Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas, Zane Boodram, Svetlana Vetrova, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Injury, Temporary Amnesia, Ilya Rozanov Has A Lot of Feelings (He Just Hides Them Worse Now), so does shane, One-Sided Past Angst (Because Someone Forgot It), Eventual Smut, Worried Shane Hollander, Hurt Ilya Rozanov, Idiots in Love, The Centaurs Take Care of Their Own, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-18 Completed: 2026-02-16 Words: 63,873 Chapters: 5/5

lover, come home to me

Summary

Shane loses his game to a blizzard and his boyfriend to a bad hit, all in the same night.

Snowed in with his parents in Montreal, he watches Ilya get stretchered off on live TV, and discovers that when your relationship is a secret, no one at the hospital thinks to call you.

In Ottawa, Ilya wakes up with broken bones, a serious concussion, and a neatly edited brain. The months where he was lonely and depressed and fighting with Shane? Gone. He’s mentally living in the soft, hopeful beginning of things—and the more everyone tiptoes around him, the more wrong it feels.

The Centaurs step up. The Hollanders dig in. Shane tries to convince himself that “temporary amnesia” is not the same thing as losing him.

They’re still together. They’re technically fine.

Notes

the heated rivalry brainrot got to me, so i needed to get this out of my system. i know the injury/temp amnesia has been done maybe a thousand times, but now it's a thousand and one cakes!! this contains spoilers for the long game (mostly, just their Fight in TLG). this also probably contains typos because i think my eyes just glazed over every time i tried to proofread

Chapter 1: this broadcast contains disturbing images

Chapter Notes

The blizzard steals Shane’s game first.

Montreal’s supposed to be loud tonight: a sold-out arena, his team on home ice against whoever the schedule says they're supposed to be annihilate this week. Instead he’s in his condo with his parents, feet bundled in thick socks, watching the Ottawa Centaurs on TV.

Snow knifes sideways past the balcony doors. The city outside is just smear and white and the occasional flash of headlights moving way too carefully for Montreal.

On the screen, the score bug reads OTT 2 – 1 AZR, midway through the second.

Shane can’t stop grinning at it.

“Look at him,” Yuna says, as though anyof them can look at anything else. “He’s flying.”

Ilya’s line is on. He cuts through the neutral zone like the ice belongs to him, shoulder dropping around a defender just because he can. The cameras love him; they always have. Shane’s chest does something awful and soft.

“They’re up,” David says, mildly astonished. “They’re actually up.”

“We are deeply offended on his behalf,” Yuna replies. “We always believed.”

Shane huffs out a laugh. His hands are still jammed between his knees, fingers knotted together hard enough to hurt. If he stretches them out he’s pretty sure they’ll be shaking.

He should be at the arena right now. He should be taping his stick, pulling his jersey on, making polite small talk with the media about “sticking to their game.” Instead: blizzard, postponed game, players told to stay put. So his parents made dinner, opened a bottle of wine and a cold ginger ale, and put on Ilya’s game, just to watch for a bit.

And then Ottawa scored. And scored again. And none of them even thought about changing the channel.

“You okay?” Yuna asks, like she can feel him vibrating through the couch.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Yeah. Just… he looks good.”

“Of course he does,” she says. “He’s showing off for you.”

Shane’s ears go hot. “He doesn’t know I’m watching.”

Yuna turns her head slowly, giving him the look she reserves for when he says something breathtakingly stupid. “Shane. He knows you'll always watch, live or later.”

David makes a low noise that might be agreement, might be him finding another clue in the crosswords he's tackling. He brings his puzzle book for nights exactly like these, where Yuna dissects every play better than game analysts, and Shane offers little inputs here and there.

Shane’s phone sits in the middle of the chaos, face down. It might as well be radioactive.

He keeps thinking about the last call. About Ilya’s tired face on his screen, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes soft in that way that makes Shane feel like his whole ribcage is full of light and guilt.

They’d apologized. Both of them. Ilya had said he was seeing a therapist. He’d said “moya lyubov” in that impossible, casual way, like it wasn’t the most important thing anyone’s ever called Shane in his life. They’d agreed they needed to talk properly when they were in the same room again.

“Maybe a bit of distance is good right now,” Ilya had said.

Shane had agreed. It had sounded mature and reasonable at the time.

Now he just feels itchy in his own skin. Thirty minutes of hockey left. A blown-out blizzard schedule. His own game shoved to another day. All he wants is to get through the third period so he can call and say, Okay, we’re both calm, let’s do this. Let’s fix it.

He reaches out and flips his phone over, thumb hovering near the screen for no good reason. No new notifications, of course. Ilya is locked in, head fully in the game. Professional. Focused. The way Shane loves him and resents him for at the same time, because it makes him proud and it means he’s not thinking about Shane right now.

Maybe that’s good. Maybe that’s the point.

It's not like he had not responded to Shane's earlier Good luck, I love you, in kind.

“They said the airport’s basically shut down,” David says, still watching the game. “We might be here a while.”

“Worst places to be snowed in,” Yuna says. “We have food. We have power. We have world’s most stressed-out son.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She smiles, softening. “He called you,” she says, quieter now. “You talked. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Shane licks his lips, eyes glued to Ilya on the screen. “It was… good. I mean, heavy. But good.”

“You two have those,” David says. “Heavy and good.”

Shane tries to laugh, but it comes out thin.

He doesn’t say: he should have told me sooner. About therapy. About how bad it got. About how lonely he was. About the nights he spent trying to sleep in a new city with a new team and an old hole inside him.

He doesn’t say: I should have seen it anyway.

On the TV, the puck drops for a defensive zone faceoff. Ilya leans in, eyes narrowed, stick angled just right. He loses the draw, then steals the puck back three seconds later like that was the plan all along.

“God, he’s such a menace,” Yuna says fondly.

Shane feels his mouth curve up despite himself. “Yeah.”

He imagines the call after. He’ll start with something easy, nice game, proud of you, and then he’ll say, Can we talk now? Really talk? No walls, no pretending it’s fine, no “I’m okay” and “don’t worry.” He’ll tell Ilya he’s been selfish. That he’s sorry. That he wants to do better. That he loves him so, so much.

He’s rehearsing, barely aware he’s doing it. I love you, and I—

The hit comes out of nowhere.

It’s not even on Ilya’s stick when it happens. The puck’s already gone up ice, broadcast camera following play, when some other angle cuts in late. Ilya is just a streak in the corner of the frame, curling off toward the boards.

The feed jerks back too late.

A defenseman steps into his lane at the blue line, angle bad, timing worse. Ilya’s weight is mid-stride, blade catching just wrong. There’s no bracing, no chance to ride it off. Shoulder, then back—

The first impact is against the glass.

The second is his head on the ice.

The crack of helmet to ice is loud enough to cut through the commentator’s sentence. A horrible, hollow thunk that sounds nothing like plastic and everything like bone.

Shane flinches. He feels it all the way down his spine.

The helmet splits along one side, a jagged white seam blooming across it, and then it just—pops off. Snaps away from Ilya’s head and skitters across the ice like it’s bailing out, like it isn’t supposed to be the thing that fucking protects him.

Ilya keeps moving without it.

His body skids, momentum carrying him face-first into the boards. There’s another sound then, dull and sickening, and the broadcast catches just enough of the angle that Shane’s stomach flips. Ilya’s neck tips wrong. His head hits bare. No give. No bounce. Just a stop.

The arena is full of sound—crowd, commentators, whistles—but it all drops out for Shane. It comes back thin and distorted a second later: a sucked-in gasp from thousands of people at once, the announcer’s voice pitching high with oh that’s ugly, the roar turning sharp and angry.

On the ice, Ilya doesn’t move.

He doesn’t push up. Doesn’t even twitch.

Troy Barrett is the first Centaur there, skates carving a hard stop beside the hitter. His gloves are off before they’ve even fully stopped sliding. He doesn’t look at Ilya. He goes straight for the guy who hit him, grabbing jersey, swinging, and Zane Boodram slams in a heartbeat later, stick already tossed aside. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t chirp, doesn’t square up. He just starts throwing, wild and vicious, like if he hits this man hard enough it’ll rewind the last three seconds.

The whistle shrieks, useless under the crowd’s roar. A ref dives between bodies and immediately gets dragged sideways as Troy and Bood haul their target down.

Somewhere behind them, Luca Haas has dropped to one knee near Ilya. He glances once at Ilya’s face—whatever he sees there makes him go white. His head snaps up toward the bench.

He starts waving. Both arms windmilling. Big, frantic arcs that say now, now, now, that you can hear him over the crowd even without seeing his mouth.

“Jesus,” David breathes.

Yuna’s mug slips in her hand and hits the table too hard, tea sloshing over the rim. “No,” she says. “No, no—”

The camera cuts away from the fight with a lurch. The announcer is still talking about the hit, about intent, about majors and suspensions, his words cracking around the edges. The feed finds Luca again, still on his knees, still waving the trainers on like he can drag them across the ice faster by sheer panic.

Ilya still isn’t moving.

The medics hit the ice at a dead run, medical bag bouncing, one of them nearly wiping out in their rush to get there. The fight is still happening at the edge of the frame—Troy being peeled off, Bood being hauled backward by a ref—but the broadcast camera doesn’t linger on it. It tracks the medics instead, drawing a straight, awful line to where Ilya lies facedown.

Shane’s vision tunnels in, then out again. The room feels too far away and too close at the same time. He can’t quite feel his feet on the floor.

His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth, in his palms, in the fragile skin of his throat. He tries to breathe and gets a short, useless hitch of air that doesn’t seem to go anywhere.

The camera zooms in for a second too long—Shane gets a flash of Ilya’s face, or what he can see of it, eyes closed, mouth slack, his neck at a line that looks all wrong—

The shot jerks back out. Cowardly. Merciful.

“Shane,” Yuna says sharply. “Shane, honey, breathe.”

He drags in a breath. It shudders on the way down, gets stuck high in his chest. His fingers are numb now, tingling all the way to the fingertips, his phone a block of heat in his hand he doesn’t remember picking up.

The air feels too thick. Like he’s inhaling cotton instead of oxygen.

“I—” he says, and can’t get the rest of the sentence out.

His chest tightens more. His ribs feel like they’re cinching in. The TV is too bright, the room too small, the snow outside pressing up against the glass like it wants to come in.

“Shane.” Yuna’s voice has that calm, absolutely-no-argument note she uses when people try to nickel-and-dime her. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t. Can’t. His eyes are glued to the screen even as it blurs.

On the TV, one of the medics is kneeling at Ilya’s head, hands braced on either side, holding him steady, talking in a calm, urgent rush Shane can’t hear. Another is digging in the bag for equipment. Someone—Wyatt, he thinks, can’t be sure—is still waving everyone else back, shouting at anyone who gets too close.

The dreaded bright-orange spinal board appears at the edge of the frame, two more staff hauling it onto the ice.

Shane’s thumb moves without instruction. He hits Ilya’s name—Lily—where it sits at the top of his recents.

He lifts the phone with hands that don’t feel attached to the rest of him. His fingers are shaking so hard he nearly drops it.

It rings and rings and rings all the way to “Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”

The familiar joke hits him like a punch. His vision goes grainy. His throat closes around any sound he might have made.

Shane hangs up and hits call again.

Voicemail.

His lungs feel like they’re filling with cold air and not doing anything useful with it. They're working too fast now, dragging in short, sharp breaths that stack on top of each other and never quite hit bottom. The more he notices it, the worse it gets. His chest buzzes, head light, hands gone pins-and-needles.

Every horror story he’s ever been told about bad hits slams into him at once: the guy in junior whose legs never worked the same, the veteran whose speech slurred for months, the “freak accident” clips they show players in training camp as a warning.

“Shane.” Yuna steps in front of the TV, blocking his view. Her hands land firmly on his shoulders. “Hey. Right here. Look at me.”

He jerks his eyes up. They feel raw, too wide.

“You’re hyperventilating,” she says, steady and matter-of-fact, like she’s telling him the score. “Slow it down. In for four, out for six. Come on, sweetheart. With me.”

“I—I can’t—” His voice cracks. His mouth feels dry and wet at the same time.

“Yes, you can,” she says. Her thumbs press into the line of his shoulders, grounding and solid. “We’ve done this before. In.” She inhales, exaggerated, so he can match her. “One, two, three, four. Hold. Out. One, two, three, four, five, six.”

He tries. The first attempt stutters halfway. His chest spasms. Black spots flirt at the edges of his vision.

“Again,” she says. “In. One, two, three, four.”

He leans into her hands like they’re the only thing keeping him upright. Forces the breath in, holds it like it might break if he squeezes too hard.

“Out,” she says softly. “Slow. All the way.”

The air whines out of him. His fingers tingle even more, then slowly, slowly start to come back from the edge of numb.

On-screen, they’re rolling Ilya carefully onto the board, strapping him down, bracing his head in foam. His arms lie limp at his sides until someone lifts and settles them. His legs never kick, never jerk. Nothing in him seems to protest the handling.

That’s wrong. That’s so wrong.

“Don’t look at the TV,” David says gently from somewhere to Shane’s left. A warm, solid hand presses between his shoulder blades. “Look at us.”

Shane focuses on Yuna’s face instead: the tiny crease between her brows, the shine in her eyes she’s refusing to let fall. He counts with her. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four, five, six.

The buzzing in his head eases by degrees. The room settles back into itself instead of tilting.

He’s still shaking. But he’s not floating entirely off his own body anymore.

The broadcast hovers on the cluster around Ilya, zooming just enough that you can see Haas' mouth moving in a constant stream of words and Hayes nodding at him.

Then the screen flickers. Graphics slide in from the corners. The commentator’s voice dips into that solemn register Shane’s always hated.

“We’re…ah, we’re going to take another look at what happened here.”

Yuna makes a sound under her breath. “We don’t need to see it again,” she says sharply. “We saw it. We saw it—”

Shane can’t look away. His eyes are glued to the TV, throat tight, muscles locked.

The first replay is from high above the blue line, far enough back that the geometry of it almost makes sense. Ilya gliding along the boards, the defenseman angling in. It looks avoidable for one frame, maybe two. If Ilya cuts earlier. If the other guy eases up. If any of the tiny, stupid variables break slightly different.

They don’t.

The defenseman steps in. Ilya’s skate catches a rut or a seam or nothing at all. His center of gravity disappears.

Shane’s stomach drops even though he knows what’s coming.

“Watch the head contact here,” one of the commentators says, voice tight. “This is…yeah, that’s bad. That’s very bad.”

The angle switches.

This time it’s from behind the net, closer, slower. The initial hit into the glass looks almost routine from here, the kind of collision they both walk away from a hundred times a season.

Then Ilya’s heel clips the ice. His knee buckles. His whole body whips sideways, the helmet taking the full force of the fall.

The thunk is louder on replay, somehow. Less buried under the live noise. Shane’s vision goes white around the edges for a second. His grip on his phone tightens until his knuckles ache.

The helmet cracks. You can see it, see the seam split along the side with awful clarity. It tilts, hangs on for half a heartbeat, then springs off his head like it’s been relieved of duty.

“Come on,” Shane whispers. He doesn’t know who he’s bargaining with. Please, please, please, please—

The third angle is the worst.

Board-level, from just beyond the bench. Close enough to see the way Ilya’s eyes squeeze shut just before his face hits the ice, bare and unprotected, mouth open like he might have been about to swear or laugh or say nothing at all.

His head bounces. Once. Twice. Then there’s the boards, hard and unforgiving, catching him at the wrong height, at the wrong angle.

The announcer actually winces. “You never want to see that,” he says, hoarse. “That’s… that’s textbook head and neck. They’re gonna be looking at that hit for a long time.”

On the periphery of the shot, Barrett is already dropping his gloves. Even in slow motion, you can see the way fury snaps through him. Boodram is right behind, eyes gone dark in a way Shane recognizes from too many games where someone went after one of theirs.

They’re both moving before Ilya stops.

Yuna’s hand finds Shane’s wrist, squeezes hard enough to hurt. “Shane,” she says again. “Stop watching.”

He can’t. He doesn’t even blink.

They run it one more time, reversed this time, like someone scrubbing back through a timeline trying to find the precise frame where everything went wrong.

If Shane had to pick, it’s the moment the helmet gives up. That stupid little hop as it comes off, the way it spins away across the ice, leaving his head utterly alone.

The feed finally cuts back to live.

Ilya is on the board now, fully strapped in, his face mostly obscured by the brace. A towel is draped over his torso. This is what he’ll see later, when he closes his eyes. One of the medics walks alongside the stretcher, hand on the rail. Coach Wiebe trails a step behind, mouth set in a hard, thin line.

Barrett and Boodram are both in the penalty box, jerseys rumpled, knuckles red. Troy is staring straight ahead, chest heaving. Zane has his head down, hands flexing open and closed over and over like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

The arena sound has changed. The crowd’s not roaring anymore. It’s a low, unsteady murmur, the kind of noise people make when they’re trying not to think the worst thing.

“They’re taking him straight to the back,” the other commentator says. “No question he’s done for the night.”

For the season, Shane thinks, and hates himself a second later.

The stretcher starts to move. The camera tracks it, following them toward the tunnel. Ilya doesn’t lift a hand. Doesn’t blink against the lights. Doesn’t do any of the reassuring things players sometimes do when they’re being taken off—thumbs up, little wave, a token sign that says it looks worse than it is.

Shane feels something in his chest twist so tight it’s almost a sound.

The camera follows as the stretcher disappears into the tunnel, until all that’s left is the dark mouth of the hallway and the smear of skate tracks on the ice. Then it cuts to a wide shot of the arena, crowd on their feet, players milling stiffly near their benches, refs clustered in the neutral zone, everyone looking like they’ve forgotten what to do.

The commentators keep talking. Of course they do.

“—taken straight to the back, obviously, Rozanov in a lot of distress there—”

“—you hate to see that, just a dangerous play, they’ll be looking at supplemental discipline—”

Words like head and protocol float through, brittle and useless. Shane hears none of it properly. It all drags past his ears like sound underwater.

He’s still standing. Yuna is still holding his wrist. David’s hand is a steady weight between his shoulder blades.

On the screen, the officials are skating over to the benches. The players look small. Even the big guys.

“They’re sending them to the room,” David says quietly. “Reset after the ice cut.”

The broadcast confirms it half a second later: “We’re going to have an extended delay here as both teams head to the dressing rooms. We’ll get you any updates we can on Rozanov’s condition as they become available.”

The shot changes. Highlights from earlier in the game. Ilya scoring, grin sharp and triumphant, crashing into the glass as his teammates mob him. Shane watches his own hands shake in the reflection on the dark part of the screen.

Yuna lets go of his wrist and steps back like she’s afraid she’s going to crush him if she hangs on any tighter. She drags both hands through her hair once. Then she squares her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. We need information.”

David is already reaching for his tablet on the dining table. Flight apps, weather alerts, highway closures, all glowing coldly back at him. Outside, the snow is coming down even harder, thick flakes plastering themselves to the balcony glass.

Shane’s phone is still in his hand. Ilya’s name is still at the top of his recent calls list, mocking him.

“He’s going to a hospital,” Shane says. His voice doesn’t sound like his. “We need to— I should be there.”

“You will be,” Yuna says. “As soon as it’s safe to get out of this city.”

“I can drive,” he insists. “We’ve driven worse. I can—”

“Shane.” David doesn’t raise his voice, but the word lands solid. “They’re telling people not to be on the roads at all. Look.”

He turns the tablet so Shane can see the alert: Non-essential travel strongly discouraged. I-40 closed eastbound. Multiple collisions reported. Airport operations suspended until further notice.

The words blur.

Non-essential. As if anything about this feels optional.

“We’re not risking our lives and someone else’s by spinning out on a highway,” Yuna says, more gently now. “If you crash in this, you help no one. Least of all him.”

Shane sinks back down onto the couch without quite meaning to. His knees buckle, and he takes it like he planned to sit.

On the TV, they run the hit again in a little box-in-box while the studio panel talks about “player safety” and “modern equipment” and “respecting the head area.” The sound of the helmet cracking plays again, quieter this time, like the audio engineer found it nauseating too.

He wants to throw the remote through the screen.

“He’s strong,” David says quietly. “He’s been hurt before. He knows how to do this.”

It’s meant to be reassuring. It lands like an accusation. Shane thinks of every time he’s told himself that — He’s fine. He said he's okay. He's good. — and hates each one.

“I’m going to see if we can find out anything through the foundation,” Yuna says. “We must have someone in touch with the team.”

She’s bluffing a little. Shane knows it. She knows it. But she’s already moving toward her bag, digging for the right contact, the right thread to pull. She needs to be doing something as badly as he does.

On the screen, the studio throws to commercial.

The living room goes dim as the TV’s light shifts from ice-white to soft, meaningless advertisements. Shane feels the change like a drop in elevator cables.

He looks down at his phone. Back at the now-empty rink when the game feed returns. His thumb hovers over Ilya’s name again.

He calls one more time.

Voicemail.

He doesn’t leave a message. Not this time. His throat won’t let him. It’s tight in a way that has nothing to do with breathing now and everything to do with the fact that there is no version of “I love you, please wake up” that doesn’t sound like a last word.

He hangs up.

For a second, the urge to drop the phone, to put it somewhere he can’t see all the missed calls and unanswered texts, is almost overwhelming. Instead he keeps it in his hand, grip aching, like if he lets go, the line between them will snap.

He forces one more breath in. One more out. Counts it.

The first thing Ilya knows is that his teeth hurt.

Not individually, but as a concept. His whole mouth aches, jaw buzzing with a low, electric throb that radiates up into his skull and down into his neck. It feels like someone tried to unplug him and failed halfway through.

The second thing he knows is that his eyes are closed.

He fixes that.

Light hits him like a slap. Too bright, too white. Ceiling tiles swim in and out of focus overhead. There’s a fluorescent hum that drills directly into the back of his head.

He shuts his eyes again.

Okay. Hospital.

He lies very still and takes a slow, careful inventory.

Head: pounding. Too full. Like someone poured another brain in on top of his old one and they’re arguing about who belongs.

Neck: stiff. Something hard cradling both sides. Collar, he thinks fuzzily. The word bobs up from memory like a buoy.

Left shoulder: hurts. A deep, hot ache that spikes when he tries to move it even a centimeter.

Right arm: worse. Heavy, immobilized, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Chest: tight. Every breath catches against something sharp on the left side, like his ribs are protesting the concept.

He tries not to cough. It feels instinctively like a bad idea.

Something beeps next to him. Steady. Annoying.

He cracks his eyes again, slower this time. Lets them adjust.

Hospital room, yeah. One bed, one chair, curtain half-drawn to nowhere. A plastic pitcher of water and a paper cup on the tray just out of reach. The kind of art on the wall that’s designed to offend no one and comfort even fewer.

He licks his lips. They’re dry. His tongue feels wrong in his mouth, thick and slow.

“Hello?” he tries.

It comes out wrecked. More air than sound. His throat protests.

Nobody answers.

He blinks, trying to line his thoughts up in the right order. There was… a game. Yes. A game. Arizona? Rangers? The ice was not good. Bad edges in that one corner. He remembers complaining about it in warm-up, remembers someone laughing, saying, “You’ve played on worse in Russia, Rozanov.”

He remembers—

He doesn’t remember the hit.

He reaches up automatically to touch his head and gets about three centimeters before something tugs at his wrist and his shoulder lights up with pain. He inhales sharply, regrets it immediately when his side flares.

“Don’t do that,” a voice says, firm and close.

He hadn’t heard the door. A nurse appears at the edge of his vision, moving into his field like she’s practiced this approach before. Medium height, dark hair pulled back, badge swinging slightly.

“You’re awake,” she says, and smiles like that’s a good thing. “That’s great, Mr. Rozanov. How are you feeling?”

He considers saying fantastic on principle, but the effort seems pointless.

“Like… shit,” he rasps instead.

Her smile widens a fraction. “That tracks. You took a very nasty hit.”

Ilya blinks at her, slow. “I do not…remember.”

“That’s okay,” she says, like she’s said it a hundred times today. “You have a concussion. Quite a severe one. It’s normal to be missing some pieces around the injury. They may come back, they may not. Right now we’re just happy you’re waking up on schedule.”

He lets that sink in. Concussion. Sure. That makes sense. The rest of it—shoulder, arm, chest—he files away as later problems.

“Where is…?” he starts, then realizes he doesn’t know what he’s asking. His brain reaches for something that isn’t there.

The nurse adjusts something at his IV line, checks his vitals with efficient hands. “You’re at Ottawa Civic,” she says. “We’ve been monitoring you. You’re in good hands.”

Ottawa. Right. That’s good. He lives there now. He likes it. He signed there because—

Montreal floats up. Shane in Montreal.

He’s supposed to be in Montreal tonight. Ilya had watched the schedule like a child watches a calendar for birthdays. Counted days. Built tiny castles of possibility around shared days off and bus routes and flights.

“Phone,” he says suddenly. The word scrapes his throat on the way out. “My phone. I need…”

The nurse’s expression tilts, apologetic. “You won’t be able to use it just yet, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders. No screens for at least twenty-four hours, maybe longer.”

“Is fine,” Ilya insists. His voice breaks on fine. “I will be careful. Is just call.”

“I know,” she says, and she does sound like she knows. “But right now your brain needs rest. Screens make it work too hard. We don’t want to set back your recovery.”

He stares at her. Processing feels like wading through deep water.

He wants to say, I have to call my— and stops, because the end of that sentence feels complicated even in his own head. Boyfriend is not a word he uses out loud very often. Shane feels too big to push through his teeth right now.

He settles on, “People are… worried.”

“We’ve contacted your team,” she says. “Your coach has been asking for updates. The hospital is working on contacting your… ah… support network.”

Support network. That sounds nice. Clinical. Maybe a little imaginary.

He frowns faintly. “My… what?”

She glances at the chart. “There weren’t any emergency contacts listed in your file,” she says, gentler now. “But your team has been reaching out. There are a lot of people very concerned about you, Mr. Rozanov.”

Of course there are, he wants to say. He’s a professional athlete who just turned his head into a projectile on national television.

Still. Something about no contacts listed pokes at him.

He doesn’t remember filling out any forms in Ottawa. Probably just signed where his agent told him to, trusting that someone else would make sure the boxes were all ticked. He’d removed Svetlana when he left Boston—too far, what was she supposed to do from there?—and he sure as hell hadn’t been writing Hollander on any official line.

Shane is in Montreal.

The thought is huge and obvious and sits just out of reach, like the water pitcher. If he focuses too hard on it, his head throbs.

He closes his eyes again. The nurse adjusts his pillow, checks the monitor, makes another note.

“You should rest,” she says quietly. “We’ll be right outside if you need anything. Just press the call button.”

Ilya doesn’t see any button. His arm is too trapped, his vision too blurry. He nods anyway.

“I call,” he mumbles. “Later.”

“Later,” she agrees.

He closes his eyes with the certainty that Shane is somewhere, watching, waiting, worrying himself sick. As he slips back under, he tells himself he will remember to ask for his phone. He will remember to call Shane. He will explain that he’s fine—mostly fine—and that the game was going well and then it was not, but it’s over now and he’s still here.

By the time the apartment is quiet, Shane’s lost track of how many times he’s seen Ilya hit the ice.

Sports channels keep looping it: different angles, different slow-motion breakdowns, same sickening sequence. At some point Yuna wrestles the remote out of his hand and changes the channel. A nature documentary. An old holiday movie rerun. White noise that drones on in the background and doesn't really stick.

He doesn’t protest. He just stares at his phone, backlit and stubbornly blank.

It’s been—he checks the time—almost two hours since they saw Ilya disappear down the tunnel.

Two hours of nothing.

The snow hits the windows in thick, insistent waves. The glass hums under the wind. Montreal feels like a snow globe someone is shaking too hard.

David comes back from the kitchen with a glass of water and a small plate. Plain crackers. Neutral. Safe.

“You need something in you,” he says quietly, setting them on the table in front of Shane. “If you’re staying up, you need fuel.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says automatically.

He isn’t, and all three of them know it. David doesn’t push. That somehow makes it worse.

Yuna has been pacing a tight track between the kitchen and the doorway, phone pressed to her ear or to her chest, depending on whether she’s on hold. She’s already called two hospitals in Ottawa, the Centaurs’ main line, the MLH liaison she has saved from some player-welfare meeting years ago.

“This is Yuna Hollander,” she’s said over and over. “I’m the director for the Irina Foundation. We’re preparing a statement. Calling for Ilya Rozanov. We need to confirm basic facts.”

Hospital switchboards have been polite and impenetrable. Privacy policies, ma’am. We can’t confirm or deny… Team numbers route to voicemail or generic PR inboxes. One foundation contact texted back with a clipped: Taken to hospital, running tests. No official update yet. Sorry. Will ping PR.

Now the aire in the room is in that brittle, waiting silence that feels like the air before a storm, even though the storm is already here and hammering at the windows.

Shane’s halfway through opening his airline app again — just to stare at the mocking red CANCELLED font — when his phone buzzes in his hand.

The Voyageurs group chat is lit up with unread messages.

[Comeau]: yo did you guys see rozanov
[JJ]: tsn just pushed a notif
[JJ]: “scary scene in ottawa” that looked bad as hell
[Deschamps]: that replay is nasty
[Poirier]: guy’s a tank tho he’ll be fine

More messages stack up.

[Comeau]: they’re saying stretchered off no update
[JJ]: feels illegal to show his head bouncing like that on loop
[Deschamps]: twitter already arguing if it’s suspendable or “just hockey” lmao

It’s all at that strange distance people have when they talk about someone famous getting hurt—horrified, but also a little too interested, like it’s content as much as it’s a person.

Shane doesn’t write anything there. His thumbs hover over the keyboard, then he just locks the screen.

A new notification pops up immediately.

Private chat.

[Hayden]: shane, man
[Hayden]: how you holding up?

Another buzz right after.

[Hayden]: just saw on twiiter Rozanov got taken to hospital.

Shane’s chest tightens.

[Shane]: We watched it live.

The dots appear almost at once.

[Hayden ]: whole room kind of went quiet when the alert popped up
[Hayden]: jackie’s watching the clip on loop, she says it looks bad from every angle

Shane glances up. Yuna is pacing with her phone pressed to her ear, stuck on hold again. David is at the table, sorting though travel options.

[Shane]: Mom keeps calling hospitals.
[Shane]: No one will tell us anything.

[Hayden]: yeah, they won’t tell media shit either
[Hayden]: jackie’s in one of her WAG chats, i’ll get her to ask around
[Hayden]: she said some of the cens wives are in there

That makes something in Shane’s chest twitch. It’s stupid, but it feels like momentum.

[Shane]: If anyone knows which hospital he’s at or if he’s awake, can you tell me?
[Shane ]: Or get me a number for someone actually with him. Coach, trainer, doctor, I don’t care.

There’s a longer pause this time. The wind rattles the glass. Yuna mutters something tight in Japanese at an automated menu, then switches back to English to leave yet another calm, professional voicemail for a hospital PR office.

His phone buzzes again.

[Hayden]: jackie talked to lisa hayes
[Hayden]: lisa says hayes went straight to the hospital with some of the Centaurs after the game

[Hayden]: she doesn’t have details but she’s sending jackie wyatt’s number now

Another message lands a second later:

[Hayden]: Contact Card - Wyatt Hayes

Shane looks over. Yuna notices immediately.

“Jackie talked to Lisa Hayes,” he says. “Wyatt’s at the hospital. I got his number.”

Yuna’s expression sharpens. “Send me it,” she says.

Shane’s thumbs move. Yuna's fingers move as soon as the digits land in her inbox, already tapping the call button as she walks toward the window like she needs space to line everything up in her head, but leaves it on speaker.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

On the fourth, a man answers. There’s hospital noise behind him—footsteps and the low murmur of voices in a hallway.

“Hayes.”

“Wyatt Hayes?” Yuna’s voice flips into the polite, cut-glass register she uses for donors and ministers of sport. “This is Yuna Hollander. I’m the director of the Irina Foundation. I know Ilya through the foundation.”

Shane flinches.

It isn’t a lie. That somehow makes it worse. It’s the true part she chooses, the neat, acceptable version: we’re his charity people, his good deed connection, nothing messier than that.

There’s a small pause, like he’s lining that up with things he’s heard before.

“Oh,” Wyatt says, instantly more focused. “Yes. Of course. We’ve met at the gala.”

“Yes,” Yuna says. “We saw the game, and we saw Ilya go down. He doesn’t have family in Canada, and we’re very worried. We’re trying to find out how he is, and how we can help.”

Shane’s fingers curl. He wants to rip the phone out of her hand and say, That’s not why I’m worried. I’m not calling as a board member. I’m calling because that’s my person. Because he sleeps in my bed and wears my hoodie and kisses my stupid face when I’m spiraling. Because if he's hurt, he should know I'm there for him.

Because I should be the name on whatever form they pulled up when they typed “emergency contact.”

The background noise shifts; Shane can picture Wyatt turning away from the main corridor, cupping the phone a little.

“He’s here,” Wyatt says. “At Civic. I can’t give you every detail, that’s for the doctors, but I can tell you he’s alive. They’ve done scans. He woke up once when they were checking him over. He’s… pretty out of it. Lots of meds.”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut for a second. Alive. Woke up.

“Thank you,” Yuna says, and this time the gratitude bleeds through the professionalism. “If there is anything we can do, anything he needs when he’s discharged, we want to be ready.”

“Uh, of course,” Wyatt says quietly. “I’ll make sure to let him know.”

“Is Coach Wiebe there?” Yuna asks. “We’ve been trying to reach someone from the team. We’d like to have an official update before we make any statements.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt replies immediately. “He’s here in the hallway. I’ll get him for you.”

More muffled noise. A low, “It’s Yuna Hollander, from the foundation,” half-caught as the phone changes hands.

Then a new voice: deeper, roughened, tired.

“Ms. Hollander? This is Coach Wiebe with the Centaurs.”

Shane’s stomach drops. He’s heard the name a hundred times in Ilya’s stories. Hearing him now feels like stepping over a line.

“Yes,” Yuna says. Her voice wobbles once, then smooths out. “Thank you so much for taking my call. We saw the game.”

She sets the phone on the coffee table.

Wiebe exhales; it sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for hours.

“He’s at Civic,” Wiebe says. “They’ve done the first round of imaging. He’s… stable.”

The word is so small, but it still hits like something in Shane’s ribs finally loosening.

“Can you be more specific?” Yuna asks, polite with an edge. “Hospitals can be very creative with that word.”

“Fair enough,” Wiebe says. There’s a tired huff there that might almost be a laugh in a different universe. “He was out on the ice for a bit. Came to in the tunnel. EMS intubated briefly in the ambulance as a precaution, but he’s breathing on his own now. He’s got a significant concussion. They’re watching that very closely.”

Paper rustles. Somewhere behind him, a monitor beeps in a steady rhythm.

“He’s got some other damage,” Wiebe goes on. “They’re talking about an arm fracture, shoulder’s a mess, and they think he cracked a few ribs. I don’t have exact numbers, I’m just going off what the doctor told me five minutes ago. But the big thing is, as of right now, they’re not seeing anything in his spine. That was our worst fear, and it’s not what this looks like.”

Shane presses his nails into his thigh until it hurts. It still doesn’t hurt enough.

He hears all of it through a filter of, I should be there. I should be the one in that hallway. I should be the one the doctor comes out to talk to.

Now, when it matters most, no one knows to tell him anything.

“Is he awake?” Shane asks. The words scrape out of him before he can stop them. “Now, I mean.”

“In and out,” Wiebe says. “They woke him for a neuro check a little while ago. He knew his name, knew where he was. Asked what happened. Couldn’t tell us the score or period. That’s pretty standard with a hit like that.”

Shane’s throat closes around the next question, the one that sounds childish even in his own head. He asks it anyway.

“Did he… ask for anyone?”

There’s the briefest pause.

“He asked if the boys were okay,” Wiebe says. The fondness is clear now, threaded through the worry. “Wanted to know if anyone else got hurt in the scrum. That was his first question.”

Of course it was. Of course he went to are you okay before am I.

David lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half swear.

“As for everyone else,” Wiebe adds, “he wasn’t up long enough to get there. They’re spacing things out, giving his brain rest. When he’s more lucid, I’ve got no doubt we’ll be getting orders.”

Shane nods like an idiot at the coffee table.

He wants to say, Tell him I’m here. Tell him I’m coming. Tell him— what, exactly? Tell him the thing we’ve been hiding from every room like this one?

“Thank you,” Yuna says softly. The professional veneer is gone now; it’s just a woman who’s watched this kid sit at her table and do puzzles with her husband. “For staying with him. For calling us back. If this blizzard wasn’t pinning us down, we’d already be driving.”

“Of course,” Wiebe says. “He talks about you. About the foundation. He's very proud of it.”

Shane’s chest aches. He thinks of all the things Ilya must have said to build this version of the story: my foundation, my friends in Montreal. All these truths wrapped carefully around one missing center.

“Is there a number we can use for updates?” Yuna asks. “Direct. I don’t want to keep going through people who aren’t actually there.”

“Use mine,” Wiebe says immediately. He rattles off the digits. David writes them down in neat, steady numbers in the corner of his crossword.

“You call me and I’ll tell you what I can,” Wiebe says. “Might not get me on the first ring, but I’ll get back to you.”

“Thank you,” Yuna says again. It comes out raw. “Really. Thank you.”

They end the call.

The room collapses back into its smaller sounds: the fridge hum, the heater clicking, the wind clawing at the building. The TV mutters in the corner, some show no one’s looking at.

Yuna holds the phone against her chest for a moment, eyes closed. David’s hand finds Shane’s shoulder and stays there.

“Stable,” David says quietly. Like he’s trying to make the word solid by saying it out loud. “He’s stable.”

Shane nods. Once. Twice.

Stable. And still somewhere behind that word, a blank line on a form where his name should be.

Now he’s on a couch in Montreal, making his mother invent careful half-truths just to find out if the love of his life is still breathing.

If he had any voice left, he’d scream.

Belatedly, he remembers he has a voice in his hands.

His phone is where it’s been all night, warm and useless in his palm. Ilya’s name sits at the top of his recent calls, a little gray “no answer” suffocating under it.

They said no screens. No phone. No stimulation. Brain rest.

But eventually, someone will hand it back to him. Eventually, they’ll leave him alone long enough to squint at the light and swipe his thumb and see what waited for him in the hours his head was full of static.

Shane unlocks his phone.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard, useless at first. Every sentence that comes feels too big, too stupid, too much.

Are you okay? Delete.
I’m coming as soon as I can. Delete.
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so— Delete.

He forces himself to breathe. In. Out. His eyes sting.

He types, slower this time.

[Shane]: They said you’re stable.
[Shane]: I’m in Montreal with my parents. Blizzard has us stuck.
[Shane]: As soon as the roads open, I’m coming to Ottawa.
[Shane]: You’re not alone. Coach and the guys are with you. We’re calling.
[Shane]: I love you. That’s the only part that matters.

He stares at that last line until the letters blur.

Then he adds, because he can’t stop himself:

[Shane]: Ya tebya lyublyu ❤️

The message goes blue. Delivered.

It’s nothing. It’s everything. A tiny bottle thrown into a storm he can’t see, hoping it washes up on the right shore when the waves calm down.

“Lie down,” Yuna says softly. At some point she’s moved closer again, fingers resting light on his shoulder. “You don’t have to sleep. Just get horizontal before you snap in half.”

“I’m fine,” he tries.

She gives him the same look she did when he said Ilya didn’t know he’d be watching the game. A quiet, unimpressed try again.

He gives up.

His room is dark when he goes in. The snow makes the world outside glow a strange, city-white rather than black. He changes automatically, goes through the motions of brushing his teeth, setting his alarm for a morning that may or may not involve roads.

He ends up on his back, staring at the ceiling. His phone is on the pillow beside him, screen down, like if he keeps his hand close enough to it he can hold onto Ilya by proxy.

From the living room, he can hear the muted rise and fall of his parents’ voices. The wind rattles the window. Somewhere far away, Ottawa hums around a hospital where Ilya is strapped to a bed, brain bruised, bones cracked, still somehow his.

Shane closes his eyes.

He pictures walking into a room that smells like antiseptic and too-bright light. He pictures Ilya looking up, maybe pale and grumpy and bandaged, but smiling at him with that small, private tilt of his mouth that says there you are.

He clings to that image like it’s a fact, not a wish.

Soon, he tells himself. As soon as the snow lets him move. They’ll be in the same city again. The same room. The same bed. There will be space and time and air to say all the things they mangled on the phone.

The next time Ilya wakes up, the room is louder.

Not by much. Just enough that the silence isn’t empty anymore. There are low voices somewhere near his bed, the shuffle of feet, the faint squeak of a chair.

He peels his eyes open.

The ceiling is the same: white tiles, fluorescent hum. The weird art print is still on the wall. His head still hurts, but the pain has shifted from sharp to thick, like someone wrapped his brain in wool.

This time, there are people.

Coach Wiebe is in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, forearms inked and tense. Troy Barrett leans against the wall by the door, arms folded, looking like he’d rather be punching something. Wyatt is in the corner, scrolling his phone the way people do when they’re looking for any excuse not to think.

All three look up at the same time.

“Hey,” Wiebe says, like he’s been practicing how normal to sound. “There he is.”

Ilya blinks at him. “There who is?” he croaks. His voice sounds like it’s been sandpapered.

Wyatt exhales a laugh that doesn’t have much joy in it. “You, man. Who else.”

A new person materializes at the side of the bed. White coat, kind eyes, tablet in hand. He flicks his gaze between the monitor, the chart, and Ilya’s face like he’s triangulating something important.

“Mr. Rozanov,” he says. “Good to see you awake again. I’m Dr. Mahar.”

“Again,” Ilya repeats slowly. His tongue feels thick. “How many times is this?”

“This is the third,” Mahar says. “We’ve been checking in on you periodically. How’s your head?”

“Very full,” Ilya says honestly. “Too much brain.”

Troy snorts softly. Wiebe gives him a look that says do not encourage him, but there’s relief in it.

“Alright,” Mahar says. “We’re going to run through a few questions. Nothing tricky. Just checking that your brain is doing what we want it to do. Okay?”

“Da,” Ilya says automatically, then corrects himself. “Yes.”

“What’s your full name?” Mahar asks.

“Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov.”

“And do you know where you are?”

“Hospital,” Ilya says. “Ottawa Civic.” He squints around, just to be sure. “Unless you redecorate very fast.”

“Good.” Mahar taps something on his tablet. “Do you know why you’re here?”

There’s a little blank space in his mind where an answer should be. He reaches for it carefully, like poking a sore tooth.

“Hockey,” he says finally. “I fell down.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Wyatt mutters under his breath.

“You took a hit,” Mahar says. “Your head made contact with the ice and the boards. You were unconscious on the ice for a short period, then again in transit. You have a concussion. It’s fairly severe.”

He lets that settle. Concussion. Okay. That tracks. The rest—he can work with later.

“You also have some orthopedic injuries,” Mahar continues. “Your right shoulder dislocated and was reduced. There’s a fracture in your forearm. A few broken ribs. No signs of spinal injury on imaging, which is very good news. Right now, our main concern is your brain.”

“Brain good,” Ilya says. “Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Mahar agrees. “So now I’m going to check your orientation to time. Do you know what day it is?”

Ilya opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

He knows it’s winter. He knows it’s the season. He has a vague, hazy sense of Christmas somewhere behind him, lights and food and warmth and—

And then a wall. A smooth, blank wall his thoughts bounce off.

“Um,” he says.

Wyatt shifts his weight. Wiebe’s jaw flexes.

“That’s alright,” Mahar says easily. “Approximate is okay. Month? Year?”

“October,” Ilya says slowly. That feels right. “Two thousand… eighteen?”

Mahar’s eyes flick to Wiebe, just for a second.

“It’s January,” Wiebe says gently. “January second.”

Ilya frowns.

“Okay,” Mahar says. “One more. Do you know who you play for?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, relieved. “Raiders.”

The silence is sudden and heavy.

Troy goes very still. Wyatt’s head snaps up. Wiebe’s hand tightens on his knee just enough that the tendon jumps.

Mahar doesn’t flinch, but something in his expression shifts.

“You think you play for the Raiders?” he asks, voice still mild.

“I mean…” Ilya’s brain scrambles. “Ah. No, we are talking with—” His tongue trips over the word. “—with Ottawa. It is… contract year. I have agent. We speak.”

He looks around the room, expecting someone to back him up. The looks he gets instead are soft and wrecked.

“Ilya,” Wiebe says quietly. “You’ve been with us since September.”

“I know,” Ilya says automatically.

He doesn’t know.

He knows the idea of the Centaurs. Of Ottawa. Of a move he was excited about. He knows how the words we are talking with Ottawa sounded in his own mouth. He remembers looking at houses on his phone, half-joking about being Shane’s half-neighbor.

He does not remember walking into this locker room and hanging his jersey up there. He does not remember this season like it already happened. But he remembers these faces, and names, so he must know them; or at least a part of him does.

Something cold slides down his spine. His ribs protest the shiver.

“Okay,” Mahar says, catching the edge before it tips. “Mr. Rozanov, what you’re experiencing is called retrograde amnesia. It’s very common with concussions like yours. Your brain is having trouble accessing some memories from before the injury. That’s why it feels like you’re still in Boston.”

“How much… trouble?” Ilya asks slowly.

“It varies,” Mahar says. “From what Coach and your teammates tell me, you seem to be missing… a chunk of the last few months. You remember founding your charity, yes? The Irina Foundation?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, too fast. He remembers sitting at the Hollanders’ kitchen table, Yuna’s hand over his, papers spread out. He remembers Shane’s face, lit by something other than a rink for once. He remembers feeling like the world was opening a small door just for him.

“Good,” Mahar says. “It’s possible, likely, even, that more recent things will come back with time. Sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once. Sometimes in pieces. Sometimes not at all. For now, you should assume you may not be remembering things correctly and let people around you help fill in the blanks. Do you understand?”

No.

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“Good,” Mahar says again, and might be grading him a little. “We’re going to keep you on concussion protocol. No driving. No training. No screens, as we discussed. Very limited reading. Lots of rest. No being alone for at least the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

He says it all like a list. Ilya hears: no hockey, no distractions, no pretending you’re fine.

“And when do you let me go?” Ilya asks. He’s trying for light, but it comes out strained. “I am very expensive. You cannot afford my stay.”

Mahar doesn’t quite smile. “Tonight, you stay,” he says. “With the severity of the concussion and the double loss of consciousness, I’m not comfortable signing discharge yet. We’ll reassess in the morning.”

“But—”

“No,” Mahar says. “I know you feel better than you did earlier. That’s good. That doesn’t mean you’re safe unsupervised. You’re still at risk for worsening symptoms overnight. We need eyes on you. Nurses can wake you. Teammates cannot write neuro exams in the middle of the night.”

“I can learn,” Ilya says.

From his spot, Troy mutters, “Shut up, man,” but there’s no bite to it.

Mahar taps something into his tablet. “We’ll keep the no-screens rule tonight,” he says. “Limited stimulation. No TV, no phone, no scrolling. If that goes well and your next scan looks the way I want, then we talk about sending you home with friends and very strict instructions.”

Ilya scowls. It makes his head throb. “What am I supposed to do? Lie here and count ceiling?”

“Yes,” Mahar says simply. “Sleep. Do nothing. Let your brain heal.”

He says it like that’s easy. Like Ilya doesn’t know, to the minute, how long it’s been since he last saw Shane’s face.

“Any questions?” Mahar asks.

Ilya has about a thousand. None of them are medical. “No,” he lies.

“Good,” Mahar says. “We’ll be back to check on you in a couple of hours. Gentlemen, let him rest.”

He nods to the three of them and slips out.

“Alright. Visiting time’s almost up. They’re going to yell at us if we hover all night.” Wiebe looks at Ilya. “We’re back first thing.”

“You do not all have to—”

“Yeah, we do, kid.”

This, inexplicably, makes Ilya’s throat burn.

“Okay,” he says.

Wiebe squeezes his foot through the blanket, a coach’s version of affection. "Rest well, okay?"

They file toward the hallway. The door swings once, twice, on slow hinges.

“Troy,” Ilya blurts.

Barrett pauses with his hand on the handle. Like always, he’s a wall in skates and shoulders; out of gear he’s just a little smaller, but still somehow solid enough to hold up a building.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“I need…” Ilya licks his lips. The word phone tastes like disobedience. “Favor.”

Troy half-turns back, brows lifting.

“Real small,” Ilya adds. “Very compliant patient, me. Promise.”

Troy crosses back to the bed, hands shoved into his pockets. “What do you need?” he asks.

“My phone,” Ilya says.

Troy’s gaze flicks to the bedside table, where a plastic bag with his belongings sits, knotted at the top. He knows the rule; he heard the doctor.

“Doc said—”

“I know,” Ilya cuts in. “No screens. No scrolling. No TikTok, no Candy Crush, no… whatever you kids do.” His vision swims for a second when he tries to tilt his head; he gives up and stares at the ceiling instead. “I am not doing any of that. I cannot even look. Head starts… spinning.”

He swallows. The collar digs into his throat.

“I just need one call,” he says quietly. “Head hurts more when I think about people worrying.”

That lands somewhere it shouldn’t have to. Troy hesitates for a heartbeat.

“Jane,” Ilya says. The name comes out soft. Automatic.

Troy doesn’t react, not visibly. He just reaches for the bag, unties the knot, fishes the phone out. The screen flares too bright in the dim room; he angles it toward his own chest, thumb already moving.

Even from a cursory glance he can see the notifications stacked up. Missed calls. Dozens of them. All one name at the top: Jane.

He pretends not to notice.

“Passcode?” he asks.

“Four, two, one, eight,” Ilya says. 

Troy taps it in. The phone unlocks. He hits Contacts, scrolls, finds Jane, presses call.

The ring doesn’t even finish.

“Ilya?”

The voice on the other end is immediate, frayed, way too awake.

Troy doesn’t listen. He crosses the space in two long steps, slides the phone into Ilya’s good hand, guiding it up toward his ear so he doesn’t have to lift his arm.

“Don’t drop it,” he mutters.

Then he turns and slips back out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click.

Inside, the monitor keeps beeping, steady and oblivious.

Outside, Troy leans against the wall, crosses his arms, and very deliberately does not think about the way someone can sound like that over one name, or the voice he heard on the other line.

“Yes,” Ilya says. His lips twitch, something in his chest unclenching the second he hears the voice. “Hi.”

There’s a sound that might be a laugh and might be a sob. “Oh thank God,” Shane says. “You’re—You’re talking. You sound— Are you okay?”

“Do not panic,” Ilya says. “I am big and fine.”

“You are not fine,” Shane says, and it would land harder if his voice didn’t break halfway through. “Your helmet exploded. They put you on a board like you were—” He cuts himself off, swallows audibly. “You didn’t answer. Not once. Ilya.”

“I am in hospital,” Ilya says. “They say I am stable. Concussion. Some broken… pieces. But nothing in spine. Doctor is very boring. He does not seem worried.”

“Stable,” Shane repeats. “Great. Fantastic. Love that useless word.”

Ilya huffs, just enough to pull on his ribs. “You sound very upset.”

“No kidding,” Shane says softly. “We watched it. Live. And then nothing. No updates. Just ‘taken to hospital’ and ‘no word yet.’ I’ve been sitting here with my phone like an idiot for hours.”

“Do not call yourself idiot,” Ilya says automatically. “That is my job.”

A thin, wet laugh leaks through the line. Ilya can picture it, the way Shane’s mouth pulls to the side when he doesn’t want to admit he’s smiling.

“You sound a tired,” Shane says after a moment.

“I am tired,” Ilya says. “And my brain is… confused.” He searches for the doctor’s phrase, tongue clumsy around the syllables. “Retro…grade. Amnesia. Big words.” He squints at the ceiling. “I forget some things.”

Silence— thick.

“How much?” Shane asks, voice gone very careful.

“Not so bad,” Ilya lies, because the truth feels too sharp. “Time is… fuzzy.” He swallows. “Doctor says is normal, with this kind of hit.”

Shane inhales slowly, like he’s pulling something back from the edge.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. If the doctor’s not panicking, I’ll… try not to either. I’m still allowed to hate it, though.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “You can hate it for both of us. I am too tired.”

Shane lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Deal.”

Ilya shifts a little, the collar catching at his neck. “I wanted to call,” he says quietly. “Before they take phone away. So you don’t…” The word refuses to come. “So you know I am still here.”

“I know,” Shane says immediately. “I knew you were. I just—” He breaks off. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “I needed to hear you, too.”

Ilya closes his eyes. The room tips; he keeps the movement small, holding onto the sound of Shane like it’s the point he can balance on.

“I will be better tomorrow,” he says. “They say maybe I go home. Team will babysit me.”

“Good,” Shane says. “Let them. Don’t be a hero about this.”

“I am always hero,” Ilya says, too tired to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Yeah,” Shane says, a little laugh wrapped around the word. “That’s the problem.”

They’re quiet for a few breaths, not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much and not enough air to carry it.

“I’ll come as soon as I can,” Shane says finally. “As soon as this stupid storm lets us move. The second they open a road or an airport or a hole in the ground, I’m taking it.”

“I know,” Ilya says. He doesn’t know how he knows, only that it feels like fact written under his ribs. “We talk in person. Is better then.”

“Always is,” Shane murmurs. “I just… I didn’t want the last time we talked to be—” He stops, breath catching. “Not like that.”

There’s a pause.

Ilya frowns faintly at the ceiling. The effort of reaching for why makes his head throb, so he lets it go.

“It was fine,” he says instead, certain in the way he is about some things and not others. “We talked. You were worried. I said I was okay. This is normal.”

On the other end of the line, Shane goes very still.

“…Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Okay.”

Ilya shifts, careful of the collar. “We are okay,” he adds, because that feels important. “Why would we not be?”

Shane exhales, slow and shaky, like he’s steadying himself against something invisible.

Why would we not be?

Shane could make a list. Because I made you cry. Because I asked you if you'd choose me over hockey. Because I walked out when you asked me to. Because you were telling me you were lonely in so many words and I nodded like that was some sad, unchangeable fact instead of something I should have been fixing with every spare second I had.

He swallows all of that down until it burns.

“No reason,” he says. “No reason at all. I just—” His voice softens. “I just need you to keep…being here. That’s all.”

“I can do this,” Ilya says. “Lying down and breathing. I am very skilled.”

That gets him a real laugh, thin but honest.

His eyelids are getting heavy. The phone feels heavier in his hand too, slick with sweat.

“You should sleep,” Shane says. “Before a nurse comes in and takes your phone and yells at you.”

“I am very fragile,” Ilya says. “She would win.”

“I don’t want anybody tackling you but me,” Shane blurts, then makes a strangled sound like he’s trying to swallow the words back.

Ilya smiles, soft and stupid. “Soon,” he says. “When I am less broken.”

There’s a long beat, full of static and breathing.

“Don’t forget that,” Shane says quietly.

“I will not forget you, moya lyubov,” Ilya says simply.

He means it. Down to bone and bruise and whatever parts of his brain are still lit up.

“I love you,” Shane says, sudden and fierce, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “So much. Just—so you know. In case I didn’t say it enough before.”

“You say it enough,” Ilya says. “I still like hearing.” His voice drops. “I love you too.”

For a moment, everything hurts a little less.

“Okay,” Shane whispers. “Okay. Go to sleep. I’ll give you a break from my voice for, like, an hour.”

“This is impossible,” Ilya says. “You talk so much.”

Shane huffs, and Ilya can hear the shape of his fond eye-roll in it. “Goodnight, show-off.”

“Goodnight,” Ilya says. “See you soon.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Soon.”

He ends the call before he can drag it out. The screen flares bright white for a second, then goes dark as his thumb slips and the phone slides out of his hand into the blankets.

He hears the soft thump as it lands. He doesn’t have it in him to reach.

His head is pounding again, but the buzzing in his chest has gone quiet, replaced by something warm and aching that feels almost like peace.

Outside, footsteps go past his door. Down the hall, someone laughs, low and tired. The hospital hums around him, impersonal and alive.

Ilya lets the darkness come for him this time, slow and deep, holding onto one simple, solid thought as he goes under:

Shane is out there. Waiting. Coming.

The rest—the missing pieces, the time that slipped—can come later.

For now, his world is small and simple: bright ceiling, sore body, Shane’s voice still echoing in his ear.

Later can do what it wants.

Chapter End Notes

how are we feeling!!! hope you have fun reading this as i have had writing it!!
thank you for reading 💗 please drop a comment and let me know what you think! see you in the next one :)

ah, also, had a few people asking how ilya knows the centaurs if he thinks he's with boston. this was very intentional actually! it's not amnesia movie-style, but more like, you know things, but you also don't, in the way that they don't add up. make-believe!! wooo!!!

Chapter 2: concussion protocol engaged

Chapter Notes

i, personally, cannot believe how fast i got this chapter wrapped up too.
thank you so much to everyone who left, just, the sweetest comments in the last chapter! promise i'll work my way through replying to all of them, but i needed to get this one out to keep my momentum going.

i think this purely turned into a ilya rozanov needs a hug (and he gets it, and more) territory, which i don't mind, because i couldn't hold onto the angst for too long. purely indulgent things ahead!!

also, i super lied, and we're now looking at 4 chapters not 3

The third time Ilya wakes up, the room feels wrong in very specific ways. In quiet ways.

Not thick, underwater quiet from before. That was full of cotton and unconsciousness. This is cold, thin, full of small, mean noises. Distant wheels squeaking in the hallway. A monitor beeping behind his head in the most annoying rhythm known to man.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Last time it had been too full—of murmuring noise, of people, of hands on his shoulder and his foot, of Wyatt’s worried eyebrows and Luca’s nervous laugh and Troy looming in the corner like a dark cloud. Even with his head full of cotton, there’d been a weight in the air that said you are not alone.

He lies very still and catalogues the damage, because it's something he knows how to do.

Head's heavy, sore, less like someone splitting it open with an axe and more like someone poured wet cement in and didn’t wait long enough for it to set. Vision a little fuzzy at the edges, but not double, so—progress.

His neck caught in the grip of the brace. Not painful, exactly. Just cradled—trapped, more like.

There's a throbbing, deep ache radiating from his right shoulder all the way down into the immobilized arm. Each throb is answered in turn by the dull pulse under plaster and bandages of his forearm, slow and mean.

He tries to shift, and his ribs make their protests known, like someone jammed pieces of glass between them overnight.

Everything hurts. Nothing’s gone. For a man in his line of work, this is almost a good day.

He blinks at the ceiling until the tiles line up.

That prickle under his ribs—separate from the broken ones—he ignores. They said they’d come back in the morning. It’s early. Visiting hours aren’t for a while. He knows how this works. People have lives. Sleep. Families. Kids to get to school. Practices.

He thinks about the better parts of last night, carefully, like it’s a thing made of glass. That part is the clearest. Like someone went in and wiped off just that memory with a clean cloth.

Shane’s voice had been rough and soft at the same time, like he’d sandpapered it down with worry. The English had felt easier while he was listening to it. The Russian, easier still.

“I will not forget you, my love,” Ilya had said, and that had been the truest thing in the whole hospital.

He can’t remember the hit, the fall, the sound his helmet made. He remembers the shape of Shane’s breathing on the other end of the line. The way everything hurt less for a few minutes just because he could hear him being angry and worried and alive.

That warmth curls up under his breastbone now, tries to expand past the ache and the tight tape.

He lets himself feel it for one second and then shoves it back down.

Because he is not sixteen, lying in a clinic pretending he doesn’t care that his father never came—that his mother never could. He is an adult man, a professional, and he knows how this game is played.

He flexes the fingers of his good hand. They’re stiff, slow. He takes a careful breath. It makes his side light up, but hey, still breathing. He's a man of endless talent.

The door opens with a soft whoosh.

Not Wiebe. Not Troy or Wyatt or Luca.

It's not Shane.

A nurse.

“Morning,” she says, cheery but not too cheery. She’s got a clipboard and a ponytail and a tiredness under her eyes that says she’s been here since before the sun. “How are we doing, Mr. Rozanov?”

He considers the question.

“Head is… less full,” he decides. “Rest of me, not so much.”

She huffs a little laugh, already checking the monitor. "How’s the pain?”

“Present,” he says. “Committed to its job.”

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

“Dizziness? Nausea?”

“Only when I think about schedule,” he says. “And hospital food.”

She huffs. “You hockey boys and your delicate palates,” she says, scribbling on the chart. “On a scale of zero to ten?”

He considers. “Head, six. Ribs… also six. Arm, five. Ego, maybe three.”

“Ego’s fine,” she says. “You tried to charm me out of waking you up for a neuro check at three am. That’s not a low number.”

He has no memory of that. Of course he doesn’t.

“Doctor will be in soon,” the nurse says. “He’ll want to talk next steps with you.”

“Next steps is I go home,” Ilya says automatically.

She gives him The Look. The universal nurse look that says: “Uh-huh, and I want six weeks of paid vacation and a cabin, we all suffer.”

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Six-ten,” she says. “You’ve got a bit before visiting hours. Try to rest.”

He nods because that’s what you do, and watches the door close again, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the hum of fluorescent lights.

He doesn’t like that word, visiting.

It implies someone will come.

He tells himself he doesn’t care either way. If the chair stays empty, that’s fine. Easier. Less… expectation. No one to perform for, no one to manage. He can charm medical staff into signing papers, order his own ride, get himself home. He’s done it before in worse shape than this.

Shane will come when he can. That’s… different. That’s a whole other corner of his brain with its own set of rules.

The thought of Shane in Montreal—pacing, chewing his lip, probably watching the hit on loop because he’s a masochist and Ilya is not there to stop him—sends a different kind of ache through him, deep.

He imagines Shane’s parents still there, snowed in with him. David making tea and pretending to do crosswords. Yuna calling hospitals in terrifyingly polite English. Shane on the couch, fingers white around his phone, waiting for a text that Ilya can’t send yet because his brain has filed screens under “enemy of the state.”

Warmth again. Big, unwieldy. Too much for a body with limited shelf space right now.

He exhales carefully, a slow little breath that doesn’t disturb his ribs too much, and stares at the ceiling. The tiles don’t move. The art stays ugly. Time drips past like an IV.

By the time Dr. Mahar comes in, Ilya has rehearsed his lines.

He’s not leaving here on a stretcher again. He’s walking out on his own two feet, head held high, even if it feels like someone replaced his bones with wet cardboard. He's already mentally packed his bag, mapped out the route from the hospital to his house.

“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov.”

Mahar looks marginally more human than last night. Coffee cup in hand, tablet tucked under his arm, glasses askew like he shoved them on in a hurry.

“Morning,” Ilya says. “You look worse than me. This is not reassuring.”

“Occupational hazard,” Mahar says briskly, dropping into the chair. “How’s the head?”

“Good, good,” Ilya says. “Very good.”

“Good,” Mahar repeats. “Any vomiting, new confusion, trouble speaking?”

“No vomiting,” Ilya says. “Confusion is normal level.”

“Define normal,” Mahar says.

“I wake up, I am here, I know my name, my team, my very lovely doctor,” Ilya says. “I forget… smaller things. Time. Where I put my metaphorical keys.”

“From a neurological standpoint,” Mahar says, “that’s actually not terrible for twelve hours after what happened to your skull.”

“See?” Ilya lifts his brows. “I am skilled at many things.”

"Good. That's good news."

“I like good news,” Ilya says. “You have more?”

“Depends what you consider good,” Mahar says. “We need to talk about the plan from here.”

“I go home,” Ilya says immediately. “There is your plan.”

Mahar’s mouth twitches. “I thought you might say that,” he says. “I’d like to keep you another night.”

Of course he would.

Ilya takes a slow breath, as deep as he can without his ribs staging a coup. “I am very honored,” he says. “But no.”

“Mr. Rozanov—”

“I know, I know.” He lifts his good hand in surrender. “Brain very delicate. Head injury. Must be careful. I listened last night.”

“You listened last night when you were full of morphine,” Mahar says. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Maybe I listen better with morphine,” Ilya says. “You do not know.”

Mahar gives him a flat look. “You have a severe concussion,” he says, voice level. “You lost consciousness on the ice and again in the ambulance. Your brain is bruised. The first forty-eight hours are when we worry the most about complications. If something goes wrong, I would prefer you be here when it happens.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Ilya says. It comes out too fast, too sure for someone whose memory is missing months. “You just say everything looks good.”

“Right now,” Mahar agrees. “That’s what ‘we would like to keep watching you’ means. Concussions don’t read your scans and decide to behave.”

Ilya looks past him at the door. The idea of another night here makes his skin crawl. He pictures the ceiling. The beeping. The waking up in the dark with no one in the chair. The feeling of being ten again, and fifteen, and nineteen, every hospital room stacked on top of each other until he can’t breathe.

He can do it. He’s done worse. But the thought of his own bed, his own shower, his own sheets that smell like laundry detergent he didn’t pick but likes anyway…

He clenches his jaw. “I rest better at home,” he says. “Here too loud.”

Mahar studies him for a moment. “Your team was very clear last night,” he says. “They don’t want you alone. Your coach practically tried to move his office into the hallway.”

Warmth, quick in his chest. He wills his face not to show it. “Coach is dramatic,” he says. “Is good for media.”

“Be that as it may,” Mahar continues, “he and your teammates insisted they can set up a schedule to make sure you’re supervised. That makes me more comfortable about discharge. Not entirely comfortable. But more.”

“They have practice,” Ilya says, frowning. “Games. Families. You should not design medical plan that depends on them sitting on my couch.”

"You want out of here, yes? Here’s the compromise,” Mahar goes on. “I sign your discharge today, on three non-negotiable conditions.”

Non-negotiable. Ilya turns the word over in his head.

“Three?” Ilya echoes.

“First: no screens,” Mahar says. “That means phone, TV, tablet, laptop. No scrolling. No reading off bright surfaces. Your brain does not need the stimulation right now. You can use your phone for brief calls if someone else dials. No more than a few minutes at a time. If you try to catch up on five months of your text history, you’ll be back here with a worse headache and I’ll say ‘I told you so.’”

Ilya opens his mouth, thinks of the blurred messages, the way the word “please” smudged on Shane’s screen, and closes it again. “Fine,” he mutters. “Very unfair, but fine.”

“Second,” Mahar says. “No driving. At all. Until I clear you. Reaction time is impaired with a concussion. You’re a danger to yourself and everyone else on the road.”

“I didn’t drive here,” Ilya says. “I took ambulance. Already prime patient.”

“Keep that up,” Mahar says. “Someone else takes you home, someone else brings you back for follow-ups. No exceptions.”

Ilya makes a noncommittal face. “Third?” he prompts.

“Third,” Mahar says, and his tone goes more serious. “You are not alone. There is always someone with you for the next twenty-four hours at minimum. Ideally forty-eight. Someone who can recognize if you’re getting worse. Someone who can make the call you might not realize you need.”

Ilya swallows. Ribs twinge. “I will notice,” he says. “I am very in tune with my body.”

“You are a professional athlete,” Mahar says. “You are in tune with what it takes to keep playing. This is different.” His gaze softens, just a little. “Your coach told me you didn’t list any emergency contacts with the team.”

Ilya’s mouth goes dry. “I forgot,” he says.

“Your coach gave me his number and your address,” Mahar goes on. “He said they’d work out coverage. If they can’t, if there isn’t literally a person in your doorway when it’s time to discharge, you’re not going anywhere. You stay, we watch, we try again tomorrow.”

Ilya’s first instinct is to say, they won’t come. Not because they don’t care. Just because this is how it goes. People mean well. Life happens. Snow, kids, practice, meetings. He is not so arrogant he expects grown men with responsibilities to rearrange their lives for him.

His second instinct, faster and louder, is the image of Troy’s knuckles as he handed him the phone. Wiebe and Hayes on the couch as he woke up. Luca on his knees on the ice, screaming for help before the pain pulled him under.

Shane in Montreal, saying, I’ll come as soon as they let me move.

He latches onto that last one like a lifeline. Shane will come. Maybe not today. Blizzard, highways, canceled flights. But soon. That’s not a question. That’s a fact.

Between now and then, he’s not sure what he expects. What he’s allowed to expect.

“I will not be alone,” he hears himself say. It sounds like he’s making a promise he has no business making. “They are… very annoying. They will show up.”

Mahar searches his face for a second, then nods once. “Then you hold them to it,” he says. “I’ll put in the order. It’ll take an hour or two to process. Your nurse will go through your discharge instructions in detail. I expect you to follow them.”

“I am very good at instructions,” Ilya says.

“Mr. Rozanov,” Mahar says. “If you were good at instructions, you wouldn’t have half the fractures on your chart.”

Ilya smiles, small and sharp. “Those were… tactical decisions.”

“Right,” Mahar says dryly. He stands. “Try not to charm your way out of here before the paperwork’s ready.”

“I would never,” Ilya says, already planning exactly how charming he’s going to be.

The door closes behind the doctor. The room hums. The monitor beeps. His head throbs along with it.

He shifts, carefully, testing his ribs again, his shoulder, his arm. Everything hurts. Everything works.

The nurse comes back with a stack of plastic bags just as he was about to fall asleep again, and a determined look that says she has wrestled larger men into hospital pants and won.

“Alright, Mr. Rozanov,” she says. “Let’s get you ready.”

He’d forgotten about this part. The indignity of it. The way your body stops being a weapon and starts being something you have to negotiate with.

She unhooks him from the monitor, silences the beeping. The sudden absence makes his ears ring. There’s tape to peel, lines to check, a tangle of wires to free him from.

“Arm first,” she says, and he nods, gritting his teeth while she eases the sling over his shoulder and around his neck. The plastic collar digs in from above, the strap from below; he feels like someone’s trying to cut his head off with fabric.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Almost there.”

The cast is heavy when she lifts his forearm, the skin beneath it an angry, distant throb. Every tiny adjustment sends a complaint up his arm and into his shoulder, where it blossoms into something bigger.

“Ribs,” she warns, hands already gentle at his sides. “Deep breath if you can.”

He tries. The tape winds around his chest like a belt tightened two notches too far. It’s there to hold him together, he knows that. It still feels like being squeezed on a bruise.

When she’s done, he’s sweating.

“You’re doing fine,” she says. “You up for sitting?”

“Always up for sitting,” he says, because the alternative is lying here until he turns into part of the mattress.

She lowers the bed. The change in angle makes his head slosh unpleasantly against his skull. He waits for the world to stop tilting before he swings his legs over the edge.

Well. Swings is generous.

He moves them like they belong to someone else, inch by inch, until his feet find cold linoleum. The floor is farther away than he expects. For a second he has the absurd thought that he grew shorter overnight.

“Take it slow,” the nurse says, hand hovering near his elbow. “If you feel dizzy, say so.”

“I am fine,” he says.

When he pushes up, every muscle from his neck to his hips takes a vote on whether this is a good idea. The result comes back no, unanimously.

The room dips, just once. A quick swoop, like the elevator starting.

He clamps his jaw shut until his teeth ache and rides it out.

“On a scale of zero to ten,” the nurse says, watching his face, “how much are you lying to me right now?”

“Two,” he says. “Maybe three.”

She snorts. “Honest. I like it.” She nudges the wheelchair closer with her foot. “Sit. I’ll bring you your things.”

He hates the chair. Hates the symbolism of it more. But there’s no version of walking all the way to the front of the hospital where he doesn’t end up decorating the floor, so he lowers himself into it, trying not to make a sound when his ribs catch.

She hands him a plastic bag with his clothes, another with his phone and wallet and keys, all labeled with his name in blocky handwriting. Athlete handwriting. Someone had done this in a rush.

“Someone from your team dropped those off last night,” she says. “I’ll wheel you down. Transport’s swamped.”

He lets her push him through the corridors. The hospital passes in a series of snapshots: a nurse’s station with too many blinking lights, a kid in a superhero gown clutching a stuffed animal, an old man asleep in a chair with his mouth open.

Fluorescent glare washes everything out. The faint disinfectant smell clings to the back of his throat. He’s never been so aware of the weight of his own body—how much space he takes up, how sprawling and unwieldy he is when he’s not contained by gear and boards.

They reach the main entrance faster than he expects.

Automatic doors. A blast of cold air that smells like snow and car exhaust. The muffled rumble of traffic, tires hissing over slush.

She parks him just inside the vestibule. “You have a ride?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says automatically.

She looks at him. Then at the empty space in front of the hospital. Then back at him.

He resists the urge to squirm under it. “Uber,” he amends. “Taxi. Many rides.”

Her mouth tightens, just a little. “You’re sure there’s no one who can come get you?”

He almost says no. The word is right there, easy and familiar. No family. No one close enough. No one listed. No one on paper.

He thinks of Wiebe’s tired eyes. Wyatt in the hallway. Luca sitting on the floor because he wouldn’t take the chair, knees bouncing. Troy’s hand on his shoulder, steady as bedrock.

Shane’s voice, low and desperate: I’ll come as soon as they let me move.

“Yes,” he says again, but this time it’s more honest. “There is no one in Ottawa who can drive yet. They have practice. I am very big boy. I order car. I sit. I go home. Very safe.”

She doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Remember,” she says. “If you feel worse, if anything changes, you come back. Do not wait. Do not try to tough it out.”

“Tough is out,” he says. “I am retired from tough. New, soft era.”

She snorts. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” She gives his shoulder—the good one—a quick, careful squeeze. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Rozanov.”

He watches her go. The doors whoosh open and shut as people come and go, bringing gusts of cold with them. Nurses in scrubs, visitors in heavy coats, a delivery driver lugging a crate of something that smells like cafeteria eggs.

The pain is making him soft, he thinks. He’s not a kid. He doesn’t need someone to hold his hand from bed to curb.

He digs his phone out with his good hand, wincing when the movement pulls at his ribs. The screen is too bright; he squints and turns the brightness down by muscle memory before his brain can complain.

Uber app. Drop pin. Confirm pickup point. He’s done this in more cities than he can count. Different hospitals, different rinks, same steps.

If he thinks too long about that, he’s going to get annoyed with himself, so he doesn’t. He stares at the little car icon instead, watching it inch toward him on the map.

Outside, snow is piled up in dirty ridges along the sidewalk. The sky is the particular gray that promises more.

The Uber rolls to a stop and, for a second, he thinks they’ve brought him to the wrong place.

The house outside his window is familiar in the way faces are after you’ve seen them too many times on TV. You know the shape of them. The details are fuzzier.

Two-storey, dark roof hunched under snow. Porch light glowing warm against the gray, like it’s been left on for him. There’s a little front step he recognizes in his knees, a sloping path his hips remember walking.

His brain puts a different picture over top of it.

For a blink, it’s the cottage instead—wider, lower, logs instead of siding. The lake behind it, frozen and dull under winter light. The deck where he pretended not to stare at Shane coming out with coffee and bed-warm cheeks. The big window where they’d seen everything.

He blinks again, and it’s Ottawa. House, not cottage. Streetlight, not stars.

His chest does something weird and tight. He tells himself it’s the ribs.

“You need a hand?” the driver asks, twisting around in his seat.

“No,” Ilya says automatically, then immediately revises. “Maybe. A small one.”

They get him out of the car between them, careful of his arm and his ribs and his skull. The cold hits him like a slap. Sharp, clean, burning in his lungs.

He stares at the porch light for a second. He knows that bulb; he remembers changing it and swearing in two languages when he dropped the first one and it shattered on the steps. He recognizes the scuff on the front door where someone’s skate bag clipped it. He knows the lock by feel, even if the front of the house looks like something out of a catalog his life got dropped into by accident.

“Got it from here?” the driver asks, hovering.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Thank you.”

The walk up the path is muscle memory. One foot, then the other. Don’t slip. Don’t fall. His shoulder twinges, his ribs stab, his head sloshes unpleasantly behind his eyes. The porch boards creak in the same places his body expects, even if his brain can’t pull up a single clear scene of walking up here before.

He fumbles the key out one-handed. The metal is cold enough to sting his fingertips. The lock turns smooth. That, at least, feels like his.

The door sticks halfway, just like it always does in winter. He leans his good shoulder into it. It gives with a reluctant little sigh.

Warm air breathes out at him. Detergent, something vaguely citrus, a hint of coffee. Underneath it all, the ghost of a smell he knows from the cottage, from borrowed hoodies and shared pillows, from mornings that live sharp and bright in his memory even if the last few months don’t.

He steps inside, and whatever this house is on paper, his body recognizes it.

His brain is still catching up.

The entryway is too wide. The bench isn’t the one he’s expecting. For half a second he sees Boston—dark furniture, smattering of lamps, sleek design—then that image slides away and leaves this: wood floors, a decent rug, a low shelf with a little ceramic dish full of keys and coins and a folded grocery receipt.

Definitely his handwriting on the receipt. He has no idea when he wrote it.

Coat hooks on the wall, some of them empty, one of them holding a jacket that isn’t his size.

He stares at it just a beat too long, then looks away.

Shoes off first. That rule has survived at least. He toes them off clumsily, one at a time, using the wall more than he’d like to admit. Standing up is starting to feel like an achievement worth a medal. He tells his legs they’re very impressive and heads for the living room.

He doesn’t have to think about which way to go. His feet know. He could probably do this in the dark. He must have, sometime in the last few months, in all the versions of his life he doesn’t quite remember.

The living room opens up in front of him and his ribs loosen a fraction at the sight of the couch.

Big. Soft. Dark gray. It has the look of a piece of furniture that has tolerated a lot of sprawling. He has a vague sense of having fallen asleep on it more than once, of watching games here, of something here that feels like warmth and weight and fingers in his hair.

He can’t see it. He still feels it.

His body makes the decision before his brain does. He goes down in stages, easing himself into the cushions with all the care of a bomb disposal tech. His ribs protest the shift, his shoulder burns, his head pulses with each tiny correction, but then he’s there: half-reclined, half-curled, as horizontal as he can be without having to figure out how to get back up again later.

The couch dips under him in a way that says this is not the first time it’s had to catch his full weight. That lands somewhere under his sternum, warm and painful all at once.

He tips his head back against the pillow. He does remember doing that in the cottage, once, standing on a chair while Shane held it steady and complained about dangerous home maintenance.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Of course it does.

He doesn’t need to see the screen to know who it is. The timing’s too on-the-nose. His spine has barely settled into the couch and Shane Hollander, three cities and one blizzard away, has apparently felt it in the Force.

He fish-hooks the phone out with his good hand, squints just long enough to confirm Jane, and jabs at accept before his head can decide the light is an enemy combatant. The screen goes dark against his cheek as he brings it to his ear.

“Hello,” he says, voice low and rough and probably doing terrible things to Shane’s blood pressure.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. “You’re home.”

He looks around the room, at the rug and the coffee table, and shrugs, even though Shane can’t see it.

“I am on couch,” he says. “This is what app says. House with my door. My lock. My furniture, I think.”

“You think?” Shane repeats. “What does that mean, you think?”

“It feels like someone moved my things when I wasn’t looking,” Ilya says, squinting at the vague shape of the dining table. “I know it is mine. My key works. My couch remembers me. My brain is just… slow to catch up.”

There’s a rustle, like Shane’s shifting the phone from one ear to the other. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Is it freaking you out?”

“No,” Ilya says, which is only half a lie. “Is just… fuzzy. Like bad stream. You can see picture, but pixels not happy yet.”

“…Okay,” Shane says again, and he sounds like he’s filing that away to worry about later. “How are you? How’s your head? How’s— everything?"

Ilya considers. “Heavy,” he says. “All of it. But still attached. Will be back to being best player in league very soon.”

Shane huffs out a fond sound. "At least your ego is fine."

“Very rude,” Ilya says. “You love my ego.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, quietly, “Yeah. I do.”

Warmth uncurls in his chest, automatic and immediate. His whole body still hurts, but the edges of it go a little softer.

He shifts, trying to get more comfortable. His ribs disagree. He stifles a hiss.

“What was that?” Shane demands. “What did you just do? Did you try to get up? You’re not supposed to get up.”

“I sat down,” Ilya says. “Very dangerous movement. Olympic sport. Please clap.”

“Ilya.”

He knows that tone. It’s the same one Shane used the time he caught him trying to carry his own bag up the stairs forty minutes after a different doctor said “don’t carry anything heavier than a kitten.”

“I am on couch,” Ilya says. “I am not moving. I am very good patient.”

“You’re a liar,” Shane says, but it’s soft. “Did anyone come get you? From the team?”

“Hospital man helped me to car,” Ilya says. “Very strong. Big hands. You should be jealous.”

“I am jealous,” Shane says immediately. “I am extremely jealous of every person who has been within three feet of you in the last twelve hours. Especially the ones with access to your chart.”

“You have very strange priorities, Hollander,” Ilya says, smiling despite himself. “You do not want my chart. Many bad decisions inside.”

“Yeah, funny, I noticed,” Shane says. “Did you at least let them wheel you out? Or did you strong-arm your way down the hallway?”

“Wheelchair,” Ilya admits. “Very humbling. I survived.”

“Barely, I’m sure,” Shane says. There’s a rustle on his end, like he’s pacing. Ilya can picture it: long strides across the living room, socked feet, the particular pocket groove he wears into the floor when he’s anxious. “So you’re on the couch now.”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

He bristles, just a little. “For the moment,” he says. “Doctor gave very big list of rules. No driving, no screens, no being alone. Team is planning babysitting rota. They will come, I think.”

“You think?” Shane repeats sharply.

“I do not like to assume people will rearrange their lives for me,” Ilya says, more honest than he meant to be. “They have practice. Families. Their own injuries to worry about. If they come, I will be surprised. Nicely. Like birthday.”

There’s a pause. When Shane speaks again, his voice has gone tight around the edges. “They’re coming,” he says. “Trust me. After last night? They’d probably riot if the doctor tried to keep them away.”

“You sound very sure,” Ilya says.

“Gloves dropped the second you did,” Shane mutters. “Point is, they care. You’re not getting rid of them that easily.”

The warmth under Ilya’s ribs swells. He pushes it down again, gently.

“We will see,” he says. “Until then, I have couch. And ceiling. Very exciting day plan.”

“And me,” Shane says. “You have me. I’m calling every few hours whether you like it or not.”

“I like it,” Ilya says, before his brain can wrap the words up and make them less raw. “Very much.”

There’s a soft exhale, like Shane’s been waiting for that admission. “Good,” he says. “Then I’m putting it in your concussion schedule. Hydrate, nap, listen to me be annoying.”

“You are not annoying,” Ilya says. “You are boring. Keep up, Hollander.”

“Right, sorry,” Shane says faintly. “Listen to me bore you to sleep.”

He could listen to this for hours. The way Shane’s words pile over each other when he’s worked up, the way he can’t stop himself from fussing, the way every question is a little prayer in disguise: are you still okay? Are you still here?

“I saw you on TV,” Shane blurts, like he’s been holding it back. “After. They showed the ambulance.”

“Very flattering angles, I hope,” Ilya says.

“Don’t,” Shane says. “Don’t joke about that part. I—” He breaks off, swallows audibly. “I just. I need you to promise me you’re going to tell someone if anything feels worse. Any new headaches. Any dizziness. Any—”

“I know,” Ilya says quietly. “Doctor gave me very long speech. I listened. Maybe not with morphine this time.”

“Humor me,” Shane says. “Please.”

He closes his eyes. The ceiling doesn’t move. The ache in his head pulses in time with Shane’s voice.

“I promise,” he says. “If something feels wrong, I tell someone. I will even tell doctor.”

“You promise?” Shane repeats, a little disbelieving.

“Yes.”

There’s a beat. “You’re lying,” Shane says. “But I appreciate the effort.”

Ilya huffs. “You have very low faith, moya lyubov.”

Silence, sharp and immediate. Ilya frowns when Shane doesn't volley back. When he speaks, his voice is softer than it’s been all call.

“I don’t deserve that right now,” he says.

Something twists in Ilya’s chest. “What do you mean?”

There’s a pause, then the sound of him shaking his head like Ilya can see it.

“Nothing,” Shane says. “Ignore me. I do deserve it, actually. I’m a delight.”

“You are,” Ilya says, frowning. “You are best thing. Why would you not—”

He stops. Thinking hurts. Literally, this time. He can feel his brain pushing against the inside of his skull, like there’s not quite enough room for all the questions in there.

They’d… talked. Before. On the phone. About heavy things. Therapy. Loneliness. Distance. He can almost catch the shape of it if he reaches out in his head, but every time he tries, the memory slides away like oil on water.

Later, he tells himself. When the cement in his skull has set properly. Later, he’ll go back and look at all of it.

For now, he’s on a couch, in a house that smells like both of them, with Shane’s voice in his ear and strict medical orders not to overexert his brain.

He can follow one instruction.

“Well, I am giving it anyway,” he says lightly. “I am very generous.”

“Idiot,” Shane murmurs, affection tucked into every syllable. “My favorite generous idiot.”

“When do you think you can get here?” Ilya asks. It comes out softer than he means it to, without the joking edge he usually wraps that kind of vulnerability in.

Shane’s breath catches. “Trust me, if I thought I could hijack a Zamboni and get there faster, I would,” he says. “We’re leaving as soon as the roads open. My mom’s got the car basically packed. There’s probably a lasagna in there. I don’t even know.”

Warmth again. Pain and softness sharing space. He lets it stay, this time. Just for a second.

“Okay,” he says. “I will be here. Very horizontal. You can find me easily.”

“You better be,” Shane says. “If I get there and you’ve decided to go do stairs for fun, I’m breaking up with you.”

“We are dating?” Ilya gasps. “No one told me. Very unprofessional communication.”

“There’s paperwork in your email,” Shane says. “Don’t look at it. It’s on a screen.”

He laughs, the sound tugging at his ribs and his throat and something behind his eyes. “You are very funny.”

“I’m very in love with you,” Shane corrects softly.

The room fuzzes at the edges. Ilya feels his lips curl into an unbidden smile.

“I am very in love with you, sweetheart."

“Get some rest,” Shane says. “I’ll call you in a couple of hours.”

“Very bossy,” Ilya says. “I thought I listen to doctor, not to you.”

“Doctor said no stress,” Shane says. “Listening to me is low-effort. You basically get to lie there and let my voice do all the work.”

“You talk so much,” Ilya agrees, affection braided through every word. “Is true.”

“Go to sleep, Rozanov,” Shane says, exasperated and fond. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ilya says, because there are not many things his brain is sure of right now, but that’s one.

He ends the call before Shane can drag it out. The phone feels heavy in his hand. He drops it onto the coffee table without looking at the screen, closes his eyes, and lets the couch hold him up.

The house is still too big. His body still hurts. His head still feels wrong.

But under the tape and the bruises and the cement, there’s a line that reaches all the way to a snowed-in apartment in Montreal, humming warm.

He’s not as alone as the room felt, he thinks, and lets himself drift.

He doesn’t mean to sleep.

He aims for something smaller: ten minutes with his eyes closed, that’s all. A tactical retreat. A short commercial break between “escaping the hospital” and “pretending to be a very responsible adult.”

The couch is warm under his back. The throbbing in his shoulder and arm blurs into the slower, meaner ache in his ribs. His head hums. He makes the mistake of thinking, I’ll get up in a minute—

He surfaces to a different room.

The light’s wrong. Softer, gold leaking in sideways through the window instead of the thin gray from before. His neck is stiff. His ribs have taken his little stunt very personally.

He blinks, slow. His phone is a dark rectangle on the coffee table, exactly where he dropped it. It’s closer than the kitchen, so he goes for that first.

Reaching forward is an adventure. His ribs complain, his shoulder threatens mutiny, his head gives a slow, warning pulse. He still gets his fingers around the phone and drags it back to his chest like he’s just won an important puck battle.

The screen flares to life when he taps it. He squints, thumb stabbing blindly at the brightness slider until the white-hot glare dims to something less murderous.

Time first.

He expects maybe half an hour.

It’s been three.

He stares at the numbers for a second, trying to make them make sense. His brain responds with a shrug. Concussion time. The world moves in jumps now.

Notifications stack under the clock.

THE CENTAURS 40+ unread.

His name in a couple of preview lines. A lot of caps. He scrolls past that without clicking into it, because the doctor said no screens and also because he’s not emotionally prepared to see what Bood considers a comforting GIF.

One from the hospital app, neat and impersonal:

REMINDER: Follow-up appointment scheduled 2 days from now at 09:30. Please arrange transportation.

He snorts. “Please arrange babysitter,” more like.

Then, under that:

[Jane]: How’s your head?
[Jane]: Hydrate.
[Jane]: I know you’re being the best and NOT LOOKING AT YOUR PHONE.
[Jane]: This is a preemptive nag.

A small, stupid smile tugs at his mouth. His thumb hovers over the thread, tempted to open it, scroll back, see the last thing Shane sent. The doctor’s voice kicks him in the back of the skull: If you try to catch up on five months of your text history, you’ll be back here.

He locks the screen and drops the phone back onto the table like it’s hot.

“Later,” he tells it. “When I am allowed to be emotional and stupid.”

His body votes for more lying here as the next agenda item. His ribs have a strong lobby. He lets his eyes close for a second—

A sharp, insistent knock rattles the door.

He flinches. Every injury files a complaint at once.

“Fuck,” he mutters, clutching at his ribs on instinct. Very stupid. Very painful.

The knock comes again, louder this time. Whoever it is has the moral confidence of someone who knows he’s home.

He contemplates pretending to be asleep. He’s very good at ignoring people. It’s a lifelong skill. But whoever it is clearly didn’t get that memo, because the doorframe shudders under the next volley.

“Okay, okay,” he grumbles, pushing himself upright inch by inch. “I am coming. Stop trying to break my house. It is already very fragile.”

Standing is a whole process. He braces with his good hand, gets his feet under him, rides out the brief tilt of the room. His vision fuzzes at the edges and then sharpens again. When his knees decide they’re willing to participate, he shuffles to the door.

He doesn’t look through the peephole. That would mean bending, and he’s not that brave. He just flips the lock and opens it.

Four large hockey players and one overcaffeinated social media manager are crammed on his porch like a very specific kind of avalanche.

Wyatt Hayes, cheeks pink from the cold, clutching a giant Tupperware like it’s a newborn. Luca, hat pulled low, snow clinging to his shoulders. Bood, a massive paper bag in each hand, expression already halfway between annoyed and relieved. Harris, scarf up to his nose, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and his phone in the other hand. Troy, half a step back from the rest of them, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold like a very large, very patient storm cloud.

“You discharged yourself?” Wyatt says, at the exact same time Bood goes, “You look like shit, man, sit down,” and Luca blurts, “Coach is gonna kill you.”

Ilya blinks at them.

“You are very loud,” he says. “Is this group intervention? I did not sign up.”

“Inside,” Wyatt orders, already nudging the door wider with his foot. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

“This is my house,” Ilya protests weakly, even as Bood shoulders past him with all the subtlety of a freight train, the smell of baked something following him in. “I am very powerful here.”

“Yeah, yeah, King of the Castle, whatever,” Bood says. “Sit down before your ribs explode just looking at us.”

Luca slips in sideways, apologizing to the doorframe. Harris does a little shuffle past, carefully keeping his bag from smacking into Ilya’s cast. Troy is last over the threshold. He closes the door with a quiet click and gives Ilya a once-over, eyes dark and sharp. The corner of his mouth kicks up, just a little.

“You look better than the replay,” he says. “Low bar, though.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says dryly. “Your concern is very touching.”

Wyatt closes the door with a decisive thunk and looks Ilya up and down in that quiet, goalies-are-scanners way.

“How long have you been home?” he asks.

“Long enough for nap,” Ilya says. “Short enough that I do not know where anything is.”

Wyatt’s mouth does a twitch like he can't help the smile. “Sit,” he says again, tilting his head toward the couch. “We’ll manage the rest.”

“We?” Ilya repeats, but his legs take the order and carry him back to the couch regardless. Traitors.

By the time he lowers himself onto the cushions, the four of them have exploded across his living room like a particularly helpful bomb.

Bood drops his bags onto the kitchen counter and starts unloading them with the efficiency of a man who has fed injured teammates before.

“Cassie made lasagna,” he announces. “And stew. And something gluten-free in case you wake up and decide you’re allergic to joy or something.”

“I am already allergic to hospital food,” Ilya says. “Maybe I build immunity.”

“Not to Cassie’s,” Bood says. “This is medicinal. You’re legally required to eat it.”

Wyatt is doing a slow, methodical sweep of the room like it’s the crease and Ilya is some fragile goalie he’s trying to keep pucks away from. He moves throw blankets off armrests where they might slide. He shifts the coffee table a few inches back, clears an abandoned pair of shoes from near the hallway, tucks a stray charging cable away so it’s not a tripping hazard.

“I did not know I was getting home inspection,” Ilya says. “Should I be offering coffee? My head doctor says caffeine is allowed.”

“No coffee,” Wyatt says firmly. “You’re already wired enough on stubborn. Water.”

“Water,” Luca echoes, appearing at Ilya’s elbow with a glass like he’s been summoned. “Here. Small sips, okay? Don’t chug.”

Ilya eyes him. “You practiced this speech.”

Luca goes pinker. “I watched a video,” he admits. “Like—‘Concussions 101.’ It said hydration is important.” He hesitates. “And… Hazy texted me Lisa’s concussion protocol notes. She, uh, made him send them to the whole team.”

“Lisa very dangerous,” Ilya says to Wyatt. “I like her.”

“She likes you too, which is why you’re not allowed to die,” Wyatt says, dead serious.

“I am not planning on it,” Ilya says. “Very busy schedule.”

Harris is skirting around the edges of all this like he’s trying not to tread on anything important. He’s already turned the main lights down a notch, leaving the room in softer, less offensive brightness.

“I put your TV on sleep mode,” he says, hovering near the entertainment unit. “No auto-play. No surprise highlights package from hell. I can, uh, log you out of the Centaurs account for a bit if that helps? Or mute certain keywords. Or all of them.”

“You should mute ‘Rozanov helmet’ for whole internet,” Ilya says. “For public safety.”

“Working on it,” Harris says. “I’ve buried that clip under so many practice videos and puppy photos, the algorithm’s going to forget you have a head.”

“Puppy?” Ilya perks up automatically, then winces when the movement pulls his ribs. “You bring Chiron?”

“Not the real one,” Harris says quickly. “I mean, I offered, but the team doctor gave me a look like I was trying to smuggle a live grenade into a munitions depot. He said ‘no overexciting stimuli’ and I’m pretty sure a 70-pound golden retriever qualifies.”

“Chiron is very calming,” Ilya says. “He drools. Very soothing.”

“Tell that to the upholstery,” Harris says. “But, uh. I did bring this.”

He rummages in his tote and pulls out something small and fluffy. For a second all Ilya sees is yellow-gold and a little felt tongue. Then Harris crosses the room and sets it carefully in his lap.

It’s Chiron. Or, at least, a smaller, stitched-together version of him. Same floppy ears, same ridiculous smiling mouth, same blue bandana with the Centaurs logo printed on it.

“Team store had a limited batch made for some charity thing,” Harris says in a rush. “I grabbed one before they sold out. Figured if you can’t have the real emotional support idiot, a decoy might help.”

Ilya looks down at the plush. It looks back at him with embroidered eyes and an expression of weaponized joy.

Something in his chest cracks open a little.

“Very accurate,” he manages. His throat feels thick. “You even get the stupid tongue right.”

“That was my art direction,” Harris says. “Had to honor the source material.”

Ilya lets himself smile. It pulls at stitches somewhere—physical, emotional, who knows—but he leans into it anyway.

He tucks the stuffed Chiron under his good arm, the way he’s seen the real one flop there when he sits on the locker room floor. It fits better than it has any right to.

“See?” Bood calls from the kitchen, where he is making more noise with Tupperware than should be legally possible. “Already the hottest new piece of merch.”

“Don’t tell marketing,” Harris groans. “They’ll make me do a whole campaign. ‘Get your very own concussion buddy.’ Someone will have a stroke.”

Wyatt has made it back to the couch by now. He leans on the back of it, looking down at Ilya with that calm, careful gaze.

“How’s your head?” he asks quietly, under the noise.

“Six,” Ilya says. “Maybe five. It gets better when you are all loud. My brain is too busy to complain.”

Wyatt huffs a small sound that might be a laugh. “We can keep being loud,” he says. “We’ve got a whole schedule worked out, by the way. So you’re not alone.”

“Schedule?” Ilya repeats, echo catching on his ribs and his pride both.

“Yeah,” Bood says, stomping back into the room with two plates he absolutely does not intend to let Ilya carry. “Wiebe practically made a Google doc. You’re a hot commodity. We had to fight over shifts.”

Luca nods earnestly. “I traded my night off with Dykstra,” he says. “He’s coming later. He promised not to bring his terrible playlists.”

“He did not promise that,” Harris says. “He promised the opposite of that. I have seen the messages.”

“Great,” Ilya says dryly. “So I suffer concussion and bad music.”

“Don’t worry,” Harris says. “I’m bringing noise-canceling headphones next time. Doctor’s orders.”

It’s too much, all at once. The food, the blankets, the stupid plush dog, the way they’re rearranging his space around him without asking if it’s okay and also without taking anything away that’s his.

He’d told Mahar he wouldn’t be alone because it sounded like the kind of thing a well-adjusted person would say.

He hadn’t actually expected this.

“Is very inefficient,” he mutters, because if he says thank you out loud he might do something embarrassing with his face and sting his eyes. “All of you here at once. House is small. Schedule not good.”

Wyatt raises an eyebrow. “Are you criticizing our logistics right now?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “You need someone in charge. Someone very wise and handsome. I volunteer, as your captain.”

“Concussion boy is not running the rota,” Bood says. “Sit there, hold the dog, eat the lasagna when it’s heated up.”

Harris glances down at his phone, thumbs moving quick over the screen. “For the record,” he says, “I just told Wiebe you’re complaining about how many people showed up. He said, and I quote, ‘Good, that means it’s working.’”

“Traitor,” Ilya says. He squeezes the stuffed Chiron automatically when the room tilts a little, using its ridiculous head as a makeshift anchor. “I revoke your access to my very famous brand.”

Harris smiles, sharp and pleased. “You’ll have to catch me,” he says. “And you’re benched.”

“Ilya,” Wyatt says, the name a low tug back to ground level. “If you’re tired, say so. We can shut up.”

He is tired. Bone-deep, brain-deep, every-cell kind of tired. But the house doesn’t feel as big now, with them in it. The fuzziness in the edges of his vision feels less like a void and more like it’s full of people bumping into his furniture and fussing over his water intake.

“I am okay,” he says. “Maybe I close eyes while you argue about who gets next shift. Very soothing.”

“Deal,” Bood says. “But if you fall asleep before you eat, I’m not above waking you up with a fork.”

“My… ah, support network is terrifying,” Ilya murmurs, letting his head tip back against the couch.

He hears them moving around him as his eyelids droop—Wyatt’s steady footsteps, Luca’s anxious whisper, Harris’ rule-arguing, Bood’s booming commentary.

The house is still his. The injuries are still his. The missing months are still a hole in the middle of everything.

But there are also people here. In his space. On purpose.

He curls a little tighter around the stupid stuffed dog, lets the noise wash over him. He must drift, because one minute Harris is explaining the legal liability of Chiron’s Instagram presence, and the next there’s a pillow under his head that he definitely didn’t put there himself and a throw over his legs, and the room’s gone even softer around the edges.

He comes back to himself with the distinct sensation of being watched.

When he cracks an eye open, Luca’s on the armchair with his phone, comically trying to pretend he isn’t sneaking worried glances every thirty seconds. Wyatt is at the far end of the couch, laptop open, glasses on, pretending he isn’t sneaking glances either. Bood is in the kitchen making the kind of “I’m not slamming these cupboards” noises that only a man with biceps that big can make. Harris is perched on a dining chair he’s dragged closer, typing on his laptop like it insulted his mother.

The noise and light and fuss press in a little. His head gives a slow, warning pulse.

“Bathroom,” he mutters, pushing himself upright.

Instant attention.

“You good?” Wyatt asks.

“You need help?” Luca blurts, already half out of his chair.

“I am going to pee,” Ilya says. “Not run marathon. Relax.”

They do not relax, but they let him shuffle down the hallway.

As he passes the armchair, his gaze snags on Troy in the doorway to the hall. He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching him.

Their eyes meet.

Troy’s gaze flicks down to the phone in Ilya’s hand, then back up. The corner of his mouth ticks up in the smallest, most obnoxious smirk.

Ilya gives him a glare that should, in theory, incinerate him. It lands somewhere closer to fondly exasperated, if the way Troy’s smirk widens is anything to go by.

“Watch the rug,” Troy says mildly. “It curls up at the corner.”

“I know my own house,” Ilya lies, and escapes into the bathroom.

Door shut. Fan humming. Light a little too bright; he flips it down to the lower setting by feel.

He sits carefully on the closed toilet lid, phone resting on his thigh, head tipped back against the cool wall. The bathroom smells like whatever body wash Shane talked him into buying—something vaguely ocean-y and expensive—and his own sharp, clean laundry detergent. It makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with injury.

The phone buzzes in his hand.

He doesn’t even need to look. He’s starting to think if someone hooked him up to a monitor, you’d see a spike every time Shane’s name lit his screen.

He glances anyway, out of habit. Jane. He answers before the second ring can finish.

“Hello,” he says, voice low, echoing a little off tile.

“Jesus,” Shane breathes. Just hearing him sounds like untwisting a knot. “Okay. Good. I was starting to think you’d fallen in a hole.”

“I fall in many holes,” Ilya says. “Today only metaphorical.”

There’s a faint muffled something on Shane’s end—voices, car noise. He catches Yuna’s cadence, David’s low murmur, then the soft thunk of a door closing.

“Are you in bathroom?” Shane asks.

Ilya glances at the shower, the sink. “No,” he says solemnly. “This is my office.”

Shane huffs out a laugh. “It sounds echo-y.”

“Is very loud out there,” Ilya admits. “Many people. Many opinions on how to sit on couch correctly.”

“Poor baby,” Shane coos, instantly obnoxious. “Too many people caring about you? Must be awful.”

“It is very inefficient,” Ilya says. “Four grown men to watch one concussed genius.”

There’s a pause. When Shane speaks again, his voice has gone softer. “You’re really not alone,” he says quietly. “I can hear it.”

Something in Ilya unwinds a fraction. Of course Shane would need to hear it to believe it.

“Yes,” he says. “Hayes, Haas, Bood, Harris, and Barrett,” he adds. “We are very crowded. Like clown car.”

“Good,” Shane says. The word comes out fierce. “Good. You deserve a whole clown car.”

“Do not say this about my teammates,” Ilya says, but it lacks heat.

“How’s your head?” Shane asks, switching gears on a dime. “And don’t give me a number without context.”

“Head… five,” Ilya says. “Maybe four. Depends how long Harris talks about content strategy.”

“I will personally shut down all his accounts if he makes it worse,” Shane says.

“Then what will you stalk me with?” Ilya asks. “You will have to watch games like normal person. Very sad.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll manage,” Shane says. “Ribs? Shoulder?”

“Ribs are annoyed,” Ilya says. “Shoulder is sulking. Arm is heavy. Brain is tired.”

“Tired how?” Shane presses. “Foggy tired? Sleepy tired? ‘Everything is too much’ tired?”

“Yes,” Ilya says.

There’s a beat of silence, then a helpless little laugh.

“Of course,” Shane says. “I'm glad you at least got three hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“How do you know it was three hours?” Ilya asks, suspicious.

“Because you checked my messages three hours after we hung up,” Shane says.

Ilya snorts. “Mr. Detective Hollander,” he says.

“You love it,” Shane says.

He doesn’t say I love you about it, but it’s there, tucked between the words.

For a second they just breathe at each other. It’s stupid, but Ilya can feel the shape of Shane’s heartbeat in the way he inhales—too fast, slows down on purpose. Matching his own without even meaning to.

“I have news,” Shane says suddenly, like he can’t hold it in anymore.

“Bad?” Ilya asks automatically. His chest tightens on reflex. “Did you watch hit again? I told you, no.”

“Good,” Shane says. “Best. Sorry. I should have led with that. I’m a disaster.”

He hears a car door slam faintly on Shane’s side, the squeak of boots on snow, Yuna’s voice in the background: “David, lock the door.”

“What is it” Ilya demands.

“Roads are open,” Shane blurts. “Highway’s a mess, but it’s moving. We just got the all clear from the alert system. We’re packing up the car right now.”

Ilya’s brain takes a second to catch up. “You are… driving?” he says slowly.

“In about ten minutes,” Shane says. “We still have to scrape the ice off the car and convince my mom she doesn’t need to bring every emergency kit known to man, but—yeah. GPS says three and a half to four hours, worst case.” He lets out a shaky little laugh. “Four hours, Ilya. I’m going to be there in four hours.”

The words land like something physically in his chest. Four hours. That’s… nothing. That’s a bus ride to an away game. That’s two bad movies. That’s one long nap and a medic’s lecture.

“That is very close,” he hears himself say. His voice sounds small to his own ears.

“I know,” Shane says. “I know. I’ve been stuck on ‘as soon as we can’ for so long it didn’t feel real. Now there’s… a number. There’s a clock I can actually watch without going insane.”

Ilya stares at the grout line on the floor until it stops blurring.

“Your parents come too?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “They insisted. I told them they didn’t have to, and my mom threatened to lock me in a closet if I tried to do the drive without the two of them.” A pause. “They, uh. They’re worried about you. You made them cry, you know.”

“I did nothing,” Ilya protests weakly. “I just get very dramatic injury. Happens all the time.”

“You say that like it’s normal,” Shane says, half-laugh, half-sob. “Four hours,” he repeats, softer. “We’ll be at your door. I’ll be in your stupid too-big house. I’m going to see your face and not through a screen or a highlight reel that makes me want to throw up.”

Ilya presses the heel of his good hand into his eye until he sees stars. “Doctor says no screens,” he says. “In four hours I get full Hollander livestream. Very unfair rule.”

“You’re going to be so sick of me by hour five,” Shane promises.

“Impossible,” Ilya says, before he can stop himself.

There’s that little breath, the one he knows by now means Shane just got hit with a feeling he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“You okay?” Shane asks quietly.

“I am…” Ilya searches for the right word. “Relieved,” he says finally. “Also scared. Also happy. Many emotions. Very exhausting.”

“Welcome to my week,” Shane says. “Hey, can you do something for me?”

“If you say ‘sit down,’ I am already sitting,” Ilya says. “

“I was going to say breathe,” Shane says. “Put the phone down for a sec and just… breathe with me, okay? You don’t have to do this whole routine all the way through alone this time.”

“I am not—” he starts, then stops. His reflection in the bathroom mirror, caught in the corner of his eye, looks like every other time he’s done this: pale, bruised, stubborn. Alone on a tile floor with a phone and a list of instructions.

Except there are idiots in his living room now. And a dog made of stuffing under his arm. And a boy three and a half to four hours away, sitting in a car piled with too many blankets, who loves him so much it leaks out around the edges of his jokes.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I will… sit with it.”

“Good,” Shane says. “We’ll text when we’re halfway. Actually no, we won’t, you’re not allowed to look, I’ll call. Or get mom to, she drives like a reasonable person.”

“Do not text,” Ilya agrees. “Doctor will appear in mirror and yell at me.”

“Last symptom check before I get in a car,” Shane says, slipping back into clinical. “Any new headache? Nausea? Weird vision stuff? Confusion more confusing than usual?”

“No,” Ilya says. “Head feels same stupid. Room is not spinning. Only confusion is why Harris thinks I care about hashtag engagement.”

“Okay,” Shane says, and he sounds like he actually believes him this time. “Then I’m going to hang up and go sit in a car for four hours and chant ‘don’t rear-end anyone’ at my dad, and then I’m going to come up your driveway and bang on your door and you better answer.”

“I will be here,” Ilya says. “Very horizontal. Very beautiful.”

“Always,” Shane says, so soft it makes his teeth ache. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ilya says. “Drive carefully. Listen to your mother.”

“I always listen to my mother,” Shane says indignantly. “It’s you I ignore.”

“Very hurtful,” Ilya says. “I hang up now. I love you.”

He ends the call before Shane can steal the last word. The screen goes dark in his hand. For a second he just sits there, listening to his own breathing and the faint muffled chaos from the living room.

Four hours.

He lets the number settle in his bones. Four hours until Shane is in this house that still feels half-unreal. Four hours until his two lives—Ottawa and cottage and everything between—collide on his doorstep.

Someone bangs on the bathroom door.

“Hey, Rozanov,” Bood booms. “You die in there, or are you just hiding from my stew?”

“I am very busy,” Ilya calls back. “Deep emotional work.”

“Do you need help?” Luca pipes up, alarmed. “Because we can—”

“Don’t open the door,” Harris says quickly. “Nobody wants that liability.”

“Give him a minute,” Troy’s voice cuts through, calm. “He’s not that fragile.”

Ilya huffs out a laugh and hauls himself carefully upright. His ribs make their displeasure known. The world does a little dip and then steadies. He splashes some water on his face, stares at the stranger in the mirror for a heartbeat—same nose, same scar on his lip, new bruises, new shadows under his eyes.

“Four hours,” he tells his reflection. “Try not to do anything stupid.”

He opens the door.

Luca is right there, hovering. He jumps back a little. “You okay?” he asks. “Because you were in there for, like—”

“Humans pee,” Harris says. “Let him have that.”

“I was not peeing,” Ilya says, because apparently he’s sharing now. “I was on important call. Very top secret. Government business.”

Troy gives him a look that’s all smirk and no comment. Ilya refuses to rise to it.

“Can you all go five minutes without me?” he asks. “Or do I need to bring you into bathroom next time?”

“Come on,” Bood calls from the kitchen. “Food before more drugs. We also have something to show you.”

Back in the kitchen, the “something” is stuck to his fridge with a magnet shaped like the Centaurs logo.

It’s a sheet of printer paper, lines and boxes drawn on it in three different kinds of handwriting.

At the top, in big block letters:

ROZANOV BABYSITTING
NO SOLO TIME – DOCTOR’S ORDERS

Under that, a rough schedule:

TODAY
12–4pm: WYATT / LUCA / BOOD / HARRIS (zoo shift)
4–8pm: DYKSTRA / LUCA
8–MIDNIGHT: TROY / HARRIS
MIDNIGHT–8am: TROY (sleep on couch, no arguing)

TOMORROW
8–12: WYATT / HAYES FAMILY BREAKFAST
12–4: BOOD

…and more names, more times, stretching down the page.

His breath catches for a second at that. 

“Coach wants a photo of that,” Harris says, following his gaze.

“It is very ugly,” Ilya says, but his voice is almost steady. “Handwriting terrible.”

“Yeah, well, we weren’t drafting calligraphy,” Bood says. “You’re not getting more than ten minutes alone to brood, Rozanov. Get used to it.”

Someone—Haas, probably—has doodled a tiny helmet with a big cartoon crack in it in the corner. Next to TOMORROW, an extra note in blue pen reads:

CHECK W/ DOC ABOUT VISITOR LIMITS – NO OVERDOING IT

He stares at the paper for a second longer.

Four hours, he thinks. If traffic is bad. If the roads are messy. Four hours until Hollander is on his porch with his parents and his worried face and his stupid gentle hands.

Four hours to figure out how to get a living room full of very well-meaning hockey players out of here without saying: my secret boyfriend is coming to hover over me, please leave.

Doctor said brain rest. Doctor said no overstimulation. That’s something. That’s an angle.

“I think schedule is too much,” he hears himself say, before he can talk himself out of it. “Doctor was very clear. First day, visitors short. Maybe we erase some.”

Five heads swivel toward him.

Wyatt narrows his eyes a little. “Too loud?” he asks. “Too many of us?”

“Never too many,” Ilya lies automatically. “But maybe… after first shift, no more. Just quiet. Sleep. Very boring medical rest.”

Luca frowns. “You sure? I can stay, I don’t mind. Or I can come back for the later one with Dyk—”

“Rookie,” Bood says, nudging him with an elbow. “If the man says he needs to sleep, we let him sleep. We’re annoying, not essential.”

Harris is already reaching for a pen. “Honestly, the doc did say no overstimulation,” he says, half to them, half to his own conscience. “We can shift some of this to tomorrow, it’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

He puts a line through 4–8pm: DYKSTRA / LUCA and writes, in all caps:

4–8am: QUIET HOURS – NO VISITORS (DOCTOR SAYS SO)

“Happy?” Harris asks.

Ilya swallows. The knot in his chest loosens half a notch. “Very,” he says. “My brain thanks you for your service.”

“We’ll still text,” Luca says, like he’s making a promise to himself as much as to Ilya. “Just to check in. You don’t have to answer, but… y’know.”

“I know,” Ilya says softly.

He lets himself look at the paper one more time.

Four hours, he thinks. Plus this stupid rota. Plus a stuffed dog and a team that apparently believes in shift coverage for his brain.

For a man who used to sign discharge forms and call a cab like it was nothing, it feels like standing in a different life entirely.

“Okay,” he says, backing toward the couch, toward the noise, toward the people. “I will accept my fate. But in four hours, you all go home and let me be very sad and dramatic alone, yes? Doctor’s orders.”

“Brood window, got it,” Bood says. “We’ll be back to annoy you tomorrow.”

“Leave some lasagna,” Ilya adds. “For my sad drama.”

“Already in the plan,” Bood says.

“Four hours,” Ilya tells himself again, under his breath, as he lets them herd him back to the couch and press food and blankets and noise into all the spaces where loneliness used to live.

He can survive that long.

For once, he won’t have to do the next part alone;
even if no one in this house yet knows exactly who he’s waiting for.

Chapter End Notes

as always, love hearing your thoughts, little easter eggs you noticed, favorite moments, anything! thank you so much for reading!! see you soon hopefully 💗

ps. if you saw the mistake with the list, no you didn't <3 i tend to write scenes out of order and change my mind a lot so some cut stuff made their way in and they should not have done that. so rude.

Chapter 3: the shape of being kept

Chapter Notes

no excuses for how long this one got because i just kept piling indulgences upon indulgences. a liiiiiiiiittle angsty, tiiiiiny angst, but gentle, i promise!!

By the time the clock on the wall flips from 2:51 to 2:56, Ilya’s skin doesn’t fit right.

He’s not pacing—no one is letting him pace, or do anything, really—but the knee of his good leg keeps bouncing under the blanket like it’s trying to escape. Every few seconds his eyes slide back to the front window, unfocused, like he’s expecting a car to manifest out of the snowbank if he stares hard enough.

The house is full in that loose, half-settled way. Bood is perched on the arm of the other couch, talking with his hands as he tells Troy a story that seems to involve a ref, a bad call, and a truly criminal misuse of a whistle. Troy listens with his arms crossed, offering commentary in dry little interjections that keep derailing the narrative on purpose. Luca sits on the floor with his back against the coffee table, nodding along like every word is gospel, even though he clearly joined the story halfway through.

Wyatt is nearby but not in it, all easy smiles and responses in little hums. Harris drifts in and out of the conversation from the corner of the couch, phone in hand, occasionally chiming in with a muttered, "No, yeah, that was bullshit," without ever looking up.

Ilya listens to all of it and none of it.

His head has gone from background ache to the light tapping stage. A small, polite knock at the back of his skull. He knows from experience it will turn into a stampede if he doesn’t get ahead of it.

"Rozy," Wyatt says, cutting cleanly through the chatter.

Ilya drags his attention back from the window. Wyatt’s looking at him now, full focus, focused frown dialed in.

"Scale of one to ten," Wyatt says.

Ilya squints. "How annoying you are? Eleven."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever’s actually bugging you."

"I am not bugging," Ilya says. "I am listening."

"Bullshit," Troy says cheerfully. "You’ve checked out like five times."

"Yes, well," Ilya says. "I am bored. Very different medical condition."

"You're vibrating in your seat," Harris points out.

His ribs are starting to feel like someone’s playing a slow chord on them. His head taps again, harder. He closes his eyes for a second; the light behind his lids is too bright. When he shifts, his ribs twinge, and he hides the wince by rolling his shoulder, which is a terrible decision, actually.

"I’m fine," he says, which is, at best, a distant goal.

Bood’s voice drops a notch. "You sure, man?" he asks, leaning forward, elbows on his knees now. "When's your next painkiller? An hour, yeah?"

"Mmm," Ilya hums in reply.

Luca twists around to look at him properly, concern written all over his face. "Do you need anything? Water? Food? Different pillow? Less pillows? I can, uh, open a window? Or close it? You want ice? Heat? I can Google—"

"Maybe just… less sound," Ilya says. "My head is doing the thing."

Wyatt nods once. "Six?" he guesses.

Ilya hesitates, then shrugs. "Six."

Wyatt reaches out and tugs the edge of the throw blanket up over Ilya’s knees, like it’s nothing, like this is normal. "Okay," he says, and his voice drops to just above a whisper. "We'll be quieter."

His phone buzzes against his thigh, sharp enough that it startles him. He looks down, squints until the letters stop swimming.

SVETA

The name hits him low and solid, like a hand closing around his wrist.

"I need to take this," he says, already reaching for the phone.

No one protests. They don’t scatter, either, just instinctively lower their volume, like someone turned a dial. Bood’s voice drops into a rumble as he finishes his story for Troy; Luca shifts closer to the coffee table and starts fiddling with the coaster stack; Harris angles his phone screen away from the room, brightness dialed all the way down. Wyatt watches Ilya for half a second longer than everyone else, then looks away pointedly.

Ilya leans back into the couch, careful of his ribs, and hits accept.

"If this is a telemarketer," he says, "I will climb back on the ice just to die twice."

"Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov," Svetlana spits, "I am going to come to Ottawa and beat you to death with my shoe."

The relief hits him so fast his eyes sting. He closes them.

"Privet," he says, voice warm and immediately softer. "Before you yell at me—"

"Don’t tell me what to do," Sveta snaps, and then immediately steamrolls right over herself. "Ilya, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?"

He smiles despite the way his head throbs. "I missed you too."

"You got taken off the ice in an ambulance," she says. "In Ottawa. On national television. And I find out because a PR intern trips over himself in the hallway like he’s discovered fire. Do you know how humiliating that is?"

"I am sorry you had to hear it from idiots," he says. "I prefer you hear bad news from me directly."

"Then why didn’t I?" she fires back. There’s a beat, sharp and telling. "Why was I not your emergency contact?"

His jaw tightens. He stares at the ceiling for a second, blinking several times in a row. "I moved," he says. "You are in Boston. Ottawa is far."

"So?" she says flatly. "You think distance has ever stopped me? I would have been on the first plane. I would have driven. I would have walked if I had to."

He laughs, one short broken huff at the image of her stomping up I-95, swearing at every toll booth.

"You would get lost," he says. "And probably arrested."

There’s a choked noise that might be a laugh and might be a sob.

"Don’t joke with me," she says, voice going thin. "I thought— For two hours I didn’t know if you were—" She cuts herself off. "You scared me."

He hates that. More than the tape on his chest.

"I’m sorry," he says, meaning it from somewhere deep. "I scared me too a little bit."

"You’re not allowed to do that," she snaps. "I am not emotionally prepared to be the tragic best friend in your thirty-for-thirty, understood?"

"Understood."

She breathes out, a long shaky thing that crackles through the speaker.

"So," she says, and he can hear her dragging herself back to solid ground. "Tell me. What did you break? Besides my heart."

"Arm," he says. "Shoulder. Some ribs. Head." He taps his temple. "Not in that order."

"Concussion?"

"Mm." He winces as his head pulses in agreement. "Doctor says big one. My brain is like scrambled eggs."

"Since when?" she demands. "Because you’ve sounded scrambled for years."

"Cruel woman," he mutters. "They say I lost some… months. After Boston, after signing. Things are mixed up. Some days missing. It’s like someone fast-forwarded parts of my life."

Silence for a beat.

"You remember me?" she asks, aiming for light, landing somewhere raw.

He rolls his eyes even though she can’t see.

"Of course I remember you," he says. "Unfortunately. You are very loud in my brain. No concussion can ever compete, Sveta."

"Good," she says. "If you ever manage to forget me, I’ll give you a second concussion."

He smiles, small and real.

"What about… the rest?" she presses. "Boston? Foundation? My last visit?"

He runs a quick internal check.

"Boston, yes. Foundation, yes. Your terrible attempt at cooking, sadly also yes."

"It was one time," she protests. "And your stove is the problem, not me."

"My stove is fine. You tried to cook pasta in a frying pan," he says. "Anyway. It’s just Ottawa that is… foggy."

She hums, thinking.

"So you don’t remember our last call," she says. More statement than question.

His headache pinches tighter. "Which one?"

"The one where you told me you couldn’t sleep," she says softly. "That you sit in your beautiful stupid house and feel like a ghost. That you miss having someone to talk to who isn’t on a screen."

It lands like news and like something he’s known all along.

He gets a smear of an image: dark kitchen, phone warm in his hand, her voice in his ear, a knot in his chest he couldn’t name. The details slide away; the feeling stays.

"No," he admits quietly. "I don’t remember saying that."

"You did," she says. "And then you took me off your emergency contacts because you are a fool."

"I—" He swallows. "It wasn’t… about you."

"Oh good, I love when sentences start like that," she says acidly. "From a stranger, Ilya. I would have called your coach, yelled at your doctors, bullied your new team’s PR, and made the Raiders front office send flowers so big they violate fire code. I would know. I would not be standing in the media lounge thinking maybe my best friend died and no one even had my number."

"…Okay," he says, rough. "I deserve that."

"Yes," she says immediately. Then, softer, "Idiot."

The word sits warm; it’s practically I love you in her mouth.

"I didn’t want you to worry over something you couldn’t fix," he says. It sounds weak to his own ears.

"I’m supposed to worry," she says. "That’s what you do when you love someone. You sit in the worry with them. Put me back on your emergency contacts."

He runs his thumb over the seam of the blanket over his legs.

"Coach already gave them his number," he says. "The doctor told me. He is… very involved."

"Good," she says. "You can have more than one number, genius. It’s not a marriage license. Put me under ‘terrifying Russian woman, call if he does anything stupid.’"

Something in his chest loosens.

"Okay," he says. "I’ll do it."

"Say it properly," she insists. "Repeat after me: Svetlana is my emergency contact and if I remove her again I am a complete dumbass."

He stares at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible.

"Svetlana is my emergency contact and if I remove her again I am a complete dumbass," he recites.

"Good boy," she says. There’s a pause on the line, the kind that means she’s rearranging her feelings into something manageable.

"Did… Jane call?" she asks, casual in the way only siblings pretending not to pry can be. "Is he coming?"

He goes still.

"Who?" he tries, pathetic.

"Don’t play stupid with me. Jane." She mangles the English name on purpose. "Did he call? Is he on his way?"

His gaze flicks, unthinking, toward the front window. "Yes," he says. "He called. Many times. He is… on his way."

"Good," she says immediately, no hesitation at all. "Because if he wasn’t, I was going to yell at him too. Maybe send a threat from a burner phone."

"You like him," Ilya says, amused.

"I don’t know him," she corrects. "But I know you. And anyone you keep around this long must be doing something right."

He nods, even though she can’t see.

"Headache?" she asks, hearing the thinness of his breathing.

He huffs a laugh.

"You are very nosy," he says. "Yes. It’s bad. Doctor said no long calls. I think I have exceeded limit with your screaming."

"It's good for your circulation," she says. A pause, then softer: "Rest. Listen to your doctors. Listen to your teammates. And if you even think about toughing this out alone again, I will fly to Ottawa and sit on you."

He smiles, small and real. "I look forward to this."

"You better," she says. "Call me later. And Illyusha?"

"Da?"

"I’m glad you’re still here."

The call ends before he can say anything stupidly earnest back.

For a second he just lets the phone rest against his chest, eyes closed, breathing shallow around his ribs. His head is pounding now, a full, heavy throb behind his eyes. The words feel smeared at the edges in his brain, like someone dragged a thumb through wet ink.

He realises the room drifted into even gentler noise, like they’ve been padding around him without realizing it. He opens his eyes to find all of them watching him. Not obviously, not like he’s a car crash, but with the weird, intent attention of people waiting for a puck to drop.

"I am not dying," Ilya says, because apparently that needs to be clarified, though he can feel the grimace twisting his features. "You can all relax."

"Doctor did say no long calls," Harris says, wincing in sympathy. "That sounded… intense."

"Very aggressive Russian love," Ilya says. "Good for soul, bad for headache."

"You need to lie down properly," Wyatt says. "No more holding court from the couch."

Ilya glances at the clock on the far wall. Does the math automatically.

Fifty-five minutes.

Shane on the highway, somewhere between Montreal and here, a car full of Hollander worry pointed straight at him. Four hours had sounded theoretical. Fifty-five minutes feels like standing on the tracks and hearing the train.

His stomach swoops.

He has to get them out of here.

Not because he doesn’t want them—he does, painfully—but because the idea of trying to explain why his entire nervous system calms down the instant Shane walks through the door is… not ideal. And because his head really does hurt. And because he wants the space to fall apart a little if the Hollanders look at him like he’s a unworthy.

"Okay," he says, levering himself up a little straighter. The room tilts. He waits for it to settle. "Visiting hours over."

Luca’s head snaps up. "What? No, we still have—" He glances at his phone. "Like forty minutes on our shift."

"Yeah," Harris says. "Shift is until four. We barely annoyed you at all."

"I am very easily annoyed," Ilya says. "You have done excellent work. Ten out of ten. Gold star."

Wyatt narrows his eyes. "Is it the headache?" he asks. "Because if it is, we can just… be quieter. Or we can move to the kitchen and let you sleep in here."

"It is… some headache," Ilya admits. "But also brain is tired. Doctor said first day no overstimulation. Many visitors. Much noise. I would like…" He searches for a word that doesn’t sound like I want to be alone when my boyfriend gets here. "…silence."

Bood looks immediately guilty. "Shit, man, we should have kept it down more," he says. "We’ll go bug you tomorrow instead. Let you get your old man nap in."

"I am in peak physical condition," Ilya says. "This is not old man nap. This is elite athlete recovery."

Luca’s still frowning. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I can stay really quiet. I can just sit and… not talk. I’m pretty good at that. I'll read or something."

Ilya’s chest does something stupid and warm.

"I know you can," he says gently. "But you have life. Practice. You do not have to sit here watching me breathe."

"But—"

"Rookie," Bood cuts in, hand landing briefly on Luca’s shoulder. "He’s asking nicely. We respect the nice ask before he switches to captain voice."

Troy pushes off the doorway at last and steps closer, expression unreadable.

"You kicking us out or following doctor’s orders?" he asks, voice mild.

"Both," Ilya says. "My head hurts. And if I look at any of you longer, I start thinking I must buy you very big gifts for all this kindness, and then I get stressed. Stress is bad for recovery."

Harris laughs. "Please don’t stress shop for us," he says.

Wyatt studies him for another long moment, then nods, decision made.

"Okay," he says. "We’ll clear out. But we’re not taking you off the schedule for tomorrow. You’re stuck with us."

"I am very stuck," Ilya says. "In my house. In this life. Tragic."

They move around the room gathering their things, like a tide going out.

Luca hovers last, shifting from foot to foot. "Text if you need anything," he says. "Or call. Or, like, just send a question mark and we’ll figure something out."

"I am not sending mysterious punctuation," Ilya says, but his throat feels tight. "I will… let you know."

Bood claps him very gently on the knee. "Don’t do stairs," he warns. "Or I’ll tell Cassie and she’ll drive here herself."

"Terrifying," Ilya says. "I will respect stairs."

Harris points two fingers at his own eyes, then at Ilya. "No Instagram," he says. "No scrolling. If you open the app, I’ll know."

"You are not NSA," Ilya says. "You cannot see my phone."

"I have vibes," Harris says. "And also you have location sharing on."

Ilya blinks. "I do?"

Harris grins, wicked and fond. "Concussion’s not taking that advantage away from me."

Wyatt steps in last, adjusting his toque. "If the headache spikes," he says quietly, for Ilya alone, "or you feel more confused than usual, call the nurse line. Or me. Or coach. Don’t wait until it’s bad enough you can’t." His gaze flicks to the sling, then back up. "You don’t have to tough this one out."

Ilya nods, because words feel too big in his mouth.

They all file out the door in a flurry of goodbyes and "we’ll be back" and "don’t do anything stupid." When the door shuts behind Troy, the house exhales. The sudden quiet feels thick.

No overlapping voices. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock and the steady throb of his own head.

He sinks back into the couch, suddenly boneless.

They’re worried about you, a little voice in his head says. Like it’s news.

He stares at the rota still magneted to the fridge from here—the blocky letters of ROZANOV BABYSITTING, the crossed-out shifts, the note about quiet hours.

He tries to line that up with the version of himself he remembers most clearly: captain in Boston, pulling his team together by sheer force of will, breaking his body and taping it back up because that’s what leaders do. Alone in a hospital room with a discharge form and no one to sign it for but himself.

He doesn’t remember what kind of captain he’s been here, not really. Can’t pull up the big speeches or the small moments. But he can see the results; the way they showed up anyway. Arms full of food. Hands full of worry.

Maybe, he thinks cautiously, he has done something right. Some kind of good. Enough that they care even when he’s not scoring, not hitting, not… useful.

The idea sits uneasily. His brain tries to reject it outright: people don’t stick just for him. There has to be a reason. A debt. A favor. A role he’s filling.

His mind immediately starts making lists.

Wyatt: something for him and Lisa. A fancy dinner, maybe. Or tickets. Something steady, reliable, like the way he sits in that armchair and scans for danger.

Luca: something signed. Something from Boston. A jersey from the years he missed watching as a kid. He idolizes Ilya; the least Ilya can do is make the idol worth it.

Bood: a ugly shirt louder than the last one. Or something for Cassie. She fed him; that alone earns tribute.

Harris: something small and thoughtful, probably. Not flashy. Something practical he wouldn’t ask for.

Troy: TBD. Possibly a muzzle. Possibly something for his ribs after he throws his body into another fight for him.

He catalogs the possibilities, turning them over like game tape. If he can’t remember exactly why they care, he can at least pay it back. Pay it forward. Earn it. That feels safer than assuming he deserves any of this.

His head throbs again. He closes his eyes, lets his arm drape over his face for a second, breathing shallow.

An hour, he thinks.

An hour until Shane. An hour to let his brain settle, to adjust to the quiet, to brace for impact the way he’s always done.

Ilya has learned quite quickly, soon after his mother's death, that if you tense your jaw waiting for a punch, it’ll hurt less when it lands. You can’t stop it, but you can decide how it hits you. Better a bruised cheek than a broken tooth. Better to meet it half-ready than get knocked out cold.

That is to say: Ilya is nothing if not adaptable.

He prides himself on being a Shane Hollander expert. He has a sizeable box—no, closet—no. A sizeable room in his brain dedicated to everything Shane, catalogued from the smallest freckle at the edge of his right cheekbone to the deep-seated anxiety that follows him around like a very nervous puppy. He knows exactly how to diffuse Shane fuses, how to soothe, tease, love. It’s written into his sequencing. He could forget his own name, but he cannot forget how to love Shane Hollander.

The problem is, try as he might, he cannot quite place anything on the two other Hollanders.

He remembers the day they’d caught him and Shane—mostly Shane’s freak-out and everything that followed. A pleasant dinner with them later that evening. Chicken parmesan, at some point, though he couldn’t tell you when. Maybe a few hockey games on a big screen. Puzzles at the table? That one might be misfiled, a dream someone else’s family left behind.

But Ilya, again, is nothing if not adaptable.

If Shane managed to consume Ilya’s entire being, Ilya’s sure his parents love him tenfold. Who wouldn’t? Who could resist sunshine incarnate? Light and warmth and that stupid earnest smile—you need them to survive.

So Ilya quickly puts together that if he doesn’t recall ever winning over the Hollanders, he can at least tip the scales by showing them how fiercely he loves their son.

If he can’t remember them liking him, he can make sure they can’t miss how much he likes Shane.

Which, currently, means he is fluffing the pillows on the couch like they personally offended him.

Every movement takes ten times the effort it should. It's harder to do it one-handed. His ribs complain about the twist, his shoulder pulses hot and mean, his head gives a little warning throb with each reach.

He does it anyway.

The throw blanket his well-meaning teammates tucked around him gets folded and refolded until the edges line up just so. He sets stuffed Chiron against an armrest like the dog is joining them on the couch, patrol duty for his sternum.

"You are very important decor," he mutters to the plush, easing it into place with his good hand. "Do not fall over. It makes bad impression."

He turns on the lamps, one by the couch and one in the corner. The overhead light is too sharp, too hospital. The lamps are softer, pools of warmth on wood and fabric. He tells himself it’s for Shane’s sake—Shane likes cozy light, not interrogation—but the truth is his own skull feels better with the dimmer glow.

The room looks lived in, suddenly. Less like a rental staged for a showing and more like someone actually stays here. It’s faintly disorienting that the someone is supposed to be him.

He limps to the kitchen next, one hand skimming the wall, pretending it’s balance and not a crutch. The fridge is fuller than his brain thinks it should be. Bood and Cassie’s culinary offensive is wedged onto every shelf: lasagna, stew, containers labeled in thick black marker.

He squints at the labels. Beef stew. Chicken and rice. Something with lentils. He tries to remember where Shane’s current preferences sit.

"Rabbit," he murmurs to himself. "Lots of vegetables. Less garbage. No fun."

He opens one Tupperware and peers inside. Roasted vegetables, rainbow-bright under the fridge light. That will pass Shane inspection. The lasagna… maybe not. But there’s salad stuff. Fruit. Yogurt. He can work with this.

His ribs are starting to pulse in time with his heartbeat. His head gives a harder thump, the light tapping at the back of his skull building into something with more intent. He leans both hips against the counter for a second and breathes through his teeth.

"An hour," he tells himself. "You can stand for an hour."

He pulls plates down from the cabinet, one by one with his left hand, moving slowly enough that he doesn’t drop anything. White plates—safe, neutral, no chipped edges. He sets them on the counter in a neat stack. Glasses next. Cutlery. Napkins. A little assembly line of hospitality.

He pictures Yuna walking in, snow in her hair, scanning everything with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. Pictures David, quiet and watchful, taking in the details, the way they do in his half-memories of that one dinner. He can’t remember what finally earned him their soft smiles, so he builds a new route there: nice house, clean kitchen, food ready, their son obviously cherished.

Set the table, his brain supplies, like it’s reading from an invisible checklist. Make it easy. Make it welcoming. Make them see there was no better option for Shane, even if there were nice men in Montreal.

He remembers that line too clearly—Yuna’s mouth in a worried line, David’s brows drawn, Shane fidgeting in his chair. Weren’t there any nice men in Montreal? A joke, sort of. A knife, sort of. And Ilya had agreed with them, privately. There were probably many nice men in Montreal.

None of them could have loved Shane more fiercely than he could.

He can’t remember the hundred small ways he’s apparently proven that already, if he ever did. So he will prove it again. From scratch.

He takes stock of the food like he’s planning a pre-game meeting instead of a family dinner. Something warm and easy for them when they arrive—stew, maybe. Bread in the oven. Kettle ready for tea. He figures out which container he can reheat without looking at a screen too long. He moves slower now, deliberate, because if he pushes too fast the floor does that swooping thing and he’s not about to greet the Hollanders from the ground.

Dishes go onto the dining table next, three places set with the kind of care he usually reserves for tape on a stick. Plates, forks, knives, glasses, napkins folded into something that might be a rectangle and might be a tragic abstract art piece. He ignores the empty spot where a fourth setting would go. He’ll sit after they do. He’ll worry about his own plate once he’s put food in front of them and Shane.

He tries to straighten the runner on the table and has to stop halfway when his shoulder sends a hot lance of pain down his arm. He sucks in a sharp breath and immediately regrets it when his ribs bite.

"Okay," he mutters. "Maybe not so much impressing. Maybe just… existing upright."

He laughs at himself, quietly. It comes out mostly as a wheeze.

Back in the living room, he adjusts the couch cushions again. It’s ridiculous—no one cares if the cushions are symmetrical—but he knows Shane. Shane will walk in, eyes too wide, shoulders up to his ears, and if there is anything slightly wrong, he will fixate on it. Better to give him a battlefield already arranged.

He pauses in front of the hallway mirror on the way back. For a second he doesn’t recognize the man looking back: bruises blooming along his jaw, collarbone taped, sling cradling his arm, hospital pallor under the stubble. He looks like someone who should be in bed, not playing host.

"This is very good look," he tells his reflection dryly. "Everyone will be very reassured."

The thought makes his stomach swoop. He swallows it down.

He smooths the front of his shirt with his good hand. It’s one of the softer ones, something he must have picked because Shane once said he liked the way it looked on him. He can’t remember when that was. The fabric lies crooked over his taped ribs; he tugs it straight.

It isn’t much, he thinks. Some clean dishes, a straight blanket, a few lamps, food ready to be warmed. It feels pathetically small compared to how much he wants to prove. He’ll be useful here. He’ll be a good patient, a good host, a good… whatever Shane needs him to be.

Headlights wash briefly across the front windows, pale stripes cutting through the soft lamp-light.

Ilya’s heart lurches up into his throat. His jaw tightens on reflex, the old instinct flaring: brace for impact.

Outside, Shane’s heart tries to punch a hole through his ribs. He’s out of the car before the engine finishes shuddering off.

"Shane—" Yuna starts, but he’s already slamming the door, breath fogging in the cold.

The driveway is a mess of plowed ridges and tire tracks. His boots slip once; he doesn’t care. The air knifes into his lungs, burning and clean and utterly useless compared to the need fizzing under his skin. He takes the porch steps two at a time because going slowly feels like another kind of cruelty.

He has the key in his hand before the thought finishes forming: he could knock, he could wait, he could—
The key slides into the lock like it’s done it a thousand times. Familiar. Home. He turns it and pushes the door open in one breath.

"Ilya—"

He doesn’t even finish the name.

Ilya is already moving toward him from the living room, like they met in the middle without meaning to. He’s maybe five steps in, and it looks like those five steps cost him everything.

Shane’s brain, traitor that it is, supplies the broadcast image first: Ilya facedown on the ice, limp, helmet skittering away. Then layers the real thing over it.

Real is worse.

The bruises on his jaw bloom deep purple and sick yellow under the soft light. Tape peeks out from the collar of his shirt in white bands hugging his ribs, an ugly echo of the orange spine board. The sling holds his right arm tight against his chest, transforming him into a slightly crooked version of himself, shoulders tilted, balance off. There’s the faint, fragile wobble of someone who has exactly one standing-up in him, and he used most of it walking from couch to doorway.

Shane stops dead. For half a heartbeat, everything in him misfires: relief so sharp it feels like grief, horror braided tight with the simple, stunned fact of he’s breathing, he’s upright, he’s looking at me.

Then the pause breaks and he’s moving.

He closes the space between them in three fast steps, hands already up.

"Hey, hey—don’t, don’t move," he blurts, because Ilya is still coming forward out of sheer stubbornness. Shane’s fingers land light on his elbows, the only place that doesn’t look like it hurts. "I’ve got you. Sit, please, sit—"

"I am greeting you," Ilya says, like this is a reasonable excuse for standing unsupported with a brain bruise. His smile is small and crooked, but it’s there, and it hits Shane harder than any check ever did.

"You can greet me from the couch," Shane says, soft but frantic, steering him gently backward. "Come on."

He feels the tremor in Ilya’s muscles as he backs up, tiny, hidden, something he’d miss if he didn’t know this body like a second language. The way his breath hitches when he lowers himself, just that one, sharp inhale through his teeth; the way he tries to smooth it out so Shane won’t hear.

Shane hears it anyway.

Once Ilya is down, the fight goes out of him all at once. His head tips back into the cushion. His mouth parts on a breath. He looks a little dazed, like the walk and the adrenaline and the pain all lined up and took their shot.

"Hi," Shane says, suddenly breathless himself.

Ilya’s eyes find him again, warm and a little glassy. His smile softens, free of the bravado he puts on for everyone else.

"Hello, sweetheart," he says, and that’s it, that’s the crack in the dam.

Shane drops to his knees in front of him so fast his joints complain. He doesn’t care. He needs to be level with him, needs to see his face properly, needs to put his hands somewhere, anywhere, to confirm none of this is another replay.

Up close is a whole new category of awful.

There’s a cut near his hairline, half-hidden by his curls. The faint, swollen shadow of where the collar rubbed against his neck. His pupils aren’t perfectly even—one tick bigger than the other—and there’s a faint shimmer of pain at the edges of his eyes that twists something in Shane’s stomach.

They’ve both spent their whole lives in this sport. They’ve both woken up sore and bruised and stitched together more times than he can count. He knows what a bad hit looks like, knows what "he’ll be out a few weeks" looks like. He’s seen it from the bench, from the ice, in mirrors.

None of that taught him how to look at this—at him—without wanting to cry for a lifetime.

He reaches up, hands hovering for a useless second over the sling, the tape, the curve of his jaw.

"Can I—?" he starts, and then stops, because he doesn’t even know what he’s asking permission for. To touch. To reassure himself. To fall apart.

Ilya solves it for him. His good hand comes up, curls in the front of Shane’s hoodie, and tugs.

Shane goes.

Their foreheads bump gently. Ilya’s skin is warm against his, his breath ghosting over Shane’s upper lip, a little shallow around his ribs. Shane closes his eyes and lets the fact of him sink in: here, alive, solid, warm.

He presses a kiss to Ilya’s temple, slow and careful. Another to his cheekbone, skirting the edge of a bruise. The tiniest brush of lips against the corner of his mouth, just to feel it move.

Ilya makes a sound then, a quiet, broken exhale that sounds like it’s been stuck in his chest since the boards.

"Oh," he breathes. It’s half sigh, half laugh. His fingers tighten in Shane’s hoodie. "There you are."

Shane’s throat closes. He kisses him properly this time, still careful, all the care in the world, but it says all the things he can’t get out yet: I saw you go down, I thought I lost you, I don’t know what I’d do if—

Ilya leans into it like his body’s been waiting for this exact thing. His shoulders drop, the rigid line that pain and fear carved between them softening. His mouth parts obediently under Shane’s, slow and sweet, like he’s drinking it in.

It’s not a long kiss; his ribs complain, his head thumps in warning, and Shane can feel it. He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together again, noses bumping.

"Hey," Shane says, voice rough. "Easy. I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be the responsible right now."

"You are responsible for kissing me," Ilya murmurs. His eyes are slitted, lazy, the kind of softness Shane only ever gets to see when it’s just them. "Doctor said it is very good for healing."

Shane huffs out something that might be a laugh and might be a sob. "I must have missed that line in the discharge instructions."

"Small print," Ilya says. "You need better glasses."

Shane lets his eyes roam his face again, cataloguing: the bruises, the pale, the exhaustion etched in fine lines. The places that are not broken. The way his gaze tracks, a little slow but still there.

"This part's the worst. I know you hate it," he says quietly, thumb brushing lightly along Ilya’s jaw. "Being hurt. Being… still."

"I hate you seeing," Ilya corrects, just as quietly. "I like you only think of me when I am beautiful and invincible."

"Joke’s on you," Shane says. "You’re still both."

That earns him the smallest, real smile. The kind that pulls at just one corner of Ilya’s mouth, private and incredulous, like he can’t quite believe Shane means it and can’t stop basking anyway.

Behind them, the front door thumps gently shut. The cold air swirling around their ankles gets cut off. Shane hears his dad’s even footfalls, his mom’s brisk, efficient rustle of movement.

"Groceries in the kitchen," David says, low, like he’s narrating for himself and a little for them. "Where do you want the cooler, honey?"

"Counter’s fine," Yuna answers softly. The wheels of the little rolling cooler bump over the threshold. "We’ll unpack. Give them a minute."

Shane doesn’t look away from Ilya. He doesn’t have it in him yet.

"You good?" he asks instead, quieter now that the first rush is ebbing. "Right this second. Any spinning? Nausea? Do you want the lights down?" His gaze flicks up briefly, noting the lamps, the softened warm pools instead of overhead glare, the way the room looks ready. "You already made it cozy?"

"Is for you," Ilya says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "You do not like hospital lighting. Only soft, romantic, Hollander-approved shadows."

Shane’s chest does this awful, wonderful squeeze.

Of course even held together with tape, Ilya remembered that stupid throwaway comment from months ago about overhead lights giving him a headache. Of course he dragged himself around the house turning on lamps and arranging blankets and making everything look like home instead of the crime scene his brain keeps replaying.

"You set all this up?" Shane hears himself ask. His voice comes out rougher than he means it to. "The lamps, the couch, the—" his eyes flick over the dining table, the plates already out, the careful little stack of napkins "—all of it?"

Ilya shrugs, as much as his ribs and sling will let him. "You drove a long way," he says. "You and your parents. I want it to look nice. Be… welcoming. Not like I just escaped from hospital and collapsed immediately, even if that is technically true."

Shane stares at him for a beat, somewhere between wanting to cry and wanting to wrap him in bubble wrap and staple him to the couch.

"You’re insane," he says, but it comes out thick with fondness. "You’re actually insane. You’re not supposed to be doing things, Ilya. You’re supposed to be horizontal and boring and letting us take care of you."

"I am terrible at boring. That is your job," Ilya says, unbothered. "Also, I like when you are comfortable."

"That’s not the point," Shane says, indignant on a delay. He gestures vaguely at the room, at Ilya’s bruised face, at the sling. "You shouldn’t have been on your feet at all. You shouldn’t have been touching plates. Or blankets."

"Blankets are very dangerous," Ilya agrees. "But I survived. And now you are here and house looks less like team locker room. Win-win."

Shane wants to argue. He really, really does. He wants to list every injury instruction ever given and staple them to Ilya’s forehead. But Ilya’s looking at him with that open, proud little light in his eyes, like he’s pleased he managed to make Shane a soft-lit landing pad with one working arm and half a brain.

The fight drains out of him, replaced by something helpless and fierce.

"You’re ridiculous," he mutters instead, leaning in to press another kiss to his temple. "And I love you. And the second my mom sees how much you’ve moved around, she’s going to yell at both of us."

"Worth it," Ilya says simply. "You are here. Lamps are on. Very romantic. I am genius."

He shifts finally, easing himself off his knees and onto the edge of the couch, close enough that their shoulders touch. His hand finds Ilya’s and laces their fingers together over his thigh, careful of the cast and the tape and everything that’s gone wrong.

From the kitchen comes the soft hiss of the fridge doors, the gentle murmur of his parents’ voices. The house smells like cold air and traveled coffee. It smells like people settling in, like staying.

For a moment, though, the world is very small: just the warm weight of Ilya’s hand in his, the steady rise and fall of his chest under Shane’s palm, the rasp of his voice when he says, quieter now, "Do not worry. I am okay."

Shane squeezes his fingers, eyes fixed on their joined hands, on the scuffed knuckles and the hospital band still looped around Ilya’s wrist.

"I’m going to worry anyway," he says. "But I’m going to do it from right here."

Ilya leans his head against Shane’s shoulder, careful of the brace, the sling, all of it. He exhales, long and slow, like for the first time since the hit he believes he’s allowed to rest.

"Good," he murmurs. "I like when you worry close."

Shane turns his head just enough to press his lips into Ilya’s hair and lets himself breathe with him, matching his rhythm, minute by minute.

Somewhere in the middle of the warm, floaty Shane-soup in his brain, Ilya hears the front door close again. Boots on the mat. The low murmur of voices. A bag rustling.

Right. Parents.

He blinks, like someone splashed cold water on him, and tries to remember how to be a functioning host instead of a man who just dissolved on his own couch.

"Okay," he says, clearing his throat and immediately regretting it when his ribs complain. He pats at Shane’s chest with his good hand. "You should go help your parents. They drove all this way. I must—" he tries to sit up straighter "—be impressive."

Shane’s brows knit. "You are impressive," he says, like that’s a stupid thing to worry about. "You don’t have to—hey, hey, don’t—"

Ilya is already trying to push himself a little more upright, rearranging his face into what he hopes is Regular Person. His head swims. The room gives one slow, warning tilt.

"Stop," Shane says firmly, one hand at his back. "You’re fine. They can come to you. That’s what the couch is for."

"This is very rude," Ilya mutters. "They are guests."

"They’re my parents," Shane says. "They’re gonna be offended if you don’t let them fuss over you."

Fussing. Right. This is good. Parents love fussing. He can… survive being fussed at.

He pastes on his best polite smile just as they appear in the living room.

Yuna first, shrugging out of her coat, scarf still looped around her neck. Her cheeks are pink, eyes already soft and sharp at the same time as they land on him. David is behind her with an overnight bag in one hand and a reusable grocery tote in the other, a familiar puzzle book tucked under his arm.

For a split second, something in their faces is naked and raw—relief, maybe, or something bigger. Then they both smooth it down into gentler lines, the way people do when they remember they shouldn’t scare the patient.

"Hi," Shane says, a little breathless, glancing between them and Ilya like he’s trying to translate in real time. "He, um. Got up to turn on lamps and set the table before we got here."

Yuna’s gaze snaps to the dining table, then back to Ilya. Her mouth presses into a line that is somehow fond and furious at the same time.

"Oh, sweetheart," she says.

Ilya straightens as much as the tape and sling let him. "Mrs. Hollander, Mr. Hollander," he says, formal, almost stiff. "Welcome. Please, come in. I hope drive was not too bad."

They both go very still at the titles.

It’s half a heartbeat, barely more than a blink, but he sees it: the micro-flinch, the little recalibration. Then Yuna is already crossing the room.

"I thought we settled this," she says lightly. "It’s Yuna, remember?" She softens it with a smile. "And David. No ‘misters’ or ‘misses’ in this house."

"I—" He gropes for something smooth. "Of course. Sorry. Old habits."

She stops beside the couch and, very gently, cups his cheek with one warm hand. "Let us see your face," she says. "Properly."

He holds still under the inspection like a kid being checked for fever. Her thumb is careful of the bruises, skimming just under his eye where the purple is darkest.

"You poor thing," she murmurs. "Look at you."

"I am very dramatic," Ilya says automatically. "All to get new shiny helmet."

David chuckles quietly as he sets the bag and tote down by the armchair. "That’s a good sign."

He reaches out and lays a big, steady hand on Ilya’s uninjured shoulder, squeezing once. "Good to see you upright, son."

The word hits somewhere deep and bewildered. He files it away, carefully.

"You must be tired," Ilya says, a little frantically, reaching for something he can do. Please, sit. I will get food. I have stew. Salad. Lasagna. You should eat first." He starts to lever himself up again.

Three voices hit him at once.

"No," Shane says.

"Absolutely not," Yuna says.

"Sit," David adds.

Shane’s hand is already firm between his shoulder blades, holding him down with embarrassingly little effort. "You’re not serving anyone," he says. "You are the serve-ee."

"But you drove," Ilya protests. "You must be starving. It is basic hospitality. You sit, I heat—"

"A concussion is a valid exception to basic hospitality," Yuna says dryly. She smooths his hair back from his forehead, checking his pupils like she’s been secretly a doctor this whole time. "You’re not even supposed to be looking at a stove."

David has already slipped past them into the kitchen, opening the fridge, doing a quick inventory.

"Looks like your teammates came prepared," he calls. "We could feed a small army with this."

"They did," Ilya says, proud despite himself. "For once they follow instructions. There are vegetables and chicken Shane will like. I can show you which one—"

Shane presses two fingers to his sternum, a gentle stay. "You are not getting up again," he says. "Point, don’t move."

"I am not furniture, Hollander," Ilya mutters and gives Shane an honest-to-God pout.

"You are today," Shane says. "Very handsome, extremely fragile furniture."

Yuna laughs, then immediately softens again. "He’s right," she says. "If you so much as lean toward the kitchen, I’ll sit on you." She glances over her shoulder. "David, can you heat whatever looks least likely to upset his stomach?"

"On it," David says. There’s the muted thunk of Tupperware on the counter, the click of the stove. He moves around the kitchen like he’s done this here before.

Ilya watches him for a second, confused by the ease of it. How many times has David navigated those cabinets? How often has Yuna stood where Shane is standing now, fussing with his hair, checking his temperature?

His brain offers him flashes that might be memories or wishes: David at this table, brow furrowed over a puzzle; Yuna shouting at a ref on TV from this very couch. Her laughing as he burns something on the stove; David pouring him tea without asking how he takes it.

He can’t grab any of them fully. They slip through his fingers, leaving only the shape of familiarity behind.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Yuna asks, bringing him back. She’s moved her hand to his wrist now, feeling his pulse like she can argue with the monitor he’s no longer attached to.

"I am in… some pain," he says carefully, not wanting to get benched by another grown-up. "Head is bad, ribs are… working overtime. But doctor says this is expected. Nothing is… new." He shrugs with his good shoulder. "I have been worse."

"That’s not comforting," Shane mutters.

"No, it’s not," Yuna agrees. She squeezes his wrist once more before letting go. "But it'll pass. Have you had water?"

"I have had so much water," he says. "Haas is hydration tyrant. If I drown, it is his fault."

"Good," she says. "He’s my favorite now."

"Rude," Shane says. "I’m right here."

"You’re biased," she tells him. "We need a tyrant on staff."

David returns with two glasses of water, sets them on the coffee table, and then ducks back toward the kitchen.

"You didn’t have to bring anything," Ilya says, guilt prickling. "There is already so much—"

"These are for us," Yuna says, waving a hand. "We’ve been in a frozen metal box for four hours. Between the heater and the cold outside, I feel like a wilting plant. I’m pretty sure my soul is still on the side of the highway."

Shane grumbles, and Ilya wants so desparately to press a kiss to those pouted lips. "They refused to let me drive with the window cracked."

"Because it’s January," David calls from the kitchen, mildly. "And we enjoy having ears."

Ilya glances at the cups. "You should sit," he says quickly. "Warm up. I can—"

"You," Yuna cuts in, gentle but firm, "are on to stay in this exact spot until further notice."

"Okay. I am good at that." Ilya feels his spine straighten even more, as if he’s in some kind of interview instead of on his own couch. "Perfect patient."

"I am very open to feedback," he adds. "Any notes on… house, food, you can tell me. I want you to be comfortable here." He gestures, a little helplessly, with his good hand. "You are… important guests."

"Oh, honey," Yuna says, and there’s that tiny flinch again, the way her mouth goes tight for a split second before she relaxes it. "We are not guests. And you don’t have to audition, Ilya."

He blinks. "I am not auditioning."

"You’re trying to take care of us before we take care of you," David says gently. "That’s very sweet and very backwards. We came to look after you, kid."

"I am very bad at letting people look after me," Ilya says, honest before he can stop himself.

Yuna smiles at him over the rim of her mug. "Good thing there are three of us," she says. "We’ll wear you down."

He doesn’t quite know what to do with that, with the way they talk like there’s no doubt they’ll be here tomorrow and the next day, like this isn’t fragile or conditional.

Ilya looks from one Hollander to the other: Yuna, already calculating how to tuck herself into his recovery like it’s a project; David, steady as bedrock, all quiet competence and soft hands on sharp edges. Shane, in the middle, gaze flicking between them and Ilya like he’s trying to hold everyone in the same orbit.

His jaw wants to clench again, old instinct saying brace, brace, brace—someone will decide he’s not enough, that this is too much, that their shining boy deserves someone easier.

Instead, Yuna reaches for the stuffed Chiron by his elbow and props the dog more securely against his side.

"There," she says. "Now you’re properly supervised."

Shane sits so close their knees touch. Ilya exhales slowly, carefully, and lets himself lean back into the couch another inch.

He can’t remember exactly how he ever earned this before. Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he’s starting over.

He can do that. Adapt. Learn them the way he learned their son.

They end up eating in the living room.

The table is set, painstakingly, like a stage he built with his bare hands—but as soon as Yuna clocks the stiffness in his shoulders when he thinks about standing again, she says, "The couch looks more comfortable," like she’s the one who prefers it that way.

So: coffee table. Coasters. Hot pads. Plates.

The food is a Centaurs greatest hits compilation—Bood and Cassie’s care packages crammed into his fridge, now reheated and steaming: stew in one big pot, lasagna in a glass dish that’s probably older than half the rookies in the league, roasted vegetables in mismatched bowls.

"You weren’t kidding about Cassie," Yuna says, inhaling like she’s trying to memorize the smell. "This looks wonderful."

"Cassie is very dangerous woman," Ilya agrees, carefully easing himself down onto the couch. "She keeps feeding me. I cannot escape."

"Bood's wife?" David asks, already reaching for the ladle.

"Yes," Ilya says, faintly surprised. "You remember."

"You send us pictures of their team cookout," Yuna reminds him, amused. "We’re invested in the saga."

He doesn’t remember doing that, but he likes the idea of himself who did.

Shane hovers just long enough to make sure Ilya is settled, pillows right, sling supported, blanket out of the way, and then sits beside him, close enough their thighs touch. Yuna and David take the other couch, plates in hand, like this is just another away weekend visit and not a reset.

Ilya waits for them to serve themselves first. He doesn’t even reach for his fork until everyone’s got food on their plates.

"Go on," Shane nudges.

He rolls his eyes, but it loosens something. He adjusts his grip on the fork, left-handed is still clumsy, and aims carefully for a piece of stew meat. His hand trembles, just once, on the way up. He pretends it’s nothing. If anyone sees, they have the decency not to react.

"Okay?" Shane asks quietly.

"Very okay," Ilya says, and for once it’s not a lie. The first bite sits warm in his stomach, heavier than hospital broth, more real.

They talk about safe things.

"Is that the rookie who worships you?" Yuna asks at one point, when Shane mentions Luca in passing.

"Worship is very strong word," Ilya says. "He just makes big eyes whenever I tell him to stop skating into boards head-first."

"You said he asked you to sign his stick," David says. "Twice."

Ilya remembers the ink on taped wood, the way Luca couldn’t quite look at him. "Small worship," he concedes. "Very little."

Yuna laughs, the sound soft and delighted. "And Bood is the one whose wife scares you," she adds, nodding at the lasagna. "Several opinions about coaching decisions."

"Cassie is louder than Bood sometimes," Ilya says. "Very impressive feat."

Yuna’s lips curve. "You like them," she says simply.

He pokes at a carrot to disguise the way his chest twinges. "They are all very annoying," he says. "But… yes."

Every so often, he catches himself trying to anticipate their judgments.

When he realizes Yuna’s bowl is empty, he straightens immediately. "More?" he asks. "Please, you must be starving. I will—"

He plants his good hand on the couch to push up. Pain knifes through his ribs, bright and mean. He hides the flinch with a joke-ready face, but he only makes it halfway to standing before three voices converge.

"I’ve got it," David says, already halfway out of his seat, hand on the pot.

"Sit," Shane says, palm closing gently over Ilya’s knee.

"Absolutely not," Yuna says.

He freezes there, caught between instinct and common sense. Then, grudgingly, he lets gravity pull him back down.

"This is my house," he complains. "You are guests. I should be host."

"You’ve already been host," Yuna says. "You got hurt horribly, terrified us all, and then still managed to have hot food waiting when we arrived. I think that covers your duties for the day."

Shane snorts. "Yeah, you kind of overshot the assignment."

"I am overachiever," Ilya mutters.

They don’t let him fetch seconds. They don’t let him clear plates. When he automatically reaches for his own empty bowl, David simply takes it from under his hand with a quiet, "I’ve got it, son," like reaching past him is the most natural thing in the world.

"Mr. Hollander, you really don’t—" Ilya starts.

"David," he corrects gently. "You’ve earned at least that much, don’t you think?"

He swallows around the words.

"David," he says, carefully. "You really don’t have to."

"I know," David says. "I want to."

Yuna finishes her water and glances toward the kitchen. "Do you have tea?" she asks. "Want some?"

"Yes, of course," Ilya says quickly. "Many teas. I have… black one. And green one. And one with… flowers? I don’t know what it is, Shane bought it." He shifts, already bracing his hand on the couch again. "I will make some."

Shane doesn’t even let him get the leverage this time. "Nope," he says, popping to his feet. "Absolutely not. You sit. I’ll make it. I know where everything is."

"You will make tea for my guests in my house?" Ilya says, scandalized.

"Our guests," Shane corrects, bending to brush a kiss over his hairline. "Our house. Stay put."

The word our makes something warm and dizzy curl under his ribs. He leans back before his body can betray how much he likes it.

He tries. He really does.

For the first fifteen minutes, he’s straight-backed and precise, answering questions like he’s walking a tightrope: nothing too personal, nothing that might make them see the cracks in his armor.

Yuna asks, gently, "Do you remember us coming for that preseason game?" and he has to admit, "Pieces," cheeks hot, and she just nods and says, "That’s more than enough."

David asks what he remembers about Ottawa being like, really like, and Ilya finds himself talking about the river, and the way the rink smells different here, and how the fans chant, and somewhere along the way his shoulders unhook a notch.

He still tries to do things first. To go get things he absolutely should not be getting. To stand when anyone else stands. Each time, one of them intercepts it. Shane with a hand on his leg, Yuna with a quiet, "No, thank you," David with a bowl already in his hands.

But the more they ignore his attempts at perfect hosting and just… stay, the easier it gets to let go.

By the time Shane comes back with mugs of tea, one green, one flower-thing, one plain black that he sets in Ilya’s hands with a warning look, the angle of Ilya’s spine has given up on textbook posture. He’s sunk an inch further into the couch, blanket bunched around his knees, fork abandoned on the plate.

Yuna wraps both hands around her mug and studies him over the rim for a second.

"Better?" she asks.

He considers lying. It’s his favourite instinct. But the ache in his ribs feels duller now, his head slightly less like it’s trying to unscrew itself.

"Yes," he says. "A little." He glances between the three of them, then adds, more quietly, "Thank you."

Yuna’s smile is small and bright and fierce. David’s eyes crease at the corners. Shane’s hand finds the back of his neck and rests there, warm and steady.

For the first time since he woke up in the wrong-feeling room, the word visiting doesn’t make his skin crawl.

By the time they’re done picking at seconds and the tea has cooled to the safe, drinkable range, Shane can feel the shift.

It’s in the way Ilya’s answers get softer around the edges, less sharp, less quick. In the blinks that last a fraction of a beat too long. In the way his shoulders keep trying to sink, then jerk back up like he remembers he’s supposed to be on.

Shane watches him over the rim of his mug, heart doing that clench-loosen-clench thing.

He knows this version of Ilya almost as well as the loud, glittering one: the post-game crash, the way his body asks for mercy long before his brain will admit it.

"You’re fading," Shane says quietly, leaning in.

"I am not," Ilya says, equally quiet, which is how Shane knows he absolutely is. "I am… resting my eyes."

"They’re open."

"Advanced skill," Ilya murmurs. "Takes years to master."

His head tips, barely, toward Shane’s shoulder. Just a degree or two. Anyone else might miss it. Shane feels it like gravity.

"Uh oh, he’s listing," Yuna observes, amused, from the other couch. She sets her empty mug on the table.

"I’m fine," Ilya says, automatic, even as his jaw cracks on a yawn he tries to hide and absolutely does not.

"There it is," David says, fond. "The mighty admission."

Shane sets his own mug down, gentle clink of ceramic on wood, and shifts closer.

"Come here," he says. "Properly."

Ilya squints at him. "I am already here. You are very greedy."

"I meant," Shane says, carefully sliding an arm behind him, "stop pretending you’re holding yourself up."

He starts rearranging pillows with the grim focus of someone solving a high-stakes puzzle. One wedge behind Ilya’s lower back, another under his elbow to support the cast, one more tucked between his side and the arm of the couch. It takes maneuvering and three separate apologies when he accidentally jostles a rib, but they get there.

"Okay," Shane says, more to himself than anyone, once he’s satisfied with the structural integrity of the pillow fort. "Now lean."

"What if I crush you?" Ilya asks, but his voice has gone muzzy. "Would be very embarrassing."

"You won’t," Shane says. "And if you do, I’ll die happy."

He shifts again, this time lifting his own arm so Ilya can settle back against him, his broad back against Shane’s chest, head tipped toward Shane’s collarbone. It’s a careful, slow-motion maneuver; every muscle in Shane’s body is coiled in terrified readiness to catch, to brace, to stop if Ilya so much as inhales wrong.

They manage it without catastrophe. When they’re done, Ilya is half-reclined, cradled between Shane and the couch, sling propped securely, ribs supported by a strategically placed cushion. Shane’s arm curls around him, palm flat over his sternum, feeling the rise and fall.

"See?" Shane says, trying to sound casual and not like his entire nervous system just exhaled. "Perfect."

"This is very undignified," Ilya mumbles into his chest.

"You love it," Shane says.

"…Yes," Ilya admits, so soft Shane almost doesn’t catch it.

Yuna’s watching them with that particular expression that used to make Shane want to crawl under tables when he was a teenager: fond and proud and a little watery around the eyes.

"Do you want a blanket over both of you?" she asks.

Shane opens his mouth to refuse on reflex, then feels the way Ilya shivers, a tiny, involuntary tremor as exhaustion finally starts to thread through adrenaline.

"Yes, please," he says instead.

Yuna stands, fusses with the throw that had been around Ilya’s legs earlier, and shakes it out. She drapes it carefully over both of them: tucking it around Ilya’s feet, over his knees, then over Shane’s lap too. She pauses for a second, fingers lightly brushing Ilya’s hair back from his forehead, checking for heat like she has a built-in thermometer.

"Better?" she asks.

"Better," Ilya murmurs. His eyes are at half-mast now, lashes dark smudges against bruised skin.

David lowers himself into the armchair with the comfortable sigh of a man whose lower back has opinions about long drives. He picks his mug back up, but his attention stays on the couch.

"You can sleep," he says, like he’s giving permission. "We’re not going anywhere."

Ilya’s body does that betrayed thing again, where every muscle fusses about staying alert while his bones try to melt. Shane can feel the tug-of-war under his hand.

"Headache?" Shane asks quietly.

"Less," Ilya mutters. "Talking makes it worse. You are talking very much."

"I’ll shut up," Shane promises immediately. "Sleep, okay? I’ve got you."

"You always say this," Ilya says, a tiny, slurred accusation. "Then you talk more."

"Asshole," Shane says, but it’s thick with affection. He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the top of Ilya’s head, lips lingering in the curls. "Sleep. We’ll be right here when you wake up."

There’s a little pause, like Ilya is checking that against some internal script, some history Shane can’t see right now.

"Okay," he says finally, a whisper of breath against Shane’s collarbone. "Stay."

"Okay," Shane says.

The next few minutes are just breathing.

Shane’s hand rises and falls with Ilya’s chest. He starts matching his own breath to it, long in, slow out, the way one of his coahces once told him to when he couldn’t stop replaying bad hits in his head. It’s easier with Ilya as a metronome.

The house is quiet in the comfortable way, not the waiting-room way. The heater ticks. The fridge hums. Outside, a car passes, tires hissing over snow.

Yuna finishes her tea. David pulls his puzzle book from the tote bag and flips it open, but doesn’t pick up a pen yet. He just lets it sit in his lap, thumb holding his place, eyes resting on the couch.

Little by little, the tension leaks out of Ilya’s body. His shoulders soften against Shane’s front. The hand that had been gripping the edge of the blanket loosens, fingers uncurling. His breaths even out, each one a little deeper than the last, but not too deep; he’s subconsciously adjusting to avoid his ribs, and even asleep, his body remembers.

Shane feels more than hears the moment he crosses over into actual sleep: a tiny full-body sigh, the kind that lets go of one last thread of consciousness. Thirty seconds later, a small snore buzzes against Shane’s chest, barely audible, utterly devastating.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, the sound careful not to jostle.

Yuna stands again, moves softly around the coffee table, and tucks the blanket in a little more snugly around Ilya’s shoulders, like she’s insulating him from draft and world in one go. Her fingers brush Shane’s wrist briefly where it rests over Ilya’s sternum, a light squeeze of understanding.

"Good?" she mouths.

Shane nods, throat too tight to say much.

She leans down and presses a quick kiss to Ilya’s hair, just above where Shane’s lips were a minute ago. "Rest, honey," she murmurs. Then, straightening, she tips her head toward the kitchen.

"Come on," she tells Shane and David quietly. "Let’s let him sleep properly."

"I don’t want to move," Shane says instantly, arms tightening infinitesimally around Ilya, as if they’d asked him to hand over a limb.

"You’re not moving," Yuna says. "We’re getting out of the room. You stay glued to him as long as you like."

That earns her a watery little smile. Shane relaxes again, only slightly, and lets his head fall back against the cushion, eyes closed for a second, breathing in the smell of Ilya’s hair and hospital and home.

He listens as his parents’ footsteps retreat toward the kitchen: the clink of mugs in the sink, the muffled whoosh of the dishwasher door, the low start of their voices.

Ilya snores again, soft, a stuttering little sound on the exhale.

Shane presses one more kiss into his curls and keeps counting breaths.

In the kitchen, Yuna fills the kettle again out of habit. David leans against the counter, puzzle book open, pen finally in hand but still unused.

For a while, they just listen.

The house isn’t big enough for true privacy; sound carries. They can hear the faint rhythm of Shane’s voice when he murmurs something, the answering quiet of Ilya’s breathing. The little snore, once, makes Yuna’s mouth curve.

"He’s out," she says softly, not a question.

David nods. "Body finally overruled the stubborn," he says. "Took long enough."

Yuna wraps her hands around the kettle, watching the waterline steadier than her thoughts.

"He called us Mr. and Mrs. Hollander," she says after a moment. The words are carefully casual.

David makes a quiet noise in his throat. "Yeah," he says. "I noticed."

"David. He—He looked like he was waiting for us to fail him," she goes on. "Standing there in that sling, trying to serve us dinner." Her jaw works for a second. "Do you remember the one time he ate at our table? How he went straight for seconds without asking because Shane told him to, and then tried to do the dishes and almost broke my favorite bowl?"

"He put it back together with superglue," David says. "And apologized eight separate times."

"It was very sweet," Yuna says. "This is… not that."

David finally sets the puzzle book down. "Shane told us about the memory gaps," he reminds her gently. "We knew it would be different."

"I know," she says, frustrated with herself. "I know. I just—" She cuts herself off, dragging a hand through her hair. "He’s so… formal. Like he thinks he has to earn this from us."

David’s face softens. "Maybe he does, in his head," he says. "If the last few months are foggy, if he doesn’t remember all the ways we’ve made this normal, then all he’s got is the first impressions. Not exactly the lightest material."

Yuna grimaces. "We were worried," she says. "Still are."

"I know," David says. "But we’re not there anymore. He just doesn’t… remember the road between."

The kettle starts to hum. Yuna turns it off before it whistles, more out of instinct than need, and leans back against the counter beside him.

"And Shane," she says, quieter. "Did you see his face when Ilya tried to stand up again? I thought he was going to duct-tape him to the couch."

"Honey, I think he's still seeing it every time he closes his eyes," David says. "Doesn't help that it's everywhere. They even got the radio."

"That godawful commentator," Yuna mutters darkly. "Talking about ‘sacrificing the body’ like it’s some noble thing. I nearly threw my phone at the dashboard."

She goes quiet for a second, eyes flicking toward the living room, toward the curve of Shane’s shoulder visible over the couch.

"He’s carrying all of it," she says. "He thinks he’s back to square one and somehow also in debt."

David slides his hand over hers on the counter, thumb rubbing slow circles over her knuckles.

"Then we remind him it doesn’t work like that," he says. "You don’t lose the value just because the record skipped. They’re both still here. They both still choose each other."

"And in the meantime," Yuna says, "we make sure Ilya knows he doesn’t have to audition to keep his place."

"Exactly," David says. "We’ve done this before. Remember? Teenage Shane, post-injury, convinced his career was over and we only loved him because he scored goals."

She huffs out a half-laugh. "I remember wanting to shake him," she says. "Still do sometimes."

"He turned out okay," David points out. "Given enough repetition, even Hollander men can absorb evidence."

She nudges him with her shoulder. "You’re very smug for someone who still needs reminding to wear his knee brace."

"Low blow," he says, but he’s smiling.

They fall quiet again, listening to the faint sounds from the living room.

Shane’s voice is barely a murmur now, every so often: a soft "shh" when Ilya shifts, a half-laughed "you’re fine, I’ve got you" when he snuffles and burrows closer even in his sleep. Ilya’s breathing keeps time like a metronome: in, out, in, out.

"He called our house our," Yuna says suddenly. "Did you hear that? ‘Our house.’"

David’s smile goes soft and private. "I did," he says. "And did you hear Ilya? ‘Your parents’ are important guests. He wants to impress us so badly."

"He already did," Yuna says. Her throat tightens. "He did a long time ago. He just doesn’t remember."

"Then we get to show him again," David says. "Slowly. No pressure. Little things. Tea the way he likes it. Calling him ‘son’ until he rolls his eyes instead of flinching."

Yuna’s eyes glisten. She blinks the wetness away, stubborn.

"Okay," she says. "Game plan. We keep him fed, we keep him resting, we don’t let him overdo it trying to impress us. We back Shane up when he nags him. We do not cry in front of him unless it’s absolutely necessary."

"Define absolutely," David says mildly.

"If he ever calls us Mr. or Mrs. again, I might," she admits. "But I’ll try to hold it together."

From the living room comes a tiny, ridiculous snore. Then another. Shane’s answering chuckle, muffled in curls.

Yuna softens all over again. They stand there together for a little while longer, letting the domestic sounds of someone breathing safely in the next room soak into their bones.

"Welcome home," David says quietly.

"Welcome home," Yuna repeats, just as quiet.

And in the living room, wrapped in blankets and Hollander worry, Ilya snores on, blissfully unaware that he’s already passed every test he thinks he’s still taking.

Shane’s phone buzzes against his thigh.

For a disorienting second he thinks it’s the boards again, that electric jolt through bone. Then he realizes it’s just the alarm he set in the car, the one labeled MEDS – DO NOT MISS in all caps with his mother looking over his shoulder.

The room is darkened now, lamps turned down low. At some point, Shane’s head tipped back against the cushion and he dozed off too. His neck protests when he moves.

On his chest, Ilya stirs.

He’s heavy and warm and sprawled in that way that makes him look twice his already considerable size; one long leg crooked over Shane’s, weight sunk into him like the couch is secondary. His breathing is slow and even, a tiny snore buzzing against Shane’s collarbone.

Shane silences the alarm with a thumb swipe and lets himself look for one selfish moment.

He looks better like this.

Not good, the bruises are still there, the tape, the sling, the faint crease between his brows like his brain never fully lets go, but better. Less hunted. The hard lines have softened; his mouth is relaxed, not twisted around some sarcastic retort or gritted in pain. There’s a smudge of stubble along his jaw that Shane’s fingers itch to trace.

"Hey," Shane says softly, free hand skimming up to the back of his neck, thumb drawing slow circles there. "Ilya. Moy lyubimyy."

Ilya makes a noise that’s half protest, half contented hum, and burrows his face more firmly into Shane’s chest.

"No," he mumbles, voice blurred by sleep and cotton. "Do not move. Is illegal."

Shane smiles, helpless. "Sorry," he murmurs, kissing the top of his head. "Doctor’s orders. Meds time."

"Hate doctor," Ilya says without lifting his face. "Hate time."

"I know," Shane says. "I'll help you file a formal complaint later. Come on. Just a little wake up."

He feels Ilya’s lashes flutter against his chest, the hesitant drag of him toward consciousness. When he finally tips his head back enough to look up, his eyes are bleary, pupils a little slow to focus, but they land on Shane, and there’s that tiny flicker of warmth anyway.

"You drooled on me," Shane says gently, teasing.

"I do not drool," Ilya says, offended on reflex. His voice sounds like gravel in honey. "You are making up lies." He pauses. "Maybe small drool."

"Tiny," Shane concedes. "Very dignified. Still gotta sit up."

He shifts under him carefully, easing them both upright. Ilya tries to help, muscles tensing, and immediately pays for it. The movement lights his ribs up; his face pinches, a soft hiss pushing through his teeth.

"Hey, hey," Shane says quickly, hand firm on his waist. "Let me. I’ve got you."

It takes some careful negotiating with the couch, the sling, and gravity, but he gets Ilya propped against the cushions, pillows wedged in all the right places. Ilya’s breathing is a little quicker now, the spike of pain giving his eyes a glossy edge.

"Sorry," Shane says, hating how useless the word feels. "Okay. Here."

He reaches to the coffee table where Yuna, predictably, has already set things out: water bottle, little plastic pill organizer open to the right time slot. He hands Ilya the water first, helping guide it to his left hand.

"Small sips," he reminds him. "We’re respecting your very delicate brain."

"My brain is tank," Ilya mutters, but he obeys, swallowing carefully.

Shane drops the pills into his palm one by one. "Painkiller," he says. "And the anti-nausea one they gave you. And the thing for your stomach so it doesn’t hate you."

He tips the pills back, drinks. His mouth twists. "Tastes like sadness."

"Sadness that makes your ribs stop screaming," Shane says. "So we'll take that as a win."

He takes the bottle back and sets it down, eyes tracking Ilya’s face. There’s that familiar stubbornness setting in again, the part of him that hates being seen in any kind of need.

"How’s your head?" Shane asks quietly. "Any worse than before the nap?"

Ilya thinks about it, eyes drifting toward the far wall like he’s checking with the ceiling.

"No," he says finally. "Same." He tips his hand side to side. "Maybe… half step better. Sleep helps. You are a very comfortable pillow, Hollander."

"Good," Shane says. "That's a job I wouldn't mind."

From the kitchen doorway, Yuna’s voice appears, gentle. "Everything okay?"

Shane glances over his shoulder. She’s leaning lightly on the frame, David just behind her, both of them soft around the edges with their own travel fatigue.

"Yeah," Shane says. "We woke him for meds."

"We?" Ilya echoes, squinting at her. "You set alarm with your mother?"

"Of course I did," Yuna says. "I do not trust your boyfriend to keep track of time when you’re involved. Do you want to try upstairs?" She looks between them both. "If you’re done with the couch court for tonight. Bed might be easier on your back."

"That’s what I was going to suggest," Shane says. "If you’re up for it," he adds to Ilya. "We can stay down here if stairs feel like too much."

Ilya makes an immediate face. "I am not sleeping on couch," he says. "I am grown man with bed."

Shane’s mouth twitches. "Okay, grown man with bed. Let’s get you there."

"I can walk," Ilya says, already trying to swing his legs toward the floor.

"You can walk with a spotter," Shane corrects. He stands, stretching his own protesting back, then offers his hand. "No arguments. Doctor’s orders, remember?"

"Doctor talks too much," Ilya grumbles, but he put his left hand in Shane’s and lets himself be pulled upright.

The room tilts for him. Shane can see it in the way his eyes widen, in the quick white-knuckled grip on Shane’s fingers. He steps in close without thinking, an arm sliding around Ilya’s waist, steady and sure.

"I’ve got you," he says again, low. "Just breathe."

Ilya does, jaw flexing once as everything settles. "I am fine," he insists. "Just… spinning room. One second."

"It's okay. Slow."

They take the stairs one at a time.

Shane walks half a step behind, hand firm at the small of his back, ready to catch. Ilya hates it, Shane can tell, the way his shoulders are a little too square, embarrassment making him overcorrect. But he’s also not stupid. When his vision swims halfway up, he stops without protest until the feeling passes.

At the top of the stairs, he’s breathing a little harder, sweat beading at his temples. Shane wants to scoop him up and carry him the rest of the way like some kind of wounded knight, but the practical part of his brain, annoyingly, points out his own back and the risk of jostling ribs.

They compromise with an arm around shoulders and another around waist, shuffle-stepping to the bedroom.

The door is half-open, the lamp on low. Someone, his mom probably, has been here. The bed is turned down, sheets crisp, pillows arranged in a careful stack that makes Shane’s throat tight. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. A little trash can within reach. His phone charger is already plugged in.

"Your mom is terrifying," Ilya says faintly. "In good way."

"You have no idea," Shane says. "Okay. Sit before you fall."

He gets him to the edge of the bed and eases him down. Ilya goes with a quiet groan, one hand braced on the mattress, the other hovering uselessly in its sling.

Up here, the smell of hospital is stronger on him. Sweat, antiseptic, plastic. The day’s worth of being poked and prodded sits on his skin. Shane can feel the dampness at the back of his neck when he brushes his fingers there.

Ilya wrinkles his nose. "I feel disgusting," he mutters. "I smell like… metal and fear."

"You smell like hospital," Shane admits. "We can fix that tomorrow. You should sleep."

"Now," Ilya insists, surprising him. "I want shower now."

Shane’s whole body says absolutely not. "Ilya," he starts. "Baby, you just made it up the stairs. Your head—"

"I hate this," Ilya says, sharper than he means to. His good hand tugs at the front of his shirt, like he wants to peel his own skin off. "I hate feeling like this. Like I am… dirty and broken and leaving pieces of hospital everywhere." His throat works. "You do not like mess either."

Shane opens his mouth and then closes it again.

He is neat. Orderly. Likes things controlled. Ilya knows that, filed it away with the lamps and the tea preferences and the thousand other tiny stupid facts Shane has ever let slip.

But he’d never—not for a second—apply it to this. To him.

"Hey," he says softly, stepping closer. He plants himself squarely in front of Ilya on the bed, cupping his uninjured cheek. "Look at me."

Ilya does, reluctantly. His eyes are tired and stubborn and embarrassed all at once.

"There is a zero percent chance I will ever be grossed out by you being hurt," Shane says. "Or bloody. Or sweaty. Or smelling like hospital. That’s not mess, that’s… life. That’s hockey. That’s you being alive. I like you alive, even when you smell weird."

"Yes, yes, you are very poetic," Ilya says, but his mouth twitches. "I still want shower."

Shane sighs, defeated by sheer determination and guilt. "You are the worst patient I’ve ever met," he says. "And I love you. Okay. We can do a very quick, very boring shower. Conditions apply."

"I will sign contract," Ilya says immediately.

"Number one," Shane says, holding up a finger. "You sit. We use the little stool. No standing, no leaning, no trying to prove how strong your quads are."

"My quads are very strong," Ilya says, offended.

"I know. I am tragically familiar with your quads. They’re currently benched. Number two: lukewarm water. Not hot. If the bathroom turns into a sauna, your brain won't like it."

Ilya pouts. "You ruin all nice things."

"Number three," Shane continues inexorably, "I do everything. You stand up too fast or reach for something or try to wash your own hair, I will personally drag you back to bed and call my mother as backup."

Ilya considers this, then gives a tiny, put-upon sigh. "This is terrible deal," he says. "But I will take it."

"Good choice," Shane says, unable to stop the fondness from bleeding through. "Let’s get you undressed."

The words would be fun in any other context. Right now they just make his chest ache.

He moves slowly, narrating each step like they taught him in first aid, like he’s talking himself through it too.

"I’m gonna help with your shirt first," he says. "We’ll go over your head on the bad side last, so we don’t jostle it."

"It already jostled," Ilya mutters, but his good hand comes up to help, fumbling at the hem.

Between the two of them, they get the shirt off: one sleeve over the cast, careful roll over the sling, fabric lifted gently over his head. The tape on his ribs is stark and ugly in the lamplight, white bands against bruised skin. The sight of it knocks something out of Shane again.

He forces his eyes up to Ilya’s face, because if he focuses on the mottled spots along his side he might say something unhelpful and broken.

"Cold?" he asks.

"A little," Ilya admits.

"Two minutes and you’ll be warm," Shane promises.

He helps him to the bathroom, one slow step at a time. The stool is already there—Yuna again—inside the tub, rubber feet solid. Shane checks it anyway, hand pressing down until he’s satisfied it’s not going to skid.

He gets the water going, hand under the stream until it’s just on the warm side of lukewarm.

"Okay," he says. "Sit."

Ilya lowers himself with the wary care of someone double-checking every muscle. The second the water hits his shoulders, some of the tension goes out of him.

"Oh," he exhales. "Okay. This is… acceptable."

Shane laughs under his breath. "High praise."

He keeps the spray low, away from Ilya’s head at first, letting it run over his back and chest, careful of tape and sling. He uses his free hand to shield the bandages when he needs to, redirecting rivulets of water.

It feels strangely holy, this tiny, ordinary act.

He soaps a washcloth, gentle, and runs it over Ilya’s neck, his collarbones, the uninjured parts of his chest. There are bruises he hadn’t seen before, blooming along his side like bad watercolors. He has to keep reminding his jaw to unclench.

"I look like art piece in strange museum," Ilya says, following his gaze.

"You’re more beautiful than any art piece" Shane says, and his cheeks turn pink. "Which is awful for me, right now. Tilt your head back for me?"

He fills a plastic cup with water and tips it carefully over Ilya’s hairline, avoiding the stitched cut. They do this in stages: wet, soap, rinse, each step narrated and slow so nothing jars.

"You have done this before," Ilya notes, eyes closed, letting himself be handled.

"Couple of times," Shane says. "You had that flu a few month ago. Could barely stand. You kept insisting you were game-ready."

"This sounds like me," Ilya agrees. "I do not remember you washing my hair." His mouth curves, sleepy. "Very luxurious."

"You kept trying to seduce me in between coughing fits," Shane says, smiling at the memory. "It was not your most successful campaign."

"I am very charming even when sick," Ilya says. "You probably wept with desire."

"Oh, absolutely," Shane says. "Truly overwhelming."

He runs his fingers through the damp curls, slow and careful. This part might be his favorite: the way Ilya’s posture loosens by degrees, the way his head leans into his palm unconsciously, trusting.

He has to stop himself from kissing his neck. They’re on a very narrow bridge between necessary and too much, and he’s not going to risk jostling a concussion because he can’t keep it in his pants.

When they’re done, he turns the water off and reaches for the towel.

"Okay," he says. "Last part. Then bed."

He wraps the towel gently around Ilya’s shoulders, patting rather than rubbing. The cast gets its own careful treatment. Every wince, every flinch, every hiss gets a murmured apology and an adjustment.

By the time he’s dressed again, soft, loose clothes, one of Shane’s old Metros t-shirts that he makes look utterly indecent, Ilya looks like a very put-upon, very sleepy bear someone tried to disguise as a person.

"This is a good look on you," Shane says, helping him back to the bedroom. "Very fashion-forward."

"I am too big for your clothes," Ilya grumbles, but his fingers twist briefly in the hem like he likes it.

"I like you in my clothes," Shane says. "Sorry, them’s the rules."

Back at the bed, they repeat the careful lowering maneuver. It’s slightly easier this time; the meds have started to kick in, smoothing the sharper edges of pain. Shane arranges pillows: one under his knees, one under the injured arm, one along his side to stop him from rolling.

David appears in the doorway again, hovering like some benevolent haunting. "Everything alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," Shane says. "We’re good. Just making him into a pillow burrito."

"You look much more comfortable," he tells Ilya. "If you need anything in the night, shout. Or text. Or throw something at the wall."

"Do not encourage him," Shane says.

"We’re in the guest room," Yuna adds from behind him. "Right down the hall. You’re not on your own."

Ilya nods, heavy-lidded. "Spasibo," he says again. "Good night."

"Good night, sweetheart," Yuna says, and flips the hall light off as she goes, leaving only the bedside lamp.

It feels like the world shrinks again, down to just the bed, the soft glow, the sound of their breathing.

Shane sits on the edge for a minute, watching him as his eyes sink closed and fight their way back open.

"You can sleep," he says. "I’ll be right here."

"You need to sleep too," Ilya mutters. "You drove. You are… shaking."

Shane glances at his own hands. They are trembling, a little, now that the adrenaline has finally started to drain.

"I will," he says. "After I’m sure you’re okay."

"I am okay," Ilya insists, head lolling a little on the pillow. "You fixed… everything." His tongue trips over the words, edges softened by exhaustion. "House. Bed. Me."

Shane’s chest does that thing again, painful and sweet.

"I did not fix you," he says. "You’re not broken. You’re just—" he searches for something that isn’t stupid "—temporarily extra delicate."

"You say this like I am not always delicate flower," Ilya mumbles, eyes finally closing properly. "So many feelings."

"Yeah," Shane says, voice going soft. "You do, actually."

Silence settles, warm and thick.

Shane hesitates for a second, then gives in to the selfish urge and slides carefully into bed beside him, on the uninjured side. He lies on his back, then gently turns onto his side so he’s facing Ilya, careful not to jostle the pillows. His hand finds its way, almost magnetically, to rest lightly over Ilya’s ribs above the tape.

Ilya’s eyes slit open again, dark and hazy. "You stay?" he asks, like he hasn’t been told this fifteen times today.

"Yeah, baby," Shane says. "I stay."

"Good," Ilya whispers. His lashes droop, then drag back up. "Come closer. You are very far away."

Shane huffs a soft laugh. He’s already right at the edge of the bed, but he shifts anyway, careful as if they’re both made of glass. He stretches out on his side, facing Ilya, keeping a polite few inches of space because he’s terrified of bumping a rib or jostling his head.

Apparently this is unacceptable.

Ilya makes a quiet displeased noise, reaches out with his good hand, and hooks clumsy fingers in the front of Shane’s shirt. "Closer," he repeats, sleepy, bossy. "You are my… weighted blanket."

Shane can’t help it; he smiles, helpless and wrecked. "Okay," he murmurs. "Weighted blanket coming up."

He inches closer until they’re nearly pressed together along the length of Ilya’s good side—Shane’s chest to his shoulder and upper arm, thighs skimming, careful of the sling, careful of the tape. He tucks his hand lightly again against Ilya’s ribs above the bandages, palm broad and gentle, as if he can hold everything in place.

Ilya exhales on a pleased little sigh, the sound warm against Shane’s throat. "Yes," he says. "Better." His eyes flicker down to Shane’s mouth, then back up, slow and deliberate. "Kiss me."

Shane’s heart stutters. "You’re supposed to be resting," he says, because he has to at least pretend to be the responsible one. "Concussion, remember? We’re doing boring, not—"

"Very boring," Ilya agrees. "Terrible. Need enrichment." His fingers fist a little tighter in Shane’s shirt. "Kiss me, Hollander. Gently. I am not asking for cardio."

Shane presses his lips together, fighting a losing battle against how much he wants that. Ilya is pale and bruised and clearly exhausted—but his gaze is steady, pupils equal, voice slurred only by sleep and meds, not confusion. This isn’t disoriented grabbing; this is him choosing.

"Last thing we need is you getting all worked up and popping a rib," Shane mutters, but he’s already leaning in. "If your head starts to hurt more, I’m stopping, okay?"

"Bossy," Ilya whispers, pleased. "I like when you are bossy." His mouth tips, drunk on affection.

Shane gives up.

He closes the remaining distance and brushes their mouths together, the lightest possible kiss. Just a press, soft and careful, barely any pressure at all.

Ilya hums, chasing him when he starts to pull back.

"Again," he says.

So Shane kisses him again. A little longer this time. His free hand comes up to cradle Ilya’s jaw, thumb avoiding the worst of the bruising, fingers splayed warm along his neck. He keeps it slow, no push, nothing demanding—just the steady reassurance of I’m here, I’m here, I’m here threaded through every touch.

Ilya sighs into it. His lips part, easy as breathing, like his body remembers this even where his memory stutters. The hand on Shane’s shirt drags him closer until there’s no space left at all, until Shane can feel each careful rise and fall of his taped chest against his own.

It’s not deep, not really. More of a series of small, unhurried kisses, mouths sliding, breath mingling. Every now and then Ilya makes a contented sound low in his throat and it goes straight through Shane like a wire.

When Shane starts to angle away to give him a break, Ilya nips very gently at his lower lip in protest. "Do not leave," he mumbles, words ghosting over Shane’s mouth. "Feels… quiet. In here." He taps his temple with a clumsy knuckle. "When you do that."

Shane melts and breaks at the same time.

"Okay," he whispers. He leans back in, kisses him slower still, like they have all the time in the world. "I’ve got you."

Ilya’s good hand lets go of his shirt only to slide up, fingers fumbling into Shane’s hair. He cards through it once, twice, an almost absentminded petting that makes Shane’s eyes flutter.

"Love you," Ilya murmurs between kisses, like a secret and a fact. "Love you so much. Is very stupid."

Shane laughs, breathy, lips still brushing his. "Yeah," he says. "We’re idiots. Biiiig, concussed idiots." He dots a line of tiny kisses along Ilya’s mouth, his cheek, the hinge of his jaw. "I love you too."

They slow even more as the meds really settle in. Ilya’s kisses get lazier, shorter, interspersed with little pauses where his mouth just rests against Shane’s, as if the contact alone is enough. His grip in Shane’s hair loosens, fingers sliding down to curl against the back of his neck instead.

"Head okay?" Shane murmurs against his lips.

"Mmm," Ilya hums. "Better. You are… very good painkiller."

"That’s the nerdiest sexy thing anyone’s ever said to me," Shane says, grinning despite himself.

"Sexy," Ilya repeats, like he’s trying the word out. His smile is slow and drug-soft. "Tomorrow I show you sexy. Today is… cuddling."

Shane’s breath catches for half a second at the promise—but he tucks it away, safe for later, and strokes his thumb slowly across Ilya’s cheekbone.

"Deal," he says. "I’m putting that in your treatment plan."

They taper off, little by little: from real kisses to soft presses of mouths, from that to foreheads touching and noses bumping, from that to simply breathing in the same space. At some point Ilya’s hand slips from Shane’s neck and lands on his own chest again, where Shane’s palm still rests, keeping him anchored.

"You can sleep," Shane whispers, eyes half-closed. "Got you."

"Stay," Ilya murmurs, already drifting, the word vibrating against Shane’s throat where his lips have come to rest.

"Always," Shane answers.

This time, when Ilya slides fully under, his face slackening against Shane’s collarbone, there’s no dart of panic in Shane’s gut. Just a deep, aching relief and the slow, sweet burn of having him there, heavy and safe in his arms, tasting like toothpaste and hospital and home.

Shane presses one last kiss into damp curls, tightens his arm very carefully around him, and lets himself drift too, both of them drowsing their way into it, lips still a breath apart, like even sleep can’t quite pry them away from each other.

Chapter End Notes

ahhh, how we feelin'? i know they didn't talk about the elephant in the room, but dw he will make himself known very soon. i loved people guessing that shane was gonna arrive while the team is there, and i did think of that, but there were other dynamics i wanted to play with (like not quite remembering how he fit with shane's family and so on)

hope you enjoyed!!! would love to hear your thoughts as always!! thank you for reading so far 🩷

Chapter 4: care is a contact sport

Chapter Notes

i live! i lied! i tried so hard to fit everything into this chapter, but this monster is already sitting at 15k-ish words, so i just had to add another.
also, sorry for the long wait!! grad school is grinding me to dust lately and i'm barely keeping my head above water as it is. but the final one should be out soon, hopefully!!
none of these people are reliable narrators i might also be an unreliable narrator. i'm posting this so late into the night, so if you see any mistakes, no, you didn't <3 (i'm joking! i've proofread it to the best of my ability, but i'll probably give it another look over in the morning)

It's the pain that wakes Ilya. A dull, steady, mean ache, like every part of him with a name is screaming to be heard.

His ribs are the first to speak, a sour, pulling throb every time he tries to take a real breath. His shoulder burns under the sling, deep and hot. His head feels like someone has wedged a fist between his eyes and squeezed.

For a second he doesn't know where he is.

The ceiling is different; not a hospital, not his Boston condo. The light is too soft for that with pale winter grey seeping in around the curtains. The air is too still to be a ward. Sheets under his hand are cool cotton, not scratchy industrial linen.

He panics on instinct.

His right hand jerks for something. His phone, maybe. A call button. Pain slices down his arm, sharp enough to make his vision go white-hot at the edges.

"Fuck—" he hisses through his teeth, breath catching. The word comes out strangled.

Something warm and heavy tightens around his waist.

"Hey. Hey, easy," a voice mumbles against his back, rough with sleep. "You're okay. Don't move like that."

Ilya freezes, heart thumping stupidly hard. Shane. Slowly, so slowly you'd think he'd never learned to move fast in his life, he turns his head on the pillow.

Shane is curled along his back like he tried to make himself into a full-body brace sometime in the night and then forgot. One arm is banded around Ilya's middle, careful of the ribs but still solid. His face is smushed into the pillow, hair a flattened disaster, mouth soft and parted. There's a crease on his cheek from the seam of the pillowcase. His glasses are on the nightstand, folded neatly next to the little orange pill bottle and the half-drunk water glass.

He looks a little in love, a little like a dream, a lot like something Ilya could have dreamed up.

Which, unhelpfully, is exactly why a flicker of doubt slides through him: concussion dreams are very vivid. He knows this. He's had nurses and family members and entire games that felt real for hours and turned out to be nothing but electrical storms behind his eyes.

The pain, though, the deep, thick ache in his ribs, the heat of the sling, the way his head pulses in time with his heartbeat, feels very real.

He still needs proof.

He lifts his left hand, and it trembles, the traitor, and pokes Shane gently in the bicep.

"Hey," he mutters. "Hollander. Wake up. You might be hallucination."

Shane makes a noise like a dying kettle and buries his face deeper into the pillow.

"I'm definitely not a hallucination," he protests, voice muffled. "Too tired to be a hallucination. Five more minutes."

"This is what hallucination would say," Ilya says. His chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the injury. "Prove it. Say something annoying or boring."

Shane huffs a half-laugh, half-sigh. The arm around Ilya's waist tightens fractionally, fingers splaying over the edge of the bandages like they're checking they're still there.

"You scared the living shit out of me," he mumbles. "Is that annoying enough?"

Warm breath ghosts across the back of Ilya's neck. Ilya shuts his eyes for a second, letting it soak in.

"Hm, that is a very Shane answer," he teases.

He doesn't remember falling asleep last night, exactly. He remembers the couch, the Hollander voices in the kitchen, the heavy slide into drowsing with his head on Shane's chest. He remembers stairs, maybe. Shane's hand on him, steady and present as he drifted.

He remembers, above all, a whispered promise.

He presses back, just a little, into the curve of Shane's body.

"You are still here," he murmurs.

"Of course I'm here," Shane says, equally quiet, suddenly more awake. He curls closer, fitting his knees behind Ilya's, his chest against Ilya's taped spine. "Did you think I was going to do a four-hour drive, tuck you in, and then bounce?"

"I have had very strange dreams lately," Ilya says. "I must verify."

The arm around him tightens again. He feels Shane breathe in against his back, slow and shaky.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "Right now, I promise, you're stuck with me. Annoyingly."

Ilya lets out a breath stuck in his lungs. It hurts on the way out, but he doesn't mind as much.

He turns his head a little more, squinting at the digital clock on the nightstand. 7:08 a.m. The light behind the curtains insists it's technically morning.

His body disagrees.

Everything feels heavy and wrong-sized. His mouth tastes like sadness and night. His skin itches where tape meets bruise. A low-grade nausea sits in the back of his throat, not quite enough to be a real threat, just enough to make him aware of every swallow.

His head throbs again, and he winces.

Shane feels it.

"Headache?" he asks instantly, voice going clinical. "Worse than last night, same, better?"

"Mm." Ilya considers. "Different. Yesterday was… what is it? Herd of elephants. Today it is many angry kittens."

Shane snorts, then immediately sobers. His arm loosens and slides away, reluctantly. "Okay. Painkillers then."

He rolls onto his back with a groan, reaching for the nightstand with sleep-clumsy hands. Without the warmth at his spine, Ilya feels suddenly colder, exposed. He hates how immediately he misses the weight so he carefuly turns to lay on his back.

He watches Shane fumble for his glasses, push them onto his face, and blink blearily at the pill bottle. There's a smear of sleep in the corner of one eye. His hair sticks up in four different tragic directions.

He is, objectively, ridiculous. He is also, objectively, the most gorgeous thing he's ever laid eyes on, and Ilya's seen a lot of beautiful things.

Ilya's throat closes around something that isn't pain.

"You are very attractive nurse," he says. "Ten out of ten, but terrible bedside manner."

Shane squints at him over the rims of his glasses. "Wow," he says. "Imagine almost dying and still being this much of an asshole."

"This is affection," Ilya says. "Do not be ungrateful."

He watches through the haze as Shane checks the label, lips moving silently as he does the math on last dose vs current time. He glances at his phone, confirms, and shakes one pill into his palm.

"Okay," he says. "Painkiller now, nausea thing too, then breakfast in an hour when you think you're ready. Sound good?"

"Nothing sounds good," Ilya says, honest. "But if this will hurt a little less..."

Shane reaches past him for the water glass, then thinks better of it and sits up fully, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress dips; Ilya's body tilts with it. For a moment his vision wobbles, then steadies.

"Here," Shane says, twisting back. He slips an arm behind Ilya's shoulders and helps him up into a sitting position, slow, so slow, like they're moving underwater.

Pain flares bright in his chest as his muscles engage. He bites down on the noise, jaw clenching.

"Breathe," Shane murmurs. "Short, shallow, it's okay. I've got you."

He does. That's the annoying part. Ilya can feel every point of contact: hand braced between his shoulder blades; knees pressed into the mattress beside his hip; hip against hip as he leans in, steadying the world.

"Now," Shane says, once the worst of the spike ebbs. He presses the pill into Ilya's left palm and offers the water glass to his hand. "One sip at a time."

He's watching, rapt, as Ilya tips the pill back and washes it down. Ilya makes a face, but doesn't say anything. The water settles in his stomach without complaint. A small win.

Shane takes the glass back, sets it down with exaggerated care, and only then lets his shoulders sag.

"Okay," he says. "You medicated?"

"I am medicated," Ilya agrees. "You can go back to sleep now."

Shane blinks. "Nice try," he says. "You are the only one allowed to nap for medical reasons. I'm on duty."

"You were on duty all night," Ilya says. "Very heavy duty. Lots of… holding."

Color touches Shane's cheeks. His eyes flick down, briefly, to where the sheets are rumpled, the hollow his body made along Ilya's back.

"Yeah, well," he says. "Somebody had to stop you from rolling onto your bad side. I do not trust you not to body-check in your sleep."

"I am delightful sleeper," Ilya says. "Very peaceful. Like angel."

"You roll on top me almost every night," Shane says dryly.

"Romantic," Ilya says, but he can't stop the little smile.

He feels not good. That would be too generous. But the fog is thinner this morning, the edges of his thoughts sharper. Yesterday, the world kept slipping and sliding under his feet; today it mostly holds still, if he doesn't move too fast.

Which is convenient, because as soon as the meds start to thaw the worst of the ache in his ribs, his brain remembers something else: the rota on the fridge. The shifts. The fact that in about three hours, if someone doesn't tell them otherwise, the Centaurs are going to start arriving with even more food and board games and Very Loud Concern.

The idea of someone walking into his living room to find Shane here, of seeing Shane's glasses on the table, Shane's bag in their room, Shane himself soft and sleep-ruffled, makes his stomach swoop in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.

Not because he doesn't want them to know. He does. There's a part of him that wants to grab the entire league by the collar and shout, look at this, look at what I did, I found the best thing.

But the thought of Shane's face when that news lands? Of the panic behind his eyes every time Ilya hinted at being seen?

No.

They have enough problems without adding unscheduled coming-out party to the list.

"You need my phone," he says abruptly.

Shane, mid-squint at the pill bottle to check the next dose time, looks up. "What?"

"My phone," Ilya says. "The Centaurs babysitting fan club. They will come if I do not tell them not to. I do not want Luca to see you in my bed and break his heart. He is obsessed with me."

"Your rookie has a crush on you?" Shane repeats, one eyebrow climbing.

"I want to introduce you in way that does not give you a heart attack," Ilya clarifies. "Or me." He reaches blindly toward the nightstand with his left hand. His fingers fumble across the smooth surface. "Here. I still cannot look at the screen very long."

Shane takes it, still that faint puzzled crease between his brows. "What do you want me to say?" he asks, thumb already swiping the screen awake.

Ilya settles back against the headboard, exhausted by the effort of sitting, and thinks.

"Group chat," he says. "Tell them… visiting hours are cancelled. A very lovely person has arrived to take over my torture. No one else is needed today."

Shane snorts softly. "You are so dramatic."

"They made schedule, Shane," Ilya says. "Like I am… baby or criminal. Actually, you will love them."

"You are a menace," Shane says. "It's good to be organized."

"Still." Ilya flicks his fingers in a tiny, impatient wave. "Text."

Shane opens the Centaurs group. There's a chaotic stream of memes and scheduling and several dozen missed messages from yesterday, and Shane hesitates for just a second over the keyboard.

"Okay," he says finally. "Dictate."

Ilya closes his eyes briefly so the screen glare doesn't stab his skull and starts.

"‘Good morning, degenerates,'" he says.

"Wow," Shane mutters. "Starting strong."

"‘Doctor says I am still alive,'" Ilya continues. "‘Meds are working. Head is still full of bees, but they are sleepy bees. Please take today off from trying to babysit me. A very competent and extremely attractive nurse has arrived to yell at me and arrange my pillows.'"

Shane pauses. "You really want me to send that?"

"Yes," Ilya says. "They will understand. Besides, if I say ‘my lover is here,' half of them will think I am making joke."

Shane's fingers stutter over the keyboard.

There it is: the little flinch, the quick flicker of something in his face that isn't amusement.

"Shane," Ilya says gently. "They don't know anything, I promise. 'Extremely attractive nurse' is accurate and protects privacy. Win-win."

"Yeah," Shane says. His tone is light, but his mouth has gone tight at the corners. "Privacy."

The chat responds at once, because, apparently, none of them sleep.

Wyatt: Copy that, captain. We'll switch to remote harassment only.
Harris: tell your extremely attractive nurse no funny business
Luca: do you need anything tho???

Shane huffs out a soft laugh despite himself.

"They're relieved," he says, holding the screen at an angle that puts it out of Ilya's direct line of sight. "You're officially benched from visitors."

"Good," Ilya says, letting his eyes stay closed. "I am very popular, it is exhausting."

Shane types one more thing—Thanks for everything, seriously.—and then drops the phone back on the nightstand.

It hits the wood with a quiet thud that sounds, in Shane's head, a little like a gavel. He drops his glasses by them.

He thinks of the way his own phone stayed stubbornly silent as updates trickled through PR channels and text threads he wasn't in. The way his mother's fought to get them a shred of information, confirmation that Ilya was still alive, and Shane's heart was still beating.

Because why would you be the one to know, something inside him says, ugly and familiar.

Beside him, Ilya shifts, dragging him out of the spiral.

"Come back," he says, patting the empty space by his hip with his left hand. "You look like you are thinking. This is dangerous."

"I'm allowed to think," Shane protests, but he's already moving, stretching out again on his side, careful of sling and tape. He tucks one arm under his own head, the other hovering uncertainly for a second before Ilya solves it by grabbing his wrist and hauling it back around his waist where it belongs.

"There," Ilya says. "Healing hands."

Shane swallows. "Is it working?"

"Yes," Ilya says, matter-of-fact.

He turns his head just enough that he can see Shane's face properly now: the faint purple smudges under his eyes, the crease between his brows, the little divot in his lower lip where he's bitten it raw.

"You are worrying very loud," Ilya observes.

Shane makes a face. "I am not worrying loud," he says. "I am worrying at an entirely normal volume for someone who watched the love of his life get scraped off the ice on television."

The words slip out before he can catch them.

Ilya's breath stutters.

It's not that Shane hasn't said he loves him before. He has. They say it a lot. In texts, in quiet between flights, in mornings together, in evenings on the phone, in the press of a palm against a back in a too-bright hotel room. But something about the way he says it here, in their bed, with pain under his skin and Shane's arm around him, makes his brain short out for a second.

"Oh," he says, eloquently.

"Oh," Shane echoes, color creeping up his neck. "I, uh. That sounded more dramatic out loud than it did in my head."

"I like it," Ilya says.

Shane meets his eyes, pupils blown a little from sleep and worry.

"Yeah?" he asks, small.

"Yes," Ilya says, and lifts his chin just enough to close the distance between them.

He means to brush their mouths together once, quick and light, just enough to prove to himself that he can. Just enough to taste Shane awake and breathing.

It doesn't stay quick.

The second their lips meet, something in his chest unclenches. Shane exhales into him, a soft shaken sound, and his hand tightens where it's splayed over Ilya's waist.

The kiss is cautious at first. Ilya keeps the angle gentle, no sudden movements, just a slow slide of mouths. Shane's lips are warm and a little chapped. He presses in, careful of the way the movement tugs at his shoulder, and feels Shane follow, meeting him halfway.

"Hi," Shane whispers against his mouth when they break apart for half a second.

"Hello," Ilya says. "I am checking your, mm, vital signs."

"Oh?" Shane asks, breathless. "How are they?"

"Elevated," Ilya says. "Very concerning. Must continue monitoring."

He kisses him again before Shane can muster a comeback.

This time, Shane's hand leaves his ribs long enough to cup his jaw, thumb skimming lightly along the edge of a bruise. The touch is reverent, almost apologetic. Ilya leans into it like a plant toward the sun.

The meds are starting to blunt the worst of the pain; his body is still a minefield, but the explosions are smaller, further apart. If he moves slowly, if he doesn't try to twist, he can almost pretend nothing hurts at all.

Almost.

The kiss deepens in increments. Shane's lips part under his; Ilya takes the invitation, licking into his mouth with a care he has never once exercised in a game. Shane makes a noise, soft and hungry, and it goes through Ilya like a jolt.

Heat curls low in his belly, familiar and urgent. His injuries feel suddenly, profoundly unfair.

He shifts without thinking, chasing more, and his ribs immediately object.

Pain bites sharp along his side. He flinches, the sound he makes torn between a groan of discomfort and frustration. Shane jerks back at once.

"Hey—hey," he says, breathing hard. "Okay, okay, let's stop here before you hurt yourself, yeah?"

"I hate this," Ilya grits out, letting his head fall back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. "I hate my body. It is traitor. I get perfect boyfriend in my bed and can do nothing."

Shane laughs, a little wild, a little frayed around the edges. "You are concussed, your arm is in a sling, your ribs are basically duct tape and hope, and you're mad you can't have sex?"

"Yes," Ilya says flatly. "This is tragedy."

"Sign of life, I guess," Shane mutters, more to himself than anything. He reaches up and smooths sweaty curls back from Ilya's forehead, fingers gentle. "We're not doing anything that makes your headache worse."

"My headache is same," Ilya says. "Maybe even better. Kissing you is very healing. You are emotional ice pack."

Shane snorts again, but the sound is softer now.

"We are putting emotional ice pack on hold before you decide to test your lung capacity," he says. "I am not explaining to the ER that my boyfriend popped a rib trying to make out."

Ilya's heart does a small ridiculous leap at the word my, even as his brain catches on the rest.

"You would tell them?" he asks, half-teasing, half-serious. "In ER? ‘Hello, this is my beautiful idiot boyfriend, we have made questionable choices'?"

Shane hesitates for a beat too long.

"I would… probably panic and say ‘this is my friend' because I'm a coward," he admits, forced-cheerful. "And then feel bad about it for the rest of my life."

Ilya opens his eyes, studying him.

He sees it then: the tightness in Shane's jaw; the way his gaze flicks away; the way his hand keeps starting to move, then stopping, hovering just above Ilya's skin like he's afraid to touch too much or not enough.

This is more than not wanting to jostle him. This is the same coiled, brittle tension that sat in Shane's shoulders last night when he walked through the door and saw the tape.

"Hey," Ilya says, softer. "What is this?"

"What is what?" Shane tries for light, fails.

"You are doing the thing," Ilya says.

"What thing?" Shane insists. "I do many things."

"The one where you joke very much to hide the way you are chewing your own insides," Ilya says. "I know your stupid face, Hollander. You look like you swallowed stress ball."

Shane's mouth twitches despite himself. "That's a terrible metaphor," he mutters.

"I am on many drugs," Ilya says. "Tell me what is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," Shane says too quickly. "You're here, you're… alive, the meds are working, we ddin't crash on the road—"

"Shane," Ilya says.

Just his name, but he puts the weight of captain, lover, idiot, all of it into it.

Shane swallows.

It would be so easy, he thinks, to spill everything right now. To admit he's been replaying the last fight on a loop, that he's terrified of being the only one who remembers hurting him, that every time someone texts or calls he feels like they're going to say, you're not allowed to be here, you forfeited your spot when you turned around and left.

But Ilya is pale and bruised and propped up on too many pillows. There's a line of pain still etched between his brows even relaxed.

Dumping all of that on him now feels… selfish.

He shakes his head.

"I'm just tired," he says. "And scared. I know you don't remember it clearly, but watching you go down like that was—it was the worst thing I've ever seen. I keep thinking about what happens if the headache gets worse, or if you wake up tomorrow and suddenly you don't remember the last year at all, or—" He cuts himself off, takes a breath. "My anxiety is having a very productive time. That's all."

Most of it is true.

Ilya studies him for a long beat, dark eyes searching his face. He can feel his own thoughts moving more slowly than they should, like they're wading through syrup, but some things he knows by feel.

He has an entire room in his head for Shane Hollander. Even if some of the photos have fallen off the walls, even if some doors are stuck, the architecture is the same. He knows which expressions mean what. He knows when a joke is a shield and when it's just a joke.

His ribs twinge when he sighs.

"Okay," he says finally, letting it go for now. "We will pretend I believe this."

Shane's mouth curls. "That's very generous of you."

"I am very generous boyfriend," Ilya agrees. "Also extremely patient."

Shane snorts. "That's a lie."

"Yes," Ilya says. "But I will become patient for you. Low stress, lots of rest, no interrogating the anxious rabbit until he relaxes a little."

"…Did you just call me a rabbit?" Shane asks, affronted.

"You are small and very nervous," Ilya says serenely. "Also your nose does the twitch when you are upset."

"My nose does not twitch," Shane protests.

"It twitches," Ilya says. "Is very cute. I will show you in mirror when I am less concussed."

Shane rolls his eyes, but the lines around them have eased a little. He leans in and presses a light kiss to Ilya's forehead, just at the edge of the bandage.

"Get some rest," he says quietly. "It's still early."

Ilya sniffs. "I am not taking orders from an emotionally unstable rabbit."

"Asshole," Shane says. "But, I'm still right. You need to sleep."

"I am tired of sleeping," Ilya says. "My whole life is naps and pills. Very boring."

"You were complaining two minutes ago that you can't make out properly because of your injuries," Shane says. "You are not leading a boring life."

"Tragic life," Ilya corrects. "Large suffering. Anyway." He nudges Shane's chest with two fingers. "Lie down."

"I am lying down," Shane points out.

"Lie down here," Ilya insists, nudging again, a little more insistent. "Properly. With… what is it… Cuddling. You are being very dramatic about staying awake and worrying."

"You're the one who almost died," Shane says.

"Almost died, did not," Ilya says. "So now you must stop hovering like helicopter and be my blanket."

Shane hesitates. He looks like he wants to argue on principle, but his shoulders are starting to hitch with that thin exhaustion, the kind that gets in under skin and bone. The dark circles under his eyes are practically a second pair of bruises.

"Come on," Ilya says, softer. "Please, zaichik. It is seven in the morning. Even your anxiety needs some rest first."

Shane lets out a huffed laugh that sounds a little like surrender.

"Fine," he mutters, and slides down again, turning on his side to face him.

He leaves a careful, stupidly respectful gap between them.

Ilya makes a face. "What is this?"

"What?" Shane says, wary.

"You are miles away," Ilya complains. "Am I contagious?"

"I'm trying not to elbow you in the ribs," Shane says. "You're welcome."

"You are allowed to be careful and still close," Ilya says. "Come here. I will give you instructions."

"That's terrifying," Shane says, but he lets Ilya hook two fingers in the front of his hoodie and tug him closer anyway.

They work it out in tiny adjustments, the way you'd solve a puzzle without all the corner pieces:

Ilya on his back but tilted slightly toward Shane so the bad shoulder is supported by the pillow wedge. Shane on his side, close enough that their shins touch, one arm under his own head and the other lying uselessly in the no-man's land between them until Ilya huffs and drags his wrist up to his sternum.

"Here," Ilya says, planting Shane's hand flat over the tape. "Do not move."

Shane lets his fingers spread, palm warm through the thin cotton of the t-shirt.

"That okay?" he asks.

"Yes," Ilya says, already sounding sleep-blurred. "Now I know where you are."

"You'd know where I was even if I was downstairs," Shane says. "You'd sense my eye twitching every time you tried to stand up by yourself."

"This is true," Ilya agrees. "But this is nicer."

Shane goes quiet at that.

A thought threads its way through the low grade hum in his skull: Shane is scared, not just of his brain, but of something else. Something he can't see yet, some ghost of a conversation he doesn't remember having.

He'll find it later. He's very good at adapting.

For now, he squeezes Shane's fingers once, feels the answering squeeze back, and makes a quiet promise to himself even as he goes:

When his head clears, he's going to make Shane put every fear on the table and look at it with him.

His thumb moves once, almost involuntarily, in a small circle against Ilya's ribs.

"Close your eyes," Ilya says, fighting his own yawn. "You look like you lost fight with a bear."

"You saw yourself yet?" Shane mutters. "Pot, kettle."

"Very sexy pot," Ilya mumbles. "Very handsome kettle. Go to sleep."

"That's not how sleep works," Shane starts, but Ilya's lashes are already lowering, blinking slower, his body finally admitting what his mouth won't.

"Shane," he says, last-ditch, the word slurred with exhaustion. "If you do not nap, I will tell your mother."

"Tell her what?" Shane asks.

"That you were irresponsible nurse," Ilya says. "No rest breaks."

Shane huffs out a tiny laugh against his hair.

"Ilya," he says. "That's not… okay. I'm closing my eyes. Happy?"

"Yes," Ilya says, but it's barely air, already fading. "Very…"

His voice trails off.

The house sighs in the winter quiet. Under Shane's palm, Ilya's heart thumps proudly. Every so often his fingers twitch, like his body is remembering the world without asking him.

Shane watches him for another few breaths, thumb moving once in a slow arc against his sternum. His own eyes sting. The adrenaline from yesterday is a hollowed-out thing now, leaving just the bone-deep ache under it.

He lets his gaze slip to the ceiling, then closes his eyes. Just for a second. Just to rest them.

The second stretches.

Ilya's breathing evens out beneath his hand, rhythmic and careful, and somewhere between counting breaths fourteen and twenty, his thoughts flicker, then blur, then slide, and Shane's body stops arguing with itself and goes under too.

When Shane wakes again, the bed is empty.

For a beat, his brain doesn't compute it as he stares at the hollow in the sheets where Ilya was, at the cool air that has replaced the warm weight against his palm.

Then the panic hits like a flare in his chest.

He's upright too fast, head spinning, heart hammering. The room is pale with morning light now, brighter than before; the clock says 9:41 a.m. which is impossible because he only closed his eyes for a second.

"Ilya?" he calls, voice rough. Too loud.

No answer.

His mouth goes dry.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, listening. Downstairs, the voices resolve: Yuna's soft, David's low. And beneath that, a third sound of someone moving too carefully, like every step has to be negotiated.

Shane straightens yesterday's T-shirt and heads down.

The kitchen smells like toast and something warm and plain. Oatmeal, maybe, with cinnamon. Eggs. Coffee. The domesticity of it feels a little like something he isn't allowed.

Yuna is at the counter, hair still loosely pinned, sleeves pushed up. She's stirring a pot with the focus of a person who has decided this is the only thing she can control, so she will control it perfectly.

David is by the machine, handling coffee with the solemn competence of a man who knows his role and intends to do it well. Two mugs. Three. He pauses like he's trying to do the math of who needs what without making it a question.

And at the counter, perched on a stool, is Ilya.

He's upright. He's smiling. He's doing that thing with his shoulders where his posture is straightened, spine stacked, face arranged into polite calm like a mask you can slip on without thinking.

He looks fine, if you don't know what fine looks like on him.

"Good morning," Ilya says the second he notices Shane, and his smile brightens like someone turned up the dimmer. "Hello. Did you sleep well?"

Everything about him screams I am okay, please do not worry about me, I am very normal man sitting at counter at nine forty-six in the morning.

Yuna glances at Shane, quick and soft. She doesn't say anything, but her eyes ask: Is he always like this when he's hurting?

Shane forces his face into something neutral. "Good morning," he says. His voice comes out careful. "Why didn't ypu wake me up?"

"I woke," Ilya says lightly, as if it's that simple. "And I was hungry, and you looked tired. Your mother is very—" he searches for the word, then chooses the politest one, "—efficient."

Yuna laughs under her breath. "He tried to make breakfast," she tells Shane. "Injured arm, sling, headache, still insisted. I confiscated the pan and made him sit down."

"I was capable," Ilya protests mildly.

"You were wobbling," Yuna replies, equally mild. She reaches over and smooths the front of his hoodie where it's twisted, a gesture so gentle it almost makes Shane's throat close.

His mom turns around and sets the pan down on a cork trivet and starts dishing eggs and something that looks suspiciously like oatmeal tricked out with fruit. "We weren't sure what you'd manage," she says. "So you've got options. No pressure."

"Everything is good," Ilya says automatically. "I am very easy."

Shane chokes quietly on absolutely nothing. "That's a lie," he mutters.

Ilya kicks him, very gently, under the table.

David sets a mug down by Ilya's elbow. "Just coffee on the table for now," he says. "You're on the weak stuff until the neurologist says otherwise. I made you decaf."

"You are torturing me," Ilya complains, but his fingers curl around the mug like it's a lifeline. The warmth steadies his shaking hand.

They fall into a kind of breakfast rhythm.

Yuna guides things without making it look like she is. "Egg?" she asks, scooping a modest portion onto his plate. "Toast?" She tears a piece in half so he doesn't have to saw at it with his left hand. She nudges the fruit bowl closer, rearranges forks so he doesn't have to reach.

Every time he starts to push himself up, she distracts him with another question or gently taps the back of his knuckles with the spoon. "Sit," she says.

For a few minutes, it's almost possible to pretend this is normal. Yuna asks Shane if he slept. David asks Ilya if he wants more coffee. Ilya answers only when spoken to, voice calm, expression controlled, hands neat around his spoon. Every time he addresses Yuna or David his posture goes straighter, chin a fraction higher, like he's being evaluated.

Shane watches the micro-shifts with a tightness in his ribs. Ilya is performing safe. Ilya is performing good. Ilya is performing don't look too closely at me.

And the thing that makes Shane want to crawl out of his skin is that it works. Yuna relaxes a little. David's shoulders drop, like the immediate emergency has been deferred.

Shane wants to grab the table and shake it. This isn't fine. He's doing a trick. Don't clap.

Ilya picks at the food like he's trying not to be a problem. Shane watches him take tiny bites, pauses between them, eyes flicking closed for half a second when the pain spikes and he thinks he's hidden it.

His mom and dad exchange a look over their coffee mugs.

Yuna clears her throat lightly, like she's changing the subject because she loves everybody too much to make it obvious.

Across the table, Shane and Yuna's gazes meet over the fruit bowl.

He gives her a tiny, helpless shrug. This is what I told you, it says. He doesn't know how to be off around you.

She tips her head, the barest nod, and looks back at Ilya.

"Sweetheart," she says, adopting the tone that has bulldozed Hollander men for a lifetime. "We've been talking."

"Yes?" Ilya says, instantly braced, as if they're about to revoke his captaincy.

"We're thinking," she goes on, light, "we should probably run home for a bit after breakfast. Grab some clean clothes. Check the mail. Make sure David's poor plants haven't staged a coup."

"Hey," David says mildly. "I've kept them alive this far."

"Barely," she says. "Point is, we should go pretend we own another house for a few hours."

Ilya stares at her. For a second he looks genuinely alarmed. "You are leaving?" he blurts. "Did I— I am sorry, is breakfast not good? I can—"

"No, no," she says quickly, eyes going soft. "Breakfast is perfect. You are perfect. We just don't want you feeling like you have to be on."

"I am not—" he starts.

"You are," David says gently. "You've been at attention since we walked in the door last night, kid."

"I am just… being polite," Ilya protests, flushing.

"Ilya. You don't have to audition for us," Yuna says, simple and true. "We're already sold. And you heal better when you're not trying to sit up straight for the audience."

He swallows. His fingers curl on his napkin. "I don't mind," he says, softer. "I like when you are here."

"We like being here," she says. "We're not disappearing. We'll come back this afternoon, or tomorrow morning, or whenever you get sick of Shane-only supervision. We've got time now." Her mouth curves. "All the time in the world, yeah?"

Ilya imagines time stretching out in a long, steady line that's not just to the next game, the next season, the next contract, but to a future where these people live twenty minutes away and show up armed with care when he explodes a shoulder.

It's terrifying. It's nice. It's maybe more than he deserves. Scratch that, it's definitely more than he deserves. How he conned them into caring will elude him for the foreseeable future.

"We trust you two to manage the daytime," David adds. "And to call at the slightest problem."

He looks to Shane as he says it.

"I'll call," Shane says. "If anything looks off."

"You're going to sit on the couch and groan every time you need something and let Shane fetch it," Yuna says, still looking at Ilya. "Right?"

He hesitates, caught between pride and an irresistible maternal steamroller.

"…Yes," he says finally.

"Good boy," she says.

Shane hides a smile in his coffee.

Breakfast winds down slowly.

Yuna keeps fussing in small, quiet ways: topping up his water, tweaking the thermostat one degree warmer when she catches Ilya shivering barely-there.

David clears plates before Ilya can even think about moving, ignores his half-hearted attempts to help. "I've got it," he says each time, the words slowly starting to sound like a refrain.

Eventually, there's nothing left to fuss with.

Yuna dries her hands on a dish towel, glances at the clock, and nods once, decision made.

"Alright," she says. "We're going to get out of your hair for a bit. Let you two settle. We'll swing by the house, and probably nap for an hour. We'll check in later. If we're not back before dinner, we'll be here tomorrow morning. I'll call you, Shane."

Ilya sits up straighter again, visibly fighting the urge to stand. "You don't have to—"

"We know," David says. "We want to."

He steps around the table and, before Ilya can protest, lays a hand on his shoulder, warm and careful. "You did good getting down here," he says. "You do not have to do anything else impressive today."

"I am very impressive by default," Ilya mutters. But his mouth twists around it, like he doesn't quite know what to do with the praise.

"You are," David says, amused.

Yuna bends and presses a kiss to the top of his head, fingers brushing the curls back from his bandage.

"Rest," she says. "Call if you need… anything."

"Yes, ma'am," he says before he can stop himself.

She snorts. "Now you're just doing it on purpose."

She straightens, looks to Shane. "Walk us to the door?"

"Of course," he says, already pushing back his chair.

He hesitates for a second, glances down at Ilya. "You okay?"

"I am sitting very still," Ilya says. "This I can handle."

Shane's hand squeezes his shoulder in one quick, reassuring press before he lets go.

In the front hall, Yuna pulls on her coat, looping her scarf with one efficient twist. David wrestles his boots back on. The air by the door is sharper, smelling faintly of outside cold.

"You sure about this?" Shane asks, low. "You don't have to… give us space. He likes having you here."

"So do we," Yuna says. "But I don't think he knows how to relax with us watching. You saw him."

Shane's jaw tightens. "Yeah."

"You don't have to be perfect at this all at once, you know," she says suddenly, softer. "Taking care of him. You're allowed to be scared and tired and wrong sometimes. You really only just have to be there, honey."

The words land like a small, precise knife between his ribs.

He thinks of their last fight, sharp and stupid and weeks ago and also yesterday in his head. Of saying would you choose me and watching something in Ilya's face shutter. Of walking out, driving back to Montreal, even if it broke his heart. Of the fact that Ilya doesn't remember any of that. Of this being the first time he's seen him in person since it happened.

"I already messed it up once," he hears himself say, before he can slam the door on it.

Yuna's eyes sharpen. "Shane."

He shakes his head, backing away from the edge. "I just—" He swallows, tries again. "I'm not used to… this. Not knowing what to do—what to expect."

"Then you'll learn together," David says. His voice is so simple it feels like a life raft. "You get to be scared and still show up. Seems to me you've already done the hard part."

Yuna reaches out and squeezes his arm, fingers firm, then gives in and pulls him into a hug. "Call us if you need backup," she says. "For him or for you."

He nods. "I will."

She studies his face for a heartbeat longer, like she wants to ask a dozen more questions and is putting all of them in a box labeled Later.

"Alright," she says finally. "We'll see you boys soon."

They step out into the cold, boots crunching on old snow. Shane watches them cross the small stretch of walkway to their car. His mom is already talking with her hands, and his dad is listening with one ear and checking something on his phone with the other.

The car doors shut. The engine turns over. They pull away, taillights shrinking, then disappearing around the corner.

The house shrinks with them.

The quiet that rolls in isn't empty, exactly. Without the soft parental rustle in the background, without the sense of being supervised from the kitchen, the walls feel closer. The air feels more like his and Ilya's and less like a hospital extension.

Shane stands there for a moment, hand still on the doorknob, breathing in the silence.

You don't have to be perfect, his mother's voice echoes, annoyingly reasonable.

Shane turns back into the kitchen and finds Ilya standing where he left him, one hand braced on the counter like the world is tilting a fraction.

The second the parents are gone, Ilya's shoulders drop.

His face loses the careful brightness.

He looks, suddenly, brutally human.

"Okay," Shane says, voice low. "Now you can stop pretending you're fine."

"I was not pretending," Ilya starts automatically, then his eyes squeeze shut for half a second and the lie falls apart on his tongue. "I am… less fine."

Shane crosses the space in two steps, catching him by the elbow before he can sway.

"Couch," Shane says.

Ilya lets himself be guided, the fight gone. He lowers himself like earlier, slow, controlled, and once he's sitting, his hand goes to his ribs with that careful protective pressure.

Shane crouches in front of him, scanning. "Head?"

Ilya nods. "Angry kittens again."

"Okay." Shane tries to keep his voice steady. "Any dizziness?"

"Little," Ilya admits.

"I'll get you water," Shane says. "It's too soon for any other meds, so just close your eyes and try to rest."

When he's back with a glass, Ilya eyes the rest of the couch, then Shane, then the couch again.

"What?" Shane says cautiously.

"I am thinking," Ilya says. "Very important decision."

"That's terrifying."

"Move this way," Ilya decides, flapping his left hand.

Shane scoots until he's in the corner, back to the armrest. "Here?"

"Yes." Ilya shifts, wincing, turning carefully onto his side. It's clumsy with the tape and the cast and the sling, but he's stubborn about it, inch by slow inch until his head can tip sideways.

He lets it drop onto Shane's thigh with a soft, relieved exhale.

"There," he says. "Perfect."

Shane looks down at him, at the mess of curls and bandage now filling his lap, and reaches automatically for the throw blanket, tugging it up over Ilya's legs. "Comfortable?" he asks.

"Everything hurts," Ilya says. "But this is best option."

"I'll take that as a win," Shane says. He hesitates. "Can I…?"

He wiggles his fingers an inch above Ilya's hair.

"Yes," Ilya says, too fast for it to be anything but honest. "Always yes."

The tension in Shane's shoulders loosens, but the knee not housing Ilya's skull bounces. He lets his hand land gently, fingers sliding into the curls, careful around the bandage.

Ilya hums "Good technique."

"Thank you," Shane says. "Years of experience."

"Shane," Ilya says after a moment. "You are anxious."

Shane's knee is bouncing. He stills it with his hand, too hard. "It's nothing."

Ilya's eyes soften, and it makes Shane want to scream because softness is harder to dodge than anger.

"Did I do something wrong?" Ilya asks.

Shane's chest caves in around the question.

"No," he says immediately. "No. Jesus, no."

"What is wrong, then?" Ilya says softly, not a question so much as a diagnosis. "You are not only scared of my pain."

Shane swallows hard.

"I'm just—" Shane exhales, searching for something true enough to stand on. "Tired. And wired. And my brain is being a dick."

Ilya watches him for a long beat, like he doesn't believe him but doesn't have the energy to pry.

Then he does the Ilya thing: tries to fix the symptom because the root cause is out of reach.

"Okay," he says, quiet. "We will make you less… wired."

Shane huffs a weak laugh. "How?"

Carefully, Ilya pushes himself upright again, then leans into him carefully, tucking himself against Shane's side. Shane wraps an arm around him, light pressure, mindful of ribs.

Ilya exhales, easing by degrees.

They sit like that for a minute, the house quiet around them, the morning bright and indifferent beyond the windows.

Then Ilya speaks into the space between breaths, voice small.

"How long can you stay?"

Shane's throat tightens. He hears what Ilya is really asking: How long until I'm alone with this? How long until you leave and the house gets too quiet and the pain gets too loud?

"Rest of the week," Shane says.

The words land like a soft blade.

Relief crosses Ilya's face first, instant, undeniable. Then the time limit catches up, and something like sadness flickers behind his eyes.

His fingers tighten on Shane's shirt.

"Okay," Ilya whispers. After a minute, he adds, "Turn the TV on if you want. Harris lowered the brightness when he was here."

Shane makes a face. "Screens will just make it worse."

"Shane, we will die of boredom. I will close my eyes and listen."

"…Fine," Shane says, because he's weak. "But if your headache gets worse, you tell me right away."

He finds the remote, turns the TV on with the volume dialed down. The streaming menu is a blur of colors; he scrolls without really seeing, brain on autopilot, until he lands on something safely non-explosive.

"Ocean documentary?" he suggests. "No jump scares, lots of soft narration, many soothing fish."

"Very boring," Ilya says at once.

"Perfect," Shane says, and hits play.

A low, British voice starts talking about currents. The screen fills with slow-moving blue.

"You are killing me," Ilya murmurs. "I cannot even see the colorful fish and you put on fish."

"You can hear the colorful fish," Shane says solemnly, fingers still moving through his curls. "And I will describe them. Close your eyes."

"They are already closed," Ilya says, but he obeys anyway, lashes resting against bruised skin.

Shane glances from the screen to him.

"Okay," he says. "Right now there's, uh. There's bright purple coral. And this neon blue little fish; he looks like he's late for something. And a huge old turtle cruising through like he owns the place."

"Turtle is captain," Ilya decides. "He has seen many things. He is tired of young fish drama."

"I feel like you're projecting," Shane says.

"Maybe little," Ilya admits.

Shane narrates when the images change—"now it's just blue and light rays. Very artsy. Now it's sharks. Do not relate yourself to sharks."—and Ilya makes commentary without opening his eyes.

It's stupid and small and exactly what Shane's nervous system needs.

At one point the camera lingers on a whale, massive and slow and impossibly gentle-looking.

"Oh," Shane says, involuntary.

"Very romantic date," Ilya says. "You, me, old turtle, big whale."

"Look, my options were this or some true crime thing," Shane says. "You want serial killers with your concussion?"

"I have enough violence," Ilya says. "I like the turtle."

The documentary becomes background hum: soft voice, soft music, the occasional splash. Shane's hand never leaves his hair. Every so often his fingers slip down to brush the edge of Ilya's bandage, checking for heat, for damp, for anything worrying. Each time it's fine, and each time his chest loosens a little.

"You are very good at this," Ilya says eventually, voice gone thick and soft. "This… narrating. Like bedtime story for idiots."

"Wow," Shane says. "You're welcome."

"I mean it," Ilya insists, lifting the least amount of effort possible. "I cannot see them but I can… feel them. In your voice." He fumbles for a word. "You sound like you like them."

"I do like them," Shane says. "They're just doing their little fish lives."

"You sound like this when you talk about rookies," Ilya mumbles. "And weird indie movies with no plot you make me watch with you."

Shane blinks. "I—what?"

"You get this… tone," Ilya says, eyes still closed, chasing the thought even as sleep and meds pull at him. "Soft. Very… careful. Like you are holding baby bird in your mouth."

"That's the worst visual you've ever given me," Shane says faintly.

"Is true," Ilya insists. "Very gentle. Makes me want to…"

He trails off.

"What?" Shane prompts, thumb tracing an idle circle against his scalp.

"Nothing," Ilya says, but the word is too full, too bright around the edges.

He wants to say: it makes me want to crack open my ribs and let you rearrange my insides however you like. It makes me want to be every fish you ever look at like that. It makes me want to marry you in front of this stupid turtle.

The documentary drones on about currents and migration patterns, the narrator's voice a warm blur under the winter light. Shane keeps describing things Ilya can't look at without turning his skull into a complaint.

"And now," Shane says, "there's a fish that looks loud."

Ilya makes a pleased noise into his side. "This fish is me."

"This fish is absolutely you," Shane agrees, fingers still buried in Ilya's curls. "It's bright red and it's trying to start a fight with a rock."

"A rock started it," Ilya says, righteous.

Shane's laugh rumbles through his chest. It's stupid. It's small. It's the first time since yesterday that Shane's breathing has stopped sounding like he's bracing for impact.

Ilya lets himself sink into the weight of it. He's almost asleep again when the doorbell rings.

Shane's hand stills in Ilya's hair.

Ilya blinks his eyes open against the light. His head immediately protests, like several angry kittens, claws out, but the sound of the bell has already yanked him upright inside his own body.

Another ring follows. Longer this time. Impatient.

Shane's voice comes out too casual. "Maybe it's my parents?" But it's weak, because Yuna and David Hollander would absolutely text first.

"No," Ilya says. Whoever it is, is insistent that's for sure. He shifts, trying to sit up.

Shane tightens his arm around him reflexively. "Ilya—"

"I am fine," Ilya lies on instinct, and then immediately regrets it because Shane makes that little noise in his throat, the one that says he can hear the lie like a dog whistle.

The doorbell goes again.

"Stay," Ilya says. "Do not move. I will scare them away with my terrible mood."

Shane's mouth twitches, but his eyes don't. "You can't even scare a fish away right now."

"I am very scary," Ilya says, and pushes himself up anyway.

Pain bites along his ribs the second he leans forward. His vision stutters at the edges, white-hot for a beat, and he has to pause with his hand braced hard on the couch cushion.

Shane's hands hover, helpless, like he wants to grab him and also knows grabbing might hurt.

Ilya plants his feet carefully on the floor. Socks on hardwood. Cold bites his toes. He makes a face, as if the floor has personally offended him, and shuffles toward the front hall like a man eighty years older than he actually is.

Behind him, Shane doesn't follow. He stays on the couch, because Ilya told him to, because Shane understands orders when they come dressed like this. His hand stays clenched around the throw blanket, as if it's the only thing tethering him to the room.

The doorbell rings a fourth time.

Ilya yanks the door open with his left hand and prepares to deploy a glare at weapon-grade.

He's mid-breath when he sees who's standing on the porch.

Sveta.

She's half-zipped into a winter coat like she dressed in the car. Her hair has escaped whatever attempt she made to tame it, wild and dark around her face, cheeks pink with cold and fury. A rolling suitcase sits at her side like an accusation. She looks like she's been traveling for hours and fueled herself entirely on spite.

Her expression, when she sees him, is an impossible cocktail: furious, relieved, horrified, gratfeul.

For one stupid second, Ilya's throat closes.

Then his brain catches up, and something hot and guilty blooms under his ribs.

Oh. Oh no. Oh yes.

She takes one look at his sling and bandage and the pallor under his eyes and her mouth hardens.

"I told you I would sit on you," she says, and her voice is so familiar it makes his heart do something stupid. "I am woman of my word."

Ilya stares at her. He's too concussed to be clever.

"What are you doing here?" he manages, dumbly. "You… crazy woman."

Sveta makes a sound that is not quite a laugh and not quite a growl. She reaches up, grips his chin with two fingers like she's checking he's real, and then kisses him hard on the cheek, right below the edge of the bandage.

"Of course I am here," she mutters, already moving. "You think I read the news and go back to my little desk like a good girl?"

Ilya's heart swells a little. He'd forgotten, maybe, that he did have someone who cared other than Shane.

Sveta brushes past him into the house like she owns it—which, honestly, she kind of does. She's been here a few times, and his past place in Boston a thousand times. She's eaten cereal in his kitchen in her socks. She's slept on this couch and complained about his throw pillows. She's the only person who has watched him spiral and patched him back together without letting him pretend it was a joke.

She drags her suitcase over the threshold. The wheels thump against the floor. She kicks the door shut with her boot heel.

Ilya hobbles after her, alarmed. "Sveta— no, listen— you cannot just—"

She turns on him, eyes fierce. "I can do whatever I want," she snaps. "You have concussion. Your arm is in a sling. Your ribs are—" her gaze flicks down, sharp, to the way he's holding himself, and her voice goes quieter, more lethal, "—you are standing like you are a decrepit old man. Don't lie to me."

"I am not lying," Ilya protests, which is absolutely a lie, because he is always lying about pain, and Sveta is the only person who hears it every time.

She steps closer, reaches up, and before he can dodge, she's inspecting him the way Yuna did: pupils, bandage edge, the bruised shadow under his eye, the line of his mouth.

Sveta's hands are not gentle like Yuna's. They're efficient. They're the hands of someone who has learned that if you hesitate, men like Ilya will talk you out of helping them.

"Your eyes," she says, and her thumb brushes under his lower lid. "You look like shit."

"Thank you," Ilya says, offended on principle.

"Don't thank me, thank the idiot slammed into you," Sveta mutters, and then she pulls back, gaze sharpening again. "Where is your nurse?"

Ilya's stomach drops.

He tries, weakly, to steer. "I do not have nurse. I have—"

Sveta lifts one brow.

Ilya sighs, because pretending with her is pointless. "I have… company," he says, choosing the word carefully, like it can soften the explosion.

Sveta's eyes narrow. "Company."

"Yes," Ilya says, too fast. "Teammate. Friend. Someone bringing food. You do not need to—"

Sveta's gaze slides past him, toward the living room, like she can smell a secret.

Ilya steps into her path, clumsy and stubborn. His ribs scream. He ignores them.

"Sveta," he says, low and sharp. "Stop."

Sveta stops, but her eyes are already lit with suspicion and something else.

"Is he here?" she asks.

Ilya goes very still.

"Who?"

Sveta's mouth twists. "Your ‘Jane,'" she says, the name dripping with disbelief. "Your mysterious Jane who lives in here now, yes? Why you abandoned me in Boston?"

Ilya's face goes hot. "I did not abandon you," he says, wounded.

"You didn't even tell me you were considering leaving, Illyusha," Sveta snaps.

The guilt lands, heavy.

He opens his mouth, trying to find a sentence that will fix this, and then the living room shifts into quiet movement, the soft scrape of someone standing up.

Shane.

Ilya hears it before he sees it: the way Shane's breath catches, the way the air in the house tightens around him.

Svetlana hears it too.

Her head turns.

Ilya's stomach drops through the floor.

Svetlana strides toward the living room with the inevitability of an incoming train.

"Sveta— no—" Ilya says, and follows as fast as he can, which is not fast at all.

She rounds the corner.

And there is Shane Hollander, standing by the couch like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He has moved into the most polite version of himself. His shoulders squared, mouth set, eyes bright with too much awareness. The throw blanket is clenched in one fist like a lifeline.

He looks exactly like Ilya looked at breakfast.

Svetlana stops dead.

Her gaze flicks from Shane to Ilya.

Then back to Shane.

Then back to Ilya.

And her face does something almost comical: disbelief, then understanding, then the slow bloom of bewilderment aimed entirely at Ilya.

She turns and fires rapid Russian at him like bullets.

"You were not even being creative, Illyusha," she rattles off. "Jane? Really? This is your plan? You date Shane Hollander for years and your cover story is a woman named Jane?"

Shane's eyes widen. "I—"

He doesn't understand the words, not really, but he understands the tone. He understands his name like a slap. He understands the way Svetlana looks at him like she's seeing something obvious that he has spent a decade trying to keep invisible.

Panic flickers behind his eyes.

Shane's body has one setting for being discovered: freeze.

His fingers flex around the blanket. His throat works like he's trying to swallow a scream.

"Rozanov," he says, very carefully, like he's stepping onto thin ice. "Wh—"

Ilya's ribs ache with a different kind of pain now.

He's caught between two people he loves in completely different ways. One of them is a detonator with a suitcase. The other is a live wire disguised as a hockey player.

And Shane—

Shane looks like he's about to bolt.

Ilya forgets, for a beat, the ways he is injured.

He moves toward him on instinct.

"Sveta," he snaps in Russian without looking away from Shane. "Stop."

Svetlana's mouth closes on whatever she was about to say next. Her eyes flash, offended, and then she really looks at Shane's face.

She sees it. The tight jaw. The slightly too-wide eyes. The way he's holding himself like the world is about to swing a fist. Everything in her stalls.

Her expression shifts again, softer at the edges, because Sveta is not stupid. She has watched Ilya drown and pretend he's swimming. She recognizes the same tricks in other people.

She lifts both hands, palms up, slow.

"Okay," she says, in Russian still, but her tone gentles, then speaks in English. "Okay. I am not here to fight. I am here because Illyusha's an idiot who thinks he can die quietly."

Shane blinks. "I—"

He looks at Ilya, stranded.

Ilya reaches him and stops close, closer, close enough that Shane can feel him without Ilya having to grab. He tries to keep his own breathing steady.

"Sveta," he says, because Shane needs something he can hold. His voice comes out calmer than he feels. "This is Svetlana."

Shane's mouth twitches like he wants to say yeah, I guessed that, but the panic is louder.

"Hi," Shane manages. "Um. Welcome."

The words are perfect. The delivery is wrong; too tight, too fast, like he's reading from a script.

Sveta's eyes flicker with reluctant amusement, understanding the room in a way politicians dream of.

"Hi," she says. "Shane Hollander." She says his name like she's testing how it sits in her mouth. "I'm Svetlana. Ilya is—"

"A pain in the ass," Ilya says, reflex.

Sveta's mouth curves. "—a pain in the ass," she agrees. "And a liar."

Shane's gaze snaps back to Ilya, sharp.

Ilya raises his left hand in surrender. "About pain," he amends quickly. "Not about you."

The second the words are out, he realizes what he's done.

Because Shane hears the shape of it: not about you. As if there has been lying about them. As if there has been a secret so large it required categories.

Shane goes even stiller.

Sveta watches the shift happen and, bless her, doesn't push. She sets her suitcase upright by the wall like she's putting her chaos away in a corner.

"He is very good at pretending to be okay," she says to Shane, a quick glance back toward Ilya. "If you're here, we make sure he doesn't."

Shane exhales. "Uh, yes. Y—Yeah. That's the plan."

Sveta glances at Ilya, eyes cutting. "You," she says in Russian again, and points a finger like a dagger. "Sit."

Ilya bristles. "I am doing fine. Don't start," he argues.

"Now," Sveta says, flat.

Ilya opens his mouth to protest—

Shane's hand touches his elbow. Just the lightest contact. A grounding.

"Sit," Shane echoes, gentler, but firm.

Ilya's pride makes a small, offended noise, and then his body betrays him with a wave of dizziness that blurs the living room for half a second.

He swallows hard and lets himself be guided back down onto the couch like a chastened cat.

Sveta's eyes soften, just a fraction, as if she's pleased he listened. Then she looks at Shane.

"Okay," she says, and her tone is different now, less sharp. "I'm not going to—" she makes a vague hand gesture, as if waving away an entire decade of secrecy without naming it. "—do anything. I'm not here to meddle. I'm here because he doesn't tell the truth when he's hurting and somebody has to take care of him."

Shane's throat works. "I know," he says quietly, and something in his voice cracks around the edges of the words.

Svetlana studies him, and Ilya can see it happening in real time: Sveta clocking Shane's fear, matching it against what she knows about Ilya, deciding how to move through this without causing more damage.

Sveta is… terrifyingly competent when she wants to be.

She steps closer to Shane and says, in a voice that is almost gentle:

"I'm not going to tell anyone." She pauses, then adds, wry: "Besides, if I wanted to ruin his life, I have many better methods."

Ilya groans. "Sveta—"

Shane's breath hitches anyway, because the reassurance is landing on top of something older than this moment. His body doesn't care that Sveta seems kind. His body only hears: someone knows.

His hands open and close at his sides. His eyes flick to the front door like it's a viable escape route.

Ilya feels it like a shift in the weather.

He leans forward, careful of ribs, and says softly, "Hey."

Shane's gaze snaps to him, wide.

Ilya tries to smile. It comes out a little wobbly.

"It's okay," he says, voice low. "She won't—"

Sveta, behind Shane, lifts an eyebrow like oh, please, don't be stupid.

Ilya continues anyway, because he's trying to fix the symptom: "—she won't out us."

The sentence lands in the room like a dropped plate.

Shane flinches, because the word out is a trigger all by itself. It's the shape of a punishment. It's the echo of consequences. It's the thing that has lived under their relationship like a fault line for ten years.

Sveta freezes, too, not because she's shocked—she already knows what she knows—but because she hears what just cracked open.

Ilya, concussed and exhausted, doesn't hear it yet. He only sees Shane's face go pale, sees the panic spike higher.

He reaches, blindly, for Shane's wrist.

Shane lets him take it, but his pulse is sprinting under Ilya's fingers like it's trying to escape.

"Shane," Ilya says, soft. "Look at me."

Shane stares at him like he's looking at a cliff edge.

Sveta's voice cuts in, careful. "You don't have to—"

Shane shakes his head once, sharp, like he's shaking water off. He forces air into his lungs.

"I'm fine," he says, and it's polite, clipped, perfect. A press release.

Sveta's mouth twitches. "Oh," she murmurs, almost to herself. "You too."

Shane's eyes flick to her. "What?"

Sveta shrugs, as if it's nothing. "You do the same thing he does. That's all."

Shane's jaw tightens.

Ilya, still holding Shane's wrist, frowns faintly. The concussion fog makes it hard to track every thread, but he can feel the tension as a physical thing: Shane's muscles locked; the room too small; Sveta's suitcase sitting like an elephant in the corner.

Ilya tries again, in the only way he knows right now.

He squeezes Shane's wrist gently. "Breathe," he says, echoing Shane from earlier. "Deep, yes? Like me. I've got you."

Shane's eyes flash, because I've got you is what Shane says when Ilya is in pain.

It makes Shane's heart work harder.

Sveta's gaze moves between them, and something in her expression shifts into something almost fond, almost sad. She's seen Ilya stubborn, reckless, funny, melancholic. She's never seen him this, catastrophically in love and bright with it, undone in a way he can't fake. And Shane looks like he's about to bolt, except his eyes keep finding Ilya like a compass needle.

She clears her throat, makes her voice brisk again, giving them a rope.

"Ilya," she says. "Tell me the truth. How bad is it?"

Ilya opens his mouth automatically. "It is—"

She stares at him. Ilya shuts his mouth, because he can feel Shane watching him, too.

He sighs. "My head hurts. My ribs hurt. I get dizzy when I stand."

Sveta's eyes narrow. "And you thought I wouldn't hear it when I called you?"

"No," Ilya says, defiant.

Sveta's smile is all teeth. "Did you think I would not come anyway?"

Ilya has no answer that isn't yes, I thought you'd stay away because I told you to, which is the entire problem. Svetlana, mercifully, doesn't poke at things again. She just nods once, decision made.

"Okay," she says. "I'm here for two days. Maybe three. I will make him eat. I will make him sleep. I will yell at him for trying to stand."

Ilya groans again. "I do not need—"

Sveta cuts him off with a look. "You do," she says simply. Then, to Shane, gentler: "And you look like you haven't slept in a week. So maybe you also do."

Shane's mouth opens. Closes. He looks at Ilya.

The thing that twists inside him isn't jealousy. It's not possessiveness. It's something older and uglier: the sting of being reminded that there are people who show up for Ilya without hesitation, people who probably knew before he did, people who get to be in the circle without risking anything.

And underneath that sting: relief so sharp it almost hurts. Because if his oldest friend is here, then maybe Shane can breathe without feeling like if he blinks, Ilya will slip through his fingers.

But relief has a shadow. Because if Sveta is here, someone else knows.

And if someone else knows, the secret isn't airtight anymore.

And if the secret isn't airtight, then the fight they never finished is suddenly in the room with them, wearing a winter coat and a suitcase.

Ilya watches Shane's face change in tiny increments.

He feels it in his own chest like an ache. He reaches, still holding Shane's wrist, and tugs, a small, a plea disguised as a motion.

"Come here," he says, quietly.

Shane hesitates.

Sveta picks up her suitcase handle again and announces to the room at large, "Where is your guest room, Ilya? I need to wash the airplane off me."

Ilya doesn't answer. He's looking only at Shane.

Shane's throat tightens.

Because Ilya's eyes are doing that thing they haven't in a long time, dark and watchful and too soft, like he's bracing for abandonment before it happens.

Like he's already counting down to the moment Shane leaves.

Shane forces a breath through his nose, steps closer, and lets Ilya pull him down onto the couch beside him.

Ilya leans into his side immediately, careful and needy all at once.

Sveta, bless her, goes down the hall without another word, suitcase wheels bumping softly over the floor like a retreat.

Then it's quiet again, but the quiet is different now.

Ilya's fingers tighten in Shane's shirt.

Shane's hand hovers over Ilya's hair, then lands, gentler than it has any right to be with his whole body humming panic.

Ilya keeps his voice low, steady. "Are you okay?"

Shane lets out a laugh that is not a laugh. "Yeah," he says automatically. "I'm—yeah."

"That is not yes," Ilya says, gentle and flat.

Shane's eyes flick to the hallway, to the closed door Sveta disappeared behind. His foot taps once on the floor and stops, like he's caught himself doing it.

"I just—if people find out—"

"It will not be because of Sveta," Ilya says. "Because she loves me."

Shane's throat bobs.

"And," Ilya adds, softer, because he can see the old fear flinching in Shane's eyes, "because she is… like Hayden."

Ilya leans his forehead against Shane's shoulder, careful of his ribs, and speaks into the fabric of Shane's T-shirt like it's safer there.

"She is not here to hurt you," he says. "She is here because she heard my voice and knew I was lying. She comes when I pretend I do not need anyone." A pause. "She is stubborn. Like you."

Shane huffs, a shaky exhale that is almost a laugh.

"That's not reassuring," he manages.

"It is true," Ilya says. "And she will keep this. She kept my secrets when I was sixteen and stupid. She kept them when I was twenty and more stupid. She has kept them when I was… in love, and even more stupid."

Shane's hand tightens in Ilya's hair, just enough to tell him he's listening. His breathing is still too fast, but it's less jagged now. The panic is sliding from a full-body takeover into something that can be carried.

"I'm not scared she'll tell," Shane says, and then stops like he's caught himself saying the wrong thing.

Ilya lifts his head. His eyes are dark and intent.

"Then what?"

Shane shuts his eyes for a beat. When he opens them, there's something raw in there, something younger than he wants to be.

"I'm scared," he admits, voice rough, "because somebody else knowing makes it real. And when it's real, it can be taken away."

Ilya's heart does a painful little flip, like it's trying to climb out of his ribs and can't.

He reaches up and cups Shane's jaw with his left hand, thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth. It's clumsy with the angle, but it's him.

"Moy lyubimyy, no one is taking it," Ilya says, very quietly.

Shane swallows hard. His eyes flick to Ilya's mouth, then away again.

"You don't know that," he says, but it's weaker now. It's not an argument; it's a plea.

Ilya shifts closer by an inch, careful of his ribs, and presses his forehead to Shane's temple.

"I do know," he says. "Because I will always choose you, always, Shane. You are here, and that is all that matters in the world to me. I do not need anything else."

Shane makes a broken sound and drops his forehead to Ilya's hair, breathing him in like oxygen.

"I love you," Shane says, sudden and small. Ilya's eyes sting.

He tips his face up the smallest amount and kisses the underside of Shane's jaw, careful and slow.

Then he finds Shane's mouth. It's soft, gentle, a promise of a lifetime of love.

When they break apart, Shane keeps his forehead pressed to Ilya's, breathing in and out until the rhythm steadies.

"You're not… mad?" Shane asks, stupidly, like he has to confirm it.

Ilya gives a weak little huff. "At you? No."

"Okay," Shane whispers. His hands slide down, one to the back of Ilya's neck, the other to his shoulder. "Okay."

Ilya stays tucked into him. His fingers still have a death grip on Shane's shirt, but the tremor in them eases.

"Good," Ilya murmurs. "Because if you leave, I will have to fight Sveta for remote. And she is very mean."

Shane lets out a real laugh this time, shaky but real.

"I wouldn't," he says, brushing his thumb over Ilya's cheekbone. "I'm not going anywhere."

Ilya watches him for one more beat, making sure the words are in Shane's eyes too.

Then, quietly, like he's offering it instead of asking for it:

"Tell me what you need," he says. "Right now."

Shane's throat works. He looks like he wants to say everything.

Instead he exhales, and some of the tension drains out of his shoulders.

"I need you to… keep doing that," he admits, voice embarrassed. "The calm thing. The ‘it's okay' thing. I know it's unfair."

Ilya's mouth softens.

"It is not unfair," he says. "It is love."

And because he can't resist, because he needs to see Shane smile—

"Also," he adds, "I need you to stay where you are. You are warm. Like heated blanket."

Shane snorts, but his eyes are wet. "Okay. I'll keep you warm."

By the time the house gets properly dark, everybody has stopped moving like they're being assessed.

The overhead lights stay off. Shane turns on one lamp in the corner and leaves it low, warm, the shade throwing a soft circle over the living room. The TV is muted. The ocean documentary ended hours ago; now the screen is just a paused menu, dimmed down until it's more glow than image.

Sveta has claimed the armchair, one leg tucked under her, socked foot swinging lazily, a mug of tea cooling between her hands.

On the couch, Shane is braced into the corner with a throw blanket over his lap.

Ilya is folded into him, entirely boneless, in the way he gets when the pain medication finally takes the edge off the constant ache and his body stops fighting for a minute.

His head is tipped against Shane's shoulder, curls messy against Shane's jaw. His sling is awkward between them, but one of Shane's arms is wrapped around his back in a careful hold; the other is resting over Ilya's thigh under the blanket, warm weight, a steady point of contact.

Ilya's eyes are half-lidded. Every slow blink looks like effort.

"Okay?" Shane murmurs, barely above a whisper.

Ilya hums. It could mean yes. It could mean don't make me talk.

Shane reads it as permission to keep doing exactly what he's doing: breathing quietly, letting his thumb move in a slow, absent stroke along the seam of Ilya's hoodie.

Across from them, Sveta watches with a look that's hard to name. Not soft, exactly because Svetlana doesn't do soft the way other people do. She glances from Ilya's lax posture to Shane's hand, to the way Shane's shoulders have finally dropped.

"Has he ever told you when he decided to become a skating coach?" she says, her voice low and almost fond.

Shane's eyebrows lift. "He what?"

Sveta laughs. "My dad was a goalie. I grew up in rinks. I loved hockey. Loved it. I could tell you every starter by the time I was eight. But loving hockey and being on ice are two different things."

Shane makes a thoughtful sound. His hand stays steady on Ilya's thigh under the blanket, rubbing small circles of comfort.

"Ilya," Sveta continues, "found this unacceptable."

"Of course he did," Shane murmurs.

"He decided it was embarrassing," Sveta says, deadpan. "He actually said, ‘Sveta, you can't be my best friend if you skate like a baby deer. People will think I picked you from garbage.'"

Shane coughs a laugh into Ilya's hair. "Jesus."

"I said I would rather die than let him teach me anything," Sveta says. "And he said, ‘Fine. Then I will teach you anyway.'"

"That also tracks," Shane says, softer now.

Sveta leans back in her chair, the story settling into her bones. "He begged his mom to take us on weekends. Not just him—us. He had this whole plan. He made it sound like I was a charity project."

Shane's eyes flick up. "He pitched you as charity?"

"He pitched me as a tragedy," Sveta says. "He told her I ‘loved hockey so much' but I was ‘trapped on land like a sad seal.' He laid it on so thick I thought his mother was going to smack him."

Shane's smile pulls wider despite himself. "Did she?"

"No," Sveta says, with grudging respect. "She just looked at him and went, ‘So you want more ice time and you want me to drive you.' And he said, very solemn, ‘Yes. It is for Sveta's future.'"

Shane lets out a quiet, helpless laugh.

"And she did it," Sveta says. "Because—" she shrugs, like it's obvious, "—she's his mother. Irina was used to his nonsense. So every Saturday, she'd drop us at the rink. He'd do his lessons. And then, after, when all the other kids were leaving with their hot chocolate, he'd drag me onto the ice."

Shane glances down at Ilya again, like he can see ten-year-old Ilya in the slope of his cheekbone even now.

"What was he like?" Shane asks, curious in a tender way like he's trying to build a fuller picture.

Sveta's expression shifts. "Annoying," she says instantly, then her mouth softens a fraction. "Brilliant. He was very sure of himself. Even when he shouldn't be."

She takes another sip of tea, remembering.

"He put me in skates and tied them too tight. Then he grabbed my hands like he was leading a partner drill. No hesitation. No ‘are you okay.' Just: ‘Knees. Bend. Again.'"

"God," Shane says, fond and exasperated at once.

"Oh, he was horrible at first," Sveta says. "He was bossy. He corrected everything. He told me my posture was shameful. He said my arms were ‘flapping like chicken.'"

Shane's shoulders shake, careful not to jostle Ilya.

"I told him I hated him," Sveta says. "I said I was leaving. I made it to the boards and tried to climb off like the ice was poison."

"And?" Shane prompts.

"And he skated up beside me," Sveta says. "And he didn't grab me. He got quiet."

Shane's thumb stills against Ilya's leg.

"He said, ‘Okay. You can quit. But if you quit, you have to tell me you quit because you don't want it— not because you're scared.'" Sveta's eyes flick to Shane. "And I was scared, so I got mad. I said something mean. I said, ‘You think you're so special because you can skate. It's easy for you.'"

Shane's jaw tightens like he can hear the echo of a dozen fights in that sentence.

Sveta continues, "He didn't get angry. He just looked at me." Her voice roughens on the edge of memory. "And he said, ‘It's not easy. I just practice very hard.' And then he did something very stupid," Sveta says.

Shane's eyebrows lift. "Oh no."

"He let go of the boards," Sveta says, "and he fell. On purpose. Right next to me. A full dramatic fall. Like he was auditioning for tragedy."

Shane's laugh is quiet and incredulous. "He what?"

"He hit the ice and went, ‘See? Falling is fine. Look. I am alive.'" Sveta's mouth twitches. "And then he popped up and offered me his hand."

Shane looks down at Ilya, at the way he's folded into him, and something in Shane's face goes very soft.

"And you took it," Shane says.

"Of course I took it," Sveta says. "He wanted me on the ice, not because it made him look good or anything like that. Because when he was skating, he felt… big. Like the world couldn't touch him as much. And he wanted me to have that too."

Shane's throat works. He shifts his arm around Ilya's back, careful, closer by a fraction.

"That sounds like him," Shane murmurs. "Underneath all the… menace."

Sveta snorts. "Yes. Underneath all the menace, he's a kind soul. It's annoying."

Shane's smile comes back, small and real.

"And after that," Sveta says, "he was gentler. Still stubborn. Still demanding. But he stopped mocking me when I fell. He'd just go, ‘Again.' And then he'd say very quietly 'Good. That was better.'"

Shane's gaze drops to Ilya's face, to the half-lidded eyes, the slack mouth, the pain he keeps trying to hide even asleep. Ilya shifts against him, moving like his body is trying to find a position where nothing hurts. His forehead presses more firmly into Shane's collarbone. His breath catches, tiny, involuntary.

Shane's hand pauses on Ilya's thigh.

"Ilya," he murmurs, angling his head down. "Hey, you still okay?"

Ilya makes a sound that is not quite a hum this time. It's rougher. More strained. His eyelashes flutter.

"Head," he says, voice thick. "Hurts."

Shane's whole posture tightens, careful not to let it look like panic. "Okay," he says softly. "Okay. Does it feel worse than earlier? Like… a lot worse?"

Ilya swallows. His throat works like he has to convince it to do the motion. "I don't know," he admits, honest and small. "It's pounding."

Sveta's foot stops swinging.

"Did he eat?" she asks.

"Some soup," Shane says. "A few bites. Water."

"And he took meds when?" Sveta asks, already leaning forward.

"An hour ago," Shane says. "Pain meds. Same dose as the label."

Ilya's eyes squeeze shut. His mouth tightens. His fingers, tucked into Shane's hoodie, curl harder, knuckles whitening.

"Okay," Shane says, smoothing his voice down, down. "Breathe for me."

Ilya tries. The inhale catches on his ribs; he makes a frustrated, broken sound.

"Easy," Shane says immediately, arm firming around his back. "Don't push it."

Ilya's face changes.

It's subtle at first, the kind of shift you only clock when you've watched someone get sick enough times that your brain recognizes the pattern before they do. His swallow goes wrong. His jaw flexes. His breath comes shallow and quick.

Shane's stomach drops.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Are you nauseous?"

Ilya's eyes crack open, unfocused. He looks wrong, suddenly. Too pale. Too far away.

"I—" he starts.

And then his body makes the decision for him.

He lurches.

Shane barely has time to catch the sling so it doesn't snag as Ilya pitches forward off the couch. For a terrifying half-second Shane thinks he's going to fall face-first onto the coffee table, but Ilya gets his feet under him on pure panic and momentum and staggers two steps—

—and throws up hard onto the hardwood.

It's violent and fast, and it sounds obscene in the quiet room.

Shane's brain blanks, then snaps into motion.

"Oh my god—hey, hey, okay, okay," he says, already halfway off the couch. He gets down beside Ilya without thinking, one hand braced at the small of his back, the other hovering uselessly because there's nowhere safe to grab. "You're okay. You're okay."

Ilya stays bent over, shaking. Hot tears are tracking down his cheeks like his body doesn't know what to do with the overload and is trying everything at once.

"I'm—" he rasps, voice wrecked. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't— I'll clean it, I promise. I didn't mean—"

"Stop," Shane says immediately, fierce and soft at the same time. "Ilya, stop. You don't have to— you're sick. It's fine."

"It's not fine," Ilya gasps, miserable. "It's— it's disgusting—"

"Jesus, Ilya, it's fine," Shane says, and his own eyes sting with it. He slides an arm around Ilya's shoulders as carefully as he can, pulling him back from the mess of his own shame. "It's a concussion. It's meds. It's your body doing what it has to do. It's okay."

Ilya's breathing stutters. His whole face is red and wet. He looks fourteen for a second, stripped down to raw embarrassment and pain.

Across the room, Sveta has already stood. She doesn't say anything dramatic and just disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a roll of paper towels and a trash bag. She sets them down, then crouches near Shane without getting in the way.

"Bathroom?" she asks, brisk.

"Yeah," Shane says, hoarse. "Yeah, I— I think we should—"

Another wave hits Ilya. Not vomiting this time, just a heave that makes him gag. Shane tightens his hold and murmurs nonsense into his hair.

Sveta's hand lands briefly on Shane's shoulder. "I've got this," she says, meaning the floor, meaning the logistics, meaning: don't split in two trying to do everything.

Shane looks up at her like he's drowning.

Sveta meets his eyes, unblinking. "Go," she says.

So Shane does.

He eases Ilya upright in tiny increments, slow, coaxing him like an injured animal.

"Okay," Shane murmurs. "Come on. We're gonna get you up. We're going to the bathroom. You're going to rinse your mouth and we'll get you into bed. That's it. One thing at a time."

Ilya's head lolls. His eyes are glassy. He's sweating, pale under the bruises.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, automatic.

"I know," Shane says, pressing his forehead briefly to Ilya's temple. "But you're wrong. I'm not mad. I'm here."

He gets Ilya's arm around his shoulders, careful of the sling. Ilya's weight sags into him immediately, heavy and uncooperative, like his body has given up on pretending it can do anything alone.

Shane hauls him up, takes the smallest steps imaginable toward the stairs. Ilya's socks slide on the floor; he winces with each movement.

Behind them, paper towel rips. The sound is oddly normal.

The bathroom light is too bright. Shane flicks it on anyway and regrets it instantly when Ilya makes a pained noise and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Sorry," Shane says quickly, fumbling for the dimmer. He turns it down until it's tolerable.

He helps Ilya to the sink. Ilya grips the counter with his good hand like it's the only stable thing in the universe. Shane turns on the tap, cups water, holds it to Ilya's mouth.

"Rinse," he murmurs.

Ilya does, spits, then leans his forehead against the cool edge of the mirror cabinet with a low, exhausted sound.

Shane wets a washcloth and dabs at Ilya's face, careful around the bandage, along the tear tracks, the sweat at his hairline.

"Okay," Shane whispers. "Okay. You're doing great."

"I'm not," Ilya says, thickly. "I'm humiliating."

"You're injured," Shane says. "That's all."

Ilya's eyes crack open, unfocused, and slide to Shane's face like he's trying to hold on to it. His mouth trembles.

"Don't look at me like that," Shane says, voice breaking around the edges. "You're not… you're not gross. You're not a problem. You're—" He swallows hard. "You're you."

Ilya makes a small sound. Shane gets him down the hall and into the bedroom on sheer stubbornness. He eases him onto the edge of the mattress and crouches to tug off his socks, then reaches for the hem of his hoodie.

"Can you lift your arms?" Shane asks.

Ilya tries. His bad shoulder makes him hiss.

"Okay, no," Shane says immediately. "No, no. We'll do it slow."

He slides the hoodie up carefully, working it around the sling. It's awkward and takes too long, but Shane doesn't rush. He doesn't let his own fear make his hands sharp.

When the hoodie is off, Shane looks at the front of Ilya's shirt and the spot where it's ruined, and his stomach flips again.

"We'll change," he says. "You'll feel better."

"I can—" Ilya starts, then sways.

"No," Shane says, firm. "You can let me."

Ilya's eyelids flutter. He nods once, tiny.

Shane peels the shirt off, replaces it with something clean and soft. Then sweatpants. Then he gets Ilya under the blanket like he's tucking in something precious.

Ilya sinks into the pillow like he's made of sand.

Shane sits on the edge of the bed, hands shaking now that he's not actively holding Ilya up.

"Okay," he says, mostly to himself. "Okay. That's not… that's not normal, right? Vomiting is— is a concussion thing but it's also—"

He looks down at Ilya. "I think we should go to the hospital."

Ilya's eyes open, frightened and hazy.

"No," he whispers immediately, too fast. "No, please. Not— not again."

Shane's chest aches. "Ilya, I— I'm scared."

Ilya's hand fumbles across the blanket until it finds Shane's wrist. His fingers latch on.

"Don't," he says, and his voice fractures. "Don't leave again. Yeah?"

Shane goes still. Ilya's eyes are huge, shining wet. He looks younger than his years. He looks like he's bargaining with the universe.

"I won't ask," he whispers, drifting even as he speaks. "I won't ask anything. Just… don't leave. Don't— don't go away."

Shane's heart feels like it's trying to stop and restart at the same time.

"Hey," he says, voice wrecked. He curls his hand around Ilya's, pressing his thumb into the pulse point like he can keep him anchored that way. "Hey, I'm here. I'm right here."

Ilya shakes his head a fraction, like he doesn't believe in anything stable. "Promise," he whispers. "Please."

"I promise," Shane says immediately. "I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere."

Ilya's eyelids lower, heavy. His grip tightens once more, then loosens, like his body finally accepts the permission to sleep.

"Okay," he murmurs, barely there. "Okay."

Shane stays sitting there, not breathing right, watching Ilya's lashes flutter as he drifts under.

He hears, faintly, the sound of footsteps downstairs.

A few minutes later there's a soft knock on the bedroom door, then Svetlana eases it open without waiting for an answer.

She takes one look at Shane's face and her expression sharpens.

"He asleep?" she asks quietly.

"Sort of," Shane says, swallowing. "He— he threw up. He's—" He gestures helplessly at the bed, at the pallor, at the bandage, at the whole situation. "I think we need to take him in."

Sveta's gaze goes to Ilya. She steps closer, checks him then she looks back at Shane.

"I already called the team doctor," she says.

Shane blinks. "You—"

"From his phone," Sveta says. "He'll come. Soon. He said vomiting can happen, especially with meds and pain, but he wants to check him in person." Her voice stays level, practical. "He told me what to watch for. If it gets worse, we go. No debate."

Shane's breath leaves him in a shaky rush. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Sveta nods toward the bed. "Stay with him," she says. "I'll tell you when he gets here. And I'll tell you what he says."

She leaves them with that, and Shane blinks at the space she'd stood.

The sentence doesn't even make sense at first. It slides off his brain like oil.

Then it lands.

Oh.

He looks down at Ilya, at the damp curls stuck to his forehead, at the slack hand curled in the sheet like it's still holding on, and something in him cracks a little. There's no way he can go anywhere. It would be like being away from his very own soul.

Shane leans down and presses his mouth to Ilya's knuckles.

"I'm here," he whispers, into skin and bone and promise. "I'm not leaving. I love you. I'm right here."

Chapter End Notes

let me know if you have any predictions!! hope you enjoyed!!! would love to hear your thoughts as always!! thank you for reading so far 🩷

Chapter 5: and the light comes home

Chapter Notes

i promise, and deliver!! (i also had a lot of this written, but couldn't dump a like 25k word chapter.)
but i can't believe it's over? my first heated rivalry fic? oh?

rest assured though, i am feeling so very incredibly homesick, which means i have a one (two) shot planned for very soon!!
anyway, hope you all enjoy the finale!!

The knock comes soft, but Shane hears it anyway.

He's been hearing everything.

The heater ticking. The fridge cycling. The tiny click in the baseboard that happens when the heat kicks on. Ilya's breath when it catches on his ribs. The shallow change in cadence that means pain.

He doesn't move.

He's on the edge of the bed, one knee pressed to the mattress, the other foot planted on the floor. Close enough that his hand can stay curled around Ilya's wrist, thumb resting on the pulse point like it's an anchor he can keep the whole world tied to if he presses hard enough.

Ilya lies on his back in a nest of pillows, pale in the dim light, hair damp at the temples. The bandage on his head looks too big. The sling is awkward against his chest. His lips are parted slightly like he's asleep and trying not to be.

His eyes are closed.

Shane doesn't trust it.

Down the hallway, the door opens. He hears Sveta's voice, brisk and decisive. A second voice drifts up after a second, answering in low, measured tones.

Another sound: a bag being set down, then footsteps, heavier than Svetlana's, coming toward the bedroom.

Shane's grip tightens.

Ilya's pulse flickers against his thumb, quick and thin.

The door swings inward without fanfare.

Svetlana appears first, half a silhouette in the hallway light. She glances at Shane then steps aside to let the man behind her enter.

Team doctor Terry looks exactly like Shane expects him to look: calm to the point of irritating, jacket still on like he came straight from wherever he was, hair slightly wind-tousled, eyes alert and warm and entirely un-dramatic.

He pauses just inside the doorway, taking in the scene in a single sweep: the low lamp, the heavy curtains, the sleeping shape in the bed, Shane braced like a guard dog.

His gaze lands on Shane for a beat longer than strictly necessary.

"Hollander," Terry says, voice level. If he's surprised, he sure has one hell of a poker face. "Thanks for being here."

Shane swallows.

"Yeah," he manages, because his throat has apparently forgotten how to do full sentences. "Of course."

Terry's attention slides to the bed. His posture shifts, professional. He steps closer, careful not to flood the room with movement. He sets his bag down at the foot of the bed and reaches inside with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times.

"How long ago was the vomiting?" Terry asks.

"Twenty minutes," Shane says immediately. "Maybe a little more. He—he threw up in the living room. He's been… like this since."

"Shane," Ilya rasps, eyes still closed, voice muffled like it's coming from underwater. "It's not that bad."

Shane's chest tightens at the sound.

Terry huffs something that might be amusement, might be sympathy. "Alright," he says, leaning in slightly. "Ilya. Hey. It's Terry."

Ilya's eyelids flutter. His lashes stick for a second, heavy. He opens them a slit, squints at the light.

"Terry," he says, hoarse. "You are in my bedroom."

"Yeah," Terry says. "Not my top choice of venues, but you're popular tonight."

Ilya's mouth twitches in a way that says he wants to smile and can't find the energy. "I am very charming."

"You are," Terry agrees. "Can you do me a favor and look at me?"

Ilya tries. His eyes track, sluggish but present.

Terry lifts a small penlight. "I'm going to check your pupils. Just follow my finger after."

The light flashes. Ilya winces hard, turns his face slightly into the pillow.

"Sorry," Terry says, not apologizing so much as narrating. "I know it sucks."

Shane feels his own breath shallow out in instinctive sympathy. His hand stays on Ilya's wrist, counting, counting, and counting. He can't seem to let go.

Terry runs through the checks with the terrifyingly calm efficiency:

"Name?"

"Ilya," Ilya says, flat, like this is insulting.

"Last name."

"Rozanov," Ilya says, a little slower. "Unfortunately."

"Where are you?"

"My house," Ilya answers, because that one is easy.

"What day is it?"

Ilya blinks. His brow knots like he's dragging the answer through mud. Shane's stomach drops.

"Don't rush," Terry says. "Just try."

Ilya exhales, shallow and careful. "It is…" His gaze flicks to Shane, like Shane has the answer written on his face. "…Wednesday?"

"It's Wednesday," Shane says, soft.

Ilya breathes a small sigh of relief. His head shifts like the pillow is suddenly too hard. "Good."

Terry checks his eyes again, tracking, then moves on. He puts two fingers against Ilya's wrist briefly anyway, like a courtesy to Shane's vigil, then looks at Shane.

"Headache," Terry says. "If you can give me on a scale of one to ten."

Ilya makes a sound that could mean anything.

Shane answers because he's been watching all day. "It was… like a six earlier. Now he's—he's quieter. He said it's pounding."

Terry nods. "Different kind of pain can still be within concussion territory," he says, mostly to the room, and then: "Any new neck stiffness?"

Ilya shakes his head a fraction, then regrets the motion immediately, grimacing.

"Okay," Terry says. He checks motor strength—hands, feet—with minimal movement, not asking Ilya to sit up or stand, because Terry has eyes and Ilya's ribs are basically tape and stubbornness right now.

"Any numbness? Tingling? Weakness in one side?"

"No," Ilya whispers.

Terry reaches into his bag again and pulls out a blood pressure cuff. He wraps it around Ilya's arm as carefully as the sling allows, adjusts, listens.

The machine hums softly in the dim.

Shane watches Terry's face, but his face doesn't change expression.

He finishes, slides the cuff off, and straightens.

"Alright," he says, and his voice shifts in a way that tells Shane he's about to do what Shane needs most: translate the terror in his veins into steps. "Vomiting can happen with concussion, especially with pain meds and not enough food, and with the kind of stress response you've had. Once isn't automatically an emergency."

Shane's lungs empty in a shaky rush he didn't realize he was holding.

"But," Terry continues, and the single syllable pulls Shane's spine rigid again, "I'm going to give you clear lines. If he vomits again—especially if it's repeated—if the headache spikes hard, if he gets confused in a way that's worse than this, if his pupils look uneven, if he gets weak on one side, if he can't stay awake, if he has seizure activity, or if he says his neck feels stiff like he can't move it… you take him to an emergency room. No debate."

"How much is ‘repeated'?" he asks, and he hates how tight his voice sounds.

"More than once," Terry says bluntly. "Especially close together. I'd rather you overreact than underreact. This is brain stuff."

Shane's thumb presses into Ilya's pulse point. Brain stuff. It's such a simple phrase for something that could swallow a life.

Terry looks down at Ilya again. "Have you had anything to eat since the painkillers?"

Ilya's mouth twists. "Some soup. A few bites. Water."

"And nausea medication?" Terry asks Shane.

Shane's brain scrambles back through the last twelve hours like it's flipping through film. "He took one this morning. He… he didn't want to take another because he didn't like that way they made him feel."

Ilya makes an offended noise.

Terry nods like that makes sense, because it does. "Okay," he says. "We'll adjust. I'm going to write you a schedule that keeps pain under control without nuking your stomach. Small sips of water consistently. Stick to bland food. If your stomach is empty, the meds will mess you up."

Ilya's eyes close. "Terry, you hate me."

Shane almost laughs. Sveta actually does, quiet and sharp.

Terry reaches for a notepad and starts writing, pen moving with practiced speed. He speaks as he writes, like he's building a bridge with words.

"No screens," he says. "Or minimal. Low brightness. No loud TV. Keep the lights low. You can do quiet audio. If he sleeps, let him sleep."

Shane latches onto that. "Do I have to wake him up?" he asks, too fast. "Like—every hour? Every—"

Terry looks at him, and for the first time his gaze is fully on Shane, steady and direct.

"You don't have to keep him awake," Terry says. "Let him rest. But you check him. Every couple hours, you make sure you can wake him enough to answer a basic question. Name. Where he is. That kind of thing. If you can't rouse him at all, then it's time to go to the hospital."

Shane nods, too hard. "Okay."

Terry underlines something on the paper, then taps it once with the pen. "And I'm giving you the plan," he says, and his eyes flick briefly to Sveta before returning to Shane. "Because you're the one who's going to have to make the call if things change."

Shane's throat works. He manages: "Yeah."

Terry tears off the page and sets it on the bedside table where Shane can see it, where it won't get lost under the wreckage of water cups and pill bottles and fear.

He leans down again. "Ilya," he says, gentler. "I'm going to tell you something I tell every athlete: don't be brave with your brain."

Ilya's lashes flutter. His voice is tiny. "I am not brave," he whispers.

"That's not true," Terry says, matter-of-fact. "But you don't need it right now. You need rest."

Ilya's fingers shift weakly across the blanket until they find Shane's wrist again. They curl there like muscle memory. "Okay."

Shane holds still. Lets him.

Terry looks between them once—one quick, clinical sweep—and doesn't make a face. Doesn't make it weird. Just nods, like this is what support looks like and of course it does.

"Who's staying tonight?" Terry asks anyway, voice neutral, because it matters.

"Me," Shane says immediately.

Terry's pen pauses for half a beat like he expected that.

"Okay," he says. "Then you're point. If anything changes, you call me. If it hits any of those red flags, you don't call me, you go."

"Okay," Shane repeats, because repetition makes it real.

Terry reaches into his bag one last time and pulls out a small card with numbers written on it. He sets it with the paper like he's placing a talisman.

"I'll check in tomorrow," he says, then softer: "You're doing good."

Shane's chest caves in around the words. He doesn't know what to do with praise. It feels like someone handing him a fragile object and saying don't drop it.

He nods once, because if he speaks his voice might crack, and he can't—he can't—

Terry lifts his bag, steps back toward the door. "Call if he vomits again," he says. "Call if the headache changes. Call if your gut says something's off. I would trust your gut."

Shane swallows. "Okay."

Terry leaves the room the way he entered it, steadily, and Svetlana follows him out to the hall with more murmured words, then the faint sound of the front door opening and closing.

Shane stares at the paper on the nightstand.

The handwriting is neat, blocky, practical. Times. Dosages. Instructions. Red flags underlined hard enough the pen almost tore through.

It looks like a playbook, a plan, something he can follow.

Something he can do.

He reaches for his phone with his free hand, takes a photo of the sheet just in case, then sets the phone down again and keeps his other hand where it's been the whole time, wrapped around Ilya's wrist.

Ilya's pulse is slower now. Still there. Proud and stubborn.

Shane lets himself breathe one full breath—deep, careful, controlled—like Terry's calm has given him permission to have lungs again.

He looks down at Ilya.

Ilya's eyes are closed, face slack with exhaustion. His fingers are still curled around Shane's wrist like a tether.

Shane lowers his head and presses his mouth to Ilya's knuckles, quick and quiet.

"I'm here," he whispers, like he's telling Ilya and also telling himself. "I've got you. Okay? I've got you."

Ilya makes a small sound, barely a hum really, but his grip tightens a fraction, and the motion feels like an answer.

Shane stays exactly where he is after Terry leaves, keeping guard of the rise and fall of Ilya's chest until the rhythm evens out, each breath less strained than the last.

A deeper sleep pulls at Ilya, the kind that isn't quite comfortable but at least isn't jagged with pain. Shane stays awake long past when he should; fear keeps him alert, cataloguing every twitch, every sigh, every change in temperature.

At some point, Svetlana appears in the doorway with a blanket draped over her arms.

"You'll freeze sitting like that," she says quietly.

She doesn't wait for him to answer; she just steps in and tucks it around his shoulders like he's another patient.

Shane murmurs something that could be thanks.

The next time he looks at the clock, forty minutes have passed. Ilya's breathing is steady. His face is less drawn.

Shane lets his eyes fall shut for just a second. The next time Shane checks the bedside clock it's a few minutes past 10 a.m. He must have dozed sitting up, because his neck aches and the blanket draped over his shoulders is sliding toward the floor. Ilya hasn't stirred; his pulse still thrums steady beneath Shane's thumb.

Shane eases his hand free, stands, and pads to the bathroom to splash water on his face. When he returns, the room feels different.

Ilya's eyes are open.

They're clearer this time, dark and steady, tracking Shane the whole way back to the bed.

"Hey," Shane whispers, keeping his voice low. "How's the head?"

Ilya blinks once, slow. "Like someone tried to play drums on the wrong side of my skull," he says, but the cadence is sure, the slur mostly gone. "But… manageable."

Shane sits on the edge of the mattress, letting the lamps' soft glow settle between them. "You're sharper," he says, hope threading through the words before he can stop it.

"Shane, I—I remember more," Ilya admits. He swallows, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if the memories are written there. "I remember the hit. The ice." His expression pinches. "…then hospital flashes, then here."

He turns his head on the pillow, studying Shane. "And," he adds quietly, "I remember the last time we saw each other before this."

Shane's breath catches. For a split-second, the room tilts the way it did when Ilya collapsed on the ice. He sits forward instinctively, elbows on his knees, as if closing the space will soften the memory. "Ilya. I was wrong. I handled everything wrong. I should have stayed. I should have listened."

"I should have told you," Ilya says, cutting him off gently. "I should have said I was not okay. Before the fight. Before the hit. Before everything got too heavy."

His hand creeps across the quilt until his fingers brush Shane's knee, then adds: "I think," he says slowly, "it was not just loneliness. I think something has been wrong for a long time. Like walking with weight on my back that never gets lighter. I think, maybe, I am even more like my mother than I thought."

Shane's throat goes tight. "You mean depression."

"Yes." The word sits plain and unguarded between them. "I always knew it could find me too. I am too much like her. I thought if I worked hard enough, skated hard enough, loved hard enough, it would not."

Shane's hand reaches out without thinking. He curls his fingers around Ilya's. Warm skin against warm skin.

"You do not have to outrun this," Shane says, and his voice shakes. "You do not have to pretend around me."

Ilya's eyes meet his, dark and tired and finally honest. "I know. I did not before. That is my fault, not yours. But I know now."

They breathe in the same slow rhythm for a few seconds. One of Ilya's fingers curls into Shane's palm, tentative and seeking.

Shane swallows hard. The words are there, pressing up against his ribs, unignorable.

"Ilya," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."

Ilya's eyes open, slow and heavy. "Shane, you don't—"

"I do. For… all of it." Shane's voice cracks on the edges. "For making you thinkI wouldn't—For walking out. For acting like I didn't already know where your heart was."

He shifts closer, careful not to jostle the sling, and cups the side of Ilya's jaw with one hand. His thumb skims the bruise beneath Ilya's eye with a reverence that borders on grief.

"You left your home," Shane says. "Your family. Your country. Your whole life. For a career you could build anywhere. And you stayed here. For me. For us. I knew that, I know that. And—"

He takes a deep breath. Ilya blinks once, slow, stunned by the clarity of it. Shane leans his forehead against Ilya's, breath trembling between them.

"—I will never do that again. I swear it. I will choose you first. Every time. Over hockey. Over everything."

Ilya inhales sharply, as if the words have knocked something loose inside him. His fingers tighten around Shane's.

"You mean that?" Ilya asks, voice small, as if the answer could change the shape of him.

"I mean it," Shane says. "You're the one thing I will never be afraid to choose, Ilya."

"Shane," he breathes, barely sound. "I love you."

Shane's eyes fall shut like the words hit something deep. "I love you," he answers, immediate, instinctive. He pushes his hand into Ilya's hair, brushing it back from his forehead with gentle fingertips. "We are okay. We are going to be okay."

"Can you help me sit up?" Ilya asks. "I want to be closer to you."

Shane smiles, soft and a little wet around the edges, and shifts his weight. "Yeah. Tell me where it hurts. Tell me how slow to go."

It takes time, careful handling of ribs and sling and aching muscles, but eventually Ilya is propped against Shane's chest, head tucked under his jaw, breath warm against his throat.

Shane holds him gently, palm flattened between his shoulder blades. Ilya's hand rests over Shane's ribs, steadying them both.

For the first time since the injury, the quiet feels like rest instead of dread.

"I love you," Ilya says again, quieter this time, almost shy, like he's testing the shape of it on his tongue.

Shane's breath hitches. "I love you," he murmurs, brushing his thumb along Ilya's cheekbone. "So much."

"I love you more," Ilya whispers.

Shane lets out a startled, broken laugh. "You absolutely do not."

"Yes," Ilya says, with the stubbornness of a man who would die on any hill if Shane put it there. "I do."

"You can barely sit upright," Shane says, dropping as kiss to his hairline. "You're concussed. Your math is off."

"My math is perfect," Ilya argues, breath fanning warm against Shane's lips. "I love you most."

"Impossible," Shane counters softly. "I love you more than anything in my life."

"I love you more than my whole life," Ilya fires back, already breathless from the effort of talking but refusing to lose.

Shane's mouth twitches into something between a laugh and a sob. "Stop trying to out-love me."

"I can't," Ilya says. "I win."

"No," Shane whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth. "I win."

"I love you," Ilya declares, triumphant despite the dizziness creeping in.

"I love you," Shane returns, matching him beat for beat.

The rhythm builds, inevitable. Two people who, if left unsupervised, will turn affection into a best-of-seven.

"I love you," Ilya insists.

"I love you," Shane insists right back.

"I love you more," Ilya says.

"In your dreams," Shane answers.

"I love you most," Ilya whispers.

"Then I'll love you more than that," Shane murmurs, forehead pressed to his.

At some point the competition dissolves into breath, into the quiet tremble of mouths almost touching, into the soft shaking exhale from Ilya that says he's losing steam but not heart.

Shane gentles first, because by the sixth or seventh repetition something loosens in Ilya's throat. His body melts, but Shane can't help it.

He keeps going, quieter now, like the world has shrunk to a single promise.

"I love you," Shane says again, because saying it feels like breathing. "I love you. I love you."

Ilya answers each one in a soft, sleepy echo, until the words turn into the rise and fall of his breath.

The afternoon settles into a quiet lull.

Shane and Ilya drift in and out of half-sleep together, the kind where they don't move much, just breathe near each other and let the earlier storm settle. The meds have taken the edge off Ilya's pain again; his face is softer, more at ease. His head is on Shane's shoulder, breaths brushing Shane's collarbone in steady intervals.

Shane has one arm around him, fingers absentmindedly stroking skin under his T-shirt. He isn't really resting, his body won't let him, but he's quieter inside. Like something that's been vibrating for weeks has finally clicked into a lower frequency.

Then the doorbell rings. It's a single, polite chime.

Ilya tenses. Barely, but Shane feels it.

Svetlana's voice drifts up the stairs a moment later. "Hello. You must be Troy Barret."

Shane blinks.

"I told them not to come," Ilya mutters, already annoyed at the prospect of having to get up.

"You did," Shane says. "But they didn't listen, because they care about you."

Ilya huffs. "Idiots."

Downstairs, Troy's voice floats up, low, gentle: "Hi. Just dropping things off. I won't stay, don't worry. The guys wanted to double check in the captain was actually resting. And, uh, there's some more food for him."

They're still in the same bed. Ilya half draped against him. The blanket pooling around their legs. Their bodies arranged in a way that is unmistakably not casual.

Shane's pulse thuds against his ribs. He hears Troy laugh softly downstairs, polite, a little shy, and then the faint scrape of bags being set down.

"Ilya," he says quietly.

Ilya tilts his head up slightly, eyes heavy but focused on him.

And then Shane says the thing he didn't know he'd been carrying until this moment: "Maybe… it would be okay."

Ilya blinks. "Okay?"

"To tell him," Shane whispers. "Troy."

The silence stretches a beat too long.

Shane keeps going, because if he stops he might not start again.

"I think he could handle it. And he should know. He cares about you." His voice softens further. "And… if something ever happens again—I just need—if you ever get hurt—just… someone should know to reach me."

Ilya stares at him like he's speaking in a language Ilya hasn't heard before.

Shane forces one more sentence out, tiny and cracked at the edges:

"I can't be the last to know, Ilya. It'll kill me."

Something in Ilya's expression cracks open: pain, love, recognition all tangled together.

He lifts his hand, touches Shane's cheek with slow, unsteady fingers.

"You are always my first call, Shane," he says. "Always will be."

Shane's throat closes.

"But," Ilya continues, thumb brushing Shane's jaw, "I understand what you mean. And if you want him to know… I want that too."

The decision settles between them, warm and quiet.

Downstairs, Troy says something about soup containers and Bood and Cassie insisted on sending three different kinds because "they were worried and didn't know what he would prefer."

Svetlana laughs and tells him to come in, for God's sake, it's minus ten outside.

Shane shifts upright. Ilya lets him, slow and careful.

"We should go down?" Shane asks.

Ilya nods, calm in a way that makes Shane braver. "We should tell him," he says. "Together."

Shane takes Ilya's hand. They take the stairs slowly.

Ilya's fingers stay curled into Shane's. Not hidden. Not disguised. Just held.

Shane feels every step in his chest.

Voices drift from the kitchen—Svetlana's amused commentary, cabinet doors opening, Troy's warm, apologetic rumble as he tries to put something away in the wrong spot and gets redirected with soldier-like obedience.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Sveta glances over , clocking the joined hands, the tension in Shane's shoulders, the steadiness in Ilya's posture. Her eyebrows lift just a fraction, an are you sure? in the form of a facial twitch.

Ilya gives her the smallest nod.

She pivots toward the stove like she saw nothing.

Troy is standing by the counter unpacking a fabric grocery bag with way too many soup containers. He's wearing a beanie, cheeks still pink from the cold, shoulders hunched like he tried to make himself smaller in someone else's home.

He turns at the sound of footsteps.

"Oh," Troy brightens instantly. "Cap. Hey. You're— wow, you're upright. Good sign."

Then he sees Shane.

His smile falters a hair, confusion sliding in sideways.

"Troy," Ilya says gently. "This is—"

"Shane Hollander," Troy blurts.

Shane freezes.

Troy flushes a violent shade of red. "I mean, obviously I know who you are, sir— uh, not sir, that sounded weird— sorry, I just didn't expect— I thought— Svetlana— I assumed…"

He gestures vaguely at Sveta, like she is the closest available excuse for the brain hemorrhage he's currently experiencing.

Sveta doesn't look up. "Do not drag me into your assumptions," she says, stirring rice like it offended her.

Ilya lifts one brow. "You assumed what?"

Troy's ears go pink. "I... thought maybe you were seeing someone," he admits, each word painful. "Like, private. And I didn't want the team to intrude."

Shane watches his face shift: embarrassment, confusion, a tiny pinch of worry as his gaze flickers between them.

Then a dawning realization.

"Oh," Troy breathes. "Oh. Wait."

Shane's grip on Ilya's hand tightens.

Time slows and sharpens. This is the moment he's been terrified of for ten years. The second someone sees it. The second someone knows.

Ilya steps closer to him, shoulder brushing Shane's arm.

"Troy," Ilya says softly. "Shane is here because he is my… boyfriend."

The word lands clean and gentle and irrevocable.

Troy blinks.

Then blinks again.

"Oh," he says for a third time. "That… makes more sense than what I thought."

Ilya frowns. "What did you think?"

Troy thinks about lying. Fails. "I, uh. Thought maybe you and Svetlana were… y'know."

Sveta barks a laugh loud enough to scare the rice. "He wishes."

"I do not," Ilya protests automatically.

Shane lets out a sharp, startled laugh that sounds almost like relief.

Troy looks helplessly between them, cheeks red. "I swear I wasn't judging, I just—this is—wow. Okay. This is great. I mean— not great, you're injured, not great— but great… for you."

He gestures at them again, completely lost.

"Look," he says, awkward but earnest. "Just so you know—I'm… not gonna make things weird. About any of this. I get it. More than you probably think."

Ilya tilts his head, amused. "Troy, you are terrible at speaking around corners. Say what you mean."

Troy winces. "Right. Okay. Uh." He looks at Shane, then away, then back again, like he's choosing his words carefully for the first time since arriving.

"I'm gay," he says simply. "Just throwing that out there."

Shane blinks.

"Oh," Shane says, because his brain has decided to provide absolutely nothing useful.

"Yeah," Troy mutters, tugging his beanie lower on his head in a reflex of embarrassment. "Ilya already knows. I told him last season. I—he… Uh, yeah."

Shane's brows lift. Not in surprise, because he did know, but in something gentler. Something like gratitude.

Troy keeps going, suddenly nervous. "I'm not out-out. Not to the league or the media or anything. Just a few people. Ilya. Uh, someone else." He grimaces. "I wasn't sure if I should say anything now, but since we're all… doing revelations… I didn't want you to think I was gonna… freak out on you or something."

Ilya snorts. "Troy is actually secretly a big softie."

Troy puts a hand over his face. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Ilya says, fond.

Shane is still staring, but feeling something soften in his chest because Troy didn't have to tell him that; because Troy wanted him to feel safe; because Troy wanted to be an ally but also… part of the truth being shared.

"Thank you," Shane says quietly. "For telling me."

Troy shrugs, looking at the floor like it suddenly got interesting. "Yeah, well. Figured… secrets suck less when fewer of us are carrying them alone."

He inhales sharply, and Troy immediately mistakes it for discomfort.

"Oh god," Troy says quickly. "Sorry. I didn't mean—I wasn't trying to make it about me. I just wanted you to know I'm not judging anything. I've already had the panic spiral of ‘everyone will know' and ‘my career is over' and all that fun stuff, so, seriously, you're not alone in that particular nightmare."

Shane's voice is thin when he answers, but steady. "No. I get it. Really."

Something eases in Troy's posture.

And then, gently, he adds:

"And if anything ever happens again… you can call me too."

Ilya gives Troy a look that is half fondness, half exasperated warmth. "Thank you," he says. He means it.

Troy nods, awkward and sincere. "Yeah. Always."

Then he eyes the soup containers sheepishly. "Uh, I brought… like five soups. The group chat panicked. Bood made three himself. Cassie made two. Luca tried to make one but we politely vetoed it."

Shane chokes on a laugh.

Ilya groans. "Oh no."

"It's okay," Troy says, smiling now. "I'll take the extra back. Or freeze them. I just wanted to check in and make sure you weren't alone."

Ilya glances at Shane at that phrasing, and Shane feels it like a bruise pressed gently, but it hurts less than before.

"You should sit," Troy says, noticing the sway in Ilya's posture. "I'll get out of your hair."

"You can stay for minute," Ilya says. "If you want."

Troy looks stunned by the invitation. "I— yeah. Yeah, I can stay a minute."

Shane helps Ilya lower onto a kitchen stool, hands steady around his waist. Troy steps back instinctively to give them space, and something about the motion is so respectful it makes Shane's throat burn.

"You really doing okay?" Troy asks, voice low.

Ilya tries the automatic lie. "I'm fine."

Shane gives him a look.

Ilya sighs. "I am… mostly fine."

Troy snorts. "That's more believable."

Shane glances at the containers stacked on the counter—mismatched tupperware, foil-wrapped bundles, the chaotic love language of hockey players who don't know how to help except by overwhelming someone with food.

"Maybe we should… actually eat some of this," Shane says, rubbing Ilya's back lightly. "Pick one before Troy has to haul all five home."

"Five?" Ilya mutters. "Ridiculous. I will eat them all. It was made with love for me."

Shane snorts. "You can barely eat crackers. Calm down."

Svetlana, who has been half in the pantry and half supervising from a distance, steps back into the light holding a red-lidded container.

"Oh wow," she says, lifting it like a treasure. "Someone made you borscht."

Ilya perks up so visibly it's almost comical. His eyes brighten, his posture straightens, his mouth opens in wonder like he's been handed a miracle.

"Who?" he turns to Troy.

Troy scratches the back of his neck. "Uh… Cassie. Bood said something about her needling him for your favorite foods, but she gave up and Googled Russian comfort soup for like an hour."

Ilya places a hand over his heart. "She is saint. I must— I need—" He grimaces as shifting sends a spark through his ribs. "Later. I will text later."

"You will not," Shane murmurs.

"You will text later," Ilya amends with zero shame. "Give me."

Svetlana ignores both of them and pours the soup into a pot. "Sit still," she orders Ilya, even though he is already sitting.

"Hold on," Shane says, reaching for bowls. "Small portion first. Let's see if your stomach forgives you."

Ilya scowls at him on instinct. "I am not fragile."

Troy laughs under his breath. "Dude. You're literally swaying while sitting."

"I am allowed to sway," Ilya mutters.

Shane nudges his knee gently. "You can sway. You just can't pretend it's intentional."

Ilya sets his jaw, but a tiny smile flickers. "I am surrounded by traitors."

Sveta points to the ladle once steam rises from the pot, and Troy hands it over.

She serves out a cautious half-ladle, slides the bowl in front of Ilya, and watches him with careful eyes. So, does Shane. And Troy.

Ilya notices. His voice comes out softer, worn around the edges. "I can lift a spoon, everyone. Stop hovering."

"I'm not really convinced you can," Shane replies, and Troy hides a laugh in a cough.

Ilya sighs deeply, defeated but warm. "Fine. Hover. Everyone hover. I will pretend it is because you like me."

Shane's answering smile is small, private. "We like you."

Troy pats his shoulder. "Yeah, we kind of do."

Sveta has vanished to the guest room with strict instructions that said if either of them needed anything, they should knock loudly. Troy left hours ago. The soups are put away. The lights downstairs are off.

Upstairs, their room glows gold from a single lamp.

Shane helps Ilya into bed slowly, carefully, every movement negotiated. Ilya sinks back into the pillows, ribs complaining, head throbbing, but for the first time in days he isn't bracing for impact. Shane's hands make impact impossible. Shane's presence makes it unthinkable.

Shane lies down beside him, the mattress dipping just enough to slide their bodies into the same line, warm against warm.

Ilya closes his eyes.

He didn't think he would get this again—not after the fight, not after the hollow weeks that followed. Not after waking up in a darkness so complete he couldn't remember what he'd lost.

But Shane is here. He is warm. He is real.

Shane touches his cheek. "You okay?"

Ilya hums, because words feel too heavy to lift. The hum means yes. And maybe don't stop touching me.

Shane kisses him, and the kiss tastes like exhaustion and forgiveness, like everything breaking open and mending at the same time.

It starts sweet. But sweetness on a starving body can turn feral fast.

Ilya shifts, barely, and a low sound escapes him before he can swallow it down. Heat flashes through him, sharp and alive, pulling awareness into the center of his body like a magnet. God, he missed this. Missed wanting, missed being wanted.

Shane pulls back a fraction, breath unsteady. "Ilya…"

Ilya freezes, mortified.

His body is betraying him. His body always betrays him. He wants too much, feels too much, needs too much, and right now he is injured and pathetic and still his hips are trying to press forward like instinct is stronger than pain.

"I want you," Ilya says, blunt and aching.

"I know," Shane breathes, forehead dropping to Ilya's. "And you're hurt."

Ilya's heart trips over itself. Shane's voice does that. It turns him inside out with three gentle words. Ilya tries to steady his breathing, but then Shane kisses him again, and the entire world tilts. Ilya wants to arch into him, wants to cling, wants to feel skin under his teeth, wants—

Pain flares in his ribs at the thought, reminding him brutally of limits.

He forces himself still. This stillness is its own kind of ache.

Ilya lets out a frustrated sound, low in his throat. "I want—"

He can't finish the sentence. Embarrassment, desire, pain, need; they all crowd his throat at once.

Shane hears the meaning anyway. Shane always hears him.

"I know," Shane murmurs. "I feel you."

And God, that does something to him. Something low and devastating and tender at the same time.

"I cannot move," Ilya insists, cheeks burning. "If I move it hurts."

"Then don't move," Shane whispers. "Let me do everything."

Ilya's breath shudders out of him. Desire punches through him so sharply he almost gasps.

"But—" Ilya tries. "You do not have to—"

Shane cuts him off with a kiss that steals the rest of the sentence cleanly.

"I want to," he says, voice quiet and shaking with its own kind of hunger. "I want you in my mouth. I want to make you feel good without you moving an inch."

Ilya's mind whites out.

He can feel his pulse everywhere, in his throat, in his fingertips, in the place where Shane's thigh pressed against him earlier. He feels overwhelmed and fragile and incandescent all at once.

He tries to speak but only manages Shane's name, broken in the middle.

Shane's hand trails down his chest to the edge of the blankets, slow enough that every inch feels like a question.

"Tell me yes," Shane whispers.

Ilya's whole body wants to answer. His whole heart. His whole terrified, grateful, aching soul.

He gives the smallest nod, because that's all he can manage without pain.

"Yes," he breathes. "Shane…"

Shane kisses him once, soft and reverent, then begins to move down the bed with such care that it makes Ilya's eyes sting.

Ilya watches him, watches the devotion in the set of Shane's jaw, the steadiness in his hands, and feels something inside him loosen, unwinding a knot he didn't realize had grown so tight.

Shane looks up at him from between his thighs.

And Ilya thinks, with a sudden, overwhelming clarity:

Oh, he loves me. I am loved so much it feels like heat under my ribs.

His breath trembles.

And when Shane finally touches him, Ilya has to turn his face into the pillow and bite back the sound that rises, because it feels like salvation. Shane's gaze drags up the length of Ilya's body, slow and full of hunger, reverence, challenge. Ilya feels it like a hand closing around his sternum, squeezing until every thought distills to want.

Shane leans in, breath skimming sensitive skin that's already thrumming. "Remember what I said," he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of a bruise. "You don't move, okay?"

Ilya's pulse trips. He nods, because anything larger might tear the delicate stitch holding his ribs together. The surrender isn't humiliation; it's lightning trapped under his skin.

Shane kisses the inside of Ilya's knee, then higher, then higher, every inch scorched into memory: warm mouth, cooler breath, tongue tasting the fine tremor in Ilya's thigh. By the time he reaches the crease of Ilya's hip, Ilya is shaking like a struck chord, muscles fluttering between pain and pleasure so vivid it's almost color.

"Look at me," Shane says.

Ilya lifts his head. Even that hurts, but the pain is folded neatly into a larger blaze. Shane's pupils are blown wide, glossy with intent. "I've got you," he adds, unnecessary, because Ilya already belongs to the space between those words.

Shane's mouth seals around him: hot, wet, relentless. No tentative testing this time; he slides deep, cheeks hollowing with purpose. Ilya's breath saws out, a cut-off moan hitching in his throat. The ceiling spins, but Shane's hands anchor at his hips, thumbs digging into muscle just shy of the bruising. A silent reminder: Hold still.

Every motion is deliberate torture: the slow retreat pulling slick warmth away, the sudden glide forward swallowing him whole. Shane's tongue flattens, then flicks, then circles the head in tight spirals that make Ilya's toes curl hard enough to cramp.

Don't move, he repeats in his own mind, clutching fistfuls of sheet instead of Shane's hair. Each pulse of restraint winds the tension higher, like chords tightening on a violin until the wood itself vibrates.

Shane hums, low and satisfied, and the sound vibrates all the way up Ilya's spine. The world narrows to texture and heat: the slide of Shane's lips; the faint scrape of teeth; the way breath momentarily cools saliva before Shane sinks down again, hotter, firmer.

Ilya can't breathe right; every inhale stutters, every exhale tastes of panic-sweet pleasure. He wants to arch, wants to thrust, wants to beg, but Shane's rule is carved into stone. The refusal to move turns raw need into something incandescent.

"Good," Shane says, voice rough as gravel when he finally pulls back to breathe. His hand replaces his mouth for a heartbeat, while his lips travel to Ilya's belly, kissing the tremor there. "You're so close."

Ilya whimpers, a cracked, blissed-out sound. The room tilts; sweat beads at his temple.

"Shane," he manages, the word wrecked. He's not sure if it's a warning, a plea, a confession, or all of the above.

Shane's answer is a soft shh. He sinks back down, throat relaxing, swallowing Ilya to the base. The wet suction is obscene, perfect.

That electric pulse detonates whatever fragile control Ilya had left. He goes rigid—then implodes, climax hitting like a body-wide spasm that steals sound from his lungs. Stars burst behind his eyelids; the room whites out. Shane swallows around him, milking every pulse, hands holding Ilya through the quake until trembling ebbs into aftershocks.

Ilya collapses into the pillows, panting, every nerve over-exposed. His ribs protest the violence of his heartbeat, but even the pain feels watercolored, blurred at the edges by euphoria.

Shane crawls up beside him, eyes dark and gentle. He wipes the back of his wrist over his mouth, then presses damp lips to Ilya's forehead. "Still alive? Doing okay?"

"Barely," Ilya croaks, voice ragged. "You are so good for me."

Shane smiles, smug and tender all at once. "You love it."

"I do." Ilya's laugh wobbles, half-broken, half-joy. "I love you."

"I love you," Shane answers, immediate, and the words hit like a second, softer climax. His lips are kiss-bitten, cheeks flushed; the tell-tale tension in his shoulders says he's still wound painfully tight.

"Your turn," Ilya murmurs, voice scratchy but intent. "Let me watch."

Shane blinks, caught. "Ilya, we don't have to—"

"I can't use both hands yet," Ilya cuts in, half-smile crooked. "Doesn't mean I don't want to see you fall apart." His good hand drifts to Shane's thigh, squeeze-light. "Please. For me."

The request punches straight through Shane's restraint. Color creeps up his neck. "Yeah," he whispers. "Okay."

He shifts, sitting back on his heels beside Ilya's hip. His fingers slide beneath the waistband of his sweats, pushing them low enough to free himself. The lamp throws warm light across taut muscle and trembling need.

Ilya's gaze tracks every motion, hungry and awed. Beautiful, he thinks, chest clenching around too-many feelings. "Slow," he instructs, barely more than breath. "I want to see everything."

Shane wraps a palm around himself and draws the first stroke, long, deliberate. A soft, bitten-back sound escapes him. He keeps his eyes locked to Ilya's, like tethering himself there is the only thing that will keep him grounded.

Ilya's own pulse stutters, heat renewing even through exhaustion. "Good," he praises. "Show me how it feels."

Shane's rhythm builds: steady pulls, thumb circling the head on each upstroke. His breathing hitches. "Feels—" He swallows. "Feels good—you watching me."

"Faster," Ilya urges, voice gone hoarse. "Want to see you let go."

Shane obeys, spine tipping forward under the growing tension, free hand braced on the mattress near Ilya's hip. His lips part, eyes glassy with pleasure. "Ilya…"

"Let me have it," Ilya murmurs, hand tightening on Shane's thigh. Pain sparks in his ribs, but he rides it out; the sight in front of him is worth every throb.

A few bruising strokes more and Shane's head falls back, muscles quivering, mouth shaping a silent curse. Release breaks over him in sharp, stuttering pulses. He fists the sheet to keep from collapsing onto Ilya, jerking through aftershocks until he finally sags, chest heaving.

For a long moment neither of them speak, only the sound of their breathing fills the dim room.

Shane blinks dazedly down, then scrambles for tissues on the nightstand, wiping himself before easing the waistband back into place. He drops the tissues in the bin, and sinks beside Ilya, foreheads nearly touching.

"Worth it?" he asks, voice ruined in the best way.

"Very." Ilya's grin is lazy, satisfied, and somehow shy. "Could watch you forever."

Shane's grin tilts, sheepish. "Be right back."

He slips from the bed, moving gingerly so the mattress doesn't jolt Ilya's ribs, and pads to the bathroom. Water runs, muted; a moment later he returns with a warm, damp towel and another dry one slung over his shoulder.

"Hold still," he murmurs.

Ilya rolls his eyes fondly but obeys. Shane starts with himself, quick, efficient swipes, then crouches at Ilya's hip, gentling the cloth between bruised skin and waistband. His touch is reverent, almost clinical, but the heat in his eyes ruins any pretense of distance.

"Not exactly glamorous," Shane mutters.

"It is perfect," Ilya counters, voice molten with affection. "You always take care of me."

Shane huffs a laugh, cheeks pink. "Trying my best." He folds the towel, finds a clean edge, and wipes a stray bead of sweat from Ilya's temple. "Tell me if anything hurts."

"Only good hurt," Ilya admits, and watches Shane's blush deepen.

When he's satisfied, Shane pats the skin dry, tugs Ilya's waistband back into place, and tosses both towels toward the hamper. He clicks off the lamp, leaving only the soft hallway glow coming in underneath the door, and slides beneath the blanket again, this time curling carefully around Ilya's uninjured side, hand resting warm over his heart.

"Comfortable?" he whispers.

"Mm." Ilya catches Shane's wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside pulse.

"I love you so much," Shane murmurs, settling in as if he belongs here, because he does. Their breathing falls into slow sync, the room hushed but for the winter wind against the glass. Wrapped in each other and steady heartbeats, they let the quiet carry them toward sleep, each anchored by the other's warmth.

February 9th

By the time the late-winter sun crawls across the Ottawa skyline, the world looks washed in pale gold and thin frost. Ilya is already awake, sitting gingerly on the bench in his mudroom, carefully adjusting the lace on his shoes. It still feels slightly surreal to be putting them on at home to head to the rink, even if it won't be to a locker room surrounded by the raucous noise of teammates.

His phone rests on his thigh, screen dark except for the faint reflection of his face—healed enough to look like himself again, touched with the remains of an ugly bruise that's now only a faint shadow near his hairline.

He taps the screen awake anyway.

Two texts from Shane arrive exactly on the 7 a.m. dot, like the man has built an internal clock calibrated solely to Ilya's schedule.

[Jane]:
Good morning. Remember: no contact today.
And PLEASE don't try to lift anything heavier than a water bottle.

[Jane]:
I love you. (But also: BE CAREFUL.)

Ilya snorts, soft and entirely too fond, and pulls the phone up to his ear as he stands.

Shane picks up before the first ring completes. "Please tell me you are stretching."

"I am stretching," Ilya answers, even though he absolutely is not. "Stretching so well, I am like one of those long inflatable guys outside car dealerships."

"You're lying," Shane says immediately.

"I am walking to the car," Ilya replies, pushing open the door to the garage. "Stretching will happen later."

"Ilya."

He winces at the tone. "Zaichik. It's fine. Terry cleared me."

"For light skate," Shane says. "Light. Which is a word you have literally never applied correctly in your life."

Ilya slides into the driver's seat, wincing only a little. "I will be gentle, like a very handsome ballerina."

"Ballerinas are extremely strong and extremely reckless," Shane fires back. "Bad example."

"Okay, like… cloud."

"You're not a cloud either."

"You ruin all my incredible metaphors."

Shane exhales, a warm, static-wrapped sound through the speaker. "Just take it slow. Please? Humor me."

Something in Ilya's chest softens. "I will be careful," he promises. "Very careful. And team put up Troy to babysit me."

"Oh good, you need a responsible adult."

"Troy is a baby," Ilya says.

"Exactly."

Ilya laughs. "I will call you after."

"You better," Shane mutters, but his voice is already warmer. "Good luck. Love you."

Ilya's throat goes tight the way it always does when Shane says something small and earnest without realizing how deeply it lands. "I love you too. Talk soon."

He hangs up and sits for a moment in the quiet car, letting the morning settle into his bones. He's cleared. He's really cleared. It's just skating, but it's also just coming back.

And he'll get to tell Shane every detail later, which is somehow almost as good as the ice itself.

The Centaurs' practice rink smells like cold metal and rubber, like every rink on earth. The lights are half-power, humming overhead. Only two other players are out this early; a backup goalie rehabbing a knee tweak and a rookie doing extra edges.

Troy is already near the bench when Ilya steps out onto the ice.

"You look adorable, Captian," Troy says.

Ilya narrows his eyes. "Say that again and I demote you."

"You're not a coach."

"I demote you emotionally."

Troy snorts. "Okay, that one actually hurt."

Ilya pushes off slowly. The first few strides bite into his ribs, but not sharply, more like a reminder that he's still healing. His legs remember the glide even when his lungs don't. He finds his rhythm: long strokes, even weight transfer, shoulders loose.

"Take it easier than that," Troy calls.

"So supportive," Ilya mutters, but his grin betrays him.

They circle the rink together, both quiet in that comfortable way teammates can be, where thoughts flow more easily in parallel lines rather than conversation.

After twenty minutes of supervised drills and absolutely no sprinting (Troy threatened to physically lay down on the ice if Ilya tried), they return to the bench. Troy immediately pulls out his phone.

Ilya wags his eyebrows at him. "Texting Harris?"

Troy rolls his eyes without looking up. "No. Someone texted me early this morning demanding updates on your… wellbeing."

Ilya blinks. "My wellbeing?"

"Yeah." Troy tilts the screen away so Ilya can't snoop. "Very concerned. Very insistent. Capital letters were used."

Ilya groans. "He didn't."

Troy gives him a pointed look. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to," Ilya mutters, dropping his head to his knees. "He is helicopter boyfriend from two hours away."

"Dude," Troy says, typing. "He asked. He's worried."

"I told him I will be so careful."

Ilya reaches for his water, then notices Troy still typing, a second message. He lunges and snatches the phone from him before he can send whatever overprotective nonsense is brewing.

He flips the camera, takes a picture of himself scowling, and texts it to Shane with:

[TROY BARRETT]: Stop poaching my teammates, Hollander.

A beat later his phone buzzes in response.

[SHANE HOLLANDER]: I'm not poaching. Who even taught you that? And you look hot. Even grumpy.
But mostly grumpy.

Ilya feels something bright expand under his ribs. Back in the locker room, he showers carefully, avoiding bending too far. When he emerges, towel around his waist, Troy is mid-typing again.

"Tell him session was good," Ilya says, wringing water from his hair.

"Already did," Troy says. "Told him you didn't fall or puke."

"I didn't puke," Ilya protests.

"Doesn't matter, he asked."

Ilya shakes his head, bemused. He should feel smothered. Instead, it feels like someone built a net under him while he wasn't looking.

He grabs his phone from his cubby and, on impulse, texts:

[Lily]: Good skate.
I miss you.

Shane replies in under ten seconds.

[Jane]: Miss you too. FaceTime later?

Ilya sits heavily on the bench, towel slipping. A soft warmth moves through him, equal parts longing and gratitude.

"Yes," he types. "Call me."

By 6 p.m. the Hollander household feels like a warm quilt: simmering soup on the stove, replays huming on the TV, puzzle pieces spread like bright confetti across the dining table.

They invited Ilya for dinner, which, in Hollander terms, means they expected him, prepared extra, and fretted until he arrived.

David answers the door before Ilya even knocks. "Good," he says. "You're here. Yuna was minutes away from sending me to pick you up."

From inside the kitchen Yuna shouts, "I heard that!"

Ilya laughs, kicks off his boots, and steps into the warm light. The warmth isn't just temperature in the temperature. It's in belonging, the kind that still startles him with its gentleness.

"Sit," Yuna orders as he enters the kitchen. "You look tired."

"I do not," Ilya argues. "I look very handsome."

"You do, but sit anyway, honey."

He does. His ribs tug, but less sharply than yesterday.

They eat soup and fresh bread while Yuna quizzes him about balance drills and appetite and whether he is actually resting. David asks about his teammates. Ilya responds with stories, exaggerating just enough to make them laugh.

It feels like being folded into something soft.

Halfway through dinner, Yuna's tablet buzzes. Shane's face appears, illuminated by hotel lighting, hair rumpled, hoodie collar skewed, expression easing the instant he sees Ilya behind her.

"Hi, sweetheart," Yuna says.

"Hi, Mom," Shane replies absently. "Hi, Dad."

Then, softer, eyes shifting: "Hi, Ilya."

Ilya doesn't fight the warmth that climbs up his neck. "Hi."

They talk about practice, about the soup flavor, about the puzzle that currently looks like a blue shapeless sea. Shane watches Ilya as though memorizing each blink.

"I finish here Thursday," Shane tells them once Yuna turns the camera. "Four-day break."

David grins. "Good. We need more puzzle hands."

"Edges are mine," Ilya declares.

"You always say that," David replies. "And yet you're never fast enough for them."

"Yes, because you cheat," Ilya mutters.

Shane laughs, the sound rich and unguarded. "I'll help."

Later, they migrate to the living room. Snow begins drifting in soft spirals outside the windows, muting the world in white. David works methodically on the puzzle edge, Yuna flips through a magazine, and Ilya sorts pieces by color with comically intense concentration.

At some point he reaches for a sky-blue tile and winces. Not badly, but it's enough for Yuna to look up sharply.

"Pain?" she asks.

"A little," he admits.

She stands immediately, pulling on the throw laying over the back of the couch. "Come here."

Ilya obeys, amused. He sinks into the cushions, ribs grateful for the change in angle, and Yuna bundles him up in warmth. His eyes drift closed for a moment, body unwinding from the long day.

When he opens them, David is studying the puzzle with a frown.

"You're doing gradient wrong," Ilya informs him.

"Impossible," David says. "I have a system."

"Mine is better."

"You're not even looking at the box."

Ilya smirks. "I have imagination."

David gestures at the jumbled pieces. "It is not helping."

Their bickering is light, gentle, affectionate, and it's the sort of familial ribbing Ilya didn't grow up with but has learned to return in kind.

When the conversation lulls, the house feels full with warmth, with voices, with the promise of the love of his life coming home in two days.

And Ilya feels… good. Whole. Held by more than just the couch cushions.

Before he leaves, he ducks into the kitchen and pulls out his phone. Snow glows through the window, streetlights turning every flake the color of brass.

He calls Shane.

Shane answers so quickly Ilya hears the rustle of sheets; he must have been lying down too.

"Hi," Shane murmurs.

"I had a good day," Ilya says. "Skate was good. Dinner was good. Puzzle was disaster, but I will fix it tomorrow whne your dad is not looking."

Shane laughs quietly. "You sound happy."

"I am," Ilya admits. It comes out soft.

Across the line, Shane exhales, the kind that sounds like relief turned warm. "I'm glad."

"I cannot wait for Friday," Ilya says, leaning against the counter. "Four days. You promised."

"I know," Shane says. "I'm already packed."

Ilya closes his eyes. "Good. I want you here."

"I'll be home soon," Shane whispers. "I love you."

Ilya feels his chest go loose and warm, like a thaw beginning under snow. "I love you too."

He stays like that for a long moment after the call ends, with his palm pressed over his ribs, breathing steady, heartbeat calm.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—Ilya believes fully, solidly, that everything is going to be alright.

The Rozanov (Rozanov—Hollander, if he's being honest) driveway is still rimmed with the remains of last night's snowfall, and the porch light glows against the early evening blue. It's cold enough that you can see your breath in the air, but Ilya stands on the front step anyway, coat half-zipped, curls damp from the shower he tried to time perfectly with Shane's arrival.

He keeps telling himself he's not pacing.

He is absolutely pacing.

Every few seconds he checks the street for headlights. His ribs don't love the cold, but anticipation is a different kind of heat, enough to make him bounce once on his toes when Shane's boring, practical car finally turns the corner.

The headlights sweep over the house.

Ilya's breath stutters.

He's down the steps before the engine fully cuts, boots crunching on packed snow. The driver door opens and Shane steps out, a black hoodie under a jacket that isn't warm enough for Ottawa.

The second their eyes meet, the world shrinks to a pinpoint.

Shane drops his bag in the snow like it doesn't matter. "Why are you outside?" he demands, but his voice is already softening around the edges. "It's freezing."

"I wanted to see you first," Ilya says simply.

Shane's face goes helpless. He crosses the remaining distance in three quick strides, hands hovering for a second, like he's checking for pain, before framing Ilya's jaw with heater warmed fingers.

"You're going to catch pneumonia," Shane murmurs, brushing his thumb across Ilya's cheek. His breath fogs between them.

Ilya leans in, foreheads touching. "I am very warm," he lies.

Shane scoffs. "You're shivering."

"Only because you look handsome," Ilya fires back, unrepentant.

Shane tries, valiantly, to fight the smile. Fails spectacularly. "God, I missed you."

"I know," Ilya says, and pulls him in.

The kiss is warm, soft, relieved, and achingly sweet. The kind that feels like stepping out of an airport gate and seeing the one person you belong to waiting. Shane's hands slide into Ilya's coat, pulling him closer, careful but hungry in a way that makes Ilya's knees soften.

Only when Ilya shivers again does Shane break the kiss.

"Inside," Shane says, already ushering him toward the steps with one arm around his waist, the other picking up his bag again. "I can't believe you were standing out here like a stray cat."

"I was not stray cat," Ilya mutters, letting himself be herded up the porch. "I was majestic wolf."

"You were shaking," Shane counters, opening the door and immediately pushing Ilya into the warm foyer. "Majestic wolves don't chatter their teeth."

Ilya smirks, leaning back against him once they're inside, letting the heat soak through his coat. "Maybe I chatter because I love you so much."

Shane lets out a strangled laugh, drops his bag, and loops his arms around his middle from behind. "You're insufferable."

"You are happy I am insufferable."

"Unfortunately, yes."

Ilya turns in his arms, pressing one more quick kiss to Shane's mouth. "Welcome home, Shane."

Shane presses his forehead to Ilya's, eyes closing for one breath, then another. "Yeah," he whispers. "I'm finally home, Ilya."

Chapter End Notes

as always, thank you so much for reading, and for sticking with me through all this, and for the incredibly kind comments! i promise i'll get around to responding soon 💞

i'd love to hear your thoughts! see you all soon :)