Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Galina Molchalina, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Original Characters, Troy Barrett, Jackie Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Car Accidents, Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, Panic Attacks, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Established Relationship, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Hurt/comfort but the comfort is kind of delayed, I promise it turns out okay!!!!!, Mental Health Issues, Eventual Smut, Coming Out, Relationship Reveal, Angst with a Happy Ending, Therapy, Major Character Injury, Hurt Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-17 Completed: 2026-04-15 Words: 37,182 Chapters: 6/6

A Danger to Yourself or Others

Summary

Galina stopped writing to look at Ilya. "Do you think he'd be willing to talk to you next time it happens, even if it's late?"

Ilya's stomach turned over. He didn't even want to consider it, but he knew the answer. "Yes. But he silences his phone at night."

"Most phones these days have an option to let certain numbers ring through, even on Do Not Disturb. Do you think he'd be open to setting that up for you?"

Imagining that conversation made Ilya nauseous. Yes, no fucking doubt, Shane would be open to it if Ilya explained the reason. "I'm not going to ask him to do that."

Set during The Long Game, an alternate version where the plane scene doesn't happen. Instead, there's this: a car crash, a therapist's duty to report, and an urgent reckoning with priorities.

Notes

Major trigger warning for suicidal ideation and discussion of suicide, including methods.

Chapter 1: the places where you hide

"I can't decide where I would do it," Ilya said. "So I never get that far. That's what always stops me."

Words had a way of vanishing in Galina's office as soon as he said them. Swallowed up by the muted, windowless room, leaving no echo. Sometimes he questioned if he'd really said anything at all, or just left it a thought in his head. This was one of those times. Galina watched him steadily, saying nothing, writing nothing, leaving him to fill the silence again.

"Because I always have to think about who would find me," he said.

She was asking him questions to gauge his risk of suicide after these last few shit weeks. She hadn't said that was what she was doing, but he knew. She wanted to know if he had a plan, and if he would act on it. The conversation made him tense, pulled taut like a rubber band, because if he said the wrong thing it would trigger a series of events he didn't want put in motion.

She'd explained it to him in his first session. The only exception, she'd said, to her assurance of confidentiality, is if I believe you are a danger to yourself or others. She'd made him give her the location of the emergency room closest to his house, and the phone number of an emergency contact. He'd given her David's, with her promise that she wouldn't use it for anything except a true emergency.

"It makes sense that it would be on your mind," she said. Clipboard on her lap, but the pen held softly, not poised to move. "Given your own experience of discovering your mother's suicide."

"Right." The room gulped down his voice again. He heard the second hand on Galina's watch ticking. "If I do it at home, it's Shane. I thought about getting a hotel room, but then it's some housekeeper just trying to get through their work day. If I do it in public somewhere, a kid could find me. So I'd have to do it somewhere I wouldn't be found, or get into an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"A car accident. But I can't hurt anyone else when I do it, and even if I drove into a telephone pole, what if someone else got into an accident when they tried to swerve around me? I could drive into the river, but…"

"But?"

"Then people might know it wasn't an accident."

"Listening to you talk about this, there's one theme I hear most strongly. Your concern for others."

"Yes. Of course."

She let him sit with that for a moment. But he had nothing else to say. So she added, "You understand that your death would have an impact on them."

Ilya huffed a breath out through his nose, almost annoyed. It was so obvious, he wished she'd just make her point.

"We've talked before about how you feel lonely," she said. "But I see this as evidence of your connection with other people. Even strangers. You aren't someone who can be taken out of the world with no effect."

"No. But over time, maybe the effect would be a positive one." Like Shane finding someone who actually deserved him. Although Ilya had a hard time imagining such a person could even exist. That was yet another depressing thought.

"I've never known someone to describe the death of a loved one by suicide as a positive thing, even years later," Galina said. There was an air of finality to it, which was fair, because what Ilya had said was stupid. Shane would never, ever forgive him. "When's the last time you thought about these things? About a car accident, or getting a hotel room."

It had been the middle of last night, but Ilya thought of David, and Galina having his phone number. "A few nights ago."

"And what did you do, when you had these thoughts?"

"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

"I mean, did you just keep thinking about it until it passed, or you fell asleep? Did you do something to make yourself feel better, or distract yourself?"

Ilya shrugged. "I don't know. I turned on the TV."

"And did that work to distract you?"

"I guess so."

Galina started writing. "Did you think of calling or texting somebody for support?"

"It was one in the morning."

"Does that mean you did think about it, but decided it was too late?"

Ilya tried to remember. He couldn't drum up the specifics, since his late-night rumination sessions all tended to bleed into each other, but— "I always wish I could talk to Shane, when I feel like that."

Galina nodded several times. She stopped writing to look at Ilya. "Do you think he'd be willing to talk to you next time it happens, even if it's late?"

Ilya's stomach turned over. He didn't even want to consider it, but he knew the answer. "Yes. But he silences his phone at night."

"Most phones these days have an option to let certain numbers ring through, even on Do Not Disturb. Do you think he'd be open to setting that up for you?"

Imagining that conversation made Ilya nauseous. Yes, no fucking doubt, Shane would be open to it if Ilya explained the reason. "I'm not going to ask him to do that."

Galina nodded and started writing again. "Before you leave today, I want to make a plan for what to do next time you have thoughts about hurting yourself. So I'm making notes about what options you have." She looked back to Ilya. "What about a friend?"

Sveta came to mind, but Ilya shook his head. "There's no one I'd want to bother with this."

"That's interesting that you describe it that way. I wonder, if it were someone else in your position—someone like Shane. Would you say he was bothering you if he called you for support?"

Ilya crossed his arms and looked away to the potted plant on a stand in the corner of the room; a nervy orchid growing without sunlight. He considered lying, just to get her off his back. To avoid the phone call to David, dangling over this conversation like a sword.

"I'll call him if it's serious," Ilya said.

He expected her to probe the word serious, but she chose something different to pick at. "What if it's at night, and his phone is off?"

"There's another setting," Ilya said. "I have it on mine. If someone calls twice, it lets the second one through. I'll ask if he has that turned on."

He could tell Galina was pleased, nodding as she made notes. To keep the guilt at bay, Ilya told himself it didn't have to be a lie. He really could find out if Shane had that setting enabled, and say they should both have it turned on for emergencies. Ilya just wasn't going to count thinking of the best bridge railing to drive through as an emergency. Not if it was just thinking.

It was a Monday. Galina told Ilya to check in with her via text or email before 8 AM on Wednesday. She told him to set a reminder so he wouldn't forget. "Otherwise I'll have to do a welfare check," she said, holding the door open for him as he left. She smiled like it might be a joke. Ilya wasn't going to take the chance that it was.

That night he had a video call with Shane, who was on his tablet and had his phone free to hunt through the settings. Ilya watched him: glasses on, a slight frown of concentration, face lit blue by the tablet's glow.

"Oh, this must be it," Shane said. "'Allow repeat callers.' If you call twice within a 15-minute period. Okay, I'm turning it on." Ilya stared at the curve of Shane's upper lip, imagined resting a thumb in his cupid's bow. "Thanks for bringing this up, by the way. It's a good idea."

"Yes," Ilya said, too tired to come up with anything else.

Shane kept tapping at the phone. "I can actually just make it so calls from you always come through. Maybe I'll do that, too. Just calls, though. So you don't have to worry about waking me up from texts."

"Okay." Ilya had the same settings for Shane already.

Shane put his phone down and looked at the tablet, his eyes blinking once extra hard as he refocused. "Are you feeling okay? You sound like you're getting sick, or something."

"No, no. Just tired."

"I heard like half the Guardians got taken out by the flu last week. Like the real thing, influenza A."

"I have not played Toronto in weeks."

"No, I know. I'm just saying, it's that time of year."

Ilya wanted to hold Shane so badly, it felt like a separate entity in his chest. One threatening to break out through his rib cage and crawl into his phone. He should tell Shane what he'd discussed with Galina. His safety plan, she'd called it. "I should go to bed."

"Yeah, me too. I miss you, though."

Ilya could tell he would start to cry if he said it back. Instead he went, "Mm," and nodded.

"I love you."

He had to say that one back, or they'd have a problem. His voice came out thick, sticky, his eyes burning. "Love you too."

"Talk to you tomorrow."

I'm drowning. I need you. Don't hang up. "Goodnight."

Shane kissed his finger and touched it to the camera. Ilya ended the call.

Dragging himself out of bed in the morning felt like moving a ton of bricks. Coffee, bagel, texts to remind him why he bothered with any of it. A picture of the sunrise from Shane, an incomprehensible meme from Wyatt. Ilya sent Harris a message suggesting Chiron would be a welcome guest at the rink today.

All that was enough to get him out the door. Fresh snow was falling, so he drove his SUV to morning skate. The heaviness that plagued him most of his waking hours lifted as he arrived, which was how it always worked. When he was at work, or with Shane, and sometimes with Yuna and David, he felt better. Sometimes he felt good enough to wonder if he was faking the whole depression thing. The problem was as soon as he was alone, he crashed back into the lows again, and his lows just kept getting worse and worse.

He'd been awake again last night, in the early hours of the morning, terrified the pattern would continue and he'd hit a low so bad he could never climb back out of it. And then he would have no choice but to kill himself.

He'd thought about calling Shane. But he stopped himself, because it wasn't that bad yet. And now, in the light of day, he was glad he hadn't; it wouldn't have been worth waking Shane up for.

Practice was good. At home, Ilya tried to nap, but his thoughts kept him up. He sent Shane a text asking if he could call, but Shane didn't reply, probably napping himself.

There was something strangely soothing about artificial red lights at night. Nostalgic, maybe.

It was quiet when Ilya opened his eyes. The whoop of a siren broke through the silence, followed by scratchy voices on a radio.

Red and blue lights, rotating, reflecting off vapor in the air. Fog, or exhaust.

Ilya was lying on cold asphalt. Had he been hit by a car? He couldn't remember walking anywhere at night. The smell of burnt rubber itched in his nose.

The click of a button. A blinding light shining into his left eye, then his right. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away.

"Hey, that's what I like to see," said an unfamiliar voice. Belonging to an unfamiliar man, crouched beside him. 40s, blond and clean-shaven, dressed in a black jacket with high-vis reflective strips. "How are you feeling tonight, Mr. Rozanov?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Ilya ground out. Probably shouldn't have cursed. The guy was friendly.

"My name's Mason. I'm an EMT. You were in a head-on vehicle collision."

Yeah, he sure fucking was. He could see now. He was lying in the street a couple meters from the Porsche, which was a wreck of twisted metal all the way to the windshield. Awareness of his surroundings rippled out to the rest of the road—a street he recognized about ten minutes from home—and police cars, and ambulances, one being loaded with someone on a gurney. Other smashed-up cars, and so much broken glass. This was not a single-car accident.

With dawning horror, Ilya asked, "Did I do this?"

He wouldn't have. He wouldn't have chanced hurting other people. But he'd been—he'd been scared, growing desperate.

Why had he taken the Porsche, if not to drive lethally fast?

Mason had pulled a radio off his shoulder and was speaking into it. "Driver of the Porsche GCS 13, pulse is 110. Stand by for BP." He clipped it back to its holster. "You asking me if you caused the accident? No, someone else made the decision to drive drunk at rush hour on a Tuesday and ruin a bunch of folks' nights. Hit you when they were crossing the median."

He strapped a blood pressure cuff around Ilya's arm while he spoke and started pumping the bulb. The cuff squeezed painfully tight, and that was when Ilya's awareness crashed back into his own body. Pain. A lot of fucking pain. A generalized scream of it in his chest, heaviness, a writhing in his gut, his limbs quivering.

Mason talked into his radio again. "Hey, Bev? Bump him to immediate transfer. BP is 85 over 60, respiration 32." He clipped the radio back in place. "You were wrapped around that steering column like you wanted to marry it, my friend. You remember any of that?"

Ilya tried, but he couldn't. He'd just been at practice. Was he on his way to a game? Yes, it was Tuesday. Buffalo.

"I'm late to a game," he said, arriving at that conclusion. But it wasn't just Mason anymore, there were two other EMTs now, with a stretcher, lifting him onto it.

"We're taking you to the hospital, Mr. Rozanov. Would you like them to call someone for you?"

"My coach?" Ilya closed his eyes. "Brandon Wiebe. Good guy." He would be so disappointed. This was a four point game. And what about the rest of the season? Was Ilya just fucking out? It was only January.

In the ambulance, they cut his shirt off him even though it was a button-up. "Do you know your blood type, Mr. Rozanov?"

"A-negative," he said, and he started to wonder if he was going to die.

He did not want to die. He realized it with a painfully sharp clarity. Regardless of what he'd been planning when he'd left his house, he knew now he didn't want to drive off a bridge or into a telephone pole. He wanted to see sunlight one more time. He wanted to finally count Shane's freckles. He wanted to see how many goals he'd get this season, and next.

Shane. He wanted Shane for years and years and years. Instead of his life flashing before his eyes like people always said happened, Ilya saw his future, in a house, in the cottage, with kids and dogs, and a happy husband, and then it dissipated like a drop of water on a wet sidewalk.

He didn't want to die.

He kept falling asleep, or fainting, coming back to awareness when people spoke to him. Someone in the hospital asked if he wanted an interpreter.

"No, I speak English," he said, only it was fast becoming untrue, as people kept talking to him and the words flew by, slippery, long, and fast. He wanted Shane there, from some probably misguided sense that if it were Shane saying the things, he would understand them. English to English translation.

Okay, he kept saying. Okay, okay, okay. They were taking him into surgery, he understood that much. Kept talking about stopping the bleeding. The words stop the bleeding started to sound like one long word and he wondered if he'd just never heard it before. Doctors introduced themselves. A nurse was holding his hand, and even with the surgical mask over her nose and mouth he could tell by her eyes she was smiling at him. She had very kind eyes. Ilya thought maybe he should ask her questions, but they put the anesthesia mask over his face, and next thing he knew someone else was holding his hand, or just patting it. One of the doctors, he thought, his mask half untied and hanging along one jaw. "The surgery went great, Ilya. We're moving you to imaging now, okay?" That was good that it went great, but how they had done it in a matter of seconds was beyond him.

He couldn't remember why he needed surgery. He went back to sleep.

Mama, he thought, briefly a child again, hurting and lost. He shook his head back and forth on a scratchy pillowcase and remembered he was in a hospital. Car accident. Shane. Shane was in Montreal. Ilya wanted to go home.

A distant voice on the PA system woke him up. It was dark outside the window, and a clock on the wall showed it was shortly after two. Ilya wondered if anyone had called Wiebe. Maybe everyone on the team thought Ilya just decided not to show up.

He tried moving his arms, which jostled the IV lines hooked to his forearm and a tube running to a cuff on his bicep. A pulse oximeter gripped his left forefinger. He was floaty and slightly nauseous.

He wanted his phone. LeClaire always used to bitch about Millennial players and their phones. Ilya pictured his old coach teasing him for waking up in a hospital bed and immediately needing a screen. But he wanted to see if Wiebe had called him. He wanted to call Shane.

Middle of the night. Shane's phone would be on Do Not Disturb. But he'd put in an exception for Ilya.

A nurse in pink scrubs poked her head in the room and lit up to see him. "Hey! How are you feeling?" She came to his bedside and Ilya tried to remember if he'd seen her before. He didn't think so. She was young, or at least she looked it; petite, Black, with braids pulled into a topknot. She checked his monitors and the bags hanging from his IV pole.

"I'm Maya, I'm one of the nurses here tonight," she said. She had a soothing voice, soft but rich. Ilya detected a slight Southern American accent. "We've got the saline keeping you hydrated, but if you want some water or ice chips just to moisten your mouth, just let me know."

"Ice chips," Ilya said, more perplexed than anything, but Maya took it as a request.

"Sure, let me go get some for you. You want me to adjust your bed before I do, get you sitting up a little bit?"

"Uh. Sure."

The bed motor whirred, propping Ilya to more of a 45-degree angle, and Maya handed him the remote. As she left the room she mentioned his doctor should be dropping by any minute. Ilya rested his eyes in the meantime, but was startled by the cuff on his arm crackling to life, filling up and squeezing. Then with a hiss it deflated. Ilya closed his eyes again, and for a moment passed into a dream where people were all around him, talking to him in a language he didn't know.

Maya returned a few minutes later with a small paper cup containing ice cubes, which she gave to Ilya. He stared into it, thoughts too sluggish to know what to do.

"Is my phone…" he began.

"Oh, your personal effects are right here." Maya took a white plastic tray from a table beside the bed and offered it to him. Inside were his wallet and phone, but the screen was shattered. He picked it up, hoping it might still turn on. He held down the power button and it lit up with a garish mosaic of magenta, blue, and neon green.

"Ah well," he said.

"Yeah," Maya said, sympathetically. "There is a phone in the room, if there's someone you want to call. I can dial the number for you."

Ilya was preparing to take her up on that when someone else walked into the room, this time a middle-aged red-haired woman in blue scrubs with a stethoscope around her neck.

"Hi there, Ilya, I'm Dr. Hinkley. I'm one of the resident physicians who'll be taking care of you. How are you feeling? I heard the surgery went great."

"I'm feeling…" Ilya paused to think about it. Still mostly just nauseous and nothing worse, with a heavy pressure in his abdomen. They must've had him on the good shit. "Okay. Might throw up."

"That could be from the surgery, or it might be because of the medication you're on. Let's take a look." She checked the monitor at his bedside. "So, you are on a pretty high morphine dose, and it's being delivered intravenously, but now that you're awake that means we can switch to an oral route for pain relief which won't be as strong. That should help with the nausea but might also cause some discomfort from your injuries, since it's not as immediate. It's kind of a balancing act. We don't want either one of those, the nausea or the pain, getting too out of control. Because they can kind of snowball."

Ilya closed his eyes, frowning, trying to keep up with what she was telling him. So many fucking words. Having his eyes closed made his head spin, so he opened them again, but it didn't help. He'd heard the snowball saying before, but the meaning kept skittering away from him. His head was too fuzzy. "I think… turn medication down."

"Sure thing." She and Maya had a quiet conversation, and Ilya heard them mention oxycodone, which he knew. Beautiful Percocets, which he'd been prescribed before for injuries, liked too much, and flushed the remainder of like the ghost of his mother was watching. He never knew what exactly she'd taken to end her life. Nobody would ever tell him.

He didn't realize he'd drifted off again until Maya was handing him a small paper cup with two round white pills inside, and a cup of water with straw.

"That better?" Dr. Hinkley asked him.

He did feel more clear-headed now. He could also feel a faint burning and an ache in ribs, especially when he breathed in, but he'd dealt with worse. "Yes."

"Perfect. You're going to let one of the nurses know if the pain gets to be too much, okay? So let me fill you in on your condition and what we currently know." She launched into a description of the surgery and his injuries, and Ilya once again felt drowned in a barrage of English he couldn't keep up with—fractured ribs, of course he knew that one, and blood, and bleeding, and stop the bleeding, but he had not made it a point to learn all the English vocabulary for his internal organs and what terrible things might befall them if he got engaged to a steering wheel. She mentioned his lungs but he was having no trouble breathing.

"I need an interpreter," he said finally, interrupting her mid-sentence. "Russian."

She seemed caught off guard, and slightly displeased, exactly the way a coach did when you told them you woke up with your shoulder stiff from the hit you'd taken the night before.

"Oh. Sure. Well." Dr. Hinkley turned to Maya. "Get Alicia on that? And I'll come back when we've got someone on the line."

Maya nodded, and they both left the room. Ilya fiddled with his phone, which was still hopelessly fractured. He looked inside his wallet. His driver license was upside-down and askew, having been removed. Someone hadn't recognized him, or maybe his face was mangled beyond recognition and he hadn't realized it. Or maybe none of the above, and it was just due diligence to check someone's identification before you entered them in the system as the city's beloved hockey captain.

The blood pressure cuff inflated periodically, surprising him every time. He lifted his head to glance at the monitor, trying to place each of the numbers. Blood pressure 106/80, pulse 60, oxygen 98. The rest were a mystery.

When Dr. Hinkley came back, it was a different nurse with her, not Maya. The newcomer had an iPad with a phone call connected, and on the other line was a brusque and scratchy-voiced Russian woman who introduced herself to Ilya as Yelena.

Dr. Hinkley launched into her explanation again, pausing every sentence or two to let Yelena translate. Ilya had suffered blunt force trauma to his abdomen. His spleen had ruptured, causing internal hemorrhaging. He had required a blood transfusion. The surgeon removed part of his spleen in order to stop the bleeding, but was able to save some of the organ, which was good news for his long-term health.

Ilya didn't have a goddamn clue what spleens did, but he didn't bother asking, figuring he could look it up later.

His blood pressure and heart rate were being monitored to ensure there was no additional bleeding. He'd fractured two of his ribs on the left side and torn some of the cartilage connecting his ribs to his sternum. Possible contusions on his lung meant pulmonology would be following up with him over the next several days, but his blood oxygen levels thus far were looking good.

Dr. Hinkley asked if he had any questions.

"When do I get to leave?" he asked in English.

"Unfortunately, I can't tell you that for sure right now. We're going to assess how you're doing at the 48 hour mark, and then we'll have a better idea. It could be up to a week, but it might be less, depending on several factors." Yelena translated, though Ilya didn't need it. "Anything else?"

Maya came back into the room, and Ilya surprised himself with how relieved he was to see her. She felt like the closest thing he had to a friend right now. She got to work changing out one of the bags on his IV pole.

"No, I don't think so," Ilya told the doctor. Chief among his concerns was how soon he'd be able to get back on the ice, but he doubted she'd be able to tell him that. When the nurse ended the call with Yelena, Ilya asked a non-medical question. "Did anyone come to see me? While I was asleep."

Dr. Hinkley looked to the nurse with the iPad. "Oh, yes, actually," the nurse said. "Your coach came, and there was that older couple? This was all while you were sedated, so none of them were able to see you. And visiting hours ended at eight."

"Do you know who?" Ilya asked, even though he assumed it was Yuna and David. He didn't know how they would have found out, but maybe Ilya's accident was in the news by now.

Fuck. All of that meant Shane would probably know. He must be freaking out. Ilya wanted to talk to him so badly.

The nurse shook her head. "If you had anyone in our system listed as emergency contacts, they would have been notified."

Ilya couldn't remember if he did. Thinking of the accident, and the news, gave him a different question. "There were other cars, in the accident. The other people, did they…"

Dr. Hinkley and the nurse exchanged a glance, and the doctor shook her head. "I don't have any of that information for you, I'm sorry."

Ilya thanked them, and they left the room, leaving only Maya.

"Oh, here, I can take that for you," she said, grabbing the paper cup with its long-melted ice still propped against his leg. She tossed it in the trash. "They were reporting on the accident in the news, and I didn't hear them say anything about any fatalities. So hopefully."

"Hopefully," Ilya agreed, with tentative relief.

"Let me just get a quick temperature from you," she said, taking a white plastic thermometer from her pocket and running it along his forehead. "37, looking good." She pocketed the thermometer and went to the end of his bed. "So I heard you're a big hockey player?"

Ilya almost laughed, but instead he just smiled. It was nice, having a bit of anonymity. "Yes. I play for the Centaurs."

"That's cool. Sorry, I don't know anything about hockey. I'm from Georgia, originally, and we don't have a team or nothing there. Don't get a lot of ice."

"Florida has no ice, and still two teams," Ilya pointed out.

"Yeah, well, that's Florida," Maya said, with a tone like Ilya should know exactly what she meant. She took the clipboard hanging from the bed and started making notes.

"What is—" What was the word for a person from Georgia? Georgian, Georgese, Georgite? "Person from Georgia doing in Ottawa?"

"Well, I came up here as a traveling nurse." She looked up from the clipboard and smiled at him, a truly happy smile. Her cheeks plumped up and her eyes shone. "And then I ended up meeting my fiancé! So I stayed."

"Congratulations," Ilya said.

"Thanks! And you're from, what, Russia? Right?"

"Yes. But I lived in Boston for nine years, before I came here."

"And what's a person-from-Russia-and-Boston doing in Ottawa?" she asked playfully, jotting something on his chart notes.

Ilya wished like hell he could say my fiancé. Or even just my boyfriend. Anything that would mean: Look, look, you and I are the same. But they weren't.

"Hockey league things," he said, trusting her not to ask more, since she'd said she knew nothing about it.

"Oh, like you got traded?" Ilya didn't correct her. "Your ever miss Russia? Or, I guess, Boston?"

"Boston, yes. Russia… mm. Not—it's complicated."

"You know what? I get that, I really do. Same with me and my hometown." She capped her pen and replaced the chart, shaking her head. "Anyhow. I re-upped your fluids, your vitals all look good. Is there anything else I can get you before I pop out? You've got a call button, too, if you think of anything."

"You said, ah…" Ilya hesitated, worried she didn't have time. A lump formed in his throat, the desperation rising. "I could make a phone call."

"Oh, that's right. Of course." She walked to a corded phone mounted to the wall near the door. "I know it's a little silly having it all the way over here, but it does stretch to the bed. Who did you want to call?"

"My… friend." His eyes were stinging. Emboldened by remembering she had no idea who he was, he said, "My partner."

"Oh," she said, her voice taking on a distinctly tender note. "Sure thing. What's his—I mean what's their number?"

Ilya recited it from memory, and Maya dialed and passed him the receiver. Shane's phone would be on Do Not Disturb, but they could call a second time, and then it would—

He answered on the first ring. His voice was weak and strained. "Hello?"

"Shane," Ilya said, and immediately started to cry.

"Oh my God," Shane said. "Oh my God. Are you—what's—"

"I'm okay," Ilya said. "They had to do surgery, but, it went fine. I'm okay."

"I'm here, Ilya." Ilya could tell Shane was crying, too. "I'm in the lobby. They won't let me in because it's not visiting hours and I'm not… family?"

Ilya covered his face with his free hand. The shaking of his chest woke the pain up from a distant buzz to something sharper, a hundred tiny little stabs. Shane was close. Somewhere in this building.

"Are you still there?" Shane asked.

"Yes." Ilya wiped the tears off his cheeks. "You're here right now? I want to see you."

"I know. Seven AM, is what they keep telling me."

Ilya glanced at the clock. It was only 3:30. "Fuck."

Maya was standing near the door underneath the clock, eyes on the floor like it gave him a semblance of privacy, but she glanced up when he said that. Obviously she'd been listening, and he could see the sympathy in her expression.

Ilya covered the speaker end of the receiver. "You don't have to stay here, if you don't want to. I will just stay on the phone with him, I think. If that's all right."

"Of course," she said. "The call button—use the call button if you need anything, it'll ring the nurse's station. And let him know, if y'all get disconnected, the number that was on his caller ID will ring back to this room."

"Thank you," Ilya said, and she left the room and shut the door. Into the phone, he said, "Talk to me, please."

"About what?"

"Anything. Tell me about your game tonight. Did you win?"

Shane let out a weak laugh. "No. Went into overtime, one-nothing."

"What the fuck," Ilya said, feigning disapproval to try and get another laugh out of him. It worked, barely. Ilya rested his eyes, shutting out the fluorescent lights and hard angles of the hospital room, and let Shane's voice carry him someplace better.

Chapter 2: the dawn on your worst night

Chapter Notes

Content warning: this chapter contains visual description of injuries. See more details in end notes if you are squeamish.

The explosion of sensations in the dressing room, the din and humidity and body odor, settled like a fog in Shane's brain. Always worse after a loss, and especially one as pathetic as tonight's. He couldn't account for it. They hadn't played this bad in ages.

He stood at his stall, taking off his pads, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to the media and bracing himself for whatever words Theriault would have for them. Reporters trickled in, raising the temperature and the noise in the room. Shane's skin already itched from dried sweat, and now he was sweating again. He wanted a shower and a quick escape home, the balm of silence in his apartment.

"Yeah, it's hard to say what happened out there tonight," he said into the first microphone shoved into his face. "We got a couple guys out sick—" including JJ, which was probably why overtime had gone the way it did— "and, you know, it's a tough time of year, coming back from the holidays—" which had been a couple weeks ago— "but, uh, obviously Detroit wasn't in top shape either, so I think it just goes to show…"

While he tried to decide what it went to show, another reporter cut in. "Mr. Hollander, have you heard about the car accident Ilya Rozanov was involved in this evening?"

And Shane's mind just whited out.

"Sorry, what?"

"There's been reports that Ilya Rozanov was struck by a drunk driver and taken to the hospital. Would you care to comment?"

Shane's awareness narrowed to a sharp pain in his chest as his heart began to race, and to the lights in the dressing room suddenly feeling intensely bright.

He didn't know how long he stood there, gaping and paralyzed, or how long it took Marcel to jump in, snapping, "No, our players do not have any comment on an unrelated car accident. Can we stick to the topic at hand, please? Best wishes to Mr. Rozanov."

But Shane just turned back to his stall, not even attempting to answer any other questions. He heard his name a few more times, and some of his teammates addressing the reporters. His hand shook when he grabbed his phone. A missed call from his dad and a text from his mom.

Hey honey. Call me as soon as you can.

He flinched when Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. "Shower, yeah? Come on."

"But," Shane said slowly, sounding drunk. There was no but. He followed Hayden to the showers, and his brain reset a little when the water hit him. He scrubbed down quick, toweled off quick. Took ages to get dressed because his fingers couldn't work his buttons. He dropped his bag several times trying to get it out of his cubby and onto the bench.

He walked through the parking garage with his head down, shoulders hunched. As soon as he was in the driver's seat he took out his phone and called his mom. While it was ringing, the passenger door opened and Hayden got in. He watched Shane intently, but Shane couldn't look at him.

"Hey, honey," came his mother's voice. It didn't comfort him so much as stir the awareness that he was having a full-blown panic attack. His chest felt like lead. The reek of exhaust in the garage made him want to gag. "Where are you?"

"In my car," he managed. "Where's Ilya?"

"He's in the hospital. Your dad and I are here too. All they're really telling us is his condition is stable and they want us to come back tomorrow. His coach also came, and that was all the information they could give him, too."

"Okay." Okay, that was good, right? Stable meant not getting worse. It meant—it meant not dead.

"I know you're probably thinking about driving out here, honey, but I think it's better if you just go home tonight and rest. They're not going to let you in to see him if they wouldn't let us. You can come out here in the morning when it's light out, okay?"

"Mom—I'm not—no." What if he suddenly wasn't stable, and Shane was still two hours away? "I'm coming right now."

"Shane, I can tell you're panicking, and I don't like the idea of you driving when—"

"I'm fine."

"Box breathing, honey. Here, let me count with you."

"I am breathing!" The notion that he needed to calm down just fucking pissed him off. Ilya could be fucking dying. Why did Shane need to be calm about it?

"Hey," Hayden said, startling him, "do you need me to drive you out there, man?"

"Is that Hayden offering to drive you?" Yuna said. "Say yes. If you're not going to go home, you need someone to drive you."

"No," Shane said, to both of them. "Hayden's got a fucking—wife, and kids he needs to get home to. I'm not gonna make him drive me to Ottawa."

"I got it, man, it's cool," Hayden said. "Kids are in bed already." He leaned closer to the phone and said loudly, "I got him, Yuna."

"Fuck. No," Shane said, but he wasn't sure how to win the fight. He wasn't going to drive off with Hayden hostage in his passenger seat, but Hayden probably wouldn't get out of the car until Shane got out with him. Exhausted from everything, Shane rested his forehead against the steering wheel, phone rattling against his ear from the shaking of his hand.

"Hayden's your friend, honey. He wants to help. I'll drive you back to Montreal tomorrow, or whenever… whenever it is you're ready to go back."

"Buddy, I'm not gonna let you drive like this," Hayden said. "We don't need a second car accident tonight."

"Fuck. Fine. Okay."

Hayden rubbed a hand roughly up and down Shane's back. "We'll take my car, yeah?" And Shane nodded.

When they arrived at the hospital, Hayden offered to go inside with Shane, but Shane refused. Hayden must've not really wanted to—which was reasonable—since he didn't try and push it. Shane said goodbye and thanked him for the ride, eyes stinging, not sure how he was going to repay him.

The drive had been two hours of rolling from one wave of anxiety to the next. Shane had tried calling Ilya multiple times, even though it always went straight to voicemail. Then he tried calling the hospital, but they wouldn't route his call through to a room since it was after eight PM.

The main entrance was closed, so he went in through the emergency department. There he was stopped by security and directed to a reception desk, where he hoped maybe—just maybe—he'd find someone more sympathetic to his plight than whoever his parents had spoken to.

The middle-aged woman working the desk was resolute. "Visiting hours start at seven tomorrow," she said. It was after midnight, so technically seven that day, but Shane didn't want to piss her off by correcting her.

"I know, but, I think if he's awake, he'll want to see me." Shane hadn't even said who he was yet. The receptionist wasn't interested.

"Well, he's going to have to wait until seven tomorrow to see you."

"But…" Shane didn't know what else to say. He never thought he'd be in this situation, which seemed horrifically naive in hindsight. What the hell had he been thinking? What had they both been thinking, all this time? It was only last night Ilya had brought up the idea of making it so their phones would ring through to each other in case of emergency.

Remembering that call—how recent it still felt, how Ilya had been completely fine (or not, maybe a little sick, but awake and talking and unhurt)—and the gulf between then and now, the uncertainty of knowing his condition—it was overwhelming. Shane shuffled his feet, rubbed at his mouth, his eyes burning with tears.

"Sir, there's nothing I can do to help you right now," the receptionist said, sounding not the least bit sympathetic. "I suggest you leave and come back at seven, and that will make things a lot easier."

"I can't leave," he said, his voice nasal from the threatening tears. "I got dropped off. I don't have a car." Like cabs didn't exist. But he wasn't fucking going anywhere.

"You can wait in the lobby, then, if you want to be here all night. You go straight down that corridor and make a right."

Shane walked to the lobby, dazed. It had its own reception desk, currently dark and unmanned. Half the lights in the room were off. A security guard sat in a chair several feet behind the desk, reading a magazine. He didn't even look up at Shane.

Shane paced the lobby, checking his phone every few seconds. He tried calling Ilya again, just in case. Hi, this is Ilya—

Six more hours of this. Shane was going to lose his fucking mind. They'd have to admit him, too, for having a mental break, or something. For a few deranged seconds, he wondered if that would actually be his ticket. It would get him past reception and into the wards, where he guessed he'd run from room to room until he found wherever they were hiding Ilya.

Holy shit, he really was losing it.

He walked back to emergency reception, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape. The receptionist cocked her head when she saw him approaching, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

"I'm just wondering," he said when he reached the counter. "If we were married, would you let me in to see him?"

He still remembered how that had been a big thing when he was a kid, before same-sex marriage was legalized. The question of the right, or lack thereof, for gay people to visit their partners in the hospital. It came up all the time in marriage equality debates, and Shane remembered his mom talking about how sad it was, how it wasn't right.

"Are you married?" the receptionist asked.

He shook his head. Why not? Why not? Whatever the reason was suddenly seemed like the most trivial thing in existence.

"Then no."

"That's not—" And he laughed, sort of. No idea why. He couldn't finish his sentence. He bowed his head, one hand fisted loosely in front of his mouth. "Not what I asked."

"Sir," the receptionist said, "I've already explained this to you multiple times."

Shane nodded, again and again. "Yep. Yeah, no, I got it." And he walked away. Back to the lobby, still empty but for the security guard, so oblivious to Shane it made Shane invisible.

He wasn't sure he'd ever felt quite so alone as he did in this moment. He thought about calling his mom—she wouldn't mind if he woke her up. He could call Hayden, who would still be driving, and could talk to Shane on speaker phone.

But Shane didn't have anything to say, and there was nothing either of them could say that would make him feel better. He didn't want to talk, he just wanted to be with someone.

He sat in one of the lobby chairs, and a powerful exhaustion swept over him. His anxious energy had been holding it at bay as long as he was on his feet, but now with the offer of rest, his body let go. The game, the panic attacks, the car ride, the pacing, everything hit him at once. Fatigued, he slumped sideways, the armrest of the chair digging painfully into his waist.

Maybe he could sleep. Then the hours until seven AM would go by quicker.

He dragged himself out of the chair and onto a loveseat. It was far from comfortable, small with thin padding and sticky vinyl, but he was able to fit on it sideways if he bent his legs up. He switched Do Not Disturb off on his phone, turned the ring volume up as loud as it could go, and held it to his chest.

Closing his eyes was difficult—a part of him was convinced he would miss something important. He shivered periodically with aftershocks of anxiety. When he did finally shut his eyes for longer than a few seconds, sleep dropped over him like a hood, but it didn't last. When he woke up the clock showed less than twenty minutes had passed.

He tried to fall back asleep for a while, but it seemed like that bare hint of sleep had reset his brain, convincing it he was done. He turned to his phone for distraction, instead. Searching up coverage of his game, and commentary about what a shitshow it was, wasn't fun, but it was a kind of terrible that was at least different enough to keep his mind off the current nightmare. For a few minutes at a time, anyway.

Then, when he couldn't fight it anymore, he searched ilya rozanov car accident. The articles told him nothing new about Ilya—stable condition, they all reported, just like Shane's mom had. But Shane did learn from a local news outlet that there had been four vehicles involved. An impaired driver had swiped two cars, causing a rollover, before veering into the oncoming lane and colliding head-on with a third. Six people in total had been transferred to the hospital with injuries ranging from minor to critical. Ages given ranged from 11 to 68, and Shane's heart lurched predictably at the words 29-year-old male. The at-fault driver had walked away from the accident with only minor injuries and was taken into police custody.

That last part—Shane couldn't stop reading it. He wasn't, generally speaking, an angry person. But Jesus fucking Christ. Six people, including a kid. He wanted to break something. Maybe the driver's face.

Shane got up to find some water. Every muscle in his body felt worn-out and sluggish. His eyes and mouth were gummy. He guzzled for a while at the drinking fountain, sloppily wiped his face on the cuff of his sweatshirt. He used a bathroom that smelled so strongly of bleach it made his face sting. He thought about finding the cafeteria for some coffee, but then he might have to walk by that awful receptionist again. Wasn't like caffeine would do him any good, anyway—his brain and his heart were already wired, it was just the rest of his body that was drained.

Curled up on the loveseat again, he did something remarkably stupid. He started going through Ilya's instagram. He was just desperate to see him, in some form or another, and he had no pictures saved to his phone. Which, right now, seemed about as fucking nonsensical as the fact that they weren't married.

But Ilya didn't post many selfies. Instead, his grid was dominated by photos of objects. Random things that would have no connection to the average person looking at them, but which shot Shane right through the heart every time. A can of ginger ale, next to a can of Coke. A jigsaw puzzle Shane recognized as one of his dad's. The plastic toy rings the Pike girls had given Shane and Ilya to put on each other's fingers.

The rings. Shane was shaking again, eyes flooding with tears. He imagined waving his phone in the receptionist's face, saying, Look, see? We're married. We're married in the only way we can be.

But that wasn't really true. Nothing had been stopping them but themselves, and if Shane was being honest, mostly just him. But in the moments when the panic had been at its peak—before his mom had picked up the phone, before he'd heard her say Ilya was stable—he knew he would've burned the whole world down if that was what it took to see Ilya again.

So it all seemed very fucking stupid, in hindsight. Stupid and unimportant. A secret he drove himself into the ground to protect. Himself, and the love of his life along with him.

His phone rang with an unknown number. Ottawa area code. Shane answered it.

"Hello?"

"Shane."

"Oh my God." Finally, the relief he'd been chasing for hours. The tears spilled out of his eyes. "Oh my God."

Shane lay on the loveseat again, phone cradled to his ear. He'd paced for a while when he and Ilya were first talking, but the restlessness had worn off, leaving him tired once more.

He filled Ilya in on the blow-by-blow of his game, and offered to look up how the Centaurs had done in their game against Buffalo, which Ilya declined.

"Do you know when…" Shane started, wondering when Ilya would be able to play again, but he trailed off realizing what a loaded question it was. Ilya probably didn't know, and worse, what if the answer was never? Shane didn't have a clue how bad he was hurt, other than the fact he was awake and talking.

"No," Ilya said, filling the question in anyway. "I don't."

Shane nodded even though Ilya couldn't see him. A young woman in pink scrubs entered the lobby, and her eyes went to Shane—still the only person there besides the security guard. She approached him.

"Sir, pardon me for interrupting," she said quietly. "Are you Shane?"

Shane blinked at her sleepily, thinking she must be a fan, but people usually didn't leave off the Hollander. "Um, yeah."

"Could you come with me for a minute?"

"Ye—yeah, just." Shane stood up. At this point he was too tired to question things. "Um, hang on a second, Ilya, someone needs me to, uh…"

She led him down a hallway, opposite the direction of the emergency department. They stopped at an elevator and she hit the up button.

"Do you need to call me back?" Ilya asked. Shane had half forgotten he was on the line, even though he still had the phone to his ear.

"Uh, sure, yeah," Shane said. "Give me just a minute." He ended the call and stared blankly at the screen. The elevator doors opened and he got on with the orderly, who pushed the button for the second floor.

When the doors closed, she smiled at Shane. "I know it's not visiting hours, but it really seemed like he needed to see you."

"Wait, you're taking me to him?"

"Just don't tell anyone it was me, if they ask," she said with a laugh.

Shane was too overwhelmed by disbelief and gratitude to know what to say, or even think. The elevator dinged as the doors opened, and he wanted to run, but he didn't know where to go, so he just kept following her, antsy, his hands shaking again.

They went around a few corners until she led him into a room, and there propped up in the bed was Ilya. He was hooked up to a bunch of tubes, and he looked tired, but not visibly injured. The phone receiver was still in his hand, and he obviously hadn't been expecting to see Shane. He lifted his head off the pillow, dropping the receiver which fell to the floor, and raised his arms.

Shane wanted to throw himself at him, but the IVs and monitors served as a reminder to not. He walked to the bed, grasped the sides of Ilya's head, and crushed their mouths together. Ilya ran his hands up Shane's arms and squeezed his shoulders, his grip weaker than normal.

They kissed over and over, nuzzled their faces together, and finally rested their foreheads against each other. Or rather, Shane did the resting against so Ilya could lean his head back on the pillow. Ilya grabbed the front of Shane's sweatshirt with one hand and cupped Shane's cheek with the other.

"How… how hurt are you?" Shane asked. "Where does it…" He just wanted to climb onto the bed and wrap around Ilya.

"Broken ribs, and ah…" Ilya gestured around his abdomen. "There was surgery. I don't think you can squeeze me very hard."

"That's what I was worried about."

Ilya pulled away, lifting his arm and eyeing the IV running out of it. "Here," he said, nudging Shane, who stood up out of the way. Ilya took the motorized bed remote and lowered himself until he was mostly flat. He slid his legs to one side, then braced himself on his elbows to shift himself the rest of the way over. He grimaced, but he'd freed up space on the other side, and he patted it.

Shane glanced behind to see if the nurse was going to tell them to stop, but she was gone, and the door was closed. "I'm not sure if this is a good idea," Shane said, even as he was climbing onto the bed. He had to lay on his side to fit, and he scooted up high so he was able to put an arm across Ilya's upper chest. They shuffled awkwardly to find a good position amidst all the wires, but were rewarded when they finally folded together, Shane resting his nose and lips in Ilya's hair.

For the first time in hours, he took a proper deep breath. He watched the numbers on Ilya's heart rate monitor tick down in big drops from the 70s, to the 60s, to the 50s.

"I might fall asleep," Shane warned, the words slurring.

"It's okay." Ilya sounded just as tired, if not more. "Sleep."

Shane didn't want to. He was afraid this was a dream, and if he let go of it he was going to wake up alone in the lobby. But he must have fallen asleep anyway, because the door clicked open and the clock on the wall now showed it was after six.

It was the same nurse in pink scrubs from before. "I'm so sorry, I didn't want to wake y'all up. I'm just here to check your vitals, Ilya, and take a look at your incision, if that's okay."

"Yes, is fine," Ilya said, his voice groggy.

Shane sat up carefully, sheepish to have been found in the bed. For breaking the rules, mainly—it didn't register until a second later that the nurse might know who they both were, and have thoughts about them curled up in bed together. But she'd also probably seen them kissing, and Shane hadn't even spared a thought for that at the time.

Ilya grumbled at Shane sliding off the bed. He scooted himself back to the center, grimacing again, and a grunt escaped him this time too.

"Oof, careful, there," the nurse said. "What's your pain level at? Zero to ten?"

Ilya lay there blinking at the ceiling, his breath slowing. Shane took his hand, dragging a chair closer to the bed so he could sit.

"Four when I don't move," Ilya said. "Higher when I do."

Shane wanted to ask how much higher, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Remember we can up the pain reliever dose, if you need it," the nurse said.

Ilya shook his head. "No, no. I'm fine."

The nurse had a clipboard and was jotting things on it as she checked the monitors. "Everything's looking good here. Did you get a nice nap in while you could?"

"Yes. Very nice." Ilya squeezed Shane's hand, and Shane squeezed back. "Thank you."

"Yeah, thank you," Shane said. He was in danger of getting choked up again if he thought about it too much.

"This is Maya," Ilya told him. "She is my good friend. She doesn't know anything about hockey. She comes from Georgia and has never seen ice before."

"Hey, now. My fiancé is teaching me to ice skate! I'm not any good at it, but he's insisting." She looked up from the clipboard and eyed Shane. "You play hockey too?"

Ilya grinned, and Shane nodded. "Yep."

"He is almost as good as me," Ilya said.

"Better. Actually."

"Okay." Maya rolled her eyes playfully. "Neither of y'all's gonna impress me. You got any tips for me? Learning to skate?"

Shane tried earnestly to think of something, but Ilya said, "Don't be from Georgia."

"Ignore him," Shane said. "I don't know, get a good teacher, maybe. Just because someone's good at skating doesn't automatically make them good at teaching other people."

Maya nodded. "That makes sense, actually."

"I will teach you," Ilya said. "When I'm out of the hospital. Show your fiancé what he is doing wrong."

Shane scoffed. "Yeah, whatever."

"No, I am serious. We could go to the canal, all four of us. Double date."

"Ilya," Shane said, suddenly not amused.

But Maya laughed. "You just had life-saving surgery and you're already making plans for getting back out there. How about we slow down and give you some time to recover first, huh?"

"Bleh," Ilya said. Shane wondered if it started as a blyat before he decided to be more polite.

"Speaking of, let's check that incision," Maya said. "You want him to stay in the room with you?" She looked to Shane. "You can also step out, if you'd be more comfortable."

"I'm fine," Shane said.

"He stays," Ilya agreed. They squeezed hands again.

Maya hung the clipboard at the end of the bed, washed her hands and put on a pair of gloves, and came to stand on the side opposite Shane. "I'm going to pull your gown up to expose your stomach, if that's alright."

"Yes," Ilya said. Maya first arranged the blanket to cover up to his hips, then tugged up the hospital gown.

Shane couldn't help the "Jesus Christ" that slipped out of him. He thought he'd seen bruising as bad as it could get before. He was wrong. Livid red and violet clouds covered much of Ilya's abdomen, dark enough to be black in places. Under a gauze dressing Maya pulled away, a long incision curved beneath Ilya's rib cage, the skin held together by staples.

"Wow," Ilya said, like he found it impressive, or—Shane wouldn't put it past him—cool. Shane, meanwhile, just felt miserable.

"It's looking good," Maya said. "Swelling's normal, redness is normal. I'm just going to very gently touch along the area to check the temperature, okay? You let me know if I'm causing you pain."

Shane couldn't watch. He looked at Ilya instead, who looked back at him, and gave a little smile. How he could manage that much was a mystery to Shane.

"Feels great!" Maya said, and pulled the gown back down before taking off her gloves.

"What did they… do to him?" Shane asked. "What was the surgery for?"

Maya looked at Ilya, leaving him to answer. "Bleeding," Ilya said. "They took out my… what is the English name of the part they took out?"

"Your spleen," Maya said. "They just took part of it, though. So you still have one, it's just smaller."

"What does a spleen even do?" Shane asks.

Maya nodded, like she heard that question a lot. "It filters your blood, and it makes some of the white blood cells that help your body fight infection when you get sick. They bleed easy, so we see that a lot, with car accidents."

"Is he going to be okay?" Shane asked. "With just part of a spleen?"

"Well, you're going to want to talk to the doctor about it, but I can tell you that spleens can still function even when part of them's missing. From what I heard, the surgeon's real happy with how everything went. You're very lucky, Ilya."

"Ah, yes," Ilya said. "Lucky." An uneasiness passed over his face that Shane couldn't really attribute to anything. He wanted to climb back in the bed with him, but hated the thought of making him move again.

"Can I do anything else for you before I head out?" Maya asked. "Probably the last time I'll see you today. Shift change is coming up. I'll be passing you off to Drew, he's great. You'll like him. He loves hockey."

Fuck. Shane and Ilya exchanged a glance. "I don't think there is anything else," Ilya said. "I'll see you again tonight?"

"It might be me, or it might be another one of the nurses working. But I'll pop in and say hello at least, all right?"

Ilya's smile was a little pained. "All right. Thank you, Maya."

"Thank you," Shane said.

"It was my pleasure. Nice meeting you, Shane."

"Nice meeting you." As soon as the door shut behind her, he said, "What do we do?"

Ilya raised his eyebrows. "We?"

"The new nurse is gonna recognize me."

"I don't know what you're expecting me to do, Shane. I am stuck in a hospital bed."

"Okay, but like…" Shane closed his eyes and shielded them with his hand. "Should I leave? I don't want to leave."

"Then don't."

Shane sighed, nodding, trying to make himself believe it was okay. The possibility of being recognized certainly hadn't stopped him from showing up at the hospital in the first place, on the verge of rioting to be let in. But it was like all his other fears had room to come back in, now that he knew Ilya was going to be okay.

If we were married, would you let me in to see him? He had asked that. Those words had come out of his own mouth. In that moment, he'd known nothing was more important than Ilya.

"I won't leave," he said.

Ilya nodded and took his hand again, because at some point in the last few minutes, they'd let go of each other. Shane lifted Ilya's hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. He had a bruise at the base of his thumb, but it was a normal-looking bruise. Could have come from anything.

This would be okay. Whatever happened with the nurse, they would be okay.

At around eight AM, there was a knock on the door, and a tall guy in his 30s with a shaved head let himself in the room. "Hello! Mr. Rozanov! What a night you had, huh? My name's Drew, I'm one of the nurses." Drew walked to the end of the bed and grabbed the clipboard. "Let's see what we got here. Looking good, looking good."

Before anyone came in, Shane had promised himself he wouldn't let go of Ilya's hand. And he didn't, but part of that was just surprise. Because Drew had a rainbow flag lanyard, and a few Pride pins decorating it.

Okay. Maybe this really wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe.

"Let's see what our new numbers are looking like, huh?" Drew brought the clipboard over to the monitors and started copying things down. In between, he glanced up at Ilya, and then at Shane, and then looked at Shane again more slowly. "Oh my God. Are you Shane Hollander?"

Shane laughed nervously. "Yeah, uh. Yeah, I am."

"Holy crap. My sister's gonna be so jealous. I might ask you for an autograph later, if that's okay. Maybe a selfie. Sorry, I'm supposed to be acting professional. Pretend I didn't say that."

"What?" Ilya said. "Why autograph from him and not from me?"

"Sorry, man, it's just, my sister's in love with this guy." Drew pointed his thumb at Shane. "She's got no loyalty to the Cens. It's all about looks with her."

"What, and my looks are not good?" Ilya said, indicating his face with the hand not holding Shane's.

"Oh, your looks are good, all right." Drew shook his head, snickering. "God damn it. They're gonna write me up for that one."

"Ah, no, no," Ilya said. "It's our little secret, huh?"

"Whew." Moving the pen and clipboard to one hand, Drew took a forehead thermometer out of his pocket. "Let's do a quick temp check, here." As he did, his gaze fell on Shane and Ilya's clasped hands. He glanced at the thermometer, then back at their hands, then back at the thermometer. "Looks good. Everything's great. You want to take a look at the breakfast menu? The food here's surprisingly good. Especially the cinnamon rolls."

"I like cinnamon rolls," Ilya said hopefully. Shane stared at the bed, trying to fight this latest wave of anxiety. He focused on the warmth of Ilya's hand.

"Awesome," Drew said. "I think they're gonna want some blood from you this morning, so let's get that sugar up. I'll grab you a menu."

Shane texted his parents to let them know Ilya was doing well. He thought he was too worked up to bother with breakfast, but when Ilya offered him the rest of his plate—he'd only eaten a little before he felt full—Shane inhaled it in about a minute. The only part of it that was okay on his diet was the scrambled eggs, and even then it would've ideally been just the whites, but he was fucking ravenous. The cinnamon roll was, in fact, delicious.

A neurologist came in and spoke with Ilya for a bit, then did an exam to screen him for spinal cord and brain injury. Neither Ilya nor Shane were strangers to that process, so Shane was able to follow along and knew Ilya was passing all the tests, which was a major relief.

It was just as the doctor was leaving, around ten, that Shane got a call from his dad.

He stood by the window where his signal was better to take the call. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey." A pause. "How's Ilya doing?"

"He's okay. The doctors are all saying things are looking good."

"That's great." Another pause, and Shane sensed reluctance when David started to speak again. "Hey, uh, do you know a woman named Galina… Molchalina?" He spoke haltingly, like he was reading off a piece of paper.

"No?"

"I got a call from her, here, just a little bit ago. She told me she's a mental health professional who's been working with Ilya."

"Oh. Yeah." Shane knew Ilya had a therapist; he guessed he just hadn't known her name.

"Now, she was a little bit cagey at first, just trying to figure out if I was in touch with him and when's the last time I spoke to him. And I was thinking, I don't who this is or why she wants to know, so I wasn't filling her in on everything. I just told her that yes, I'd spoken to him a couple days ago, and left it at that."

"Okay." Shane looked at Ilya, trying to understand where this was going. Ilya watched him with mild curiosity.

"Well, then she explains that he'd given her my number, and she was authorized to contact me in certain instances. And she told me… well, Shane, she told me she had reason to believe he was in imminent danger of—of harming himself."

"What?" Shane said numbly.

"She said that I immediately needed to try and locate him, and—well, that's when I told her, no, I know where he is, he's in the hospital. He was in a car accident."

Shane was still stuck on the moment before. "Why would she think he—why would she think that?"

"I asked her the same thing. And then of course she broke out the legalese, telling me she wasn't at liberty to share more, provider-client privilege, and all that. But she asked me what hospital he'd been admitted to, and at this point I'm thinking, I have no idea if this lady is who she says she is. For all I know, she could be some crazy stalker. So I told her I wasn't going to give her that information, not like she can't look it up in the paper, anyway, and she said she understood and she thanked me for my time. So I just wanted to let you know. I mean, I don't know if she's going to be calling the hospital next, or if some crazed fan's going to be showing up there, or what, but—it was certainly enough to rattle me. I did Google her name and it's a real person, she's a Russian-speaking therapist in Ottawa. I just thought I should pass this all along. Thought you should know."

"Um." Shane blinked several times. "Yeah. Yeah, for sure. Thanks, Dad."

"I love you. And give my love to Ilya, too."

"I will. Sorry, just, you said the woman's name was Galina…" Shane stared at Ilya and watched recognition light his eyes, then something worse.

"Molchalina."

"…Molchalina," Shane finished. He watched Ilya's teeth go to his lip for a silent fuck.

Chapter End Notes

...and the lie detector test determined that the initial prediction of 3 chapters was a lie (more like 4? 5? idk pray for me)

Expanded content warning: Severe abdominal bruising, description of closed surgical incision.

Chapter 3: shake me down, bring me round

Chapter Notes

Reiterating for this chapter: major trigger warning for talk of suicide.

Shane left the room after he got off the phone with David, saying nothing, and because Ilya's mind liked to go to the worst places, he wondered whether Shane might not ever come back.

He only had a couple of minutes to be overdramatic, because that was when Shane came back in.

"Sorry. Had to run to the bathroom." He stood at the end of the bed, looking at Ilya's chest and not his face. "So. Galina is your therapist?"

"Yes. I told you about her."

"You told me you were in therapy, yeah. Why did she think that you might be… why did she think you were in danger of hurting yourself?"

Ilya sighed, which was a poor choice with the pain he was currently in. It was getting quite bad, even when he wasn't moving, and he'd been contemplating asking for an increase in medication. Maybe it would make him really loopy, and then Shane would take mercy on him and save this conversation for another time.

But it was probably too late to try that now.

"I was supposed to check in with her before this morning," Ilya said. "I forgot, but, probably she also tried to call me, and could not reach me. So she was worried."

"But, I don't understand." There was a tremor in Shane's voice. Ilya wanted to hold him, to try and make him feel better, even though this was his fault. "Why were you supposed to check in with her in the first place? Is that normal?"

"I don't know what you mean, normal."

"For therapists? That they make you check in by a certain deadline? And if you miss it they think you might be…"

"I don't know. I've never had a therapist before."

Finally, Shane looked him in the eye. "Ilya. Just fucking tell me why she thinks you were going to hurt yourself."

Ilya couldn't lie to him, when he was standing right there. But he thought of how Shane had spent half the night in a panic, not knowing if Ilya would live or die, and it felt unspeakably cruel to tell him the truth.

"Because," Ilya said, "I, sometimes. Maybe. Have been thinking about it."

Shane exhaled audibly, his chest heaving. He stepped away from the bed, hands going to his face. "Fuck."

"Hey." Ilya reached out a hand. "Come here."

Instead, Shane walked to the window, running his hands through his hair. "For how long?"

Ilya had no idea how to answer that question. The possibility of suicide had been something kept constantly in a corner of his mind ever since the day he learned you could do it. There were just some periods of time where it didn't interest him, and others where he couldn't look away.

"Shane," he said, still reaching his hand out. "Please. Come."

Shane let out another huff of breath and turned. He came to Ilya's bedside and sat in the chair. He took Ilya's hand in both his own, staring intently down at it.

"I don't want to die," Ilya said. "I was scared, in the ambulance. Because I thought maybe I was dying. And all I could think about was you, and how much I wanted to be with you."

Shane blinked furiously, his eyes wet, his jaw set like it could bite through steel.

"I don't want to hurt myself," Ilya said, "but I think about it a lot. I can't help it. I don't know how to get better."

Shane looked at him, the tears brimming. He got out of the chair and leaned over Ilya, holding Ilya's hand to his chest, and kissed him. He rested his forehead against Ilya's. "I wish you would've told me it was that bad."

"I know. I didn't want to make you worry, or… make you think you needed to help me. I just wanted to fix myself for you."

"You're not broken," Shane mumbled.

Ilya didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure he agreed. He put his other hand on the back of Shane's head and kissed him again.

"God." Shane cleared his throat. "Broken ribs are the fucking worst. I just want to grab you and hold you as tight as I can."

"Maybe just do it. It hurts anyway."

"No. Jesus. Did you not see that fucking spot where they cut you open? All the staples? God." Shane pushed his face past Ilya's, down into the pillow, and started sobbing. Ilya didn't think he'd ever seen him cry so hard. He put his arms around Shane, holding him as tight as he could at the awkward angle. It hurt, but he didn't care. It hurt worse to listen to Shane crying. Ilya would do just about anything to make it stop.

"I was so scared," Shane said between sobs. "I was so fucking scared."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for? It wasn't your fault."

No. But it almost had been. And it seemed like Shane knew that, so he shouldn't be trying to absolve Ilya of the responsibility.

As the storm of Shane's tears eased, Ilya loosened his grip, and gasped at the fresh wave of pain it sent through his torso. It ached everywhere, and the incision was burning, so acutely that Ilya thought he'd be able to trace the line of it without looking.

Shane sat back, alarmed. "How bad does it hurt?"

"It's fine."

"You fucking liar." Then he reached over Ilya and hit the call button on the side of the bed.

Ilya groaned. "I don't want to have foggy head again."

"Too bad. You were in a fucking car crash, Ilya. You need drugs." Shane dried his face on the front of his sweatshirt, then got up to get himself a tissue and blow his nose. He washed his hands at the sink, splashed water on his face, dried it off again. "I have to go back home tonight. We play Buffalo tomorrow. Then the day after that we leave for a road trip."

"Yeah. I know."

"My parents will definitely help you, whenever you get discharged. My mom already said you can stay with them, if you want."

Ilya doubted he'd need that much help, but—maybe it wasn't about that. Maybe he needed the company. "Maybe I will."

Shane turned to face him, taking a deep breath in and out. "And maybe… when I'm back, you can come stay with me in Montreal? Until you're able to start going to practices, and stuff."

Ilya still hadn't talked to anyone about how long his recovery time would be, but it seemed like a safe bet that the team doctor wouldn't be clearing him to set foot on the ice for at least a couple months. Already he was preparing himself for the possibility of not being able to play for the rest of the season, but the thought of getting to stay with Shane during that time eased the disappointment. Even made him excited, a little.

"That would be good," he said.

Shane nodded. That was when Drew knocked and came into the room.

"Mr. Rozanov! What can I do for you?"

"He needs more pain meds," Shane said before Ilya could make up something else.

"Uh oh," Drew said, coming to Ilya's bedside. "That true?"

"Well," Ilya said, planning to make something up anyway, but Shane gave him a look. "Yes, maybe. But I don't like that it makes it hard to think."

"Sure." Drew nodded. "But something to consider is that if the pain gets bad enough, you won't be able to think either way. So let's try and stay on top of it, huh? Tell you what, I'll get you going on some Tylenol and some ibuprofen, and who knows, maybe that's enough to take the edge off. And if not, we'll go from there. All right?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Awesome, let me go grab some of that for you."

When Drew left the room, Shane sank back into the bedside chair. "Glad that guy seems nice."

"Mm. Yes. I have good nurses."

"So that's…" Shane started ticking off on his fingers. "Maya, who didn't know who we were. Drew, who definitely knows. The neurologist, and that person who came in to draw blood, I don't know if they knew."

"They're not going to tell anybody, Hollander," Ilya said, unable to keep the irritated edge out of his voice.

"No, I know, but." Shane swallowed and rubbed his hands on his thighs. "What if they did? I mean, what if it was fine if they did?"

"What?"

"What if we just… told everybody? And stopped keeping this huge fucking secret?"

Ilya was stunned speechless. It was the last thing he'd expected Shane to say. Shane seemed kind of surprised himself. He looked around the room, blinking, and waved a hand. "I just mean… fuck, I don't know what I mean. I kept thinking that last night would've been different, if we were married. Like, I wouldn't have had to find out from a fucking reporter. Someone would've notified me right away, maybe even pulled me out of the game. And I would've gotten to see you sooner. I wouldn't have had to fight, and argue. Everyone would just know that I belonged in here with you."

The fact that he jumped right from telling people all the way to being married stunned Ilya even more. His heart rate picked up as soon as Shane said the word married. He remembered there was a monitor right next to him that would show that, if Shane were paying attention to it—which he wasn't, but what a strange and naked feeling it was, having your emotions laid bare by your physiology.

"Okay, so," Ilya said, "marry me, then."

"Okay," Shane said, and Ilya was worried the monitor would start beeping in alarm. Then Shane closed his eyes and shook his head. "I mean, no."

Fucking ow. But he'd been foolish to think it would be that easy.

Maybe they should go back to injecting morphine straight into his veins.

"I mean—that's not—" Shane rubbed his forehead. "Not like this, okay? Jesus. Fuck." He leaned on his knees and rested his head in his hands. "I can't think right now."

There was a knock, and Drew popped back into the room. "Got your Tylenol and ibuprofen here."

He'd just made it to Ilya's bedside and was passing him a paper cup with the pills when someone else came through the door, a woman pushing an empty wheelchair.

"Hi Ilya! I'm here from radiology. Dr. Yang, that's your pulmonologist, he ordered another chest x-ray. Is now a good time?"

Ilya glanced at Shane, who was still sitting with his head in his hands. Ilya tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry. "Sure. Why not."

The social worker arrived in the mid afternoon.

After the x-rays, they brought Ilya back to his room, and Shane wasn't there. Then ten minutes later the radiology assistant returned and said the neurologist wanted a CT scan, so she dragged him all the way back to imaging. They weren't actually ready for him, so waiting for and receiving the scan took the better part of an hour. When he finally got back to his room, Shane was there again, but so was Wiebe, the two of them sitting and chatting while they waited for Ilya's return.

Wiebe didn't stay long, just wanted to see how Ilya was doing and offer him well-wishes. He played a video he'd taken on his phone of all the guys on the team waving and telling Ilya he was missed and to get well soon. Ilya guessed it was supposed to be uplifting, but everyone looked so fucking worried, it was just kind of stressful.

"They look like they are planning for my funeral," he said to Wiebe. "Please tell them I am not dying."

Wiebe laughed. "I will. You seem like you're doing okay, Roz. But you gave us all scare. A pretty good one."

"Yes, I know. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Only person who should be sorry is that—" He paused, probably swallowing back the word he really wanted to say. "Whoever it was that chose to drink and get behind the wheel of a car."

Shane, who'd said little while Wiebe was there, nodded several times.

Just as Wiebe was leaving, another doctor showed up. An internal medicine specialist, there to talk about his blood work and his stupid spleen. Ilya listened to her talk, sort of, but not really.

After a couple of minutes, she suddenly stopped, flipping through his chart. "I am so sorry, I just realized this says you require interpretation in Russian. That was an oversight on my part, I apologize. Let me pause here, and request an interpreter, and we'll pick this up again when we've got someone to help. Sound good?"

"Yes, good."

When the doctor left, Shane said, "I almost said something a couple times. I could barely understand what she was saying." Ilya didn't respond, just stared at his lap. "Are you okay?"

"Great."

"Ilya, don't fucking do this."

"Fucking do what?"

"Act like you're just—" He cut himself off when the door opened yet again. Ilya was starting to get very sick of that.

The woman who entered looked to be in her 30s. White, brunette with her hair in a ponytail, and—Ilya saw when she got closer—freckles. Unlike every other stranger who'd walked through the door, she wasn't dressed in medical scrubs, but a cardigan and slacks. She carried a clipboard and a laptop and had the barest hint of a smile on her face. "Ilya Rozanov?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Petra. I'm a social worker here on staff." She had an accent Ilya couldn't place, which he only noticed because she rolled her Rs, same as him. "I need to speak with you for a bit, privately." She glanced at Shane.

And yes, things were awkward between them at the moment, but Ilya wanted to grab onto him, dig his fingers in, and refuse to let go. "Why privately?"

"For legal reasons, I need to be sure the information you give me is your own, not being influenced by an outside party. If you're uncomfortable talking to me alone, I can ask another member of the staff to join us. But I'm afraid it can't be a friend or family member." She spoke slowly, pausing a beat after each phrase. Maybe she did it because of their language barrier, but he didn't think so. Something about her entire bearing seemed unhurried and deliberate.

Ilya and Shane exchanged a look. "Do you need an interpreter?" Shane asked.

Ilya remembered Yelena, who'd reminded him too much of a grumpy aunt, and he didn't want her listening in. It was irrational—they might not even get the same interpreter—but it made him say, "No, I don't think so."

"You do have a right to an interpreter, if you request one," Petra said.

Ilya shook his head. "It's fine."

Hesitantly, Shane stood up. "I guess I'll… wait in the hall? Or, no, I could run to the cafeteria and get you some lunch? You haven't eaten anything in a while."

"Okay," Ilya said. He wasn't hungry in the slightest. He watched unhappily as Shane left the room.

Petra took a seat in the chair Wiebe had used before, still positioned near the end of the bed. She rested the computer and clipboard on her lap and gave Ilya that same slight smile as before. "Can I ask how you're feeling?"

Shrugging would hurt, so Ilya just lifted a hand, palm-up, for the same effect.

"You can be honest. But I understand it's not an easy question to answer."

"It's not."

Petra waited a moment longer, then spoke. "Let me explain to you why I'm here, then. A hospital social worker plays many roles, but a big one is crisis intervention. That means when we have a patient who's experiencing a crisis, whether it's the result of an illness or injury that's being treated here, or something that happened before they even came through the doors—"

She paused, like she could see him chewing on the words. Crisis intervention, two that he knew the meaning of separately but not together. And more so from the way they were used in sports, not hospitals. Crisis. Krizis. "Yes?"

"I provide support," she continued. "Sometimes it's someone to talk to. Sometimes it's a hand to hold. Sometimes I connect people with services, like psychiatric help or therapy." She watched him so intently, it unnerved him. Felt like she could read his mind.

"My support," Ilya said, "just left the room."

Petra nodded slowly. "Friends and family are essential. And it's not my intention to keep you separated from him. But, Mr. Rozanov—or do you prefer Ilya?"

"Ilya is fine."

"Ilya, like I said, there is a legal requirement that I speak to you alone. That's because I need to determine whether you might present a danger to yourself or others."

Ilya processed that, then flopped his head back on the pillow. "Right. Because Galina called you."

"She called the hospital, because she wanted us to be aware of the possibility that you intentionally caused the accident. Because then steps would need to be taken to protect you from harming yourself further." Petra waited a moment for Ilya to stop staring at the ceiling and look at her again. "I contacted the police department and asked to read the report. Ilya, it was very straightforward. You weren't at fault in any way."

Right, that much had seemed obvious, until just now. Because he found himself wondering—what if he'd seen the car coming, and hadn't tried to brake or swerve?

"But the fact that Dr. Molchalina felt she had a duty to contact us, that alone prompted me to follow up with you. Therapists don't take the decision to break confidentiality lightly. She didn't contact the police. She didn't even know it was a multi-car accident. It was specifically suicidal intent she was concerned about. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes. She thought I tried to kill myself. Because I said if I had to I'd drive off a bridge, or something. But I didn't, and you said I didn't, so what is the point of this?"

"Before you're released from the hospital, you may need to be evaluated by a psychiatrist. I need to determine if, legally, you can be subjected to involuntary treatment. Do you know what that means?"

"Involuntary means I don't say yes, but you do it anyway. So, this is like, what—" Ilya had no idea what the word was he was going for. "Jack Nicholson movie? Stabbing in the brain?" He pointed at his eye and made a squelching sound effect.

"No. Lobotomies are no longer performed in Canada. Or anywhere else, as far as I'm aware. Treatment in this case means evaluation by a psychiatrist, and potentially administration of medications which have been shown to be safe."

Lobotomy. Same word, then. Lobotomiya. He heard it in his father's voice, because on more than one occasion Grigori had accused Ilya's mother of acting like she was lobotomized, when she couldn't get out of bed.

"When does Shane get to come back in?" Ilya asked.

Petra didn't answer right away. She was doing the mind-reading thing again, it seemed like. "That's who was sitting with you when I came in?"

"Yes."

"He's a friend?"

"Boyfriend."

"You feel safe with him?"

"Extremely."

She nodded. "I think it would be a good thing, then, to have him join us in a few minutes. I just want to ask you a few more questions before we do. The more honest you can be, the better able I'll be to recommend the right approach to keeping you safe, if one is needed. Do you understand?"

He did, but he wasn't sure what the incentive to be honest was. "You are threatening to lock me up."

"Most of the time when I screen patients, I don't recommend involuntary treatment. And even in the event I do, the most likely scenario is a hospital stay of 72 hours or less. Does that help?"

"Eh," Ilya said. Maybe it wasn't as dire as he'd been picturing, but it still felt like shit to be discussing it at all.

"From what I understand of your physical condition, it's unlikely you'll be discharged from the hospital within that time frame, anyway. Would you consent to an evaluation by a psychiatrist during your stay?"

He flopped his head back on the pillow. "Yeah, why the fuck not. Already so many doctors."

Petra typed something into the computer, clicked a few times, then looked once more at Ilya. "Have you ever attempted suicide before?"

"No."

"Have you ever known a family member or close friend who died by suicide?"

"Yes. My mother."

More rapid typing. "How long ago?"

Ilya hadn't done the math in a while. "Seventeen years." Shit, had it really been that long? His mother had been dead a full five years longer than she'd ever been in his life. He fucking hated that.

"Do you live alone?"

"Yes. Ah, mostly. My boyfriend—it's a long distance relationship, but he stays with me when he can, and I stay with him."

"What is the distance?"

"He lives in Montreal, I'm here in Ottawa."

"And how often are the two of you in contact?"

Ilya shook his head, trying to think of how to describe it. "Lots of texts. A phone call a day, at least, usually. Our schedules are… difficult, both of us traveling often. We see each other few times a month or less."

"Would you say that your inability to see each other more often is a source of stress?"

Ilya laughed abruptly. "Yes. Very much. Maybe the biggest."

"Do you have access to firearms?"

The change in topic gave him whiplash. "Uh, no, I don't think so."

"In the past week, have you been having thoughts about killing yourself?"

He should have seen this question coming, but he hadn't expected it to be so blunt. He felt heavy, like the bed had its own gravity. "Yes, but…"

Petra's eyebrows went up. "But what?"

"Not anymore." The urge to cry hit him but didn't quite take hold. A tickling in his nose, sinuses burning. "I thought I was, maybe, going to die, after the accident. And I didn't want to."

Petra nodded slowly. "That's good. That's very good." She clicked a few things, then closed the laptop. "I'll invite your boyfriend back into the room now, if that's all right with you."

"Please," Ilya said, relieved. But it might not have been long enough for Shane to get back from the cafeteria.

Petra stood and opened the door. She checked in the hall, then let the door swing open.

"While we wait for him to get back, I'll have you fill this out for me," she said, passing him her clipboard and a pen.

It was a patient health questionnaire, with several zero-to-three rating scales. Over the last 2 weeks, how often have you been bothered by any of the following problems?

He checked Nearly every day for almost every item on the list. Petra went back to work on her laptop while he filled it out, and stood when he held the clipboard out to her. She offered no commentary on the results, just started entering them into the computer.

Shane appeared, pausing in the doorway with a cafeteria tray in hand. Ilya was so happy to see him, so mired in affection, he stopped caring about the weird talk they'd had and the way Shane had said okay and then I mean, no to getting married and not even noticed that he casually ripped Ilya's heart out.

"Can I…" Shane began, and Petra looked up.

"Yes, please. Come in and shut the door."

Shane did, then set the tray on Ilya's bedside table. Shane had gotten him a sandwich with mustard packets, an apple, a bag of chips, a muffin. A plastic cup that contained what looked like Coke. If Ilya'd had a working phone, he would have taken a picture of it all for his instagram. In the secret language of his grid, it would mean, Look at the perfect lunch my perfect boyfriend put together for me.

"Did I hear right that your name is Shane?" Petra asked.

"Yeah." Shane sank into his chair beside the bed.

"Do you consent to having me discuss details of your mental health in front of him?" she asked Ilya.

Ilya wished he could say no and just have her leave, but he knew all that would actually happen was her kicking Shane out again. "Yes, fine." He reached out and Shane took his hand.

"Your responses to the questionnaire I had you fill out suggest severe depression. The report made by Dr. Molchalina and my conversation with you today suggest an intermediate acute risk of suicide."

A small vocalization escaped Shane, and he gripped Ilya's hand fiercely.

Petra continued. "At this time, I'm not recommending involuntary detention for your safety. You've agreed to be seen by a psychiatrist, who will monitor your condition and create a treatment plan with your participation. I'll be following up with you as well and making sure you have a safety plan in place when you're discharged."

As she talked, and kept talking, Ilya's focus was on Shane, who sat there like a man taking hit after hit after hit, but refusing to run. He nodded along with Petra's words, asking questions from time to time. But Ilya saw the little flinches, the surging tension, the barely-contained hurt in his expression.

This is my fault, Ilya kept thinking. I did this to him.

Ilya was not having a good twenty-four hours, but he thought Shane might be having it worse. At least Ilya had been unconscious for a good chunk of last night. Shane was running on half a plate of scrambled eggs and two hours of sleep, hours from home, blindsided by the knowledge that his boyfriend had wanted to kill himself. Talking to all the same specialists Ilya did, running errands, throwing out trash and filling up Ilya's water. Assembling picture-perfect lunches.

How had he not broken down more than once? He was so unbelievably strong and brave. He humbled Ilya, but that was nothing new. This was the same Shane Hollander that Ilya had always known, the one who never backed down, ever since the day they were seventeen years old and shaking hands in a frigid parking lot in Saskatchewan. Shane putting himself out there, introducing himself to someone who'd good as given him the middle finger.

Now Ilya was running his thumb over the back of Shane's hand, trying to figure out how to do better for him.

When Petra left, Shane sat there staring at nothing, then pulled his hand free from Ilya's to rub his face. He hunched over, breathing through his hands.

"Lyubimyy," Ilya said quietly.

"Mm what?"

Ilya scooted over in the bed, despite the twist of pain it sent through his ribs. "Come here."

Once again they danced around with the tubes, finding a comfortable position together in the too-small bed. Ilya made Shane stay further down beside him this time so he could reach his face to easily kiss it. Which he did. Again, and again. He kissed his forehead and his eyebrows, his temples and cheeks. Shane kissed him back a couple times, getting him on the chin and jaw, but mostly just took it. He had one arm wrapped around Ilya's and the other hand resting on Ilya's thigh. There was an undeniable hesitancy in his posture.

"You aren't hurting me," Ilya promised him.

"I don't want accidentally bump you, or whatever."

"If you bump me, I won't die. Relax, Hollander."

"I don't think you should joke about dying right now."

That was fair, but Ilya still didn't like it. He just wanted to bring some lightness back into things. He didn't think he'd seen Shane smile once the whole time he'd been here, except the fake smiles he gave to other people.

Shane was staring into the middle distance, his eyes unfocused.

"Look at me," Ilya whispered.

Shane adjusted the position of his head slightly, looking into Ilya's eyes. His were bloodshot, smudged purple underneath from lack of sleep. But still so beautiful. Ilya could never grow tired of falling into those eyes.

"I won't leave you," Ilya said. "I promise."

Shane swallowed, blinked a few times and looked at Ilya's lips. "We're in this together?"

"Yes. Together. Always."

"I wasn't trying to say I don't want to marry you, by the way. Earlier."

"I know." Because he did know, regardless of how it had stung.

"I just need…" Shane closed his eyes. "I don't know what I need."

"Sleep, probably. And therapy."

That had been one of the things Petra talked to them about. She'd spent a good several minutes impressing upon Shane that he needed to consider his own mental health, was experiencing a traumatic event, and ought to seek support. Ilya had liked that part of the conversation.

"Yeah. Probably." Shane scooted closer and touched his forehead to Ilya's. "I was thinking about missing tomorrow's game. Say it's for a family emergency. 'Cause it is. Then I wouldn't have to go back home today."

And because Ilya, of course, knew Shane very well, he said, "Won't you feel better if you make the game?"

"I don't know," Shane said miserably. "I guess I could just miss practice, and go back in the afternoon. But I don't even know—what if they kick me out of here when visiting hours are over? I guess I could sleep at my parents'. Fuck." Ilya could feel Shane's brow furrow against his own. "Do you think we could get someone to just come marry us right here in the hospital? Like someone from city hall? Then they wouldn't make me leave. I guess. Maybe."

Ilya laughed a little, which hurt. "Ow."

"Stop," Shane said, like he'd chosen to do it.

"Don't be funny, then."

Shane scoffed. "Jeez, I just realized you never ate your food. Here." He sat up and pulled the bedside table closer. "The ice is melting in your drink."

Ilya propped the bed up a little more and accepted the sandwich half Shane passed to him. "You eat, too."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care, you should eat. Have some sandwich."

Shane looked at the remaining half on the plate, hesitating. "My diet—"

"Who gives a fuck about your diet? Eat." Ilya took a bite, then made a beckoning motion with his finger. "Give me mustard."

Shane handed him a packet, and he tore it open with his teeth and squeezed some on his sandwich half. Shane just kept staring at the plate.

"Eat, or I will joke about dying again," Ilya said.

"Fuck off," Shane said, but he picked the sandwich up and bit into it.

After they'd cleared the tray between the two of them—Shane, mostly, since Ilya still couldn't eat much without feeling full—Ilya lowered the bed again so they could snuggle more. Or at least, get as close to snuggling as his busted-up torso would allow. This was officially the longest they'd gone since the morning without someone barging into the room wanting something from Ilya, and he wasn't going to waste it.

Shane curled around Ilya, high enough to have one arm behind Ilya's head and the other across his upper chest. Practically hugging Ilya's head. He combed his fingers through Ilya's hair, kissing it periodically. The rest of his body was bent at an awkward angle, feet sticking off the side of the bed.

"You should stay at your parents' house tonight," Ilya said. "Come back in the morning. So you can sleep in a normal bed. Get some good rest."

"It won't be good rest," Shane said. "Not without you."

"Yes, well." Selfishly, Ilya didn't hate the thought of Shane spending the entire night in the hospital with him, uncomfortable though it was. "Better than this."

"I don't think so." Shane pulled his arm in to spread a hand flat over Ilya's heart. "I want to feel this beating."

And Ilya couldn't bear that—couldn't bear how much he loved this man. He put his hand on top of Shane's. What he felt, but didn't have the courage to articulate, was that it would be better if Shane left before he was kicked out. Because it would hurt so much worse to think he could have Shane all night, and then have him ripped away. Ilya was in too much pain already; he couldn't take any more.

But they had a few hours still. He could put it off. He'd find a way to say it, when the time came.

For now, he just laced his fingers with Shane's, and said, "For you. It beats for you."

Chapter 4: first you get hurt, then you feel sorry

Chapter Notes

When the clock ticked past eight PM and nobody came storming into the room to kick Shane out, he had a frail hope he'd be able to stay. But it only lasted a few minutes before the night nurse who'd taken over came in and cheerfully told him that visiting hours were over.

Shane kissed Ilya goodbye, beyond caring what the nurse would think about it—if anything, hoping she'd be a little offended. He left the hospital and stood on the curb in front of the entrance, without a jacket, and called his mom for a ride.

At his parents' house, he went straight to bed and slept like a rock for around six hours, and was wide awake after that. He thought about calling the phone in Ilya's hospital room, now that he had the number in his history, but he hoped Ilya was sleeping and didn't want to wake him up.

They'd used Shane's phone to order Ilya a replacement for the one that got destroyed in the wreck, and gotten overnight delivery for it, but in the meantime texting was out. Shane sent him one anyway, thinking of how it would pop up once the new phone was activated. It just said I love you.

He sent an email to Theriault saying he would miss practice but planned to be at the game. He emailed his stylist, asking if she had any recommendations for a jeweler in Montreal. Then, he spent the better part of ninety minutes drafting an email to Scott Hunter—which in the end wasn't that long, but he agonized over every word, deleting and rewriting, trying to obfuscate details and then deciding he didn't care.

He was fucking tired of living this way.

He walked through the main entrance to the hospital at 6:58 AM.

When he got to Ilya's room, he found him standing at the side of his bed, supporting himself on the rail. Ilya saw Shane, straightened to his full height, and held his arms out. "Hug!"

"No! Aren't you still hurt?" Like the answer could possibly be no. Shane hustled to his side and helped him get back in the bed. "What are you doing up?"

"I walked to the toilet. I don't have to piss in the plastic bottle anymore." He was referring to the bed urinal, which Shane thought was pretty handy but which Ilya had bitched about every time he used it. He settled back on his pillow and sighed happily. "And look, no more tubes." He tapped next to the saline lock still taped into place on his forearm, which was no longer hooked up to an IV. "They keep this in until 48 hours, in case of, ah… hemorrhoid?"

"Hemorrhage?" Shane guessed.

"Probably that. In case I need blood."

"Are you taking your pain meds?"

"Yes, lots. I asked for more since I could not sleep. Now I don't have any pain. I think I am cured."

"I think you're high," Shane said, grinning and leaning down to kiss him.

"High on Hollander."

"Sure. Whatever."

"Best drug." Ilya grasped the front of Shane's sweatshirt and kissed him back, more deeply and kind of sloppy. "Have to ask doctor when I can fuck you again."

"Don't, oh my God."

"Mm yes, have to. Need to take apart boyfriend. Because he is so pretty. His ass needs me."

"Okay, that's enough from you. Someone could walk in."

Shane would be lying if he said it hadn't crossed his mind, too. It had just seemed very secondary to making sure Ilya was alive and going to stay that way. The fact Ilya was thinking about it now suggested he was feeling more confident on that front, which Shane found heartening.

Still, he needed to stop thinking about this, since he didn't want a boner in the fucking hospital. He changed the subject. "Have you talked with any of the doctors since I left last night?"

Ilya nodded and rested his eyes. "At 24 hours. Trauma person."

Shane pulled up his usual chair to sit. "Like, 24 hours after the accident?"

"Surgery. Most important time, for making sure no more bleeding. Then, they relax a little. And he said I should relax. Pleased with my condition, he said."

"That's good." Shane grabbed Ilya's hand and squeezed it tighter than he meant to. "So you're like, out of the woods? I mean, we don't have to worry anymore?"

Ilya shook his head, but Shane didn't know which question he was answering. "They continue to monitor for a week. But, not all the time, just… oh, what is the word. Intermission. Intermin-tent." He opened his eyes. "I love you."

Shane's heart skipped like it hadn't done since the early days of hearing that. "I love you too."

"You go back when?"

"My mom's driving me back home at two." He felt guilty saying it. Like maybe he should be skipping the game after all.

But Ilya just nodded. "Play good for me, okay? I'll watch you on TV."

"I will," Shane promised.

Ilya closed his eyes again. Shane laced their fingers together, then unfolded them, lining up palms and fingers, comparing the size. He remembered doing that their first summer at the cottage, during one of those long days when they had nothing to do but be together and they couldn't stop touching each other. They'd compared hands and feet. Finger and toe length. It had all seemed so revelatory for reasons they couldn't articulate. So important to know, precisely, that their pinkie fingers were the same size but their index fingers were different. Taking the time to make maps of each other's bodies.

Shane did it again, holding Ilya's ring finger up to his own, then rolling it between his index finger and thumb, trying to memorize. Ilya, it seemed, had dozed off. Unaware.

Ilya's new phone got delivered and set up before Shane left, so Shane was able to text him on the ride home, and during dinner, and while getting ready for the game—basically glued to his phone until he had to put it away for warmups. He couldn't stop thinking about how Ilya's therapist had been making him check in with her. Maybe Shane hadn't ever checked in enough.

Petra, the social worker, had specifically instructed him not to take charge of that. "You are not his healthcare professional," she'd said. "It is not your job to keep him safe. It's your job to be a supportive partner, but that's different. Just like when Ilya is released from the hospital, you might help him with things around the house that are hard when he's recovering. Maybe you'll run to the pharmacy for him. You'll keep him company. You won't be giving him x-rays and surgical follow-ups. Do you understand the difference? You're not responsible for his physical health or his mental health."

Shane had nodded and agreed, but the truth was he wasn't sure he did understand the difference. The x-ray example had been clear and straightforward, but what was the line between being supportive and checking in all the time to make sure Ilya didn't want to hurt himself?

The game wasn't great. Not a shitshow like their last one, but Montreal lost 3-2 to Buffalo. Shane might as well have not been there—he stayed focused, but his speed and reaction time were shit, no doubt from all the lost sleep. He thought, grumpily as he headed back to the dressing room, that he should've just missed the game and spent more time with Ilya.

His panic surged briefly when he checked his phone and found a litany of messages from Ilya, but he calmed down once he saw they were all just reactions to the game. The last one said I am going to fight these fucking refs. omw now. And that made Shane smile.

When he got home and was changed into his pajamas, he checked his email and found a reply from Scott Hunter. He'd almost forgotten about about having emailed him early that morning, and he felt sheepish about it now. And kind of guilty. The reply was a lot longer than anything Shane had expected, so Hunter must have spent a good chunk of time writing it.

Hey Shane, thanks for reaching out. I'm happy to help.

To answer your question, no, I have never once regretted it, not even a little bit. That's not to say it's always been easy. The truth is that while most people have been nothing but supportive, there are people who think it's a problem, and they try to make a problem for me as well. But what I can definitely say is that it's worth it. Worth it in ways that are hard to put into words until you've lived it.

I guess the thing is for me, I used to tell myself before I came out that my hockey years were only a short part of my life overall, so it was okay keep lying and hiding during that time. But what I realized is that I wanted those years to be some of the best years of my life, and that wasn't going to happen if I wasn't being honest with myself and everyone else. For most guys in the league, the ones who are in relationships with women, they get to have the person they love the most at their side through all their highs and all their lows. And I thought just because the person I love is a man doesn't mean I don't deserve that too. Turns out it's better than I even thought it could be. My point is, you can give yourself the life you want now.

If you decide to do this, you should know there are people (I won't name names here) who might try and intimidate you into backing down and not using your voice. But you're not doing anything wrong and you're not breaking any rules, so these people don't have a leg to stand on. Contact the Players' Association if you need to because they will have your back. You might even want to get in touch with them ahead of time if you're really worried about it.

Happy to talk to you more on the phone or in person next time we're in the same city. Whatever you decide to do I wish you the best. Tell Roz I said get well soon.

That last line almost gave Shane a heart attack. He hadn't mentioned Ilya by name at all in his email, just "a player on another team." Maybe it was incidental, and Hunter just figured Shane would be in contact with Ilya because of the Irina Foundation. Or maybe Hunter had clocked them and fucking figured out everything. Shane wondered if there might be other people who'd figured it out, too. Jesus.

But that was only the beginning. There was so much to process in the email. People who might try and intimidate you—was he talking about Crowell? Shane had already experienced some of that, so it didn't seem like a stretch. That's not to say it's always been easy—that was exactly what Shane was afraid of. He knew it was naive, but a part of him had hoped Hunter would say exactly that, that everything had been perfect and easy.

The part that stuck out to him the most, though, was this: they get to have the person they love the most at their side through all their highs and all their lows. When Shane thought of his highs from the past decade, a lot of them were centered on Ilya. Little things that meant so much, like long quiet days at the cottage and their first I love yous. The elation every single time they reunited, whether it was for one night or the summer. The relief when Ilya signed with Ottawa and Shane could finally see their dreams within reach. And then there were the highs where Ilya wasn't there, big moments like winning the Cup. All three times, Shane had thought of Ilya, but the one last year was the most poignant and—if he was honest—painful, wishing Ilya could be there celebrating with him, walking out on the ice to kiss him on live television, now that Shane knew that was allowed.

For other people, at least. Shane still didn't feel like it was allowed for him. But Scott Hunter was telling him that it was. And Scott Hunter potentially even knew it was Ilya, specifically, that Shane wanted with him.

And the lows? Well, obviously that was what had driven Shane to send this email in the first place. Had him thinking that maybe it just wasn't fucking worth it, protecting his reputation and career in exchange for waiting around ignorant and helpless while the man he loved lay out of reach in a hospital bed.

My point is, you can give yourself the life you want now.

Shane still couldn't totally wrap his mind around it. But he had to fucking try.

Ilya's next several days in the hospital dragged.

His room filled up with flowers sent by well-wishers from across the League, to the point where the nurses were having a hard time finding space for all of them. Fallen petals and stamens littered the floor and tabletops. He started instructing them to keep or toss based on who the sender was. Old teammates he still kept in touch with: keep. Owner of the Boston Raiders: toss. Easy shit.

He would've traded every single one for another minute to spend with Shane, but that was just a given.

"Look, there. White jersey with the 24, that's him." Ilya pointed at the TV. Maya was on a break and sitting in his room to watch part of the game against Vancouver. Second period was just starting.

"Oh my God, he's so fast!"

Ilya beamed. "Yes. Second fastest player in the League."

"Who's number one?"

"Me."

Maya snorted. "Uh huh."

"It's true! I'm not bragging this time. I win the record every year for fastest skater."

"Not this year, probably."

"Oh, no, what! Maya, you are so mean to me." Ilya pretended to sniffle and pout. Then he whooped in triumph, sitting up in bed and waving at the TV. "That! There! Did you see that? It's called a backhand. Pretends he's going the other way, fakes out the defense. He is famous for this move."

"Not sure I really caught what he did." Maya grinned at Ilya. "But it's sweet how worked up you get over him."

"Mine. Mine, that is my boyfriend, and he is the best." Ilya leaned back against the pillows, content.

"Wait, where did he go? I don't see him anymore."

"Line change. He will be back. Right now we have to watch worse players try to do what he just did. Sometimes they manage to score."

"Well, if he's the best, why not just keep him out there?"

"Eh, it's too tiring. It's not like soccer, where sometimes you're running and sometimes you're waiting. In hockey you're always moving, unless you are the goalie. So you have to take shifts."

"I guess that makes sense." Maya glanced at her watch. "I gotta get back to the station, but I'll be keeping an eye on the TV when I can to see how your man does."

Your man. Ilya loved the way that sounded. It felt so good, having people who knew.

Visitors helped break up the monotony. Yuna came every morning, usually with horrid "snacks" she thought would be more palatable than hospital food, like under-seasoned root vegetable chips and gluten-free cookies. David came in the evenings when he was getting off work, always with a cold bottle of Coke and some candy from the vending machines.

All of his teammates came to see him at one point or another, but they seemed to have signed up for shifts of three or four guys at a time so they wouldn't overwhelm him. Harris came too, and talked him into posing for some silly hospital room photos for social media.

The team doctor came to see him, though it wasn't exactly a social call.

"Give me the bad news, doc," Ilya said. "How long am I out? Rest of the season?"

Terry sighed heavily, which couldn't be a good sign. "Roz, this is a complex situation. You're being followed by four different specialists, and I've only had a chance to talk to two of them. It sounds like neurology's getting ready to release you from care, which is great. But the most complicated piece of the puzzle's probably going to be orthopedics, and I still need to meet with them. With the surgery you had, we're looking at eight weeks, minimum, and that's if everything's picture perfect." As if that last part reminded him, he added, "For the love of God, stop smoking."

Ilya grumbled. Terry flipped through the pages in the manila envelope he carried with him. "Last regular season game's scheduled for April 14. If there's a potential to get you back in mid-March, we can approach treatment with that as our goal. But you might want to just take the summer, really use the opportunity to recover fully and get your strength back."

Boston would have fought for Ilya's return, but things were different now. No one expected the Centaurs to make the playoffs. Ilya had been nursing a hope that this would be the year he'd finally take them, but he could feel it crumbling away in his fingertips. "Let me know what you find out from the other doctors," he said, stubbornly.

He was grouchy for a good while after Terry left. He knew it wasn't intentional, but the conversation had him feeling like Terry thought he'd chosen to get his rib cage bashed in.

Svetlana flew into Ottawa on Saturday morning and spent much of that day and Sunday hanging out with him until she had to fly back home. He gave her the door code to his house so she wouldn't have to get a hotel, and she brought him some of his own clothes so he could feel like a person again. Those were good days, or as good as they could be, considering. But as soon as she left, Ilya felt a familiar crushing loneliness settle into his chest.

So it was an opportune time, perhaps, for the psychiatrist to evaluate him the following morning. He didn't come to Ilya's room—instead, Ilya walked, led by a nurse to a completely different part of the hospital. It was the longest he'd been on his feet since the accident. It brought to his attention a host of little injuries he hadn't been aware of before: metatarsals aching, ankle twinging, knee stiff, all on the right side; his gas and brake pedal foot. Nothing was broken, or they'd have told him after all the x-rays, but it had him limping a bit. His low back ached, pelvis unstable.

The psych ward was behind a secure door. It had a hush to it and a lot more natural light. Peaceful on its surface, but Ilya felt afraid. Petra had said she wasn't recommending involuntary treatment, but what if someone else made a different call?

But once he met the doctor, it put his mind at ease. Dr. Kaminski was younger than Ilya expected and surprisingly chipper, with none of the grave overtones that most of the other doctors had. He was sort of the only person that wasn't treating Ilya like there was something wrong with him. Like it was normal to have severe depression and an intermediate-acute risk of suicide.

"Have you ever been prescribed medication for your mental health before?" Dr. Kaminski asked, with the tone you'd use to ask someone if they'd been to that new Vietnamese place near the rink.

"No," Ilya said. He had again declined to have an interpreter for the appointment. "My therapist said it was an option, but…"

Dr. Kaminski waited for him to continue, but Ilya was having a hard time saying the words. "Is it something you're interested in learning more about?"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea," Ilya said. "Because—ah, what if I took too many?"

"You're worried about having it as a means to end your life," Dr. Kaminski said. "That's definitely something we take into consideration. There are certain types of medications we won't prescribe you, in that case. But there are others where the lethal dose is much higher, and we'd just write it so you don't have that many at a time. So you'd get a week's supply instead of a month, for example."

Ilya thought about it. "I think, then, maybe it could work."

Dr. Kaminski interviewed him for a while after that, asking questions Ilya sensed were checking for other mental illnesses. Things like did he ever hear voices or think he had superpowers. He had Ilya fill out a questionnaire about anxiety. He typed on his computer for a while and Ilya stared out the window, watching some little birds hop around a bare tree branch in the sun.

"Okay," Dr. Kaminski announced, rolling his office chair back from the desk. "I've sent the prescription to the hospital pharmacy, so someone should be bringing that to you within the next hour or so. When you get discharged you'll let them know where you want the prescription sent. We'll follow up in two weeks to see how it's going and your primary doctor will handle it from there. It was nice to meet you." And he stuck out his hand.

"That's it?" Ilya said, accepting the handshake tentatively.

"That's it for now."

And he was free to leave.

"Was I wearing a seat belt?" Ilya asked out of nowhere, when Maya was in his room gathering up his trash.

"Pardon?" she asked.

"Was I wearing a seat belt. In the car crash."

She straightened up slowly and cocked her head at him. "Ilya Rozanov. Is that your way of telling me you don't always wear a seat belt?"

Ilya smiled sheepishly. "Ha, ha. No, I do. Really. I just keep wondering. What if I, you know. Forgot. That one time. Because why else was I hurt so badly?"

"Hm. Well." She rearranged the dishes on his dinner tray to make room for a disposable coffee cup and crumpled napkins. "I see a lot of folks in here with bad injuries, lot of them worse than yours, who were wearing seat belts. What I don't see a lot of is people who weren't wearing seat belts. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Mm. Because they die."

"Right. Not always. Stranger things've happened. In fact in medicine, we see strange things all the time. I'm just saying, it seems likely you had yours fastened. Usually people have bruises that make it obvious. Your lower belly, though, where the lap belt would be, that's all bruised up anyway from the bleeding, and your chest too. Maybe check your shoulder?"

Ilya peered down at his left shoulder, tugging aside the neckline of his t-shirt. There was some bruising on his collarbone, indistinct.

"So, maybe," Maya said. "Sometimes it's an outline, clear as day. Sometimes not. You know what you could do, is contact EMS and see if they can put you in touch with whoever it was that pulled you out of the vehicle. They'd know for sure, since they would've had to cut it off you."

"Mason," Ilya said, a name suddenly returning to him that he hadn't thought about since going under anesthesia. "His name was Mason."

"They love hearing from people whose lives they saved anyway," Maya said. "You should give him a call."

"Maybe I will."

Maya nodded. "And in the meantime. Ilya! You wear your seat belt. Every time."

He smiled. "Okay. I promise."

On Tuesday morning, they removed the staples from his incision, replacing them with steri-strips. His favorite of the doctors, Dr. Prasad, was the one who counseled him for discharge. He liked her because she never seemed rushed or dismissive, and she was warm but never pitying.

"No lifting anything heavier than, say, a four-liter milk bag," she told him. "Not until we see you again. No running, but short walks and stairs are okay. Start slow, and don't push yourself. If it makes the pain worse, you're doing too much."

"And no skating," Ilya guessed.

"Not yet. And be careful outside, too, in this weather. Stay away from anything that might be slippery. We don't want to risk you falling."

"I'm very good at not falling on slippery things," Ilya argued.

"Yes, but what part of your body is it that helps you balance?" Dr. Prasad sat up straighter and patted her own abdomen. "Those stabilizing muscles are still healing, so you need to let them rest."

Ilya pouted. "Fine."

"What questions do you have for me?"

"When can I have sex again?"

"Whenever you feel comfortable doing so. Same rules apply as everything else. Start slow, stop if anything hurts."

Shane wouldn't like the "slow" part, but they would make do. Maybe more than just make do. Ilya could think of some ways to have fun with it.

After Dr. Prasad was done with him, all that remained was another meeting with Petra. She came at one o'clock, and they Skyped Shane in on a hospital iPad.

"Hi," Ilya said when he saw him, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed. They'd video chatted on their phones a few times, but on the iPad Shane's face was almost life-sized, and Ilya had missed it so much.

"Hey," Shane said. He looked slightly pained, like he was feeling the same as Ilya.

"How is LA?" Ilya asked.

"Fine. I just got lunch with Rose. She told me to say hi."

"Yes. She sent me chocolates and vodka last week. Better than all the flowers."

"Hi again, Shane," Petra said from her chair beside the bed.

"Hi, Petra."

"Should we begin?" she asked, probably to nudge them away from chit-chat.

"Yes," Ilya said. He wanted to get this over with, both because it wasn't going to be enjoyable, and because he wanted to get out of the hospital. He hadn't breathed fresh air in a week.

"The purpose of this meeting is to create a safety plan for Ilya," Petra said. "When possible we like to include loved ones in the process of making a plan, since they have the potential to be an important part of recovery."

She had, in fact, encouraged Ilya to invite Yuna and David to the meeting as well, since he would be staying with them as soon as he was discharged. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was hard enough having Shane there, privy to the details of Ilya's failure to be a happy, functional human being. He couldn't stand the thought of Yuna and David finding out just how bad things were. They'd start to question whether he was really a suitable partner for their son. Probably they already had, with Galina's phone call to David that shouldn't have happened in the first place.

Shane held up a notepad and pen. "I'm ready."

Petra started by going over Ilya's treatment plan, including the new medication, and continuing to meet with Galina on a regular basis. Ilya could only imagine how awkward that was going to be, seeing her again after she'd snitched on him. Petra kept assuring him she'd done it only out of dire concern for his safety, and when he waved that off, she said he could consider finding a different therapist if seeing Galina again was too uncomfortable. But Ilya wasn't going to find another Russian speaking therapist, and he didn't want to attempt therapy in English, so he'd have to push through the discomfort.

Next, they rehashed much of what Ilya had already done with Galina: steps for what to do if he found himself having suicidal ideation. Step one was to distract himself, and if it didn't work, step two was to seek outside support. It was harder this time, though, because Shane wasn't taking no for an answer the way Galina had when Ilya said he didn't want to bother him with phone calls about it.

"Ilya," Shane said sharply, interrupting when Ilya was explaining his reluctance. "You can always call me. Are you listening to me? Are you?"

"Yes, I know."

"I don't think you do. Because you wouldn't be saying all this if you did. You can always call me. If I can't talk, I just won't answer the phone. It's not that complicated."

"There is the crisis line, too, if Shane doesn't answer," Petra said.

"I think we should bring Svetlana in on this plan," Shane said.

"No," Ilya groaned, but Shane was already jotting something in his notepad. He had Sveta's number. Ilya was fucking doomed.

"Is she a friend? Family?" Petra asked.

"Friend," Ilya said.

"His best friend, probably," Shane said. "Since they were kids."

Petra seemed pleased. "This seems like a good opportunity to jump into our next step in the process, which is identifying and building out your support network."

Shane and Sveta, David and Yuna, current and former teammates—Shane was relentless, naming everyone he could think of. At least he backed Ilya up when Petra questioned whether his biological family was as useless as Ilya made them out to be. But that was the only break he gave him.

"You put my dad down as an emergency contact for your therapist, didn't you?" Shane said. "So obviously some part of you thought you could rely on him."

"It was because I thought he was the Hollander least likely to throw a fit if she had to call someone," Ilya said.

Shane scoffed. "Fine, well. He's a good listener, okay? He really wouldn't mind if you wanted to talk to him. He cares about you."

"Yeah, not once he finds out how fucked up I am."

Shane and Petra were both silent, and Ilya knew he shouldn't have said that.

"It's a joke," he tried.

"Ilya," Shane said. He looked so fucking sad.

"You sound like you're afraid," Petra said calmly.

Ilya closed his eyes and rubbed at a tight muscle in his neck. It felt all messed up from a week of sleeping in a hospital bed. His fingers probed lower until he found the bruised area on his collarbone, the one Maya had pointed out to him the night before. It didn't quite seem to be where his seat belt rested.

He opened his eyes, unhappy to find Shane and Petra still watching him, waiting for a response. "Would you want your son to be dating someone you found out was suicidal?"

Shane sputtered. "I'd want the person my son loves to get the help he needs and—and—why do you always act like—" He shook his hands, frustrated, obviously struggling to verbalize. It was Ilya's fault, and he felt guilty.

Petra jumped in. "I hear a theme, Ilya. At least part of your self worth seems to derive from the roles that you play, the purpose that you expect yourself to fill for other people. And if you fail to fulfill those roles, or see yourself as having failed, you expect others to be disappointed in you."

"Yes," Shane said, so loud it came through the speaker distorted. "That!"

"Okay," Ilya said. He wasn't actually supposed to drink while he was on the pain meds, but God, he wanted some of that vodka Rose had sent. Or a cigarette. Both would be amazing.

"Some of that may have come from your family of origin, how you were raised," Petra continued. "Much of it probably comes from your career as a professional athlete, the pressure of being in the public eye. I think it's worth exploring, in your ongoing therapy sessions. But can I leave you today with just this? Something to think about. The people who really love you—not the fans, not the people who pay your salary, not the family members who never really show they care—the people who love you, they love you because of who you are, not because of what you do for them."

"That—yes—that, thank you." Shane sounded like he might cry.

Ilya wasn't sure that made him feel any better. "And who I am is…" Broken. Sick. An asshole.

"Amazing," Shane said. "My favorite person in the world."

Waiting for discharge paperwork took over an hour after Petra left, but Ilya was still reeling from the conversation when Yuna picked him up. He put on a fake smile for her and stared out the passenger window the whole drive home, giving one word answers and grunts of affirmation or indifference to everything she said.

She took him by his house, first, and cleaned out his fridge while he packed a suitcase, then carried it to the car for him. Letting his boyfriend's mother carry his luggage felt like an uncharted low, but if he didn't then Yuna would tattle to Shane and Shane would tattle to the doctors. The perils of being cared for by Hollanders.

They arrived at the Hollander residence just as David was pulling in himself.

"Hey there," David said as they were getting out of their respective cars. "I took off work a little early so I'd be here to welcome you."

"You didn't need to do that," Ilya said.

Yuna carried his bag again and David ushered him inside. It was an instant relief, trading antiseptic and hospital soap and cafeteria coffee for the smell of a home: the familiar old leather armchair and wool throw blankets, a hint of the apple dish detergent the Hollanders used.

Ilya was perplexed to find foil balloons and a banner that said Welcome Home hanging in the wide archway between the living and dining room. He wondered if it was for Shane, for some reason, until it clicked.

"You really didn't need to do this," he said, his throat tight.

"Yuna insisted," David said, suggesting he himself thought it was a bit over the top. But he put a hand on Ilya's shoulder. "We're really glad to have you here, Ilya. That first night, we didn't know…"

A whole lot of things caught up to Ilya at once. He blinked rapidly, but it did nothing to stop the tears that spilled out of his eyes. "Sorry," he said, bowing his head and wiping them away.

Neither of the Hollanders said anything, but David took a step closer and put his arm around both Ilya's shoulders, and Yuna joined him doing the same from the other side. Crying sent shooting pains through his ribs, and trying to hold it in was just making it worse, but he couldn't bring himself to really let go. He stood there shaking, face in his hand, just waiting for the feelings to pass.

The hospital food hadn't been terrible, but Ilya couldn't be happier to switch to David's home-cooked meals. They had chicken parmesan that first night, sitting down to eat exactly a week—down to the hour—since Ilya's accident. Ilya kept that thought to himself, not wanting to bring down the mood.

After dinner, they watched Shane's game on TV. He was still on his road trip, playing in Seattle tonight. He would be home on Friday. They hadn't again discussed Shane's invitation for Ilya to come stay with him in Montreal, but Ilya assumed it was still the plan.

The game ended 4-2 Metros, and Ilya said he was going to get ready for bed. Yuna showed him to the guest room even though he knew where it was.

"Should I use that shower?" he asked, indicating the bathroom a couple doors up the hall.

"Yes. Do you need help washing your hair?" Yuna asked. Just before Ilya could die from the awkwardness, she added, "In the sink. It's what I did for Shane right after he broke his collarbone."

"Oh. Ah." Ilya tested lifting his arms, and winced. Dr. Prasad had warned him it could be painful. "I guess so, maybe."

Yuna brought in a chair from the dining room and positioned it in front of the bathroom sink, like a makeshift salon washing station.

"Gosh, these curls are just so beautiful," Yuna said, combing them out with her fingers before splashing on warm water. The rivulets trickled down the back of Ilya's scalp, giving him goosebumps. "Do you have to do anything special to take care of them?"

"Nothing too fancy. Wash and let dry with some gel. Normally I do it in the morning, so there is no frizz, but I kept smelling the hospital on myself."

"Oh, yeah, that's no fun," Yuna agreed. She examined the two bottles Ilya had given her. "Shampoo, conditioner. Ooh, I love the smell of this. It's woodsy, almost."

"Shane likes it too," Ilya said, then felt embarrassed for some reason. But Yuna didn't seem to think anything of it.

After she'd finished helping him and left the bathroom, he got into the shower to clean the rest of himself. He considered jerking off, but felt too weird about doing it in the Hollanders' shower, let alone when they were in the house. This had to be the longest he'd ever gone without an orgasm in his adult life. Or his teenage one. Basically just ever since the first time. It hadn't been too bad in the hospital, but they'd reduced his pain meds today and his sex drive had come rocketing back.

Friday felt very far away.

Ilya was up early in the morning, while David was getting ready for work. David cooked up eggs, bacon, and toast for the both of them, and they ate sitting in what Ilya hoped was companionable silence and not awkward silence.

He couldn't stop wondering what exactly Galina had said to him. Probably something professional, and not your future son-in-law is a hopeless psycho who probably drove his car into oncoming traffic and will do it again.

David took the last drink of his coffee and smiled faintly at Ilya. "Well, I gotta head out. How's salmon sound for dinner? I was thinking of making that tarragon sauce you like."

"You are spoiling me," Ilya said.

"You deserve it, after what you've been through." David gave Ilya a pat on the shoulder as he stood.

Ilya just didn't understand. He'd known David for three and a half years now and his mind still couldn't wrap around it: this notion of a father who could be gentle, merciful, forgiving. Whose first instinct seemed to be to reward instead of punish.

Ilya got comfortable on the couch with his laptop and set to work going through the deluge of emails he'd received in the last week. The usual junk and subscriptions he'd never asked for, dozens of well-wishers, official paperwork from the Centaurs organization he had to sign digitally.

When Yuna was up she came in and started fretting over him. He assured her he'd already eaten, and agreed to let her bring him more coffee.

Once he'd finished going through his inbox, he put in two catering orders to be delivered to the trauma ward nurses' station: coffee and doughnuts for the day shift, pizza for the night shift. That was only going to be the start of it. He planned to keep sending them treats indefinitely. He'd chatted with them enough to learn about what everyone liked, so he had many ideas, but he would especially be sending all of Maya's favorites. He never did really express to her what it had meant to him when she let Shane into his room. Maybe he'd send a card, if he ever figured out the words.

Besides the catering, he was kicking around the idea of a matching donation drive for the hospital. He sent Harris a message to see if he'd be up for tracking and updating such a thing on social media. Harris replied almost immediately, very enthusiastic about the idea, so Ilya went ahead and emailed the hospital's foundation.

All that was enough to distract him from his aching ribs, but afterwards he gave in and took an oxycodone. He was feeling a sharp tug around his incision, too, every time he moved, and that bothered him more since it wasn't as familiar.

He was trying to ration the pills, against medical advice. They'd discharged him with a very small supply, and he despised the idea of asking Yuna to drive him to the pharmacy every day or two, having to explain why they didn't give him a week's worth at once. They'd also sent him off with naloxone in case of overdose, which Petra wanted him to tell the Hollanders about, but he hadn't. He didn't need to, because he wasn't going to fucking take too much; it was that simple.

The world, it seemed, just wanted to surround him with reminders of how much he'd fucked up.

Yuna left the house for a meeting just after eleven, and Ilya did some Googling and made a couple phone calls. It didn't take him long to track down Mason, or at least someone he hoped was the right Mason.

It was. As soon as he spoke, Ilya recognized the voice. It had been seared into his brain at his most vulnerable moment.

"This is Mason."

"Mason, hi. This is Ilya Rozanov." Ilya was prepared to launch into an explanation, but he didn't need to.

"Mr. Rozanov! Wow, it's great to hear from you! How you doing?"

"Pretty well, actually. Thanks to you."

"Oh, well, you know, it was my honor. Always is. Bet your doctors deserve most of the credit there, though."

"Well, yes, yes," Ilya said. "It was a team effort, right? I have many people to thank."

"That's a great attitude to have. Love to hear it."

"Yes," Ilya said, pointlessly. He hesitated for a moment, fingering the embroidered floral pattern on a throw pillow. "I had a question I wanted to ask you."

"Sure thing."

"You are the one who pulled me out from the car, yes?"

"Yep, that was me."

"Was I wearing a seat belt?"

Mason burst out laughing. Ilya wasn't sure what to make of it, until Mason said, "Mr. Rozanov, I would not be talking to you right now if you hadn't been wearing a seat belt."

Ilya closed his eyes, the relief washing over him so powerful it made the hand holding his phone tremble. "Ah, yes, I understand. I just wondered, because of how badly I was hurt."

"Well, seat belts keep you from hitting things, but they don't keep things from hitting you. What happened is, the impact to the front of the car caused the steering wheel to intrude further inside the vehicle. But no doubt about it, that seat belt saved your life. Airbag, too. Everything worked like it should have, other than someone driving impaired in the first place."

And Ilya, at least, now had enough evidence to believe he hadn't been the one impaired. "Thank you, Mason. I appreciate your time."

"Of course. Thanks for calling. It's not often we hear from the people we helped, so that always makes our day."

"Well, that's not right. I will tell everyone. When you are rescued by EMTs, you should call to thank them."

Mason laughed again. "Thanks, Mr. Rozanov. I appreciate that."

After they ended the call, Ilya rested the phone on his sternum and closed his eyes. So, there it was: he had not gotten into the Porsche that night with the intention of ending his life. He'd just been driving to work, seat belt fastened.

He had not planned to leave Shane alone. And, he promised himself then and there, he never would.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the wait on this chapter! I'm so honored by how many people are following along with this story <3 <3 <3 I've been going through A Time™️ and writing this has been my primary coping mechanism soooo thank you for all the feedback and encouragement!! [Ilya voice] I love you, good job, I love you, good job, I love you

Chapter 5: i can let you know that baby, you're the rest of my life

Chapter Notes

Hiiiiii please note the rating change from M to E! I would've warned y'all sooner but I didn't actually know this was going to happen lol. Surprise!

Ilya buckled himself into the passenger seat of the rental SUV Shane had brought to his parents' house. He'd flown directly into Ottawa after his last away game so he could come get Ilya.

"Does it make you nervous?" Shane asked from behind the wheel, his hand squeezing the gear shift. "Being in cars now?"

"No," Ilya said. "I don't remember the accident, so."

"It makes me nervous. I mean, obviously I don't remember the accident either, I wasn't there. But I keep thinking about it anyway. Just—picturing what it might've been like, in my mind."

"Stop doing that, maybe."

"I can't help it." Shane started the engine and gave one last wave to Yuna before pulling away from the curb. "It just flashes in my head when I'm trying to sleep, and stuff like that."

Even without touching him, Ilya could feel how tense he was. Tired, too. He'd flown out of Dallas early in the morning and had a layover at O'Hare. He was experiencing the Shane Hollander Special, where he was exhausted but wouldn't let himself relax a single muscle for fear he would simply fall apart. Ilya was very much looking forward to dragging him to bed and making him fall apart.

But first, a two hour drive, plus whatever traffic rush hour piled on.

Ilya put his hand on top of Shane's and squeezed. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." Shane huffed out a breath like he'd been holding it. "Like, worse than usual."

"Your trip was not a distraction?"

"Not at all. I mean, you know, it messes up my routines. I just kept wishing you were with me."

"Yes. Same."

"Shit, I'm sorry." Shane pulled his hand free to rub his face, but gave it right back to Ilya. "You were in the fucking hospital for a week, and I'm complaining."

"No, it's okay." Ilya brought Shane's hand to his lips and kissed it a few times. "I think, maybe, you've been having worse time than me."

"What the fuck? No. Of course I haven't. You had the fucking accident, and surgery, and pain, and meds, and—and you don't even get to play for a while—"

Ilya smiled. Of course he was disappointed to be out, but Shane acted like he'd lost a family member any time he was on injured reserve. "I'll be okay."

"Will you?"

Ah. The conversation wasn't about hockey anymore. "I'm trying."

"I know." Shane sighed again, his eyes fluttering. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"Do you want me to drive?"

"No."

"If you're tired, I can—"

"I'm okay."

It was hard to find anything easy to talk about when Shane was like this, so Ilya didn't try. Just kept holding onto his hand, kissing it on occasion.

Some two thirds of the way to their destination, Ilya asked Shane to pull off at a rest stop for a break. He said he was having some pain in his abdomen, which happened sometimes if he sat for too long, and walking around a bit would help. It was true, but it was also a calculated move, because he knew Shane would feel better having a task to do to help Ilya. Like one of those herding dogs that got too hyper and chewed their own legs when they didn't have a job.

Shane went to use the bathroom while Ilya ambled around the parking lot, remembering Dr. Prasad's warning about slippery surfaces but not paying it much mind. There was no ice to speak of, just a slushy mix of dirt, salt, and packed blackened snow. Somehow, that was the first thing to make him truly sad about not being able to skate for the foreseeable future. Had the parking lot been frozen solid, a different version of himself could have navigated it without a second thought. Instead he was permitted only to walk on it in its current sorry state.

His plan worked, at least. Shane looked more relaxed when they got back in the car.

They arrived in Montreal around dinner time, and Ilya made Shane take him to a McDonald's drive-thru. Shane objected at first but Ilya just laid on the guilt, shamelessly, until he gave in.

In his last-ditch attempt to refuse, Shane said, "It's gonna stink up my—"

"This is not your car," Ilya said gleefully, right at the moment Shane seemed to remember that himself.

"Fuck. Fine."

Ilya devoured his quarter pounder and fries on the drive to the apartment, moaning with pleasure as he ate to annoy Shane as much as possible.

"You're disgusting," Shane said, to Ilya's delight.

When they were home, while Shane made two trips to bring up all the luggage, Ilya washed his hands and brushed his teeth. As fun as that had been, he didn't want to give Shane any excuses to fret for this next part. Once Shane returned the second time, set his bags on the floor and dropped the rental keys on the counter, Ilya came to him, cupped his face, and started kissing him.

"Mm." Shane kissed him back a few times, then pulled away. "Don't you need to lay down?"

"Ah, yes, good idea." Ilya pushed on Shane's chest, walking him backward, leading him toward the bedroom.

Shane smiled, his eyes crinkling in that way they only did when he let his guard down. God, Ilya had missed it. "That's not what I meant."

"No? Is what I meant."

"Do you—I mean—can you—"

"Yes, I can." Although he wasn't quite sure how, yet. Ilya had spent a considerable amount of time thinking through different positions, and they all came with possible complications. He'd decided they just needed to try it and see what worked.

"At least let me shower first," Shane said.

"Mm, no."

"I've been traveling for like twelve hours."

"Sounds like you need to relax, then."

They'd reached the bed, and Ilya gave Shane a little shove onto it. Shane flopped back, looking up at Ilya with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. "You sure it's not gonna hurt you, or whatever?"

Ilya had expected this particular protest. He unbuckled his belt. "I talked to the doctor, it's fine. They wrote me new prescription, actually. Shane Hollander's come in my throat."

"Christ." Shane covered his eyes, grinning.

"What? Should be very healing," Ilya insisted, and dropped his pants. He left his t-shirt on, partly because taking it off would hurt and partly because his torso still looked horrible and would kill the mood.

He was half hard already, from sheer anticipation and the sight of Shane sprawled on the bed, smiling. Shane pulled his own shirt off and unbuttoned his pants, and Ilya climbed on the bed next to him, promptly wincing when he put too much weight on one hand in his haste.

"Here, why don't you lay on your back?" Shane said, getting to his knees and rubbing Ilya's shoulders to coax him down. "Let me take care of you."

Ilya complied, but when his head hit the pillow he was suddenly nervous. They'd fucked around injuries many times before, negotiating positions, but never anything this bad. Always in cases where whoever was injured could confidently rearrange things and keep going. Ilya was more vulnerable now than he'd ever been with Shane, and Shane had the potential to hurt him quite badly if things went awry.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Shane. Obviously he did. It was the vulnerability itself he hated.

"Maybe, ah…" he started. Shane, working his pants off, went still. "I should be on top, or… I don't know."

He did a terrible job hiding his hesitancy, and Shane saw right through him. "We don't have to, if you're not ready."

Ilya gestured at his cock, which was now at full mast. "Does this look to you like I am not ready?"

"Okay, okay, fine." Shane put a hand under Ilya's knee and bent it up, shifting so he was between Ilya's legs. He kissed the inside of Ilya's knee. "It's okay if you're nervous."

"I'm not."

Shane didn't dignify that with a response, just kissed his way down the inside of Ilya's thigh. He nudged the hem of his shirt out of the way to kiss his hip bone, then the crease of his thigh, so fucking slowly.

"You want to kill me," Ilya said, hand going to the back of Shane's head.

Shane sucked lightly at his balls, and Ilya's hand tightened, fingers digging into Shane's scalp. Then Shane kissed up the shaft of his cock and paused at the head. "Still think you should be on top?"

"Fuck," Ilya said. "Shut up and suck my dick."

Shane grinned, victorious, but then he obeyed. He started with just the head, hand wrapped around the base, and slowly took Ilya deeper. Ilya moaned lightly in relief. Finally, he had his dick back in its favorite place to be: inside Shane Hollander.

"I'm not going to last," he said, and he meant it as a warning, but Shane took it as an invitation. He swirled his tongue and sucked harder, moved his hand away and swallowed Ilya to the base. He peered up at Ilya, making eye contact, the way he always liked to do when he deep throated him: like he was checking for a reaction, as if it could be anything but ecstatic. He thrived on feedback, so Ilya gave it to him.

"Good, Hollander, so good," Ilya said, closing his eyes and tensing his abs to keep from thrusting when Shane wasn't expecting it—it hurt, but he didn't care; everything else felt too good. "Fuck. Like that."

Shane picked up his pace, as though Ilya weren't already coming apart. Ilya started to warn him again—was going to tell Shane that if he wanted to be fucked, he'd better stop—but God, Shane obviously wanted this, he wanted to take care of Ilya and make him feel good and give him that release he was desperate for. And Ilya found he just didn't have the willpower to fight it. Not this time.

"I'm going to come," Ilya managed, in case Shane wanted to pull off and finish him with his hand. But Shane just grabbed onto Ilya's thighs, leveraging himself as he bobbed up and down, and Ilya threaded the fingers of both his hands into Shane's hair, just to touch more of him, and cried out as he came.

When he finished, he placed his hands on Shane's cheeks to still him. Shane sat up, wiping the spit and traces of come from his mouth, his eyes watery from choking it all down. He was always so fucking beautiful like that. Ilya reached out, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him closer for a kiss.

"Jesus," Shane said, fighting to keep his balance, planting his free hand on the bed next to Ilya's shoulder. "Careful, I don't want to fall on you."

"Is fine, nothing happened." Ilya reached down to tug at the waistband of Shane's pants, which had never made it off. "Here, get up here. Take these off."

"What? I don't know what you're asking me to do."

"Ahhh." Ilya opened his mouth wide, sticking his tongue out. "I will suck your dick like this, from down here."

"Are you sure?"

"Fucking—yes, I'm sure. I am not made from glass."

Shane gave him a look, but went ahead with taking his pants off. His cock certainly didn't have any misgivings, bobbing out straight as soon as it was freed. Shane crawled to the head of the bed, grabbed onto the headboard, and lifted one leg over Ilya's face with excruciating care. Like he really thought Ilya would combust or something if he so much as tapped him wrong. It was half endearing and half annoying, because Ilya balked at being seen as fragile.

But then he had a faceful of Shane's dick, which made him feel better. He grabbed onto Shane's ass and lifted his head off the pillow, taking him in his mouth. He sucked him hard, greedily, like he'd been dreaming about doing for days.

"Oh," Shane moaned. "Fuck. Jesus."

Ilya knew exactly what he was doing—Shane wouldn't be able to control himself, would absolutely end up fucking Ilya's mouth once he got close and when he came. If Ilya couldn't fuck Shane rough in the ass yet, then he sure as hell was going to let Shane get rough with his throat. One way or another, they were going to do this right.

"God." Shane put one hand in Ilya's hair and leaned heavier on the headboard, resting his head on his forearm. Ilya squeezed his ass, pulled it closer, encouraging Shane to go deeper. Shane thrust once, twice, the head of his cock hitting the back of Ilya's throat and making him gag, sending a shock of pain through his ribs.

"Sorry, fuck," Shane said.

Perfect. Except for the gagging; he hadn't been ready for that. Ilya reached back and dragged the pillow out from under his head, giving himself more space to move. He pulled off almost completely, teasing the head of Shane's cock, then went back in, slow, purposely going for an erratic rhythm. Shane whimpered, his hips jerking just slightly.

Ilya pulled back and kissed the head of his cock. "Oh, what's wrong? You need something?"

"Fuck you," Shane said, tightening his grip and pulling Ilya's hair, purposely or not.

Ilya ran the tip of his tongue along the slit. "Come take it, then."

"Mm." Shane either shook his head or was just rubbing his face on his arm.

Ilya kept teasing him, giving long strokes with his tongue, brushing him lightly with his lips and never fully taking him into his mouth. Shane breathed heavily, clearly trying so hard not to move. And Ilya was going to keep making it harder for him.

He squeezed Shane's ass with his left hand, and walked the fingers of his right hand in, middle one finding his asshole and pressing gently against the opening. Shane moaned, so Ilya pushed in; no lube, so he went slowly, pausing when Shane tightened reflexively around him, sliding in deeper when he released.

"Jesus Christ." Shane threw his head back, and he thrust his hips again, but Ilya was ready for him this time and didn't gag. He rewarded him by sucking hard, working his finger around.

"God, I'm close," Shane said, a tremor passing through his legs from the effort of holding still. If Ilya's mouth hadn't been full of his cock, and if he didn't think saying it aloud would get Shane overthinking again, he'd have said, Do it. Take what you need. Let go, you deserve it. Fuck me, fuck me, my mouth is yours.

Instead, he just carried on, letting the blowjob do the talking. Shane moaned, his hips jerking again.

"I'm coming, fuck." Shane lost control, giving Ilya exactly what he wanted, thrusting and filling Ilya's throat with his release. Fucking divine. Ilya swallowed it all and sucked the remainder off the tip.

"Sorry," Shane said once he'd caught his breath. "I didn't mean to—"

"Sorry for a good time? The best I've had all month?" Ilya smacked his ass affectionately.

Shane lifted one leg to get off Ilya, still careful but a bit shakier than before. He flopped down beside him, chest rising and falling, a faint sheen of sweat on his face. "You knew that was gonna happen."

"So did you."

Shane scoffed weakly. He leaned in and pecked Ilya on the lips. "Now can we shower?"

"Eh, I don't think that you want to see…" Ilya gestured at his still-clad torso. "Everything under here."

Shane frowned, and looked very cute doing it, but Ilya knew he was in trouble. "It's not going to bother me. I mean—it will, but just because I don't like seeing you hurt. It's not going to gross me out, or whatever."

Ilya groaned in protest, but he already knew he wasn't going to win this argument. He plucked at the fabric of his t-shirt. "Help me out of this, then."

They got off the bed, and Shane helped Ilya work his arms out of the shirt and pulled it over his head. All told it wasn't any less painful than when Ilya did it by himself, but having Shane close made everything better anyway.

The bruising had progressed, becoming splotchier and turning green and yellow at the edges, so his skin now sported almost every color of the rainbow. He'd kept the steri-strips clean but they were discoloring anyway, as was inevitable; all of them were still in place but a few were starting to curl at the ends. Altogether not a pretty sight. Shane looked him over, brow furrowed, but refrained from commenting.

They got in the shower, and Shane washed Ilya's hair without Ilya needing to ask. It had been kind for Yuna to help him, but he'd never fully relaxed while she did, unable to move past the mild embarrassment it caused him. With Shane, though, he felt like he was right where he ought to be, and it was blissful: Shane's strong, confident hands massaging his scalp; the way he knew from past experience exactly how much shampoo and conditioner Ilya liked to use.

After he rinsed the conditioner, Shane put his hands on Ilya's shoulders and kissed his collarbones. He bent lower and kissed down his sternum, moved his hands to Ilya's lower back, and gently kissed all over his bruised rib cage. He avoided the incision itself, but kissed all the way around it, went lower, lightly nuzzled Ilya's belly.

Ilya couldn't decide on a way to feel about it. He kept almost telling Shane to stop, not because it hurt or anything, but because he wanted to say You don't have to do that. But the affection was making him feel affectionate, too. He was heady with it, and couldn't speak. So he just didn't.

Then Shane dropped to his knees and took Ilya's cock in his mouth. It was soft, but it responded instantly, blood rushing back in. Ilya felt considerably less conflicted about this than the tender kissing. He put one hand on Shane's head and the other on the wall of the shower, squeaking against the condensation. He closed his eyes. Even this second round wasn't going to take long. He was making up for lost time.

Shane couldn't sleep.

Ilya could, so at least there was that. Shane tossed and turned, and every time he rolled to his right side he took another look at Ilya, faced away and folded with his limbs propped on carefully arranged pillows to keep his torso comfortable. The sight of it made Shane sad, same as the bruises and surgical scar did. A reminder of a catastrophic injury that shouldn't have happened. Not even earned on the ice, just bad luck and bad timing and some asshole who'd driven drunk and almost taken away Shane's…

Shane's what?

It had never been easy to define what they were to each other. "Boyfriend" had been a triumph, hard won after years of fighting to be anything more than a hookup. But somewhere along the way, maybe even the night of the accident, it had become too small to contain everything. It felt like it might be time to set it aside—wistfully, nostalgically, like Shane remembered doing with his first hockey stick as a kid. He still had that stick, kept it displayed with some other old paraphernalia like the first jersey with his name on it. And likewise, he'd always keep a place in his heart for Ilya as his boyfriend.

But they were more than that now. Shane knew they were.

It scared him to know he stood on the precipice, no way forward but to come out on a large scale, to reveal their relationship to the world. And it was more than just scary—he felt a sadness, too; an impending loss. His reputation and his legacy would spin out of his control. People would forever talk about him being gay, maybe as much as or more than they talked about his game. And Shane didn't want to be ashamed, he didn't want to forever hide who he loved, but he also wanted to be judged for what he did and not something he couldn't help.

There'd already been so much pressure on him, so many expectations from a young age, just for being a prodigy and for being Asian. He didn't want the pressure of being a gay icon too, or whatever. He just wanted to fucking play hockey.

He'd read Scott Hunter's email so many times he'd memorized it. My point is, you can give yourself the life you want now.

He sat up and looked at Ilya's sleeping face. He swallowed, eyes stinging. Scott couldn't understand exactly what it was like to be in Shane's position. He was rooting for him anyway, though.

Ilya stirred, let out a sleepy sigh. He adjusted his arm on the pillows; he turned his head up and his eyes fluttered open, meeting Shane's. He blinked a few times, then closed them again. "Mm, you are thinking again. No more."

"No more?" Shane smiled at the audacity. "I can't just stop thinking."

"Sure you can. Is called sleep."

Shane leaned in to give him a kiss, then rolled onto his back, making another effort at getting comfortable. He really did need to stop thinking, about this at least.

His mind was made up already. He'd squeezed in an appointment with a jeweler before he left town last week, and that morning he'd gotten the email that the ring was resized and ready for pickup. Shane planned to go get it tomorrow.

Coming out scared him, but almost losing Ilya had scared him a thousand times more. He had to do this. He wanted to do this.

The kitchen looked like a murder scene, and Shane wasn't sure how he was ever going to get everything cleaned up. He'd even splattered a little beet juice on the tablet he was reading the recipe from, and trying to wipe it clean had just smeared it. Hopeless.

Ilya had taught him to cook a few easy Russian foods, but he'd talked him out of others, namely borscht and pelmeni, both of which he claimed were too much work. He'd actually groaned in despair the first and only time Shane brought up making pelmeni, so for tonight, Shane was going with what he assumed was the lesser evil. Browsing borscht recipes online, he had found some that seemed pretty simple, but he guessed those might not be quite right for Ilya's palate. So he'd gone with one of the more elaborate ones, with lots of vegetables and meat and a bunch of different steps. He'd been in the kitchen for two hours and was questioning his choices, but finally the soup was assembled and simmering, almost overflowing Shane's largest pot.

Ilya had wandered in and out of the kitchen periodically, by turns groping Shane's ass, complaining that he was taking too long, and stealing pieces of the rye bread Shane had gone to an Eastern European bakery for and which was supposed to be saved for dinner. The loaf was half gone already. Ilya came back in while Shane was washing up in the sink, and looked like he was going for more bread, but he stopped and started giggling when he looked at Shane.

"Shit. Did I get some on my face?" Shane hastily dried his hands on a towel and swiped at his forehead.

"No, no, stop!" Ilya started laughing harder, and he doubled over hugging his ribs. "Ow, ow, ow."

"What, did I make it worse?" Shane checked his fingers, but they were still solidly pink, revealing nothing.

"Yes, very. Ow."

"God, okay. I'm just going to go get cleaned up in the bathroom. Stop eating the bread."

Shane was nervous when they sat down to eat. The soup tasted good to him, but he didn't know if it was right. He didn't even know what the benchmark was—if there was a family recipe Ilya remembered, if his mother had ever cooked it. It wasn't the sort of thing they talked about, and Shane was afraid to ask.

Ilya took a few bites without commentary, Shane on the verge of devolving into an anxious mess, but then he said, "Very good, mm."

Shane couldn't help the relieved sigh that escaped him, and Ilya gave him an amused smile. "What, you thought I wouldn't like it?"

"Yeah, I mean, I don't know."

Ilya just shook his head, grinning, and kept eating the soup. He went back for a second bowl when he finished, so Shane knew he wasn't just humoring him.

Granted, dinner wasn't the biggest reason Shane felt nervous. In fact, with the surface concern of the borscht out of the way, Shane had nothing left to think about but the little velvet box burning a hole in his pocket, and he was making himself nauseous over it.

"Shit, I forgot I was gonna light this," he said, noticing the candle he'd placed on the table before they sat down to eat. It was a three-wick scented candle his designer had picked out, and he'd gone years without lighting it, but tonight seemed like the right time to start. If only he'd fucking remembered. He lurched out of his chair and into the kitchen, going for the junk drawer where he kept a lighter.

"Fancy," Ilya remarked as he watched Shane light it. "What, you finally realized what it's for?"

Shane ignored him, hissed and shook his hand out when the heat from the lighter was too much on his thumb. The wicks were taking a while to ignite. Finally he had all three burning, and he sat down again. The candle had long ago stopped giving off a smell to its surroundings, but the heat was stirring it up again, reminding Shane of his earlier years in this apartment. The candle had no label and he didn't know what the scent was exactly, but it smelled kind of woody and, for lack of a better word, smoky. He'd never thought much about it, but he liked it.

The candle popped, a bit of dust maybe, and he realized he'd gotten lost staring into the flames.

"You didn't eat much," Ilya said.

"Um." Shane blinked a few times. "Yeah, I just. Got a lot on my mind."

"And this is different from the rest of the time?"

"Shut up," Shane said, smiling weakly.

Ilya reached out and cupped Shane's cheek, running his thumb along it just briefly. Then he stood, gathering his dishes.

"I can get those," Shane said, but Ilya ignored him, whisking them away into the kitchen. Shane sat back in his chair and stuck his hand in his pocket. He ran his fingers along the fuzzy surface of the box. He didn't think there was going to be a perfect time to do this; he just had to do it.

He stood up just as Ilya was coming back around the counter. His heart thundered in his chest, hand still wrapped around the box.

"Hey, Ilya?"

"Hm?"

"Do you remember in the hospital how you said we should get married, and I said okay, but then I said no?" Because Shane sure as hell did. He remembered how Ilya looked like Shane had slapped him, how Shane had realized too late how it sounded, how they'd never had a chance to iron it out.

"Uh." Ilya looked caught off-guard, but Shane still saw the hurt that flashed in his eyes. "Yes?"

"It was because I wanted to do this the right way." Shane went down on one knee and pulled out the box. He held it without opening it yet, just watching Ilya's reaction. Watching to see if this might be a mistake, and Shane would have to change course, which sounded absurd but he was so fucking nervous. Ilya's head drew back, but otherwise he'd gone very still, mouth slightly open.

Shane opened the box. The lid made a little snap as it popped up, like it was dying to reveal its contents.

"Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, will you marry me?"

Ilya put his hand on the back of one of the dining chairs. He blinked several times, and almost shook his head, the movement too small to really be that. A twitch back and forth. Shane's heart was still pounding, and he felt like he needed to explain.

"I've been thinking—I mean, obviously. You know that. But I can't do this anymore. Trying to pretend like you're not the most important thing in my life? So, let's not. Fuck it, let's just get married. I mean, if you want. That's… what I'm asking." Fuck, he was rambling. And Ilya was crying. His eyes were wet, his face crumpling.

"Fuck, Hollander." He nodded, wiping a tear from his eye. "Yes, I want. Yes."

"Oh, thank God." Shane stood up, stopped himself before he crushed Ilya in a hug. He wanted to, but he didn't want to hurt him. He just put his hands lightly around Ilya's shoulders to kiss him. They kissed over and over and over, wet with tears, both of them crying now.

And maybe it wouldn't last, but for this one amazing moment, Shane didn't feel scared anymore. He felt relieved. He knew on a gut-deep level that there was something right about this.

He was still holding the ring box, and it was Ilya who pulled back, steering Shane's hand between them so he could see.

Shane had chosen a black band with a gold interior. Ilya removed it, examined it, smiling. He sniffled and slid it onto his ring finger, then held his hand out, turning it front and back to admire.

"I didn't know your ring size, so I actually just sized it to my own hand, since I thought that would be close enough, but if it's not right…" He was rambling again. Ilya just looked so fucking happy. He didn't need the explanations and contingencies. Shane dropped the ring box on the table.

"Am I supposed to wear it on my hand already? Or not until we get married?"

"Uh. I don't know." Shane puzzled over that. "I guess when guys get engaged, they don't really wear the ring before the wedding?"

"Here." Ilya removed the ring and passed it to Shane, then unfastened the chain around his neck, wincing at having to reach his arms up. He held the necklace out, and Shane realized what he wanted to do. He slipped the ring onto the chain to slide down into place next to the cross pendant, then took the necklace from Ilya to fasten it back on.

He stared for a moment at the two pieces of jewelry, the ring and the cross, nestled together on Ilya's chest. Representations of two of the people who meant the most to him, maybe ever. Shane was honored to have a place there.

They kissed again, Ilya pulling Shane in closer. "You have a ring?" he asked against Shane's lips.

"Not yet. I can get one, I just… wanted to make sure you'd say yes, first, you know?"

Ilya giggled. "No, I don't know. You thought there was a chance I'd say no. You're crazy."

"I mean." Shane didn't really have anything to say in his defense, though, and he giggled too.

Ilya kissed him a few more times and tugged at the front of his shirt. "Bedroom. Now. I want you." His voice was low and husky, just the way that always drove Shane crazy, but then he said, "If you didn't weigh more than four liter bag of milk I'd carry you there myself."

"If I didn't what? What does milk have to do with this?"

Ilya nipped at the skin of his jaw and pushed him, sending him walking backward toward the bedroom. "Means I can't carry you, but I want to. I want to carry you everywhere. Once I'm better, I'll pick you up and never set you down again except to fuck you."

"Okay," Shane said, grinning, feeling perfectly amenable to that at the moment.

Once in the bedroom, Shane unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor after a short debate with himself about whether he should carry it to the hamper. Ilya was watching, fueling a sense of urgency in Shane. He unbuttoned his jeans and dropped them. Ilya unbuttoned his own pants slowly, eyes on the bulge in Shane's underwear which was growing by the second.

Ilya stepped toward him wearing just his t-shirt and underwear, and Shane was about to climb on the bed, but he paused. He tugged at the side seam of Ilya's shirt.

"Could you take this off?" he asked. "I mean, you don't have to, if you don't want to. But I want to touch you. If it's okay."

Ilya didn't say anything, but he worked his arms out of the shirt, then let Shane pull it off over his head. The necklace fell back into place, cross and ring bouncing against his skin.

They climbed onto the bed together, swapping their usual positions so Ilya could lay on his right side. They nestled face to face, holding each other and kissing, and Shane felt an electric thrill race through him knowing he got to do this for the rest of his life. He was in love with Ilya, and Ilya was in love with him, and nobody was going to keep them apart.

Shane reached a hand between them and touched Ilya's erection through his underwear, fingers rubbing the hard length of it through the fabric. He stuck his hand in Ilya's waistband and freed it, and Ilya reached down to do the same to Shane. They shifted their hips closer at the same time, grabbing each other's low backs, rubbing their cocks together.

"I love you," Shane whispered.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya whispered back.

Fuck. Shane's whole chest hurt, like his heart was too big for it. He needed to be closer. He needed Ilya to be inside him, to fill him. "Will you fuck me?"

Ilya nodded. "Turn over. Get me lube."

Shane did the second part first, reaching past Ilya to his own side of the bed where the bottle was. He passed it to Ilya, then got in place, his back against Ilya's chest. The curled edges of the surgical strips tickled his skin, a reminder of everything: of the accident, yes, of the fear and sadness, but also of his resolve. Ilya would be his, no matter what befell them. Whatever injury or illness or catastrophe might come their way, they'd be together.

Ilya kissed Shane's neck and shoulder. He ran his hand up and down Shane's thigh. The cap of the bottle popped open, and a moment later Ilya's finger was at Shane's opening; the lube cold, at first, but warming quickly. Shane moaned as Ilya massaged him for a moment, then pushed inside. Ilya worked him open, and added a second finger, but Shane was impatient. He pushed his ass against Ilya's hand. "That's good, that's enough. I need you."

Ilya removed his fingers and Shane breathed deep, focusing on staying relaxed. He felt the head of Ilya's cock against him, and it felt too big—he wasn't ready, exactly, but he wanted it so bad anyway. He whimpered when Ilya entered him, breath picking up. It was that overwhelming pressure, the stretch, the razor-thin line between pain and pleasure. If it had been anyone else behind him, it would have tipped over into pain. But because it was Ilya, because he knew it was Ilya, the trust and desire won out, and Shane moaned again, flooded with satisfaction. His cock twitched and his hand gripped the sheets.

"Good?" Ilya purred into his ear.

"So good. Please. Please fuck me."

Ilya held onto Shane's hip and started to move inside him, agonizingly slow. Shane whimpered again.

"What's wrong?" Ilya murmured, still at the same pace. "You want me to go faster?"

"Yes. Please."

"Too bad. Can't." He whispered against Shane's ear, "Doctor's orders."

"Fuck off. You're not gonna be able to come like this."

"Don't worry about me. You focus on you. Stroke yourself."

Shane didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed his cock and started to jerk himself off.

"No, no, not like that. Slow." Ilya grabbed Shane's wrist, making him stop, then moved him in time with his thrusts.

"Oh, fuck." Shane groaned. "Fuck you, Rozanov."

"Is that how you talk to your future husband?"

Shane couldn't help smiling at that, even as he writhed in frustration. A gasp slipped out of him. "How long are you gonna make me do this?"

Ilya placed a few kisses on the back of Shane's shoulder. "We can stop any time. You're the one who asked for this."

"Oh my God. I don't want to stop. Just fuck me right."

Ilya let go of Shane's wrist and grabbed his hip again. "Fine, okay. I will try. Only because you got me such a pretty ring."

He started to move faster, thrusting harder, his breathing labored. And Shane worried, suddenly, that he hadn't been going that slow before just to be a tease—that maybe it really was going to hurt him. Shane turned his head, intending to check in, but stopped when Ilya moaned. His hand shifted, gripping Shane's hip more tightly. He wasn't breathing hard because he was in pain; he was breathing hard because he'd been denying himself, too.

Shane started stroking himself again. Going faster now, the speed he liked for getting himself close.

"Yes, good." Ilya tucked his chin on top of Shane's shoulder, their cheeks brushing. "Come for me. I want to watch."

They kept moving together, Ilya murmuring to him, kissing his cheek. Shane felt his orgasm building, and he felt so fucking good, with Ilya inside him and all around him, holding him, kissing him, loving him.

He let go with a cry of relief, his release spilling hot over his hand. Ilya moaned, driving into him harder. Shane felt the muscles in Ilya's chest tighten, then relax, and he pulled Shane tighter, letting out another sigh as he rested his face against Shane's shoulder.

Showering with Shane after they'd finished, Ilya was steeped in a level of bliss he'd never known before.

His ribs were sore, but not terribly. Not in a way that suggested he'd re-injured them. Maybe he'd pushed harder than the doctors would have approved of, but he didn't regret anything. It was worth it to give Shane what he wanted, what he deserved. Amazing man who'd stuck by Ilya's side through everything and made him borsch and lit his stupid candle so he could propose to him.

Shane. His fiancé.

Shane Hollander wanted to marry him.

Ilya couldn't help a twinge of apprehension, since he knew from experience that his highs were inevitably followed by lows, and this was one of the highest highs of his life. He was a little scared of where his mind would go once this initial glow of joy wore off. But Shane would be there for him, right? That was what he was working on believing. He had a wedding ring hanging from his necklace to remind him of it.

While they were toweling off, Shane said, "So, my thinking was, we have a wedding at some point—you know, like, in the summer when we have time, and you're recovered. But we can get a marriage license and hire an officiant right away. So that it's legal."

Classic Shane, diving straight back into planning mode the moment his blood had cooled. Ilya loved him so much, he felt giddy. "Right away, huh?"

Shane turned very serious, holding his bunched-up towel at his side. "I'm not going through that again, Ilya. Waiting in the hospital lobby, not knowing if you were alive or dying? Fuck no. That was the worst night of my life."

The way he declared it made Ilya think he'd actually gone through and weighed it against all his other bad nights. He'd ruminated on it probably, analyzed it, and now was determined to make sure he never felt that way again.

"It would be terrible bad luck if it happened again before summer," Ilya said. "Seems not very likely."

Shane's face scrunched up, confused. "So what? I'm not taking the chance. You think you'd like to be in that position? Me in the hospital, no one telling you anything?"

Ilya raised his eyebrows, waiting for Shane to realize. He didn't. He kept standing there, brow furrowed, freckles bunched up. So Ilya reminded him. "I already was, Shane."

Shane's confusion persisted for moment, then it cleared, his face falling slack. "Right. So. You know how bad it is."

"Mm." Ilya nodded. And had that been the worst night of his life? He wasn't the type to rank these things the way Shane was, but it had certainly been up there. He also had to admit it would be even worse if it happened now. That night—nearly four years ago—Ilya had been sick with worry, and also just lost and confused, believing Shane wasn't really his anyway, that he had no business feeling the way he did. But now there would be no question. He and Shane belonged at each other's sides.

Shane, it seemed, had the exact same thought. "Nobody will be able to keep us apart, once we're married. We'll get to be with each other, through all our highs and all our lows. Whatever they are."

Right, the highs and lows Ilya had just been thinking about. "All of them?"

"All of them."

"Even when I'm—" Ilya gestured at his head, suddenly unsure of what he wanted to say. "Miserable, for no reason? Thinking bad thoughts?"

Shane dropped his towel, took the two steps to close the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around Ilya's shoulders. He squeezed at tight as he dared, which wasn't very tight, so Ilya put his arms around him and hugged tighter.

"Especially then," Shane said. "Do you get it yet?"

Ilya thought he'd gotten all his tears out earlier, during the proposal, but his eyes were burning again. "Starting to."

They stood in the bathroom, silent and holding each other, until the heat from the shower was gone and goosebumps broke out on their skin. Then they stood a while longer, nuzzling closer, getting all the warmth they needed from each other.

Chapter End Notes

This was tricky to plan and to write because I really love the proposal scene in TLG and wasn't sure how to reinvent the wheel, as it were. I hope it turned out okay! Also, apologies to Hollanov Size Difference Truthers, but in this household we honor the HudCon Size Canon. I keep wondering if and how they're going to be able to pull off the too-small ring thing in the show because Hudson and Connor appear to have very similarly sized hands and so Shane's mistake wouldn't make much sense, lol.

Thank you so much for reading! I think we're actually close to the end now. One more chapter maybe.

Chapter 6: i'll light your fire 'til my last day

Chapter Notes

In some ways, it felt like nothing had changed, being back in Galina's office. Like Ilya could pretend the last two weeks hadn't even happened. She had the same haircut, same clipboard. Same muffled, windowless room, with the same orchid—Ilya didn't think it had grown a centimeter in the months since he'd started seeing her.

But when he sat, he took a deep breath, and his ribs ached. So there was his reminder.

"Hello," Galina said.

"Hello."

"I'm glad to see you again."

Ilya didn't return the sentiment. He wasn't holding a grudge against her, really; he just wasn't ever really glad to see her. Her presence in his life meant he was unwell.

"And I'm glad you came back," she continued. "If you feel uncomfortable or unhappy with me, I understand. I'd encourage you to talk about that, if it's the case. If you have any questions, or anything you'd like to express."

Ilya considered whether he did. He shook his head, but spoke anyway. "I know why you had to do it. It made things difficult for me in some ways. More complicated. But…" He tapped a finger on his knee. He didn't want to admit this next part. "I feel better, actually. Now that Shane knows everything."

She was a professional, so of course she didn't gloat, but Ilya wouldn't have been surprised if she was doing it inside her head. "Why do you think that is?"

Maybe that, in itself, was a clinical form of gloating: forcing him to further examine the thing he hadn't wanted to admit in the first place. "I feel safer because I don't have to worry anymore about what he'll think. I already got that out of the way. So the worst case scenario happened, and it wasn't actually that bad. It made us closer, maybe. And—" His breath caught as a surge of emotion hit him. "He still wants to be with me, and he proposed to me, actually. We're engaged."

Galina's face lit up. "How wonderful. Congratulations."

"Thank you." Ilya resisted the urge to grab at the ring hanging from his neck. He didn't want to be that transparent. "I don't feel as alone. Not because of the engagement. Well, maybe partly. But I mean, since I'm being more honest with him. Not hiding a part of myself. It's like he sees every side of me now, and he loves me anyway." Tears sprang to his eyes, which was exactly what he'd been hoping to avoid.

Galina nodded. "I know this is hard to believe, but that's how it's supposed to work."

Ilya swiped away the one tear the managed to escape. "Anyway, he's part of my safety plan now. We met with the hospital social worker. I wanted to give you his phone number, too, as my emergency contact. I'll be staying with him a lot in the next few weeks, or maybe longer. Until I can play hockey again."

Ilya didn't anticipate Galina needing to make another emergency call—like he'd told Shane, it would be terribly bad luck for anything like that to happen again—but it felt symbolic, in a way. Shane was going to be his husband. Obviously he should be Ilya's emergency contact, too.

"How are you feeling about the arrangement?" Galina asked.

"Staying with Shane? Good. But not being able to play, bad. Disappointed. And guilty, because I…" He remembered Petra saying something about his self-worth and his usefulness to other people. "I let my team down. They aren't going to make it to the playoffs without me."

"Do you think that's how your teammates feel?"

"Yes, probably."

"What else do you think they might be feeling about you, right now?"

Ilya hadn't been expecting that question. He thought for a moment. "Sympathetic, maybe. Everyone knows what it's like, injured reserve. And maybe… relieved? It seemed like everyone thought I was going to die." He half smiled. "So they're glad I'm alive, probably."

Galina gave a little smile and a nod. "I think many people are."

Ilya shrugged one shoulder, not sure how to respond to that.

"And what about you?" Galina asked. "How do you feel about being alive today?"

Ilya nodded. "Glad. Relieved. I have since the accident. But I'm worried that… maybe when things go back to normal, I'll get worse again."

"Can you explain what you mean by normal?"

"Living at home, alone. Back to my usual schedule."

"It won't be exactly the same, though, will it?"

"Well…" Ilya thought ahead. There was still a chance he'd play a bit before the season was over, but things wouldn't be normal normal until October. "No. Shane and I will get married, and we'll be going public with our relationship."

"That seems like a very big change."

"Of course."

"Maybe there is no going back, then. There will be a new normal. So, you don't really know how it will affect you, yet."

Ilya inclined his head, letting her have that. "I'm not sure how to feel about it, because… for me, I think, it's only positive. I've been ready to come out for a while, and I'm sick of hiding. But Shane is still scared. It's going to be hard for him, and it's going to be hard for me to see him go through that." He grimaced. "It sounds selfish."

Galina frowned. "Selfish?"

"Worrying about how what he feels will make me feel."

"Oh. Ilya, that's not selfishness, that's empathy."

"Is it?" Ilya scratched his head, feeling sheepish. "I guess I've never really had all that explained to me."

"That's fine. You're not alone in that. Just think of it this way: if you were truly selfish, then how Shane feels would have no effect on you."

Ilya's brother popped into his mind, unwelcome as always. Alexei liked to call Ilya selfish, but he was seldom bothered by the suffering of others. It was possible Ilya had just had this shit backwards his whole life.

"Anyway," Ilya said, "it could be hard. The new normal."

Galina nodded and started jotting on her clipboard. "This is important to know. It's something we'll want to watch carefully. The good news is, you'll have this period in time to look back on as a recent example of when things felt okay." She stopped writing and looked at him again. "I have a question. It might not be easy to answer. You might want to think about it for a few days. Or, something might come to you right away. But the question is, was there a moment, when all of this was happening, when you first found yourself thinking, I want to live, I don't want to die?"

Harsh white lights inside the ambulance. The snip of cold shears cutting off his shirt, a paramedic asking if he knew his blood type. That was when his mind had gone to Shane, to the cottage, to an endless summer with kids and dogs.

He gave in and touched the ring, and his mother's cross alongside it. "Yes. There was."

Galina's tone shifted, becoming more gentle, like she sensed she'd just bumped a tender spot. "Will you tell me about it?"

Ilya nodded a few times, even though tears were threatening again. "Okay."

The following afternoon, Ilya drove Shane to the airport to catch up to his team for another road trip. Ilya would be staying at home by himself for a few days, going to his many follow-up appointments at the hospital, and calling on Yuna and David if he needed help with anything.

He and Shane had gone to the municipal service centre that morning to pick up their marriage license. Ilya's heart had pattered joyfully in his chest the entire time, even though it was only one step in the process. The mere act of standing at the counter with Shane, saying why they were there, handing over their passports and driver's licenses—it felt official. It was official. Shane had even squeezed Ilya's hand at one point, however briefly.

They were recognized a few times as they were going in and out—Ilya could tell just by the looks they got—but the Foundation gave them plausible reasons to be together in a government building, so he thought little of it and figured Shane would feel the same.

Then, they got stopped on their way out the main doors by someone Shane knew. An old family friend and huge hockey fan named Jeff. His teenage son was with him and nervously asked for autographs and a selfie, which Ilya and Shane provided.

"Thanks so much, Shane," Jeff said. "And you too, Rozanov. Sorry to take up your time."

"No worries at all," Shane said, offering Jeff a parting handshake. "It was good to see you."

"You too. The two of you run that charity together, right? That why you're both here?"

"Not today," Shane said. He held up the folder he carried. "We just picked up our marriage license."

Ilya gaped at him, but Jeff just gave a hearty laugh. "You crack me up. Hey, tell your mom and dad I said hi, all right?"

As they walked away, Shane smiled at Ilya, who was still stunned. "How long do you think it'll take before we stop getting that reaction?"

"You have gone crazy. No, imposter. What have you done with my real Shane?"

Shane huffed. "I just wanted to try it out! It was kind of fun."

Ilya smiled. "Can I kiss you right now?"

"Nope." Shane shook his head, but he grabbed Ilya's hand for another squeeze as they crossed the parking lot.

Ilya wasn't expecting Shane to show up to the house on Sunday with Jackie Pike. But then, Shane probably wasn't expecting to arrive and find Troy Barrett, so they were even.

Troy was sitting in an armchair, nursing a beer and scrolling on his phone, when Ilya led Shane and Jackie into the living room. Troy shoved the phone in his jeans pocket and gave Shane an awkward nod.

"Uh." Shane stopped short in the doorway. "Hey, Barrett."

"Hollander." Troy's eyes went to Jackie, and Ilya jumped in.

"This is Jackie. She is married to Hayden Pike."

Troy stood, quickly wiped the hand that had been holding the beer bottle on his shirt, and stuck it out for Jackie to shake. "Nice to meet you. Troy Barrett."

"Troy, yeah, of course," Jackie said, perfectly cordial, but she shot Ilya a questioning look. So did Shane. As far as Ilya was concerned, there was nothing for him to explain. Barrett was a teammate, so it was obvious how they knew each other, and Ilya wasn't about to go announcing that Barrett was gay and thus obviously cool with being witness to a marriage between two guys.

Shane hadn't wanted to have his parents as witnesses. He thought they'd probably get too emotional, and he didn't even want to tell his mom about the marriage until it was finalized, since he worried she'd be upset they were doing the official ceremony long before having a proper wedding. All in all it was just simpler to keep them out of it. So, he told Ilya he'd bring one witness with him, and Ilya should bring another.

Ilya had gone to morning skate the day before, just to watch and visit with everyone, and meet with the coaches. And he'd called out to Troy in the parking lot as he was leaving, "Hey, Barrett! Are you busy tomorrow?"

So, there they were, the four of them. Jackie accepted a beer and Shane a sparkling water.

"I'm not complaining," Ilya said as he handed Jackie her drink, "but I expected it to be your husband here, not you."

Jackie shook her head. "I needed a break from the kids. And Hayden wouldn't have been able to keep his snarky comments to himself, so." She took a sip of beer. "How's this going to work? Is there a justice of the peace coming?"

"A reverend, actually," Shane said. He'd been the one to arrange the whole thing. "Reverend Bonnie Barnes. She's scheduled to arrive at—" He glanced at his watch. "Oh, right about now."

And, as if he'd summoned her, the doorbell rang.

Ilya knew Shane wouldn't have hired someone highly traditional, but all the same, Bonnie Barnes didn't look anything like what Ilya pictured when he heard "reverend." She was in her thirties, with long wavy brown hair dyed with blue highlights, and she wore an ankle-length skirt that looked to be sewn out of a bunch of handkerchiefs. Ilya offered her a beer, too, and she said, "God, I'd love one, but I'm too much of a lightweight."

They sat around the dining room table and got right to business. Bonnie was efficient and organized, with an accordion file and post-it note flags.

"Shane told me you guys want to keep things quick and simple today, just get the official stuff out of the way?" Bonnie said to Ilya, and he nodded. "In that case, we're going to dive right in. I'll say my part, you'll say yours, we'll all sign and be on our way."

And even though on its surface, the moment was anything but romantic—a dining room, two witnesses who'd never even met, manila folders—Ilya felt the weight of something important drop over him. Something sacred.

He took Shane's hand, and Shane squeezed it.

"We are gathered here to witness the formal joining of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov in legal matrimony according to the customs and laws prevailing by the Government of the Province of Ontario," Bonnie said. "By making this commitment today, Shane and Ilya demonstrate their devotion to each other and dedicate themselves to a life together as a couple. Shane and Ilya, you have made it known that you wish to be joined in marriage, and no one has shown any valid reason why you may not."

Ilya blinked a few times. Strange, to hear it put that way, by someone with the legal power to do so. No valid reason why they couldn't be together.

"If either of you know of any lawful impediment why you should not be married, you are now to declare it. Shane, repeat after me, please: I do solemnly declare that I do not know of any lawful impediment why I, Shane Hollander, may not be joined in matrimony to Ilya Rozanov."

After Shane repeated it, Bonnie continued, "Ilya, repeat after me, please: I do solemnly declare that I do not know of any lawful impediment why I, Ilya Rozanov, may not be joined in matrimony to Shane Hollander."

Ilya opened his mouth. He should've kept a glass of water handy. "Uh. I do solemnly declare that… again, please?"

"I'm sorry, let me go slower this time," Bonnie said. "That I do not know of any lawful impediment—"

"That I do not know of any lawful impediment—"

"Why I, Ilya Rozanov—"

"Why I, Ilya Rozanov—"

"May not be joined in matrimony to Shane Hollander."

"May not be joined in matrimony to Shane Hollander." Fuck, why was he so fucking nervous? He laughed sheepishly, glancing among the faces at the table. Jackie was smiling at him, and so was Troy, just barely. Shane looked nervous, too.

When Shane repeated his vows, Ilya hardly registered them—the words excessively formal, quickly spoken. But when Ilya's turn came, he gave them the attention they deserved. His tongue and his brain wrestled to get them out, making them impossible to ignore.

"I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Ilya Rozanov, do take you, Shane Hollander, to be my lawful wedded husband."

"And we're not exchanging rings today, is that correct?" Bonnie asked. Ilya and Shane both nodded. They'd agreed to save that for the summer wedding.

"In that case, I, Reverend Bonnie Barnes, by virtue of the power vested in me by the Marriage Act, do hereby pronounce you, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, to be married. You may celebrate your marriage with a kiss."

Shane seemed like he'd been waiting for that part. He put a hand on the back of Ilya's head, dove across the short space between them, and kissed him.

Jackie clapped. When Ilya and Shane pulled apart, Ilya saw her wiping tears off her cheeks. He didn't think the perfunctory ceremony was worth crying over, but his own eyes were misty, too. Troy was staring out the window, leaning an elbow on the table, his hand covering his mouth.

The four of them signed the statement of marriage. Bonnie filled out her portion and tucked the license away to be delivered later to the registrar.

"Is that really all there is?" Shane asked.

"That's all there is!" Bonnie said. "It usually takes a few weeks before the marriage certificate is ready, but the marriage is official starting now."

"That just seemed, like, way too easy."

Jackie raised her eyebrows, and Ilya felt much the same. "Hollander, it took us ten years to do this."

Troy blinked a few times. "Sorry, ten?"

"Yes!" Ilya said. "And he thinks this was easy!"

"No, I don't mean that, like—" Shane scoffed, turning pink. "You know what I mean."

Mostly Ilya just knew that he was extremely cute when he blushed, and that they were extremely in love, and that Ilya wanted everyone else to leave now so they could fuck.

"All right, thank you, everyone!" he said, clapping his hands together and sliding his chair back from the table. "As you all know, I was in a terrible accident and I am still getting better, so I need to rest. Time for me to go to bed now, goodbye."

"Ilya," Shane said, even pinker, unless Ilya was imagining it.

"Right, sure," Jackie said, and gave Shane a peck on the cheek when she stood up. "Think I'll go find a cafe to hang out in till I'm ready to drive home."

"Thank you for coming all the way out here," Shane told her. "I mean, really. Thank you. And, uh, you too, Barrett. Ilya probably told you already, but we're not like, uh, announcing this yet, so don't…"

"I think I'm gonna try to forget this whole thing even happened," Troy said.

"Say hi to Harris for me," Ilya said, wanting to see if he could get two men blushing at once. Unfortunately Troy scuttled off before he really got a good look.

Bonnie finished packing up the paperwork. "Congratulations, you two. Feel free to give me a call if you have any questions."

"Thank you," Shane said. "So much."

"Yes, thank you," Ilya agreed.

And then the front door shut, car doors slammed and engines started, and Ilya and Shane were alone. They looked at each other without saying anything. Shane's eyes were shining, and he looked like he was on the verge of laughing.

"Holy fuck," he said, and then he did laugh, a little. "Holy fuck. Are we married?"

"We are married."

"Holy fuck," he said one more time, then he got out of his chair, and carefully—he still moved like he might break Ilya, sometimes—he straddled Ilya, sat on his lap, and kissed him. They kissed deeply, messily, all the ways they hadn't wanted to in front of other people.

Shane pulled away, breathing heavy, his lips red and wet. Ilya ran his hands up his arms, to his neck, through his hair, wanting to keep touching him, to keep as much contact as possible until they had their clothes off.

"No one can keep us apart now," Shane said. "No one. For any reason."

Ilya didn't know what to say, so he just nodded. Maybe it was going to take a while to sink in, because he still didn't quite believe it. Shane leaned in again, wrapping his arms around Ilya's shoulders.

"I love you, Ilya."

"I love you too." Ilya's mouth quirked up. "I think you mean Mr. Hollander."

Shane snorted. "You're gonna take my name, huh?"

"How about I take yours, you take mine?"

"Not a chance. I wouldn't be caught dead in a Rozanov jersey."

As punishment, Ilya bit the meaty part of his neck right below his ear, making him jerk and yelp. Then he giggled, and Ilya giggled too, and they carried on like that, like a couple of delirious fools. Like husbands. Was this how it felt? The same love as before, but with permission to be giddy over it? Their belonging together, witnessed and codified.

Shane hugged Ilya's head to his chest and murmured into his hair. "Mine."

"Yours," Ilya said. "Forever."

One month later

Ilya parked on the curb just outside Wyatt's driveway, which was already filled with cars. The Mercedes's engine clicked as it cooled. He glanced at Shane to gauge how he was feeling. Shane's eyes were wide, pointed at the house, glinting in the reflection of street lights.

"Oh, God," he said, like a bunch of things were hitting him at once. He hunched over, resting his head in his hands.

"We don't have to go in," Ilya said, trying to sound supportive. He'd be crushed if Shane changed his mind, he couldn't deny that. But part of him had been expecting it.

"No, we're gonna," Shane said. "I just need a minute."

Ilya's preemptive disappointment faded away. Now he just felt bad for Shane. He wished they were somewhere more spacious so he could pull Shane into his arms. He settled for rubbing Shane's back. "What are you scared of?"

"Everything. I mean…" He laughed ruefully. "I'm not scared. I know it's going to be fine. It's just big, you know?"

"Mhm." Ilya cupped the back of his neck, thumb running back and forth along his hairline.

"And… I don't know." Shane swallowed. "You said Troy and Harris are in there already, right?"

Troy knew about them, for obvious reasons; they'd told Harris about their relationship, too, so Harris could help them script and film a video announcing it to social media. Hi, I'm Ilya Rozanov. And I'm Shane Hollander. For ten seasons, you've known us as rivals on the ice—

Farah and Yuna had helped them draft statements for the press. Shane had gotten in touch with the Players' Association for legal assurance that they would be protected from official retaliation if either of their organizations, or Roger-stupid-Crowell himself, didn't like what they were doing.

Everything was poised and ready, but they hadn't released any of it just yet. They'd both agreed it felt better to try something small first.

Something like Hazy's game night. A do-over for the invitation to hang out with Ilya's teammates that had made him and Shane fight back at Christmas. Ilya had only asked for Shane to go as his friend, then, so this was an even bigger step. They wouldn't be faking tonight.

"Harris texted me," Ilya assured him. "They got here twenty minutes ago."

"Okay." Shane nodded. "Okay."

"Think about Pride Night," Ilya said. Shane had been heartened by the positive reception Troy received, and Ilya thought he could use a reminder.

"Okay." Shane straightened up. "I can do this." His chest heaved with a noisy breath. "Fuck, I can't do this." He hunched over again, and Ilya rubbed his back more firmly, trying to decide whether to give more of a pep talk or offer to drive them back home. But he had time for neither, because Shane sat up and opened the car door. "I'm doing this."

Ilya smiled, charmed by Shane being so very Shane. He got out on his side, and they met on the sidewalk, joining hands.

On the porch, they could hear music and a lot of jovial voices on the other side of the door. Ilya rang the doorbell, and Wyatt yelled, "It's open!"

They let themselves in, still clinging to each other's hands. Wyatt's front door opened right into his open-concept kitchen and living area. People were scattered throughout, sitting around the dining table, a coffee table, and a vinyl folding table, each covered in different games with hundreds of cards, miniatures, and dice. Beer and cider bottles, soda cans, and half-empty plates of snacks sat amongst the game pieces. Arranged on the long kitchen island were chip bags and platters of appetizers, making Ilya's mouth water.

"Captain's here!" Wyatt, holding a fistful of cards, called out from the couch. There was a smattering of cheers and clapping. Ilya saw several of his teammates and their partners, though Bood and Cassie were notably absent, probably home with their new baby.

"I am here!" Ilya said. He raised Shane's hand in the air. "And I brought special guest!"

"Hi," Shane said meekly.

Greetings ranged from "Hey, Hollzy" to "Shane Hollander?" and Tanner Dillon going, "You brought the enemy?"

"Not enemy," Ilya said. "He is my date."

Tanner snorted. "Okay, sure."

Harris waved from his spot at the folding table. "Shane, come here! You ever played Codenames before? Come be on my team."

"You can't just add someone to your team," Evan, appalled, said from the seat next to his.

"We get a handicap because Troy's so bad at it," Harris said. Troy, across from him, glanced over at Ilya and Shane with a silent cry for help on his face.

"Uh, I've never played before," Shane said. He was smiling tentatively, but his posture was stiff.

"Go play." Ilya put his arms around him and kissed his cheek and his temple. "I'm going to get some food." He nudged Shane toward the table, and Shane went, hunching a little, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

Ilya went to the kitchen to make himself a plate and peruse the drink options. There were definitely looks being thrown around the room—some at him and Shane, some by people exchanging glances. Nothing hostile, just puzzled. Confused. Surprised. None of it bothered him, but he wondered if Shane felt differently. If he was feeling each one, like little bee stings. Warm gratitude filled Ilya's chest as he watched Harris taking Shane under his wing, pulling up a chair for him, giving him quick reassuring pats on the back, explaining the game.

Tanner, who was at the dining table sitting close to the island, looked up at Ilya. "Wait, are you telling me he's actually your date? This isn't like, early April Fools?"

"That would be a stupid April Fools joke," Ilya said, loading his plate with chicken wings. "He is my boyfriend."

Husband, actually, of course. But Ilya had so rarely gotten to tell anyone that Shane was his boyfriend, and he was going to take as many chances as he could until their public wedding.

Luca, all the way over on the couch, sat up straight like a groundhog, head whipping back and forth between Ilya and Shane.

"Wait, are you serious?" Nick said. "You guys are together?"

"I hope you're serious, 'cause it's not funny to joke about that," Wyatt said. His eyes darted to Troy and Harris.

"Of course it's not. I am serious." Ilya had everyone's attention now. He popped a baby carrot in his mouth and waved a hand around. "What, what is everyone so surprised about? You know me and Shane, we go way back."

"That's… one way to put it," Lisa said. A few people laughed.

Ilya smiled. "He stole my heart. Long time ago."

At that, Shane glanced up from where he was sitting, a smile ghosting over his lips before his attention returned to the game.

"Roz, what the fuck, man," Evan said, throwing a hand in the air. "You're just gonna steal Barrett's thunder like that? He announces his relationship with Harris and you go and one-up him?"

"Yeah, Ilya," Troy said, grinning.

Everyone in the room was laughing, except for Shane, though he was at least managing to smile. His ears were red and he looked like he might try to slide under the table when no one was looking. Unbearably cute.

When Ilya had a plate heavy with food in one hand and a bottle of Drover cider in the other, he brought them to the folding table and pulled up another chair next to Caitlin, across from Evan. "No more unfair advantage for Troy and Harris. Let's destroy them."

The one downside to the arrangement was that he was at the opposite corner from Shane and couldn't touch him. He wanted to. He wanted to lavish him in PDA, just a tiny fraction of all the touches he'd denied himself for the past decade. He wanted to bask in the feeling of other people knowing. He wanted to boast to everyone in the room, everyone in the world, that Shane Hollander was his.

Once Codenames was finished—bafflingly, and infuriatingly, Harris's team somehow won by a single point—Ilya dragged Shane over to the game being played around the coffee table so they could sit next to each other on the couch. They had to squeeze in tight since Wyatt, Lisa, and Selena were already on it, but so much the better.

"Have you ever played Dominion before?" Lisa asked. "We're just setting up a new game."

"Please don't tell me Hollander's good at Dominion," Wyatt said. "That just wouldn't be fair. He needs to suck at something."

"He sucks at skating, compared to me," Ilya said.

"Hey, fuck off," Shane said. He was practically sitting in Ilya's lap, wedged against the arm of the couch. "But, no, I've never heard of it. It's like a card game?"

"Yeah, you get currency that you use to buy cards and you try to get property with them," Wyatt said. He launched into an explanation of the rules. Ilya put his arms around Shane's waist and kissed his shoulder.

His heart fluttered like a bird's wings. He was so happy, it was hard to pay attention to the game. A sort of paradox: finally, finally he had this thing he'd longed for, and it was so overwhelmingly wonderful he couldn't be present for it.

He shifted his leg underneath Shane and pulled him onto his lap. Shane wobbled, grabbing the arm of the couch for stability, but kept nodding along with what Wyatt and the others were telling him. It felt natural, like something they'd been doing for years. Hard to believe that thirty minutes ago, Shane had been battling his anxiety in the car.

Ilya rested his head on Shane's back. He could hear his heartbeat that way, and the sounds of the party faded. For a moment, Ilya didn't need anything else. Shane was incredible. He moved through the world like no one else Ilya had ever known. Daunted, but determined. Unsure of so many things but bent on figuring them out.

Shane had been brave for Ilya more times than Ilya could count—introducing himself, trusting Ilya to be good to him when they hardly knew each other, inviting Ilya to the cottage and dreaming up a life for the two of them together. Now, they sat poised on the cusp of what was potentially the scariest thing Shane had ever done. And, once again, he was doing it for Ilya. Just Ilya. He might've been comfortable to continue hiding indefinitely, but he'd changed course because it was what Ilya needed.

Ilya wanted to make it up to him. He already knew that the only way to do it was to live. That was his fight; his own thing that scared him. He felt less afraid knowing Shane would be at his side, just like he hoped Shane felt less afraid with Ilya coming out along with him.

We're in this together? Shane had asked him.

Yes. Together. Always.

Ilya hugged Shane tighter and kissed his back. He'd lost track of time, and Shane was holding cards now, the game started. Ilya had missed the chance to jump in, he guessed. But that was fine. He was still working on soaking in the joy of having his boyfriend at a party with him. His fiancé. His secret husband. His Shane.

He still remembered, back at Halloween, Bood saying something about how he'd meet the right one and wouldn't know what hit him. And it turned out to be true. Somehow it was better than he'd imagined and he couldn't even function.

He and Shane would go on being brave for each other, over and over again. But there would also be moments like this. Nothing scary about it. Being with Shane, loving Shane—the best and the easiest thing in the world.

Chapter End Notes

If you've read this far... THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! This fic began life with me thinking "maybe I'll write a one-shot of Ilya waking up from a car accident." lol welp. Anyway I'm delighted so many people have been following along and I'm humbled by all the wonderful comments. I'm so glad it's resonated with people.

Credit to the city of Kingston, Ontario for the PDF from which I pulled the wedding ceremony verbiage.

Chapter titles are from the following songs:
1, 2, and 6: OneRepublic - What You Wanted (back when I thought this was going to only be three chapters, those were going to be the three titles. then I had to start improvising.)
3: Erasure - You Surround Me
4: Cold War Kids - First
5: Broods - Superstar (this is SUCH a good Hollanov song y'all)

I'm @onetrueharem on tumblr too!