing his two favourite people together. He’ll just enjoy that they’re getting along. 

"Sad, pathetic, in love, little boychik," Sveta sighs. "What will we ever do with you?"

They both laugh. Things feel okay, for a moment. 

-

He thinks he must be having some kind of lovely, perfect dream, because he’s listening to Shane and Sveta talk about him and giggle together. 

He can’t open his eyes, because then it’ll be over. 

He’s comfortable right where he is, so he decides to just lie back and listen. 

"Did he tell you about the time he thought we were surrounded by wolves, up at my cottage, when it was really just a bird?"

He should be embarrassed by this, maybe, but Shane sounds so fond that Ilya really just feels loved, more than anything. 

"No," Sveta laughs. "He is such a city boy. Of course he was terrified. Tell me the story, I will never let him forget it."

Ilya feels so warm. 

This is nice. He likes this dream. 

-

It feels like an actual Christmas present when, the next time Ilya wakes up, he seems totally coherent.

He’s relaxed, and even though he has questions about what happened and why he’s in the hospital, he just nods to Shane’s explanations. 

"Whose puck?" he asks. "Who hit me?"

"Couillard," Shane tells him. "He feels awful. He thought he killed you."

Ilya’s brow furrows. 

"Tell him… is okay. Was accident. All good."

Shane smiles, stroking Ilya’s cheek. 

"I can do that."

He turns to Sveta next. 

"Did you…? My gifts for Yulia— you gave them?"

She answers him in Russian, but Shane thinks she must be saying yes. At the same time that Shane was shopping for the Pike children, Ilya was asking what to get his niece, who’s close in age to Ruby and Jade. He was planning to send a suitcase to Moscow with Sveta, mostly things for Yulia, because she’s the only person there that he still cares about. 

Sveta pulls up some pictures— a dark-haired, bright-eyed little girl, holding some of the toys Ilya picked for her. There’s a little video, too, of her cheering: Spasibo, dyadya Ilya!

(Those ones are Duolingo words, too— thank you, uncle Ilya! Shane feels oddly satisfied at managing to understand it.)

(He hasn’t told Ilya he’s working on Russian yet, apart from echoing back things Ilya teaches him in conversation. His Duolingo streak is private for now; he can only imagine the ribbing he’d get for always doing the most, Hollander. Ilya would laugh at him. English, French, Japanese, wolf bird— all these languages are not enough for you already?)

(And sure, trying to pick up a fourth language feels slightly crazy, but he’s always been a little intense about the things he loves.)

He zones out for a while, not following the faster Russian conversation but happy to see Ilya so at ease. 

It’s mostly Sveta talking, maybe telling him stories about what she was up to in Moscow, or her ridiculous two-day travel adventure trying to get here, but Ilya watches her and listens and—

Ilya looks like he’s in pain, Shane realizes.

An alarm starts to ring on one of the machines. 

(Which is normal… the machines make noise all the time, and Paige always comes in to shut them off. It’s never a big deal.)

"You okay?" Shane asks, noticing the way Ilya has stiffened over the past few minutes. 

Ilya frowns. He tries to reach up to his head, but can’t lift his hand high enough against the restraint. 

"My head," he mumbles, words slurring a little. "It’s tight, I think. It’s— I don’t know."

The panic that undercuts his voice is unsettling. Paige is already rushing in. She looking at the monitors, eyes flicking between Ilya and the various screens, and her perpetual calm seems slightly rattled. 

"Ilya, I’m your nurse. My name is Paige," she says. Subtly, she reaches down to press the call bell, then moves to examine the tube coming out of his head. "You’re… about to be very popular, okay? But it’s alright. We’re taking good care of you."

Ilya suddenly gags— almost a dry-heave, nothing comes up— and the clarity that was just there in his eyes starts to slip. 

"Ow," Ilya moans, desperate. "Feels— bad."

More people are streaming into the room, and Shane finds himself literally backed against the wall. The alarm is getting more frantic.  

"What’s happening?" he asks, with an embarrassing wobble to his voice.  

"We’re seeing a big spike in his intracranial pressure," Paige says. "This can happen, with the swelling in his head."

That’s what the drain is supposed to be monitoring, Shane remembers. The pressure. That’s why Ilya is still in ICU, so they can keep an eye on the pressure. 

Ilya groans, pulling on his restraints again, trying to lift his hands towards his bandages. He’s breathing fast, sounding terrified. 

"Don’t move," one of the extra people instructs. "We’re going to fix it. I know it hurts."

Dr. Lévesque hurries into the room, pulling on a pair of gloves, followed by a young resident. 

"What are we seeing?" he asks. 

"ICP’s climbing," Paige answers him. "It was fourteen, it’s up to twenty-five. Drain hasn’t put out in about thirty minutes. He’s verbalized his head feeling tight."

"EVD is probably blocked somehow." He inspects the tubing as the resident adjusts the position of the bed. "Let’s give it a flush, see if we can clear it. Saline, slow and gentle."

It feels like there’s a million hands working, handing things to the doctors and adjusting things on monitors. In the middle of it all, Ilya is pale and hyperventilating, fists tangled in his sheets, clearly in pain.

It takes an excruciatingly long moment for anything to happen. Shane’s heart hammers in his ears, and he thinks he might be sick. 

Then— 

"There it goes," the resident breathes. 

Clear fluid starts to slowly drain out. 

Ilya exhales a long, shuddering breath, like the tension has suddenly left him. 

The alarm that was ringing slows down. 

"ICP is coming down," Paige says, watching the monitor. "Twenty-one… eighteen… fifteen." She turns to Ilya. "How’s that feel?"

Slowly, Ilya nods. 

"Better," he croaks. "My head, um— not… so much exploding."

Shane could collapse with relief. Holy fuck. People start to leave, and there’s room for him to get close again; he grips the bedrail with white knuckles. Sveta is there on the other side, looking equally as rattled. 

Dr. Lévesque stays in the room, waits until everyone else has filtered out, then pulls up the chair that got brought in for Dad earlier. 

"I want to explain what just happened," he says, looking at Ilya. "I know that was a bit scary."

(A bit is a fucking understatement, in Shane’s opinion.)

"You have a drain placed in your head, to help relieve pressure around your brain while you’re healing. The drain wasn’t flowing properly, just now— there was probably a little kink in it, or some kind of blockage."

Ilya looks so tired, and so confused. 

"I don’t know what is that," he grumbles. "Some of those words."

Thank god for Sveta. She translates for him immediately, and his expression gets a little clearer. 

He nods, then asks her a question in Russian, which gets her to turn to Dr. Lévesque. 

"He’s asking… it was a problem with the tube, then? Not a problem with his brain?"

"Exactly," Dr. Lévesque says. "We were able to fix the position of the tube, and get it to start working again. The pressure in your head got very high, but it went right back down. Your brain is doing just fine."

"Okay," Ilya says. He looks like he’s already fighting sleep again. "Feels… fine, now."

"Good. This kind of thing can happen with these drains— we caught it early, and that’s exactly why we’re monitoring everything so closely. I want us to do an extra CT scan tonight, just to make sure everything’s looking right, and keep the drain in place for the time being."

Shane’s been chewing the side of his finger. 

"Everything’s okay, though? He’s not getting worse?"

Dr. Lévesque smiles. 

"Ilya is still right on track with his recovery. This was a scare, I know, but something we anticipate and prepare for— it’s been handled now, and we know what to do if it happens again. We’re still moving in the right direction." He stands up, turns to Ilya again. "The biggest thing tonight will be rest, alright? Get some sleep, and if you start to get a headache or nausea like that again, let your nurse know right away. Someone will take you down for a CT in a little while."

Ilya nods, eyes half-shut. 

"Okay." He glances over at Shane. "I… scared you?"

Shane half-laughs, half-sighs. 

"Yeah. A little."

"Sorry. I’m okay."

"I know," Shane breathes  He strokes Ilya’s cheek. "I know. You’re okay."

(The monitors are back to a steady rhythm, but Shane’s own heart is still racing.)

"I think… I will sleep," Ilya mumbles. "You stay?"

"Of course. I’m right here."

He waits until Ilya’s face has gone slack to rest his head on the bedrail and let out a long breath. 

"Holy fucking shit."

-

Leaving for the night feels harder after a scare like that. 

"He’s in the safest place he can be right now," Dad says, walking him to the car, after Sveta’s Uber to her hotel has picked her up. "He’s got all the right people. If anything happens, they’ll take care of him."

"Yeah, I know," Shane grumbles, still on edge. "I know how hospitals work."

Dad sighs. 

"I’m just trying to help."

The irritation from earlier today flares again. 

"Well, some quiet would help."

He doesn’t have to look over to see the frustration on Dad’s face. It’s like— Shane knows he’s being unreasonable, but he just can’t stop it right now. 

Dad doesn’t say anything. 

The quiet does help. 

"I’m sorry," Shane mutters, once they’re pulling into his garage. "I keep snapping at you. I feel bad."

Dad reaches across the console to squeeze his forearm. 

"You’re having a really, really shitty day. No hard feelings." He smiles. "It reminds me of teenage Shane all over again."

Shane hides his face in his hands. 

(He wasn’t that bad as a teenager, but he definitely had an attitude sometimes. Only at home, really— he’d get sick of playing nice and polite for his coaches and billet family, so when he visited Mom and Dad, he could be a bit of a nightmare. It wasn’t so much teenage angst as it was exhaustion and anxiety and overwhelm… he crashed hard on his weekends at home, and it came out as snappy comments and passive-aggression.)

"I’m sorry," he repeats. "I’ll try to calm down."

"Eating will help." They both get out of the car. "Dinner should be ready. It’s nothing fancy, but better than takeout."

Shane nods. 

"Thanks, Dad."

As they walk up to the house, Dad ruffles his hair. 

"Don’t worry about it, champ."

-

He sleeps in later than he normally ever would. 

It’s after nine, by the time he actually rolls over and looks at his phone— he can hear Mom and Dad moving around and talking downstairs. 

"Fuck," he groans, throwing himself out of bed and heading straight for the shower. "You fucking idiot."

He doesn’t sleep in. That’s not something Shane Hollander— the best hockey player in the world— ever does. He can’t remember the least time he slept past six. He’s always in the gym by seven, at the latest, except for mornings after he’s spent the night with Ilya. 

Ilya is probably wondering where he is. 

He fucks up his routine even further by skipping his post-shower skincare, just throwing on some clothes and rushing down the stairs. 

"Morning, sunshine. There you are," Mom says, before stopping short and staring at him. "Uh-uh. Nope. You are not wearing that out of the house."

Shane looks down at himself. 

He’s in a Boston Raiders hoodie. 

"Jesus," he grumbles. "Yeah, no, you’re right. I’ll change. Ilya probably left this here."

(He knows Ilya left it here. In fact, he doused it in his fucking cologne and left it shoved under Shane’s pillows. It smells like Ilya, and Shane wears it to bed sometimes.)

(He was in such a rush, just now, that he grabbed it without even looking.)

"What can I make you for breakfast?" Dad asks. 

Shane isn’t hungry, and doesn’t care, but he stops himself from snapping. 

"Um, there’s ziplocks in the freezer with everything portioned out for my smoothies. Just throw one in the blender with a cup of soy milk and a scoop of pea protein." 

"All you want is a smoothie? You gotta have some real food."

Shane forces a breath. He’s being calm today. Not a brat. 

"That’s all I usually have for breakfast. It’s got everything in it— my dietician made the recipe. It’s fine."

"Alright, suit yourself."

"I’m gonna post on your Twitter, Shane," Mom says, and Shane almost fucking explodes because he doesn’t care about Twitter, no matter how much she talks about it. "There were some photos of you leaving the hospital, and an article ran this morning speculating that you were visiting Ilya."

Shane sighs. 

"What are you even posting? It’s not weird that I’d stop by and check on an opposing player who got hurt in a game— it just makes me look like a good captain. We can ignore it."

"Well, now that people are watching for you, it could get suspicious if they see you there again. I’m just gonna—"

"I don’t care, Mom. Let people talk. Whatever."

"Shane. Relax. I’m just gonna get ahead of the rumours. One tweet— I have a family member admitted to the same hospital right now. Yes, I stopped by to give Rozanov my best, but in the future some privacy would be appreciated while my family navigates a difficult holiday season. That’s it."

"That makes me sound like an asshole! I don’t even talk like that."

"I know it sounds a little corporate, but I’m sure everyone knows you’re too famous to be writing your own tweets. It’s fine. It gives a reason for you to be at the hospital every day, gets ahead of the announcement that you’re taking some time off for a family emergency, and squashes any rumours that might come up about you two."

"It sounds stupid."

"Shane."

Shane storms back upstairs to change, and spends a moment looking at himself in the mirror. 

His head is being really fucking loud today, and there’s a buzz of anxiety pulsating under his skin. He feels like an elastic band pulled to the verge of its breaking point. 

(His hair looks awful. The blender downstairs is too loud. He has a fucking pimple on his chin.)

(It almost breaks him.)

He’s literally in his own house right now, but he’s still struck with an overwhelming sense of I want to go home. Maybe home is Mom and Dad’s house, or maybe it’s the cottage, or maybe it’s just Ilya. Whatever it is that he’s longing for, he needs to get over it. 

He tries to blink the tears out of his eyes. He pulls a hat on to hide his hair, and takes several deep breaths. He’s in a Reebok hoodie now, and it doesn’t smell like Ilya, but that’s okay. He’ll be with Ilya soon enough. Maybe that’ll fix whatever’s wrong with him today.

"Smoothie’s ready!" Dad yells from downstairs.

Shane clenches his hands until his nails dig into his palms.

He’s okay. He can do this.

"Coming!" he shouts back.

Fuck.

"I try to sleep for now," Ilya mutters. 

"Good idea," Shane sighs. "Just rest."

(They had a good morning. This isn’t a huge setback, just part of the process.)

(He’ll be okay.)

-

An hour later, Paige comes in for a neuro check. 

Ilya’s been asleep— a little restless, reminding Shane of how he was a couple days ago, but sleeping nonetheless. 

"Hi Ilya," she says, leaning over the side of the bed. "Can you wake up for me?"

It takes him a while to get there. 

"Ilya," she repeats. "Hey. Open your eyes."

She rubs a hand in the middle of his chest, when he still doesn’t respond. 

He blinks a few times, slowly coming to awareness. He opens his eyes, but they’re oddly vacant, not really looking at her. 

Shane watches Paige’s brow pinch a little. 

"Can you tell me where you are right now?"

Ilya hums. He’s slow to respond. 

"Russia, I think."

Paige frowns for real now. 

Shane locks eyes with Sveta, who looks about as worried as he feels. Ilya knew where he was, as of this morning. 

"You’re in the hospital in Montreal, hon. I’m just going to check your eyes, quickly."

She shines her little flashlight in his eyes, like she does at every check, but frowns even deeper. 

She looks at the monitors, taps the little chamber connected to the drain in Ilya’s head, looks up and down the length of the tube. 

"I’m just gonna go get a doctor." 

(Shane wishes he were better at reading people’s tone. She’s clearly worried, but he’s having a hard time figuring out how worried.)

"Hey," Shane says, putting a hand on Ilya’s arm. "You okay? I’m here."

Ilya takes a heavy breath. 

"My head feels like… full. Exploding. Bad."

Shane’s stomach twists. This must be the same thing from last night, another blockage. 

(At least that means someone can fix it.)

The resident or junior doctor or whatever the term is from last night follows Paige in, moments later. He’s probably Shane and Ilya’s own age, which seems on the younger side for a doctor, but he looks confident enough to trust. Dr. Rahman, his badge reads.

"Drain output’s down," Paige says. She points to one of the screens. "ICP’s slowly trending up. Pupils are sluggish, he’s very slow to respond, told me he was in Russia. A big change from this morning."

"Ilya," Dr. Rahman says. "How are you feeling?"

Ilya has closed his eyes again, and he doesn’t even open them this time. 

"Not… very good. Bad."

"Can you look up at me?"

Ilya is quiet and still for a moment too long. 

"No," he mumbles, eyes still closed. "My head is… wrong. I feel sick."

"Can you lift up your right arm?"

It takes a long moment, but Ilya eventually lifts his hand just off the bed— it’s the same when Dr. Rahman asks for the left. There’s another check of his eyes, a few more questions that Ilya barely mumbles answers to. 

Dr. Rahman nods. 

"Okay. I don’t like the look of those pupils. Let’s page neurosurgery and go for a stat CT." He pauses, and Shane’s stomach drops. "Ilya, we’re going to have a look at your brain again. We’ll do our best to get you feeling better."

"What’s happening?" Sveta asks. "What’s wrong?"

"I’m worried this might be more than just the drain getting blocked," Dr. Rahman says. "His pressure is rising slowly, not a big spike like it was before, and he’s showing some new symptoms, so something’s changed. The swelling in his brain might be making it hard for the fluid around it to circulate properly; it’s also possible that there could be some new bleeding around the injury site, or a clot somewhere. The scan will be able to tell us more."

Shane’s chest feels tight. He can’t look away from Ilya, who’s taken a complete one-eighty from how well he was doing this morning. He’s already gone back to sleep. 

"A clot— like a stroke?"

Dr. Rahman stays completely neutral and professional. 

"It’s not what I’m suspecting right now, but it’s possible. I’m gonna get my attending involved, see what he thinks, and we’ll see what the CT says. Whatever is happening, I promise you we’re on top of it, and we’re going to figure it out."

Paige is busy messing with monitors and machines, getting Ilya ready to go down for yet another scan. Shane feels sick. Svetlana has clamped both her hands onto Ilya’s arm. 

"Ilya Rozanov, ty ne imeyesh' prava umirat' u menya na glazakh," she whispers, sounding harsh. "S toboy vso dolzhno byt' v poryadke."

Shane doesn’t understand it, but he notices the use of Ilya rather than a nickname. She must be saying something serious.

Ilya glances tiredly at her, and doesn’t respond.

(He could be having another brain bleed, or a fucking stroke, or whatever’s going on with the fluid not moving properly. Holy fuck. He looks bad.)

Shane kisses his knuckles, because that’s all he can think of to do.

"You’re gonna be okay." He tries to sound calmer than he feels. "Just keep hanging in there. They’re gonna take good care of you. You’ll be okay."

Ilya, pale and tired and barely responsive, squeezes his hand. At least it’s something.

(There’s no alarms screaming at them, no one is running or panicking, but the tension is so fucking thick. Something is wrong, and they don’t know what, and Shane might fucking throw up.)

"I love you," he adds, while the transport staff is getting ready to wheel Ilya away for the CT. "Ya tebya lyublyu. More than anything."

Ilya’s eyes flash open for a moment, and he meets Shane’s gaze. He manages a hint of a smile, and a twitch of his fingers. 

Shane gets the message. 

I love you, too. 

(Shane has texted Mom and Dad, who are visiting Mom’s parents at their assisted living home today, here in Montreal. He told them not to rush here or anything, but that he’ll keep them updated as much as he can.)

"So, the imaging shows that there’s some enlargement of his ventricles, compared to yesterday." He turns the tablet to show them. "These fluid-filled spaces are a little bigger, meaning things aren’t draining or flowing the way we’d like them to."

He pauses. Shane stares at the image, not entirely sure what he’s looking at. 

"This is called hydrocephalus," Dr. Lévesque explains. "In Ilya’s case, it’s being caused by the swelling in his cerebellum blocking the channels that this fluid typically moves through. It’s causing the pressure in his head to build up, and the drain isn’t working as well as I’d like to manage it. If this goes on too long, having this level of pressure inside his head can start to cause permanent damage."

Shane swallows, utterly terrified. 

"So, what does that mean?" Sveta asks. "Can you fix it?"

"We caught it early. That’s why we have so much monitoring in place— this isn’t an unexpected complication with this type of injury." He sets down the tablet. "I want to take him down to the OR again today. We’ll replace the drainage tube and adjust its positioning to be more effective. This is a very quick procedure— probably barely an hour. I’m hoping that having the drain in a better spot will let us control his fluid levels much more efficiently and relieve the pressure."

Shane finds himself frowning. A very stupid question comes to mind, but he can’t help asking it. 

"If he’s having another surgery," he asks, "will he need to go back on the ventilator?"

Dr. Lévesque gives him a tight smile. 

"Temporarily, yes— but only because he’ll be under general anesthesia, so we’ll need to protect his airway. We’d remove it as soon as he’s awake enough, within a few hours at most. I don’t want you to think of this as a step backwards; we’re at a very normal bump in the road to recovery. This isn’t back to square one."

The thought of Ilya with that tube down his throat again, needing to go through the awful extubation procedure a second time, is horrifying. It sounds like it’s necessary, though— and anything meant to save his life is worth it. 

"Is it dangerous, this surgery?" Sveta asks. 

"It comes with risks, as does any surgery, but they’re very low. Having a drain at all carries an infection risk, and replacing it adds some additional risk, but we’re very careful about keeping everything sterile. There’s a risk of extra bleeding, as well, but if it happens, we’ll address it right away." He pauses. "It would be much more dangerous to go without the surgery. Untreated hydrocephalus can be very, very serious."

Ilya has been sleeping through all this, impossible to rouse since he came back from the scan. He’s opened his eyes a couple of times, but they’re as glassy as they were right after his first surgery— unfocused and unseeing. He’s gone downhill alarmingly quickly in the past hour. 

"Yes, surgery is— I want that for him," Sveta says. "Definitely. Just… how worried are you? How bad is this?"

(Shane’s been wondering that, but he wouldn’t have had the balls to ask it.)

Dr. Lévesque sighs. 

"I am… concerned enough to act quickly, but I wouldn’t call it an emergency just yet. We know what we need to do, and this is a complication that isn’t out of the ordinary. We’re going to get on top of it right away, and everything should go quite smoothly. On the chance that replacing the drain isn’t enough to manage the fluid, there are more things we can try, and we can cross that bridge if it comes."

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand. 

His heart flutters a little when Ilya squeezes back. 

(He’s still there.)

There’s a consent form being pulled up for Sveta to sign, and nurses coming in to take Ilya away again, and the buzzing anxiety under Shane’s skin is starting to come back. 

"We’ll have him back in about an hour, if everything goes according to plan," Dr. Lévesque says, "and I’ll come back to debrief with you shortly after that."

Shane just nods. 

He kisses Ilya’s knuckles one more time before he goes. Sveta whispers something to him in Russian. 

Ilya’s bed is wheeled out of the room yet again. 

-

He’s been ignoring his phone, for the most part, over the past few days. 

He hasn’t really answered anyone but Hayden. Mom and Farah were the ones to get his leave from work sorted out and approved— he hasn’t even talked to Coach Theriault about it himself, despite the number of missed calls he’s simply been letting ring to voicemail. 

Sveta went down to the cafeteria, so Shane is alone in Ilya’s empty, too-quiet room. He sighs, and calls Theriault back. 

(Maybe he won’t answer. The guys should be in the middle of practice right now.)

"Shane! God, kid, I’ve been waiting to hear from you."

Shane swallows. 

"Hi, Coach. Sorry. I should’ve called you sooner. I’ve had a lot going on."

"So I’ve heard. Family emergency, eh? What’s going on?"

"Um… so, my partner’s in the ICU. There was an accident, and— yeah. Today’s the second brain surgery in three days; it’s been horrible."

"Jesus. I’m so sorry to hear that. How are you holding up?"

Shane scrubs a hand over his face. 

"Not great, honestly. I’ve been at the hospital all day, every day, since Friday night after the game. I’m exhausted."

"I can imagine. That’s a tough way to spend the holidays." A pause. "I heard from HR this morning that you’re taking some time off."

Shane chews his cheek. 

"I’m sorry. I should’ve told you myself. I just— I need to be here. I’m not in a headspace to be on the ice or travelling right now. My agent offered to sort it out with HR so I wouldn’t have to worry about it, but I should’ve at least given you a heads up."

Theriault sighs. 

"You should’ve, yeah. But I understand. You’re going through a lot right now. How long do you think you’ll be gone?"

"Um… a week? Maybe longer? It’s really hard to say. It’ll depend how things go, I guess. Once we’re out of ICU and things are a little more stable, I’ll let you know. Brain injuries are really up and down. Today’s been pretty scary."

Another sigh. 

"Okay. You know that’s not ideal, going into a road trip without you, when we’re already short forwards with Schneider and Wilson injured… but it is what it is, right?"

What a fucking guilt trip. Jesus. 

"Right. I know it’s shitty timing, but— I’ve never asked for time off in the eight years I’ve been on this team. You know how dedicated I am. This is just really important."

A long, uncomfortable pause. 

"Alright." A sigh. "And… out of curiosity, does this partner of yours have a name?"

Shane swallows. The emphasis on partner makes his skin crawl

"Lily." He stops, then adds on: "I know I don’t talk about her much, but some of the guys know. We’ve been together for years— long distance, it’s complicated."

"Hm." A pause. "Boston Lily, right? I’ve heard of her."

Shane’s heart hammers in his chest. He grips his phone tighter. 

"Yeah. Exactly. She was in town for Christmas, and— yeah. There was an accident."

It’s quiet. 

Then, finally:

"It’s a funny coincidence— her and Rozanov in the same hospital at the same time. Similar injuries. Both from Boston. You were talking to Rozanov on the ice, then you disappeared after the game to go see Lily."

Shane’s breath catches. 

"Yeah. Super weird how that worked out."

Another silence stretches on, and Shane thinks he might be sick. 

"People pick up on coincidences, you know." He sounds disconcertingly casual. "When things keep lining up a certain way… they might make assumptions."

It’s the exact kind of non-specific language that Shane has a hard time wrapping his head around. He’s not sure what that means. 

Either Coach Theriault is just warning him about the way the press likes to twist things… or he’s figured something out. 

Fuck. 

"People can assume what they want. It doesn’t make anything true," Shane finally says, after taking too long to answer. "I should go."

A sigh, on the other end of the line. 

"Alright. But, Hollander?"

"Yes?"

"Don’t let this get complicated." A pause. "Take care, kid. I’ll see you in a week."

The call ends. 

Shane sits there, stomach turning with anxiety, and slowly lowers his phone from his ear. 

Holy fucking shit. 

-

He hasn’t moved, when Sveta gets back. 

"Are you okay?" she asks.  

It finally snaps him out of his haze. 

"Yeah." He sits up straighter, adjusts his hat on his head, turning it to face backwards. "Yeah, fine. Just zoning out."

(His brain has been an unrelenting loop of he knows. Over and over. Why else would he say that stuff? Obviously, he was putting it together. Everyone will, eventually. Coincidences like this don’t just happen.)

(How the fuck does Hayden not know? He has to. He’s been pretending he doesn’t, sparing Shane’s feelings by acting like he believes the Lily lie, but he definitely knows.)

(Fuck, fuck, fuck.)

"I brought you a muffin," she offers. She’s holding a Tim’s bag. "I wasn’t sure what flavour— I thought chocolate chip would be safe."

Shane forces a smile as he takes the bag. 

(He hasn’t had a muffin in years, especially not one as sugar-filled as the ones at Tim’s.)

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

(There’s no way he can eat right now.)

"Ilya should be back soon," she comments. "It’s been about an hour. Has anyone given you an update?"

"Not yet. I figure, like, no news must be good news. It’s probably just going according to plan."

Sveta nods. 

"You’re right. It’s probably fine."

Quiet settles in. 

Shane continues to spiral. 

(Coach Theriault wouldn’t say anything to anyone. Why would he? It’d be in his best interest to protect his best player. There’s no way this gets out because of him.)

(But if he put it together that quickly… who’s to say the rest of the world won’t?)

(Everything is ruined.)

-

When Ilya comes back, he’s already off the ventilator. He looks the same as when he left, save for a few more bandages on his head. 

"It went really well," Paige says, as she and the other staff reconnect different monitors and play with settings. "His numbers look better already. The new drain is flowing well."

Shane nods. 

"Good. That’s good," he says, because there’s not really words for the kind of relief he’s actually feeling. 

As soon as there’s space, he’s right beside the bed, holding the edge of it. 

The restraints are back. Paige notices him staring at them. 

"This is just in case he’s agitated again as he comes out of it. We really don’t to risk want him pulling on the tubing and moving it around. If he stays calm overnight, we’ll take them off again."

"Okay," Shane breathes. "Yeah, that makes sense."

People filter out of the room, until it’s just Shane, Sveta, and Ilya again. Shane pulls his chair closer to the bed, and sits. 

Ilya stirs, making a sound somewhere between a cough and a groan. He flexes his arms in the restraints, but doesn’t pull. 

"Privet, Ilyusha," Sveta whispers. She rubs his shoulder gently. "Rad tebya snova videt'."

Ilya’s eyes flutter open, unfocused but clearly looking for her. He smiles when he finds her.

"Hi," he mumbles. "You… look nice."

She laughs. 

"Spasibo, miliy. You look like you got hit by a truck… but still very handsome."

Ilya gives a weak little laugh. 

"Okay." His eyes drift, then eventually land on Shane. He laughs again, practically a giggle. "Hi."

"Hi, Ilya," Shane says, unable to hold back a full-on dorky smile. "How are you feeling?"

Ilya hums. His eyes start to close again. 

"Not so bad," he mumbles. "Head is… sore."

"They fixed the drain," Shane says. "You should start to feel better soon."

Ilya frowns, confused, but doesn’t seem to have the energy to ask whatever’s on his mind. 

"Okay."

"You can sleep." Shane brushes his thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone. "Rest is good for you. I’ll be right here."

Ilya makes a noise that’s not quite a word, like he’s falling asleep as he tries to speak, and then his head lolls to the side, completely out. 

(Shane loves him so much. He doesn’t think he cares who knows it anymore.)

(After a scare like this, he can’t be bothered. If the world figures them out, so be it.)

-

It’s an afternoon of Ilya in and out of sleep, just resting his tired brain that’s been through so much. 

"We want to keep stimulation fairly low," Dr. Lévesque tells them, "to let things settle and avoid any more spikes in pressure. You can speak quietly to him, hold his hands, but try not to overwhelm him. Let him sleep, and he’ll come around when he’s ready."

His pressure has one big spike— he sits up, half-awake, yelling and thrashing in pain, while his monitors chirp their stupid alarms— but it goes back down within a minute or so, when Paige adjusts the drain and raises the head of the bed. 

"Sorry," Ilya chokes out, in the aftermath, clearly disoriented. "I’m sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Paige tells him. "You needed help, so I came and helped you. Everything’s okay."

Ilya sniffles. 

"Sorry," he repeats. 

"It’s okay," Shane chimes in, leaning in closer. "Everything’s fine, baby. Just relax."

Ilya takes a deep breath. There’s tears in his eyes. 

"Shane…" he mumbles. 

"Ilya," Shane replies. "I’m right here."

"I don’t know… why my head hurts."

Shane’s heart breaks a little. 

"I know, it’s confusing." He caresses Ilya’s cheek. "You got hurt. You’re in the hospital. It’s okay. They’re helping you."

Slowly, Ilya nods. 

"Okay."

"Just sleep," Shane tells him, for what feels like the millionth time. "Rest. You’re safe. I’m here."

Thankfully, that’s exactly what Ilya does. His eyes close again, and he drifts off. 

(Things have to start looking up soon.)

-

He can’t stop thinking about the fact that Hayden must know. 

He brought Ilya up, yesterday in the lobby. Maybe he was hinting at something. He was trying to say you can tell me. Because he already knows. 

"I’m gonna go make a phone call," he blurts, standing up. "I’ll be back in a bit."

Sveta just nods at him. Ilya keeps sleeping. 

He rushes out, and his feet carry him all the way to the parkade— sitting in his car might the only place with enough privacy for this. 

He needs to— fuck. He doesn’t actually know what he needs to do. He has no plan here. He just needs to figure out if Hayden knows, and figure out what that means for their secret, if it’s that easy to put together. 

He starts his spiral by opening Twitter. He searches Hollander and Rozanov. 

@neutralzone99
Oh to be a fly on the wall when Hollander visited Rozanov in the hospital 😂 good sportsmanship and all, but I can’t imagine that went well. WTF would they even say to each other?? "Glad you’re not dead, I still hate you" LOL

@metrosfan4life
@neutralzone99 did you see them at the last All Star game? Seems like they’re buddies now (or at least don’t actively hate each other!!) I’m sure it was fine, they’re both decent guys

Okay… that’s about what he was expecting. He takes a breath, and keeps scrolling. 

@rinksidereport
Hollander taking a leave for "family illness"… Rozanov conveniently in the same hospital as his "family member"… not saying anything, but… 👀

There’s a gif of Ilya kissing his helmet at the All-Stars game, both of them grinning wide. 

Fuck. No, no, no. 

He taps into the replies. 

@rozanovstan21
@rinksidereport Can you not make someone’s injury into gossip? Jesus. Have some respect. 

@hearteyeshollanov
@rinksidereport I’VE BEEN SAYINGGG 👏👏  our hockey husbands are NOT subtle lmaooo this is straight up fanfic material

Shane feels like he might throw up. 

@raidersforever
@hearteyeshollanov Are you delusional? Fanfiction about a man with a brain injury and his literal /work acquaintance/ with a dying family member is crazy work. I hope you know how insane you sound. 

@pucksindeep
@hearteyeshollanov top 10 craziest tweets I’ve ever seen. What are you TALKING about dude? Go touch some grass. 

Thankfully, most of the replies to both rinksidereport and hearteyeshollanov continue in the same manner— shutting them down, telling them they sound disrespectful and crazy. 

Shane tips his head back against the headrest and lets out a long breath. 

It’s not completely out of control, online. Their stupid rivalry has put up a bit of a shield around them— the thought of them even being friends is insane to most people. They’re safe, for now, as long as nothing else leaks. 

But Hayden. 

"Fuck it," Shane whispers. 

He opens the contact and hits call. 

"Hollzy! Hey, buddy. What’s up?"

"Are you alone?"

"Uh, yes? I’m on the shitter, actually. You caught me at the one moment I don’t have a kid hanging off me."

Shane takes a breath. 

"Okay. You know Lily is actually Ilya, right? And you’ve been pretending not to know, to be polite?"

There’s a long pause. 

"Dude… what?"

(Shane may have jumped the gun there. Shit.)

"Um… well— when I was being all weird about not saying Lily’s real name, and then you kept bringing up Rozanov… it was because you figured us out, right?"

Another pause. 

"I’m sorry, figured what out? What the fuck are you saying right now? Boston Lily, your secret boyfriend, is Ilya fucking Rozanov?"

Shane blinks. 

Oops. 

"Fuck. Uh, yeah. I kind of thought… like, with all the coincidences… that you’d already put it together. But, yeah. I guess. Um, he is."

"This has to be some kind of holiday-induced psychosis. I’ve officially lost my mind. Getting through Christmas with four kids under six was enough to finally break me. That’s the only reasonable explanation for this."

"Hayden."

"My best friend, Shane Hollander, is not actually sleeping with the guy he’s spent his entire career hating. This isn’t real."

"Hayden, Jesus."

"This is a prank call, isn’t it? You’re fucking with me. You’re with, like, J.J. right now, and you guys are filming this."

"Hayden! No, dude. I’m not lying. I really, truly thought you already knew, man— it wasn’t exactly subtle. My boyfriend from Boston is in this exact hospital with a fucking brain injury— how did it not click?"

There’s another moment of quiet as it sinks in. 

"But… you hate each other."

Shane sighs. 

"We really, really don’t. We never have."

He hears Hayden take a breath, like he’s steeling himself. 

"How long? I mean— you’ve been texting Lily for at least a couple years. How long has this been under my nose, man?"

Shane bites back a laugh. 

"We started hooking up the summer before our rookie year."

"No fucking way."

"Yep."

"No. What the fuck? How? The entire fucking time you’ve been in the show?"

"I mean— there were a few times where we’d go, like, months without talking. It was super casual, literally just sex, up until last year, or so. We only started actually dating in the offseason. He was at my cottage with me."

"He was at your— oh my god. That phone call, where you were all weird and out of breath. I— god, no. Shane Hollander. You were on the phone with me while Ilya Rozanov was giving you head."

Shane drops his forehead to his steering wheel, unable to hold back a giggle. 

"Maybe, yeah."

"I’m gonna fucking kill myself."

"Hayden… chill."

"How am I supposed to chill? I heard Ilya motherfucking Rozanov giving you sloppy toppy! While you said you were on a meditation retreat! We were all worried about you, and the whole time, you were on a secret sex vacation with your mortal enemy!?"

Shane snorts. 

"Okay, yeah, I guess. I kinda was… but it was romantic. It wasn’t just sex."

Hayden groans. 

"Jesus fucking Christ, Shane. I’m still on the fucking toilet right now. I cannot process this."

"Again," Shane sighs, "I really thought you knew. I’m sorry." He pauses. "You can’t tell anyone. I fucking mean it."

"Obviously I won’t— no one would believe me anyways. Or, wait… can I please tell Jackie? I’m actually gonna go insane if I can’t debrief this conversation with someone. She loves you so much, you know she won’t tell."

Shane rubs a hand over his face. 

"Okay. Only Jackie. God knows she’ll take it better than you did."

"Listen, buddy. You called me, mid-dump, and told me the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Be so fucking for real right now."

"Whatever, man. You’re the one who answered mid-dump."

"Yeah, because I’ve been worried about you! God, you and— wait, how is Rozanov, by the way? Any better today?"

"Worse today. He had, like, a bunch of fluid in his brain— hydrocephalus— and he had to go for another surgery." He pauses. "They said he should be on the up now, though. Hopefully things smooth out in the next couple days. He was doing good this morning, before everything got all scary."

"Jesus," Hayden sighs. "I’m so sorry, dude. I’m really hoping for the best for him. Keep me updated."

"Yeah, of course. I should let you go finish shitting. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?"

Hayden laughs. 

"Sounds good. Take care, Hollywood."

Shane rolls his eyes. 

"Goodnight, Hayden."

He hangs up, and shakes his head. 

That may have been the most bizarre conversation of his life, but… it could’ve been worse. 

-

The first thing he notices is that his head doesn’t feel like it’s about to pop.

That’s kind of been a constant for… he’s not sure how long. He’s been feeling very much like an overfilled water balloon, on the verge of exploding, and it’s made it hard to do anything at all, including opening his eyes or paying any attention to his surroundings. 

But this time, he feels… okay. 

Not great, a little sore, a little weird, but okay. 

The world feels a little quieter, he realizes. The beeping and whirring that was driving him insane has dulled, or maybe he’s less sensitive to it with his head feeling better. 

He cracks his eyes open. It’s bright— blinding, for a moment— but not painful. Or, it is, a little, but it’s bearable. His eyes adjust this time, and he notices that it’s actually pretty dim in here, that most of the light is seeping in from the hallway. 

He wiggles his fingers and his toes, making sure everything is still attached. His body is slow to respond, but it does, eventually, so that’s a good start. He can’t move his arms very far, but he’s too tired to think very hard about what that means. 

"Ilyusha," someone says. He looks over, and it’s Sveta. He can’t help smiling. She’s talking to him in Russian. "There you are. You look better. How are you feeling?"

He blinks, slow and drowsy. 

"Okay… I think," he tells her, Russian rolling off his tongue much easier than English. "Tired. I feel less like I’m dying."

She laughs. 

"Not dying is good." She pauses. "You really scared us, today. You— it seemed like you were, for a bit. You’ve had a rough day."

He stares at her for a second, trying to put meaning to that. He scared her. It seemed like he was dying. That’s not good. 

"Oh. Sorry."

She shakes her head. 

"Don’t be sorry. You’re still here. That’s all that matters."

He looks around the room again. His eyes land on an empty chair, with a familiar jacket crumpled on it. 

He tries to point, but his arm won’t move. 

"That’s Shane’s."

Sveta chuckles. 

"Yeah. He just went to make a phone call— he’s been gone a while, so he should be back soon. Other than going home to sleep, I think this must be the first time he’s left your side in, like, four days."

Ilya forces that to make sense, like he’s pushing two shitty puzzle pieces into place beside each other. 

He’s been in the hospital for four days, at least. 

He doesn’t remember any of that. 

What the fuck is happening?

"Sveta," he says, his mouth feeling thick and cottony. "What happened to me?"

She takes a sharp inhale, like she’s surprised he’s asked that. 

"What do you remember?"

He frowns. 

"Nothing. I don’t know." He thinks on it harder, and manages to pull a vague memory from somewhere in his head. "I was… going to Montreal, soon. For a game, and for Christmas."

She sighs. 

"We’re in Montreal. The game happened, you got hurt. You took a puck to the head."

He nods slowly. That must be why his head hurts. 

"Right. Okay." He can’t stop staring at Shane’s jacket. "And Shane is here?"

"Yes," she laughs. "I promise he’ll be back soon."

"I miss him," Ilya grumbles. He wants to see Shane smiling at him. He needs it like he needs air. "Where is he?"

"I told you, he had to make a phone call."

"Why? To who? He left me."

His vision is getting cloudy. He realizes belatedly that he might be crying. 

"Ilyusha," Sveta laughs. "Seriously. He’s coming back. You need to calm down."

Feeling sad is making his head feel tight again. He doesn’t like it. 

"I want to see him."

"You will, darling. I promise. We just have to wait."

He’s tired, though. His eyes don’t want to stay open much longer. He’s getting nauseous. 

(What if he falls asleep, and Shane comes back and thinks he’s dead?)

"You have to be calm, sweetheart," Sveta is telling him. "Your brain can’t handle this right now. This is too much stress. Try to breathe."

He can’t. Shane is going to come back too late, and see him dead, and go date Rose Landry or something. 

The pressure in his head is coming back. He wants to scratch at the bandages, pull out whatever feels so tight in there. He can’t reach, though, because his arms won’t move. 

Why the fuck can’t he move? He pulls with all his might, trying to get his hands free, but they won’t budge. 

"What the fuck!?" he yells. "No! Get it off!"

There’s people rushing into the room, but none of them are Shane, and it makes his blood boil. They’re all speaking English, but he can’t make it out because his head is so loud and full and painful. 

He’s yelling and yelling, and no one is listening, and he’s just getting more upset, and then—

He’s falling asleep. 

Oh. 

That feels better. 

-

Paige stops him on his way back into Ilya’s room. 

"We had to give him a little sedative, about ten minutes ago." She looks apologetic. "He was awake for a bit, and he was doing okay at first… but he just got really overstimulated, and super agitated, and it was driving his pressure up like crazy. We got some propofol on board to give his brain a little break, and he’ll be sleeping it off for the next little while."

Shane sighs. It’s another fucking setback. 

"Shit. That sucks."

"I know," Paige replies. "It was great that he was so awake, though— it was just too much, too fast. He’s still on the right track."

It’s getting exhausting, not seeing any real improvements, but constantly being assured that this is going well, that he’s on track, that this is what they’d expect. This is awful. It’s one step forward and two steps back. 

"Do you think tomorrow will be better?" he asks. "Like, honestly. Today was so bad."

She gives him a sad smile. 

"I really, really hope so. I think it’s time he caught a break." She taps her temple. "My spidey senses are telling me tomorrow’s gonna be easier. I’m usually right."

Shane laughs, but it comes out a little sad. 

"Okay, yeah. I’ll take your word for it."

He’s sure he’s heard that before— maybe it’ll finally stick this time. 

"And I’m in Montreal? Or where? It’s… what day?"

"It’s December twenty-seventh, and yes, we’re in Montreal."

He swallows. 

(The last thing he remembers is around the twenty-first, or so, getting ready to come up to Canada for the holidays. He was so excited to get up to the cottage.)

"I ruined Christmas," he breathes, as he realizes it. "Fuck. No, no."

(They’re going to be so angry with him. They had plans. He ruined them.)

"Hey, no," the nurse says, sitting down in a chair by his bed. "You didn’t ruin anything. You got hurt, it was an accident— no one’s gonna fault you for that. Your family’s been here with you the whole time— I heard them talking about just rescheduling whatever you guys had planned, no biggie at all. They just want you to get better."

He shakes his head. He knows how hard Shane can fixate on a plan— he needs things to go exactly how he thought they were going to, and it frustrates him when they don’t. He gets anxious, starts spiralling over every detail. He’s probably already freaking out about how they only had two days off, and now they won’t get to go to the cottage together until the end of the season. 

And he’ll say he isn’t mad, Shane. He’ll say that of course it’s okay, and they’ll figure something else out to sneak some time together, but he’ll be so, so disappointed. He’ll do the thing where his eyes get all wet and sparkling and shiny, but he refuses to admit that he’s crying. 

Yuna and David might be upset, too. They were probably excited for all their family traditions, which they were already being kind enough to let Ilya join in on this year, and then he spoiled all their plans. They’ll never invite him to anything again. 

(His last year in Russia— after he’d been drafted, but went back to finish his last junior season at home— he hadn’t been playing very well throughout December. He’d been sick at the start of the month, but forcing himself to push through it meant it was taking a long time to shake the illness. His body ached all the time. He was slow and sloppy and lazy.)

(On the night that they were supposed to go celebrate Novy God with the Vetrovs, Papa had sent him upstairs and locked him in his bedroom. You can stay here and think about how to be better. You haven’t earned a party. You haven’t earned a night off. You’ll be on the ice tomorrow morning, you lazy, stupid boy.)

(Papa and Alexei left without him, and Ilya rang in the new year sitting on his bed, alone and hungry, missing his mother and hoping that America might be better.)

"It’s gonna be okay, Ilya," the nurse says. "Alright? I’m so sure of that. Your boyfriend and his parents have been so good at checking up on you and looking after you, and— is she your sister, the girl that’s been here? Svetlana? They’re all just worried about you. No one’s worried about Christmas."

Ilya sniffles. 

"Not my sister. Not really— kind of like it, I guess." He’s not sure how best to describe her at this point, but he can’t worry about it, because— "She’s here? From Russia?"

"Yeah. I heard she had a hell of a time getting here, trying to travel over the holidays, but she made it. I bet she’ll be here soon, okay? You’ll feel better with all your visitors here."

He wipes his eyes again. 

"I sleep until they come?"

"Of course. I’ll shut the lights off again." She stands up to do just that. "You’re doing everything you need to do right now. Your job is to rest. Don’t worry about anything else."

He nods, not trusting his voice not to crack if he tries to speak. He feels so terrible. 

The room is dark and quiet again, and he closes his eyes. Sleep comes easily. 

He’ll have his people here when he wakes up, and that might be better. 

He’s finally less puffy, though the bruising under his eyes is still dark and prominent. He’s sleeping again, but as soon as Shane pushes the door open, he opens his eyes. 

"Good morning," Shane says, smiling down at him. "Look at you, wide awake."

Ilya sighs dramatically. 

"Yes. Awake. They don’t stop waking me up. Every minute— Ilya, can you hear me? Ilya, open your eyes. I cannot sleep in this place." 

And Shane can’t help the surprised, relived laughter that bubbles out of him at seeing Ilya suddenly so himself. Sure, he’s slurring a little, and his eyelids look heavy, but he’s awake and talking and sarcastic. This has to be a good sign. 

"They’re just trying to be safe. You’ve been really, really sick." He makes his way over to the bed. "How are you feeling? You look so much better."

Ilya waves a hand, almost dismissively. 

"I feel fine. Tired. A bit of headache, is whatever."

"Jesus," Shane breathes. "It’s not whatever. You had brain surgery less than twenty-four hours ago."

Ilya frowns. 

"I did? Why?"

Shane settles into the chair beside Ilya’s bed. 

"How much do you remember?"

Ilya hums, thinking it over. He reaches for Shane’s hand without even looking, like he’s absentmindedly seeking out the contact, and Shane locks their fingers together. 

"I think… something happened, in a game. That’s what the nurse tell me. I’m not remembering what happened."

"Okay. That’s— I’m glad you remember something. That’s an improvement, right?" He smiles when Ilya shrugs. "It is. I’ve spent, like, five days explaining to you that you’re in the hospital because you got hurt playing hockey— now you know that much for yourself. It’s good."

"Good," Ilya agrees. He looks a little nervous. "Right. Yes. But— surgery?"

"You got hit in the head with a puck," Shane explains, having a bit of deja vu for all the times he’s already said this. "It broke your skull, and you needed surgery to fix it. That was on Friday." He pauses. "Yesterday, which was Monday, there was too much swelling and fluid in your head, and you were in a lot of pain, so they did another surgery to help with that."

Ilya’s quiet for a moment, taking that in. He squeezes Shane’s fingers. 

"But I’m okay?" he finally asks. 

Shane nods. 

"Yes. Yeah. You’re okay." He kisses the back of Ilya’s hand. "You’re gonna be fine. It might be hard for a while, but you’ll get better, and I’ll be right here."

Ilya takes a breath. 

"When is your next game? Do you have to… go somewhere?"

"We play at home tomorrow, but— I told them my partner is in the hospital. I’m taking some personal leave."

Ilya stares at him— his eyes doing the thing where they dart around his face, taking every piece of his expression in. His brow creases. 

"You— what? Shane. They’ll know."

"No," Shane lies. "No. They know I have this mystery girl, Lily— I said she was coming to town for Christmas and got in an accident. I tweeted, said I have a sick family member." He pauses, feeling guilty, then adds: "Hayden knows the truth, though, but it’s because— well, I thought he figured it out on his own, so I said something to him about it, but it turns out he was really oblivious and I accidentally spilled the secret. But he’ll help cover for us, I know it. He’s safe."

Ilya sighs, leaning back against his pillows. 

"That’s who you choose to know? Fifteenth-best player on the Metros?"

"Ilya. He’s my best friend, and one of my As. He’s taking over as captain this week, so the least I can do is tell him why."

"Montreal is hopeless without you."

"I know that. But you’re more important, okay? They can lose without me for a few games. I’d rather be here."

Ilya looks exhausted, like this conversation has taken a lot out of him, but he manages a small smile. 

"I love you, Hollander."

Shane breathes out a little laugh. 

"I love you, Rozanov."

It’s quiet for a moment. 

"Seriously," Shane adds, after a moment, "don’t stress about anything. I’m gonna make sure we’re safe, and I’ll stay with you as long as I can. The only thing I want you to worry about is resting and getting better."

Ilya’s eyes slip shut. He nods. 

"Okay. I can rest now?"

Shane reaches up and brushes back one of the curls poking out between his bandages. 

"Yes. I’ll be right here."

Ilya hums, satisfied. 

"Good."

And he slips back to sleep. 

-

Somehow, miraculously, it’s an incredibly boring morning.

Shane catches up on life, scrolling on his phone while Ilya sleeps— he answers Merry Christmas messages that have been sitting on delivered for days; fields a few hope everything is ok, heard about Lily, thinking of you Cap texts from teammates; and finally gets through some boring emails from his accountant that he’s been ignoring for a while.  

Ilya wakes up for his hourly neuro checks, complains and whines all the way through them, and nothing goes wrong. His vitals stay normal, he passes all the little tests— he knows where he is, has a general idea of what happened— and then he goes back to the comfortable, light sleep he’s spent all morning in. He’s resting, exactly how he should.  

For once, Shane thinks, he is so fucking thankful for boring. 

-

"What is this? Food for babies?"

Ilya scrunches his nose, looking down at the tray this lady has brought in for him. There’s several little cups— ice chips, some kind of substance that looks like an even blander version of Shane’s nasty smoothies, a neon green jelly, and another little dish with a lid on it. 

"Food for a swallowing assessment," the lady says, with a chuckle. "I’m Jenna, and I’m a speech-language pathologist. I want to see how you’re doing with the ice chips, and then try out some purées, and maybe give soft solids a shot."

Ilya pokes the jelly, put off by the colour of it. It looks like if a plate of kholodets got turned radioactive. 

"This one is for aliens, I think."

"Do they not have jello in Russia?" Shane asks. "It’s just lime-flavoured. You’ll like it."

"I have never seen this," Ilya huffs. "Looks scary."

"Well, you can choose between that and applesauce," Jenna offers. "I always bring both— people tend to have strong opinions."

Ilya looks back and forth between the substances. 

"I do not want either." He pauses. His stomach growls. "I want… a McGriddle, and a hash-brown, and an iced coffee."

Jenna laughs. 

"Ilya," Shane groans. "Just take this seriously. It’s important."

"Let’s start with the ice chips," Jenna says. "I want you to sit up nice and straight, chin neutral— I’m gonna watch how you swallow. Try not to rush, just do it naturally."

She scoops a single ice chip onto a spoon, and holds it up to Ilya’s lips once he’s in position. He’s oddly nervous as he takes it— he’s not sure how you mess up swallowing, but knowing himself, he’d probably be the one to figure it out. 

He lets it melt in his mouth, overthinking every little movement of his jaw and tongue, watching her face for any sign that he’s doing it wrong. He swallows carefully, hyper-aware of the way she’s watching his neck move.

"Good?" he asks, after a second. 

It felt fine. He’s not choking or coughing— it’s a tiny dribble of water. Of course it’s fine. 

"Good," she agrees, with a smile. "No coughing, voice sounds good. Let’s move on. Applesauce or jello?"

Ilya must make a face without realizing it, because Shane smacks him lightly on the arm. 

"Don’t be dramatic, just pick one."

He looks between his choices. The applesauce looks like vomit, which is entirely unappetizing, but the other option is…

"Alien jelly," Ilya sighs. "Sure."

"I’m gonna start calling it that for everyone now," Jenna chuckles. She scoops a small amount onto the spoon. "Remember— nice and slow. This is the first real thing you’ve eaten in a few days, so give your throat a chance to get up to speed with it."

She hands Ilya the spoon this time. 

The jelly immediately falls into his lap, his shaky hand unable to stabilize it all the way to his mouth. 

"Shit," he grumbles. "Sorry."

"No worries." She takes the spoon back and scoops up more. "I’ll help you out this time."

She holds it to his lips, and he takes it. His eyes go wide.

The taste is absurdly intense. Sweet, cold, a little sour— fucking incredible. Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s starving and his mouth feels all gross and thick with sleep, but this might actually be the best thing he’s ever eaten.

He swallows, careful and deliberate, letting Jenna watch, then opens his mouth to prove he got the whole bite down.

"Ta-da," he beams. "Perfect, yes?"

"No cough, no throat-clearing—" she peers into his mouth— "nothing pocketed. Yeah, pretty much perfect, I’d say. That felt okay?"

He nods.

"Very okay. Very yummy."

"Great." She smiles. "Okay, we’re gonna try one more thing— we’ll stop the second it doesn’t feel right, I just want to see how it goes."

She takes the lid off the last dish— a little bit of steam rises off of some sad-looking scrambled eggs.

(He notices Shane makes a disgusted face this time, but doesn’t point it out because he’s super nice to his boyfriend.)

"Appetizing," Ilya comments.

"I know," Jenna sighs. "At least they’re warm, hey? One tiny bite."

He nudges Shane.

"You want? I will share."

(Shane is so, so picky about the texture of eggs. He won’t eat them unless he’s made them himself, exactly how he likes them.)

"Nope," Shane says. "No, that’s all yours, babe."

(Babe. That’s nice.)

Jenna feeds him a spoonful of eggs— a tiny bite, as promised— and it seems okay at first.

His throat tightens.

He tries swallowing, then tries again, then again, and—

He clears his throat. It’s a weird, wet and gurgly sound, and not exactly effective.

Jenna has a gloved hand under his mouth right away.

"Okay, stop— you can spit."

He coughs, freeing the lodged food into her palm.

(Disgusting.)

"Sorry," he croaks. "That— did not work."

She’s pulling the glove off to toss it in the garbage, food and all, and then slipping on a clean one. 

"No, it didn’t," she says, being very gentle and nice about it. She even wipes his face with a tissue. "That’s alright. Kind of what I expected. Solids are a lot harder to coordinate swallowing— you’re close, but we’re not quite there. I think I’m happy to sign off on purées now, though."

"Does that mean he can lose the feeding tube, if he’s at least eating something?" Shane asks. 

Ilya reaches for his face, and finds he does in fact have a tube going into his nose, taped to his cheek. 

Shane is quick to bat his hand away with a quiet don’t touch that. 

"Soon enough," Jenna says. "For right now, they’ll start bringing food at mealtimes— everything will be really soft and smooth textures like this— but I’m not expecting Ilya to actually be able to eat all of it." She turns to address him again. "You’ll probably tire out after a few bites, while you’re still getting your energy back— I don’t think you’ll be able to get enough nutrients in by mouth just yet, so we’ll leave the tube for now, but once you’re consistently eating enough calories and trying some different textures, we can look at removing it. Make sense?"

He’s tired already— but admitting that would only prove her point.  

"Sure," he replies, with a shrug. "I think." He looks down at the tray of food. "Can I keep the alien jelly?"

She chuckles, packing up her things.

"Absolutely. I’ll make a note for them to make sure there’s jello with your meals."

"Fuck yes," he laughs. "Shane. Will you—" He points to the jelly. "My hands are too clumsy."

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s making a very sweet, fond face.

"Fine." He picks up the spoon. "Don’t say I never do anything nice for you."

"I would never say that," Ilya pouts.

Shane feeds him a bite of jelly, and Ilya falls deeper in love with him. 

-

He sleeps again after that, and wakes up to Sveta’s voice. 

"I had to do work things this morning," she’s saying. "Phone calls, emails— ugh. No fun."

"Same," Shane offers, while Ilya is still listening with his eyes closed. "Like, it’s between Christmas and New Year’s— who’s even at work? Why do I have brand deals and stuff coming in? Just relax and leave me alone until 2018."

Sveta laughs. 

"Must be fun to be so popular."

"Yeah," Shane scoffs. "Definitely. Thankfully, my mom handles most of it, but some people still manage to track down my email to bother me. Lots of skincare brands, lately."

"Your skin is perfect," Ilya chimes in, finally opening his eyes. "You don’t need."

Shane snorts. 

"Thank you, baby."

Sveta mimes gagging. 

"Too romantic. Gross."

Ilya sticks his tongue out at her. 

"You’re gross."

"I am so glad you have the energy to be annoying again," she says, with an eye roll. "I missed it."

"Be nice to your friend, Ilyusha," Shane chides. "This is why people say you’re an asshole."

Ilya huffs.

"Who says this?"

"Me," Shane and Sveta reply in unison.

Ilya drops his jaw in mock offense.

"You two can leave. I want Yuna and David to come see me." He waves a hand, shooing them. "I do not need haters. Out."

"My parents are coming later," Shane says. "They both had work to do this morning. I made them go work at a coffee shop, because Dad wouldn’t stop talking about how shitty my coffee machine is."

"It is," Ilya agrees.

"It’s a normal machine," Shane grumbles. "Everyone has a Keurig. I don’t know what the problem is."

"Your terrible machine— which breaks every two weeks, by the way— makes the weakest coffee I have ever touched in my life," Ilya says. "I told you I will buy you any machine you want. I will get you a moka pot, a French press, a real espresso machine— anything to be better than this horrible thing."

Shane rolls his eyes.

"You and Dad can pick one out sometime. I’m sure he’s been having dreams of taking you to Canadian Tire for some manly bonding since he first saw us making out."

"Why would the tire store have coffee machines?" Sveta asks, taking the words right out of Ilya’s mouth.

"I dunno, it has everything," Shane says. "Hockey equipment, hardware stuff, Christmas decorations, toys for kids, party supplies, its own brand of snacks. Don’t ask why, because I have no idea. I’ve done commercials for them, and I still don’t really get their brand."

"Is like Costco?" Ilya asks, familiar with the concept.

"Sorta," Shane agrees. "But weirder. More Canadian."

"Hm," Ilya says. "Yes. Canada is weird."

They’re interrupted then, by a man knocking on the door. 

"Hey, Ilya. It’s Jake and Courtney from therapies, I was hoping we could get you up sitting up for a bit, at the edge of the bed, just like yesterday." 

Yesterday. Ilya tries to place the memory— these people do look vaguely familiar— but everything up until this morning is a bit too much of a blur. 

"Okay," he says, trying not to show that he’s lost. "Good, yes."

"Should we get out of the way?" Shane offers, as they start fussing with all of Ilya’s lines and tubes and things. "We can step out if you need to—"

"Ah, no, it’s okay," Jake says. "You’re welcome to stick around."

"How are you feeling today, Ilya?" Courtney asks. "I heard you had kind of a hectic twenty-four hours since the last time we saw you."

Ilya shrugs. 

"I feel okay. But I’m… not remembering so much, what happened yesterday." He looks to Shane. "Surgery, yes?"

Shane smiles, but he looks sad and worried. 

"Yep. Yeah, it was a scary afternoon."

Ilya feels very small, all of a sudden. He doesn’t like being the reason Shane looks sad like that. 

"Sorry."

Shane looks even sadder. 

"No, don’t say sorry, okay? It’s not—" He cuts himself off. "Just don’t."

Ilya chews his bottom lip, wishing it weren’t so hard to think right now. He’s not sure what to do to get that look off Shane’s face. 

"Our goal today is another dangle, alright?" Jake says. "Hopefully for longer than yesterday."

(Ilya remembers being nineteen, at his first Raiders training camp, and completely overconfident in his English. When he walked in, someone pointed at him and said: Fuckin’ A! There he is! Dirtiest dangles in the world, this kid— I saw your game tape on YouTube, just going bar-Mexico left and right on all those dusty Russian goalies, bud. Unreal.)

(He stood there, blinked, and wondered if maybe Boston spoke different English than the version he’d learned from watching American TV.) 

He realizes that Jake means sitting and dangling his legs at the edge of the bed, not dangling like stick-handling. That sounds a lot more doable right now. 

"Okay."

They raise the head of the bed, and then Jake is helping him swing his legs over the side of it. 

He immediately starts to sway, his vision going a little lopsided. His head feels too heavy for the rest of his body. 

"You’re good," Courtney says, steadying his shoulders. "I’ve got you. Tell me if your symptoms change— headache, nausea, anything like that."

"Dizzy," he chokes out. 

"Pick something to look at, try to keep your chin up," Jake instructs, helping Ilya get his feet planted on the floor. "Who’s behind me? Look at him."

Ilya locks eyes with Shane, over Jake’s head, and things stop swimming so much. He tries to smile. 

"Shane. Hi."

Shane smiles back, and not in a sad way this time. 

"Hi."

Ilya sits. It’s okay for five, ten seconds, then a wave of fatigue rolls in. His shoulders slump. 

"Fuck," he grumbles. "Should not be so hard."

"Your body has been spending all its energy healing," Courtney says. "This feels hard, because you’re asking a lot of your brain right now. You’re doing well, though. I’m barely helping you. This is better than yesterday."

He realizes she’s not actually doing much in way of holding him upright, kind of just touching his shoulders to balance him while his core and his arms do most of the work. 

"Big strong man," he hears Sveta comment behind him, in Russian. "Look at those sexy muscles working so hard."

Ilya snorts a laugh. 

"In front of my boyfriend? Really?"

"Just saying what I see."

"Stop distracting me." He smiles sheepishly at Jake and Courtney. "Sorry, she is— talks so much. Always telling me things. Distracting."

"Hey," Sveta huffs. "You are a very rude boy, you know."

"See?" Shane says, smirking. "What an asshole."

"Bullying," Ilya grumbles. "You see this? I come to the hospital— so sick, so sad— and they visit me only to bully me. Very mean people."

Jake and Courtney are both laughing. 

Ilya stays upright a bit longer— enough for Jake to comment, wow, two whole minutes— before the edges of his vision start to get hazy. 

"Okay, I think that’s time," Courtney says, somehow able to read it from his body language. "Let’s stop before your brain gets too mad at us."

Hands are helping him back into bed, and the relief is immediate (and mildly embarrassing, because the greatest hockey player in the world shouldn’t be so exhausted from two minutes of sitting.)

"That was… pathetic," he announces, once he’s lying down again. 

"It was progress," Jake corrects. "Same time tomorrow, we keep working. Maybe we’ll try standing."

"Wow," Ilya grumbles. "Standing."

Shane shoots him a look that says stop being rude to these people who just want to help you. 

"I might come back later today, Ilya, if nothing crazy comes up in my schedule," Courtney adds. "I have a few more OT things I want us to do, that Jake doesn’t really need to be here for. I’ll let you rest first, and we can see how you’re feeling in the afternoon."

Ilya opens his mouth to complain, but Shane speaks first. 

"That would be great, we’d really appreciate it." He pinches Ilya’s wrist lightly. "Right, babe?"

Ilya tempers a breath. Plasters on a visibly-fake smile. 

"Right."

Sveta chokes on a laugh. Ilya shoots her a glare. 

"Whipped," she teases, in Russian.

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"Thank you for helping me," he says as Jake and Courtney head out, making a show of how not-an-asshole he is. "See you."

He’s rewarded with Shane leaning over the bedrail to kiss his cheek. 

(He feels like a well-trained dog getting a pat on the head.)

"Are you tired?" Shane asks, cupping his face. "I can tell that took a lot out of you."

Ilya shrugs. 

"A little. I’m okay. Sitting for two minutes is not a big deal."

(That’s a lie. He’s exhausted.)

"It is a big deal, the day after brain surgery. Give yourself a little grace, Ilya. I don’t know if you understand how sick you were yesterday."

Ilya chews his cheek. 

"I— not really, I don’t think. I scared you, yes?"

Shane looks bewildered. 

"Yes. Yes, you fucking scared me. God, you were fine in the morning, and then you just—" He closes his eyes, looking pained. "Then you got all quiet, and you couldn’t answer questions, and then no one could wake you up and they said your brain was too swollen and there was, like, fluid in there that was gonna give you brain damage, and they took you away for this surgery, and— I was scared you were gonna die. Again. I was scared on Friday when they took you off on a stretcher and I had to keep playing without you, and then when I finally thought you were okay, it got all bad again. So, yeah. I was scared. That’s a fucking understatement."

His eyes are all glassy and shiny and wet. He looks angry, but Ilya knows that’s not what this is. He’s not mad. He’s terrified. 

(Viscerally, Ilya remembers Shane on the ice, unmoving, less than a year ago. He’s not sure that horror will ever leave him.)

"Shane," Ilya breathes, at a loss for words. He grabs Shane’s hand. "Malysh."

(There are no words, in English or Russian, that can make this better.)

It’s quiet for a beat. 

"You are so strong," Ilya adds, desperate to do anything to soothe the hurt in his eyes. "And so brave."

Shane won’t meet his eyes. He’s blinking back tears. 

"Not brave. I had a huge panic attack last night." He pauses, gets quieter. His voice is shaky. "Like— everything just hit me, and I couldn’t handle it. I broke."

Ilya shakes his head.

"No, no— but you came back today, still. You’re here. You’re brave." He hesitates, an old memory clawing its way to his mind’s surface. "There is something my mother told me. I don’t know if I have it in English, but— I will try, okay?"

Shane’s eyes go incredibly soft, and his gaze flicks up to Ilya for a second. He tries to smile, but doesn’t quite manage it.

"Okay," he whispers.

Ilya takes a second to gather the words in his head, then to translate them as best he can. It’s hard when he’s so tired.

"Brave is not…" he starts, slowly, "when you are not scared. Scared means you care, yes? Is very important to be scared, when something matters to you. A good person feels scared, a lot." He pauses, closing his eyes, trying to remember exactly how Mama said it. "Brave is when… you keep going, anyway, even if you are still scared. You still try. You do the scary thing, and you do your best." He opens up to look at Shane again, who has finally let the tears spill over. "Brave is you coming and staying with me, even when you are so scared. You are brave."

A moment of quiet, then—

"Fuck, Ilya."

Shane tips forwards, into his arms, and Ilya wraps him up as best as he can with the bedrail and his IVs in the way. 

"I love you," Ilya whispers, his voice wet, "so, so, so much."

Shane nods into his chest. He’s definitely crying. 

"I love you too. I’m so fucking glad you’re okay. You’re never allowed to scare me like that again."

"Never," Ilya agrees. "I promise."

Sveta is still here, watching, he realizes. She’s giving them some space, sitting in the corner, and she has the fondest look on her face. 

Ilya offers her a watery smile, over Shane’s head. 

"Your mother said this?" she asks, in Russian. 

"Yes. I used to cry before school every single morning, because I wanted to stay home with her, and she would tell me I had to be brave."

Sveta’s eyes look a little shiny, too. 

"She was so smart. You carry her with you so beautifully."

That’s enough to truly break him. 

Ilya closes his eyes and lets himself cry a little. He strokes Shane’s hair, feels the way it soothes some tension out of both of them. 

"Ilya, baby, go to sleep," Shane whispers, after a moment that could’ve been seconds or hours. He’s carefully pulling out of the hug, but not going far. He keeps a hand locked with Ilya’s. "You’re tired. Today’s been a lot. Rest."

"Okay," Ilya whispers, because he doesn’t really have a choice. Sleep is pulling him under again. "Stay."

"I will."

Shane’s stomach sinks.

He feels Ilya clutch his hand a little tighter. 

"I will play again," Ilya says. "I have to."

Dr. Lévesque maintains his practiced, professional neutrality. 

"You… might be able to." He pauses. "It’s very, very difficult to say right now, because we’re incredibly early in your recovery. You have a severe brain injury… but I don’t think it’s entirely off the table that you could recover well enough to play again. It’s just going to be a long road."

Shane watches Ilya’s throat bob as he swallows. 

His expression is hard to read at the best of times, but it’s completely blank now. 

Across the room, Mom is clearly already thinking something over, probably trying to formulate a million contingency plans for every single way this could play out. Dad just looks a little sad, his arm resting around her shoulders. Sveta is on Ilya’s other side, stroking his arm carefully. 

"We didn’t get into too many details in our discussion today," Dr. Lévesque continues, "but we did come to the conclusion that you are definitely out for the rest of this season, no matter what." He takes a breath, looking very serious. "I don’t want to be too frank, but I also don’t want to sugarcoat this— for the next six months, you absolutely cannot risk having any kind of hit to the head. Even a minor concussion, while your brain is still healing from this trauma, could be incredibly dangerous. You need to give this an appropriate amount of time to clear up."

Slowly, Ilya nods. His jaw is tense, and he’s still squeezing Shane’s hand. 

(A season-ender is shitty, especially when there’s still months left, but it’s not— well, it’s not never. He might play again. It isn’t over yet, not completely.)

(Shane, on the other hand, isn’t quite sure how he’s going to play again, when just stepping onto a fake rink last night sent him into the worst panic attack he’s had in years. Theriault gave him a week, as of yesterday. That means flying out to Edmonton on Sunday night so that he can play on Monday. Ilya will probably still be in the hospital. Fuck.)

"So I wait six months," Ilya says, without a hint of emotion, "and then… next season, I go back?"

"Possibly. It’s not my position to say— all I can do is recommend the safest thing for your brain right now, and support you through the early stages of recovery. Once you’re back in Boston, you can work with your team to figure out what the plan will be."

Ilya nods again. Something flickers in his expression— he might be in some pain. 

"Okay. That is… fine. Makes sense."

An alarm chimes on one of his monitors— pressure creeping up again, to Shane’s absolute horror.

"Let’s clear out the room," Paige is saying, already jumping into motion. "We need dark and quiet for a bit."

"Of course," Dr. Lévesque says, standing up. "It was nice to talk to you, Ilya. I’ll be around."

He steps out, and Mom and Dad get up to follow. Sveta picks up her purse, and presses a kiss to Ilya’s cheek.

"Let’s go have a coffee," Mom says, gesturing for Shane to stand up. "Come on."

Shane, against every instinct in his body begging him to stay with Ilya, moves to stand, but—

"No," Ilya says, not letting go of him. "Please."

Shane glances at Paige, unsure. 

"You can stay," she tells him. "Just— as little stimulation as possible, right?"

He just nods. 

Ilya has drawn inwards a little, staring at his blankets, his eyes less focused. His jaw ticks. He’s clearly hurting. 

Mom, Dad, and Sveta leave the room, giving Ilya little waves and murmured goodbyes, while Paige turns the lights to their dimmest setting and shuts the blinds. She silences the chirping monitor, and reclines his bed a few degrees to get him to relax into the pillows. 

"You okay?" Shane whispers, brushing his thumb over the back of Ilya’s hand. 

Ilya sniffles and nods. His expression is a little vacant, but not completely gone. 

"My head feels… so full. Tight. Too many feelings, maybe."

Paige is watching the monitor closely. 

"Stress and big emotions can spike your pressure," she explains, really softly. "It’s coming down already— that’s good. You’re okay." She adjusts Ilya’s pillows and smoothes out his blankets. "Quiet time, now. Alright?"

Ilya nods, closing his eyes.

"Yeah," he sighs.

Within a few moments, the tension eases out of his face. His hand twitches a little, curling his fingers against Shane’s palm. His breaths get slow and deep. The monitors all level out, and his pressure finally lowers.

The quiet is working. He’s okay.

Once it’s been long enough that Shane is sure Ilya’s out, he turns to Paige, who’s charting at a computer in the corner.

"He’s gonna be fine?" he asks, under his breath.

"Yeah," she says. "I’m not surprised that happened, honestly— five people in the room, a loaded conversation… he was just getting stressed. As much as he’s improved today, he still needs us to be pretty gentle with his brain."

Ilya has a fair number of things to be stressed about, Shane supposes. He’ll be on long-term injury reserve with Boston for the rest of this season, but what happens when he’s a free agent in a few months? Will Ottawa want to sign him with an injury like this? If they don’t, will Boston even offer him another contract, or will the big maybe of his situation make him a liability? 

What if no one signs him, and he loses his visa because he’s not working, and—

No. They’d figure something out. 

(If anything, the Irina Foundation is far enough into its planning stages that they can hire Ilya as an employee of the company— CEO, maybe— and sponsor him in Canada. Mom would know what to do, how to make it look perfect on paper.)

(Or, hell, Shane could just marry him. That might work too.)

"How many days in a row do you work?" Shane asks, noticing that Paige is finishing whatever note she was writing, closing out of Ilya’s chart. "Your shifts are long. It must be exhausting."

She laughs. 

"I don’t usually do this many in one week, I picked up some extra— lots of people wanted time off over the holidays, so I figured I’d get some overtime in, save up to fly home and visit my parents in a couple months. I’m only mildly regretting it."

"Where’s home?" Shane asks. "Sorry— I’m not trying to be, like, creepy. I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer."

She waves a hand. 

"You’re good. I’ve been in Montreal for a few years— came out here for university, met someone, decided to stick around, you know how it goes— but I grew up in Saskatchewan."

Shane can’t help but smile a little. 

"That’s where Ilya and I met."

"Oh, no way. Really?"

"Yeah, World Juniors in Regina, 2008."

"Aw," she coos. "That’s forever ago, you guys were just babies. Was it, like, love at first sight?"

And that’s a good question, isn’t it? Shane thinks on it for a moment, watching Ilya’s sleeping face. 

"Probably," he says. "I didn’t know it at the time, but… yeah. For me, at least."

Because he hasn’t been able to get Ilya Rozanov out of his head since that day, almost a decade ago, after watching him practice and tracking him down outside. It’s been a constant, his entire adult life: Ilya, in the back of his mind. That has to be love— even when it’s taken the shape of annoyance or anger or fear, it’s always been there. 

"You guys are adorable," Paige sighs. She glances at the door. "Okay, I’ve had to pee for like two hours, so I’m finally gonna run, now that he’s settled. I’ll be back so fast. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid while I’m gone."

Shane snorts a laugh. 

"Might be hard. He's doing something stupid, like, ninety percent of the time."

She rolls her eyes.  

"Well, just don’t wake him up, then, and hopefully we should be good."

-

"Shane."

"Hi, Ilya."

He blinks a few times, the dark room coming into focus. Shane is leaning against the side of the bed, smiling at him. 

"Did I sleep?"

"For a bit." Shane gestures to the machines beside him. "Your brain wasn’t very happy when there were too many people in the room, so we cleared everyone out and you took a little nap. Feeling better?"

Ilya takes a second to actually consider his answer to that question— he remembers, now, the room being full and his brain being a little slow to translate all the stuff the doctor was saying, and all of that slowly building into overwhelm. He remembers the anxiety-inducing lack of a real answer about whether he’ll actually be able to play hockey again. 

His head starts to hurt a little just thinking about it. 

"I feel… not that good," he confesses, then pauses when Shane looks worried. "I don’t know. Not very bad, either, just— ugh. Tired of this."

Shane’s face softens. 

"I know," he sighs. He touches Ilya’s cheek with gentle fingertips. "This has been hard. You’re so strong."

Ilya thinks about breaking a sweat just trying to sit at the edge of the bed— was that yesterday or this morning? It was stupid. He was weak. 

"Hm, yes," he mutters. "Sure."

"Ilya," Shane says. "You’re not about to do the same thing you just gave me shit for a couple hours ago. You’re strong. You are. No arguing." He pauses. "And no matter what happens, I love you, okay? I’m gonna be right here with you, through everything."

Ilya sniffles. 

He’s still so tired. The room is dark and warm, and this hospital bed is shockingly comfortable, and he feels like he could drift away again. 

(Lazy. Weak.)

"I feel like you should rest some more," Shane comments. "You’re barely keeping your eyes open. Have another nap, I’m not going anywhere."

Ilya hums, lacking the energy for actual words, but too stubborn to fully relax. 

Shane rolls his eyes. 

"Sleep, babe," he insists. He lowers the guardrail on the side of the bed, scoots his chair closer, and leans his torso over the edge of the mattress so that his head is on Ilya’s belly. "Or, just— at least sit with me while I try to, for a bit. I’m wiped."

He’s playing dirty, obviously, knowing Ilya won’t possibly be able to stay awake with a beautiful man napping on him like this, but it’s a smart move. Ilya settles a hand in his hair. 

"Okay," he whispers. "You sleep. I’m here."

And he lasts about three minutes of stroking Shane’s hair before he feels himself drifting off, well aware that Shane isn’t actually sleeping, but too tired to argue about it. 

-

He gets his time with David and Yuna later, as he’d requested when Sveta and Shane were so cruelly bullying him earlier. 

(They force Shane to go eat dinner, and Sveta drags him to the cafeteria in search of something he’s willing to eat.)

Ilya’s dinner tray arrives in the meantime— mashed potatoes, pureed vegetables, and, as promised, more jelly. It’s orange this time. 

It’s embarrassing that he’s still too shaky to actually feed himself without making a mess, but neither Yuna nor David so much as react— Yuna just picks up the spoon to help him, and feeds him slow, small bites as she keeps telling him about trade rumours in the league. 

"At this point, I think Calgary is trying to rebuild their first line altogether. I mean— I don’t blame them, they could use some guys who could score a goal or two for once."

Ilya swallows a bite of potatoes. He really, really doesn’t want to think about hockey right now, but it might be weird or awkward to try and change the topic. 

"I hope, um… Ottawa will still want me," he offers. "With, you know— all this. My injury."

"Oh, they will," Yuna says. "I’m sure of it. You’re Ilya Rozanov, they’d be stupid not to take you."

"It’s too early to stress about it, anyways," David adds. "I’m sure Shane already has a plan and a backup plan for every possible outcome."

"And a backup-backup plan for every backup plan," Yuna grins. "If I raised him right."

Ilya finds himself smiling. 

"This is true."

Yuna feeds him a spoonful of the vegetables, and he pulls a face but swallows it anyways. The girl from earlier was right— he’s getting tired already, and it doesn’t help that the food is primarily bland mush. It’s probably a good thing that the feeding tube is still there to get him some actual nutrients. 

"I want this now," he says, pointing to the jelly. "Tastes better than— nasty stuff."

Yuna and David both laugh. 

"Fair," David says. "One bite of veggies is probably enough, you tried."

Ilya snorts. 

"Shane will not be so happy."

"Please, Shane wouldn’t eat anything on this tray if you paid him," Yuna laughs. She scoops him some jelly. "He’s picky about texture. He didn’t even like baby food as a baby."

Ilya suddenly realizes the absolute goldmine he’s been presented— a solid hour of time with his boyfriend’s parents. 

"Please tell me about baby Shane. All the stories. And pictures."

He’s seen a few pictures, the ones on the walls at Yuna and David’s cottage, but there has to be more. A woman as organized as Yuna Hollander must have baby books upon baby books at home, with Shane’s entire life thoroughly documented. 

(Ilya has a small pile of baby photos of himself, tucked in a weathered envelope in his junk drawer in Boston, with Mama’s handwriting on the front. It was sitting there on his dresser, the day she died. He hid it when Papa started throwing away her things, then brought it with him to America, to keep it safe. To my Ilyushenka, it says, you will always be in my heart.)

(He’s never shown it to anyone. Maybe he’ll show Shane, someday.)

"Has he ever told you about the time he tried to make a Mother’s Day breakfast for Yuna and set the microwave on fire?" David chuckles. "I swear, I only looked away for ten minutes."

"Which is way too long for a five year-old to be unsupervised in the kitchen," Yuna adds, wryly. 

Ilya laughs. 

He can picture it— a tiny little Shane with that same determined fire in his eyes, trying his very best to do something nice for his mama, standing on his tiptoes to press the microwave buttons with his little tongue poking out. 

"He is still no good at cooking. I am surprised this doesn’t happen last week."

They both laugh, and Ilya feels a little warm inside. 

"I have to find this picture," Yuna says, pulling out her phone. "I know you can’t look at screens, but it’ll only be for a second. You’re gonna love this. It’s Shane when he was two, trying to help me bake a cake."

"The moment we knew he wouldn’t be a chef," David laughs.

When the photo is finally found, Ilya full-on giggles. The light of the screen hurts his eyes, but he squints at it and can’t contain himself. 

There’s baby Shane, clearly mid-shriek of that little-kid belly laughter, upending a bowl of batter, Yuna’s shocked face is captured in the background, and she’s a blur of movement rushing to stop him. 

"His favourite game was always making a mess, then organizing it," David chuckles. "Dump all the Hot Wheels out of the bin, then line them all up in a row. Tip over the box of stuffed animals, then line them along the edge of the couch. I remember he had so much fun cleaning up that batter mess, too."

That’s so uniquely Shane that Ilya simply has to laugh some more.

"He is… funny like that. He likes to put his—" Ilya pauses, looking for the word— "face creams and things all in a line, in order. He likes lines."

They’re all smiling hard at this point, and Ilya can’t help but drink in the moment as much as he can.

He’s so, so lucky to be part of this family.

-

Shane comes back to find Ilya asleep, and Mom and Dad with their heads together, looking at Mom’s phone. 

"Well, we can just get some printed at Staples, and then he can see them without having to look at a screen," Mom is saying. "Oh, he’ll be thrilled."

Shane pauses in the doorway, already suspicious. 

"What are you doing?"

Dad at least has the courtesy to look sheepish. Mom has absolutely no shame. 

"Ilya wanted to see your baby pictures," she says, "but screens hurt his eyes, and all the paper copies are back in Ottawa, so we’re just choosing some favourites to print off for him."

"Oh my god," Shane grumbles. "I leave you two alone with him for an hour."

"We’re bonding," Dad offers. "If he’s gonna be our son-in-law eventually, we need to get to know each other."

And of course Shane wants that, but—

"Son-in-law? We’ve been dating for six months, Dad." 

Dad gives him a look. 

"The summer before rookie season means nothing now, does it?"

Shane drags his hands over his face. 

"Oh my god. It means we had sex in hotel rooms for a lot of years. I don’t want to talk about this with you."

Ilya stirs, like maybe he’s not fully asleep and he heard that, but his eyes don’t open, and he settles again. 

"He had some dinner," Mom says, changing the topic. "Not very much, but he tried. He liked the jello."

"Yeah, that adds up," Shane laughs. "For a pro athlete, he really loves junk food."

(He thinks of the Christmas cookies from Hayden, waiting in his freezer. Ilya is going to demolish them, once he’s home.)

"Where’s Svetlana?" Dad asks. 

"Oh, her family wanted to know how Ilya’s doing, so she went and found somewhere quiet to call them. I think her parents were pretty close with Ilya’s, so they’re worried, y’know."

Mom and Dad nod. 

"Does he have any other family?" Mom asks. "Siblings or something?"

Shane cringes slightly. 

"He has a brother, but I don’t think they talk. He hasn’t really said much about it, but— I don’t know. They don’t get along." He pauses. "After the night he met you guys, when we got back to the cottage… he was so happy. He said he was just glad to be around family, and to see that you guys were good to me. I think he really felt at home with you guys, and maybe he hadn’t had that in a while."

"Oh," Mom coos, her face going soft. "He really is such a sweetheart, isn’t he?"

Shane nods. 

"He is."

"Once he’s in Ottawa, we’ll have to have him over sometimes," Dad says. "I feel like he’d love to fire up the grill together."

(Good lord. Shane can already see it— Dad and Ilya on a fall day, cooking steaks and talking about cars, while Shane is off on a road trip. They’ll put the game on over dinner, and Ilya will text Shane stupid selfies with his parents, and it’ll be beautiful.) 

(His brain jumps ahead, probably way too far, but he sees a flash of a future where he and Ilya are bringing their kids over to Mom and Dad’s for a family dinner, the faceless little bodies running ahead into the house, while an older Ilya kisses Shane in the driveway without fear of being spotted by the neighbours. Fuck.)

"He’d love that," Shane agrees. He sees a little smile pull at Ilya’s sleeping face. "Even if… even if he can’t play again, if everything changes… I think we’ll take good care of him, right?"

"Of course," Mom says. "No matter what."

"I was thinking," Shane continues, "if he can’t play… we could use the charity to, like, make sure he can stay in Canada. I don’t really know immigration stuff, but we could make sure he has a job, right? And that would help?"

"I think it would." Mom taps the bedrail, thinking. "My cousin— your Auntie Rina— is an immigration lawyer. If it comes down to that, we’ll get her involved, figure things out. It’ll be fine."

Dad grins. 

"You could always marry him. That would help."

"I told you to stop," Shane huffs. His heart melts a little, though. "But, yeah. I could."

(He really, really wants to.)

A full day of being awake and coherent has taken a lot out of him— Ilya’s tired brain doesn’t like light, or more than two people in the room, or talking too fast, or moving too much. His pressure spikes a little again when he tries to sit up and adjust his own blankets— he has to go right back to lying down while his night nurse fixes them for him, and the moment passes quickly. 

"I am so bored," Ilya sighs, staring at the ceiling. "But even thinking makes my head hurt."

Shane is the last one here for the night, not willing to leave until Ilya is asleep again. It’s nearing midnight— visiting hours are technically over, but it’s another thing that he can I’m Shane Hollander his way through. No one even questions it when he’s here late. 

"Special kind of torture, hey?" Shane sighs. "Your favourite things— being bored, and resting."

Ilya groans dramatically. 

"I don’t even know where my phone is."

"I can bring it here if you want, but you can’t look at screens anyways. It’s at my house, with the rest of your stuff that I said I would give to your girlfriend. Your gross gear bag is stinking up my garage."

Ilya makes a face. 

"My bag does not stink."

"It has those runners I keep telling you to throw out. I don’t know how you don’t have a fucking foot fungus by now, they’re a biohazard."

"They are my favourite shoes. So comfortable."

"The only reason I haven’t tossed them myself is because I’m afraid to touch them. They’re worn out, they’re stained with sweat, and they might as well be flip-flops with how much they support your arch."

"You are so rude. You make my pressure go up again with your rudeness."

Shane glances at the monitor. Perfectly level. 

"Yeah, right."

Another heavy sigh. 

"I want a cigarette."

Shane huffs. 

"Let’s ask your nurse. I’m sure we can wheel you outside for a smoke break. Nicotine’s probably really good for your brain right now."

Ilya snorts softly. 

"I like when you are sarcastic. Funny to me."

"Shut up."

Ilya laughs a little harder, probably at the grumpy expression on Shane’s face, but then winces and rubs his temple. Apparently his brain doesn’t like laughing either. 

"Fuck," he grumbles, closing his eyes. "Be more boring, Hollander."

"First time you’ve ever said that. Wow."

"Tell me about… a hockey book, or real estate, or something. Put me to sleep."

Shane rolls his eyes. 

"There’s a cottage I’m looking at in Muskoka— I want to Airbnb it, maybe. It’s, like, three docks down from Hayden’s, right in that area where half the NHL spends their summers. There might even be a market just for renting it to other players, guys who don’t actually want to buy out there, but would do a couple weeks to get out on the lake and maybe play some shinnies with whoever’s around."

Ilya hums. 

"Yes. Perfect. This is so boring. Keep going."

Shane shakes his head, amused. Ilya looks half-asleep, so he makes a point to keep his voice as low and soothing and boredom-inducing as he can. 

"I could buy a boat to keep docked there, so if you rent the cottage you can use the boat too… but then you’d have to make sure anyone renting it actually has a boating license, and make sure it’s fuelled, of course, and… I don’t know. Obviously, I’d just hire someone to manage the property and do the Airbnb listing and everything. That sounds like their problem." He pauses. "I’d really just have the cottage as, like, an investment property, and to use if I ever wanted to go out that way for some reason, like to go see the Pikes. I could stay with them, but I like my own space. If you came along, then we could fuck without worrying about kids walking in. Honestly, Muskoka is pretty overrated, though— there’s a reason I don’t go there. I like our little corner of Quebec, where no one even speaks English when you go to town for groceries, and I don’t get recognized as much."

Ilya starts to snore. 

Perfect. 

Shane smiles to himself, and pets the back of Ilya’s hand gently. 

"Goodnight. Tomorrow’s gonna be another good day. I can tell."

Ilya doesn’t stir, deep enough into sleep that Shane takes it as his cue to head out. 

For once, he walks out of the hospital feeling calm, and like things might finally actually be looking up. 

-

@ESPN
CONFIRMED: @BostonRaiders captain Ilya Rozanov is out for the remainder of the 2017-18 season, due to last week’s on-ice head injury. Sources confirm that Rozanov remains hospitalized in Montreal, in serious but stable condition. He will be placed on LTIR, with contract negotiations and free agency approaching this spring. 

@rozanovy8181
please please please someone tell me im being paranoid and this tweet doesn’t have "career ending injury" written all over it

@raidersgirlie
@rozanovy8181 it’s way too early to speculate, it’s only been a week and we really don’t know how bad it is - all we can do is hope for the best and send rozy our love <333

@shanexilya2481
he’s staying in montreal with his boy 😭😭❤️ #hollanov you never let me down
[GIF of Ilya and Shane smiling at each other in a face-off]

@ilyilya
@shanexilya2481 you’re gonna throw your back out reaching this hard 🫠 he’s staying in Montreal because he just had brain surgery and probably can’t travel yet

@shanexilya2481
@ilyilya but the timing is just so perfect with shane taking leave, being seen at the hospital… don’t tell me you can’t see it! they’re such husbands it’s so obvious

@ilyilya
@shanexilya2481 I can see from your bio that you’re 15 so I’m not gonna argue with you too hard, just please remember these are real people you’re talking about. Even if they somehow are secretly in love or something, it seems a little in poor taste to use a serious injury and a family emergency as a way to speculate about it.  

@shaydenisreal
@shanexilya2481 hollanovs stop being fucking disrespectful w ur shipping stuff when ur favs are both going through a hard time challenge level impossible

@shanexilya2481
@shaydenisreal girl you tweeted 20 minutes ago about shane "destroying hayden’s hole" 🥀 look in the mirror hoe

-

Shane drops his phone onto his bed, rolling out of it to go shower.

"I need to delete Twitter," he says out loud, because the act of speaking it might get him to actually do it. 

(It’s a relief that any speculation about him and Ilya is still being written off as crazy, for the most part. It’s a few bored people— kids, it seems like— on the internet, spinning stories, and he needs to stop going down these rabbit holes.)

(He’s never going to get the horrifying mental image of topping Hayden out of his head, though. That is not how he needed to start his day.)

He stops, picks his phone back up, and texts Rose, who’s definitely his most online friend, because he’s slightly worried he might start to spiral. 

Did you know there are teenagers on Twitter who are obsessed with the idea of Ilya and I fucking??? They’re called "Hollanovs" and the ones who think I’m fucking Hayden instead are called "Shaydens" and they all fight with each other and post crazy stuff about holes getting destroyed. It seems like most people just tell them to stop but I’m a little scared of these weirdos.  

It’s, like, 4am in LA, but she answers almost immediately— either an early call time, or an incredibly late night. 

oh my god i think i’ve seen that hahaha don’t worry they do it for every hockey player they think all you boys are fucking each other 

i saw an account that thought Scott Hunter and that twinky rookie on his team were in some kind of problematic age gap relationship and his boyfriend was just a coverup for it 

Shane blinks at the screen, coming to the conclusion that there are simply parts of the internet that he should probably just keep his nose out of. 

Do they do it for players who aren’t secretly and/or openly gay? Because I’m starting to feel

What’s that word you used?

Wait no I remember. 

Clocked.  

He watches her type for a moment. 

i just spit out my coffee i love you but you neeeeeed more gay friends baby

anyways yes they do it for everyone, there’s a very dedicated group who think Troy Barrett and Dallas Kent are in love 

#Trallas might even be more popular than #Hollanov or #Shayden 

Shane’s brow furrows. 

I think they might be the two straightest people on Earth. 

But hey, they’re both assholes. They deserve each other. Good for them.  

😂

Rose replies quickly. 

you are such a bitch sometimes and i love it 

not to 180 the topic but i saw the news about ilya being out for the season :( hows he doing?

Shane sighs. 

I think he’s been too tired to really process it. He sleeps a lot - his brain is still swollen and can’t handle too much. He got pretty overwhelmed when the doctor was talking about anything long term yesterday. 

He doesn’t know how much Ilya will have retained today— his memory might still choppy, or maybe he was so stressed out by that conversation that he’s blocked it out completely. 

(Or maybe it kept him up all night, worrying about the future of his career, tossing and turning, all alone in a hospital bed.)

(Shane can’t think about that.)

Rose replies. 

ugh poor muffin :( give him a big hug from me

Shane laughs. 

Will do.  

He can picture the face Ilya will make when Shane offers a hug on behalf of Rose— he still likes to play the jealousy card, even now that they’ve officially been dating for over twice as long as Shane and Rose did. 

ok i have to go - 5am call time and a 40 minute commute i think whoever decided this actually hates me

lets facetime soon <333

He puts a sad reaction on the first message and a heart reaction on the second one, then drops his phone down to finally hop in the shower. 

(He stops, one more time, and sends Hayden a contextless screenshot of the tweet about his hole being destroyed. Just for fun.)

(When he gets out of the shower, he’s got seven missed texts, made up primarily of question marks and scared emojis.)

(Dove into a dark corner of the internet this morning, he replies. People think I would top you.)

(Shane, buddy, I need you to understand how badly I DON’T need to even think about that PLEASE)

(Oh, so you hate gay people?? I thought you were an ally!)

(SHANE)

-

The sun’s not even fully up yet when one of the therapy people is back, with a way too positive attitude for this hour of the morning. 

She helps him put on a pair of sweatpants that he thinks Shane must have brought from home— they’re not a pair of his own that he recognizes, but they smell like familiar laundry detergent, so he supposes it’s just good luck that he and Shane are close enough in size to share clothes. 

"We can’t go over your head, because of the drain," she tells him next, when it’s time for a shirt, "but we’ll do a zip-up hoodie, alright?"

That’s better than a hospital gown, Ilya supposes. It’s a bonus that, when he sees it, he immediately knows it’s Shane’s. 

She drapes it behind his shoulders, then helps him thread his arms through, while his nurse manages all the wires and tubes and lines coming off of him. 

He fumbles with the zipper for a long, humiliating moment. 

"Actually, I am very warm," he says, giving up. His voice comes out a little tight, around an embarrassing lump in his throat. His eyes sting with frustration. "I leave it open. Zip later, maybe."

The therapist sees right through that excuse, obviously, but she nods anyways. 

"Alright, that’s fine. This is still big— I bet it feels nice to be in your own clothes."

And Ilya isn’t sure what possesses him to blurt, with a big, stupid smile on his face:

"My boyfriend’s clothes."

The therapist laughs. 

"Even better, hey?"

Ilya hums, nods, then adds:

"Yes. But I should not say that… is a secret, my boyfriend. We do not tell anyone."

"Of course. I met him the other day, when I asked him to bring some clothes in for you, though— your secret’s safe here."

She already knows Shane. That’s nice. 

"He’s beautiful," Ilya blurts, his usually-careful filter somehow missing today. It just feels easy to speak his mind. "You saw him?"

She laughs. 

"I did. I saw his latest Rolex ad on my way to work today, too. You snagged a very handsome man."

Ilya beams. 

"And he’s mine. I will marry him someday." He pauses. Worries he’s said too much. "For citizenship, I mean."

She smiles at him. 

"Right, of course." She’s standing up now. "I’ll let you rest until he gets here, okay? Visiting hours are just starting."

Ilya nods, satisfied with how good he’s doing in this conversation. 

"Okay. Bye-bye."

"Bye, Ilya. See you later."

He pulls the fabric of Shane’s hoodie up to his nose, once she’s out of the room. It smells perfect, just like him, carrying the faint scent of his exorbitantly expensive cologne. 

(It smells like coming home.)

-

"We started him on a different painkiller today," a nurse named Angie explains in the hallway. "His doctor overshot the dose a bit— he’s needed higher doses of everything, since he’s a big guy with a good metabolism, but this one worked a little better than expected and hit him hard, so he’s pretty loopy right now. It should fade off."

"Oh boy," Shane sighs. "That’s fun."

(About four months ago, Ilya got a couple teeth knocked out during a game in San Francisco. He’d called Shane on FaceTime from his hotel bed that night, jaw puffy and stuffed with gauze, still high out of his mind from whatever the dentist gave him.)

(Marly says… ‘get in bed, Rozy, and stay put, I come back in ten minutes’ and I say… ‘okaaaaay, goodbye, I phone my Jane now’. It’s muffled and slurred, and he looks like a chipmunk. Marly is big, dumb, ugly player on my team. You know him? He is… sitting my baby, tonight. He is my helper man, look after me for the team.)

(Ilya, I love that you thought to call me, but you should really go to sleep. It’s getting late. Shane is in Vancouver, so fortunately the same time zone, but he’d been about two minutes from going to bed himself, trying to have an early night. Get some rest. Don’t talk so much, just let your mouth heal.)

(I wish you were here. Much better than Marly to take care of me. Ilya chews idly on the gauze in his mouth. Sexier. You would be good nurse.)

"It’s honestly adorable," Angie says. "He’s been extra friendly all morning."

"As long as he’s behaving himself," Shane chuckles. "He’s doing okay, otherwise? Like, with the pressure in his head and everything?"

"He’s doing great. Everything was stable all night. There’s only little spikes when something irritates it, and they resolve super quickly. Dr. Lévesque might want to check in with you about it after rounds today."

"Sounds good." 

He manages to exhale. 

It’s okay. Things are back to being stable and on track. It could still change at any moment, get bad all over again, but… it’s fine right now. That’s what’s important. 

And that’s all he can focus on when he walks into the room and Ilya, with hearts in his eyes, all-but yells:

"Shaaaaaaane!"

(This is what matters, right here.)

-

Ilya has decided he’s having the best day ever. 

He’s wearing Shane’s clothes, and he’s wrapped up in warm blankets, and Shane keeps smiling at him, and his brain feels so light and airy. He’s happy. 

"Ilya, come on," Shane says. "Try to eat a little bit of breakfast, okay? I’ll help you."

He shakes his head, glancing at the bowl of oatmeal that’s arrived to ruin his perfect day. 

"No. This is so ugly."

"It’s good for you."

"Is not."

"Will you at least try some yogurt?" Shane starts peeling the lid off the little cup. "It’s strawberry. You like that."

Ilya groans dramatically. He doesn’t feel very hungry, is the thing, but he knows Shane won’t give this up until he tries at least a few bites of something. The yogurt looks more appetizing than the mushy oatmeal. 

"Fine. You feed me. I am your baby bird."

Shane rolls his eyes. He scoops some yogurt, though. 

"Okay, open up."

This is back to being the best day ever, because Shane’s serious face while doing something as ridiculous as spoon-feeding his boyfriend might be the funniest thing Ilya has ever seen. 

He’s giggling before the spoon even gets to his mouth, and then he’s laughing even harder at Shane’s straight-faced exasperation. 

(Straight-faced might be the only thing straight about him.)

He drops his head in his hands, unable to hold it together. 

"Ilya," Shane sighs. He’s probably trying to sound annoyed, but it comes out fond. "Just a few bites. Please."

"Is too funny," Ilya whines. "I cannot look at you."

Because the other problem is that Shane looks good. He’s wearing a backwards ball cap, which is Ilya’s weakness, and a shirt that his stylist must’ve bought, because even though it’s plain, it looks more designer than athletic wear, and it’s just not fair that he’s so hot. 

So he looks like that, and he’s trying to feed Ilya breakfast like a baby, and it’s all just too amazing and stupid and hilarious. 

Finally, Shane breaks. He drops his head forward as he starts laughing too. 

"Okay… this is kind of funny."

He sets the yogurt spoon down. 

"Shane," Ilya says, because his brain feels all floaty, and he likes the sound of his boyfriend’s name. "Shaaaaaaaane."

"God," Shane chuckles, "you’re really high."

"You’re really…" Ilya tries to chirp back, but trails off when he can’t actually find anything to say. "Fuck. You’re really… hot."

Shane laughs again, and it’s beautiful. 

"They gave you a lot of painkillers this morning," he says, after a moment. He reaches up to brush Ilya’s hair back. "How are you feeling?"

Ilya tips his head back to feel Shane’s hand more. 

"Not in pain," he replies, then giggles. "It’s killed. The pain is killed. I am alive. I win."

Shane’s face does something funny. 

"Right, okay." He’s smiling. "You feel pretty good, then?"

Ilya hums. 

"Better if you keep touching my hair. So nice."

This is still the best day ever. He never wants Shane to stop touching him like this. It’s perfect. 

His eyes drift closed, and he doesn’t really mind. Shane keeps petting him. He thinks he might start purring. 

"You can sleep," Shane says, his voice low and soothing. "That’s okay."

So Ilya does. 

It’s nice. 

-

When Dr. Lévesque pops in after rounds, Sveta has arrived for the day, and Ilya is still knocked out. 

"Hey, team," the doctor says, with a smile. He glances at Ilya. "My bad on the painkiller situation. Apparently morphine works very well on him, and it didn’t take as much as we expected for it to kick in."

Shane rubs his thumb along Ilya’s forearm. 

"He probably needs the extra nap."

"No such thing as too much rest, as this stage," Dr. Lévesque agrees. "Overall, I’m very happy with the past forty-eight hours. His pressure has been more stable, and the new drain is working— it’s putting out less and less fluid as time goes on, which is exactly what we want."

"So he’s getting better?" Sveta asks. She’s curled up in an Adidas hoodie that looks like it may have, at one point, been Ilya’s. 

"Slow and steady," Dr. Lévesque replies, "but yes. He’s definitely on the right track."

"What’s next, then?" Shane finds himself asking. "I mean— he won’t need the drain forever, right? How long does it stay in?"

"That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about today. Now that the fluid output is down, the next step is something called a clamp trial… which is exactly what it sounds like. We’ll try clamping the tube, so that nothing can drain out, and test if his brain’s plumbing is ready to manage fluid on its own again."

"So you’ll just, like—" Shane gestures to the tube— "turn it off? What if he still needs it?"

"Then we unclamp it as soon as symptoms escalate, let things drain, and give his brain some more time to heal before trying again. We’ll be watching very, very closely while the trial is in progress."

"How long is this?" Sveta asks. "A few minutes? An hour?"

"We’re gonna aim for twenty-four hours, depending how things go. After that, if it goes well, we look at removing the drain… if it goes poorly, we leave it in, and wait. There’s no rush. We’re moving at Ilya’s pace."

Shane takes a deep breath. There’s anxiety twisting in his chest, but not panic. It’s just a test. They’ll stop it if they need to. It’s not going to hurt Ilya at all. 

(He just wants it to go well so, so badly.)

"When would it start?" he asks. 

Dr. Lévesque smiles again. 

"This afternoon, once he’s awake again. We want him calm and rested, and we still want to limit stimulation, so all you’ll need to do is sit here and keep him company."

That sounds easy enough, Shane decides. 

"You’ll explain all of this to Ilya too, right?" Sveta asks. "I can help translate, but— he should hear this from you."

"Of course. I’m headed into a scheduled surgery this afternoon, so if I’m not available once he’s awake and ready, one of my senior residents will be in to talk to him and start the trial. After that, nursing will be in and out a little more than usual, but otherwise, today should look fairly normal."

Ilya stirs a little, shifting under Shane’s touch, but doesn’t quite wake up. 

(Shane can’t get over how sweet and young he looks when he’s all relaxed in sleep like this. It makes it hard to fathom how anyone in his life could’ve ever looked at him and wanted to hurt him.)

"If it goes well, when would you take out the drain?" Shane asks. 

"Ideally tomorrow, at the end of the trial— if his brain is managing fine without it, we want to get it out so he can start healing from it, and hopefully move out of ICU soon as well."

That seems like a big step, and Shane’s brain immediately starts to spiral— what if they remove the drain, then his pressure goes back up and they realize he still needs it?— but he forces himself to stop. The doctors wouldn’t do anything they’re not sure of. Dr. Lévesque isn’t the Raiders team doctor, whose job is to get players back on the ice as quickly as possible; he’s a neurosurgeon who, like he said yesterday, wants to do the safest thing for Ilya’s brain. He’s not going to be pushing too hard or too fast. 

They have to trust him. He’s been incredible so far. 

"That all sounds good," Sveta says, while Shane is taking too long to think it over. "Ilya will be very happy with this plan, I know he wants the drain out."

Shane nods along. 

"Excellent," Dr. Lévesque says. "My team will be around, then. We’ll check back with Ilya in an hour or two, to see if he’s more awake. Any other questions before I get out of your hair?"

They both shake their heads, and Dr. Lévesque steps out. 

Ilya hums softly in his sleep, a little smile tugging at his lips, like he’s dreaming of something nice. 

(It’s the cutest fucking thing Shane has ever seen.)

-

"I got a message from Cliff Marleau today," Sveta comments, a while later. "Asking how Ilyusha is doing."

"Oh," Shane replies. "That’s nice. What’d you tell him?"

She rubs her thumb against Ilya’s hand. He’s still sleeping. 

"First— how did you get my number? But he told me he asked their team doctor for an emergency contact, because he found out yesterday that Ilyusha’s season is done. The team wanted to know how he was handling that, so I said the truth— he’s been mostly sleeping, a bit confused, might not really understand yet. When he does, he will be sad, maybe angry, but he is strong. He’ll be okay."

Shane nods. 

"That sounds about right."

"Marleau says he will fly up on his day off, on Saturday. Just to visit for the day. Maybe Connors will come with him. They are good friends, very worried."

"That’s good," Shane forces out, even though the idea of anyone bursting into their little bubble of privacy and safety and comfort sounds awful. He’ll need to make himself scarce for the day, let Ilya have some time with his boys. "Ilya will like that."

"Finally—" Sveta’s face peels into a grin, at this point— "he asks me how Jane is doing, and says the Raiders WAGs want to send her a care package, because she is one of the girls. They want her number for some group chat, so they can support her through this."

Shane stares. Blinks. 

"What?"

What the fuck has Ilya told his team? He’s apparently talked about Jane enough that the guys have told their girlfriends, and those girls want her to be in their group chat. 

Like, the Metros know Lily exists, in theory, but Shane has refused to even mention her up until he needed an excuse to be gone this week— they only knew before because of Hayden announcing once that Boston Lily gets Hollzy all riled up, having caught Shane blushing at his phone in the locker room. They had no reason to think Lily was anything serious, or a real relationship. 

"It is very sweet, they’re very worried about poor Jane."

"You told him absolutely not, right?" Shane says, his voice pitching up a little. "I’m not joining a WAGs group chat. I don’t want their care package. That’s insane."

"I told him," Sveta snickers, "that I will pass this invitation on to Jane, but she is very very shy, and we know Ilya is very private about his love, so maybe she won’t join. But I said a care package would be a great idea, and they should send it to me so I can give it to her as a surprise."

Shane drops his head in his hands. 

"Svetlana."

"What? I thought we could share whatever’s in it. Maybe they’ll send some nice stuff. They have NHL-wife money— very bougie. Did you see pictures of Nathalie St-Simon’s bachelorette trip?"

"Obviously, I didn’t. Why would I have seen that?"

"Well, all the Raiders WAGs were there. You’ll probably be invited for the next one, so you should study up on what they do."

"Oh my god. This is so ridiculous."

"This is incredible. You are one of the girls, Shane Hollander."

"I want nothing to do with the girls."

"I think you will change your mind when they send you a beautiful care package."

"I definitely will not."

"So… you take this out?" he asks, reaching up to touch the drain. Shane gently stops him, grabbing his wrist. 

"Not yet," Dr. Rahman, the resident from the other day, says. "We’ll just turn it off. We’re leaving it in until at least tomorrow. Right now, we’re testing if you still need it."

Ilya blinks slowly. Sveta repeats it in Russian for him. He nods. 

"What do I do?" he asks. "This test… I have to do what?"

"Nothing," Dr. Rahman says. "Your job is to rest. All you need to do is tell someone if your head hurts, or if you feel sick."

Ilya waits for the translation, then nods again. 

"I tell Shane?"

"Exactly. Shane, or your nurse, or anyone who’s around. We’ll help you right away."

"Mm, okay," he sighs. The painkillers from this morning should’ve worn off by now, so this is just the brain injury itself making him so fatigued and confused. "And when do I go home? Out of hospital?"

Dr. Rahman smiles. 

"Not for a while yet, but this test will be a good step towards getting there." He moves to the side of the bed, where the tubing runs from Ilya’s head to the drainage chamber. He reaches for a small stopcock in the tube. "I’m going to turn this switch, and it’ll close the valve that’s been letting fluid out. That starts the trial."

Shane frowns, watching him do it. 

"That’s it?"

"That’s it," Dr. Rahman confirms. 

Ilya cranes his neck, trying to see. 

"You did it?"

"Yep. You feel okay?"

"Yes. Fine. Didn’t even notice."

"Good. I’m glad." He moves back towards the door. "If anything feels wrong, say something right away. Otherwise, just relax and rest. Sound okay?"

Ilya nods. He looks completely fine. Tired, but fine. 

"Okay."

It feels like this moment should’ve been bigger— some dramatic procedure, a room full of professionals, but it’s just… done. The test has started. 

Nothing has changed. 

That’s good, Shane has to remind himself. It’s good. 

-

Hours pass, and Ilya is fine. 

He’s tired, bored, and complaining. He adjusts the head of his bed every two minutes, just because he can. He keeps asking for jello because it’s the only thing that makes him feel better, and has sent Sveta on a mission to find him some. He wants to know when Mom and Dad are getting here with the baby pictures. 

He’s very annoyed that Shane keeps asking him if he has a headache.  

It’s just— Shane is going out of his mind with anxiety. It’s a buzz under his skin, a tension behind his teeth, a tremble in his hands. He can’t sit still. He keeps taking his hat off and flipping it from backwards to forwards and back again. 

The next time he gets up to pace, Ilya reaches for him. 

(He’s going to say he’s nauseous, or his head is pounding, and we’ll have to call the nurse, and they’ll have to end the trial, and he’s going to have this tube in his head forever and be stuck in ICU and—)

"Will you please relax?" Ilya says, grabbing his sleeve. "Nothing is happening. You are panicking for nothing."

Shane freezes, breath caught in his throat. 

"I’m not panicking." 

Ilya stares at him. Raises an eyebrow. 

"Then what is this, that you are doing? Just getting your steps in? Recording this on Strava?" He gestures between Shane’s chair and the window. "You have walked same line a hundred times."

Shane huffs. 

"I’m just—"

"Panicking?" Ilya finishes for him. 

Shane sits on the edge of his chair. 

"No. I’m not."

(He absolutely is.)

Ilya glances over at the monitors beside him. 

"Look— everything is good. I am fine. Pressure is fine." He turns back to Shane. "I don’t feel sick. I am in only normal amount of head-smashed-with-puck pain, not too-much-pressure pain. I can feel the difference."

The fact that he’s in pain at all has Shane wanting to call someone, get him something stronger like this morning— but that’s not safe right now. A heavy painkiller might mask the pain of his pressure going back up. He’s stuck with Tylenol and Advil and a normal amount of pain. 

"If my brain is about to explode," Ilya continues, dryly, "I tell you. I promise."

Shane huffs. Ilya’s teasing usually helps him settle, but it’s kind of just annoying him right now. 

"That’s not how it works."

"Oh, you are doctor now?" 

"I know brains don’t explode, Ilya."

"Ah, so we are fine, then! My brain will stay in one piece, and you can relax. Easy."

"Ilya."

"Shane."

Shane folds his arms over his chest. 

"I’m allowed to be worried. We’re in intensive care right now. This is still really serious."

He’s not trying to be difficult. He knows it’s a good thing that Ilya is so calm, that he’s able to laugh and joke and tease… but it’s just making him even more anxious. It’s not helping the way it should. Everything feels wrong. 

"I know it is serious," Ilya grumbles. "Is my brain. Tube is in my head."

"Then take it seriously," Shane snaps, harsher than he means to. "Stop telling me not to worry. Less than a week ago, I thought I watched you die on the ice— I had to sit there on the bench while they cleaned up your blood, and act like I wasn’t terrified. And now every time I think you’re gonna be okay, something goes wrong again— you’ve had two brain surgeries this week, and you’re acting like I’m not allowed to be scared."

He regrets his tone immediately. 

(Stress and big emotions are hard on Ilya’s brain. He doesn’t need Shane freaking out at him. This is only hurting him.)

Ilya looks at him, then does that thing where instead of speaking his mind, he just turns his head away and exhales. He’s impossible to read, when he gets like that. 

"Say it," Shane says, frustrated. "Whatever you’re thinking. Please."

Ilya’s jaw works. He’s staring out the window. 

"I am thinking I don’t know English right now for what is in my head, and I am trying not to say something that will not come out right."

I’m trying not to say something mean, Shane infers from that. I’m trying not to snap at you because you’re driving me insane right now. You’re being so annoying.  

Shane stands up, willing his face into careful blankness.

"Okay. Yeah. That’s fine." He pauses. He’s shaking. He needs to move, needs desperately to keep pacing, but it’s only going to make Ilya more frustrated and make the tension in this room even thicker and send the pressure in his brain up. "I’m gonna go for a walk. I’ll be back soon."

This gets Ilya to look up at him, the corners of his mouth tugging down. 

"What? Why? No— I’m not— I don’t want you to leave."

"The pacing was bothering you," Shane explains, voice flat, "but I actually can’t stop, so I’m gonna go shake it off for a bit. I’m not leaving… just stepping out."

Ilya frowns harder. 

"No, is not bothering me. I was just—"

"You asked me to stop," Shane cuts him off. "It was bugging you. That’s okay, I just— I can’t stop it right now, so I’m gonna do it somewhere else. I need a minute."

It’s an itch under his skin. His body needs to move, now. He shakes his hands out to dispel some energy, then starts towards the door. 

"Shane," Ilya says. "Don’t go."

But Shane goes, because at this point it’s not just about the pacing anymore; if he stays in this room a minute longer, he’s either going to have a full-on panic attack or simply burst into overwhelmed tears. Neither of those options would be any good for Ilya’s pressure levels. 

"I’m sorry." He’s halfway out the door. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "I’ll be right back. I’m really sorry."

-

Ilya watches the empty doorway for too long, like staring at it will magically bring Shane back. 

He’s not even sure what just happened. 

He thought he was in the process of talking some sense into Shane and helping him calm down— a well-placed sarcastic remark or teasing comment always manages to break through his spiralling and bring him back to Earth. 

But suddenly he was just escalating more, and Ilya’s brain was moving so slowly that he couldn’t find the English words for I’m sorry for laughing off something that’s clearly more serious than I thought, I don’t want to upset you, please tell me how to help. Whatever he did say— he can’t even remember now— was clearly wrong, and now he’s alone. 

Fuck. 

This is just like that stupid tuna melt mistake all over again. 

(Hopefully it doesn’t result in going months without talking and Shane dating a movie star again.)

Ilya’s eyes are stinging, and he wipes at them a little too hard, his whole body tense with frustration. It hurts his head, a dull throb in his temples. 

A monitor chirps beside him. 

There’s a nurse in the room right away. 

"Hey, Ilya," she says, very softly. "Let’s get you lying down, okay? What’s going on?"

He sniffles, leans back against his pillows. 

"I made Shane upset, and my brain does not like this very much, I think."

She’s adjusting the head of the bed while watching the monitor. 

"Your pressure is up a little, but still in a safe range. We’re gonna get it back down— just stay nice and still for me, honey. How does your head feel?"

He goes to shrug, but stops himself. Stay still. 

"Tight. Full. Hurts a bit, but not too horrible."

"Are you feeling nauseous?"

"No. Maybe tiny bit, but not really."

"Any changes in your vision? Dizziness?"

He shakes his head briefly, then regrets it when the pain gets worse. 

"No."

She’s dimming the lights, closing the blinds, and pulling the door to the hallway shut. 

"Okay. Quiet and dark for a minute, let’s try to let it settle. Bring your chin up just a bit, and then keep your head still."

He wants Shane here. This is exactly what Shane was so worried about, and Ilya tried to laugh it off and didn’t listen to him, and now the bad thing is happening, and he wants to cry. 

Bad things happen to Ilya Rozanov. They don’t stay good for long. It’s exactly like Shane said— every time I think you’re gonna be okay, something goes wrong again. Something is going wrong, and Shane was right, and Ilya ruined everything, like he always does.

"Hey, sweetheart, let’s try to calm down, okay?" the nurse is saying, really low and gentle. She’s older than the other nurses he’s had, and she talks in that soothing voice that only a mother can. "Breathe through it. I know this is scary. Your brain needs you to slow down."

He squeezes his eyes shut. Tears slip out. 

"I don’t like this," he mumbles. 

"I know," she sighs. "I know, dear. Slow, deep breaths, alright?"

He tries to take a breath, but it comes out all shuddery and wet. 

"Sorry," he whispers. "I don’t— I thought I was okay."

"You are okay. Just try to breathe and relax." She rubs his arm gently. "If the pressure stays high, your doctor will come open up the drain, but we’ll try to let your brain handle this on its own first. There’s no problem right now. We’ll fix it."

Ilya swallows a lump in his throat. 

"I want Shane to come back. I made him mad at me."

"We can talk about it after we get your body calm. Stress is hard for your brain right now. Breathe in through your nose, really slow."

He obeys. 

"Hold it."

He closes his eyes. It feels like time has stopped. 

"Now let it out."

The exhale is shaky, but not as bad as before. 

"Really good, Ilya. Let’s try that again."

With another careful breath, the ache in his temples lessens. The tightness starts to unwind.

He can’t see the monitor, but it stops chirping. 

"He thinks I don’t care," Ilya mumbles, suddenly tired. A tear runs into his hairline, dripping sideways down his face while he’s lying down. "I messed it all up."

"I don’t think that’s true," she tells him. "I think you boys will be just fine. Why don’t you rest a little until he comes back?"

Ilya sighs, glancing up at her. 

"I am so tired of resting."

All he does now is nap, complain, and mess things up— he ruined Christmas, and now he’s ruined the nice day he was having with Shane. 

"I know. It’s what your brain needs right now, though."

"My brain is very demanding."

"Brains tend to be that way… especially in a place like this." She adjusts his blankets, like she’s tucking in a little child. "Your numbers look much better already. Keep them that way for me, alright? Close your eyes and relax"

Ilya sniffles and nods. 

"If you see Shane, you will tell him to come back?"

"Yes, honey. I can do that for you."

"Okay," he whispers. "I will rest."

He doesn’t sleep, not quite tired enough for that, but he lets the quiet of the room bring him down. 

He’s too tired to worry, so he simply floats. He zones out, not really thinking, and forces himself to let time pass. 

-

Shane doesn’t just pace. 

He’s found an empty hallway, down near the parking garage, and everything explodes out of him at once. 

He paces, he jumps up and down, he flaps his hands, he shakes his head. There’s electricity buzzing under his skin, and he needs it out. He tries not to consider the possibility of someone walking in— just heading to their car and finding Shane fucking Hollander having some kind of bizarre meltdown— but he’s too caught up in the moment to stop himself.

(He hates the hand flapping. It helps so much, but it looks so weird. The first time a kid at school ever called him the R-word was because he was upset and flapping his hands.)

(Shane used one of those hands to punch him in the mouth, and got sent home for the rest of the day. No one dared call him that again… at least not to his face.)

"He’s okay," he whispers to himself, in a mantra, hands moving in rhythm with it, walking up and down the empty hallway. "He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay."

Ilya was right. Shane is panicking over nothing. Ilya’s pressure has stayed perfectly level, and they have no reason to expect it to do anything other than continue like that. Today has been going smoothly. 

But he can’t erase that fear. He keeps seeing it— Ilya going blank, in too much pain to respond, before they took him for the drain replacement. And before that, Ilya on the stretcher on the ice, bleeding and confused and terrified. He’s never going to forget those images. He’s never going to be able to step onto a rink without remembering the way Ilya collapsed. 

"Fuck," he whispers. "Okay. You need to calm down."

Mom and Dad will be here soon, bringing baby pictures for Ilya to look at, and Sveta only left to go get Ilya snacks in the cafeteria, so she should be back in the room any minute. 

Shane needs to go back, tell Ilya he’s sorry, and chill the fuck out. 

The buzzing under his skin crests again, inching its way up the back of his neck. It’s building and building, almost like it’s thickening. It’s moving from electricity to full-on static, dulling everything else around him. 

He tries flapping his hands again, harder now— wrists loose, fingers flicking— while he paces a little faster and shakes his head. It’s not doing anything to help. The static is going to suffocate him. 

The events of the week are stacking up in his head like cars in a highway pileup. 

The slapshot. The blood.
Being pushed back to his bench.
The first shock of seeing Ilya in ICU.
The surgeries.
The lying— to his coach, to his team, to Ilya’s team, to the world.
His panic attack the other night.
Coming out to his best friend.
Snapping at Ilya just now. 

The way all of his routines and plans— the things that keep him safe, and give him structure, and keep him from getting like this— have been flipped upside down on him. 

This isn’t even a normal panic attack, he realizes, because it’s not like he’s scared, and he can breathe just fine. He knows how to handle a panic attack, how to get back to earth when his mind is freaking out; he can box-breathe and quiet the loud thoughts and slow himself down, like the sport psychologist in high school showed him.

This, though— this is physical. He can feel every nerve in his body pulsating with a terrible feeling of wrongness. Instead of his thoughts racing and spiralling, they’re sort of doing the opposite, getting muted and thinned out by the static in his body that he’s unable to ignore. 

This is something else entirely. 

(This is the feeling of being five years old, about to start screaming and crying on the floor of a shopping mall, because his shoes are too tight and his jacket is itchy and Mom and Dad keep dragging him from store to store, where the lights make horrible humming noises and everything smells a bit weird. This is every sensation being too much, driving his brain into some kind of emergency shutdown mode.)

The tag on his shirt is slicing into the back of his neck, and the fluorescent lights above him are too fucking loud. 

He drops into a crouch, back against the wall, and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. He’s trying to remember what makes this feeling better, what helped when this overload of his senses used to send him spiralling as a kid, but he can’t. 

(In a flash, he remembers those bruises he always had on his forearms, in the shape of his own little teeth. That helped.)

(But that’s not how an adult deals with things.)

He’s biting down on his knuckles before he can stop himself. 

Not, like, hard enough to break skin or anything. Probably not even enough to bruise. Just enough for the pain to draw his full attention and quiet everything else. 

The buzzing stutters a little, interrupted by the sharp, pointed feeling. He did this during his panic attack the other night, and it helped then, too.

(This is ridiculous and stupid, but it’s working.)

He bites again, a little harder. His teeth grind against bone and tendon— focused and firm. He exhales as he does so, and something in him relaxes by a fraction.

The static recedes an inch.

"Okay," he whispers, a little shaky. His voice sounds far away. "Okay."

He tries something else— one he uses when the nerves before a game are threatening to break him. He curls his hand into a fist and pounds it sharply onto his thigh a couple of times.

When he does it before stepping onto the ice, he can play it off like he’s just trying to keep his muscles warm, or massaging out a knot. He can do it on the bench, in the locker room, and it doesn’t look too out of place.

Here, the dull, singular pain slices through the static.

He hits again.

Again. 

It works. Breaks the buzzing down to a manageable level.

"Fuck."

The lights are still humming, and his tag is still itchy, and Ilya is probably still mad at him… but it’s not burrowing under his skin anymore. He’s back.

He gives his knuckles one more firm bite for good measure, and everything clears. 

He takes a deep breath. He’s not sure at what point he closed his eyes, but he opens them now. 

His hand really fucking hurts. His thigh aches. 

But he’s okay. 

He stands up, shakes it off, and rubs his hands over his face once. He takes his hat off, ruffles his hair, then puts it back on. He walks back to the elevator, and tries to figure out what he’ll say to Ilya. 

-

Sveta comes back first, carrying a little cup of red jelly with a dollop of whipped cream on top. 

Ilya is too sad to even touch it. 

She stares at him for a moment. 

"What’s wrong with you?" she asks, in Russian. 

"Nothing," he lies. He’s still laid almost flat in bed, staring at the ceiling in his dimly-lit room, blankets up to his chin. 

She hums. 

He sighs. 

"Fine. Everything. I am a big, stupid idiot who ruins everything by opening his big stupid mouth."

A pause. 

"That’s very dramatic," she comments. "Where did Shane go?"

He glances over at her, giving a look that he hopes says what do you think I’m so upset about? 

"Ah," she says. "I see."

It’s quiet again. 

"He was so stressed," Ilya finally says. It spills out of him now that he can just say it in Russian instead of translate it. "And I wanted to help him calm down— I was trying to joke and, like, cheer him up, but that just made him upset that I wasn’t taking him seriously. He said that I was acting like he’s wrong be worried, and I tried to explain I didn’t mean that, but my English was just… not there. He said— well, I had told him to stop pacing back and forth, but I wasn’t being serious, but then he said he was going to go pace somewhere else if it was bothering me so much. I tried to tell him not to go, but he was so sad, and— he left. He’s mad at me. I’m so stupid."

Sveta sighs. 

"Ilyushka. You’re being hard on yourself. It sounds like he just needed a minute. Did he say he was mad at you?"

"No, but— you don’t know him. He’s so quiet. He would never say he’s mad. He just goes all… I don’t know… flat. His face goes blank, and he leaves."

"This has happened before?"

"Once. I said something very stupid, and he shut down and just walked away… and then started dating Rose Fucking Landry the next week. I am so fucked."

"Well, he’s not going to do that," she says. "He’s in love with you. He’ll be back soon."

Ilya hums. 

He hopes she’s right. 

-

She is, of course. 

Ilya has no sense of how long it’s been— time feels very loose and inconsistent and confusing lately— but he doesn’t think Shane has been gone for a terribly long time. 

He looks a little pale, hesitating in the doorway with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his jaw tight. Shaken up, maybe, but okay. His eyes aren’t puffy or red, so he either hasn’t been crying or has done a very good job of composing himself. 

"Hey," he says. 

Sveta stands up immediately, headed for the door. 

"I’ll let you two talk."

Ilya swallows the lump in his throat that’s been lingering since Shane first left. The relief of seeing him here again is almost dizzying.

"I’m sorry," Ilya blurts, when it takes a second too long for Shane to move into the room. 

Shane’s brow pinches a little. He finally moves closer, but doesn’t relax a fraction of the tension in his body. 

"What? No. I’m sorry. It was— it was out of line for me to snap at you like that. You were right… I was freaking out over nothing."

Ilya might choke on the guilt. 

"Shane, no. I should not have said that. It was not fair that I was making jokes when you were scared. It was not nothing. I was an asshole."

Shane shakes his head. 

"It’s fine." It sounds stilted and wrong. His face doesn’t move. "I’m fine."

Ilya studies him more closely. 

His hands are still in his pockets. He’s not fidgeting or moving, and he hasn’t sat down. His face is blank. 

"You do not look fine."

Shane’s eyes haven’t met Ilya’s yet. He doesn’t make a lot of eye contact, and Ilya knows this about him, but now he won’t even keep his gaze on Ilya’s face. They keep darting away. 

"I am," he insists. 

His jaw is locked. His shoulders are tense. He’s clearly trying to look like he’s okay, but he’s not. He’s putting on a brave face for Ilya’s sake. 

Ilya reaches for him. He needs to touch him, squeeze his hand, know that he’s really there. 

Shane finally takes his hand out of his pocket to meet Ilya’s fingers. 

Ilya’s stomach drops. 

"What is this? What happened?"

There are red marks on Shane’s knuckles, making a dark, obvious, painful-looking crescent on his tan skin. They’re not deep, they don’t break the surface, but— they’re distinct. 

Teeth marks. 

"It’s nothing," Shane immediately says, trying to pull his hand away. "Don’t—"

"Shane," Ilya breathes, not letting go, cradling his fingers in both of his own hands. "What? Why?"

Shane looks profoundly uncomfortable, his cheeks flushing. Ilya feels bad for pushing, but he needs to know. He needs to understand. 

"I’m sorry," Shane says, instead of explaining. 

"Sorry for what?" Ilya says, as gently as he possibly can, inspecting Shane’s hand. "You did this?"

Shane’s expression stays flat. 

"No, some freak walked up and bit me," he huffs. "Yes, I did it. I know it’s fucking weird, okay? Don’t make it a thing. I just— I got overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed," Ilya echoes. "Like— panic attack?"

Shane nods once. He still won’t look at Ilya.

Ilya stares at the injury. 

"So you… bite?"

It takes a moment for Shane to answer. 

"Yeah." He pauses. Swallows. "Not usually. Just— it helps. Sometimes."

Slowly, Ilya nods. He brushes a finger carefully over the marks, keeping his touch feather-light. 

Maybe it’s his turn to worry. He hasn’t thought about how stressed Shane must be— not only about Ilya’s health, but dealing with both of their teams, trying to protect their privacy, missing practices and games to be here, and keeping his usual level head through it all. His routine is all thrown off, all of his plans have changed… and he keeps showing up here with a smile, spending hours at Ilya’s side, putting his entire life on hold for this. 

He’s so stressed that he’s biting himself to cope… and Ilya is sitting here like the biggest asshole in the world, telling him to just stop worrying, as if that’s even possible. 

"Hey," Shane is saying, suddenly alarmed, his neutral expression finally breaking into something concerned. "Woah… Ilya, baby, what’s happening?"

Ilya realizes his own face has crumpled, and he’s started to cry.

He cries very easily these days. Probably his brain’s fault. 

"Sorry," he whispers, voice cracking. "Shane, I am so sorry. I was not— I was not thinking when I said those things before."

Shane blinks. 

"I know." He freezes for a second, visibly unsure of what to do, then uses his injured hand to cup Ilya’s face. "Hey… I know. I wasn’t thinking either. We’re both just stressed and tired. It’s okay."

Ilya’s breath hitches. 

"I’m so sorry."

Shane’s thumb rubs gently back and forth on Ilya’s cheekbone, just above the feeding tube. His eyes flash to the monitors, his brow furrows, and then he finally meets Ilya’s gaze. 

"You’re okay." He sounds so soft. "Take some deep breaths, really slow. We’ve both apologized. We’re okay now. Let’s keep your pressure down."

Ilya breathes in and out. Shane matches it. 

"You’re good," Shane continues. "Okay? No more sorry. I’m right here. I’m gonna keep worrying about you, and you’re gonna keep giving me a hard time about it, and we’re gonna be fine."

Ilya nods. He blinks hard, willing the tears to stop. 

"Okay," he mumbles. He wants Shane to keep holding his face like this, so he reaches up and lays a hand over Shane’s. "I’m okay. You are too?"

"Yeah," Shane says, his eyes a little shiny. "I’m okay."

Ilya doesn’t believe him at all. 

(Yuna has taken Shane away to some nearby restaurant— mostly to make sure he eats, according to David, but also to go over rescheduling some brand deals and photoshoots and whatnot. It’s just another thing to stress him, remembering all of that, and it makes Ilya feel a little sick.)

(Sveta is doing as Sveta does, which is disappearing to go meet someone for a business meeting over dinner. Ilya does not know where she meets these business people, somehow having connections in every city. She’s an enigma, and he occasionally wonders if she has secret connections to the Bratva.)

David is sitting here, though, explaining the backstory of every photo, and steadying Ilya’s shaky arm as he slowly feeds himself small bites. 

"Oh, here we go," David says, as Ilya flips the pile to the next photo. "There’s our guy on day one— all three pounds of him."

Ilya’s jaw drops. 

"This is Shane?"

He’s looking at the tiniest baby he’s ever seen, who might have him beat in a competition of how many tubes and wires can you attach to one body. You can barely see his little face, and his torso is swallowed up by a diaper that looks ridiculously huge on him. His feet and hands are so small.

"Sure is," David says. "He was almost two months premature— he hadn’t really figured out breathing and eating on his own yet, so we spent a while in the NICU. I thought he looked like a little alien."

Ilya laughs softly. 

"A bit, yes."

He brushes a finger over the picture. It stirs something, deep in his chest, the thought of sweet Shane fighting for his life on his very first day on Earth. He’s so strong. He always has been, apparently. 

"He was not sick, or anything?" Ilya asks. "Just small?"

"Just small," David agrees. "He was a healthy little guy for being born so early. We brought him home eventually, and he started growing and catching up in no time."

(Ilya remembers Mama complaining once that he was a big baby, a very hard birth for her petite frame. She said she knew he’d grow up tall and strong, because he was born that way already.)

"He is a big boy now, yes?" Ilya says, smiling down at the photo. "Very tall, very strong. He must make you so proud."

David laughs quietly. 

"Every damn day."

Ilya moves to the next picture, but sets that one aside, out of the pile. He wants to keep it forever. 

The next one is Shane several years older, probably five or six, grinning wide. He’s wearing a Hockey Canada t-shirt, and holding up what must be a brand new helmet. 

"His birthday party was hockey-themed that year," David comments. He pauses. "Just like every year. I even tried convincing him to switch it up a couple times— he was really into monster trucks for a while, but not enough to break the hockey spell."

Ilya chuckles, still staring at the photo. 

He notices, on Shane’s forearms, a spattering of little bruises. His stomach drops. 

(His first thought is one hardwired into him from growing up around boys who had fathers much like his own. Someone is hurting him at home. But then he remembers that he knows David and Yuna, and that they would never, ever do that. He feels horrible for even considering it.)

"His arms," he says, before he can stop himself. He traces a finger over the image. "What happened?"

David’s gaze follows Ilya’s finger. He’s quiet for a second, taking it in. 

"Oh. Right." He sighs softly. "That was… well, kindergarten was a rough year for Shane. He had a lot of big meltdowns. He’d bite himself, sometimes, if he was really escalated."

Ilya looks up sharply. 

"Bite himself?"

He pictures Shane’s hand, from earlier. 

I got overwhelmed. It helps. Sometimes. 

"Biting, hitting," David continues, "I think he was doing anything he could to feel in control, even if it meant hurting himself. He’d just get so overwhelmed."

There’s that word again. Ilya feels sick. 

"Overwhelmed how?"

David shrugs. 

"Lights. Noise. Crowds. Stress. Changes in his schedule." He pauses. "We couldn’t figure it out at first, but we finally got him diagnosed not long after this photo."

Ilya frowns. 

"Diagnosed," he echoes. 

"With autism," David says, like it’s an obvious conclusion. "Or, they were calling it Asperger’s, back then, but things finally made a lot more sense, you know?"

Ilya’s brain stalls for a long moment. 

(It’s the same word in Russian— аутизм— but that’s not Shane. Not the way Ilya understands it. He doesn’t know much about it, but— he doesn’t think that word could possibly apply.)

"He hasn’t told you, has he?" David sighs, wincing a little. "Shoot, of course he hasn’t. We don’t really talk about it, I don’t think he even thinks about it. He masks it pretty well. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it behind his back."

Ilya shakes his head slowly. 

(He really only heard that word once, growing up. Mama was on the phone with her sister, talking about her friend’s son. He can’t speak, he screams all the time, he hurts himself and his mother. He’ll never be able to learn. They’ll need to send him somewhere that can handle him. Ilya had asked, later, what the word meant, and Mama had explained, with sadness in her voice, that some children’s brains are not made correctly.)

Shane’s brain is perfect. They can’t possibly be talking about the same thing. 

David’s expression softens.

"It doesn’t mean slower," he explains, very gently, "or that anything’s wrong. I’m not sure what you heard about it growing up— I don’t imagine Russia in the nineties was the kind of place where people were talking about it very openly. It really just means that Shane’s nervous system works a little differently. His brain processes input in its own way. Socializing takes more effort. Things cost him more energy. He has to work really hard to look… typical."

Ilya nods. He looks at the photo again, takes in the big smile on Shane’s face.

(His heart breaks a little, to imagine that maybe the boy his mother was talking about was actually as smart and incredible as Shane, but no one understood that he was just overwhelmed and needed help.)

"In Russia, if you are different," Ilya starts, somewhat cautious, "you do not talk about it. You learn to hide it very early. If you cannot… people do not treat you well."

He thinks of growing up in his father’s house, where nothing but obedience and perfect order would be tolerated. Hiding was survival. Hiding emotions, hiding opinions, hiding everything. Having no personality beyond yes, sir.

"Shane learned that pretty early, too," David says.

Ilya stares at the photo even longer: a happy little boy, covered in bruises that he gave himself when he was too distressed to control it. A little boy who would grow up to be the best in the world at what he does, who would still sneak away to bite himself when the world became too much. 

He learned to hide.

Not in the same way Ilya did, and not for the same reasons, but… it’s something they have in common. 

"He still bites," Ilya blurts. "He did, today. I saw the mark on his hand. I was very worried."

David’s expression shifts. He looks a bit alarmed. 

"He did?"

Ilya nods, immediately feeling terrible for bringing it up. They shouldn’t be talking about Shane like this when he isn’t here. 

"We had a small argument, a very stupid one. He went for a walk, and he came back, and— it was here." Ilya outlines the shape of it on his own knuckles. "Not very deep, but enough to mark. He did not want me to see, told me not to stress, but it scared me."

David exhales. Nods. 

"Okay. That’s— yeah. I’m not shocked. He’s having a tough week. He’s been really on edge." 

Ilya swallows thickly. 

"He said he got overwhelmed." He pauses. "Maybe like when he was young?"

"Probably," David agrees. He sighs. "It’s been building up. He’s been so stressed."

Ilya rubs at his own arm. 

"Is my fault. If I did not have stupid injury—"

"No. Don’t do that. This is a shitty situation that’s been hard on both of you."

"I was mad at him for worrying too much," Ilya huffs. "I was so stupid. Of course he worries. And then I make him feel bad for it, and he— hurts himself."

"Ilya," David sighs. "I guarantee a little argument wasn’t the only reason he did it. If he got to the point of hurting himself, there was more going on. He really can’t control it, when he gets into a headspace like that. You can’t hold it against yourself."

Ilya sighs. 

He looks again at the picture of day-old Shane, with all the medical equipment around him, already having to work so hard. He looks at the one of kindergarten Shane and his new helmet, so visibly happy, even during what David called a rough year. 

Shane is impossibly strong. He’ll be okay. And Ilya understands it better now, so he’ll be right here to help. 

He flips to the next photo in the stack. 

He eats another bite of jelly. 

He feels a little better. 

-

Shane stares at his dad for a moment, trying to be sure he’s heard him right. 

"You told him what!?"

They’re in a quiet corner outside the ICU, he just spent two hours choking down dinner and going through a spreadsheet of media commitments and sponsorships that need to be rearranged, and all he wanted was to come back and hold Ilya’s hand again and not have to think. 

Dad makes a face very reminiscent of the I forgot my charger moment, six months ago. 

"Just that you’re autistic," he says. "I really didn’t think it would be a big deal, Shane. He was asking about it, because of one of the pictures, and— it came up."

Shane sputters for a moment, speechless. 

"Autistic," he finally states, disbelieving. 

"Yeah."

"I’m fucking not," Shane snaps. "Why would you— that’s not what it is. I have Asperger’s, it’s not—"

The hot flush of humiliation is climbing up his neck. He can’t fucking believe this.

"It’s the same thing," Dad says, like that’s something Shane should know. "It’s all under the same umbrella. Asperger’s isn’t really a word people use anymore, it’s just part of the spectrum."

Shane gapes for a moment. 

"What people? Who are you even talking to about this?" He’s being louder than he should. "You couldn’t talk to me about it for, like, twenty fucking years, and now you’re just— this autism expert, or whatever, going around telling everyone I have it?"

"Not everyone," Dad says, frowning. "One person. Your boyfriend. And I’m not an expert, I’m just— I saw a headline a few years ago that the terminology had changed. I looked into it a little, obviously."

"Obviously," Shane bites. "Sure. Fucking whatever. You are unbelievable."

"Shane. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up behind your back, but I honestly didn’t think you’d mind. Ilya was very sweet about it."

Shane’s breath hitches. He’s so angry, he doesn’t even know where to put the feeling. It’s not just the embarrassment of the conversation happening behind his back, but something deeper. Something older. 

"You told me I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone," he finally states, flat, with a humourless laugh. "You and Mom sat me down and said it would be better if people didn’t know, that the label would just get in the way."

Dad takes a breath. He looks guilty, now. 

"It probably would’ve gotten in the way."

Shane rubs a hand over his face. 

"Well, what was I supposed to do with that? Just— pretend it doesn’t exist? I’ve spent my whole life trying to forget about that stupid label, and then you go and— and ruin everything! Why are you allowed to tell people, and I’m not?"

"Shane," Dad sighs. 

"No," Shane cuts him off. It feels like the hallway is closing in around him. "Dad, I haven’t told anyone. Ever. Because you said not to. You don’t get to just change the rules out of nowhere."

Dad’s mouth opens and closes. 

"You didn’t even tell me what Asperger’s meant. I don’t know anything about it. I thought it was something you have as a kid, and then grow out of. I didn’t even know they changed the name. I didn’t know I was—" he chokes a little on the word— "autistic."

Something in Dad’s face softens. 

"It’s not a bad word."

Shane groans, frustrated. He rubs his eyes. 

"I don’t care, okay? Whatever word it is, I don’t want it. I don’t want a label. I can’t believe you fucking told him."

It’s quiet for a moment. 

"I’m sorry," Dad repeats. "I am."

"What did he say? When you told him?"

The hallway feels smaller, shrinking in on itself more and more every second that it takes Dad to decide what to say. 

"He was curious." A pause. "He said they have the same word in Russian, but he didn’t have a lot of context for it— he wanted to know if he was translating it right. I told him… your nervous system works a little differently, and that’s not a bad thing. You have to work a little harder. Sometimes you get overwhelmed." Dad pauses again. "He said he saw a bite mark on your hand earlier, and that he was worried about it… I think having some more context helped him understand it. He’s just glad to know more about you. He loves you a lot."

Shane swallows. He feels a little sick. 

He looks down at his knuckles— the mark is almost completely faded, except for a couple small indents. 

Ilya loves you a lot. He was worried. 

"It’s not fair that you told him without asking me."

"I know," Dad sighs. "I’m sorry."

"And I don’t like being labelled. I don’t want you to call me that."

"Okay. I understand."

Shane takes a deep breath. 

"Mom is in the car, finishing some work on her laptop. You guys should go home."

I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t even want to look at you. I want to get you a hotel room for tonight so that you’re not in my house. 

"Alright." Dad starts to button up his jacket. "We’ll go. I’ll see you later. I love you."

Shane can’t even force a smile. 

"See you."

And he walks back into the ICU with no idea what to expect. 

-

Shane looks even more tense and rattled than before, when he comes back. 

Ilya doesn’t know what to say— doesn’t know what he and David might’ve talked about, doesn’t want to put his foot in it yet again and make things worse— so he just waits as Shane takes his coat off and hangs it by the door. 

"I don’t want to talk about it," Shane finally says. His hands are flexing at his sides, and he’s staring somewhere past Ilya’s face. There’s no new bite marks. "The whole— what my dad told you."

Ilya nods. 

"Okay."

A pause. 

"I think I’m really mad at him. I need some time to figure it out."

Ilya’s heart feels like it’s in a puddle on the floor. It’s hard to see Shane so sad. 

"Makes sense," he says. 

Shane sits down on the edge of the bed, careful of all the equipment and lines. He doesn’t touch Ilya yet. 

"I liked seeing all your pictures," Ilya says, after a moment. He picks up one of three year-old Shane running through a sprinkler on a summer day, soaking wet, with pure elation on his face. He’s got running shoes on with his swim trunks, because he hated the feeling of wet grass on his feet. "This is my favourite. You look so happy."

Shane looks down at it. For a moment, a whisper of a smile pulls at his lips, but it quickly disappears. 

"I want to cut it smaller and keep in my phone case, I think," Ilya continues. "Hidden, but still there. So I can have something of you all the time."

Shane exhales. His shoulders get a tiny fraction less tense. 

"Can I just sit with you for a while and not talk?" he asks. "I need to shut my brain off."

It’s blunt and to the point, and perfectly Shane. 

"Of course," Ilya says, immediately. He scoots over carefully, as much as he can, and pats the mattress beside him. "Here. Come."

He’s half expecting Shane to turn him down— to say something about outside clothes in the bed, or getting in trouble from the nurse— but after a moment’s hesitation, Shane simply nods. He moves himself closer and tucks into Ilya’s side, swinging his legs up onto the mattress. 

He rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder, intertwines their hands, and stares up at the ceiling. 

His breathing is shallow. The tension radiating off of him is palpable. He’s holding Ilya’s hand like a lifeline, carefully rubbing his thumb back and forth, repetitive and grounding. 

Without asking, Ilya reaches up with his free hand and turns off the light above his bed, dimming the room. Everything feels a little softer. 

They sit. 

Gradually, Shane unwinds, bit by bit. The tightness in his jaw eases, his shoulders drop, his breathing slows down and deepens. 

Ilya squeezes his hand silently. 

Shane squeezes back. 

Finally:

"How’s your head?"

Shane’s voice is quiet, but it’s there. 

"Good," Ilya replies, matching his volume. "Behaving. Nothing bad. Nurse is happy."

Shane nods. Hums. 

They go back to silence. 

Ilya breaks it next. 

"You had a nice dinner with your mom?"

"Yeah."

No elaboration. Ilya hadn’t expected any. 

After a minute, he speaks again. 

"Your dad did not mean to hurt you. He… explained me things, and spoke very, very kindly about you. Is my fault for asking so many questions."

Shane sighs. 

He’s quiet for a while. 

"It’s not your fault. I’m not mad that you found out." He rubs Ilya’s knuckles, like he’s seeking comfort through the pressure. "I’m mad that he’s never talked to me about it. I’m mad that I spent my whole life thinking I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone, and then he went ahead and did it. That hurt."

Ilya lets out a breath. 

"That is not very fair. I’m sorry."

Shane nods. 

"Yeah. Not fair." He clenches his jaw for a moment. "Does it change anything? With us? Now that you know?"

Ilya is quick to shake his head, though the movement hurts a little. 

"No. Not even a tiny bit. You are the same person as you are before I find out anything, yes? I love you. This can never change."

Shane’s thumb starts moving again. 

"Okay. I love you, too."

They go back to silence. 

Nothing is really fixed. Shane is probably still angry at his father. Ilya can see why. 

But he knows they’ll be okay. They’ll talk it out. They’re Hollanders. 

Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand again, and feels something a bit like peace. 

-

His parents give him space when he gets home. 

He goes downstairs, runs a quick 5K on the treadmill, then heads up to his room. They’re already in the guest room with the door closed. 

He takes a very, very long shower, and realizes a massive bruise is blossoming on his thigh from his freakout earlier. He does all eight steps of his skincare routine. He lies down in bed and wishes Ilya was beside him. 

He’s okay. He’s tired enough that sleep comes quickly. He’ll probably feel better in the morning. 

-

He wakes up at something more like his usual time, and powers through a long plyometric HIIT circuit in the gym. 

(He doesn’t look over at the fake rink yet. He can’t.)

There’s a smoothie on the counter when he emerges from the basement, freshly made, next to a post-it note with a heart drawn on it. The corner of the paper is wet from the condensation dripping down the glass.

The house is quiet, apart from the sound of him still catching his breath. When he peeks outside, Mom and Dad’s vehicle is gone, leaving tracks in the snow going down the driveway. They must’ve just left. 

He sits on the couch, drinks his smoothie, ices the bruise on his leg, and then shoots Dad a text. 

Thanks for breakfast. I love you. 

He gets on with the rest of his morning routine, and then drives to the hospital.

-

"Ilya had a great night," today’s nurse tells him. Shane has seen her around the unit before, but it’s her first day assigned to Ilya. "Everything’s going really well with the clamp trial. He slept for a good seven hours straight, apart from neuro checks. He’s working on breakfast now— he’s definitely getting more independent with feeding."

Shane glances into the room to see that Ilya is trying very hard to feed himself… with some degree of success, and very poor hand-eye coordination. Most of the yogurt is going into his mouth. It’d be a sad sight if it weren’t so adorable. 

He doesn’t seem to have the wherewithal to be embarrassed when he notices Shane watching, just gives him a smile. 

"Good morning, moya lyubov."

Shane laughs a little, coming into the room. 

"Good morning. You’re enjoying that, hey?"

"Hm, yes. Is very nice."

"You’re cute."

Ilya goes a little pink. 

"I am not. Never. I am very big and scary."

Shane rolls his eyes. 

"Of course. Pardon me. That’s what I meant to say."

Ilya gestures up to his head. 

"Doctor says they will maybe take this tube out today, and I can finally have shower. He was just here."

"Ilya, you can barely sit up," Shane sighs, though it doesn’t feel great to rain on his parade. "I don’t think you can stand long enough for a shower."

"They have this… special wheelchair, the therapy lady say. It goes in the shower. I sit, relax, and someone helps me." He waggles his eyebrows. "She says my boyfriend can come help too, if it makes me feel comfortable."

Shane snorts, even though he knows that, deep down, of course he would help. He’d do anything for Ilya. 

"That wasn’t exactly how I was thinking we’d be showering together while you’re in Montreal, but I’ll take what I can get, I guess."

"You are very naughty," Ilya teases. 

He then tries to eat another spoonful of yogurt, misses his mouth by a mile, and promptly looks incredibly confused as to why his face is now covered in yogurt. Shane is already grabbing a cloth from a pile by the window, and reaching over to clean him up. 

"You’re a mess, Rozy."

"Stop it," Ilya huffs, batting at his hands. "I can do."

"Yeah, yeah. Let me help you."

"Fine."

Shane wipes his face, then sets the cloth aside and leans in to press a quick kiss to his lips. 

Ilya grins. 

"Sneaky. You wanted kiss."

Shane shrugs. 

"Maybe."

Ilya leans up to kiss him again, and Shane happily indulges it. 

"Love you," Ilya whispers. 

"I love you, too." Shane pulls back, brushing his fingers through Ilya’s curls. Some of the bandages are gone now, replaced by smaller dressings and finally showing his patchy new haircut— he’ll need a very good barber to try and salvage anything. "You look so much better today."

The swelling in his face has gone down to practically nothing, and though the bruises under his eyes are still dark purple, they’re finally going greenish at the edges, a hint that they should be starting to fade soon. His stubble looks like the beginnings of a playoff beard, and sort of hides how his cheeks are looking a little thin. 

"I feel better," Ilya agrees. "More… alive."

"Good," Shane chuckles, finally sitting in his usual chair. "I want you alive."

"You look better, too," Ilya offers. "You were so tense yesterday. Today, you’re… glowing."

"Well, I finally worked out and did my skincare."

"No, I mean… less stress, maybe. A little bit."

Shane thinks of the post-it with the heart, sitting next to his smoothie, now folded up and tucked in his wallet. 

He nods. 

"Yeah. A little bit."

They don’t even go down to the OR— Ilya lies in bed, Shane holds his hand, and with a little bit of numbing to Ilya’s scalp, the tube is carefully pulled out. 

The actual procedure takes about three seconds. 

Ilya winces slightly, mutters ow— which seems more instinctive than actual pain— and then immediately relaxes. They close the drain site with a single stitch, tape a little square of gauze over it, and then start cleaning up the supplies and moving the equipment they no longer need out of the room. 

"That’s it?" Ilya asks, glancing around. 

"That’s it," Dr. Lévesque confirms. "You are officially drain-free. We’ll keep you in ICU overnight, just to monitor, and then you’ll move to the step-down unit in the morning, if all is well."

"Okay," Ilya says, looking surprisingly unbothered. "That felt like… you pulled a spaghetti noodle out of my brain."

"Gross," Shane grumbles. "Ilya."

"What? It did."

"I can’t say I’ve heard anyone put it like that before, but I can see what you mean," Dr. Lévesque chuckles. 

"When can I shower in my special chair?" Ilya asks. "I have been very patient, but I cannot have another sponge bath."

"That’ll be up to the therapies team. From what I heard in rounds, though, I think they were planning to see you as soon as possible after getting the drain out, so I’ll page them and tell them you’re eager to get to work. They want to get you standing today."

Shane watches the way Ilya perks up at that. 

"Standing," he echoes. "I would like to try. And then shower."

"That sounds like a great plan."

Ilya looks incredibly satisfied with himself as the staff finishes cleaning up and heads out. 

Shane’s phone buzzes, and he checks it. It’s Svetlana. 

guess what just got delivered to my hotel )))

"Jesus Christ," Shane says, out loud. 

There’s a photo of a large box, with a big bow on top and a note reading: To Jane. Love, your fellow Raiders WAGs, in loopy cursive script, surrounded by hearts. 

"What?" Ilya asks, leaning over like he wants to see Shane’s screen. 

Shane is busy typing a reply. 

It’s all yours. Keep it. I really don’t need it. 

Sveta replies incredibly quickly. 

On my way to hospital, we’re going through it together!

"Shane," Ilya insists. "What you are looking at? Show me."

Shane sighs heavily. 

"Your team’s wives and girlfriends all got together and made a care package for Jane," he states, dryly. "Svetlana insisted they send it, and she’s bringing it here now. They also want to add me to a group chat."

Ilya’s face does the exact same confused-to-delighted shift that it did when Shane first confessed that he hired a stylist. He breaks into a massive smile, and quickly tries to hide a laugh behind his hand. 

"Oh my god," he giggles. 

"It’s not that funny. It’s ridiculous."

"It is very funny, Hollander."

"Why do they even know about Jane? What have you been telling people?"

Ilya looks sheepish. 

"Well, if I don’t want to go out with the team some night, I say: ah, no, Jane tells me is not allowed. And then I stay home and call you. They say she has me on a short leash, like I am your dog."

"Ilya," Shane groans. "They’re gonna think I’m some kind of control freak."

"You are not?"

"Not like that. I’ve never told you not to go out. I go out all the time— we’re captains, we have to show up to team shit. I don’t have you on a leash, and I’m not your weird, controlling girlfriend. Good god."

"Well, I like it," Ilya huffs. "I like this excuse to stay home, and I like calling you. Always they see me smiling at my phone, and know this is Jane. I say yes it is, and I love her very much. I like to talk about you, even if is fake."

That’s… oddly touching, actually. 

"Marleau is coming to visit on Saturday. Maybe Connors, too." Shane pauses. "They’ll want to meet Jane, won’t they?"

Ilya blinks. 

"Ah, fuck."

"Yeah."

"Jane is very busy, working girl," Ilya decides. "Maybe she is working on Saturday. So nice of my friends to come while she is not here, yes?"

"Super nice," Shane chuckles. "And, I mean, I have to fly to Edmonton on Sunday, so I guess I could use Saturday to get my shit together and pack while they’re here."

Ilya’s face falls. 

"You have to leave?"

Shane’s heart sinks. 

"For a little while, yeah. I— well, I could only get a week off. I have to play on Monday, and we’re out west for a while. I have Edmonton, then Vancouver, then San Francisco. And then I’ll come home."

Ilya nods. 

"Right. Yes, that makes sense. I forgot, like— world is not on pause right now. Life keeps going, yes?"

"I wish I could stay with you for longer," Shane sighs. "But, um… my parents can still be here, and I’m sure Sveta will stay as long as she can, and, well— we don’t know how long you’ll actually be in the hospital, right? You’re getting so much better. Maybe you can go home soon."

Ilya chews his cheek. 

"Back to Boston," he states. He doesn’t sound thrilled about it. "Where I cannot even play or go to practice or do anything for six fucking months."

Shane thinks on it for a moment. 

"Or… maybe you could stay?" he offers. "Like— you probably still have to follow up with the doctors here, and you might not even be cleared for travel yet, so maybe you… just stay at my house for a while once you’re discharged? You don’t have to, I mean, it’s just an idea, but since your season’s over anyways—"

"Maybe," Ilya cuts him off. "If doctors think this is smart, not going too far away yet… this could work."

"And I’d obviously still have to leave for road trips sometimes," Shane continues, "but when I’m home… we could be together. It might be nice."

"Ah, so I can be your WAG instead," Ilya chuckles. "Does Montreal have a group chat for this? I want in. The girls will love Lily."

"No fucking chance."

"Shane… how am I supposed to support my big, sexy, hockey player boyfriend? How will I get a sparkly jacket with your name on it if I cannot connect with my fellow WAGs?"

"You’re ridiculous."

"The Boston girls will get you a jacket. Imagine when you have to tell them you need a men’s large."

"That’s not happening Ilya. I’m not joining their group. Jane isn’t real."

Ilya pouts. 

"So everyone will think I have made-up girlfriend who lives in Canada? This is, like— oldest joke ever. Makes me look so stupid."

"You should’ve thought of that when you started telling everyone about your made-up girlfriend who lives in Canada."

Ilya groans dramatically. 

"Shane."

"You did this to yourself, babe."

"I hate you."

-

Shane’s face when Sveta opens the box of goodies from the Boston girls is something Ilya will not forget. 

(They’ve waited until after Ilya has done his standing and had his shower— he’s completely fucking exhausted, but overall pleased with himself. He was able to stand on his feet for thirty whole seconds while death-gripping a walker, and then he sat in the fancy shower wheelchair while the therapy lady instructed him to try scrubbing himself as much as his energy level allowed. Shane washed his hair for him, which was very relaxing.)

"This is insane," Shane says, sifting through sparkling gold tissue paper. "Who the hell do they think Jane is?"

The first thing he pulls out is a large leather tote bag, with a Raiders logo embossed on it in gold. It has a cluster of gold charms hanging from it, one of which is a dainty little #81. 

"Very extra," Ilya comments. "Very pretty."

Shane sighs. 

"It is nice, I guess. Not that I’m ever gonna use it."

Sveta has already opened the card that was sitting on top of the bag. 

"To Jane," she reads. "We know this must be impossibly hard. Both you and Ilya have been in our thoughts - he is so lucky to have you. Thank you for being his rock. We can’t wait to meet you soon. Love, the girls."

Shane scrubs his hands over his face, and Ilya can’t help but laugh. 

Sveta pulls an expensive-looking cashmere throw from the box and settles it around Shane’s shoulders. 

"Here. This can make you feel better."

"It’s actually really nice," Shane grumbles, feeling the fabric between his fingers, looking incredibly adorable. "I’m keeping this."

Ilya leans forward to dig in the box for himself. He pulls out a set of Jo Malone candles— Peony & Blush Suede, English Pear & Freesia, and Velvet Rose & Oud. 

"These smell very expensive," he comments, uncapping each one to take a whiff. "Shane, I think your mother would like these very much."

"She probably would," Shane sighs. "She can have them."

Sveta picks up a box of fancy macarons, reading the flavours out like an auctioneer announcing the next item. Shane gets distracted by the skincare, finding a couple of products he actually uses, and some he might actually be willing to try, carefully combing through each one’s ingredient list. 

Ilya picks up a small box, clearly meant for jewelry. 

Inside, there’s a gold chain with a small, round pendant— it has a tiny 81 engraved on it. It’s so subtle that you wouldn’t know the engraving is there, unless you really lean in to look at it. Even at that, it could be flipped the other way so that the number sits against the wearer’s chest, and all anyone can see is the plain side of the pendant. 

There’s an ache in Ilya’s ribs, suddenly. 

(Shane, wearing his number around his throat, like it belongs there. The image of it is almost too much.)

(His stupid brain has been making him cry so much lately. He’s not going to get teary over this.)

He sets the little box aside, tucking it somewhere within his blankets. He needs time to think about that one. 

"Now this is a bit ridiculous," Sveta comments, already onto the next item. 

It’s a framed quote, in golden cursive: Behind every strong man is an even stronger woman. 

"That one is for you, Sveta," Ilya chuckles. "Probably you are stronger than me and Shane, if you really tried. I would be scared to fight you."

She scoffs. 

"I am not behind any man."

"Good point," Shane offers. "It does look like something Hayden and Jackie would have in their house, though. I don’t know how I could give it to them without being weird, but I could see it hanging in Jackie’s walk-in closet."

Ilya pulls a face. 

"Why do you know what the inside of her closet is like?"

"It’s nothing weird— I babysit. The girls like to play dress-up with her clothes, Jackie’s totally cool with it."

"Hm. Okay."

"Ilya, I’m not a pervert. I don’t go snooping around in my best friend’s wife’s closet. That’s insane."

"Whatever you say, creep."

Shane flips him off. 

Sveta shakes her head at both of them. 

"You two are made for each other."

-

In the end, Shane opts to keep the blanket, some skincare products, and a gift certificate to a private concierge service, which he decides he’ll use once Ilya is out of the hospital to have someone bring him groceries and drive him to appointments and whatnot when he’s out of town. 

He sets the candles, some fancy gourmet teas, and a floral perfume aside for Mom, and lets Sveta sort through the rest to decide what she wants. 

Ilya has fallen into a light doze, like he’s just resting his eyes, still vaguely aware of his surroundings. He squeezes Shane’s hand occasionally, reminding him that he’s there. 

It’s a quiet, peaceful afternoon. 

Shane feels significantly more settled in his body today— he’s still stressed, still uneasy, but no longer on the edge of clawing his own skin off out of pure discomfort, which is an improvement. There’s no part of him, at least right now, that feels the need to bite himself or hit himself or anything like that. 

He’s okay. Ilya is okay. Everything is okay. 

(As long as he doesn’t think about getting back on the ice in a few days, or about Coach Theriault hinting that he knows something about him and Ilya, or about the chance of the public catching on more than they already have and asking too many questions, or the fact that he’s apparently autistic and his parents didn’t tell him, or the fact that they have no idea what’s going to happen to Ilya’s career, or—)

Yeah, no, everything’s fine. 

"Shane," Ilya mumbles, barely cracking his eyes open. 

"Yeah?"

"Did I… miss Christmas?"

He sounds so small, and so sad. Fuck. 

"Yes, but it’s not a big deal," Shane says. "Okay? Christmas was a few days ago. We’re just gonna reschedule."

Ilya blinks slowly, looking over at him. 

"I’m sorry," he whispers. "I, um— I wanted to come to the cottage. Was going to be nice."

Ilya’s eyes are shining a little, and his voice is wobbly. He’s been very emotional, yesterday and today, far from his usual stoic self, and it’s heartbreaking. 

"It will be nice." Shane squeezes his hand tightly. "We’ll still go, once you’re better. It’s alright."

Ilya sniffles. 

He blinks again, and the tears spill over. 

(Shane makes a mental note to google it later: can brain injuries make you cry a lot?)

"Hey," Shane sighs, cupping Ilya’s face gently. "There’s nothing wrong, okay? Christmas isn’t that important. We’ll do it later. There’s no rush."

Ilya takes a shuddery breath. 

"I was excited," he practically whimpers, then shakes his head. "I’m sorry. I don’t know why— um, why I am so sad. I know it’s okay."

"I think your brain’s just tired. It’s been a long few days. There’s a lot to process."

Ilya is quiet for a moment. He takes another shaky breath, clearly trying to calm down. 

"Overwhelmed," he finally says. "Yes? Is like you said."

Shane breathes a quiet laugh. 

"Yeah. Overwhelmed."