Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Troy Barrett, Harris Drover

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Medical, Internal Medicine Nurse! Ilya, ICU Nurse! Shane, Shane Hollander Haunts the Narrative, Slow Burn, Slow Burn while Fucking, Pining, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, Bossy Bottom Shane Hollander, yearning while fucking, Competence Kink, i cannot stress this enough the competence kink is kinking, Miscommunication, At least it would be miscommunication if they communicated in the first place

Language:

English

Collections:

Hollanov Big Bang 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-27 Words: 122,000 Chapters: 19/19

night shift

Summary

It's Ilya's first morning at Ottawa General as a nurse on the Internal Medicine Unit — a unit that's big, hectic, and has a wide variety of patients and illnesses alike. It’s a good thing, then, they have the ICU to fall back on; when a patient crashes, they’re called in to help stabilize the patient and determine the best course of care.

Fortunately, Ilya can hold his own in a critical situation.

Unfortunately, he’s slightly obsessed with one of the most competent nurses he’s ever seen — Shane Hollander.

 

Or; the story of Hollanov, as told through a number of shifts.

Notes

Hi, hey, welcome to the hospital!AU that’s grown way out of proportion, and that’s going to be special to me for the rest of my life, probably.

Brought to you by my annoyance of TV shows everywhere where the doctors do all the heavy lifting? They do not??? Anyway this is dedicated to all the nurses who DO the heavy lifting and who take care of the patients all day, every day. You rock. With Ilya and Shane and their extreme competence, I hope I’ve done you justice.

This fic is also sponsored by some IRL inspiration, brought to you by yours truly — all of it is, of course, tweaked and a lot more whimsical in this fic, and all patient names and critical situations etc etc are not real (that goes without saying I hope) but it is pretty accurate to how stuff like that irl will be handled by the professionals.

My first and foremost thanks to Hewt for your unwavering support and the terrible enabling. And the Grammar Thing. Stop bullying me.

A huge, huge, huge thank you as well to ChuppaChupsandMustard, who partnered with me on this ride and provided the most stunning banner and art this fic could've wished for. Thank you so so so much! 💓

Chapter titles from Sombr -- In Your Arms

PS: if you accuse me of using AI i will legit go on a warpath to destroy you; I didn’t out myself to my bf about being a fic writer, survive being teased mercilessly about that fact, and jeopardize my relationship because i spent more time typing away behind my laptop like a gremlin instead of being with my family to be accused of using a content stealing machine. Seriously I will wish to you the most incompetent doctors and apathic nurses in your time of need. Be fucking warned.

Chapter 1: 1 i'll lay here

Chapter Summary

"You're not supposed to smoke here."

The sky is still black as ink, the roads quiet in their abandonment at this ungodly hour. Ilya's been trying to get his lighter to work for the last two minutes, his gaze steadily sliding towards the massive concrete building that looms in front of him.

"Hmm?"

The lighter catches flame.

Chapter Notes

"You're not supposed to smoke here."

The sky is still black as ink, the roads quiet in their abandonment at this ungodly hour. Ilya's been trying to get his lighter to work for the last two minutes, his gaze steadily sliding towards the massive concrete building that looms in front of him.

It's 6.25am on a Monday morning, and Ilya Rozanov isn't awake enough for this. His lungs are screaming for nicotine and his nerves for a steady shot of caffeine. His head seems to have reverted back to its default Russian - he's been on the North-American continent for five years now, and yet the language still takes an effort. He'd been told once, by one of his patients, that she'd been living in France for a time, earning a PhD and running a team of researchers at a medical lab, that a day would come in which he'd find himself dreaming in English, like she had in French, and that would be the day he could consider himself native. Fluent.

It seems to Ilya that day will never arrive.

"Hmm?"

The lighter catches flame.

The silence between them, an awkward, pregnant pause, gets cut harshly as blue, flickering lights wash over them, accompanied by the screaming of the ambulance's sirens. It cuts abruptly as the car swerves, steering expertly up on the driveway. Ahead, the doors of the ER are already opening, the light from the doorway spilling out into the dark morning.

Just beyond, dawn seems to finally stir, but she's drab and gray - dark clouds are gathering and the wind is picking up. Rain is not far off, and for once Ilya is glad for the fluorescent lights he'll spend his day beneath, the harsh whiteness of the walls, the unforgiving linoleum floors beneath his feet. He can practically smell the antiseptics, though it is much preferred to the - by now familiar - smells of urine and feces that also seem to linger in its hallways.

For a moment, Ilya watches as the EMTs throw open the back of the ambulance and start wheeling their patient inside the ER.

"You know, um, smoking? You're supposed to do that over there."

It is the chuckle, its pitch a little higher than the voice and slightly awkward, that makes Ilya finally turn around. The words still feel a little like soup inside his head — a tangled, incomprehensible mess that Ilya has to focus on to even try to make sense of, but the first drag of his cigarette seems to help, settling something deep inside his chest and quieting the anxious jitters in his brain that he refuses to acknowledge.

The sight in front of him seems to help as well.

He's roughly the same height as Ilya is, even though he's huddling into his jacket, ducking his head a little. Dark, silky hair cut too short to suit him properly, but Ilya still finds it oddly adorable.

Big, dark, expressive eyes that stare at him in earnest, expectant.

And, god, the freckles. They're all over the bridge of his nose, spread out generously over the apples of his cheeks, the dark pigments doing nothing to hide the slowly spreading blush.

A sharp jaw, contrasting the soft curves of his plump lips.

Ilya takes another drag. Holds it in, tells himself to react normally.

He knows he's staring, yet he can't seem to help himself. It doesn't help that the rest of the guy seems to be built like a truck — his outfit may be bland, but it's doing nothing to hide the broadness of his shoulders, and then Ilya hasn't even begun to discuss the thighs on him.

The only thing betraying that this is a real-life situation and not some hallucination his brain seems to have cooked up in his sleep-deprived state is that the guy is starting to look a little irritated, flinging his arm out and pointing towards a spot off the premises of the hospital. "There's the designated spot for smokers," he says, looking at Ilya imploringly.

Ilya's gaze follows the curve of the stranger's finger, looks at where he's pointing. He watches the sad small group of people, all of them huddling together beneath something that used to be a shed to keep them dry as the first few drops of rain start to fall.

Ilya's gaze cuts back to the guy in front of him, immediately drawn into the depths of those dark brown eyes. "Okay," he manages to say. He doesn't move.

The stranger — he still hasn't introduced himself, and Ilya is starting to wonder; nurse? doctor? student? EMT? — looks back at him, unblinking, and gives a startled little laugh as it becomes clear this is the most he'll get from Ilya.

"It's just, you know," he starts, hands moving haltingly to try and encompass his meaning, "it looks bad, don't you think? You smoking in clear sight in front of the entrance, while we tell everyone in there, " he gestures towards the building in front of him, and Ilya exhales a tad more obnoxiously than is strictly required, "to quit smoking, right? For health reasons." The sentence trails off a little unsure, and Ilya watches, enraptured, how the blush seems to intensify.

"Okay," he says again. He gives the man another obvious once over and raises his eyebrows. "You are from health department then?"

The man's eyes widen with realization as he starts to shake his head. "Oh, no, not at all. I'm Shane." He holds out his hand for Ilya to shake. "Shane Hollander. ICU. It's, uh, it's my first day, actually." His smile, though minimalist, seems bashful.

Ilya makes a show of putting the cigarette between his teeth, his lips curving into the smile he has been struggling to contain before he reaches out to shake Shane's hand. "Ilya," he says simply, and he can see Shane cataloguing that away, memorizing the name with the face.

His hand is dry and pleasantly warm.

Shane keeps looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting for Ilya to offer up more information, and Ilya cannot resist.

He's in so much trouble.

"Ilya. Rozanov," he says at last, adding his last name as an afterthought. “First day here.” He takes another drag, noting with interest how Shane's eyes seem to linger on his lips, tracking down the column of his throat. "RN. Internal medicine."

"Oh!" That seems to shake Shane out of his revelry, and it makes him take a step back, further from Ilya.

Ilya narrows his eyes. "Is not less."

Shane puts his hands up, eyes wide. "I did not mean to imply —"

"We are just as skilled —"

"I mean, ICU is specialized —"

"You are not better than us —"

Shane sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I really didn't mean anything by it," he says, and it sounds sincere. "I was just surprised to learn you're new here, too. Really, that's all."

Ilya nods. "Good." He takes a final drag before dropping the butt on the ground and grinding it with his foot, killing the embers.

Shane gives him a disapproving look, and for one wild second, Ilya contemplates leaving it on the ground, just to see what he will do.

Dutifully, he bends down to retrieve the burned-up cigarette.

He straightens, and finds himself nose-to-nose with Shane — close enough to feel his breath ghosting over his lips.

Up close, his freckles really are mesmerizing.

The quiet around them seems to intensify, and time simply stops moving. Ilya feels suspended in this moment, caught like a fly in a web. Or, he thinks to himself, more accurately, a moth to a flame — conscious enough to know what he's doing, unable to change his directory, helpless to his destiny.

Shane Hollander, thankfully, seems equally trapped.

"Hey, Roz!"

The moment is broken as a small group of people start making their way up the driveway towards the personnel entrance. Sound seems to come rushing back in as Shane forcefully exhales, moving away from Ilya swiftly.

Ilya tries not to mourn the loss as he identifies Wyatt Hayes walking up the driveway, waving at him excitedly. "Fuck off Hazy, it is too fucking early to be this happy."

"You're absolutely right," Wyatt says, clapping Ilya on the shoulder as he joins the two of them. He's giving Shane a curious look, but Shane is already moving.

"I ah. I'll see you around I guess, Ilya," he says, and doesn't wait for Ilya's reply as he turns away and starts making his way towards the giant doors. Ilya feels a little weak at the broad expanse of those shoulders, the slimness of his waist and the absolute power units that are his thighs. Not to mention the ass on this man. Christ.

"I hope not too much," Ilya says loudly after him, unable to resist being a little bit of a dick.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Shane yells back indignant, turning around.

Ilya feels oddly satisfied. "You are ICU, yes? If I see you it means it is all going to shit."

That actually startles a laugh out of Shane, loud and uncontained. "We're just here to help!" A beat, and then, "You know, when you can't handle it. Give us a call if you need us to hold your hand."

Next to him, Wyatt makes an indignant noise of protest, but Ilya only smirks. "Oh, you got jokes, Hollander! That's good! Remember this when you come to take a patient away from me when I've done all the hard work."

There's no reply, except a small smile that may or may not be on Shane's face as he turns around and starts walking away.

Ilya doesn’t move to the ‘smoker’s shack’, as he so lovingly starts to call it. Instead, he kind of hopes Shane runs into him again, berating him for loitering in front of the entrance. He’d liked the other man, liked his awkward mannerisms and his sincerity. Ilya also liked how he’d looked at him, if he had to be totally honest. He’s not too proud to admit he can be a bit of a peacock.

No such luck for a couple of weeks where he doesn’t run into him at all, and the days seem to stretch again, the dark, drab days of winter slowly making way for the first signs of spring. In those weeks, Ilya slowly but surely finds his place within his new team, getting used to the rhythm of the department, the quirks of the Electronic Patient Dossiers, and the lay-out of the Internal Medicine department. He gets up to speed on his qualifications, bitches his way through his mandatory e-learnings, and charms the pants off the nurse who’s in charge of the CPR training. She’s a blonde with an athletic built, a runner through and through, and she puts that stamina to good use. It’s the first night since moving out of his dorms he hasn’t needed to sleep in his crappy apartment he’d gotten easy and cheap, and as a result is an absolute shithole. So, he’s happy by the temporary upgrade, but he can’t help but be a little disappointed it’s not with someone who has a terrible haircut, black, silky hair and and a constellation of freckles on the apples of his cheeks.

It takes a sunny Tuesday afternoon for Ilya to run into Shane Hollander again. He’s down in the basement, where the uniform dispenser machine is located, and with it one of three men’s dressing rooms. In a field as dominated by women as healthcare, there are dressing rooms for the ladies on every floor of the hospital, but there’s only one men’s dressing room every two floors. Despite working on the fifth floor, Ilya’s stuck with the one in the basement, finding it a bit useless to go up to the fourth, get changed there, and then having to climb another flight of stairs anyway.

So it is a pleasant surprise, when Ilya arrives half an hour early for his shift because he has a meeting with Wiebe about his settling in, the previously empty dressing room suddenly isn’t empty anymore when Shane throws open the door, startling slightly at the sight of Ilya halfway out of his hoodie.

“Oh, hi,” he says, letting the door behind him fall closed before moving towards the bench opposite Ilya. “Ilya Rozanov, was it?”

“Sure,” Ilya shrugs, agreeable enough as he does a half-baked attempt of folding up his sweater. “Shane Hollander, right?” he parrots back teasingly.

“Sure,” Shane echoes back, a small smile on his lips. Ilya watches, with interest, as Shane’s eyes flit towards Ilya’s torso, where his undershirt clings to him, skintight.

Ilya takes the brief window to look back in kind and, yes. He’s definitely as pretty as Ilya has been picturing him those weeks in his mind, trying to recall all the details he’d been trying to look at on a dark Monday morning.

When his eyes manage to unfocus from Shane’s cheeks, he finds that Shane is staring at him, albeit a bit awkwardly. Ilya shrugs, deflecting, and goes back to putting on his uniform. After a second, Ilya hears the rustle of clothing behind him, indicating Shane’s doing the same.

“You’re here early,” Shane says, a curious tilt to his voice. “I don’t think I’ve seen you arrive this early for an evening shift before.”

Oh, so you’ve been keeping an eye on me as well? It’s almost on the tip of his tongue, and he needs to swallow those words back in with considerate difficulty. Instead, he says, “Yeah, uh, I have a meeting, with manager, you know?”

“Right,” Shane says. “You settling in alright?”

“Yes, sure.”

The conversation falls silent again, before Shane, bless him, tries another time. “We start a little earlier,” he says, and when Ilya looks up confused from where he’s storing his shoes, swapping them for his clogs (there’s a wide variety of them — most people stick to a single color, but there are a lot of different designs. Ilya had been hesitant to commit, didn’t want the boring black most of his colleagues seemed to prefer, and had nearly bought bright golden ones until he’d stumbled on his current pair, dark grey in colour with hundreds of tiny dachshunds on them), Shane elaborates. “That’s why I’m here earlier, and I assume you always come in right on the edge, right? I tend to be a little early in general, but yeah, we start fifteen minutes earlier. Two thirty, instead of two forty-five.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, pretending like it’s idle conversation, but storing the knowledge for next time. Looks like he’s going to be half an hour early now on principle.

Ilya’s done changing and grabs his bag, but finds himself stalling as he watches Shane meticulously fold his clothing into a small, neat pile, before putting them in his bag and taking them with him. Curious man. Ilya is slightly obsessed.

He lingers near the door, hand hovering over the handle of the door, watching Shane shove a couple of pens down his breast pocket.

“So,” he says, as Shane turns to look at him, and Ilya shoves the door open like he wasn’t watching at all. “Did you have fun last night?”

Shane gives him a confused look. “Last night?”

“Yes, last night,” Ilya repeats, moving up the stairs towards the central halls, where he starts jamming the elevator button rapidly. “Did you go out, meet anyone?”

“Uh, no,” Shane says sheepishly, though he’s starting to look pointedly at where Ilya is still jamming the button, probably hoping the damn elevators will show up sooner. They never do. “I stayed at home, watching the hockey game.”

“Hockey!” Ilya perks up. Finally, some common fucking ground. “What team? I try follow the KHL, but, between you and me, NHL is much more fun to keep track of.”

Shane gives him a disbelieving, delighted look. “Hockey fan? Raised to root for the Voyageurs myself, but from a hometown perspective; go Cens!”

At that, Ilya can’t help but pull a face. “You got lucky, last night,” he accuses, and he watches as Shane’s eyes go comically wide.

“Oh, fuck off. You’re not a Bears fan, are you really?”

“At least my team knows how to play actual hockey! I don’t know what Montreal thought they were doing, but it is clear they have never set foot on ice before.”

“Oh, you did not just say that,” Shane says heatedly, as they both step into the elevator once it’s vacated. There’s a delighted glint in his eyes as he ribs into Ilya. “Whose team was it that racked up an astonishing penalty time of 46 minutes? Oh, that’s right, Boston. Besides, we won the Cup like, last year!”

“Charity case,” Ilya quips immediately, to which Shane actually, genuinely chokes.

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov!”

Ilya laughs as the doors slide open with a ding, waving Shane out. “Well, you know where I am, if you decide to learn and appreciate good hockey anytime soon. We’ll talk more then, yes?”

Shane flips him off as he walks away, leaving Ilya behind laughing silently to himself.

Knowing that Shane is, without fault, half an hour early, makes Ilya’s life a lot easier. Though the sad part may be that he doesn’t particularly mind being there early himself — it does give him a bit of room to have a smoke before his shifts, a lot more pleasant now that the weather’s slowly but surely clearing up, and next to that, it is nice to have a bit more time to dive into his patients’ files, making him feel a little more prepared for his shifts.

Usually, he stands in his custom spot, tapping a cigarette against his lighter until he can see Shane making his way off the parking lot, at which point he lights it and waits for Shane’s adorable yet judgy stare. He’ll nod sagely along to whatever Shane’s prepared speech this time is, though its message is always the same — smoking is bad for him and will eventually kill him. After that, Shane will linger anyway, and before long the two of them are deep into another discussion about hockey. At this time it’s nearly the only point of conversation that seems safe, but Ilya doesn’t mind it. He actually likes teasing Shane about his abysmal taste in teams, and he seems knowledgeable about stuff that goes beyond what just a regular fan would know.

No, if Ilya had to wager on it, he’d bet that Shane Hollander has some experience on the ice himself beneath his belt, just like he has. And if Ilya’s not mistaken, Shane’s appraising looks tells him Shane is coming to the same conclusion regarding him.

It is entirely by accident they start to look out for one another during lunch breaks, too. The department usually makes it a rule to send its personnel off the work floor for their lunch break, away from patients and doctors alike so you can’t be bothered during your break. Pagers are handed in, too, along with the department phones that resemble the good-old fashioned Nokias from the ‘90s.

There is a buddy system in place — the lunch breaks are divided in two, and are divided among current staff at the start of their shift. Usually, Ilya tries to get the first shift, having his first coffee break around nine, and his lunch break (although abysmally early) around a quarter past twelve. At twelve, Ilya makes sure he’s seen all his patients, handed out their meds, hooked up the required IV drips and is waiting on his section buddy — today, it’s Cait — to find him for the temporary transfer of his patients while he’s off the department (“No, they’re fine, I gave them all their meds, the antibiotics are hooked up and should be fine. If it’s no emergency, they can wait. Except room 27 bed three; if he calls, run.”).

The cafeteria is on the first floor, and beyond it is a hovering deck over the open-plan hallway that functions as a seating-area for the restaurant. Patients and personnel mingle, and between the hours of 12 and 2 it is a rowdy place. There are both big tables with a lot of chairs available, and small two-seaters. Ilya’s group is big enough to square off a section of one of the big tables, sharing it with the crew from the OR, who’re all in their blue, OR-approved scrubs and hairnets.

There’s a wide variety at the cafeteria. There are freshly baked buns, a salad bar, and usually two to three different kinds of soups. There’s a cooler section where fresh smoothies, along with several juices are on display, and next to that, the line chefs hand out two different kind of meals, most of the time the same dish, but one of them is a vegetarian option. As Ilya wanders by to observe what kind of food they have today — some quinoa dish that sounds absolutely inedible to Ilya’s ears — he notices a familiar face. “Hollander!”

Shane glances over his shoulder, recognizes Ilya and gives him a friendly nod. “Rozanov.”

“Can you even believe it?” Ilya opens the conversation.

“The Cens winning against New Jersey?” Shane replies, at the same time that Ilya continues, “Not even any real food served today!”

Shane gives him an unimpressed look, while the chef within ear shot scoffs loudly, muttering about Hospital Policy and its newest invention: healthy, plant-based meals.

“Ah, that too,” Ilya nods to Shane, following closely as Shane makes his way towards the salad bar instead of waiting on the quinoa. “I was impressed - there actually were defensemen on the ice! Well, for two pairings anyway, not worth mentioning the third.”

Shane snorts as he fills up a bowl, stepping aside for Ilya to do the same, who shakes his head, holding up his own tray with soup and a BLT sandwich. Shane rolls his eyes at him, making Ilya squint in return. “If they keep it up, I might actually consider rooting for them full time, instead of Montreal,” Shane continues, joking.

“Would be upgrade,” Ilya mutters softly, but intentionally still loud enough that Shane picks up on it, who punches him in the shoulder. “Ow! That’s assault! Now I must go to the ER!”

“You’re such a baby sometimes,” Shane deadpans, though he’s barely managing to suppress his amused grin.

“And you are very mean,” Ilya grouches back, as they make their way towards the cashiers.

This has become a new thing between them, since the last couple of weeks. Though they still give each other shit for their initial pick in supporting teams (the Voyageurs vs Bears rivalry is very famous for a reason), they’ve come to an unspoken understanding that they both will root for the Ottawa Centaurs, however painful that is most of the time. Something about finding common ground, plus rooting for their home teams. It makes sense for Shane Hollander most of all, who’s Ottawa born and raised, though his mother had raised him on Voyageur games. And while Ilya picked Boston because he likes their style — fast and slightly aggressive — and it was at the Garden that he attended his very first NHL game, courtesy of Sveta, he’s been an Ottawa resident ever since he managed to get a hold of the short term visa especially for healthcare students. He’d come to find he actually liked Canada— its stability and more progressive political climate, to be totally honest here — enough to make this a home base for the next couple of years at least. Sure, there are his ties to Russia, but they are feeble enough that, hopefully, he won’t have to go back someday. In the long term, he might be hoping to turn his current post-graduate work permit into a permanent residency visa.

That’s a dream, however, he’s not willing to look to closely at right now.

“I don’t usually see you down here,” Ilya says, as he waits on Shane to make it out of the queue.

“Oh, no. We usually eat upstairs, and most days I bring my own lunch, but it turns out I was quite out of ingredients — Wednesday is usually my free day, and that’s when I do my groceries, but I filled in an extra shift last Wednesday, and so I didn’t manage to go to the grocery store I like, it’s one of those organic stores?, and, well —” he grimaces, blinking at Ilya, who looks back at him with raised eyebrows. “Anyway, thought I’d buy myself lunch.”

“Okay,” Ilya says eventually, because what else can he say to that.

“Right,” Shane says, and he actually deflates a little and Christ. What is happening here?

Before Ilya can even begin to think about it, he blurts out, “So, do you want to join me during lunch?”

They stop moving, just at the edge of the seating area. Shane gives him an unreadable look, eyes flitting over Ilya’s face. “Why?” he asks, after several seconds.

Immediately, Ilya rolls his eyes, deflecting. “Is just a question, relax.”

“No, I mean… Don’t you sit with your team?”

“Ah, no. I usually go outside,” Ilya says, and he digs his pack out of his pocket and holds it up, making his meaning clear.

“I don’t smoke,” Shane points out, apparently committed to making Ilya actually say it.

“My god Hollander I know, you are so boring. Next you tell me you are a vegetarian or something. Worse, vegan.” (“No, I’m not vegan,” Shane mutters quietly, which basically confirms Ilya’s point on him being vegetarian.) “Look, it’s just lunch. Come outside, don’t come outside. I don’t care.”

Shane gives him another long, searching look, but then his face clears and Ilya’s convinced he’s going to say yes.

Except that his pager goes off, and Shane’s eyes drift away from his face, checking the call. “Shit, sorry, Rozanov. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

“Sure,” Ilya mutters as he watches Shane stalk away. “A rain check it is.”

It is nearly a week after that when Ilya, lunchbox secured tightly beneath his armpit and on his way towards the exit, hears his name being called. “Rozanov!”

Behind him, the doors of one of the elevators slide open, and among the throng of people stepping out is the familiar face of Shane, his own lunchbox — boring, plain black, unadorned, a stark opposite of Ilya’s hot pink, bedazzled with numerous, faded stickers of memes and bands and a wide variety of dogs — held tightly between his hands. Ilya decides to be kind and waits as Shane beelines for him, a small, private smile gracing his face.

“How about that rain check?” he asks as he catches up to Ilya.

In truth, Ilya had thought that Shane had used last time as a permanent escape, clearly not as interested in Ilya as Ilya is in Shane. Or so he’d wrongfully assumed. He must have some kind of wondering look on his face, because Shane blinks at him, turning a little bashful. “I mean, if the offer still stands, of course? I don’t mean to impose.”

“Of course not, no. You’re welcome to join, if you want,” Ilya says, aiming for casual but coming across a little brash, which he mentally kicks himself for. He doesn’t want to scare Shane off.

“Okay,” is all Shane says, though, and his eyes crinkle a little at the corners from the small, grateful smile he sends Ilya, so Ilya turns on his heel and leads the way out.

Outside, the sun is out in full force, and there are a couple of birds sitting in the trees on the property. It smells like fresh cut grass, and Ilya slows his step as the sun hits his face, angling his face up and taking a deep breath. Spring, it seems, is finally here, and Ilya’s missed it like a dear friend. He never did too well in the winter, the long, dark days taking a toll on his mental state, and especially the night shifts tend to fuck with him then, those days spend without seeing any sunlight at all.

Next to him, Shane sighs deeply. “Ah, finally some sunlight. I was getting sick of the rain.”

Ilya hums his agreement, then makes for the few picnic tables that stand in the patch of grass to the right of the hospital. There are also some trees planted, providing some shade. He heads for the great oak one, forgoing the tables and sits down at its root, leaning back against the bark as he unwraps his lunch, some home-made wraps with chicken, veggies and a creamy cheese spread. He’s already a bite in before Shane sits down next to him, albeit a bit awkwardly, and takes a few moments to find a decent spot to lean back against. His container seems to be some rice dish that smells divine, and Ilya gives it a curious peek. “Smells delicious.”

“Hm? Oh, thanks, it’s my dad’s recipe. My mom can’t cook.” He raises his chopsticks, playing around with bits of salmon littered through the rice.

There are a few bites before Ilya manages to reply. “My mom was an amazing cook,” he offers, and he knows that Shane notices the way he used the past tense, because looks at Ilya sympathetically.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Hmh,” Ilya nods. “Right around this time, normally, we would celebrate Maslenitsa - it’s a festival to welcome spring? And during that week, we would eat blinis every single day. I can make them myself — they’re basically little pancakes, it’s not that hard, but it doesn’t taste the same.” He smiles down at his lunchbox, lost in memory.

“Pancakes?” Shane asks.

“Hm, yes. Served with melted butter, of course. Oh, and my mom’s pelmeni were to die for; those were special, as they took a long time to make. They were a New Year’s treat — no New Year’s party is complete if you don’t have pelmeni.”

Shane hums, taking a bite of his rice. “And what are those? Pelmenis?” He is careful to pronounce it, trying to mimic Ilya.

“Dumplings, essentially, filled with ground meat,” Ilya replies. “My brother and I used to help make them, the eve before New Years’. Lyosha — Alexei, I mean — used to bitch about it, but I loved helping her out — usually, we were ordered to stay out of the kitchen, it would drive her mad if either of us ran around her legs as she was working. But pelmeni? That was special, and so, yeah.”

He sighs, blinking rapidly against the wave of longing, missing her. It’s been twelve, nearly thirteen years, but he still misses her fiercely, especially when reminiscing like this.

Shane moves, gently knocking his shoulder into Ilya’s. “That sounds amazing,” he says softly.

“Yes, well.” Ilya stretches, settling himself more firmly against the tree and takes a big bite out of his second wrap. He doesn’t follow up on it, instead lets a silence settle between them as both men make quick work of the rest of their lunch.

“Why today?” Ilya can’t help but ask, as he fishes a cigarette out of his pack, tapping it thoughtfully against his lighter for a couple of times while Shane gives him a disapproving look.

“What do you mean?”

Ilya gestures at him, eyebrows raised. “Why are you here? Now? Today?”

“You invited me to lunch,” Shane says, going into defense. “But, uhm. I don’t know, actually. I thought it could be nice.” He uses his chopsticks to gather the leftover grains of rice, collecting them in a corner before scooping them up. “It’s just — the sun’s out, and this shift isn’t going great, and the crew on shift today I get along fine with, but they’re not exactly friends, and I figured that you might be going outside, and the thought of that, well.” He grimaces, shaking his shoulders a little in a small shrug. “I just thought I could use a break. A real one, even. See, I even left my pager behind.”

“How did you even know I was on this lunch rotation?” Ilya asks, as Shane eats the last of his rice and then checks the time on his phone with a sigh.

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, looking back at him.

“Well, we usually divide lunch breaks between two shifts, so to speak. So there’s always someone left behind for the patients. Why, are you telling me you guys don’t do that?”

“No, we don’t do that,” Shane replies, looking a little confused. It is adorable. “I mean, we just try to gun for a general lunch break between twelve and twelve-thirty. We always eat in the nurse station anyway, and the rooms have cameras installed in them, so we can monitor patients from there. If someone is busy, they might eat a little later or by themselves, but most of the time we just need to be flexible enough to just — eat when we can, I guess.”

“But what about being on an actual break?” Ilya asks, equally confounded. “Like, right now? Smoke breaks? Going outside?”

Shane pulls a face. “If people want to go out for a smoke you can always ask your patient gets covered for a few minutes, sure. But overall we all take care of the patients, we all help each other out. But I don’t smoke, and I don’t mind spending my lunch breaks, or dinner breaks for that matter, keeping an eye on the beds. Helps to keep me sharp, I suppose.”

Ilya just hums thoughtfully. He doesn't necessarily agree to that system — while he does think it is a bit of a hassle to have to spend his lunch away from his department and thus his patients, he does appreciate he cannot be bothered by work-related stuff while he’s on his actual break. He can spend his smoke break daydreaming, or scouring the internet for very specific Russian memes from his childhood that he can bother Sveta with. “Okay,” he says eventually, sounding skeptical to his own ears. “Whatever you say.”

Shane doesn't reply to that either, and they sit for a few minutes more in a silence that isn't actually awkward, but isn't not awkward either. It makes Ilya’s nose itch, and so he sniffles as he contemplates actually lighten the cigarette he’s been toying with instead of smoking.

“What rotation are you on?” Shane asks, breaking the silence. He doesn't look at him, though, instead stubbornly choosing to keep his eyes closed as he leans back against the bark. “For the lunch break,” he clarifies a bit unnecessarily.

“First,” Ilya replies, a little mystified. “I usually try to get the first rotation — I usually skip breakfast —” Shane sends him a disapproving look, and Ilya steadfastly ignores it, “so I try to be in the first group, so I can drink my caffeine and get some food into me before I pass out,” he jokes.

“Oh, okay.” Shane casts another look at his phone screen and sighs at the time. “Fuck, I should go back.”

Ilya hums. “Yes, me too.”

Both men get back on their feet and silently start walking back into the building. Ilya tries to stuff his cigarette back in the pack without Shane noticing, but by the satisfied smirk on the other man’s face, he isn’t very successful.

There’s a small crowd waiting in the main hall, all looking at the elevators with impatience. Shane eyes the group of people and then turns to Ilya.

“I’m walking - I can't stand crowded elevators. But, uhm. This was — nice?”

Ilya smirks at him. “Of course, I am nice. Let’s do this again, Shane. Make sure you have a real break every once in a while.”

Shane flushes a little at that, cheeks darkening. He seems to contemplate saying something, but then shakes his head, a small, private smile sent at Ilya instead. “Sure. I’ll see you around, Ilya.”

Ilya watches him go, jogging up the stairs like it's nothing. The elevator pings, the doors sliding open, and Ilya sighs as he squeezes himself into the confined space with a dozen other people, punching the little ‘5’ button as he passes.

If he makes sure he’s on the first lunch rotation for the following weeks, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

Chapter End Notes

Andddd we're off! I'm so excited! Let me know what you guys think, and have fun! It's going to be a wild ride!

Additionally, here's an easy three-step plan to befriend a nurse:
1) Make sure you've got a pen. Check if it works
2) Offer said pen to the nurse in question
3) Profit

Chapter 2: 2. while you stand clear

Chapter Summary

Ilya raises the phone to his ear and dials Kent again, but the call goes unanswered.

“Okay, fuck you,” Ilya spits to no one in particular, and then he dials the number of the ICU.

“Shane of the intensive care unit, how can I help you?” a familiar voice asks as the call connects, and Ilya has never before experienced such a profound feeling of relief.

“Shane,” Ilya says, surprised, but there must be something urgent in his tone that betrays how he feels, how much hung out to dry he is.

“Ilya!” Shane replies, and then he surprises Ilya by saying, “You sound like you could use a hand. We’re on our way.”

Chapter Notes

So this is where it gets a bit whimsical and a suspend of disbelief is required <3

Ilya has been — not exactly a nurse, since he’d gotten his diploma only two years ago, but working in healthcare for six years now. When he’d been forced to choose a career path, instead of becoming the professional hockey player he’d always dreamed he’d be, he’d picked a career that had a guaranteed a line of work, and which would get him a permit to remain in Canada fairly easily. There were benefits to the nursing program, even if it didn’t appeal to him at all at first. He’d never suspected to lose his heart to it the way he has.

Even though he’d discovered quickly he had a knack for it, and he’s gaining more and more experience with each passing day, he never gets used to the rush of adrenaline this work can provide. Sometimes it’s in the busyness of the shift, the ones where you barely have any time to sit down, the adrenaline a pleasant buzz beneath his skin that keeps him going, that has him bouncing between his patients and his battle against time, the hours rushing by too fast for him to keep up. And sometimes, though more rare, it’s the instant adrenaline when a patient crashes and a code blue is called, the kind that makes you hot all over, makes you break out a sweat and makes time pass like a blur as you try to keep your patient alive with your bare hands. Ilya had been drawn like a moth to the flame of the Internal Medicine department — often described as the busiest department, up there with the surgical department, where a lot of unstable patients end up, and thus a high percentage of acute care is being given, the kind that makes Ilya’s heart beat happily in his chest.

Sometimes, though, it makes him utterly miserable.

Tonight is one of those nights. When Sophie had found him for her patient handover, already ten minutes late, his poor colleague had looked near-crying and had looked him dead in the eye and had said: “It’s so fucking bad. I don’t have time to hand him over to you here, can you follow me for a transfer by the bed?”

It’s the beginning of the end. Sophie explains her case, an elderly man with pneumonia who has gone septic, but who also has increased cardiac workload and thus is barely hanging on. The antibiotics had been started that morning, administered intermittently throughout the day, but his cardiac status meant that he shouldn’t be administered a lot of fluids, in case his heart couldn’t handle the increased pressure. And so his fever has been burning up all day, his pulse becoming irregular and his heart rate increased, and his blood pressure is steadily dropping. He hasn’t produced any urine since that morning.

“Please tell me there’s a DNR order on his file,” Ilya groans, as he copies down the last of Sophie’s notes, eyeing the MEWS score of 8 (Modified Early Warning Score, anything above a score of 3 needs to be reported to the physisians on duty), and climbing with each repeating test, with increasing dread.

Sophie scoffs. “Of course not. The full works, Ilya. I tried to argue it this morning, and the doctor agreed with me, but didn’t dare to argue against the patient’s and his family’s wishes, and well. Here we are.” She gestures at Mr. Neyek, who lies in his bed with his face as white as the sheets covering him, shivering and unresponsive. And while it is still visiting hours, there’s no one here. Typical, Ilya thinks. They interfere with medical treatment but can’t even be bothered to actually show up.

Instead, he says, “Fuck.”

“Yes.”

“Did you try to get a DNR based on medical grounds? There’s enough reason to go for that, based on all this,” he says, gesturing at Mr. Neyek not unlike Sophie did moments ago.

The look she levels him with tells him everything he needs to know. “The PA wouldn’t go for that either, scared to get a complaint and then get sued if he passes.”

“There’s no way he’s going to pull through,” Ilya mutters quietly, but Sophie hears him and hums in agreement.

“Yes, well. Best thing you can hope for is that he’ll manage to hang on ‘til tomorrow morning, when it’s Monday and the internist himself is actually here to throw his weight against all this stupidity. I sincerely hope you don’t have to climb on top of him, Ilya.”

Ilya runs a hand down his face. “I really fucking hope so too,” he says, resigned. “Who’s on call tonight?”

Something complicated crosses Sophie’s face, her brown eyes looking at him empathetically. “I don’t know him, but from what I’ve heard he’s one of the new guys. Which could mean a couple of things, but I don’t think he’ll do you any good tonight. I hope I am wrong, though,” she says kindly. “But just in case, I suggest you pair up with Mathilde tonight and explain that you’ll be busy here — if you’re lucky, you’ll get out of this room at all. God knows I’ve been here practically since eight this morning, and so I hope you don’t have any questions regarding my other patients, because I’ve barely seen them.”

He lets her go then, ushering her out of the room and then out of the station, lying when he promises her to give her a call if he still has any questions. She’s clearly at her wit’s end, in desperate need of some rest, and Ilya’s not going to jeopardise that.

He updates his coworkers of the evening shift on his unstable patient, emphasizing that they don’t ignore the Code Blue when he triggers it. Mathilde immediately offers to read up on his other patients, just in case his hands are tied and he can’t leave Mr. Neyek’s side, which he’s grateful for. He hopes with all his being it doesn’t come to that, even hopefully thinks he might stabilize him enough for the night shift if he’s lucky.

He’s not lucky. In fact, he suspects he is the unluckiest bastard in the hospital tonight.

For the first two hours, Mr. Neyek remains as he is: atrociously bad but stable. It gives Ilya enough time to take care of his first round, greeting his patients and taking care of the necessary care he needs to provide. After that, he gets worse — Ilya sees it in the way his heart rate spikes and how his breath is coming in short, quick bursts, a lot of effort visible as he’s basically gasping for air. The Physisian Assistent on duty, some guy named Dallas Kent, immediately makes it into Ilya’s black book by pushing away his calls, the line immediately going dead.

Fortunately for Ilya, he knows what he can do, and so he sets to work, repeating monitoring the vitals, inserting a catheter with an urimeter so he can monitor each drop of urine that leaves his body (Sophie had apologised endlessly for the lack of Foley at the beginning of Ilya’s shift, but the PA hadn’t given her a green light to insert one, and Ilya is simply chosing to ignore this bit of information), repeats the antibiotics that were prescribed, gets wet towels and wash cloths to cool Mr. Neyek with, trying to bring down his fever.

When Kent eventually decides to show up, it’s long past dinnertime and he’s nearing his wit’s end. “You called?” is how he is greeted, and immediately Ilya knows he’s not going to get anywhere with this guy — he’s new and, unfortunately, one of the cocky ones, the ones who think that their degree immediately means they’re above the nursing staff, disregarding their experience and observations.

He listens, dispassionately, as Ilya presents Mr. Neyek, shrugs a little and gives him a treatment planthat’s so half-baked Ilya wants to scream and rip out his own hair.

“Do you want me to call the ICU?” Ilya suggests, after twenty minutes of arguing about the merits of treatment.

“Absolutely not,” Kent says, frowning at him. “He’s good enough to remain here, just give him a slow bolus and we’ll see from there.”

“We might overfill him,” Ilya points out for the fourth time. “His heart might not survive it.”

“He’s underfilled, look at his BP. It’ll be fine,” Kent dismisses. “Just, 500cc of saline in an hour instead of thirty minutes, and vitals check every hour. Only call me when they get worse — if he’s stable, we’ll continue treatment.”

“I can’t work with this policy,” Ilya grinds out, frustration leaking from his every pore. He chances a glance at the clock — already past eight thirty. He’s not even hungry anymore. “Besides, vitals check every hour is, in fact, an ICU indication. I want them involved.”

The argument goes unresolved as Kent gets called by the ER and he begs off, half-assed apologies flung at Ilya as he leaves.

Ilya rushes through his other patients, grateful to find that Mathilde had been true to her word and keeping an eye on them, and she joins him just as he circles back to Mr. Neyek.

The two of them start working on him again, measuring his vitals, checking his urine production, trying to cool him, lining up another IV drip and praying it won’t kill him. His patient, meanwhile, is only presenting worse, and Ilya can feel the hopelessness creeping in, the knowledge that he’s been here since four pm, getting nowhere, and that this patient is going to die beneath his hands, is going to slip out and there’s nothing he can do at this point, except perform CPR that will do nothing but be miserable for all parties involved.

“I’m getting us more help,” Mathilde mutters, eyeing the bed worriedly, and she dashes, turning down the halls to find their other coworkers. Ilya raises the phone to his ear and dials Kent again, but the call goes unanswered.

“Okay, fuck you,” Ilya spits to no one in particular, and then he dials the number of the ICU.

“Shane of the intensive care unit, how can I help you?” a familiar voice asks as the call connects, and Ilya has never before experienced such a profound feeling of relief.

“Shane,” Ilya says, surprised, but there must be something urgent in his tone that betrays how he feels, how much hung out to dry he is.

“Ilya!” Shane replies, and then he surprises Ilya by saying, “You sound like you could use a hand. We’re on our way.”

The line disconnects, and Ilya’s left trying to swallow past the sudden lump stuck in his throat.

Mathilde comes back in, Zane Boodram and Nick Chouinard close on her heels. “I’ve brought reinforcements. Could you reach the doctor?”

“No, of course not,” Ilya scoffs. “But I called the ICU. They’re on their way to help.”

Zane nods at him in approval. “Good, go over their heads when they’re being dicks like this. I don’t think we’re needed here then, though, so Nick and I will go see your other patients.”

By the time Ilya has transferred all his patients’ info to his coworkers, the intervention team steps into the room, Shane Hollander leading the charge. Behind him follows in Hayden Pike, a nurse who, in Ilya’s professional opinion, has no business working on the ICU, but here he is regardless. Not that he’s a bad nurse, but he’s clearly more a L&D nurse, from what Ilya’s seen of him. He’s not going to tell him that, though, instead is content enough to just tease him endlessly about bad career choices.

Behind the two nurses follows the ICU attending, an elderly gentleman with greying hair that’s thinning along his forehead, fine, black spectacles from which peer two kind eyes. “Hi, I’m Terry, the attending tonight. Shane said you wanted us to consult?”

Shane and Hayden take over from there, talking quietly among themselves and assisted by Mathilde, while Ilya presents his patient. Terry’s lips thin into a tight, straight line the further Ilya gets, from the full code to the utter disregard by the attending doctor tonight.

It takes a while still, but eventually Terry, who steps out to call Mr. Neyek’s family, explains he’s ordering a DNR based on medical history, and asks them to come in considering the patient’s deteriorating condition. He’s also paged Kent himself, but he’s yet to show. The disapproving yet sympathetic looks he sends Ilya about the whole situation is enough gratification to make Ilya feel slightly better about the entire evening.

“We’re writing this case down for the moral case deliberation,” Terry tells him, as he eyes the poor man wasting away in the hospital bed. “You did everything you could, Ilya, but we’re not going to take him to the ICU. I will have a strong word with your attending the minute he shows up, and strongly suggest we’re going to start palliative care. That also concludes us - I should head back to the ICU and keep an eye on the ER. It’s promising to be a busy night.”

“If it’s alright with you, Terry, we’d like to stay and help,” Shane says, after exchanging a quiet word with Hayden, who looks — not exactly thrilled, but resigned by Shane’s argument. Shane’s eyes flit to Ilya’s for a second, before moving back to Terry, a determined look on his face. “It’s already eleven, shift’s over and I think it would be appreciated by the night shift here if we at least manage to clean up a little.”

“We’d appreciate it,” Mathilde says, relief written all over her face, enough gratitude to save Ilya from answering.

Terry nods his approval and takes his leave, and the four nurses set to work. Shane and Ilya work closely side by side, and it is — nice. Comforting, even, in the steadiness that Shane brings to the room, the quiet control. The four of them clean up Mr. Neyek, who’s lost consciousness a while ago, eyes sunken into his face, his lips already turning blue. He’d soiled himself, so they take their time cleaning him, putting him in a clean gown, cleaning the sheets beneath him as well. They take out the IV, put in a morphine drip that immediately improves the way he breathes, less laborious, less gasping.

Zane and Nick come in to check around 11.30pm, ensuring Ilya they’ve taken care of all his other patients, already presented to the night shift as well. They help clean up the room as well, the empty wrappers littered all over the floor, the dirty bedding disregarded in the corner.

“You guys go on home, if you like,” Ilya tells the room at large, tiredness settling heavily over his bones.

Zane scoffs. “Fuck no, dude. You haven’t even eaten anything tonight. All of us are going to clean up and wait for one another, and you are now going to find the night shift and hand over this patient, and after that, we’re all, yes, including you two,” he points viciously at Shane and Hayden, “going out for something to drink and eat.”

“Fuck yeah,” Nick says. “I’d kill for some proper caffeine.”

The two ICU nurses exchange a glance. Hayden smiles. “Sounds great. I have to call Jackie though, see if she’s okay with me being even later than I already am. She’s pregnant,” he says, turning to the other nurses to explain.

“Congrats man,” Zane nods. “Ilya, you’re not getting out of this one. You need to eat something, and I don’t trust you enough to fix something for yourself when you get home, instead of going straight to bed.”

“What,” Ilya deadpans, slightly offended, but he knows that deep down, Zane isn’t wrong. The tiredness that washes over him isn’t just from this shift alone — it’s the type that lingers in his periphery and threatens to swallow him whole. It’s the kind that make the days turn bleak, and makes Ilya want to stay in his bed and never crawl out.

He doesn’t immediately notice Shane looking at him, until he asks, quietly, “You really skipped dinner?”

“Yes, he did,” Nick says.

Shane purses his lips disapprovingly, then sighs, gathering himself before he nods. “Okay, alright. I could go for a tea or something, too.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him, disbelieving. Shane allows a second of eye contact, flushing a little as they stare at one another, and then promptly looks away.

“What are you guys still doing here?” Jake Boyle asks, eyeing the group huddled together in the small room. There’s a tiny flashlight hanging from his pocket, shining brightly, and he’s already wearing a vest against the chill. “Get the fuck home? It’s past midnight and I would like to start my rounds. Ilya, can we talk about Mr. Neyek here for a second?”

Ilya nods. “Sure.” He stays behind as the gaggle of nurses finally departs the room, talking softly among themselves.

Shane passes by and gives him a small, barely perceivable smile. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Ilya sounds tired even to his own ears as he gets Boyle up to date on the last one-and-a-half hours — Ilya barely had time to chart, and his chart is severely lacking details. Boyle, being Boyle, just nods, going over his notes and adjusting where he needs to. “Nah, dude, don’t worry about it. You’re gonna go eat and then go home, I’ll chart for you. I’ve seen him now, and I’m waiting on his family, so I’m going to call — Terry, you said? — anyway so I’ll get an official chart from him as well. It’s all good and not your concern. You’ve got the day off tomorrow, right?” he asks, imploringly looking at Ilya, who nods. “Good. So, tomorrow, you’re not going to check on anything work related, and you’re going to take care of yourself and lie on the couch and watch shitty TV or something, and when you come in for your next shift in a couple of days, then you’re going to go straight to Wiebe and discuss tonight, because the way you’ve been left to hang out to dry is not fucking okay, okay, Ilya?”

“Sure,” Ilya says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Whatever it takes to get him out of this conversation and all this misplaced concern. He’s fine. It was a shitty situation, but he fixed it and he’s fine. And while the idea of lounging on the couch and binging GBBO sounds heavenly, Ilya knows that in reality, he’s lucky if he manages to get out of bed at all. He’d rather die than admit that out loud.

He’s half hoping the promise of going out has already been dismantled and that there’s no one waiting for him as he gets out of the locker room and makes his way up out of the subterranean floor, or ‘the basement’ as he loves to refer to it. The weight of the world is dragging him down, the edges dulled, the colors drained. He’s tired, wishes to go to sleep and it would be ideal if he didn’t have to wake up for a day or two.

Sometimes, deep, deep down, he wishes he didn’t have to wake up at all.

The cacophony of people talking floats up to meet him as he climbs the stairs, his steps heavy and taking too much effort. He ignores the small group politely waiting on him as he heads for the clothing tube, throwing down his uniform.

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, before squaring his shoulders, getting himself together before turning to face the group like he’s facing a firing squad.

He shouldn’t think like that, he scolds himself. They’re his coworkers who’ve, over the years since his uni days, become his friends by constantly making an effort with him. He’s grateful for them, making his life here less lonely and actually making sure he has a life outside of these brick walls and fluorescent lights. He should be grateful that they’re making sure now, after a shift from hell, to take him out and get him something to eat, even if he technically can’t afford it. Even if it is the last thing he wants to do.

“So,” he says, instead of whatever is floating through his mind. “Did we decide on a place yet?”

Zane and Nick and Hayden immediately start arguing (again, it looks like), while Mathilde rolls her eyes. “Yes, well, I’m opting out, I’m being picked up.” She turns to Ilya and smirks. “Darling, this was another fucking delight. I can’t wait to be paired with you again. It is always such a blast.”

While her tone might be cutting in its sarcasm, he knows she doesn’t mean it personally, and she’s actually sincere. In truth, they work very well together, and they usually seek each other out if they notice they’re on the same shift — sometimes it just clicks like that with a colleague, and it’s comforting to know you have someone with you who knows your work ethic and can answer it in kind. Mathilde and him work like clockwork, seamless and effortless, thick as thieves. The department knows they’re a force to be reckoned with when they team up, and they pride themselves on getting shit done.

So he sounds entirely too soft when he says, “I look forward to it,” even if he smirks to mask his relief in having her by his side this evening.

She catches it, because of course she does, and she smiles softly back at him. “Don’t forget! This Saturday, Ilya! No excuses!” she says, pointing at him threateningly as she makes her escape. “Food and cocktails!”

“Yes, yes, I didn’t forget!” he says, rolling his eyes as she waves at him, making her way towards the front entrance, where he knows her girlfriend is probably waiting on her. Mathilde had been bothering him to introduce the two of them, had been teasingly referring to their dinner plans as a date, so when the words “It’s a date,” leave his mouth, he doesn’t stop and think about what it might imply.

Next to him, a sharp exhale of breath, and when Ilya turns, he finds Shane looking at him, a burning intensity on his face that he immediately smooths out into a carefully blank expression. Was that jealousy? Ilya wonders, and then quickly disregards the notion. Surely it wasn’t.

(But if it was, it was the hottest fucking expression he’s ever seen on Shane’s face, and it is unfortunate that Ilya isn’t a better man who won’t try to get that look directed at him more often.)

“Right, have you two lovebirds said your goodbyes?” Zane asks, rolling his eyes, familiar with their antics. Something hot spreads through Ilya’s sternum as that flash of, yes, definitely jealousy, flashes through Shane’s eyes, hot and bright and so angry, gone quick enough that Ilya had missed it completely if hadn’t been looking at Shane in the first place.

Interesting.

The vibe he’d been picking up that he’d been telling himself wasn’t real seems more real by the minute.

“We decided on a steakhouse,” Hayden says, to which both Nick and Zane finally nod in agreement.

Shane is still looking at Ilya. He looks seconds away from bailing after all, so Ilya says, “Sure, sounds great! I could kill for some chicken tenders.” His eyebrow flicks up, a challenge in them as he stares back at Shane. Despite feeling low on, well, everything, he is quite hungry, and needling Shane a little while they go out and have a bite might be the only incentive for Ilya to go through with this.

“I — okay. Fine.” He sighs and then averts his gaze, looking at Hayden with a look of exasperation. “Can we prevent it becoming like, three am though? Since you’re my ride.”

And, oh, funny how jealousy is a beast that rears its ugly head indiscriminately.

It does spur the men into action, though, and so Ilya finds himself catching a ride with Nick and Zane as they follow Hayden’s compact family car down the street. Apparently there, miraculously, is a steak house that is quite good (according to Bood, for who food is an amateuristic hobby), and has an open kitchen until 3am on weekends, including Sundays.

It is even more surprising they’re not the only ones in — there’s a group of students a few tables down from where the five of them slide unto booths and chairs, a few lonely truckers hunched over their plates, and a group of women who are giggling among themselves, empty cocktail glasses in hand. Their waiter is surprisingly cheerful too, despite the hour, and hands them their menu cards with a smile. Her name is Selena, she offers, explains that she’s a student at uOttawa and taking a major in sociology. Nick’s been staring at her a little starstruck, which earns him playful chirps from the group as soon as she leaves to fetch them their drinks, winking at Nick in particular. Ilya suspects he might ditch them before the night is done, which means he might end up having to take the subway to get home. He’s not looking forward to it.

Across from him, Shane is staring down at the menu card with a concentrated look, his brows pulled down which creates a cute little furrow between them. Ilya’s unaware he’s staring until Shane glances up at him, question clear on his face. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ilya denies immediately, then scrambles to save face. “What are you going for?”

Shane huffs, shaking his head a little. “I’m not very hungry,” he says. “But, maybe the fried cauliflower.”

Ilya pulls a face at that, making Shane huff out a laugh. “They’re nice!” he defends.

“I don’t believe you,” Ilya teases, and Shane shakes his head, mutters something beneath his breath that’s too quiet for Ilya to catch, but knows is at his expense. “I’ll just try one of yours,” he adds, testing the waters.

Shane gives him an unimpressed look, but doesn’t tell him no. Instead, he gestures at Ilya’s card with a nod. “What’re you getting?”

“Chicken tenders,” Ilya replies immediately, earning him an eye roll. “What? I did say I was craving them, don’t shame me. Oh, and sweet potato fries.”

“Those are good!” Zane says, interrupting their conversation. “We should get a bunch for the whole table.”

Shane, who had a biting remark on the tip of his tongue, visibly withdraws, instead offering a tight, small smile. Before Ilya can think it through and talk himself out of doing something so incredibly stupid, he extends his leg and gently taps his foot against Shane’s.

Immediately, huge brown eyes sear into his, his gaze finding Ilya and holding him captive. Ilya withdraws, and after a beat, a gentle tap taps him back.

They order, the conversation flowing easily in a way that it usually does when nothing significant is being talked about. It’s past two in the morning by the time the food arrives, and Ilya descends upon the fries like a starving man. “Fuck, yes,” he moans through a bite of food. He shoves some fries towards Shane in a pushy invitation. “Try some.”

Shane, who had been happily munching on his cauliflower, rolls his eyes but politely takes one. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. These are good,” he admits, then starts picking fries between the inhaling hands of Ilya.

Ilya makes quick work of his tenders as well, and then starts eyeing down the table with big, hungry eyes. He begs a rib off of Zane, who had been saving him one, knowing how Ilya gets. Nick shoves him some grilled vegetables, steaming still, glazed in marinade and spices. He even manages to steal a chicken skewer from Hayden, who’s a bitch about it until Shane intervenes, telling him he was done anyway and it would be a waste to send it back to the kitchen for them to throw it out, yes? Ilya raises his eyebrows in mockery as Hayden concedes.

“You saved me one, Hollander, yes?” he states, staring at Shane’s plate with the fried cauliflower, drenched in sauce, as Shane had first started on his side salad. He’s already reaching out with his fork, but halts, hovering over the table as Shane gives him a look.

“I don’t know, did I?” he teases back, and just like that, the rest of the table ceases to matter. There’s a slight uptick of the corner of Shane’s mouth, betraying his amusement. The soft lights overhead cast him in a soft golden glow. He’s huddled into a hoodie that’s slightly too big for him, the edges of his cuffs worn down and fraying a little. His eyes are regarding Ilya with an amusement and cautious warmth that he’s pretty sure he’s undeserving of.

There’s a tap against his shin, and Ilya gathers himself, smiling easy as he reaches out and stabs his fork into a fried ball of dough.

Shane watches him closely as Ilya takes a bite, then turns smug as Ilya says, “Oh.”

“Good, right?” he says, like an asshole, but he pushes his plate in Ilya’s direction, shrugging easily. “Like I said, I’m not very hungry. Have at ‘m.”

“We share,” Ilya declares, tapping his foot against Shane’s again.

Between the two of them, the plate clears out in no time, and everyone leans back as they finish their meals. Every once in a while a hand reaches for the plate of fries in the middle of the table, and the atmosphere turns content in a way it only does when company is good and bellies are full.

“Right,” Hayden says, standing up and stretching. He smiles at the group, quick and easy, and shrugs on his coat. The clock, to Ilya’s astonishment, has passed three o’clock. “I really need to get home now, or I fear my wife won’t let me in anymore. Shane, ready to go?”

Shane nods, standing as well and shrugging into his coat. He thanks the table at large, throws down some cash to cover his costs, and then his eyes turn to Ilya. “You getting home okay?” he asks, as his eyes flick towards Nick for a second. “I noticed they were your ride, but.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, too fast. The last thing he needs is for Shane to offer Hayden set him off somewhere. “I’m good.”

“Great,” Hayden interjects quickly, before Shane can open his mouth. “Good night then, everyone. Thanks for the company.”

Ilya huffs out a breath, deflating a little in his chair as Shane looks at him apologetically, shrugging in a what-can-you-do kind of way.

Nick, Zane and himself settle the bill, and Ilya and Zane watch in amusement as Nick chats up Selena, then sends the two of them a thumbs up and disappears out of the restaurant, following her close behind.

“Right,” Bood laughs. “You wanna crash at my place? I live close by, and I know you’ve got quite a ways to go back towards your place.” The way he asks it leaves no room for Ilya to decline, and so he sighs and nods with a smile, feeling conflicted.

It’s kind of Bood to be considering, knowing that it’ll take Ilya another plus forty minutes to get himself home from this part of town and it will save him the hassle, but on the other hand — keeping himself composed for another few hours sounds like a herculean task that Ilya isn’t sure he will be able to hang on to. Still, the prospect that he’ll wake up in a house where other human beings live, having made the space a home, still beats the idea of going back to his dark, cold apartment.

And so he follows Bood out, allows himself to be bullied out of paying for the Uber he’s ordered them, and allows himself to be fussed over as he’s set up in the guest room by a sleepy Cassie, who hands him blankets and pillows and towels and tells him to feel ‘right at home’.

He falls asleep as the first birds outside begin to chirp, the ghost of a foot still pressing against his own.

Chapter End Notes

If you're a doctor reading this: i am sorry. Listen to your nurses though.
Thank you for reading! 💓

Chapter 3: 3 i'll destroy myself

Chapter Summary

"Are they paying you to do nothing? Where can I sign up?" Ilya says in way of a greeting, bee-lining directly for Shane. His heart thuds painfully in his chest — this normalcy feels flakey, like it can crumble if he squeezes just a little too hard.

They haven't spoken since that last shift, when they’d shared that plate of sweet potato fries and fried cauliflower.

Shane's eyes fly open, his gaze settling on Ilya immediately. "Fuck off, asshole. I'm taking a break." His stance shifts, though, opening up a little to make space for Ilya to remain in the sun as well.

There is a buzz in the halls of the hospital. It's common knowledge that the New York Admirals have a game against the Centaurs tomorrow evening, and rumor has it that a few of the players — including the team's captain Scott Hunter, who made headlines just a season before for being the first openly-gay player who kissed his boyfriend on national TV when they won the Cup — are visiting the hospital for some PR-charity reason.

Usually, these visits are restricted to the children's wings, as the players make it a habit to try and cheer the kids up. Plus it is great content for the socials.

Ilya generally feels very opinionated on those things. He wishes guys like that would visit the hospital — or, really, any other place that could use a little cheering up - when there aren't cameras trained on them, making them look good. Why they couldn’t do this back in New York is entirely beyond him as well.

Unfortunately, the Board usually agrees to things like these without much hesitation — clout is clout, and if it means that the hospital will make its way into the headlines for anything other than negativity, that too is a huge bonus.

Anyway, the hospital is buzzing, its staff gossiping as people try to get a glimpse of the famous hockey players. It's like they're expecting royalty, Ilya thinks. The energy is odd — everyone seems to be looking forward to the visit, but there's an apprehension too; the Admirals are the Enemy, after all.

Ilya decides to keep his head down, even as he makes his way towards the entrance, the sun shining blindingly overhead. He feels well rested, even if he'd been sweating out of his bed by 7am — the heating in his apartment might be appalling, but he's quickly learning to appreciate the freezing cold over the unrelenting heat his building seems to suck up and refuse to let go.

God, he really needs to see if he can scrape by enough to look into moving into something a little better insulated. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like he can move it up to the short-term wish list just yet.

There's more bustle outside than usual, when the weather's not this nice. Staff that seems to be on break rest outside, sitting in the grass besides the building or occupying the picnictables. There's a bunch of EMT guys who are lying back, still in full uniform and sticking close to their ambulances, but apparently not needed out on the road.

Ilya gives them a friendly wave as he passes them.

It takes him by surprise to spot Shane, leaning back against the brick wall near the entrance, his face turned upwards to bask in the sun, eyes closed. He's still in the blinding white uniform, sharp against the warm tones of his skin. There's a lanyard around his neck, the color a deep red and patterned. Ilya bets that if he gets close enough, he'll be able to make out the logo of the Centaurs. His breast pocket is stuffed — Ilya counts no less than 5 pens, blacks, reds and blues, a couple of scissors, one kocher and a bunch of laminated pocket-cards, which he assumes to be cheat sheets like he has himself for general phone numbers, ICU protocols, MEWS scores and SBARR's and the correct order of monster samples, for example.

His feet are clad in dark blue clogs, his right leg supporting his weight while his left taps against the ground in a slightly nervous rhythm.

His freckles are a tad darker than they'd previously been, his face golden in the sunlight.

Ilya's mouth feels suspiciously dry. Must be the heat.

"Are they paying you to do nothing? Where can I sign up?" Ilya says in way of a greeting, bee-lining directly for Shane. His heart thuds painfully in his chest — this normalcy feels flakey, like it can crumble if he squeezes just a little too hard.

They haven't spoken since that last shift, when they’d shared that plate of sweet potato fries and fried cauliflower.

Shane's eyes fly open, his gaze settling on Ilya immediately. "Fuck off, asshole. I'm taking a break." His stance shifts, though, opening up a little to make space for Ilya to remain in the sun as well.

Delighted, Ilya takes the opening, takes the win. As he settles against the wall next to Shane, his eyes fall on the discreet entrance across from them, a small van parked outside. It feels a bit morbid, to be honest, knowing that the 'celebrities' are going to be wheeled in through the morgue's entrance. "The press is already here, I see?"

Shane hums, but there's an excited pitch to his voice, and Ilya's gaze is razor sharp. He can't control the huge grin that breaks out over his face. "Hollander, are you waiting on the hockey players?!"

Shane's cheeks darken significantly. "Fuck off!"

"Oh my god," Ilya mouths. "You really are!"

Shane doesn't speak, instead opts to look out towards the small van, where a small crew is already setting up cameras and microphones. "You're working tonight?" he asks instead, choosing to change the subject.

Ilya allows it. For now anyway. "Yeah," he says, digging around his pocket for a stray cigarette — he finished his pack in a stress-marathon smoke two nights ago after a shitshow of a shift, where he'd had to put two of his patients in a body bag, and his bank account is empty enough that he hadn't been able to afford buying a new one. A small huff of irritation works its way past his lips as his hunt proves unfruitful, his fingers only finding his lighter.

Shane watches him from the corner of his eye. "You should quit."

"Yes, yes, you say this every time," Ilya snarks back. A pause, and then, "So, how are things inside?"

There is a small, amused smile curving Shane's lips. "Well, I am standing out here, waiting on a bunch of hockey players, am I not? That should tell you plenty."

"Thank fuck," Ilya sighs, shoving Shane a little for his shit. "I can't handle another shift like last time."

Shane hums thoughtfully. "I — am sorry," he says, after a while. At Ilya's surprised gaze, he elaborates, "For, y'know, well."

Ilya doesn't reply, instead opts to watch the huge bus, the logo of the NY Admirals prominent on its side — of course it needs to be flashy, of course they need to announce who they are and where they're going — drive up the driveway, sees the few reporters bustle about like busy ants. "It wasn't your fault," he manages to say. And it’s true, too — if Shane hadn’t picked up the phone, Ilya doubts the EIT would’ve responded as soon as they had, of if they’d been as adamant in helping him out.

If he's being truthful, that particular shift sits like a black mark upon his soul. The feeling of desolation so strong it still keeps him up at night if he allows himself to dwell on it.

He doesn't dwell on it.

"It, just." He sighs. He's not elaborating, he's not. He's just explaining. "I knew he was unstable. I knew there wasn't much left that could be done. I knew he had no indication to go to the ICU. It just — it would have been nice if Kent had taken me seriously."

To his credit, Shane doesn't say anything, merely nods his understanding. “From what I heard, your patient lived for another few days?”

Ilya blows out a breath. “Yes, he did. It took a while until we got him truly comfortable, and the internist had his hands full in explaining the situation to his family, but they ultimately started to see our side and agreed to palliative care, so in the end he passed quietly and surrounded by his family.”

“That’s nice,” Shane says empathetically, placing a hand on Ilya’s shoulder and squeezes gently, before releasing him. The touch lingers, the warmth of him like a brand on Ilya’s body. “I’m glad they got to say a proper goodbye.”

“Yes, they were very grateful, in the end.” Ilya pauses, eyes trained unseeing on the tour bus as the hockey players start piling out, all tall, broad men taking quick strides towards the hospital, clusters of them in quiet conversation with one another. One man, familiar to Ilya’s eyes, seems to trail behind, getting off the bus last, dark hair carefully styled and dark stubble neatly trimmed on his cheeks. Scott Hunter, the Admiral’s captain.

“So, who are you here for?” Ilya asks Shane, as the two of them watch Hunter linger, looking around him with a furrowed brow, taking in the sights before his gaze settles on the two of them, watching him. “Don’t tell me him.”

“No,” Shane lies, sounding suspiciously guilty. “Definitely not.”

“Sure,” Ilya agrees cheerily, then waves at Hunter, feeling bold and not at all starstruck. He’ll feel star struck when he gets a chance to meet the Bears roster — he has no feelings at all regarding Scott’s bravery on coming out in such an uptight sports as hockey.

“Oh my god, stop it!” Shane hisses at him, but falls quickly silent besides him as Hunter, to both their astonishment, seems to be making his way over.

“Good afternoon,” he says, sounding perfectly polite and cordial and so media trained it rattles Ilya’s teeth in his skull. “I’m Scott, it’s nice to meet you both.” His face is carefully blank, a mask that’s friendly enough but betrays nothing. There are lines around his eyes that means he must laugh, surely, probably when he’s around friends and family and with his boyfriend, presumably. Objectively, Ilya thinks, Scott Hunter is an attractive guy, when he’s not this.

He doesn’t hold a candle, though, to the man next to him, who seems radiant in comparison.

“Hi,” Shane says, a smile on his face that betrays just how excited he is. “It’s really nice to meet you, too. I’m Shane, this is Ilya,” he introduces them, his head tilted towards Ilya.

They shake hands briefly.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Shane says, the words rushing out like he’s forcing them to before he can think better of it.

“Likewise,” Hunter says, and he gives the both of them friendly smiles. “I know it’s weird for the visiting team to be doing this, when I know the Centaurs have a reputation for doing a lot of charity work. Thank you for this kind reception, though. I’m not sure we would’ve been this warmly welcomed anywhere else.”

“So, why here and not New York?” Ilya asks, which earns him an elbow to the ribs from Shane and a frown from Hunter. And, though not particularly nice, Ilya is relieved to see it is a real expression on that face.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he grimaces truthfully. “But the Centaurs convinced higher up that it would be a good idea to collaborate on this visit, would be good for morale and, well. Everything else, I suppose. It would draw the attention back to the team,” and the way he says it, like he’s been rehearsing that answer for a while now, sits wrong in Ilya’s stomach. “And y’know, the Centaurs are a good bunch. Always a nice match, and they offered to take us along. Show solidarity, with, y’know —” he gestures incomprehensibly, scowling a little. With him, the openly queer player in the MHL. It’s nice of them, objectively, and it shows that the Centaurs care, but Ilya can’t help but think, maybe a little pessimistically, that it is mainly for show, to make sure they don’t lose out on a bunch of fans who are queer and might feel alienated if the only out player gets openly mistreated.

“It’s nice of them,” Shane nods. “They usually really care about the Pride nights. More than Montreal does,” he finishes, frowning.

A shadow passes over Hunter’s face, fast as lightning before it’s smoothed carefully out again. “Montreal fan, I take it?”

Shane shrugs apologetically. “Blame my mother for that,” he says. “My dad tried to raise me on the Cens, but he inevitably lost. But, being back here in Ottawa has me rooting for the Cens a little more these days, especially seeing how much time they genuinely visit here. However, if I want to see a team with actual play-off chances and who can ultimately hoist the Cup, I have to stick to Montreal a bit longer,” he says lightly, joking a little.

“Their rebuilding might pay off soon,” Hunter replies. “They’re getting stronger every time we play them.”

Ilya bites his tongue to swallow his remark back down. Instead, he says, “I’m a Bears fan, myself, but I can appreciate the Cens on the side.” That earns him another shove from Shane, and he grins at him before shoving back.

“Well,” Hunter says diplomatically. “We can’t all have good taste in hockey,” he teases, eyes trained on Shane, which makes Shane light up a little. He leans in a little, conspiratorially, “Although I find Montreal questionable as well.”

It makes Shane blush a little.

Ugh. Ilya needs this conversation to be done yesterday.

“For what it’s worth, and I just want to have said it, but I think what you did was really brave,” Shane says, and damn it all, Ilya has no choice but agree with it, nodding.

“Thank you,” Hunter says, looking a little bashful, making Ilya frown at his sincerity. Surely more people must’ve told him the same?

“Truly, Hunter,” he says slowly. “Is no small thing, being the first. Maybe more people will follow, yes?”

Shane nods. “I wouldn’t have dared to dream of it, back when I played in college,” he admits. “But knowing you’re not the only one helps. So maybe now it will be a little less scary for others to come out as well, right?”

Hunter sighs. “We’ll see. I can’t blame them if they won’t, though. I feel like I’m very lucky with my team.” His eyes catch Shane’s again, a frown on his face. “I know others wouldn’t be.”

Shane grimaces, shaking his head a little. “Wish I could say that surprises me, but I’ve played with some of the guys back in college, and I know first hand that it wouldn’t have been welcome in that locker room.”

“What did you say your name was, again?” Hunter asks, glancing a little at Ilya before refocusing on Shane.

“Shane Hollander,” Shane says, a little uncomfortable.

“Ah,” Hunter says, which reveals nothing. “Are you still playing, then?”

“Sometimes, in my free time.” The conversation flows into hockey from there, and Ilya pipes up occasionally to throw in some controversial takes, immensely enjoying the disgruntled looks the other two throw at him.

“Right, well, it was lovely to talk to you two. And thank you, for all that you do,” Hunter says eventually, and Ilya scoffs.

“If you start clapping I will fight you,” he warns, completely sincere.

“Ilya,” Shane says exasperated, but Ilya’s not backing down on this.

Hunter looks a little bewildered. “What?”

“Him, me?” Ilya says, waving a hand between himself and Shane. “We’re both employees, we chose to do this job. We’re literally paid for it. So yes, appreciation is nice, but actual changes to the health care system like improving our work conditions or raising our salaries will help us more than some meaningless applauding. As long as that isn’t given to us, the only appreciation I need is that of my patient. Everything else means nothing to me.”

Hunter still looks wrong-footed, but recovers well enough and nods. “I understand that. At the end of the day we’re all just hired to do a job, right?”

Ilya nods. “Exactly.”

“Okay, thank you for doing yours then,” Hunter says to him, and there’s a small smile there.

“I’ve already thanked you for all that, earlier,” Ilya says, “so I won’t do it again, because it shouldn’t be the big deal that it is. And I won’t wish you good luck for next season, because I don’t want to jinx you into getting two Cups.”

“Oh, my god,” Shane mutters as he pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Please ignore him.”

“Al-right,” Hunter says slowly, blinking a few times to collect himself. He recovers quick enough, and asks, “So, where should we visit, according to you? Most of the times we do children’s wings, of course, but now that I can ask two nurses — are there any places we usually overlook?”

“The ICU would be nice,” Shane pipes up immediately. “Those people are usually at the worst point in their lives, so I think it would be nice if you guys could just quickly pop in — not too long, ten minutes tops per patient and please ask the staff who you can visit.”

Hunter nods. “Okay, we’ll definitely stop by. Anywhere else?”

“The GTU,” Ilya says, grinning like a shark. “You’ll fit right in.”

Next to him, he feels Shane freeze, going still as a statue. Hunter gives him a doubtful look, but nods nonetheless. “I’ll make sure we’ll swing by.”

“Third floor,” Ilya provides helpfully. “The most right hallway.”

“Got it. Alright, thank you guys for your time,” Hunter says, before he starts making his way towards the door, where the hospital’s security is waiting on him politely.

“Thanks!” Shane says, watching Hunter leave until he’s out of ear shot before spinning on Ilya. “Ilya! The GTU?! Geriatric Trauma Unit?! Are you serious right now?”

Ilya shrugs innocently. “What? Is true, he would fit in there nicely. All those old ladies will love him — he’s ancient enough to share life experiences with them. The War and all.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters. “Please stop talking.”

“It’s also useful information,” Ilya continues cheerfully. “Next time he gets checked into boards and he will inevitably break his hip when he falls — his poor frail bones won’t last much longer — he’ll know where he’ll end up getting admitted.”

“You’re the worst,” Shane says, but he’s laughing as he says it, mirth shining in his eyes.

Ilya shrugs halfheartedly. “I noticed you had nothing to say about his hockey, though.”

“What's there to say? He’s a decent captain, and an okay player. Not the worst, not the best,” Shane says evenly. “Genuinely, I think if he hadn’t done what he’s done, he wouldn’t have been that much of a memorable player.”

“Oof,” Ilya says, whistling a little between his teeth. “And you give me shit for joking about him.”

“What, it’s true!” Shane insists. “C’mon, it makes no sense they won the Cup at all last season. It’s a one-off, and a lucky one at that.”

“Sure, Hollander,” Ilya chuckles.

Silence settles comfortably between them as the two men lean back against the wall in their, by now, familiar spots. Shane has his head tilted back, catching the last rays of sunshine before the sun disappears behind the building. Ilya plays idly with the lighter in his hands, though he no longer really has the urge to smoke. It might be time to actually entertain the idea of quitting, he supposes.

“Right,” Shane sighs reluctantly. “Time for me to head back in. I’ve been away for too long, I think. Time to fill in the evening shift.”

“I should probably change soon and head upstairs as well,” Ilya nods.

Shane looks at him, smiling a little. “I hope you have a good shift, Rozanov,” he says.

“Thank you,” Ilya replies, watching him go. “Wait!”

“Hm?” Shane asks, turning on his heel. “What?”

“Lunch? What day?”

“Thursday?”

Ilya frowns down at his calender app. “Yes, works for me!”

Shane shoots him two thumbs up before making his way back into the building, leaving Ilya to lean back against the wall all by himself, humming softly beneath his breath.

Chapter 4: 4 to stay close to you

Chapter Summary

"Sorry, is this a bad time?"

Shane Hollander pauses at the doorway, not entirely making his way into the small office the three nurses have holed up in. His eyes slowly drift over the scene in front of him, noting the vast amount of food sprawled out along the table, the soft music playing in the background where Anne had pulled up a radio station on one of the computers, the two women engaged in deep conversation and then, at last, his gaze settles heavily on Ilya.

"Not at all," Ilya says smoothly, throwing his arm wide in invitation. "Coming to visit?"

Chapter Notes

hope you're ready.... here we go!

Ilya both loves and loathes night shifts. He loathes them for messing with his rhythm, blurring the lines between day and night. His days feel unproductive and it makes something akin to guilt settle in his stomach, the voice at the back of his head that sounds suspiciously similar to his father's scolding him for being lazy, and his nights are unproductive in a very different way, in the sense that he's technically working but doesn't always feel like he is.

He loathes them because there's never enough time between shifts to fully revert back to a healthy rhythm, leaving him tired.

He both loathes and loves them for how busy they can get, when new patients get admitted in the middle of the night with the barest of guidelines, or when a patient crashes and you're quite literally on your own. It can be discouraging, but also very rewarding knowing you have to rely on your own skill, working side by side with a barely-awake attending who gets called in from home (if you're lucky — if not, they're already in the building which means they are busy and so it can be a long while before they even show up) while your colleagues cover the rest of the patients and lend a hand when able.

He loves them because the pay is exceptional.

He loves them because there's something tranquil about it. There is no bustle, no doctors running around, no patients being wheeled in and out. It is a skeleton crew, and most of the time, the shifts are laid back. There's camaraderie in being part of said crew, of taking responsibility for twelve patients per person even when they're asleep. Usually, there's little left to do by three am, except watching movies or taking power naps.

The most honest conversations are held between three and five am. It is such a dead man's hour that it leaves room for people to unburden, to open up to your coworkers that goes beyond the superficial usually reserved for work environments.

Ilya lives for moments like these, where the lines blur and the night is quiet and the lights are dimmed and everyone is too tired to pretend. There is no ambiguity left, and for once Ilya speaking plainly and straight to the point is met with gratitude and answered in kind.

Tonight's theme, as it is most nights, is relationships.

It has been a slow night — it has been slow for weeks at this point. The holidays are behind them, and with them, so is the season of the flu. Most of the isolated units are reverted back to normal beds, and the tickle of patients seems to have slowed down significantly. Even the ER is quiet by its hectic standards, and while it's true that they still get flooded with sick people, most of them are cleared to go home with treatment. There are a frightening number of open beds. The coordinators are trying to dismiss people daily, trying to reduce the on-hand staff and begging people to take a day off. Open beds cost money, and there needs to be a certain amount of occupied beds to balance the amount of staff at work.

Ilya, who has been hoarding open shifts as much as he can, denies every request to take the day off that comes his way.

Rumor is not even the ICU is at full capacity. Sure, there are always patients who need the support from the Intensive Care, but even those go back to the regular departments when they are medically cleared to do so. The evening shift had gotten back a patient from the ICU at the end of their shift, and Ilya had been busy to properly install them for the night, but most of the work had already been done, and everything else would have to wait until morning when the attendings would pick up on their care.

By 2am Ilya's basically done with all his work, and he's last to finish up. The unit's been cleaned up, the emergency cart restocked and all the medicine distributed for the next day. His patients are mostly asleep — some of them had looked up as he'd entered with only his phone's flashlight as light source, and he'd chatted with them a bit, seeing if they needed anything before going to sleep and reassuring them they could just call if they needed anything — he'd be here all night, after all.

He's on shift with Sarah, one of the new hires who's fresh out of med school, and Anne, a veteran pushing 40. He finds the both of them already at the nurses’ station, lights dimmed low, computer locked, chairs pushed back and the both of them sprawled out, buried beneath blankets to keep them warm. Along the table food is spread out — candy and chocolate chip cookies and chips and protein bars and various fruits. Ilya grabs a mandarin off the pile before flopping down into one of the desk chairs, kicking back the back of the chair before putting his feet up on the edge of another seat, clogs left on the ground.

"Okay," he says, pointing at Sarah, as he pops his first piece of mandarin in his mouth. "Speak."

"Oh," Sarah says, eyes still a little red-rimmed. "He's such an asshole!"

"Yes," Anne says, as Ilya nods in sympathy. The two of them sit back and react in the appropriate places as Sarah starts to explain the timeline of her relationship and how it came to an abrupt ending just before the start of her shift, finding out she'd been cheated on.

Ilya mostly keeps to himself, letting the conversation of the two women wash over him. There's a quiet hum of the central AC in his ear, and the occasional beep by one of the numerous perfusors floating in through the open doors threaten to lull him to sleep.

"What about you, Ilya?" Sarah asks, diverting the attention away from her and towards him.

Ilya blinks at her. "What?"

The two women share an exasperated look before they pin him with their stares. "Like, are you seeing anyone?" Sarah asks.

"A girlfriend?" Anne supplies curiously. "Spill the beans, kid. I've been in a happy and monogamous relationship for nearly two decades at this point and I need you youngsters to live vicariously through."

Ilya snickers while Sarah laughs. "No, no, nothing to live, what you say, vicariously through."

"That's not what I heard," Sarah smirks, eyeing Ilya with interest. "Last I heard, you were getting cozy with Marlene. She works at PEDs?" she trails off at Ilya's blank stare.

Sarah sighs, "Hold on," and starts to frantically scroll through her phone.

Say what you want about nurses, Ilya muses, they're huge fucking gossips.

Finally, she holds her phone up in triumph, and Anne shoves her face in the way to look at the girl in question. "Oh, she's pretty."

"Oh," Ilya says, when he finally can see the photo - some Instagram caption, because everyone follows everyone - and does indeed recognize the brunette. She'd had dark, straight hair, huge brown eyes and some very light freckles upon the bridge of her nose.

He'd met her in a club downtown last weekend, when Ilya'd had his weekend off and it had been uncharacteristically cold, a biting northern wind blowing through the streets. To make matters worse, his heating had been off, some maintenance or some other bullshit being done on the piping throughout the building.

In all fairness, he'd only hooked up with her to avoid freezing to death in his own bed, and so he didn't need to be alone.

The amount of calls coming in from his brother had been increasing all week, so this had been a nice diversion from that, too.

She was just lucky enough to have caught his eye while she had already been staring at him. In all truthfulness, he hadn't even asked her name, and he certainly hadn't been interested to learn where she'd worked.

He'd do better next time.

"Ah, uh, is nothing," Ilya says eventually, when he can practically feel the gazes of the two women burn holes through his head. "Met her at a party, had a good enough time." He shrugs. "That is all."

Sarah frowns at him, slightly disappointed, while Anne snorts and claps him on the shoulder. "So I take it no girlfriend, then."

Ilya smiles at her bemused as she full on laughs at him. "Good for you, Ilya, truly. You're young, no reason to get committed just yet. Just remember these three things; get consent, wear protection and always, always, check your drugs."

Ilya guffaws as Sarah squeaks, "What?!"

If there was one person Ilya didn't expect to have acted out in any way at all, it would've been Anne, who's always a stickler for protocol and generally acts like the Mom of the unit.

(Ilya adores her.)

She merely shrugs, looking deeply smug. "I've been young too! Just because I found my love at a young age doesn't mean we didn't experiment and do stupid shit!"

Ilya grins and leans back in his chair, intending to settle back into his half-lying position sprawled out over two chairs when a dark figure moves across the hallway.

"Sorry, is this a bad time?"

Shane Hollander pauses at the doorway, not entirely making his way into the small office the three nurses have holed up in. His eyes slowly drift over the scene in front of him, noting the vast amount of food sprawled out along the table, the soft music playing in the background where Anne had pulled up a radio station on one of the computers, the two women engaged in deep conversation and then, at last, his gaze settles heavily on Ilya.

"Not at all," Ilya says smoothly, throwing his arm wide in invitation. "Coming to visit?"

Shane's eyes flit over to the two ladies with him, who are eyeing him with open curiosity. "Can we help you, hon?" Anne asks softly, like she's talking to a spooked animal.

Shane's smile screams his discomfort. "Um, yeah. I, uh, just came by to give you this —" he extends his arms, in which he's cradling a couple of items; clothes and a toiletry bag among them. "One of our patients was transferred here earlier tonight. Mr… Mr. Witby? I was cleaning up the room and noticed some of his belongings were left behind and well…"

His gaze lands heavily on Ilya.

Something complicated stirs in Ilya's sternum.

"Oh!" Sarah says, perking up. Ilya had noticed the way she'd been openly admiring Shane, giving him an obvious once-over, and it made Ilya's skin crawl. He desperately needs her to shut up. "You're from the ICU!"

Hollander has yet to look away from Ilya. "Yeah, uh, Shane," he says, introducing himself. His stare is burning in its intensity.

Ilya needs him to never look away.

"Oh yeah, we heard about the transfer! Glad he was doing well enough to get out of the ICU," Anne says.

Shane breaks eye contact with Ilya, glancing over at Anne. The curve of his mouth is a lot more genuine than it had been moments before, the smile softening the sharp features of his face. "Yeah, I was really surprised too. I've been taking care of him for the last two weeks — it didn't look like he'd pull through, but he turned a corner somewhere last week and he finally started to get better. I just wanted to give him his stuff, and figured I could also see how he's doing for myself."

His gaze, as if drawn, slides back to Ilya. "Who's taking care of him tonight?" His tone is hopeful, and there's something complicated in his facial expression, like he doesn't really want to ask but seemingly can't help himself.

Ilya grins at him. "He's mine. Come, I'll show you where."

He lets his feet fall off the chair, thrusting his feet carelessly back into his clogs. He doesn't miss the disapproving look Shane sends him, and he dutifully ignores it. Stretches his back instead, shrugging on his hoodie over the short sleeves of his uniform. It isn't exactly cold — the hospital's average temperature is handled centrally and is at all times around a comfortable 21 degrees Celsius — but the inactivity at night, plus the general feel of the night makes you run cold.

Shane, too, is wearing an extra layer, one of the dark blue OR zip-ups that can be discarded after use. They're flimsy, but surprisingly warm. Ilya instead opted to take one of his own hoodies, the one he'd gotten almost as soon as he'd been off the plane, still believing he would make it to playing for their team. The hoodie is fully black except for its print on the back, which is a bright yellow, the canon its centerpiece.

Shane doesn't move as Ilya approaches, and Ilya shuffles by him closer than necessary as he worms his way past the doorframe. The smell of his aftershave is subtle, barely there, smells like warm amber. Ilya's pretty sure Shane's been drinking tea - a waft of jasmine hangs around him.

This close, Ilya can see the individual specs of his dark brown eyes, the way his pupils track Ilya's movements and subtly dilate.

Everything about this is ill-advised. Yet he can't seem to help but want.

He smirks as he walks past and Shane lets out an indignant noise at the sight of the Boston Raiders hoodie. "You've got to be kidding."

"What?" he asks, all faux-innocence. "I am loyal to my team, Hollander. You of all people should appreciate that about me."

Shane snorts. "Wear that out in public and you might get yourself killed."

Ilya glances over his shoulder, furrows his brow. "I am not an idiot. I know you Canadians are crazy about this sport. Night shifts are fine - everyone is asleep anyway."

"We're passionate."

"You're insane."

Shane shrugs. "It's in our blood." His voice is warm, slightly teasing.

The want, an ever-present companion these days whenever Hollander's near, runs hot in his belly. It makes him want to do something stupid, like pushing Shane up against the nearest wall and shoving his tongue down his throat.

Dangerous, dangerous line of thought.

"It's here," Ilya says instead, dropping the volume of his voice and gesturing at the doorway on their left. "Bed two — the one on your left closest to the window. They deemed him fit enough to rule out a private room." He shrugs apologetically. "He was asleep last time I did my rounds."

"That's okay," Shane says, as he threads carefully into the room and the lights get dimmed. "Just here to deliver his stuff. I might come back near the end of the shift, in the morning. Check up on him then, when he's awake."

Ilya lingers in the doorway, watches as Shane crosses the floor as quietly as he can. He has to suppress a smile as his patient closest on the door calls out softly to Shane, asking him for something. It's too quiet for Ilya to make out, but Shane replies, crouches down beside the bed and checks something — probably the Foley.

It's interesting, seeing Shane interact with patients who aren't unconscious or otherwise on the brink of death. He's all awkward and polite, standing at the end of the bed like it would physically hurt him to move closer, hands twisting the material of his vest between his fingers. To his credit, he gives the patients - even if he doesn't know them - his undivided attention, brow furrowed in concentration as he listens to what they have to say, considers his response before he gives it.

Ilya would be lying if he said he hadn't been wondering what Shane Hollander is doing at the ICU. Ilya likes him a lot — probably more than he technically should — but looking at Shane for a while now, he would personally put him in a career that focuses less on, well, human interaction. Something like accounting — boring and reliable. He'd bet that Shane would be good with numbers.

He gets it now, he thinks, as he watches as Shane awkwardly extracts himself from Mrs. Bell, wishing her a good night and a speedy recovery, and makes his way over to Mr. Witby, who'd been awoken by the ruckus earlier. Ilya watches as a huge smile breaks out over Mr. Witby's face, eyes lighting up with recognition as Shane smiles at him. "Shane, my boy! What are you doing here? Just visiting, I hope?"

And the wanting stirs its ugly head, burying hotly in the pit of his stomach as Shane smiles at him — truly smiles at him, none of it awkward or polite but genuine as he lifts up the stuff he's carrying like he's bearing gifts, and he's shaking his head as he explains what he's doing here.

Yes, Ilya gets it now, because Shane Hollander genuinely cares. He sees how Shane's heart bleeds through in this entire interaction, how the awkwardness is still present, how he's still searching for social clues to use as a guideline throughout the entire conversation, but how he genuinely considers everything that Mr. Witby tells him. Shane thrives in getting to know his patients, learning everything there is to know about them. At the same time, he's at his best relying on protocol — and what rests more on protocol than the ICU?

He could work on the ER, Ilya ponders as he turns around and leaves Shane and his patient to their catching up. Shane wouldn't under perform for an actual doctor — he'd be able to assess patients like no other, diagnosing them. But it would make him unhappy, dealing with endless faces without truly needing to know them. He couldn't work on the Internal, though. Oh, he'd be great with the patients who come back regularly, who practically have a bed named after them, or the patients who lay here for months at the time. But this department relies too much on just winging it, trying out different kinds of treatment until one sticks. The amount of times Ilya has had to change protocol halfway through his shift is uncountable. It would make Shane miserable. It would stress him out.

This new knowledge — though he’s been long speculating on it at this point, usually from the safety of his own bed when his thoughts, inevitably, return to Shane and how competent he is, how much of a savior he’s been to Ilya — this new understanding of Hollander itches beneath Ilya's skin, a scratch that cannot be satisfied. As he makes his way back towards his station where his makeshift lounge-chair waits, he feels like he's learned something utterly profound, something that, for a small part, realigns a small part of him. The part where he knows he's irrevocably fucked.

It makes him restless, jittery. He plops down into his chair, sighing deeply and ignoring the two curious looks from his colleagues.

"He's just chatting. Will go soon I think."

"Must be quiet over there, too," Sarah says pensively. "If he's got the time to get off the unit."

"Last I heard they've got open beds," Anne says. As the designated nurse in charge, she's the one who has the beds overview of the department, and the one responsible for communicating with the ER and the charge nurse who assigns the new patients to their departments. "Like the rest of us. It's getting scary. Feels like there's a storm coming and we're wildly unprepared."

"Stop it," Ilya hisses playfully. "You'll jinx us."

Dutifully, all three nurses start knocking on the wooden table in front of them.

At that moment, Shane reappears in the doorway, watches the superstitious ritual for all but a second, and promptly enters the small office, rapping his knuckles against the wooden surface exactly three times as well. "Don't want to jinx you guys," he says, eyeing them seriously.

Ilya wants to devour him.

"Do you want to hang around for a little bit?" Sarah asks, smiling up at him. "It's quiet, we could play a board game or something?"

Ilya watches Shane shifting his stance, distributing his weight a bit. His fingers are still gripping the edge of his sleeves, worrying the fabric between his fingertips. He's avoiding eye contact as he stammers, "Uh, well, that's very kind, but I should head back. Probably. My colleagues, they're, uh, waiting for me, actually."

He's unsure if he's disappointed by the answer or not. There's a part of him, certainly, that would've liked for Shane to have said yes, sitting down besides Ilya. Ilya could've nagged him endlessly in this hypothetical game they would've played — Shane strikes him as deeply competitive, similar if not worse than Ilya himself is.

Another part, the part that whispers in the back of his head that he needs to get Hollander alone, just Shane and himself in the dark, away from prying eyes, where they could do unspeakable things to each other, is glad that Shane is deciding to leave. It gives him an opening.

"I'll walk you out," Ilya says, getting up quickly. Digs around his bag really quickly, unearthing his lighter and pack.

Shane's gaze is carefully blank, but there's a shimmer in his eyes that has Ilya pick up speed. "Really, Ilya, that's not necessary."

Ilya waves him off. "Eh," he says dismissively, following Shane out of the door and waving the two ladies goodbye, "was already planning on going down for a break. Is no trouble at all."

They walk quietly side by side down the long hallway. The soft sounds of people snoring and equipment beeping should be calming, except that the energy between them is positively electric. Ilya's skin feels like it's feverish, pinpricks all along his body like goosebumps. He's unaware he's gravitating towards Shane, until their shoulders bump into each other.

Shane shoots him a look that seems almost heated, but then he’s carefully schooled his features back into something more neutral.

Ilya swallows. Did he just imagine it?

The department of Internal Medicine is located on the fifth floor. It is the second-biggest department of the hospital — only the surgery department is bigger as it runs at a capacity of forty beds, whereas IM runs thirty-six. The IM department contains an entire wing of the hospital — most of the departments are located in one hallway, and share the wing with another specialty; the CCU (Coronary Care Unit) shares its wing with the Cardio, Neurology shares with the STROKE-unit, while urology shares its space with gynaecology.

The ICU, while considered a small department, also takes up a whole wing, sitting next to the ORs. This is mostly because of the not-unusual flow of OR to ICU, especially when people struggle getting out of the anesthetics or need a little help to get off the oxygen support. They also consist mostly of private rooms, and they need the space for all the specialized equipment that the other departments don't have.

They get to the central space of the floor, which is almost like a square. The elevators are at the center of it, while the staircase, lights dimmed at this hour, are a little off to the side. The square also gives access to the other two wings — the IM shares its floor with the maternity ward and, off to the right, is the respiratory medicine department, alongside the gastroenterology department.

For a second, Ilya lingers by the elevators, dreading having to walk five floors down.

Unfortunately, Shane is already heading for the stairwell, not even looking back if Ilya follows…

He follows.

If the hospital is eerily silent, the stairs are even more so. The lights are dimmed — just enough to be able to walk down them safely, but it adds to the slightly spooky vibes. It never fails to make Ilya feel like he's walked onto the set of a horror movie.

The silence between them is suffocating. It is unbearable.

"So, Shane," Ilya starts, when he can't take it anymore. He's following closely behind, close enough that the wafts of his aftershave tickle his nose with every step. Warm, warm amber. The hint of jasmine. "You are not as boring that you don't have any plans for the summer, yes? Or are you working all the time?"

"Fuck off," Shane laughs a little startled. "Of course I have plans. Everyone has plans! What, you telling me you are going to work all summer?"

Ilya had definitely thought about it. His eyes stay firmly on the steps beneath his feet as he follows Shane down another flight of stairs. He scoffs. "No. I am not boring."

"Wow, how surprising," Shane murmurs quietly. It makes Ilya grin like a shark. "So, what? It's going to be clubs all summer? Find a few girls to—" He looses steam halfway through the sentence, and Ilya takes pity on him.

"I wish. Instead I must go back to Russia." There is no emotion behind his voice to betray his thoughts on the matter.

"Oh. That must be… nice?"

Ilya can't suppress the scoff.

Shane comes to a halt at the little platform between the second and third floor — Ilya's close to having to drop him off, and he finds himself stalling, coming to a stop next to this unlikely colleague, standing closer than is strictly necessary.

Shane doesn't move away. Instead, he blows out an irritated breath at Ilya's proximity, even if Ilya can see the truth in his warm, deep brown eyes — there's no irritation at all, instead a playfulness there, an eagerness to engage in whatever Ilya's ploy is. He's dreading just as much to break this moment between them as Ilya is.

There is not a soul around them. The silence of the stairwell around them is as loud as the rushing of his blood through Ilya's ears. He's not going to get another chance like this.

And so he looks at Hollander — really looks at him, looks at the long lashes framing those dark, soulful eyes, the smatter of freckles all over the straight bridge of his nose, the apples of his cheeks. The delicate curve of his cheekbones, the sharpness of his jaw. The broadness of his shoulders, as his gaze slides down. The uniforms are as unflattering as they come, but Ilya has no problem imagining the tight muscles, the thickness of his thighs — not even the pants can hide those. Suddenly, he's desperate to know what it is that Shane does in his downtime — a lot of nurses work out, of course, but it's rare for anyone to look as fit as Hollander does; he must follow some kind of regime, do some sports that keep him in this shape. Is he still playing hockey regularly, even though there's no longer any prospect of a career path in it?

Shane is talking to him, he can hear his voice filter through the white noise in his head, but his brain is the least concerned with translating it. It must be him defending his boring summer plans — there's something about some cottage, a lake, his parents. Of course Shane would choose to spend his precious few weeks off with his parents at some remote place like Fucking Nowhere, Canada, fishing by the lake or swimming and spending his evenings indoors solving puzzles or something else equally boring.

Ilya's unaware he's pushed Shane back up against the wall until his voice cuts out, replaced by laborious breathing. He'd been unable to drag his gaze up any higher than Shane's lips, inviting in their plumpness, but now, as his own body presses insistently against Shane's, crowding him, he finds that Shane seems to be transfixed by his own lips.

Ilya hovers. Can't hear anything beyond the rushing of his own blood through his veins, the insistent beating of his heart, the harsh puffs of air as Shane forcefully exhales.

His mouth is so, so dry. His tongue darts out to wet his parched lips.

Hands grab him roughly by the collar of his vest, nearly yanking him off balance as Shane pulls him forwards, making him bridge over those last few centimeters between them, pressing his lips urgently against Ilya's.

Ilya descends upon him like he's a man possessed. Nothing exists beyond this moment between them; he has Shane completely boxed in, his own body pressing tightly against him so that they're touching all over — his lips are soft and demanding against his own, and when Ilya parts them, sliding his tongue between them, Shane opens up like he's starving, a desperate moan lost in the space around them. The want that had been living in the pit of his stomach is a monster that consumes him body and soul, leaving him flushed all over. Ilya's never been kissed like this, and it is a hell of a drug, how did he survive all those days within Hollander's proximity without this?

His hands, which had been grabbing Shane's waist like a lifeline, splay widely over his chest instead, finding the seams between the two halves at the front of his shirt, ripping it open with little patience. The snap buttons give easily, exposing the white tank top that Shane wears beneath.

"Oh my god," Ilya mouths, once they break apart enough for him to glance down in appreciation. His hands flit over the broad expanse of Shane's chest, palming his tits, thumb brushing roughly over his nipple.

Shane shudders. "Oh fuck, Rozanov," he moans, ans Ilya is helpless as he mouths desperately at Shane's neck, biting and licking his way down.

Shane writhes against him, and Ilya rears back, ripping open his own shirt, welcoming the cool air against his own heated skin. He, too, is wearing a shirt beneath his uniform, a white, formfitting t-shirt. Surprisingly, Shane wastes no time, rucking up his shirt as far as it goes, bundling it beneath his armpits.

"Hollander," Ilya breathes, voice rough, as Shane's hands wander all over his body, before palming him roughly through his clothes. It's almost embarrassing how hard he is, just from making out, if it weren't for the fact that Shane seems to be in an equal position — his pants look uncomfortably tight where the fabric strains against his hard cock.

That simply won't do. Ilya yanks at the stiff fabric, popping open another row of buttons. Shane looks delirious as he does so, like he's on the verge of dropping on his knees right there and then.

Fucking god yes, Ilya thinks, one hand grabbing Shane by the jaw, pulling him in for another rough, all consuming kiss. Get on your knees for me. Get down and suck my cock right here, right now. Show me you’re mine.

But before he's able to voice all this, having worked out the correct words to speak, Shane stops kissing him, a firm hand to the chest pushing Ilya away from him. "Not here," he hisses at him, trying to sound stern but it only comes out as wrecked, out of control even as he reins everything back in. Ilya watches him straighten up, blowing out controlled breaths as he rights his clothing, buttoning everything back up. Even his facial expression smooths out, making him look more like the professional Ilya's used to work with.

The only thing he can't seem to control is the simmering heat that ignites in his eyes every time he looks at Ilya, the way he seems to drink him in from head to toe and seems to like what he sees.

It takes a minute for Ilya to hear what it was that had Shane push him away. Up, far up above, the indistinct sounds of people talking float down, barely perceivable. Just a couple of nurses taking a break, probably. A bang of a door follows, before the silence settles.

They are so utterly, utterly alone.

"Shane, no," Ilya positivity whines, as he leans back against the wall opposite Shane, making no move at all to make himself decent. "Is fine, no one’s here. Let me kiss you some more." He even pouts.

Shane grinds his teeth so hard that Ilya can see the muscle tense in his jaw. His eyes are dark, so dark, solely focused on Ilya.

Reluctantly, Ilya buttons up too, exhaling roughly through his nose. Still smirks at Shane. It is a heady thing, being the subject of that focused, nearly obsessed gaze.

"Look, we can just forget about this, okay?" Shane murmurs softly, once he's snapped himself out of his stupor of watching Ilya getting redessed.

Ilya pulls a face. "No."

Shane looks at the point of his clogs as Ilya pushes himself off the wall, crossing the floor between them purposely, once again boxing him in. He stubbornly refuses to look up, and Ilya can't help the soft snort of amusement before his fingers drift over Shane's jaw, so softly it's barely there. "What time do you get off?"

"Fuck off," he snipes, but it contradicts with the way Shane tilts his head back, granting Ilya easier access; it’s enough to convince Ilya he’s not really overstepping.

"Hollander," Ilya practically purrs, enjoying this game way too much. He nuzzles along that sharp jawline, dipping lower to ghost his lips over his pulse point.

Shane's breath speeds up. "We can forget this, sure," Ilya whispers into Shane's skin, "if you truly want. Or," there's a soft moan as Ilya starts pressing open-mouthed kisses along that soft neck, "you tell me what time you get off."

"Seven fifteen," Shane stutters, sounding out of breath, and Ilya grins at the win. Straightens up, can't help himself as he presses another searing kiss against his lips.

"Perfect." He steps back, creating enough space for Shane to make his escape, watching him go as he flees down the last of the steps towards the second floor. "I will find you. Have a good shift, Hollander."

Ilya leaves at a leisure pace, feeling vindicated as Shane exits the stairwell without another word, but with a backwards glance.

It is just Ilya's luck that the last morning round is more busy than anticipated — some patients are awake and Ilya can never pass up on a moment to chat with them, already checking in so he can notify the day shift if they need anything pressing. Next, one of his colleagues calls in sick, sounding violently ill even on the phone, but with ten minutes notice before the start of the next shift it is an absolute clusterfuck. By the end of his shift, the patients are redistributed along the current staff, the proper people are notified of the shortness of staff, and the department's secretary is already making a call list of suitable replacements for the next few shifts.

By the time Ilya is out of uniform and making his way towards the personnel exit, it's already 7.41am.

Disappointment churns in his stomach — he'd been unsure if Shane would see through on their nightly activity as it was, and now that Ilya is almost half an hour late. Well. He harbors no hope that he will have waited for him, and why should he? It was clear Shane thought it ill-advised, this thing between them.

Resigned, Ilya makes his way off the property, turning along the sidewalk towards the nearest subway station. It's another downside of working nights — he's lost all his sharp edges, running on exhaustion while stuck in the morning rush. It's happened more than once that he'd come home some insurmountable time later, unable to recall how he'd gotten there, running on autopilot while his brain is shutting down in desperation for sleep.

Behind him, a car honks.

Ilya ignores it, head ducked down against the harsh, cold wind, still chilling to the bone even though spring is in the air. Even the sky is already getting lighter, the darkest days slowly left behind.

The car honks a second time, closer by this time, and then a dark grey Range Rover pulls up beside him, keeping pace. “Rozanov!”

Startled, Ilya looks up, snapping his head sideways and is met with an annoyed looking Shane, who brakes and says through the open window, “Get the fuck in?”

Barely believing his luck, Ilya jogs around the car and quickly climbs in. “You left me standing in the central hallway like an idiot,” Shane hisses at him in lieu of greeting. He puts the car into first gear and merges out back on the road, nodding when Ilya gives his address.

“Work got crazy,” Ilya says, trying not to sound too defensive. Then, he smirks. “You waited for me.”

“I might not next time,” Shane quips back, but he shoots Ilya a glance that’s equally annoyed and heated. “Was everything okay?”

“Yes, was fine.” The words seem to struggle as they exit his mouth, his tongue tied more than usual around his second language, making his accent thicker. Ilya exhales slowly through his nose, trying to keep the fog threatening to cover his brain at bay. The unproductiveness of his night shift is catching up to him, and it usually means the words start coming slower, his brain overused and tired of having to translate everything. Usually by now he’d have broken out his Russian playlist, curated specifically for when he’s feeling homesick — which is rarely, and only when he’s thinking about his mother — or when his brain is this tired and so fucking sick of the English language.

In this state, there’s only a few things he wants that keep him upright and engaged — he wants to kiss Shane Hollander again, preferably a few times, then he wants to get his dick wet, and then, finally, blissfully, he wants to sleep like the fucking dead.

The ride towards Ilya’s place is spent mostly in silence. He’s too tired to even wonder how Shane gets them close without needing directions, until he realizes that he probably knows the area like the back of his hand.

“Fuck, this was a bad idea,” Shane mutters, and he sounds vaguely panicked, his knuckles turning white where his fingers are squeezing into the steering wheel. Ilya is only vaguely insulted by the panic — the fact that he still looks fresh-faced after his nights is a far greater offense in Ilya’s book.

“What?” Ilya asks, sounding sharper than he intends to. “Giving me ride home? Nothing is happening, Hollander. Not if you do not want.”

“No,” Shane murmurs quietly. “No, I want.” The admission is small, barely audible, but Ilya hears him all the same. Ilya reaches out, feeling emboldened while also trying to offer Shane some comfort, a grounding touch. He places his hand on Shane’s thigh, feels the muscles shift beneath his fingers as Shane hits the gas again. The sharp intake of breath as Ilya idly starts to draw figures into the rough cut of his jeans has him smirking to himself.

“You’ve got to help me with this last part,” Shane says, sounding a little out of breath, and it’s enough to fuel Ilya’s fire once again. “I don’t actually know where you live.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, pointing out directions, his hand never leaving the heat of Shane’s thigh.

Shane parks where Ilya signals him to, then gives the building in front of him a doubtful look. “Here?” he asks, looking at Ilya for confirmation, who gives him a nonchalant shrug.

“Yes.”

“Looks… cozy.”

Ilya snorts. “No, is shithole, I know. You don’t offend me, Hollander. But it’s cheap, and landlord did not ask difficult questions when I said I’m here on work permit only.”

Shane hasn’t stopped looking like the building personally offended him, and he seems reluctant to follow Ilya out of the car.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Next time we’ll be at your place, alright?”

Shane sputters something about being presumptuous there even is going to be a next time, but Ilya ignores it, feeling confident as he crosses the street, weaving between cars who honk at him in annoyance.

Ilya watches, amused, as Shane simply waits until the street is cleared before crossing, holding up a hand in thanks as a couple of cars seem to slow down enough for him to make it to Ilya safely. “You know,” he starts, following closely behind Ilya as Ilya opens up the front gate, wincing at the massive door grates on its hinges, making the metallic scream. “If you want, I can look into some… other? options. If you want.”

Ilya sends him an amused look, even as Shane eyes the huge water stain in the top corner of the central hall with concern, before following Ilya up the stairs to the second level. His front door is tucked away at the end of the long corridor, which is poorly lit and seems like it’s taken straight from a horror movie.

“Seriously, Rozanov. I’m not even kidding. I know the neighborhood well, and I know a few other options around here if you’re committed to this area specifically, just let me know your budget and I can ask around for you if you want.”

“Are you Mr. Landlord now?” Ilya teases, as he wrenches his key back and forth and kicks his front door the minute the lock catches. He’s learned the hard way this is the only way his front door will open. “Mr. Real Estate? No, I don’t need your help, but thank you. Come on in.”

The term ‘apartment’ is a generous one for the space Ilya rents. More accurately, it’s a ‘spacious’ studio, if you leave out the spacious part. Sure, it has a small entrance hallway, but it’s a square of maybe a meter, and with both Ilya and Shane there, it feels immediately crowded.

Ilya kicks off his shoes in the corner, stepping into his Adidas slides before moving towards the main space. From the hallway, the door on the left leads to his living room, kitchen and bedroom, while the door on the right leads to the one full bath he has, a small corner to shower in and the rest of the bathroom sacrificed so that he can run his own washing machine — it hadn’t been included, and he’d gotten one dirt cheap from the thrift store, and it rattled ominously every time he ran it, but he preferred it to having to go to a laundromat. Plus, when he’d first gotten to Canada, he’d fully been expected he’d need to buy and wash his own scrubs — he’d seen it plenty of times on shows, and every time he saw nurse memes cross his feeds, they all were wearing their own, different patterns and different colors on display. Thankfully, that hadn’t been necessary.

Shane follows closely behind, shoes also left by the front door, neatly lined up. “I know you said no,” he says, eyeing the space around him, and Ilya groans. “But seriously. What do you pay for this space? You said you got it for cheap, but I think I can set you up with something a little nicer for maybe, well, the same price square meter wise?”

“Hollander,” Ilya says, shutting him down effectively as he grabs him and pushes him against the nearest wall. Shane allows himself to be manhandled with little complaint, which Ilya files away for future reference. “Are you just here to criticize my house? Because in that case I think I need at least one cup of coffee to stay awake. Maybe two." He’s pleased to notice that Shane swallows thickly, eyes flitting down towards his lips. Much better. Maybe he may just salvage the moment they had earlier tonight.

“No, but —” Shane tries to argue, but gives up fairly quickly as Ilya crowds in impossibly closer, breath ghosting over his jaw as Ilya leans in, whispering quietly in his ear.

“You waited for me.” He punctuates his words by pressing soft kisses against the sharp edge of his jaw. “Brought me home.” Shane’s hands have come up to grab Ilya by the shirt, pulling him close. Ilya’s not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it. “Let me give you reward, hmm?”

He goes to pull back, but doesn’t get far as Shane makes a sound from the back of his throat and drags Ilya into a heated, open-mouthed kiss. This time, there’s no distractions, and Ilya is happy to give what Shane is hesitant to ask of him.

Shane is nearly vibrating in Ilya’s arms, hands flitting all over Ilya’s body, undecided where he wants to grab him, hold onto him. His fingers twist into the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently, and Ilya decides to help him, rears back to give himself enough room to get his shirt off. He has to bite back a smile as Shane’s dark eyes seem to darken still, drinking him in.

“Off,” he says, flicking a hand at Shane’s shirt, raising his eyebrows in expectation.

Shane scrambles to comply, grabbing the neck of the shirt to pull it over his head, then stands with the material in his hands for a beat, clearly debating something before he quickly folds it. And Ilya just stares, mesmerized.

“What?” Shane asks defensively, after he’s put the shirt on the edge of the couch, just within arm’s reach.

“Nothing,” Ilya says, betraying nothing, and quickly goes back to kissing Shane, hands mapping the newly exposed skin. He’s hot to the touch as Ilya grabs him by the hips to pull him close enough they’re chest to chest, and Shane makes an appreciative noise as his hands flit all over Ilya’s chest, squeezing his pec, thumbing over his nipple which makes Ilya shudder.

Ilya pulls back, creating a bit of room to breathe, to maybe bait Shane into getting on his knees for him, but Shane beats him to it, enthusiastically hitting the carpet with his knees, mouthing at his sweats that hide nothing. “Fuck,” Ilya breathes, as Shane looks up to him from beneath his lashes, dark eyes even darker by the blown pupils.

His hands reach up to tug his sweats and underwear down in a smooth, single motion. It’s maybe a little embarrassing how hard he is already, if it wasn’t for how far gone Shane appears to be, too, smacking his lips with naked want on his face before he parts them. Ilya sucks in a breath as a hand wraps around his shaft, holding him in place and giving him an experimental tug, and Ilya wiggles his toes into the ground, trying to ground himself. The last thing he’ll want to do is come too quickly — he’s got Shane here, now, and he intends to draw this out for as long as he can.

All of that goes out the window the second Shane smirks up at him with a wicked smile, before leaning in and pressing a small, teasing kiss to the head.

“Hollander,” Ilya groans, then chokes on a breath as Shane swallows him down expertly, hollowing his cheeks as he slides down. “Fuck!”

Shane hums around him, pure bliss visible on his face as he sucks Ilya off, teasing him with his tongue on the upstroke that’s quickly going to test Ilya’s resolve.

There’s no saving him when Shane’s hand gently cups his balls, kneading them carefully. He makes a choked-off, warning sound at the back of his throat, and Shane looks up at him with a knowing glint in his eyes, no hesitation in staying on him, sliding down on him until his nose nuzzles the soft, wiry hair at the base of his cock, while the head hits the back of his throat.

Ilya winds his hands in Shane’s hair and tugs harshly, holding him in place while he comes down his throat, embarrassingly fast like he’s a horny teenager.

It’s a good thing that Shane seems as winded as Ilya feels, and Ilya quickly tugs him back up on his feet, manhandles them so that Ilya ends up sitting on the couch, Shane straddling his hips after stripping him quickly of his own pants and underwear. Shane comes willingly, eagerly, and grabs Ilya’s hair with a fist, tugs it back so that Ilya has no choice but to tilt his head back, and crashes his lips against Ilya’s.

He moans into Ilya’s mouth as Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s cock, weeping and hot, and he jerks him off at a fast pace. It must be slightly uncomfortable with his hand dry, Ilya has a spare moment to think, before his mind goes blissfully blank again as he tries to steal the taste of himself off Shane’s tongue.

Shane’s moaning wantonly, hips rolling into Ilya’s like he’s riding him, and that’s something Ilya can’t wait to experience soon. He nips at Shane’s lips, gently bites at his tongue, and when Shane throws his head back with a swear, he doesn’t waste time to continue his administrations on Shane’s neck, biting sharply at the skin there, nuzzling at the hinge of his jaw.

“Ow, fuck, Rozanov, I —” Shane mumbles, then moans as he comes all over Ilya’s hand, shooting up over Ilya’s stomach.

Shane collapses into him in a boneless heap, breathing heavily into Ilya’s neck. Slowly, his hand starts to let go of Ilya’s hair, petting it in apology which makes Ilya snort.

“You’re dirty,” Shane complains after a few moments, where the only sound is the two of them breathing, and he rears back from where he’d been lying against Ilya’s stomach, rubbing his own come between them.

“Whose fault is that?” Ilya teases, but he easily lets go as Shane climbs off of him with shaky legs and collapses next to him on the couch.

“That was…” Shane starts, still breathing heavily as they come down a bit, basking a little in that post orgasm haze.

“Good,” Ilya says, even if what he really wants to say comes close to, ‘fucking incredible’.

“Adequate,” Shane says instead, and there’s a self satisfied smirk on his face as Ilya turns to face him, outraged.

“What?” he demands. “Adequate?”

It startles a laugh out of Shane, who shoves at him lightly. “Joking,” he says. “That was pretty fucking good.”

“Hm. Yes it was,” Ilya agrees magnanimously.

It doesn’t take long for Shane to get itchy, looking down at himself in dismay.

“I should, uh.”

“I would offer you a shower,” Ilya says mildly to hide how embarrassing he really finds it, “but I don’t think you would enjoy it. Best if you shower at home.” It is a clear dismissal, and Shane spends a minute to look at him, clearly looking for something in his face and, eventually, not finding it.

He shrugs. “Okay.”

He’s quick to dart to the bathroom to clean up, then gets back to get dressed, methodically and looking anywhere but at Ilya, while Ilya lingers on the couch, enjoying this show nearly as much as he enjoyed their earlier activities.

It’s surprisingly sweet when Shane doubles back to the bathroom and comes out with a damp and clean cloth in hand, making his way over to Ilya and, blushing slightly, wipes the drying mess off of his chest as well. “It’ll get itchy,” Shane says in lieu of explanation, and Ilya holds very, very still.

Shane hovers for a second, frozen and slightly panicked and doesn't seem to know where to go from here, so Ilya gently scrapes his throat and says, “Don't forget your coat.”

“Right,” Shane says, snapping out of it and Ilya watches as he goes to retrieve it. Shane’s buttoning up his coat and says, awkwardly, “Well, this was fun. I better get going.”

Ilya drags himself upright.

“Wait,” he says, when Shane’s already moved to the small hallway, nearly at the front door. He pauses as Ilya leisurely makes his way over, his eyes flitting all over Ilya’s body and resting at his soft cock for a second, an expression on his face too quickly gone for Ilya to interpret. “We should do this again, sometime,” Ilya offers.

Instantly, Shane’s whole demeanor brightens. “Maybe,” he says, but it sounds a little too much like a challenge that Ilya pricks right through it. It does wonders for Ilya’s ego.

Ilya holds out his hand. “Phone?”

“What for?” Shane asks, but digs around in his pocket anyway and hold out his phone for Ilya to take, unlocked. “We see each other all the time.”

“You want to discuss us fucking in front of other people?” Ilya snarks, as he puts in his phone number and texts himself. When Shane pulls a face and shakes his head, he just smirks. “Exactly.”

That’s the sole reason he needs Shane’s number, of course.

“Okay,” Shane says, after he’s inspected his contact list, pulling a face at the R🔥🍆👅 contact in between all his front- and last name saved numbers. “I should go.”

“Hm. Yes,” Ilya agrees, but he’s already pressing Shane back against the solid surface of his front door, nibbling a little at his bottom lip as he draws Shane in for a last kiss. If it turns a little tender, neither of them comments on it.

“Bye,” Shane says after a while, cheeks flushed a little from kissing, a pleased smile on his face.

The front door falls silently into its lock, and Ilya grins stupidly at the sound of the receding footfalls outside of his apartment. “Bye.”

Chapter End Notes

Meanwhile, at the security’s office, the lads on duty are definitely watching the stairwell proceedings with a bucket of popcorn in hand and a wager being placed.

Chapter 5: 5 i'll hold my breath and count to ten

Chapter Summary

“Rozanov. Thanks for coming!”

Ilya turns around and is met with a haggard looking Shane, an unhappy curve to his lips and a tired look in his eyes.

Behind Ilya, one of the nurses speaks up, asking Shane if he needs any help.

Shane shakes his head, then gestures at Ilya. “I’m good, the calvary has arrived.”

Chapter Notes

Some more suspension of disbelief is required, but it’ll be a fun one, I promise! 🔥🔥

Please let me know what you think 💕

In its essence, health care is universal. Every country has at least three things in common; hospitals, a crew to keep it running, and the patients it treats.

It's a job that one, if trained and qualified, can practice all over the planet. And that reflects in the staff — there are students who choose to go abroad to get a different kind of experience than what’s offered back home, and there are the immigrants, of course. Not to mention all those families with multiple nationalities, who have not one, but two or three mother tongues. It leads to a large amount of different languages that, potentially, can get spoken. In a country like Canada, that is bilingual by default, it’s not too weird to hear French and English both. Nurses and doctors and cleaners with similar backgrounds tend to communicate in their first (or second or third) language as well — there’s a wide vary of Spanish, or Arabic, or Tagalog, or German, or Mandarin, or Japanese, or sometimes even Dutch. Ilya’s heard the occasional Slavic languages float around as well, even if they’re not quite the same as his own Russian.

Every once in a while this vast knowledge of different languages comes in quite handy. Patients, after all, tend to come from everywhere as well, and bring with them a myriad of different spoken tongues.

So it isn't unusual for nurses to help and interpret. It has happened to Ilya on the IM a handful of times already, usually to come help with Ukrainian war vets, who he always approaches with admiration and respect.

It’s rare, though, to be called for a language he doesn't technically even speak.

Wiebe finds him during his coffee break, a friendly smile on his face as he calls out, “Ilya, so sorry, but do you have a minute?”

Ilya looks up from where he’s been trying to dismantle his orange with one of the dull knives he stole from the kitchen and nods, throwing off the nitrile gloves he’d been wearing to protect his hands from smelling like citrus fruit for the rest of his shift.

The chatter that had briefly dulled at Wiebe’s appearance promptly picks back up as Ilya gathers his stuff, throwing away the gloves and the orange peel on his way out.

Wiebe waits patiently on him, then leads the way as Ilya leaves his coffee cup on the tray destined to go back into the kitchens to be washed.

“So.” Wiebe asks, “How’s it going today?”

“Alright," Ilya answers truthfully. “It’s not busy at the moment.”

They idly chat for a moment, not really discussing anything in particular except the weather (atrocious) and last night’s hockey game (Ottawa had lost, though they’d surprisingly had made it to OT).

“So sorry to bother you during your break, Ilya. I really appreciate you making the time. I have a favor to ask,” Wiebe says, as he steps into his office, closing the door after Ilya.

“No problem,” Ilya says, sitting back in his chair across from Wiebe.

“I just got back from this morning’s departments bed occupancy meeting, and the ICU just committed a man straight from the ER with a threatened B. Exacerbation of COPD.”

Ilya grimaces. Every time he is confronted with a case like this one, he vows to quit smoking immediately — it is cause number one for COPD after all.

The fact that this patient is admitted to the ICU means his prognosis is bleak indeed.

“The guy doesn’t speak any English, or French for that matter,” Wiebe says, and there it is.

“Russian?” Ilya asks neutrally.

Wiebe shakes his head. “No, his passport says he’s Bulgarian.”

“I don’t speak that,” Ilya points out. “But I can try. Most Slavic languages look alike, but it would’ve been easier if he’d been Russian, Belarusian or Ukrainian. Bulgaria belongs to the Western Slavic branch. If we keep it very simple we might understand one another.” It’s easier, when languages stem from the same branch, like the Germanic languages, or the Latin ones, close enough to each other in relation that one, with a bit of careful pronunciation, might make themselves understandable while speaking their mother tongue. But there’s a big difference between Ilya’s Eastern Slavic language, and the Western Slavic that’s spoken in Europe. Mostly the phonetics are wildly different. “There’s no one on duty who speaks Bulgarian?”

“Not that we can find on such short notice,” Wiebe says. “And it does sound like they need someone ASAP. Apparently the patient’s in a rough position and they’re unable to calm him down enough or explain procedures. We’ll keep looking, there must be someone who can come help to translate, but for now, would you be willing to go up and help?”

Ilya can’t quite help it — he hesitates. “I am not sure how much help I’ll be,” he says carefully, truthfully. Wiebe looks at him patiently, understanding, but he still feels like he needs to defend himself. “It’s just, Bulgarian is a totally different language — there’s no guarantee he’ll understand a word I’ll say. And there’s just not enough I know about COPD, especially what kind of care they’ll provide on the ICU. Is there no one on duty on Pulmonary that can help them out? Doesn’t Kalina have a Bulgarian dad?”

Wiebe shakes his head. “She’s not on shift right now, but she’s working tonight so they might ask her to fill in when she comes in, but from what I understand, they need someone on short notice because they can’t start treatment if they don’t get consent, and, well, honestly, Ilya? Shane asked for you, specifically.”

Ilya forgets, sometimes, that prior to his current job as manager of the IM department, Wiebe had been an ICU nurse. He and Shane had been direct coworkers and know each other well.

“Oh,” Ilya says intelligently. “Okay.” He nods.

Wiebe smiles at him. “That’s kind of you. And if you can’t help, at least we tried, right? I think they’re also calling in an interpreter, but you know how long these things take.”

Ilya groans, he does know how long it can take. Last time he had to wait three hours until someone was available for translation.

He nods again, then swiftly stands. “I’m going to finds someone who can keep an eye on my patients while I’m gone,” he says, and offers Wiebe a small smile. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Please don’t rush, take as long as you need over there, we’ll manage here just fine,” his manager tells him sincerely, then waves him off. “Thank you, and give Shane my best, will you?”

“I will,” Ilya says, before he practically flees the office, cringing inwardly at how soon he changed his tune at the mere mention of Shane Hollander. Embarrassing.

He’s committed now, though, since he agreed to at least try.

And, well, this way he can see if he can seduce and needle Shane into hooking up with him again. They exchanged numbers, but the chat is still a little too quiet for Ilya’s taste.

He finds his corner buddy and explains the situation, and Boyle just claps him on the shoulder and says, “Consider it done,” and sends him on his way.

He decides to take the stairs, jogs down to the second floor at an easy pace.

The large, hallway filling double doors that guard the entrance to the ICU are made of obscuring glass, and in bright, red letters, it says, “No trespassing.” Beneath it, in a much smaller font, it provides some general information for visitors — visiting hours, no more than two at the time, no longer than ten minutes and they must first find the attending nurse before seeing the patient. The doors don’t open when approached like anywhere else in the building, but instead visitors must ring the doorbell, and staff needs to use their badge to unlock the doors.

The doors open as Ilya holds up his badge against the scanner, and the noises that sound, to Ilya, like typical ICU filter through — hushed conversations and more beeping devices than Ilya’s familiar with.

He always feels a little lost when he gets here — he doesn’t come here often, and usually the ICU nurses are kind enough to personally deliver their patients back to the regular departments (if they have the time for it, anyway), so ever since working here it’s only been a handful of times for Ilya to have visited this wing. Its lay-out is a lot more private — there are boxes designed for a single patient, the rooms a lot bigger than Ilya’s used to and with a lot more specialized equipment standing around the bed. There are no windows in the doors, and most of the doors are closed. It does make the hallway feel a little claustrophobic, so Ilya doesn’t linger and sets off to find the nurse’s station, that, he presumes, must be in the middle of the department.

Even the station — usually a rowdy place back upstairs — has a hushed atmosphere. A couple of nurses are huddled together near a computer, and overhead, three big screens are hanging from the ceiling, two of them muted — one is a camera overview of the rooms occupied, while the middle one is playing a muted hockey game. Only the screen with the telemetry overview is unmuted, showing the patients that are hooked on the heart monitor, and the soft, steady beeps give a soothing effect to the room.

Ilya hovers in the doorway, eyes quickly flicking over each nurse in the fishbowl — none of them are Shane, however, so he opens his mouth to ask, when a voice behind him pipes up. “Rozanov. Thanks for coming!”

Ilya turns around and is met with a haggard looking Shane, an unhappy curve to his lips and a tired look in his eyes.

Behind Ilya, one of the nurses speaks up, asking Shane if he needs any help.

Shane shakes his head, then gestures at Ilya. “I’m good, the calvary has arrived.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ilya warns honestly. “We might not understand one another at all.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Shane replies, and Ilya takes a beat to search his face, to see if there’s any inkling on how he feels on seeing Ilya again for the first time since hooking up.

Shane gives him nothing, which would make him smile at the challenge if the situation wasn’t this dire.

“This way,” Shane says, turning sharply on his heel. He’s rushed enough that he doesn’t quite manage to wrangle his face back into that professional, carefully blank mask when he glances at Ilya over his shoulder, and the relief of Ilya showing up is palpable. It’s dire enough, then, that Ilya doesn’t even try to flirt. That can wait.

The patient is lying on his bed, hooked on the telemetry, pale and sweaty and with huge, terrified eyes flitting all over the room. They latch onto Shane pleadingly as soon as Shane enters the room, and even from the relative distance of the doorway, Ilya can see the laborious way of breathing, the shallowness of his inhales, the force from his exhales. He looks like a fish that’s been plucked out of the water and left out in the sun, gasping for air that’s unable to reach his lungs. The hiss of the oxygen tank is loud enough to be heard from the hallway, and Ilya knows it must succeed in fifteen liters per minute — that’s as far as the department’s supply goes.

Ilya pulls up a chair. In slow, careful and formal Russian, overly pronounced, he introduces himself.

The patient’s eyes light up in recognition, and immediately, the severe panic haunting his eyes seems to diminish. He points a finger at his own chest and gasps against his oxygen mask, “Pjotr.”

Ilya smiles and nods at Shane. “Alright, I think we’ll manage.”

Just to be sure, he starts a tentative, relatively easy conversation — asks Pjotr who he is, where he hails from (Bulgaria, but his father had been Russian, which explains the name) and how much Russian he still remembers from his youth. “Not a lot,” he says carefully between gasps, as he removes the mask to talk, presses it back against his face every other word. There’s perspiration on his forehead from the effort it takes to speak simple sentences.

His Russian is bad, butchered and peppered with Bulgarian, which has Ilya’s brain screech as he needs a minute to untangle it. Nevertheless, they manage, and Ilya can’t help the small, satisfied grin he shoots up at Shane, who stands leaning against the doorframe, silently watching the two of them. “It will need to be simple, and it will be slow, but I think we can do this for now. Still, I recommend getting someone who actually speaks Bulgarian later, just to check if he’s really understood everything we’re about to discuss.”

Shane nods. “Still, are you okay with trying?”

“Yes. Give it to me simple, too, though. His Russian is bad — he seems to understand it a little better than he speaks it, but medical jargon is going to go over both our heads.”

There’s a infinitely small uptick of a corner of Shane’s mouth. “Sure, Rozanov.”

Ilya gives Pjotr’s forearm a reassuring squeeze, and explains quickly what the two of them had just been discussing. “Someone else will come to speak in Bulgarian to you," he explains slowly. “But she is not here yet. We will try our best until she is here, yes? It will be okay.”

In English, he says, “Okay, Hollander. Lay it on me.”

Shane leans against the doorframe, notepad and pen in hand, dark eyes watching unwaveringly as Ilya sits by the bedside, slowly and meticulously explaining the merits and risks of intubation, which is a last-ditch resort. He explains the preference for non-invasive breathing instead, where he has a tight mask over his face with a high-output flow of oxygen.

The medical jargon, as predicted, escapes him in his mother tongue, which is a whole new experience, and he tries it only for Pjotr to give him a questioning look, so instead he keeps it simple and sticks to base descriptions, peppers in the basics of Western-Slavic that he’s picked up over the years, which Shane’s patient seems to understand just fine.

Ilya is aware of every second that Shane’s gaze rests on him, of every scratch of his pen against the paper. He tells Ilya in clear, easy terms what it is he needs patient consent for, and Ilya frowns and nods and thinks and then, tentatively, starts to translate it, checks in at regular intervals if Pjotr understands what he’s saying, what he’s asking for. He gets a nod back every time, which is an intense sense of relief and which has Ilya feeling only a little bit smug.

Unsurprisingly, the conversation takes well over half an hour, and in all that time, Shane stays where he is, occasionally asking Ilya for something specific, but otherwise happy to rely on Ilya’s skill and watch from his leaning position. He looms a bit, like that, hovering in Ilya’s periphery, but he knows it means that Pjotr can clearly see him without exerting himself. It’s just that it drives Ilya a little mad — his presence is a heady thing, like they’re skin to skin instead of a few respectable meters apart. Every time Ilya breathes, he is aware of the inhales and exhales of Shane next to him. Every subtle shift of Shane’s body, when he changes leaning his weight from one foot to the other, Ilya hears his clothing rustle, the scruff of his (boring) clogs on the linoleum floors.

It’s not the focus of his attention — of course it isn’t, because Ilya’s undivided attention has been on Pjotr’s deteriorating condition even as he sits right next to him and how it flares his professional concern, but it is just like a little alarm bell ringing in the back of his mind, one that he is aware of but can ignore for just a little longer until his job here is done and he can corner Shane somewhere private and do something properly about all that pent-up energy they’re building.

Pjotr, with Ilya’s careful help, signs the consent forms Shane hands him, and Ilya wishes him all the best as Hollander thanks the both of them profusely.

“Let’s go,” Shane says, and he’s not quite looking at Ilya though, notably, his cheeks have darkened a little in a telltale blush.

Ilya smirks. “I can find my own way out,” he says, teasingly, but the look Shane gives him in response is effective enough to shut him up. “Okay, I’ll follow.”

Shane leads the way out of the room, corners one of his colleagues and shoves the consent form into her unsuspecting arms. “Can you start up the non-invasive ventilation, please? I’m just walking Roz— Ilya out.”

“Of course,” she says, nodding seriously, and Shane promptly turns on his heel, cocking his head in Ilya’s direction.

“You ready?” The heat in his gaze is nearly enough to set Ilya ablaze where he stands.

“Lead the way,” he says, and the way his voice has gone a little rougher around the edges has nothing to do with the conversation he’s just had.

Shane looks at him for a beat or two and then pivots sharply on his heel.

Ilya follows.

“Alright, so my page number is 082481,” he says after a while, desperately grasping back to any form of professionalism. They’re walking side by side, and every step or so, Shane’s shoulder brushes against his own. It’s maddening. “Call me anytime if you — oof.”

He doesn’t get to finish as Shane collides roughly with him and physically pushes him into one of the rooms along the corridor. Bemusedly, Ilya has but a second to take in his surroundings — one of the personnel's changing rooms, a row of lockers on one side of the tiny space, a bench with a row of clogs beneath it along the long wall, and opposite it, next to the door, a small sink with a mirror.

Behind them, the door falls closed with a barely audible click and Shane promptly turns the lock. He’s on him before Ilya can even blink, his hands grasping him roughly by the lapels of his uniform as he backs Ilya into the lockers, boxing him in.

“Fuck you,” Shane spits, before he presses his lips against Ilya’s in a kiss that’s hard enough to bruise, licking into his mouth with an aggression Ilya hasn’t experienced from him before.

“That was so fucking hot,” he gasps, and Ilya just nods. Whatever he’s done to get this reaction out of Shane, he’ll do it again if the pay-off is this rewarding.

“Hmm. What is, Hollander? Me doing my job?” he smirks, teasing, then gasps as Shane deftly opens up the buttons of his pants and pushes up his undershirt beneath. His hands are immediately all over him, mapping over his abs and pecs roughly, fingers scratching lightly at his nipples until they’re hard and Ilya shudders. “Fuck.”

“Shut up,” Shane repeats, instead of answering Ilya’s question, hisses the words into his jaw, then kisses him again in an open-mouthed, filthy way that barely classifies as a kiss at all. He moans wantonly as he presses his groin against Ilya’s thigh, rubbing up against him to make Ilya feel just how hard he is.

Ilya grabs him by the jaw, his hands wrapping around the sharp edge, and he can feel Shane’s pulse beneath his fingers, fast and strong. He forces Shane a little bit back, just enough to create enough space for him to see him, the blown pupils in those dark, doe-like eyes, the flush on his cheeks, the plump curve of his lips, red from where Ilya has been kissing and biting at him.

“Here? Now?” he manages to ask, all cocky teasing, and it makes Shane look at him deliriously, and he doesn’t wait for Hollander to say anything — or start overthinking things — before he says, “Get on your knees.”

And Shane just falls to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut, kicks his clogs to the side and out of the way as he briefly nuzzles Ilya’s cock through his pants, so uncomfortably tight at this point that Ilya throws his head back in relief as Shane’s deft, expert fingers unbutton him in record time, shoving his pants and underwear down just enough for his cock to spring free.

Ilya glances down to see his hand wrapping around the shaft and Shane licking his lips hungrily, before they wrap around his head and Ilya has to lean back against the lockers behind him as Shane swallows him down like a starving man. It’s a lost fight to even begin to try and make it last, with the way he is working his hand and mouth in tandem, spit sliding down his chin obscenely while moaning wantonly. He sucks Ilya’s cock like it’s his favorite place to be.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans, winding his hands into the silky strands of his hair, and the citrus scent of his shampoo fills his nostrils. He tightens his grip as Shane grabs at his hips, pulling him forward while relaxing his jaw.

He pulls off with a wet pop and quickly takes a moment to shrug off his shirt, throwing it on the bench next to them, then looks up at Ilya with a challenge in his eyes and a deep flush on his cheeks, his lips stretched tight over Ilya’s cock as he wraps them around the head again, shiny with spit. It’s obscene and hot and Ilya’s one lucky man to get this. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to seeing this.

“Really? Are you sure?” he asks, just to be safe, and he’s met with an eye roll and an impatient moan that reverberates all the way through to Ilya’s toes. “Fuck, alright.”

He sets a careful, testing pace that doesn’t last long, because Shane makes a displeased noise until Ilya’s grasping him harshly by his hair, keeping him in place while his hips snap forward. His moaning around his cock is nearly driving him insane, but he does ease off as he notices the way Shane’s eyes go a little teary.

“Still okay?” he grunts, and his efforts are rewarded by Shane slapping him aggressively against his thigh.

It’s easier, from there on, to just give into it, to close his eyes and throw his head back into his neck and for his body to chase that sweet euphoric release. Shane’s mouth is tight and hot and wet and he hollows his cheeks at just the right time and it’s so perfect Ilya just hurdles to the finish line and promptly stumbles over it, and he bends forward, bending over Shane as he comes down his throat. Shane seems determined to suck him dry, has been careful not to spill anything on either of their uniforms, and chases Ilya when Ilya, when it starts to become too much, pulls back enough to slip his cock free.

He holds out a hand that Shane takes, pulling him up and immediately pulls him flush against himself, devouring his mouth in a deep kiss, obsessively chasing down the taste of himself on Shane’s tongue.

He maneuvers the two of them around until the backs of Shane’s knees hit the bench, and Shane allows himself to he pushed down until he’s seated. Ilya sinks unto his knees between his spread, powerful thighs, and Ilya runs his hands appreciatively over them before he undoes the many buttons of Shane’s pants, reaching in and pulling out his hard, flushed, leaking cock.

“Rozanov,” Shane breathes, and it sounds wrecked as Ilya darts out his tongue, lapping up the salty precome and then teasing at the slit. Shane doesn’t last long after Ilya swallows him down, setting a pace he’s learned that he likes, occasionally just sucking at the head that he knows will get Shane there just that much faster. Shane comes with his last name on his tongue. Ilya savors the taste of him, stays where he is for as long as he can before Shane pushes at his shoulder to get him to stop.

All in all, it can’t have lasted more than ten minutes, yet Ilya feels like he’s just run a marathon. He’s not exactly sure how he’s supposed to go back up to the IM for the rest of his shift, but he doesn’t really care. For now, he’s content to straighten up, lean back against the sink behind him and take a second to get his thoughts in order and gaze down at Shane, who looks terribly blissed out.

They don’t speak, the sound of their breathing, slowly getting back under control, is the only audible thing in the small space. Then, Ilya breaks it with a small, disbelieving laugh, and for a moment, Shane looks like he wants to join in, laugh at the ridiculousness, the foolishness of it all.

But then the outside world noises start filtering back in, and all color promptly drains from his face. “Fuck, Rozanov,” he harshly whispers, his eyes wide with panic. “What — why?”

“Hollander, is fine, don’t panic,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t quite mean it because a dull sense of panic is also making its way into his own chest. He knows that having a relationship with a coworker is fine, here. It’s another thing entirely to fuck in a space that’s hardly any larger than a fucking closet. That, they might actually get fired over.

Ilya can’t afford to get fired. He’ll lose his visa.

Shane must sense he’s not as chill about it as he’s trying to appear, because he hisses angrily, “Get the fuck out!”

Ilya nods, doesn’t even say bye to Shane, who’s already unlocked his own locker and is using the sink and some soap to hastily freshen himself up, and instead darts out of the tiny changing room and promptly heads downstairs. He gets a new uniform and hops quickly into the showers that are available for personnel in the same dressing room Ilya always dresses in, so all in all it only takes three minutes longer.

The rest of the shift goes by in a daze — Karina actually comes in earlier than her shift requires, and she spends most of her evening on the ICU, from what Ilya hears the next day. He isn’t called up again, though Wiebe makes sure to extend the ICU’s gratitude one last time at lunch break a few hours later.

His colleagues are none the wiser — they knew he went down to help, and that it might’ve taken longer than anticipated, but Ilya takes back his patients with minimal fuss from his colleagues, and their curiosity doesn’t extend any further than a, “So, it went okay?”, so in all everything’s fine.

By the time the end of the shift rolls around, Ilya manages to relax to such a degree that he thinks they might actually get away with it this time, that they’ve been extremely lucky but that it is definitely not something Ilya will pursue to repeat. Ever. He can’t deny that it has been hot and fun and adds a little extra adrenaline to it all, but the price is simply too high. Fired with a scandal will definitely dry up any and all possibilities to work anywhere else, and if he has no work… Back to Russia it is, and he won’t survive that.

He doesn’t hear from Shane for the rest of the day, and he can’t say that comes as a surprise — Shane had looked even more spooked than Ilya probably had, so he knows Shane probably needs little time to come to the same conclusion Ilya had; that they’d been fucking stupid, but incredibly lucky at the same time, and that they’d come away with it this time. He’s smart enough not to seek Shane out either at the end of the shift, knows that nothing good will come of it, and so he simply takes his loss and heads home.

Except that he doesn’t hear anything the next day either, or the day after that. By day three, Ilya tries to rekindle their communication, short and simple as it had been. Their text thread is emptier than Ilya prefers, their texts mostly about scheduling moments to meet up, but even those Ilya now misses. So he sends a careful, specifically curated meme and waits with baited breath for a reaction.

None comes.

So, life goes on. Ilya goes to work, then goes home, and keeps in touch with Sveta, who’s currently in Boston and who’s bitching about her work implementing a new policy, which adds significantly to her workload. He texts with Marly, who’s being shady for no reason at all, just says he’s busy arranging some stuff in his life and that he’ll make sure to meet up with Ilya soon. After uni, Marly had left to go work in Boston and their communication has existed of texts only, so the promise of meeting up has Ilya wondering.

By the end of the first week, Shane ignores him to the point that he avoids Ilya’s gaze as they pass by each other in the cafeteria, and it sparks such wrath in Ilya that he decides that, fine, they’re done. He closes the text thread with Shane, he doesn’t try to seek him out during lunch breaks and he stops holding his breath at the end of his shifts to see if Shane is waiting for him in the central hall.

They don’t speak for another two weeks, and it’s fine. It’s totally fine. Ilya doesn’t care. It’s just an easy fuck he has to give up, but he can find that anywhere else, too. So he goes out with some guys from work, picks up a few girls and tells himself it’s just as satisfying as it was with Shane. It’s just sex, after all.

Shane sends him a text eventually, which Ilya ignores and then promptly forgets about it as he gets sucked into more of his family bullshit.

He avoids calls from Alexei, which come in at an increasing, concerning rate, but answers the stray calls from his father, which are getting more and more disjointed. He has to hang up when his father calls him choking on anger and tears, muttering about his mother, lamenting about the “accident” and his ruined family name like it happened only yesterday. Ilya had been there, visits that scene more often than he wishes, doesn’t need to relive his father’s reaction twice. The first time had been too much already.

The guilt settles uneasily in his stomach anyway, and he texts Alexei to check on their goddamn father. He dodges the incoming calls after that, but when his father calls again a few days later, he acts like nothing happened — or maybe Grigori doesn’t genuinely remember any of it. Ilya doesn’t know, doesn’t particularly want to know. He’ll answer any questions until Grigori is satisfied and then promptly gets hung up on.

All of it is fine.

Luca Haas is young. Ilya can see it in the way his eyes shine with curiosity, in the way he treats his patients — all soft spoken and a little hesitantly, triple checking everything while his eyes flit to Ilya every three seconds, terrified he'll make a mistake and Ilya needs to correct him in front of his patients and make him lose his credibility.

It takes Ilya three weeks to convince Luca that that's something he'll never do, that Luca is a student still and that he's allowed to mess up, allowed to doubt and double check and ask any questions he comes up with. If Ilya has feedback, he says, he'll make sure to give it away from prying eyes in a safe space.

New nurses are scarce to find, especially men — there's a double standard, still, prejudices that are hard to escape. It's a nurse's mantra by now: appreciate and harbor the new students, for they are the future generation.

Ilya wishes he saw that sentiment reflected more in the work field, and thus made it his personal mission to embody the saying. Too many times still he sees his coworkers sigh and complain when they have a student trailing them for the day, or when they need to read up on double the number of patients because the students need a supervisor to report to. It doesn't matter that the internal medicine was one of the units with a learning unit, where a couple of rooms are the designated "student rooms" and the RN only needs to oversee the process and help where students aren't allowed to, like administering medicine over IV drips or any of the more invasive procedures they haven’t cleared yet. To Ilya's chagrin, there’s still too much negotiating among his coworkers to try and not be one of the nurses assigned to those rooms.

Ilya usually volunteers, if he gets the chance. So when he'd seen Haas wander in on a Monday morning, already completely overwhelmed and a little lost, Ilya had promptly adopted him.

It is unfortunate that Haasy is present for this one — one moment his patient, an elderly woman in her mid-seventies, a faint Spanish accent and sharp, dark brown eyes, hooked up on a slow IV drip and prescribed DOACs to treat her thrombosis, is chatting amicably with Ilya while Luca is working on his other patient one bed over, the next she's gasping for air, eyes rolling back in her skull and her light olive skin turning a deadly shade of white.

Ilya's moving before he even registers it — he's shaking her, fingers grabbing her none too gently by the shoulders, his voice rising in pitch has he asks, "Mrs. Hernandez, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

No response comes.

He's pushed the emergency call button before Luca can even move, the familiar blaring of the call system overtaken by the urgent slap of feet upon the limoneum as roughly seven of their colleagues come running, voices overlapping to confirm it is an emergency.

Calmly, Ilya turns to Luca, who's looking at him with fearful eyes. "Call the resuscitation team. You know the number?"

"Yeah," Luca swallows, moving frantically to grab his pager. "1221."

"Good," Ilya says, then starts barking orders at the other nurses. He shakes his head as Luca moves to stand across from him, clearly willing to help. "No, you did great. We will talk later. Leave this side open for the intervention team, please."

Even though the whole process takes less than five minutes before the EIT — emergency intervention team — arrives, to Ilya it still feels like a lifetime. He's hot all over, sweat along his brow line and his heart hammering away in his chest. He's pointed at Evan Dykstra to assist him as they take vitals, open up the IV drip and flatten the bed. One of the students rolls in a COW, opening up the patient's chart.

The attending comes running in, drilling Ilya for details on the patient — who, medical status, reason for admission, relevant medical history and wishes regarding CPR. Ilya checks and checks again on his patient list, checks his patient’s stickers and wristband, knowing he'll have to repeat himself in mere moments when the ICU barges in and demands to know the same thing. He nods his approval when Luca pipes up, offering extra information and starts briefing the doctor in full while Ilya and Evan move in tandem, drawing the curtains, Ilya pushing painfully down on Mrs. Henandez's breastbone. She's still unresponsive, but gives a painful grunt as he pushes down, and he gives Evan a hopeful glance as Evan exclaims, "Responsive to pain!"

"SATs are down, I'm at 39%!" Ilya responds. "Her breathing is up to over 40 a minute."

He's just hooked her up on the o2 support when a voice cuts through the chaos.

"Alright, please make some room people! Everyone who isn't necessary leaves right now."

It always feels like the calvary arrives the minute the EIT makes their way into a room. There's the ICU-physician and usually two to three nurses, complete with a mobile ICU-unit on wheels. It supports larger quantities of oxygen, for example, and also functions as an EKG.

The physician makes Ilya breathe in relief — she is an older woman, late fifties, and highly capable. More importantly; she doesn't treat the department staff like an asshole at all, instead takes them seriously and is more than willing to listen to their argument before deciding if the patient has an ICU indication.

So, to Ilya, it feels very safe to say, "Thank god. Please take her."

The physician stares at him for a beat, raises one eyebrow in acknowledgement and says in a clipped tone, "Noted. We still have a heartbeat, I see? Excellent, we’re moving this from resuscitation to an emergency intervention. Shane, please go assist them."

Shane's focus shifts to Mrs. Hernandez as he takes up his position across from Ilya, his stance relaxing slightly as Ilya just nods at him, too busy to properly acknowledge him. Shane's got his fingers on her wrist, feeling her pulse point. "Tachycardia," he murmurs softly. "But BPM is regular."

He looks back up at Ilya, who's frantically collecting the stuff he needs to place a second IV cannula. "How far along were you?"

Ilya nods at the steady drip into her first cannula. "I've put it wide open since her BP was dropping, and she has no cardiac history. She responded to pain a few minutes ago. Opening up a second line right now." He bows down low, adjusting the tie around her arm to pump the blood volume in her vein, using an alcohol swab to disinfect the area. It takes him a second to slide the needle into the vein - there is a tremor in his hands, invisible to the naked eye but Ilya can still feel it.

Shane eyes him critically and equally impressed. "Nice." He hands over the tegaderm to keep it in place. Steps back, eyes Mrs. Hernandez critically. "She got a Foley yet?"

"Not yet," Evan pants, dumping his quickly-gathered contents unceremoniously on the bedside table, clearing it and sterilizing it so that he can unpack the foley and its necessisities as he goes. "Working on it!"

Ilya nods. "I'll assist."

Minutes tick by — Ilya knows they must be ticking by, because the base of his hairline is soaked with sweat, as they continue to work on Mrs. Hernandez. Vitals get retaken, another Glascow Coma Scale gets assessed, and she’s not improving, and then, finally, the order gets barked. “We’re taking her — our intensivist is already calling Montreal MC, she needs to be transferred ASAP.”

Things move fast from there on out, and before he’s even vaguely aware of it, Ilya is helping wheeling the patient, bed and all, out of the room. The ICU equipment gets hooked to the bed properly the minute they’re in the hallway — the doorways are just wide enough to fit the bed through, but the turn into the hallway is a tight one and already impossible if the bed has been extended for the taller patients — and Ilya can see the other nurses moving about, rapidly clearing the hallway towards the main hall and the elevators, so that they can hurry along uninterrupted.

“Walk with us,” the PA says to Ilya, nodding to him approvingly.

Ilya nods, shouts back at Luca, “I will be right back,” and starts to help them wheel the bed down the hallway.

The elevator ride is the most tense ride Ilya’s ever had in his entire life. It’s a tight squeeze, the space barely accommodating the bed in its normal state, and now, with the ICU’s equipment attached, the doors can barely close. It’s quickly decided that only Ilya, Shane and the attending join the elevator ride, and Ilya has to squeeze his way past the end of the bed and remain on his tiptoes on the ride three floors down. He cuts a quick glance at Shane, but he’s pointedly looking away, watching the small digital display as the numbers tick down.

The attending sees him looking and gives him a small, encouraging smile. “That was good thinking, back there,” she compliments. “We’re going to prep her for transport — the trauma helicopter is already up on the roof, but before we can head that way, we need to make sure she’ll be stable enough for the ride.”

Ilya nods, and she continues, “You’ve likely saved her life, you and your colleagues. Do pass on my compliments for your fast and adequate acting.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says sincerely, feeling a little lighter. “I will tell them.”

It takes a bit of wrangling to get out of the elevator unscathed, and Ilya helps wheeling Mrs. Hernandez towards the ICU. Just past the heavy doors, a group of nurses is already waiting, silently taking over the bed from Shane and Ilya. The attending follows in their wake, and the two of them remain hovering, not speaking.

Shane’s expression is carefully neutral, and his gaze is just slightly off, staring past Ilya instead of looking directly at him.

Ilya wants to scratch at him until he's got his Hollander back, the one that had dragged him into a dressing room, now over four weeks back. Loud, unapologetic Shane.

Instead, he's met with this version, the ICU nurse who values professionalism above all else, and who is treating Ilya like a vague acquaintance, not like someone he’s actively ignoring for weeks now, and who seems to be waiting for Ilya to make himself scarce.

When he finally acknowledges Ilya, when Ilya refuses to move, there is a flash of something in his eyes. Heat and trepidation and lust and panic.

The panic seems to be winning.

“Right,” Shane says eventually, carefully avoiding Ilya’s gaze. “I guess I’ll see you around, Rozanov.”

“The fuck?” Ilya mutters, as Shane practically flees from him. Anger simmers beneath his skin — he doesn’t deserve this.

Fine, okay. It’s not like Ilya cares all that much — they’ve hooked up, what, a handful of times? And while he will admit easily that the sex has been absolutely incredible, it’s not like he’s dependent on Shane for a warm bed. He’s made sure he’s not.

He makes his way back to his department, tries to shake it off for the rest of the shift. He takes Luca to the side after the end of the shift, when they’ve explained the situation to the evening shift and why it’s still a bit of a mess by the time the patient transfer happens.

He spends half an hour debriefing the case with Luca, in which he reassures the young intern a bunch of times that he did fine and that there was nothing he could do about the situation, and he pays him the same compliment the attending had given him. That, at least, seems to soothe some of the nerves still lingering around Luca, and he smiles for the first time again since that morning, and Ilya thinks he’s going to be fine.

“Talk to someone about the case if you need to,” Ilya advises. “It can also be someone on the outside, if you prefer it. Just — remember the patient’s privacy. No names and that kind of stuff.”

“Nah, I think I’m good,” Luca says, nodding decisively. “This helps, too. Thanks.”

“Remember, we have an appointment tomorrow,” Ilya reminds him, as Luca starts to depart.

“Yes, I know!” He pauses. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” Ilya waves him off easily. “You’re doing everything right. I see no problems in concluding your internship with nothing but high marks.”

“Cool,” Luca says, and he smiles genuinely at Ilya before making his way out the door. “See you tomorrow. Thanks again, Rozy!”

Ilya sighs as he leaves, and slowly starts to gather his own stuff before he exits the IM and makes his way downstairs. He’d been hoping, maybe, to catch Shane before leaving for home, see if he could confront him on his bullshit. Instead, the dressing room is already nearly empty, and there’s no trace of him.

Resigned, Ilya changes and heads on home, hoping for another opportunity to see Shane and, maybe, they can talk about it.

The opportunity arises the next day, against all expectations. As promised, he’s an hour early to attend the meeting with Luca and Wiebe, talk about his performance as an intern and about the last stretches of his degree. He knows for a fact that Wiebe is going to ask Luca if he’s willing to stick around for the last half year as well, instead of going to another internship spot on a different department. He and Ilya had already met a few days ago about it, and Ilya had given his full support for that plan, seeing how well Luca fits in with the rest of the team and how hard working he is.

As he steps into the dressing room, he instantly recognizes the soft, dark, silky strands of Shane’s hair, as he’s bent forward to untie his shoelaces.

Despite his earlier convictions that he’d wanted to confront Shane — now with him in front of him and his utter dismissal still fresh on his mind, he nearly considers turning around and changing into his uniform after the review.

The thought is so pathetic it makes him snort a little, and he squares up and makes his way into the dressing room, bee lining for his usual spot at the end of the bench. To no one’s surprise, it’s just the two of them. Ilya hates life a little, sometimes. Especially when it keeps putting him in such bullshit situations like this one.

He knows Hollander’s noticed that he’s here, can feel where he’s looking at him from the corner of his eye, the gaze hot enough to burn him. The air is thick between them, but Ilya ignores it, starts yanking his shirt over his head and replaces it with another, tighter t-shirt to go beneath his scrubs.

He’s halfway through buttoning up when Shane turns to him, huffing angrily. “So you’re not going to say anything?”

“Nope,” Ilya hums dismissively, feeling petty. “Why should I? You didn’t want to yesterday either.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says, who’s pulling on his own uniform, angrily yanking the pants over his thighs.

Ilya ogles him openly, and is rewarded with an eye-roll and another angry huff. “Yes,” he admits simply. “But so are you.”

“Me?!” Shane squawks undignified.

“Yes, you,” Ilya repeats. “You didn’t speak to me for days. And then, whatever bullshit that was upstairs!”

“You ghosted me for weeks,” Shane throws back at him, eyes shining furiously.

“So, what, Hollander?! What do you want?” Ilya asks, quickly losing his temper. “Fuck! We do something stupid one time, and you disappear. And now, what? You’re angry with me?”

“Obviously I fucking am!” Shane says, trying to tie the string of his pants and visibly failing. “So maybe you can just suck my dick, for all I care! Fuck you.”

The anger, however, is bleeding out of his gaze rapidly, and Shane’s eyes seem glued to where Ilya’s t-shirt is still visible just beneath his scrubs. His hands are toying absentmindedly with the strings of his pants.

Ilya’s anger is still simmering just beneath his skin, but it’s something he can let go of — especially when the alternative presenting itself is just so much better. He swaggers over, hand reaching out to grab Shane by the chin, forcing him to lift his gaze up to meet his own.

“I can,” he says, and the tone of his voice is maybe still a little too rough, a little too vicious, but Shane’s eyes still track his every move obsessively. “I could do it right now. If you asked nicely.”

“Do what?” Shane asks, swallowing heavily.

“Suck your dick.” He grins. “Just ask me nicely, Hollander, and I’ll get on my knees for you right here, right now.”

He doesn’t really mean it — fooling around at work once was one time too many already, but suggesting it anyway is worth it for that lust-filled gaze Shane keeps him captive with. It’s nice to know that despite the panic following their closet adventure, Shane is still equally affected by it.

It gets even better when he murmurs, “Please suck my dick, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s lips slowly curl up in an amused smirk. “Yes, very good,” he praises, and Shane swallows, sways a little in his grip, tilting towards Ilya like he can’t help himself. “But maybe not here, hmm? But after work, maybe, I’ll see what I can do. Make it up to you, hm?”

Ilya leans in, then, presses his lips against Shane’s and lets himself get swept away by kissing him as Shane kisses him back surprisingly sweet.

“Okay,” Shane mutters against Ilya’s lips. “I‘ll think about it,” he adds, smirking a little as Ilya makes an indignant sound at the back of his throat. “I’ll see you in the parking lot.”

They break apart, then, going back to dressing themselves like nothing happened, stealing glances at one another. By the time the door opens and a nurse Ilya doesn’t know steps through the door, greeting the both of them politely, they’re both fully dressed and utterly collected.

They don’t say anything as they each make their way to their respective floors, but the promise of after is enough to sustain Ilya for the entirety of his shift.

Chapter 6: 1 i'll lay here

Chapter Summary

“This is Ilya, IM,” he greets, opening up the department lay-out and already clicking on the one floating patient, not yet assigned to a bed.

“No fucking way,” a familiar voice greets him. “I’d been wondering where you’d fucked off to!”

“Marly?” Ilya asks, face splitting into a huge grin as he kicks back into his seat, settling in. “What the fuck are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in fucking Boston?”

“Nah, I missed the chaos you brought into my life,” Cliff Marlow replies with a laugh, making Ilya roll his eyes fondly.

Chapter Notes

MARLY!!!!!

“Hey, Ilya, just as a heads-up, you’re getting a new admission.” Dana, the charge nurse of the evening shift, smiles at him sympathetically as Ilya groans, already taking out his patients overview. The paper is already filled with scribbles, notes added to the seven patients he’s already taking care of, a lot of it underlined in red where the day shift hadn’t managed to complete their tasks and had asked him to complete it instead. They are just little things, like changing the IV drip or getting someone back from surgery (an “outside” bed, this one notably from the surgical department), but added up it meant quite the workload. He doesn’t begrudge them in the slightest — based on the day charts, the day shift had been running around as well. It just left him starting his shift slightly wrong-footed, running after the facts.

Ilya hoped to have cleared all of it away by dinnertime, but a new admission was usually a signal his shift wasn’t going to be slowing down at any rate. “From another department at least?” he asks hopefully. Dana shakes her head.

“Emergency department. Sorry, kid,” she says, patting him on the shoulder in sympathy.

Ilya sighs, nodding at Dana. “If they don’t have their shit together I’m refusing to pick him up,” he warns, and Dana laughs, nodding.

“Understood, Ilya. I’ll forward the call to you when they call for the patient transfer.”

His phone stays silent for another blissful twenty minutes, and Ilya actually manages to downsize his workload. The patient that had been a little unstable earlier in the day seems to have stabilized throughout the day, rounding the imaginary corner and finally responding well to the switch in antibiotics. He’s also been obsessively checking the surgery board, but his patient is still in the OR, and after the OR they will need to recuperate, so Ilya’s pretty confident he won’t see him for another few hours at the very least.

The evening medication distributed, Ilya takes a moment to check his phone.

Ilya:

Ilya: lol it’s really like this

Ilya: also lol hollander this is u

Ilya:

It had started as a bit of an excuse, to be honest, to be able to text Shane at his every whim. He’d also started to send him memes at all hours to annoy him a little, but after a while, Shane had started to surprise him by reacting less annoyed and picking up engagement. Most of the time he just reacts ‘haha’ to the memes in question, but sometimes they really seemed to make Shane tick, and there would be a flow of messages sent back, telling Ilya how the meme reminded him about a specific case or patient, or how the meme was a clear exaggeration.

By now, they text nearly daily, and while they do use their text chain to arrange hook-up moments, it’s not the main focus. Tonight, though, Shane hasn’t replied to any of his messages, not even the singular ‘haha’ in question Ilya’s come to expect in answer to his very carefully curated memes (he does save the best ones for Hollander). Pouting a little, he stuffs his phone back in his pocket.

Ironically, in his other pocket, his work phone starts ringing.

“Yes?”

“Ilya, hi. Two things; one, are you ready for dinner yet? If so, do you want to order in with a couple of us? Oh, and I have the ER for you on hold right now, if it’s convenient for you.”

“Those are three things, Dana,” Ilya teases, nodding at Marion who walks by him, mouthing ‘Dinner!’ at him urgently.

“Eh, who’s counting.”

Ilya considers it. “What are we ordering?” he asks, unable to resist temptation.

Dana hums. “It’s undecided yet, but I think Ezra suggested trying out this new Thai place that’s apparently incredible. But, it is undecided, if you want to throw another suggestion into the ring?”

Ilya’s stomach growls. “Oh, no, sounds amazing. Put me down for Thai, please. I’ll eat whatever.”

“You’ve gotta eat more, kid,” Dana tuts at him. “Especially when you have evening shifts. I can hear your stomach growling from here!”

“Dana,” Ilya says smoothly, changing the subject, not willing to explain that money is tight this close to the end of the month, and especially after Alexei had come calling again. “Didn’t you have the ER for me?”

“Oh, shit!” she says, and Ilya rolls his eyes as he crosses the hall and dives into one of the small offices, powering up a computer. “Right, here they come —”

She hangs up, making the line connect to the ER instead, and immediately Ilya hears the background noise of a crowded room, voices floating over one another until it becomes a steady hum. “This is Ilya, IM,” he greets, opening up the department lay-out and already clicking on the one floating patient, not yet assigned to a bed.

“No fucking way,” a familiar voice greets him. “I’d been wondering where you’d fucked off to!”

“Marly?” Ilya asks, face splitting into a huge grin as he kicks back into his seat, settling in. “What the fuck are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in fucking Boston?”

“Nah, I missed the chaos you brought into my life,” Cliff Marlow replies with a laugh, making Ilya roll his eyes fondly. “No, but. Yeah, I moved back last week, actually! Ottawa had a position open, and, y’know — family stuff. It’s easier to work here and be within reach, in case they need something.”

“Hmm, sure, Marly,” Ilya says, nodding sympathetically.

“But, hey! I have a patient for you, a really sweet old lady who could use a bit of that Rozy charm in her life. How about I give you a rundown on her, and you come pick her up when you’ve got a moment or two so we can catch up a little. How’s that sound?”

“Hit me,” Ilya replies, opening up the patient’s file.

Cliff gives him a general overview of the patient’s status and required care, and it makes something fond stir — he’s surprised to find he’d missed Cliff more than he’d anticipated, finds the absolute chaotic way in which he transfers his patients, disjointed and jumping all over the place, a soothing balm. He knows where to ask questions, knows how he gets him to circle back to finish up his earlier observation. It’s soothing in its familiarity.

“You know what,” Cliff says, wrapping up after confirming that Ilya had no more questions. “Why don’t you come pick her up when it’s quiet for you, and I’ll make sure she’s marinated in antibiotics by the time you’re here. And then we’ll catch up properly.”

“I haven’t had dinner yet,” Ilya admits, eyes tracking where the delivery guy is looking around like a lost lamb, until Ezra swoops out of the office and unloads the bags from him before sending him back towards the elevators. Ezra holds the bags up, whooping in victory, and his booming voice calls out, “Squad! Dinner is served!”

“For fuck’s sake, Rozy,” Cliff says from where the phone is cradled between Ilya’s ear and his shoulder. “It’s nearly eight already. Go eat.”

“Hm,” Ilya says noncommittally. “I can come pick her up first, if that gets her off your hands.”

“I forgot how annoying you could be.” Ilya can practically hear the eye roll. “No. Eat first, patient later. Sure, I can clear the bed, but on the other hand, she’s adorable and not really fussy and my boss is too fucking busy to care that some sweet grandma is just chilling here. Like I said, I’ll lay the groundwork for you, so you can just go and eat and then tell me all about the thrilling Ottawa night life, yes? I’ve really missed you, man.”

“Sure, Marly,” Ilya acquiesces, shaking his head fondly. “And I know you have; I would miss me, too.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Marly replies, laughing, before hanging up on him.

Dinner is fine, as the nurses shove plates of food as quickly as they can into their mouths. There isn’t a lot of time to just sit back and grab a coffee either — Ilya gets a lot of looks from multiple colleagues who view his caffeine intake with something close to abject horror, with him genuinely enjoying to finish his shift with scalding hot coffee in hand, no matter what hour — so he throws one back without really tasting it anyway, nearly burning his mouth as he does so, before announcing he’s off to the ER. Thankfully, his second round is promising to be a lot less busy, especially if Cliff held up to his promise and did most of the work already. That way, all he has to do is install her for the night, fill in the admittance form, make her comfortable, and leave the rest to the day shift tomorrow, who can finetune the details.

While he waits on the elevators — coming quicker now that it’s late and there are no more visitors around — he idly checks his phone, eyeing with dismay that Shane still hasn’t replied to his, in his humble opinion exquisite, memes. The only thing that can console him is that it appears that Shane hasn’t even opened the chat, which means he must be busy, and not ignoring Ilya at all.

He’s barely made it past the doors of the ER’s wing when the familiar face of Cliff Marlow greets him. He looks exactly the same as Ilya remembers — not that weird, he reflects amusedly, since it’s only been a handful of years since they attended uOttawa together and had neighboring dorms. They’d become fast friends after realizing they were in the same nursing program, and Marlow had proven to be not only a great guy to go out with, but also a decent study partner. They’d shared a passion in hockey as well, though neither able to go pro — Ilya for obvious reasons, and Marlow simply because he wasn’t good enough to make it to the MHL, and so, being born and raised in a family of healthcare workers, it had been an easy decision to pursue a nursing career instead. It didn’t stop them from supporting the college’s team, the Ottawa Gee-Gees, attending as many home games as they could manage.

In truth, Cliff had been a major factor in helping Ilya through that first year, when he’d threatened to spiral. It had been harder than he’d expected beforehand, the cultural differences, the demands of the university, adjusting to a life where his father’s illness and his brother’s demands were but a nuisance an ocean away instead of the crippling yoke that threatened to snap his spine in two. Cliff, who had been watching Ilya struggle silently, had followed Ilya up to the dorms’ rooftop one day, standing quietly back from where Ilya’d been hovering on the ledge, cigarette between his lips and eyes gazing ahead unseeing, the wind toying with his jacket, almost daring him to tip forward, just a little further.

“I’d rather die than go back,” he’d said eventually, when the cigarette had been burning so low it threatened to burn him, a little pinprick of pain against his skin that shook him out of his thought and back to the present.

“Okay, Roz.” And Cliff had just stood there, calm and collected and so, so patient, as Ilya had struggled and struggled, unable to find a way out of his precarious situation now his grades were failing, the university threatening to withdraw his scholarship, all his hard work back in Russia seemingly not enough for him to get him out of there after all.

“I can’t go back, Cliff.”

“Okay,” Cliff had answered, easy as anything, and then had said, “So we’ll just go over all of it together, right?”

And then they had, and they had fixed it, and they’d never discussed it again. Ilya probably owes him his life.

“This is much better than seeing your stupid face in a tiny screen,” is how Ilya greets him, grinning widely.

Cliff barks out a short laugh, opening his arms and pulling him in for a brief hug, clapping Ilya so hard between his shoulder blades that it nearly knocks the wind out of him. “Aw, Rozy. I’ve missed you too! It’s been too fucking long!”

Ilya rolls his eyes goodheartedly as he steps back, following Cliff as he leads them towards one of the small nursing stations littered throughout the wing. The ER is busy, all the rooms Ilya passes occupied, and beyond, at the admittance area, the waiting room appears to be near-capacity as well. “Looks busy.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Cliff replies, cheerily as anything. “It is a shit show. Thankfully there are, for once in our lives, enough beds upstairs to maintain a steady flow. And lots of it is just small injuries or treatments — we manage to send up to 80% home, maybe?”

Ilya hums, then steers the conversation away from work. “So how’s your aunt?”

“She’s good! Strong as ever, and still as stubborn. But my uncle, you know. Getting old, and all that.”

Ilya frowns. “Ah.”

Cliff shrugs, unfazed. “That’s life, though. They’re still doing good, but his health is just, slowly getting a little bit worse for wear, and I thought, well, I miss my buddy Roz, I wonder what he’s up to in boring old Ottawa, he’s surely crying himself to sleep each night now that we’re separated —”

“Fuck off,” Ilya laughs, giving him a shove that Cliff easily retaliates.

“So, yeah. It’s just easier, y’know, being near them. They moved down from Vancouver last year, closer to my cousin. So I thought, why not. It’s not like they can count on my parents for anything.”

That’s another thing that they’d had in common. Cliff had spend his first few years living in Boston, born into an unsteady household. He claimed that he couldn’t remember much from that time in his childhood (though Ilya recognized that look in his eyes and knew better, of course), and that one day, Child Services had swept in and his uncle and aunt had taken him in before he’d been thrown into the foster system. He’d moved to Canada, living in Vancouver most of his life before attending uOttawa. It was a sad thing, being able to bond over the way their families were dysfunctional, and it had only been discussed once over a bottle of vodka, disclosing only the bare necessities. They didn’t talk, not like that and they certainly never needed to, but it was nice, knowing there was someone around who would, in a theoretical setting where they would bring it up, get it.

It just meant that Ilya knew to ask after his aunt and uncle and cousin instead of about his parents, and Cliff knew better than asking anything at all about his family, instead asking, “So how is she? Your hot Russian babe?”

“You know her name, dipshit.”

“Oh, I know. Svetlana Vetrova, Goddess of my heart.” Cliff clutches his chest dramatically, making Ilya scowl at him. He knew it had been a bad idea to introduce them, back when she’d visited him at uni and the three of them had hung out in Ilya’s dorm with take out and alcohol and the TV droned out by their yelling as the Boston Bears had been eliminated from the play-offs in game seven. There had been looks between Sveta and Cliff that had lingered a tad too long to be comfortable, and Ilya had felt like he was third-wheeling his own friends. He’d gone a bit too protective of his best friend, who graciously hadn’t called him out on it at that moment, but had ripped him a new one when Cliff had gotten the message and left them alone. “I’m still waiting on her number.”

“Keep waiting,” Ilya snarks, and Cliff grins, amusement clear on his face. “She’s good. I haven’t seen her in a while — last I heard she’s back in Russia, but I plan on seeing her soon when she gets back to this side of the Atlantic.”

“Give her my best,” Cliff smirks, chuckling as Ilya flips him off unimpressed. “Right, back to business? My attending looked like he was planning to murder me if I keep sweet Mrs. Roberts down here for one second longer.”

“Of course.” Pen poised over his sheet, he dutifully writes down the notes Cliff gives him, basic information on Mrs. Roberts and the treatment plan.

“As I promised,” Cliff says, closing down his screen with a flourish, “I already took care of everything. All you need to do is offer her some food and wish her a good night.”

“I’m sure I can manage,” Ilya replies drily. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

Cliff snorts. “I’ve been on your side, Ilya. I know how much it sucks to get a patient late at night where fuck-all has been done. It’s really no problem.”

“I’ll write you a letter of recommendation when your attending fires you for doing too much and being too slow,” Ilya promises, grinning like a shark as Cliff narrows his eyes at him.

“Asshole. You know what, you can buy me the first round as a thank you instead. This Saturday.”

Ilya purses his lips as he digs his phone out of his pocket, intending on opening his calender app, but gets distracted when there’s a text notification waiting on him.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: replied to a previous text Haha

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: replied to a previous text What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Ilya: its true right

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: No??

Ilya chuckles, fingers flying over the screen. Next to him, he’s vaguely aware of Cliff shifting, clearly interested as he tries to sneak a peak on Ilya’s screen. Ilya angles it away from his line of sight.

Ilya: yes it is!!!

Ilya: you love to correct me

Ilya: all judgy as u take patient away from me ((

He watches on in amusement as Shane types, deletes, types again. He’s unaware of the mirth showing on his face, until Cliff snorts next to him. “So, what’s her name?”

Ilya pauses, mind racing as he tries to come up with an excuse that doesn’t immediately tell Cliff he’s lying. “I don’t know what you mean,” he ends up going with, mentally kicking himself. He closes his phone, trying to appear nonchalant, but has to actively fight the urge to open it again as it buzzes in his hand with an incoming text.

Cliff smirks at him. “You’re straight up blushing, Roz.”

Now that’s just offending. “Never have I blushed in my life. Russians do not do this,” he snipes back, but Cliff just looks back at him with his eyebrow raised, and Ilya knows it’s a lost battle.

“Whatever you say, Ilya.” He starts ushering Ilya out of the office. “Go answer her, dude. I’m just going to say my goodbyes to lovely Mrs. Roberts — I miss her already. Take good care of her, will you?”

“Of course.” Ilya nods as he watches Cliff, who gives him one last annoying, knowing smirk, walk away.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: deleted message

Ilya frowns as there is no further text waiting for him. He scrolls back up, rereads, and types a new message.

Ilya: was joke

Ilya: do not have panic attack

Ilya: u are v competent it is 🔥🔥🔥🔥

Ilya worries his chain between his teeth as he watches Shane type up another message that he, again, doesn’t send.

Ilya: hollander srsly

Ilya: do NOT panic

Ilya: remember i called u

Ilya: everybody calls u

Ilya: they WANT ur help and they WANT u to tell them they were wrong

Ilya: not me tho

Ilya: obvi i am never wrong

Ilya: u are just boring

Ilya: like protocol

A low pit of anxiety starts to stir as Shane leaves him on read. At what point did he fuck up this badly?

“Roz, you good?” Cliff says as he approaches, pushing a wheelchair in front of him. He takes one look at Ilya’s face and immediately frowns at him. “What did you do?! I was gone for like, ten minutes tops.”

In the ideal world, Shane would’ve seen the meme and said something like, ‘haha, true!’, but instead, Ilya had just kept adding fuel to the fire. And now he’s panicking, enough so that his friend calls him out on it. What a fucking day.

He’s saved by, God forbid, asking Cliff for advice or something equally insane by Shane, who’s finally texted him back.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Just shut the fuck up maybe? I get what you’re trying to do

Ilya: ok

Ilya: it was just stupid meme

Ilya: i did not mean to offend ((

Ilya: let me make it up to u

There is no immediate response, so he pockets his phone and levels a blank look at Cliff. “Shut your idiot face, Marly. Who said I did anything?”

He winks at Mrs. Roberts, softening his face into a gentle smile, as she stares up to him with trepidation. “Do not worry — we are friends —”

“God knows why at this point,” Cliff mutters beneath his breath, but hard enough that both his patient and Ilya catches it, and it’s enough to break the ice for Mrs. Roberts, who relaxes in her seat and snorts softly.

“And we bully each other out of love,” Ilya finishes, like Cliff hadn’t interrupted, and then takes over the wheelchair.

“I’m sorry to see you go, Mrs. Roberts!” Cliff says, clutching his chest dramatically. “I promise, you’re in great hands with Ilya. But in case you aren’t, you tell them to come get me and I will beat his ass up.”

“He will certainly try,” Ilya stage-whispers, then takes off before Cliff can retaliate. Mrs. Roberts shakes her head, muttering something about The Youth, and Ilya feels flattered.

“Roz! Saturday! You, me, booze! No excuses! Bring the good Vodka!”

“Okay, Marly! I’ll text you!” he shouts back, then waves his goodbye as he escapes the ER.

His colleagues rib him gently for taking so long at the ER, which Ilya waves off easily. He focuses on work, first, making sure Mrs. Roberts is installed and taken care of for the rest of the night, emphasising she can call him anytime she needs anything but secretly hoping she won’t, before he finally has enough courage to check his phone.

He first sends a quick text to Marly to confirm that he is, indeed, free this upcoming Saturday, before curiosity wins out over trepidation and he switches to his chat with Shane.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Hypothetically speaking, because you’re a dick

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Make it up to me how?

Ilya: 👀

Ilya:🍑👅💦?

Once again, Ilya is left watching, amusedly, as Shane types, stops, types again.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: You’re so annoying.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Your place or mine?

Ilya snorts as he types out a reply — a little too eager, maybe, but, oh, well. It’s better than the alternative.

Ilya: u dont want me to answer that

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: You’re right, I don’t

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: See you at my place

Ilya: what ((((

Ilya: no ride????

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: No. Go think about your sins

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: And don’t be late

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: I won’t wait for you.

Fuck. This man is going to be the end of him.

The end of the shift can’t come soon enough, and his anticipation must be visible as he rushes through explaining his patients to the next shift, who shoot him amused glances. Dana sighs and, finally, waves him off. “Okay, go on. ‘Til next time, Ilya.”

“Thank you. Have a good shift, guys!” he rushes, grabbing his things and hurrying out the door.

He’s rushed enough to catch a train early, saving him roughly 15 minutes. As he finds an empty seat, falling down in it and stretching his aching legs, he opens his chat again, scrolling back up. From now on, he vouches silently to himself, he’ll do a better job of curating the memes he’ll send Shane.

Testing the waters, gauging how mad Shane still is, he tentatively scrolls through his photo album and finds a new meme to send.

Ilya:

He’s passed two different stations by the time the reply comes.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Haha. That is pretty accurate

Ilya smiles, leaning back into his seat and closes his eyes. It’s nice, knowing he didn’t fuck up bad enough that Shane is still pissed at him. He dozes, thinking about the rest of the night, where Shane will (hopefully, if he’s successful in goading him) ride his face until either of them passes out, and then he thinks about next time, and the time after that. And in the meantime, he’ll send memes and they’ll talk without actually talking, and convinces himself it is enough.

Eventually, Ilya heads home in the wee hours of the morning, and as his head touches his pillow, the clock has just passed five am. His bones are heavy, his muscles loose, and his body feels sated in a way that’s unique to when he’s been with Shane. On some level, he’s vaguely aware he should be charging his phone, but his bed is extremely cozy, and his head is already heavy where it’s sinking into his pillow, and he drifts off to sleep with his next inhale of breath.

He’s slow to wake, too, an odd number of hours later. It doesn’t feel like enough, so Ilya spends an unsure amount of time just floating in that state where he’s not exactly awake, but not sleeping either. His bed is warm, his limbs slightly sore and loose with sleep. His black-out curtains do their work of keeping the outside world at bay, maybe the only thing in his house that he’d actually spent some money on to make sure they were good enough to help him sleep after his night shifts. It’s his bladder, in the end, that forces him to acknowledge a life outside of his bed.

His phone, to no surprise, is dead, and Ilya plugs it in, waits idly for it to power up but quickly gives up at the growling of his stomach. So, coffee it is, and as he mixes his granola through his Greek yogurt, he decides to add some form of productivity on his day, and settles on going on a run after taking a peek at the weather through his curtains. It’s sunny out, and really, that means he has no excuse, especially as it is way past noon at this point.

He resists checking his phone until he’s dressing in his runners outfit, putting his headphones in and contemplating the merits of texting Wyatt to join him for some company outside of a work environment versus the tranquility of running solo. His phone has powered up — which is a miracle in itself, since his phone seems to be slowly dying and Ilya’s been meaning to replace it for almost a year now — and there are a few notifications waiting for him; a text from Svetlana to let him know she’s back on US soil, a notification from his runner’s app from Wyatt, who appears to have completed a run that morning so asking him along is already out, and a DM from Marly waiting on Instagram, which means it’ll be another unhinged reel that will have Ilya snort his second cup of coffee out through his nostrils. It is so unexpected he almost misses the text — in fact, he taps out of his group chat with Wyatt, Troy and Zane, asking for a run companion and suggesting they add Marly as a honorary member to the group, and opens the new message with a disbelieving blink.

H 🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦:

Sent at fucking seven thirty am. Hours ago.

What the actual fuck?

Ilya blinks stupidly at the image sent to him, sitting down on his bed and tearing out his earbuds. Then, slowly, he looks down at his clothes, spots the Adidas logo on his shirt, on his pants, even on his runner’s shoes, and promptly bursts out laughing, loud and a little disbelieving.

Ilya: what the fuck lol

Ilya: is this payback

The reply is immediate.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Maybe.

Ilya: LOL ur not gonna believe this

Ilya: [sends image]

It is arguably the worst selfie Ilya has ever sent anyone, ever. It’s blurry, his face isn’t even on it, and he’s not in a state of undress. No, the focus of the photo is his current outfit, the Adidas logo clearly pictured. He doesn't think about taking it, much less sending it.

The reply comes in immediately.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Oh my god.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: You’ve got to be joking

Ilya: 😂😂😂😂

Ilya snorts again, shaking his head. He’s not entirely sure where this is coming from, but he appreciates the effort all the same. Even if it is a dig. He picks his earbuds back up and scrolls through his Spotify playlist, resigned to running by himself.

He’s just out the front door when the text comes in.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: I didn’t know you run

Which, in Hollander language, could mean a myriad of things. Ilya frowns, stretching a little at the edge of the sidewalk, squinting down at his phone as he types out a reply.

Ilya: yes

Ilya: it is mostly Hazy’s fault

Ilya: he wants to run himself to death at marathon

Ilya: but i like it as workout

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Oh!

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: A marathon!

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: I’ve always wanted to do one myself

Ilya: ofc u do

Ilya: I am not sure

Ilya: this year is too soon i might do half instead

Ilya: maybe

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: My ultimate goal would be the Boston Marathon

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Or Tokyo, maybe. I’ve heard that one’s beautiful, too!

And, Jesus. Did Ilya expect anything else?

Ilya: u r insane Hollander

Ilya: crazy

Ilya: you need crazy pb for that

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Haha, yeah, I know

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Which is why it’ll probably never happen

 Ilya frowns as he puts his phone away and starts his run, starting at a gentle pace he knows he won’t maintain, his legs speeding up on their own accord. If anyone has the discipline necessary to become a marathon runner, it’s Shane Hollander.

He knows it’s ill-advised to run with his phone in hand, and he manages to wait until he’s cleared his block, heading towards the park that’s bound to be quieter, until he gives in to the urge and picks up on the thread.

Ilya: why not? u could easily do it

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Maybe

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: But I usually run alone

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: And that’s fine I prefer it that way

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: But running marathons by myself

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: I don’t know

Ilya: u dont wanna go alone?

Ilya: then dont go alone

Ilya: like me im running all by myself now v lonely

Ilya: so if u wanna join

Ilya: i could come pick u up

It takes a while for Shane’s reply to come in, which probably means he’s trying to find a polite way to decline, and it’s not something that’s disappointing to Ilya. Not at all. He wasn’t disappointed when nobody could join in him in the first place, so he’s not sad about it now either.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: You couldn’t keep up to me if you tried.

It makes Ilya nearly trip over his own feet, and a snort of laughter echoes loudly through the quiet of the park.

Ilya: cocky

Ilya: is that a challenge

Ilya: bc from what ive seen i usually last longer 💦😏

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: 😒 You’re so funny

Ilya: i know i am hilarious

Ilya: u dont have to run with me now

Ily: but u can always ask me i try to go 2 3 times a week

Ilya: if u wanna train for marathon u can also come join our group

Ilya: if u want

Ilya: is me troy (im) hazy (peds) zane (im) and cliff (er)

Ilya: we try to go together but u can also message if someone wants to join in run

Ilya puts his phone away, knows that Shane will probably need a few minutes to think it over. It’s more than possible he’s going to decline; in fact, Ilya thinks the chance of him saying yes is impossibly small. But still, he feels better having offered it, and he secretly finds himself hoping he’ll say yes. If it takes a literal work-out for them to hang out more often, he’ll suck it up and commit to a fucking marathon if he has to.

Keeping his route short for today — he has a long running session scheduled with Troy in a few days, who’s going to do the half-marathon with him at the Ottawa Marathon — he’s already near his home by the time Shane finally lets Ilya down gently.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Okay, that sounds nice actually.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: And you were serious? You want to run together?

Or not? Ilya can’t help the grin that threatens to split his face in two.

Ilya: yes of course

Ilya: so i can beat you obviously

Ilya: i will text gc will add u later!

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Thanks, Ilya

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: That’s really kind

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: One question, though. Is it OK if I bring JJ?

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: It’s just, we run together sometimes and I hate to make the group an odd number

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: That way someone always ends up running alone.

That’s considerate in a way that only Shane can be, and something soft settles just behind Ilya’s sternum.

Ilya: as long as its not pike

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Oh my god.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: You can’t just say that!

Ilya: 😏

As Ilya goes through his cooling down stretches, paying careful attention to his hamstrings, he goes through his list of contacts, finds H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦 and changes it, briefly, to a very boring Shane Hollander (ICU).

Cool Runnings 😎🥵🏃

Ilya: listen up fuckers

Ilya: i bring fresh meat

Ilya: do not embarrass me

Ilya added Shane Hollander (ICU) to the conversation

Ilya closes the app, sees the notifications flood in as the other members of the chat send their welcome, and quickly changes Shane’s contact info back to their previous state. Much better.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Thank you

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: For inviting me

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: You guys are aware that Cool Runnings is a movie about a Jamaican bobsled team, right?

Ilya: is nothing

Ilya: do not be embarrassed when u cannot keep up with me

Ilya: and yes we know is why its funny

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Ha!

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Has anyone ever told you how hilarious you are?

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Such a sense of humor

Ilya: ok it is decided then

Ilya: we race next week

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Oh?

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Maybe I can’t.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Maybe I’m running with the guys from the groupchat.

And… that’s not a welcome outcome at all. He’d been genuine in his invitation that Shane join them on group runs, but the idea that he might pair off with someone else that’s not Ilya sends a hot stab of jealousy through his body.

He makes his way over the gallery, abuses his front door and gingerly makes his way inside.

Ilya: what

Ilya: fine as long as u dont fuck them

Ilya: only me 😈

He grabs a glass of water, placing his phone down, screen open and facing up so he can watch and wait on Shane’s carefully constructed reply. It comes in quicker than anticipated, and Ilya chokes on his sip of water as he reads it.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: No promises

Ilya: ????????

Ilya: hollander

Ilya: hollander what does that mean

Ilya: !!!!

Ilya: hollander answer me ((((

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Oh my god Rozanov relax!

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: I was joking obviously!

Well, that’s embarrassing. Ilya, finally done sputtering water everywhere, throws his phone down on the counter like the device personally offended him. He knows it’s undignified not to respond, but there’s genuinely no way he’ll be able to save face after this.

Thankfully, Shane seems to be taking pity on him.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: See you this weekend?

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Are you on shift?

Ilya: no srry have plans saturday

Ilya: free on sunday

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Oh.

Ilya: am working monday?

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Me too

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Monday?

Ilya: cant wait 🍆🍑💦👅🔥

It slowly creeps into their “routine”, their precarious thing. It happens so gradually, and Ilya isn’t exactly paying attention to it until he scrolls back in the chat, trying to find a meme that Shane had sent him earlier to forward it to the IM group chat. It’s from a few days earlier, a bit done by the comedian Nurse John, who Ilya had introduced Shane to when he’d finally bullied Shane into accepting his follow request on Instagram. He’d asked for Shane’s TikTok, but he’d said, “What the fuck is that?” and Ilya had nodded, thinking, ‘smart man’, and hadn’t pressed any further.

It was nice, getting this glimpse into Shane’s private life a little bit. Granted, there were a total of 12 photos uploaded on his page, all of them from years ago, most of them hockey-related. The most recent one is of Shane in a black gown from his graduation day, a genuine smile on his face. It’s clearly a candid shot, one well timed, as his gaze is focused off-camera. It’s sunny in the picture — the light highlights the freckles on his face, makes his dark eyes appear a lighter, warm shade of brown. He’s clutching his diploma, proudly presenting it for the camera. There’s no caption. The amount of time lost by Ilya staring at it is, frankly, humiliating.

It’s been a great excuse to start sending him DMs too, mostly reels of memes related to their jobs, Nurse John among the top reels they’d started to send each other.

It’s just, ever since Shane had sent that first meme all those weeks ago, he seemed to have made it a mission to send Ilya one daily. It’s a bit like clockwork, to Ilya’s amusement, which means Shane has put enough thought into it to make it part of his routine. The text usually comes in around seven thirty am, bar a few minutes. If Ilya knows Shane even a little bit, it means his mornings, regardless of shift, look a little like this: 7.00am wake up, shower, breakfast, text Ilya a meme. It is slightly terrifying to Ilya, who loves to waste his mornings away, especially after an evening shift where he normally can’t sleep until it’s past 3am and can’t for the life of him find the motivation go get out of bed at ten or earlier unless he absolutely has to.

The only exception is when Shane is on night shifts — the memes still come in in the mornings, but usually half an hour or so earlier, when Shane is nearly done with his shift and is getting ready to go home. It’s flattering, knowing he’s on Shane's mind, even after work and he thinks Ilya important enough to send silly images with the customary ‘haha’ attached to it.

In turn, it has become somewhat of a problem to Ilya, in that he’s slowly starting to expect Shane to text him every morning. It’s becoming part of his routine to check his phone first thing upon waking, grinning like a fool at some dumb fucking meme Shane has sent him. He texts back at odd hours, picking up on a conversation or starting a new one hours later, sometimes in the middle of the night when he gets the chance. It’s rare for Shane to reply to those, but that’s alright. There’s a meme waiting at 7.30am, after all.

It’s not about the meme, is the problem. It’s about the implication, what it means.

Ilya is important enough for Shane Hollander to text regularly, daily, to make him part of his routine, of his daily life. Ilya reckons he knows Shane well enough that it wasn’t a lighthearted decision, and part of that is terrifying. Because what does Ilya have to offer in return?

He pushes that thought away, is becoming a pro in ignoring his own feelings and their implications and clings stubbornly to, what his Gen Z colleagues would call, a ‘situationship’ that will, inevitably, break his heart, when Shane will move on because he’s found something, someone, better, someone who deserves him.

But until that day comes, he’ll check his phone as soon as he wakes, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he huffs out a laugh at whatever Shane has deemed funny enough to send to Ilya, and they’ll talk about it, and they’ll plan hook-ups and they run together and Ilya will hoard all these little moments like the precious treasure they are, holding them close to his chest so that he can cherish them when all this, inevitably, ends.

Chapter End Notes

God the fucking images kept breaking but, they ARE funny. I hope they’re visible for you to enjoy them 😔
Shout out to Nurse John for his hilarious sketches

Chapter 7: 7 it's hard to breathe

Chapter Summary

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Quit staring and pay attention

 

Caught out, Ilya scoffs and wrenches his gaze away, opting instead to text back. Fuck Candy Crush anyway.

 

Ilya: you didnt tell me you were coming to our meeting

Ilya: also bossy

Ilya: at least say hi to a guy first smh

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Smh??? Do you even know what that means

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Who even teaches you this stuff

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Hi, btw :)

Chapter Notes

The scourge that is called Social Media has reached to inside the walls of the hospital. For the longest time they — the Board, the Nursing Council among others — had tried to keep the engagement of it outside of the work environment. Unfortunately, the more Gen Z (and, to be frank, Millenials) start to fill the ranks, the less likely it seemed that the building was going to escape the upcoming storm of Instagram Reels and, more importantly, TikTok.

And then Montréal MC made its own accounts, each department forming its own social media theme, performing in skits and participating in memes, building a following and using it to both draw in new employees, and aim for positive reviews from patients. They need to look hip and modern and approachable.

Over the last year, Ilya has seen his algorithm fill up with dozens of reels from different hospitals, all over the world, joining the hype. He had a bet running with Marlow on how long it would take Ottawa General to succumb to the external pressure.

Turns out, not that long.

Ilya’s lounging back in his chair, legs splayed wide and extended in front of him, subtly trying to play a game of Candy Crush without being too obvious about it and risking being called out. He’s stuck at their quarterly team meeting — four times a year, the team gathers with their manager and discusses how the unit is functioning, plus whatever new protocols come in from higher up. These meetings are mandatory, which means the hours are being paid, but it also forces people to actually show up. Being the IM and therefore one of the largest units, the number of nurses hired goes up well into the eighties. However, there are always people on holiday, or on shift, so the last tally shows there are currently 64 nurses in attendance. Ilya kind of wishes he were on shift — these meetings already take up four hours of his precious evening he’ll never get back, and they never finish on time, the disagreements when it comes to management usually take a while, with so many people who all have different ideas.

It doesn’t help that the room they’re stuck in is too small for their number — there are a number of conference-rooms, but they simply aren’t meant to be used for a group of 64 people. Ilya’s been lucky to snag a seat — a number of his colleagues lounge against the walls behind him, while others sit perched on the edge of the large table in the middle of the room.

The meeting had started approximately one and a half hours ago, and Ilya’s been close to nodding off four times now. The first disagreement happened ten minutes into the meeting — their manager, Brandon Wiebe, had explained that the call had come from higher up that the hospital was going to try and save on expenses, and so the food department was going to experience some serious cuts. Most of his colleagues pitched in with their outrage over the matter, and Ilya had looked to Luca, who’d been looking at him like a deer in headlights, and had rolled his eyes.

“They try to do this every year,” he explains quietly. “The hospital usually runs on a loss, instead of being profitable. They keep trying to change that, and usually come up with dumb fucking ideas. It’ll blow over.”

He quietly goes back to his game of Candy Crush, even as he feels Wiebe’s judgmental eyes on him. “Next point on the agenda,” he says clearly, effectively getting the entire room to quiet down, “is social media. Harris, the floor is yours.”

“Hi, guys,” the guy who must be Harris says, beaming at the cranky nurses at large. He’s a good head shorter than Ilya is, he guesses, and of a stockier built. He looks like he takes care of himself, his dark-blonde hair neatly cut and styled and a short beard framing his cheeks and chin. His green eyes sweep around the room, genuine pleasure at being here tonight visible in them. He’s cute, Ilya decides, even if he’s not even remotely interested in him.

If only he could stop thinking about large brown eyes so dark they’re nearly black, and a dusting of freckles.

Barrett, on the other hand, who’s lounging against the wall directly behind Ilya, takes in a sharp breath loud enough for Ilya to pick up on, and Ilya smirks at him knowingly as he looks over his shoulder at Troy. Troy subtly flips him off, looking chastised as Wiebe sends the two of them a warning glare.

His gaze wanders back to his phone, picking up his abandoned level of Candy Crush.

“So, I’m Harris, Ottawa General’s new social media consultant, and I’m here to talk about the use of social media at a workplace, and how we can implement the use of social media into our daily work.”

Ilya tunes him out from there on, only vaguely listening to Harris explaining how the hospital is recognizing that social media is part of the culture these days, and that they wish to become more visible, yet want to make sure it’s all ethical and hospital-approved content. Every department is getting another working group — at this announcement, the room at large groans as yet another type of workload is being added to their already existing pile — which will focus on creating content and making reels to post on Instagram and TikTok, hopefully creating enough of a buzz to keep up with their competition (other hospitals) and get better ratings from their current clientele (patient satisfaction scores).

He then proceeds to pull up a few examples on the projection board — short reels are being shown of nurses doing silly dances and play-backing to certain audio overlay, satirical sketches which focus on patient behavior like confused patients going crazy at night to patients falling out of bed. There are a few about patients with an obvious form of dementia being absolutely confused, and Ilya frowns deeply at those, silently judging. He raises an eyebrow at Wiebe, who looks back at him, both hands raised in a way that’s saying above my pay grade, I like this as much as you do, so not at all.

“Right, so we are going to need a couple of volunteers for this new working group,” Harris says, unperturbed by the lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, come on guys! It will be fun! I will be the one filming and editing, at least until I’ve shown you the ropes. I promise I won’t let you drown figuring this all out on your own.”

More silence, a few awkward coughs and the scuffle of shoes among the floor. At last, Wiebe sighs. “Alright. Ilya? Since you’re already glued to your phone all evening, I think this task will be perfect for you.”

“What,” Ilya mutters darkly beneath his breath, before locking his phone and raising his head. “I am too Russian and too Millennial to understand this level of comedy,” he deadpans quietly, not loud enough to be heard at the front of the room, but still gets a few snickers from his coworkers nearby. “Brandon,” he says, louder now, “maybe this is perfect for our younger coworkers? Those that are actually Gen Z, maybe? They practically can do this in their sleep.”

“Great idea, Ilya,” Wiebe says, nodding his approval. “That’ll make two people in this new group, excellent. Haas and LaPointe, I think the two of you can really contribute to this project. I know you two are still students,” he amends as both men start making protests, “but it is policy that even students take up one extracurricular task. You can help Ilya, and, I think… Yes, Troy? You’ll help Ilya manage the students on this project.”

Troy, Ilya notices with rapt fascination, makes a confirming noise and doesn’t offer up any protest. His eyes barely seem to be able to leave Harris. Ilya smiles smugly to himself, filing it away for later.

“Great,” Wiebe says. “Thank you, Harris. I’m sure you can work out a date to meet up with the boys at your convenience.” Wiebe looks at Ilya for that specifically, and Ilya nods, throwing in a thumbs up.

Harris smiles widely at the room at large, thanking them for their time and wishing them good luck with the rest of the meeting. He seems to linger on Troy, and Ilya can’t help but elbow him subtly as he rocks his chair back, balancing on two legs for a moment.

“Shut up,” Troy hisses at him, and when Ilya sneaks a glance over his shoulder, he sees Troy blushing.

The room at large relaxes as Harris makes his exit, bodies shifting and stretching and conversations picking up. Ilya slouches further into his chair, tucking one foot beneath his leg and opens up his abandoned game of Candy Crush, ignoring everyone around him. He watches as the seat to his left opens up as Marty leaves to stretch his legs, and Troy takes his place. Ilya looks at him, eyebrows raised. “So, Harris, huh?” he observes casually. “Looks like a nice enough guy to work with, don’t you think?”

“Whatever,” Troy grouches, dismissive. Ilya can see right through his act, but decides to let it go.

Wiebe allows the room to breathe for another couple of minutes, shuffling through his own paperwork. Troy sighs deeply, keeping an eye on Ilya’s progress as he fails his level for the fifth time in a row. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m not!” Ilya replies affronted. “I’m in the fifteen-hundreds! This particular level is just bullshit.”

“Sure, Ilya,” Troy says, snickering as Ilya restarts his level again and immediately curses as the board reshuffles after two moves, ‘out of moves’ flashing across the screen.

The two of them stay engrossed in the game while Wiebe shushes the room. “Right, so I had invited the ICU to come and explain a bit more about paging the EIT, but I just got a text they’re delayed. We’re moving on to the next point on the agenda…”

Wiebe’s halfway through his spiel reminding his staff on when to hand in their preferences for holidays, explaining that their schedules are made three months in advance and that handing in their days off late can result in disappointment, when the door opens.

“Sorry I’m late, I hope I’m not interrupting?” a familiar voice cuts in, and it is embarrassing how fast Ilya’s head snaps up, endangering himself with a whiplash. “There was an emergency and they needed the extra hands. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Shane! No, come on in,” Wiebe smiles at him, and Shane slowly makes his way into the conference room, eyes flitting over the different faces staring back at him, until his eyes catch Ilya’s. They linger for a bit, and one corner of Shane’s mouth curls up into an almost imperceptible smile. “It’s good to see you! I'm glad you guys could find the time still.”

“Of course,” Shane replies readily, even if he shuffles a bit anxiously, uncomfortable of all the attention on him. “I was told to tell you hi from all of us at the ICU. You’re still being missed.”

Wiebe smiles at that, gesturing Shane to the side so that he can finish his part before giving Shane the opportunity to address the meeting. His eyes find Ilya’s again, and in a blink-or-you-miss-it moment, Shane winks at him.

Ilya doesn’t breathe.

Shane waits politely as Wiebe finishes up his story, reminding them all to turn in their wishes for the holiday season before the end of the month. He stands near the back, leaning against the table behind him. He’s still in his uniform — Ilya hadn’t known he’d be working tonight, so he must’ve traded shifts. That’s good to know, too.

He watches as Shane turns a bit, shielding his phone as his fingers fly over the screen. Seemingly done, he straightens again, attention briefly flickering to Ilya before settling on Wiebe, listening attentively. Less than a second later, a message breaks through his paused game of Candy Crush.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Quit staring and pay attention

Caught out, Ilya scoffs and wrenches his gaze away, opting instead to text back. Fuck Candy Crush anyway.

Ilya: you didnt tell me you were coming to our meeting

Ilya: also bossy

Ilya: at least say hi to a guy first smh

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Smh??? Do you even know what that means

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Who even teaches you this stuff

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Hi, btw :)

Ilya can’t suppress the smile curving his lips.

Ilya: hello ;)

Ilya: but really what r u doing here wasnt it ur free day today

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: Yes it was but I’m doing Hayden a favor, his kids have chickenpox so he’s quarantining

Ilya can’t help but pull a face at that, rolling his eyes. Chancing to look up, he’s pleased to see Shane is already looking back at him, wearing a similar expression on his face.

H🧑‍⚕️🔥🍑👅💦: As for what I’m doing here if you paid attention to Brandon you would already know

Ilya huffs out a breath, locking his phone and pointedly giving Wiebe all his attention, who just finishes introducing Shane on behalf of the ICU department.

“Right,” Shane says, looking at the room at large a little uncomfortable, before taking a deep breath and starts speaking, diving into the EIT — its function and how and when to contact them. There’s a PowerPoint behind him, and it’s abundantly clear to Ilya Shane isn’t the one who made it; there’s far too much whimsy to the PowerPoint, from its color schemes to the unnecessary effects within the slides every time Shane pressed on to show the next point. There was an annoyed little frown every time the slides lagged behind, and it was amusing Ilya to no end.

“What is the point of this?” Troy asks about halfway through, leaning into Ilya’s side. “We basically call these guys on a weekly basis. I’m pretty sure we all know the procedures.”

Ilya hums, not taking his eyes off Shane. “I’m afraid this is my fault,” he says, corners of his mouth curling up a bit as he locks eyes with Shane yet again, before Hollander averts his gaze. “Remember my case from a while back?”

“I think so?” Troy says slowly. “The one there’s going to be a moral case deliberation about?”

“Yup,” Ilya sighs, not looking forward to that prospect. ‘That one.”

“So,” Shane says, closing the PowerPoint behind him with obvious relief. “To summarize: you can always, and I mean always, call us if you need us. You do not need permission from your physician, although it is considered nice if they at least know about it. It also doesn’t need to be a life-threatening situation — if you notice your patient is deteriorating and you’d like to have someone help you with some next steps, you can also ask us to consult you. We’re also here as a second opinion — if you don’t agree with your physician’s policy, especially when it comes to your patient’s health, we’re more than happy to step in and help.” His eyes find Ilya’s again and hold, looking at him with a serious expression. “You’d do nothing wrong, and you’re using your right to call in help for the betterment of your patient and their safety. Afterwards, we can make an appointment with the physician and yourself to evaluate the situation.”

It’s strange, how much the words feel like a soothing balm, even though Ilya technically knows all this. It is nice to be validated, especially by someone like Shane, who seems to be living and breathing protocols.

“Oh,” Troy breathes next to him, looking at Ilya. “I see.”

“So, that’s it really,” Shane says, smiling a little awkwardly out into the crowd. “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask any of us. Thank you for your time.” He turns to Wiebe while various of Ilya’s colleagues murmur their thank yous in return, and, after a few short words, Shane makes for the door.

Abruptly, Ilya stands. “Right,” he says loudly, clapping his hands once. “Smoke break.” He doesn’t wait to find out if he gets permission to leave or not, but by various grateful sounds of other smokers in their team who pile out after him, it’s too late for their manager to not allow it anyway.

“Hollander!” Ilya shouts, setting off after the other man who disappears down the hallway. At Ilya’s voice, he does look over his shoulder and slows down enough that Ilya has caught up to him in a few strides. His colleagues pass by him, and he waves them on, lingering with Shane even if he begs a cigarette off Dillon, who rolls his eyes playfully but easily provides.

“Rozanov,” Shane says, once the hallway is cleared and they’re the only two left. “Aren’t you heading out too?” he asks, tilting his head towards the exit. His dark eyes are looking at him, considering.

“In a bit,” Ilya replies breezily. He leans into Shane’s space, smells the, by now familiar, scent of his aftershave, warm amber tickling his nostrils — a warm, rich smell, slightly sweet with an undertone of spice to it. It should be boring by now, Shane never deviating from his preferred products, but instead it still sends a little thrill through Ilya’s body. Must be a Pavlovian response, Ilya muses idly, which could become a real problem if he doesn’t watch himself. “What time are you getting off?” he asks, voice low and full of double meaning. He hadn’t meant it as a double entendre, but can’t pass up on it now.

Shane catches it immediately and sends him an unimpressed glare. “Ten thirty,” he admits, though, so Ilya counts it as the win it is. “I have a morning shift tomorrow, so I negotiated I could leave a little earlier.” He doesn’t offer anything else, just keeps looking at Ilya with a careful expression.

Ilya feels his chances slipping — usually, Shane doesn’t want to hook up if he’s got a morning shift the next day, doesn’t want to go home in the middle of the night and run on a few hours of sleep. Still, he offers, “We should be done by ten. I could wait.”

Something close to amusement passes like a shadow over Shane’s face. “Why, do you need a ride?”

“Actually,” Ilya grimaces, “I wouldn’t say no.” Shane raises his eyebrows in surprise, and Ilya elaborates, “The subways are a huge mess right now. They announced some heavy maintenance throughout the nights and during Weekends, and by the time I can take my line I’m looking at roughly 1.5 hours of travel — they start at ten, apparently, so I’m fucked.”

Funny, how it is the truth, yet it seems like a feeble excuse at best. It’s not any less sincere. Sure, he’d rather hook up, but if this means he’ll spend roughly fifteen minutes inside a boring — but dry and warm — car instead of hopping lines and praying the detours hold up long enough for him to get home, he’ll take it.

Shane really looks at him then, and it’s always a little… unnerving. Ilya always feels like he’s able to cut right through Ilya’s bullshit, and it usually makes him feel a little shaken. Stripped, maybe.

Slowly, he nods. “No… other stuff, though,” he warns, and Ilya recognizes it as the lie it is.

Smirking, he nods in reply. “Of course, Hollander. I’ll wait out front for you.” He takes his leave then, rolling the cigarette between his fingers triumphantly, humming to himself as he joins his coworkers outside at the godawful shed.

The rest of the meeting goes by in an unimpressive blur. Ilya spends most of the time playing Bubble Witch Saga, the game Zane had been playing yesterday morning and subsequently had gotten Ilya hooked. Other than that, he needles Troy mercilessly, the two of them exchanging harmless jabs until Wiebe walks over and threatens to separate the two of them like little kids. Thankfully, by that time they’re wrapping up and Ilya walks out of the conference room thirteen minutes past ten; a record, for them. It’s as good as finishing on time.

He idly makes his way down, discussing the meeting with a couple of his coworkers who stand in the elevator with him, wondering what the new guidelines might mean for them as a department and which ones will shrivel up and disappear before the year is out. He gets needled, a bit, about becoming an influencer, and Ilya endures it good-naturedly but privately decides that using them in an embarrassing skit might make matters even.

“Roz, aren’t you coming?” Jake Boyle asks, noticing as he lingers behind. Troy and Evan stop walking too, the two of them already moving towards the exit and its parking lot beyond.

“Nah,” he says instead, sitting down at the sitting area in the middle of the hallway, spreading out and making himself comfortable. “I’m waiting on my ride.”

That earns him a wolf whistle and some good-natured eye-rolls. “Alright, good night Rozy, make sure to actually get some sleep,” Evan laughs. “We’ll hear all about it Saturday morning then?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Ilya replies cheekily, playing his part. That earns him more laughs, and then they’re moving on, bidding him a good night and discussing when all of them are on the same shift again. All of them except Troy, who gives Ilya a calculating look, like he’s figuring something out, and it has Ilya’s heart beating.

Then, he seems to give up, decide it’s none of his business as he smiles genuinely at Ilya — a rarity. “Good night, Ilya,” he offers genuinely.

Ilya waves at him, watches him go. He’d been sure he was about to say something else, and is eternally grateful he didn’t. He won’t tease about Harris, then, he decides. But he’s definitely meddling.

He idly waits for Shane to arrive. A few more people pass him by, giving him odd looks for just sitting there at this odd hour, but no one finds it quite weird enough to remark upon it — it is a hospital, after all, and people wander its halls at all hours. He ignores them, scrolling through his socials without really seeing what’s on it.

Mentally, he finds that he’s actually working on mapping out a route to get himself home within a reasonable time — it’s almost like he’s making a contingency plan, some part of him clearly expecting for Shane to back out at the last second, finding that Ilya is not worth the trouble. His fingers subconsciously found the O-train app; he scowls down at it as he closes it, slamming his phone down on the seat next to him with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

That’s how Shane finds him — Ilya’s ducked into his hoodie, chewing aggressively on the end of his cord, frowning into space. “Your meeting went that badly?” he asks teasingly, as he moves into Ilya’s periphery, blocking out the harsh overhead lighting as he towers over him. His uniform is still a small, neatly folded bundle in his hands, and the sight of it makes Ilya blink out of his stupor.

“Ugh, it took years off my life,” Ilya agrees, like a coward, like his bad mood didn’t stem from a hypothetical situation where Shane walked away from him. “Precious hours I will never get back.”

“Tell me about it,” Shane grumbles, turning on his heel to throw his uniform down the tube. Ilya follows. “They could’ve just given Hayden the night off. Honestly, why was I even here?” he shakes his head, brows furrowing a little in annoyance. “I could’ve been in bed.”

That earns him a snort from Ilya, and Shane turns to him a little sheepishly. “Right,” he says, diverting. “Ready to go?”

Ilya gestures ahead of him in an ‘after you’ motion, and follows after Shane, frowning to himself as he tries to shake off the feeling of relief.

They cross the parking lot, Shane navigating them to his older model Range Rover, the one he’d bought from his dad when his father had been given a company car and lovingly maintained, and the both of them frown up at the dark, heavy grey clouds overhead. “Looks like snow,” Shane says, and throws a look at Ilya a little worriedly. “I guess the forecast might be right for once. They predicted a heavy snowfall.”

Ilya shrugs noncommittally. “That’s a problem for tomorrow, though,” he says, being vague on purpose - he doesn’t mean anything by it necessarily, except that he does.

Shane’s brows furrow even more as he unlocks the car, climbing into the driver’s seat. “You’re working tomorrow morning too?” he asks, once the both of them have climbed inside and Ilya’s wearing his seatbelt with an exaggerated eye-roll.

Ilya just hums. “I have a shift tomorrow, yes.”

The ride towards Ilya’s is mostly silent, but Ilya is content to lean back against the backrest and watch as Shane worries his lip between his teeth, clearly debating something with himself. If he just waits patiently —

“My place would be closer by,” Shane hedges, opening the negotiations. Ilya has no business feeling this fucking delighted.

“Hmh,” he hums in agreement. He’s desperately trying not to look too eager, but he can hardly wait to spend the night somewhere where he doesn’t risk frostbite. That is, if he plays his cards right and can finally convince Shane to actually let him stay.

Silence hangs between them, before Shane breaks it by continuing, “It would mean less travel tomorrow morning, if the weather’s that bad…”

“Shane,” Ilya says, making sure the amusement in his voice bleeds through enough that Shane can pick up on it, “your place is fine.”

Shane glances at him from the corner of his eye for a millisecond before focusing back on the road. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind going to your -”

Ilya sighs. “No, I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Shane says, and he sounds relieved, to Ilya’s utter amusement. “I really wouldn’t have minded it, but, well. Your apartment…” He hitches there, ending his sentence abruptly as he bites his lip. Ilya, unfortunately and for no distinguishable reason, finds it aggressively adorable.

“What about it?” he asks, raising his eyebrow judgmentally. He’s totally aware he’s living in a shithole, but as long as he’s sending his money home to take care of his dad while making sure he doesn’t actually have to be there for that (no one’s said he’s not a coward, like Lyosha likes to remind him), his dreams of moving out into something better, and therefore also more expensive, remain just that. Dreams. Still, it’s fun to rile Shane up.

“Nothing! Just, well… Last time?”

“Yes?”

“I noticed it was, um, very… well… Cold.”

Ilya bites back a smile. “I had some heating problems, yes.”

Another quick, albeit judging, gaze his way. “And are they fixed?”

Ilya turns to look out the window before he idly replies, “No.”

“Jesus, Rozanov,” Shane swears, and is there concern in his voice? “You need to get that fixed. You know your landlord is obligated to take care of that for you, right? It’s part of your rent.”

“Okay, Mr. Landlord,” Ilya bites back, without any heat. In truth, Ilya wishes he could rip his landlord a new one. But that would be in a world where he isn’t three months behind on his rent in the first place, and he’s reached a silent understanding with said landlord where a) Ilya doesn’t bitch about all the things that are wrong about the place, and b) his landlord doesn’t make a fuss when Ilya asks for an extension. Again. “I will make sure it is nice and toasty next time you visit, yes?”

Shane mutters something beneath his breath about that not being the point. “You could get seriously ill, though,” he says, raising his voice. “Like, fucking hypothermia. It’s not a fucking joke, Rozanov. Or, like, fucking pneumonia.”

“That’s not how that works,” Ilya interrupts cheerfully, and the look Shane levels at him could bring down armies.

The discussion is tabled, however, as Shane expertly parallel parks in front of his building, climbing out of the car without looking back. Ilya strolls easily after him, taking up a leisure pace to add a little to the simmering frustration that is Shane Hollander. Shane’s apartment is based on the ground level, at the far end of the long hallway, a huge brass ‘24’ hammered to the door. By the time Ilya makes it past the threshold, Shane is already inside, shoes left in the tiny hallway, the sound of the electric teakettle turned on already filling the space.

He’s been here before, of course. Even if the space isn’t big, it’s functional. Just beyond the front door, the door on the right leads to a tiny closet where he knows Shane stuffs his coats and sports equipment. The door next to it leads to the half-bathroom, while the door on the left of the hallway leads to the full bath, big enough to also house the washing machine and drying rack. Next to the bathroom the single bedroom resides, just big enough to fit a queen size bed and a single closet. Straight ahead, it leads to the rest of the apartment, with a small L-shaped kitchen in the far left corner, a small table set nearby with four chairs, and a corner sofa on the far right, though not set in the corner but opposite it, creating the feel of a small, cozy corner, a TV mounted on the far wall.

To add more of a divide between the seating and dining area, there’s a huge Ikea set in the middle of the room, set against the back of the couch, trinkets and books and memorabilia displayed on its shelves. There are picture frames too, showing Shane with his parents, with his friends and family. Impressively, the width of the far back wall is lined with large windows, which give a lot of natural light during the day. Or so Shane told Ilya when he’d first been invited over. The place is decorated with soft hues of beige and grey, blankets and throw pillows and rugs adding texture and color to give it a warm and homely feel, except for the bedroom, which has a warm, dark green painted on its walls.

It is blessedly, blessedly warm inside, thanks to Shane’s decent isolation and smart heating system that can be controlled with a fucking app. (Ilya’s not jealous).

“Just so you know,” Shane says, once Ilya wanders into the kitchen. He’s leaning back against the counter, arms crossed as he keeps an eye on the digital display of the kettle, watching the water’s temperature slowly tick up towards 90 degrees. “When you inevitably end up in the ICU because you refuse to have your heating or water fixed, I will refuse to take care of you.”

Ilya pouts as he deliberately moves into Shane’s space, trapping him against the counter. Hollander, he notices, doesn’t object. “Wouldn’t you?”

A hint of a smile on Shane’s lips. “Nope,” he says casually. “I might swing by, though. Laugh a bit and tell you ‘I told you so,’ before I pass off care to Hayden. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to be your nurse for the day. That is, before we transfer you to Montréal MC, of course.”

Ilya reels back gasping, clutching a hand to his chest. “Shane Hollander,” he says, “You are a very cruel man. Everyone thinks you’re so sweet, but no! The world must know this. Everyone!” he shouts, raising his voice and Shane laughs, shaking his head as he reaches in his cupboard for two mugs and the bag of jasmine tea. “Your ICU sweetheart is actually an asshole! Call the papers!”

“You’re such an idiot,” he laughs, preparing two cups of tea and handing one to Ilya without asking. Ilya takes it without complaint, making sure his fingers brush Shane’s.

A comfortable silence settles as Ilya rearranges himself, leaning back against the counter next to Shane, close enough that their arms brush. Shane, though there is plenty of room to move out of Ilya’s range, seems to be happy where he is and contently sips his tea.

Idly, Ilya wonders if he needs to offer they should sit down, but it is weirdly intimate, the way they lounge against the counter, the only lights on in the apartment the ones beneath the cupboards. The sounds of the city filter in through the slightly cracked window, adding to the ambiance of the night. If Ilya hadn’t come here with ulterior motives, one of which fucking Shane Hollander within an inch of his life, it would almost feel weirdly romantic, almost domestic, even.

He decides not to dwell on it, instead wracking his brain into finding an opening to turn this thing back to something more sexual — more familiar ground.

He’s saved by Shane quietly swearing next to him, blinking rapidly as tears flood his eyes. “Fucking — contacts,” he says, wiping angrily at any stray tears. “I am not crying,” he adds dangerously, squinting at Ilya with red eyes.

“I can make you cry, though,” Ilya smirks, and Shane gives him a flat look. “Without even touching you, if you like.”

“Be right back,” he answers instead, gesturing at Ilya. “Oh, feel free to sit down anywhere, though. I, uh, I sometimes forget, kind of.”

Ilya shrugs, telegraphing an ‘it’s fine’ and watches Shane go. He doesn’t move from his spot against the kitchen counter, instead sipping the last dregs of his tea. He’s not a big tea drinker, prefers coffee at all hours of the day if he can get it, but Shane had seemed to make it for him without overthinking it, and Ilya had been too busy feeling all kinds of feelings about it to make a fuss.

At least the jasmine tea is as nice as it smells. Ilya’s man enough to admit that, at least.

“Oh, by the way, you’re sleeping on the couch. I’ll bring you blankets and a pillow.” Shane sends him a smirk just as he disappears from the room, heading for, presumably, the bathroom.

Ilya makes an outraged sound. He can’t be serious.

He’s just placing his empty mug on the counter when Shane reemerges, pillows and blankets gathered in his arms and his glasses perched on his nose.

“Fuck,” Ilya whispers softly to himself, drawing out the word as he pushes himself off the counter, strolling leisurely to where Shane is creating a makeshift bed out of the couch. It’s cute the way he tries, even when they both know deep down that Ilya won’t spend a second on there. Especially if Shane decides to strut around like that, dark-washed jeans hugging his legs, a light grey sweater that’s barely wide enough to fit his shoulders properly, and those fucking glasses, making the shape of his face softer somehow, making his eyes look bigger and even more irresistible.

Ilya plasters himself against Shane’s back, pressing open mouthed kisses to his exposed neck while his hands grip his hips, fingers creeping beneath the soft material of his shirt to dig into the heat of his skin.

“Ilya,” Shane grunts warningly, but instead of pushing him off, he moves with Ilya, straightening and then leaning back, putting all his weight against him, seemingly melting.

Ilya’s hands wander, trailing light as a feather against the hot skin of Shane’s stomach, feeling the tremors of his muscles as he clenches against the ticklish, teasing sensation of his fingertips. He presses his hips tightly, insistently, against Hollander’s ass, making his intent clear.

Forcing his eyes open from where he’s nuzzling Shane’s neck, he licks a stripe up towards his earlobe, gaze intent on the little nest on the couch. “We can fuck right here,” Ilya mouths hotly against his ear, nibbling his earlobe softly. “It will be comfortable. You’d sleep so well after, I promise to wear you out.”

A small moan reverberates through Shane’s chest, clearly bitten off as Shane pushes him off forcefully, biting out a, “I think the fuck not. It’s already fucking late - I’m taking a shower and going to bed. You’re free to help yourself, I’ll leave a towel for you out as well.”

He wrenches himself out of Ilya’s grasp, and Ilya fights the urge to grab him, reel him back in. He sighs, resigned to a night on the couch, though grateful enough not having to spend it in his own freezer of an apartment.

That is, if he hadn’t noticed the heated look Shane sent him before disappearing into the bathroom.

The pipes creak as the shower is turned on, and Ilya watches as steam starts to curl out of the gap of the door that’s conveniently been left open.

Ilya smiles like a cat that got the cream, shaking his head before taking his sweet, sweet time undressing, throwing his clothes over the back of the couch and padding naked into the wall of steam. He ticks his eyebrow up as there is, indeed, a second towel on the rack waiting on him. He glances at the silhouette of Shane in the glass cabin, turned conveniently away from the door’s entrance, doing not much at all but stand beneath the steaming spray of water, eyes closed and body loose and relaxed, shoulders dropped low.

Ilya takes a moment to just look, once again breath taken away by the sheer beauty of this man. It is a rarity to see him this unguarded, and Ilya watches, enraptured, as Shane tilts his head back, allowing the spray to hit him in the face for a second, his eyes trailing the fall of water down the planes of his body. It is rare for Ilya to really get the opportunity like this, to ogle, commit it all to memory, from the way his long, black lashes catch stray drops of water, down to the stretchmarks over his thighs.

“The hot water doesn’t last forever, you know,” Shane snarks. “Took you long enough. Get the fuck in here? Before I change my mind.”

“Bossy,” Ilya snarks back, but it is a little embarrassing how quickly he complies, sliding back the door and fitting himself into the slightly crammed space of the shower cubicle. “So demanding,” he rasps as he immediately presses Shane back against the glass, one hand curling around the curve of his jaw while his other curves around his hip, fingertips digging into the meat of him there, feeling the powerful muscles just beneath.

Shane catches his mouth like a starving man, teeth biting down on Ilya’s lower lip for a split second before his tongue is there, soothing the sting. One of Shane’s hands curve around the back of his neck, pulling him close, while the other palms his pec, thumb grazing his nipple, sending a bolt of lightning down Ilya’s body, making him shudder.

“Fuck, Shane,” he manages to pant once Shane gives him some space to breathe. It is nearly uncomfortably hot in the shower, the press of both their bodies adding to the humid atmosphere combined with water that is nearly scalding beating down on them both. It makes Ilya run hot all over, his hair plastered to his forehead from either sweat or water or both.

“Yes, yes,” Shane mews against his lips, hand flinging out to the little nook on the side where he keeps his shampoos and soaps. “Right here, yes? Like this. You’ll take me like this.”

And, really, who is Ilya to go against that?

It is messy and impossible and so fucking hot as Shane shoves the bottle of lube into his hands, ordering Ilya around to open him up “as fast as you can, fuck!”, and Ilya complies, swearing up a storm as his fingers prune up, his grip on Hollander flimsy at best thanks to how wet he is, his own cock heavy and neglected between his legs. He doesn’t mind one bit; in truth, he revels in nights like this, where Shane is so clear in his desires that he’s ordering Ilya around until he gets what he wants, and Ilya is hopeless to comply, reaping nothing but benefits.

“Condom?” he asks, sounding wrecked to his own ears, even if there hasn’t even been a hand on him.

Shane, who’s turned around, his back to Ilya and his front against the glass, his face pressed against the cool planes of it along with his hands, eyes closed and looking blissed out already, groans. “God, are you mad? You’ll never get the fucking thing on in here. No, it’s fine. We’ve discussed this, we’re both clean.”

“Fuck, are you serious?” Ilya groans, crowding in close again, grabbing Shane by the hips to position him a little better.

“Yes, asshole, I am serious. But if you come in me I’m making you walk home.” He presses back against Ilya impatiently, and Ilya nods at himself, amused despite the circumstances, and finally, blessedly, presses in.

They both groan at the stretch, Shane impossibly tight. “Yes?” Ilya grits out, holding back until Shane tells him okay.

Shane, for his part, hands scrabbling against the glass, his face flushed and eyes squeezed closed, manages to open them just a fraction and give Ilya a look, dark and heated. “Yes!” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Ilya tentatively sets a pace then, hips snapping forward, pressing Shane more firmly against the plane in front of him. The urge is there, the urge to stop holding back and drive into him as hard as he can, but the ground beneath his feet is slippery from the water and soap and lube, and he’d rather not fall and break his neck, or worse, his dick. His hands are irons around Shane’s hips, though, holding on hard enough to bruise, but the way Shane is moaning appreciatively means he won’t be in trouble for it.

Uncharacteristically, Shane doesn’t demand for Ilya to go harder; having drawn the same precarious conclusions regarding their surroundings, instead, he begs for Ilya to go deeper, and so Ilya adjusts, slowing down but making sure he pulls nearly all the way out before thrusting himself back in, as far as he can go. Shane pushes back with every thrust, meeting him halfway.

The wet sounds of bodies slapping together sounds filthy in the tiny space and is barely drowned out by the gasps and moans from both men. Ilya’s not sure he’s never been this flushed before — his whole body feels like it’s overheating, his extremities tingling with every rock of his body. He feels as blissed out as Shane looks.

“Look at you,” Ilya mumbles, draping his upper body over Shane’s back, grinding his hips in tight little circles, making him keen. “So fucking good.”

“So good,” Shane echoes, gasping wetly against the glass. “Oh, fuck, Ilya. Fucking touch me.”

It takes some effort, uncurling his fingers enough to snake his arm around Shane’s hips, finding his weeping cock. He starts stroking him off efficiently, just the way he knows Shane likes, fast and tight, and he groans as it makes Shane clench around him.

“Yes, yes,” Shane moans, throwing his head back against Ilya’s shoulder, whole body drawing in tight. “Just like that! Don’t fucking stop.”

Ilya just grunts, bending his head and presses his open lips against Shane’s neck, teeth nipping gently against the skin there as Shane locks in his hold, his fingers digging into the meat of his thigh as he comes against Ilya’s fingers.

“Fuck, come on then,” Shane goads, his free hand coming up to grab harshly at Ilya’s hair, pulling meanly.

“I thought you said not in you,” Ilya grits out against clenched teeth, eyebrows drawn tight in concentration.

“I changed my mind,” Shane breathes against the side of his face, and he clenches down deliberately as Ilya seems unable to stop his desperate grind into that delicious heat. A whimper forces its way past his lips as Ilya’s rhythm falters, and with a breathless little laugh he says, “But maybe hurry up, yeah? I can’t take much more.”

Ilya nods, closing his eyes and burrowing deeper into Shane’s neck, allowing his body to run on auto-pilot, chasing his own release, giving in to that pressure that had been building and building with each passing moment. He stills as he comes, buried to the hilt, and Shane murmurs quietly to him as Ilya groans into his neck.

They stay beneath the spray for a short while, trading kisses - still hot, but with less intensity. Eventually, Shane makes a face about the mess, whining about the come dripping out of him, and Ilya teases him about it but ultimately offers to help clean him up which Shane accepts with a bashful little smile, the both of them firmly back on script.

The things that are not on script, though, are the things they don’t talk about. Like how Shane has a brand new shampoo bottle, unopened still but definitely the same brand that Ilya uses, right there on the shelf for Ilya to use. He even hands it to Ilya with a closed-off expression, trying too hard at appearing casual about it. Nor is anything mentioned when, after toweling off, Shane produces a brand new toothbrush for Ilya to use.

And they definitely don’t talk about how Ilya trails after Shane into his bedroom. The clock on the nightstand shows it’s way past midnight, nearly twelve thirty in the morning, and Shane winces but doesn’t comment. Instead, he climbs into bed, wordlessly picking the left side of the bed and eyes silently watching as Ilya gingerly makes his way towards the right. They don’t talk as Shane sets an alarm in barely five hours, and they don’t wish each other a good night. But they do end up curled together, Ilya draped over Shane’s back like a clingy octopus, lulled to sleep by the steady breathing of the man in his arms.

It is worth it, the next morning, to be woken up at 5.30am by the insistent yet gentle alarm of Shane’s phone. This, however, is new territory for the both of them, and they hover awkwardly around each other until Shane huffs in annoyance, chucks a fresh pair of briefs at Ilya’s head and says, “I want those back. Please hurry, okay? I want to be in the car by six. Do you want breakfast?”

“Please,” Ilya says, probably a little too enthusiastic — breakfast is usually a luxury he can barely afford, and so chooses most days to skip it entirely. The coffee break at work makes up for it anyway, since there’s always some fresh fruit at the very least for Ilya to raid.

There had been a heavy, steady snowfall throughout the night. As the two men make their way out of Shane’s apartment at five past six, Shane fidgeting with his keys the entire time Ilya had spent searching for his shit, making sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind, the world seems to be covered in a thick blanket of it. Even the sounds seem muted — despite the early hour, a city never truly sleeps, and even now the two of them aren’t the only ones outside. In fact, the first snowman is already being resurrected by a straggle of enthusiastic kids, a tired dad with a steaming mug shivering in his night robe overseeing the lot.

Having to dig out Shane’s car from where it’s definitely been a bit snowed in, instantly seems to elevate Shane’s mood a little. “Thank god we can do this together,” he pants, after the two of them moved shovels and shovels of snow. Like the weather is justification enough for Shane not kicking Ilya out after all.

Ilya decides to let it slide and gets into the passenger’s seat.

The drive back to the hospital is a silent one, the radio turned on softly but barely hard enough that Ilya can discern what song is being played. Shane only has eyes for the road, driving as carefully as he can. It’s clear he’s used to driving in circumstances like this, but Ilya knows just as well that snow, and especially the ice waiting beneath it, are unpredictable at best.

The upside of the early hour, of course, is the utter lack of traffic, even if the morning rush already seems to stir.

“Thanks,” Ilya says softly after a time, as the hospital is already looming up in front of them. There is a lot unsaid in that single word, but somehow Shane either knows what Ilya means, or decides to turn a blind eye.

There is a slight imbalance between them, a lot of their normal tendencies that been their routine upturned and overthrown in a mere twelve hours. What they have suddenly seems impossibly fragile, on the verge of either transforming or breaking off entirely. There are cracks appearing in the foundation of them, of their arrangement, in the stubborn way they cling to keeping things casual when it hasn’t been anywhere near casual for Ilya. Not in a long, long time.

All the things that go unsaid are becoming big, almost tangible barriers between them, because Ilya wants, wants more than stolen moments at work and secret hook-ups and being kicked out in the middle of the night. He wants more of this, waking up next to Shane but without the awkwardness, without the dread of realizing that Ilya took more than Shane is willing to give.

Ilya wants to speak the truth, the feelings cumulating in his chest that are rattling behind his teeth and threatening to spill out of him at the merest glance Shane casts his way, and Ilya wants Shane to want —

Except he doesn’t know what Shane wants, not really. He suspects, of course, hopeful that he and Shane are aligned in their desire to make this last, to evolve it into something real, but they’ve never talked about it, and every time Ilya ventures close to opening that line of conversation, Shane shuts it down.

One thing Ilya knows for sure, though. Whatever it is that they have right now, undefined and secretive, it cannot last. Ilya won’t survive it. He needs to know where they stand, and if Shane doesn’t want the same…

They should, no, they need to talk about it.

Ilya sighs, turns in his seat until he’s looking at Shane’s side profile. He’s got his heart on his sleeve, has got it there since he woke up all warm and safe and he’s been trying desperately to push it back in, but even as the nerves rage through his body, there’s no going back now. Shane, the name on the tip of his tongue, a string of feelings just behind it that he feels he can no longer contain.

Instead, he finds Shane already looking at him, his eyes huge and spooked. “You’re welcome,” he says, short and finite, leaving no room for Ilya to even begin to voice all he wants to say.

Ilya nods sharply, backing off even if it makes his throat go tight. Message understood.

The parking lot is still fairly empty, and the two of them slowly, silently, make their way towards their destination. The tension between them is sharp enough to cut, and after half a minute Ilya can’t take it anymore. In a desperate attempt, he scoots down, grabs a handful of snow and lobs it at Shane’s coat, who’s walking straight ahead.

“Wha - you asshole,” he grins, immediately copying Ilya and the snow fight begins in earnest, tension and emotional vulnerability utterly forgotten. As other employees make their way over the treacherously slippery driveway, most of them end up joining the impromptu fight.

A couple of ED employees are already invested in making a patient-like snowman, gown included.

“Fuck, I’m gonna be late,” Shane eventually gasps, shaking the melting snow out of his hair. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes crinkled from where he’s smiling so hard. Ilya could almost believe he’s in lo—

“Hurry up, then,” he waves him on, as Shane frantically says his goodbyes, eyes landing questioningly on Ilya. In demonstration, Ilya holds up his nearly-empty pack of cigs, fishing one out. “I can afford to be a little later, don’t worry.”

“We’ll text?” Shane asks, something small in the way he asks it.

Ilya scoffs. “You better react to my memes then.”

Shane smiles, then, and turns to leave inside, not looking back.

Ilya ends up smoking not one, but two cigarettes, before he turns on his heel and makes his way back off the driveway, leaving in earnest for the metro this time. If all goes well, he should be able to catch another few hours of sleep before he’ll have to be back by eleven pm tonight, ready and composed for his night shift.

Chapter End Notes

a moral case deliberation is kind of like an evaluation, and is guided by an independent party. During this time, the case gets presented to all the parties of the hospital that were involved (doctors, nurses etc) and a case gets made to discuss where the moral objection lies. With Ilya, back in chapter 2, the moral objection would lie in the resuscitation protocol that was in place, since his patient was actively dying at the time. The ICU, in his case, will back him up.
The moral cases are used as a study for the hospital and its staff to try and prevent this particular series of events from happening again, or to treat a similar situation differently.
The main focus must be a moral objection, though! So it can either be the active wishes from patients themselves that are cross with the staff’s recommendations, or calls made while discussing a treatment plan that the executive parties feel a particular way about.
That said, moral case studies are rare, and only held when a situation is deemed extreme or impactful enough to arrange one

Chapter 8: 8 if your love was a pill

Chapter Summary

“Cliff.” Ilya narrows his eyes as he re-scans the different bags and syringes of medicine.

“Yeah?” The reply is hesitant, given after a brief, considering pause.

“Compatibility. The fuck does that mean?”

Chapter Notes

uh oh...

Ilya knows it’s going to be a shit day when the night shift hustles into the ‘fishbowl’, the nurses’ station in the middle of the department made solely of glass planes (hence its name) looking overworked and at the end of their wits. Boyle shuffles towards Ilya, clapping him on the shoulder in greeting. “It is an absolute clusterfuck,” he says, looking at Ilya’s patient list with red-rimmed eyes. The exhaustion comes off him in waves. “We’re sorry, we tried to reshuffle the workload but to be honest, it’s bad department wide.”

Ilya grimaces, looking between his open computer screen and his printed patient list, his Cyrillic handwriting chaotically spread all over the paper. He has five patients, all of them either delirious or bed-bound in their illness. A small mercy being all of them have a DNR policy.

“Right,” he sighs, taking his place in front of the board as today’s designated charge nurse — on top of everything else going on department wide, this is the final nail in the coffin of ensuring Ilya’s going to have a shit fucking day. Being the charge nurse, combined with his patient load, is going to be enough to burn him out. Normally, they try to arrange for the charge nurse to be patient free, because they’re the link between the other departments, the ICU and the ER, and often also are the ones answering the phone calls from people at home. They’re the ones who oversee the bed load, distributing the patients fairly among the staff, and because they have no patients of their own, they’re the ones who can assist the current staff. However, Ilya thinks unhappily, with this set up it means he’ll mean fuck-all for the department, won’t be able to help the students or the RN’s in any significant way. “How is everyone looking?”

At the start of the shift, they have the so-called shift start, where they discuss patient load, any discharges that might happen and any planned new admissions. Students can decide what goals they have for the shift, and if there’s time, colleagues might step in and help them in their process. But one look at Ilya’s pathetic board, the amount of his colleagues who flag their shifts with red flags, the tightness around their eyes as they discuss their workload for the day, it means that Ilya will count it a win if everyone manages to get through the day without breaking down in tears and with as many patients still breathing as they can manage.

“I will help as much as I can,” he concludes, as everyone shifts, the mood dim. “But in truth, I might need as much help as I can get. We’ll get each other through this, guys. We have a good staff today, a lot of knowledge on the work floor. Help each other as much as possible.”

Wiebe nods. “There are a few departments who have a lighter workload, miraculously,” he says. “I’m going to ask for help at the Bed Consultation, see how many beds we’ve got open hospital wide and if there’s colleagues from other departments who can step in. From what I’ve last heard, the ICU is pretty quiet — they might be able to come here and help wash people, do some vitals, prepare antibiotics — whatever you can give them.”

“Good luck, guys! And remember, it’s certainly going to be three thirty at some point,” Ilya says, dismissing the room.

He’s just through his first check-up round when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and Ilya groans. Being called this early doesn’t bode well — he’s had shifts where the phone had been ringing near non-stop, and he’d barely managed to help out on the floor as it was.

“IM department, how can I help you?”

“Ilya, it’s Brandon. I asked around. The ICU and urology department are quiet, they’re sending people over to come help.”

Instant relief floods his body like a drug. “That’s amazing! Thanks, Wiebe.”

“For the last time, Ilya, you can just call me Brandon,” Wiebe says exasperated, but there’s just enough humor in his voice that it’s obvious he doesn’t take offense.

Ilya immediately starts going around the department, peeking his head into the suits where his coworkers are, taking inventory in who needs help the most. By the time he’s taken stock, a small gaggle of nurses is waiting at the secretary’s desk in the middle of the department.

Among them, Ilya notices, is a familiar freckled face. It immediately works wonders on his mood. That, in fact, might be a little concerning, but it’s nothing Ilya has to deal with right now, he decides.

“Hi, everyone,” he greets, gratitude obvious in his voice.

“That bad, huh?” another familiar voice calls out, and Ilya can’t help the broad grin that spreads over his face as Cliff Marlow steps forward.

“Dude, it is a fucking nightmare,” he says, as he and Cliff embrace each other, thumping each other on the back. “Good to see you.”

“Of course,” Cliff replies easily, pushing his hair back where the hair gel is already giving up. “The ER could spare me so I’d thought and see how my brother Roz is doing out here. Looks like an absolute shit show.”

Ilya gives him a dark look. “You have no idea. Right —” He spends the next few minutes explaining the status of the department. A group of serious faces stare back at him as he explains the overwhelming workload the department faces. “We mostly need help with washing and dressing patients, and if someone can spare some time to prepare our ridiculous amount of antibiotic drips, that would be great.”

The eight nurses nod back at him, and start dividing jobs among them. Cliff immediately offers to start on the ABs, and ropes in his direct coworker Victor St-Simon to help him out. The other nurses Ilya quickly pairs off, sending them towards the rooms where the need is highest.

Eventually, only Shane remains. Ilya can’t help but smile at him, and Shane smiles back a private, small smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ilya echoes back. They stare at each other for a minute more, before Shane, self-consciously, gives an awkward little cough and shifts his weight.

Ilya had been entirely selfish in waiting to assign Shane to any patients, and he can’t say he regrets it. Not when Shane looks at him bashfully, shuffling his feet, and then asks very sweetly, “Can I help you? Do you need any help?”

“Actually, I do,” Ilya replies, stepping in close and sharing his patient overview. Shane’s brow furrows at the incomprehensible, Cyrillic notes scratched all over the paper. He still looks politely interested as Ilya starts to explain them, pointing them out, visibly biting his tongue at the lack of a proper color-coded system on his sheet.

“Right,” Shane nods seriously, back to professionalism. “I say we start at room seven, maybe? They need to be done on time so you can send them down to geriatric care — they can keep an eye on them for you during the day. We save your dying patient for last, so you can give them the time and attention they need, and we can combine all his care at once, to keep the invasiveness of it to a minimum.”

Ilya nods. “I was thinking the same thing.”

It’s an intoxicating thing, to be working with Shane this closely without it actually being a life-or-death kind of situation. The soft looks and private smiles are a soothing balm to Ilya’s soul. They actually have the time to talk and joke around with the patients, and Ilya takes the opportunity to learn more about Shane Hollander, ICU nurse. It’s easy, too, with how nosy patients generally are, always asking personal questions whenever they get the chance (these are his favorite kinds of patients, the ones who are investing into getting to know the person behind the job).

Shane, Ilya learns, is a very private person, only offering tidbits about himself that are superficial at best. Still, Ilya ends up knowing more about him than he’d known previously. He’s an only child, for example, born to a Japanese mother and Canadian-Dutch father. His favorite drink is a ginger ale, and Shane has personal beef with the restaurant downstairs for removing it from their stock. He’s born and raised in Ottawa, but chose to attend Montreal university because they have a better, more specialized program. Worked during his internship at Montreal MC, which he liked because of the complicated cases, but heavily disliked because it felt more like a factory, robot-like and completely stripped from its personality. Had decided to move back to Ottawa and work here, a smaller hospital — less specialized, but with a lot more heart. Spends his summers at their family cottage, a few hours outside of the city, and he talks about that place like it’s holy.

Later, it’s how Ilya learns how exactly Shane ended up at the ICU, even if he learns it in the worst way possible.

They’re done with Ilya’s rounds, all patients taken care of, and they end up at the fishbowl, Shane hovering over Ilya’s shoulder as Ilya fills in his charts, providing additional notes.

Ilya closes the file as they finish up, going back to the department overview to check the current amount of occupied beds, when Shane huffs in surprise. “Rose is here?”

“Who?” Ilya asks, confused, eyes skimming the list on the screen.

“Landry,” Shane says, tapping the screen at the surname with the end of his pen. “Do you need me for anything further?” He’s not unkind as he asks it, but even Ilya can pick up at the excitement creeping into his tone, and it significantly sours Ilya’s mood.

Determined not to show it, because he’s not the complete asshole people always seem to assume he is and he does appreciate all the help Shane provided him with, he manages a tight smile. “Of course not Hollander, you’ve helped enough. Go say hello.”

Shane smiles at him then, animated and sincere, so unlike Ilya’s mostly seen him, and the hot stab of jealousy nearly knocks the breath out of his lungs.

“Thanks! I’ll keep it short, though, it not being visiting hours and such,” he says, and makes a swift exit.

Eyes narrowed, Ilya turns back to the screen, eyes finding ‘Landry, R.’ immediately. Her birth date suggests they’re roughly the same age. Her reason of admittance is pyelonephritis, which does have Ilya wincing in sympathy, but only just. She’s admitted to one of the wards, sharing the room currently with one other patient.

Stewing behind the computer, Ilya locks it and gets up, suddenly getting restless. It’s probably fine — he shouldn’t be assuming the worst.

The call light goes off, and if it’s conveniently the room next to where Landry resides and Ilya is the first nurse to respond, then that’s nobody’s business but his own.

He crosses the hallway and immediately regrets every decision he’s made in the last five minutes when a female voice floats out of the ward, warm and pleased. “Shane! O my god, It’s been literal ages!” He can’t quite hear the response, but even as Ilya steps into the adjoining room, shutting off the call light, he can hear a terrible fondness in Shane’s voice.

Ilya tries to ignore it, plastering a small, friendly smile on his face as he looks at the patient, who looks back at him sheepishly. “Sorry, so sorry. I accidentally pressed it with my elbow as I lay down.”

Suppressing an eye roll that would absolutely get him an official complaint on the patient satisfaction survey, Ilya merely says, “Okay, no problem,” and flees the room as fast as he’d entered it.

There’s a COW parked in the hallway, resting against the hall, and Ilya presses his card against the screen, logging back in and pulling back up his bed overview and smoothing out his papers as he starts cross referencing. It’s totally accidental if he picks up on bits of conversation — the door remains open, after all, and it doesn’t sound like a private conversation in the slightest. Really, anyone walking by would be hearing them talk — it’s not like they’re trying to keep their voices down.

“You always were my favorite girlfriend,” Shane says, voice incredibly dry. “Remind me why we broke up again?”

The girl, Rose, laughs. “I’ve been your only girlfriend,” she teases back, and Ilya grinds his teeth so hard his jaw aches. “And you sprouted some nonsense about compatibility, remember?”

Compatibility? The fuck does that mean?

“I definitely don’t remember that part,” Shane replies. “Only that you managed to go to college in fucking California and left me out to dry.”

She what? Oh, his dislike for her grows by the sentence.

There’s a soft snicker, and then Rose resumes the conversation. “Oh, but I do miss our dates. Remember when you took me out to skate when the lake froze over? I still have that picture as my lock screen. Maybe we can go again, and you can teach me to play hockey some more.”

“How about you focus first on getting healthy again and getting out of here?” Which — that’s not exactly an answer, is it? But it’s also not a definite ‘no’, which means he must be remembering it, considering taking her out onto the ice again, teaching her how to handle his stick —

Ilya feels sick.

“You never really told me how you, Shane Hollander, promising center, became a nurse anyway,” she says, sounding incredibly kind, her voice going soft.

Shane scoffs, “I don’t know about promising —”

“Oh, stop it. You’re incredible and you know it,” Rose cuts him off efficiently. “Remember, I’ve seen you play. You could’ve gone pro, maybe.”

Shane heaves a sigh even Ilya picks up out in the hallway, but Ilya is left blinking unseeing at the dark screen in front of him. Shane, a professional hockey player, like Ilya would’ve been if life had been a little kinder to him? Briefly, fleetingly, he wonders. What if they both had gotten into the MHL? If so, would they have been picked by the same team, been friends? No, he thinks. That wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting as being picked by two different teams. Rivals, maybe. Would they be rivals, or would they be able to bridge that, too, like they’re bridging working on two very different departments and still finding opportunities to seek each other out? Whatever the outcome, Ilya knows one thing for sure; in every universe, he doubts he would not become obsessed with Shane Hollander.

“I suppose I was, am, pretty good. But, you know. Life, it happens,” Shane says, and Ilya can practically hear the shrug as he says it. “My dad, you see. He, uh. He got into an accident. A pretty bad one, and, uh, me and my mom — we didn’t know if he’d pull through, and he got hit by a truck while on his way to pick me up from practice — I’d been so adamant I’d go, even though it was an optional skate and I had promised my parents I wouldn’t — it was my mom’s birthday, even, and while my mom is just as obsessed as I was, she didn’t like me skipping on the plans they’d made? I was obsessed with hockey to the point it could be considered unhealthy, and, well. I remember sitting outside the rink, waiting for my dad to show up — my car had been at the garage, and despite everything he’d gone and brought me to the rink anyway and so he’d had to come and pick me up again and just. The ambulances, you know? Rushing by, sirens screaming, and then my mom. She called me, told me she’d be late to pick me up, that dad had to —” he chokes a little, there, his rambling cut short as he heaves in a breath. “And it looked like he’d be alright, but then complications happened… Anyway, he spend two weeks at the ICU, and I just. It clicked for me, immediately. I started to watch the nurses, asking them to explain what they were doing. And they did, because they were nice and saw that I needed something to pull me through that uncertainty. They were kind, and they were sincere. They loved helping their patients through the most difficult time in their lives, but not just that. They were there for people like me, like my mom, the ones who sit by the bed and pray and hope.”

“Oh, Shane,” Rose says, sounding apologetic. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, it really was. So after that, I started looking into nursing programs, and here I am. Giving some of that kindness back, I guess.”

“And your dad?”

“Full recovery,” Shane replies, and Ilya can hear the smile in his voice — the real one, where it lights up his whole face. It’s a face that Ilya’s become terribly fond of, and has since made it his mission to try and get it out more. “It took forever, but he got there eventually.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

Ilya should really be moving, he idly thinks to himself. Instead, he unlocks the computer, opens the medicine cabinet beneath the computer screen and clicks on Landry’s file. Sue him for being curious. He clicks on the medicine overview, and doesn’t acknowledge any feelings that may or may not stir in his stomach as he notices she’s due for a new set of painkillers.

Naproxen and acetaminophen in hand, Ilya raps his knuckles against the open door to announce himself, then steps into the room before either one can respond. He rounds the corner, a smile that’s hard to muster and even harder to maintain plastered on his face.

“Hi, miss Landry?” he greets, as he takes in the scene before him. Sitting cross legged on the made bed is a woman in her mid-20’s, strawberry blonde hair gathered in a messy ponytail, dark blue eyes peering up at him kindly. She’s clad in a comfortable looking pair of sweats and a t-shirt that’s three times her size, the Montreal Voyageurs logo printed over the chest (ugh, not another one, Ilya thinks). Her full lips are curved up into a smile, and one hand — perfectly manicured — is clasped between Shane’s.

Shane, sitting at her bed, hunched forward in his chair, straightens as he comes in, letting go of her hand, and Ilya clocks the amused glance miss Landry, Rose, sends him.

“Oh, hi, Ilya,” Shane says, eyes wandering down to the medication Ilya is still holding, before snapping back up to his face. He looks completely neutral, and Ilya has a hard time reading anything on his face. He hates it. “This is Rose — we went to high school together.”

Rose is giving him a clear once-over, and Ilya raises his eyebrows briefly. “Hi,” she says, a glint in her eyes. “Ilya, right?”

“Nice to meet you,” Ilya manages to say, even sounding like he might mean it, and holds up the little cup. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I’ve got your meds if you need them.”

“Yes, please,” she’s quick to reply, accepting the cup swiftly and grabbing her glass of water from the nightstand. “That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

And damn it all, she’s actually nice. Ilya nods at her. “Of course. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let us know, okay?”

He glances briefly at Shane, who’s already looking back at him, and Ilya can’t help the quirk of his mouth as he turns towards the other patient in the room, asking if they need anything. As he makes his exit, berating himself for being this fucking stupid, God, Ilya, why?, for being this fucking nosy to boot, he can’t help but overhear Rose’s comment.

“He’s cute,” she says gleefully.

There’s a pause, and then Shane says, “Sure. I guess.” A myriad of complicated things whirl in Ilya’s stomach for a second as he starts gathering more medicine.

“Sure,” he hears Rose echo, sarcasm underlining the word. “If you’re blind.”

Shane grouches something back that Ilya can’t hear, and when he steps back into the room to provide the other patient with their medication — furosemide and yet again more acetaminophen, the pair falls suspiciously silent.

He shoots them another small smile. “Sorry for interrupting again, I’m gone now.” To Shane, he says, “Thank you for your help, earlier. Take all the time you want.”

He doesn’t miss the gleeful look Rose sends Shane at that, the way she whacks him on the bicep. A blush spreads over Shane’s face, and Ilya practically flees the room.

“Oh. My. God. Shane!” Rose squeals.

“Stop it,” comes a muffled reply, presumably by Shane covering his face with his hands. “He’s just a coworker, Rose. I work with him quite a lot. It’s nice.”

He can hear the doubt in Rose’s voice as she replies. “Just a coworker?”

“Okay, fine. A friend, maybe.” And that hurts more than it has any right to. It’s better than being classified as just a coworker, but Jesus. Is that all they are? Is that all he is to Shane?

He’s being irrational — he knows he is, even if he kicks the COW off its brakes with more force than necessary and starts dragging it down the hallway, swearing to himself as he forgets to pull the charger out of the socket. His jaw clenches tightly as he opens patient file after patient file, he starts distributing medication where he needs to. It’s a job that actually requires him to pay attention, to read up on the charts and to check the reported vitals, and normally it would be demanding enough of him to be able to push back whatever emotions he’s feeling, but right now it only adds to his souring mood. He’s a fucking professional, though, and so he makes sure the patients don’t notice, even if he doesn’t linger like he usually does.

On a fundamental level, he knows that Shane was just deflecting, knows that he and Ilya can be considered friends. He also knows that they’re both keeping this thing between them, this casual, no-strings-attached fun, quiet by mutual agreement. And yet, over the past few months it had, apparently, become much less casual to Ilya than he’d been willing to admit to himself. Another uncomfortable truth is this: he’d really hoped the same might’ve been said for Shane, especially since last time when he’d allowed Ilya to spend the night. It had felt like a new development between them, but now?

The crux of it, Ilya realizes as he stalks towards the medicine room to pick up the antibiotics, is that he’s so fucking jealous of the easy affection he just witnessed between Shane and Rose, that it’s burning him inside. He teased her, he laughed with her. He held her fucking hand. With her, he was just Shane, the guy who happened to be working as a nurse, who watched hockey games in his downtime and, apparently, played it himself too and — and not the professional Shane whose walls are so high, Ilya’s still scaling them. Who doesn’t share anything personal beyond the superficial, who smiles but only in the way that you would in polite company, composed and impersonal. The one who shuts Ilya out, who takes a step back when Ilya takes a step forward.

And another thing entirely is that Rose, who knows him so well, is close enough to have watched him play, to tease him about it. Rose, who can just ask, and Shane will give her a honest, in-depth answer, none of it reserved like he is — well, with everyone else, and that includes Ilya. Ilya, who had been pondering the same fucking question, wondering how and why Shane had chosen the ICU and not some career that would’ve been hockey related (in Ilya’s humble opinion, Shane would’ve made a terrifying GM), but hadn’t had the fucking balls to ask him himself, knowing that Shane would’ve probably deflected the question. Ilya, who’d stood on the same fucking path, apparently, on his way to greatness only to be forced to deviate, and they didn’t even know that about each other.

Ilya, he comes to realize like he’s taken a blow to the face, sudden and startlingly painful, desperately wants what Rose has. He wants them to talk. He wants to bond with Shane over hockey, he wants to compare their careers, he wants to talk about family, he wants to comfort Shane when he’s so clearly worried about his father like he’d been minutes ago, and he wants to be comforted when Ilya, inevitably, has to open up about his own dysfunctional family.

But more than that, Ilya wants the Shane Hollander that Rose gets unlimited access to, the one that is affectionate and teases and is effortlessly funny. The Shane that doesn’t pull his proverbial punches to remain polite. The Shane Hollander who grabs your hand in support and doesn’t mind being seen doing so. The Shane Hollander that Ilya gets to see, certainly, and he should be grateful he even gets to see him at all, but it’s only when they’re behind closed doors, the curtains drawn.

Ilya desperately, desperately wants more of him. He just wants him all the time, now.

He holds up his pass against the lock of the door of the medicine room, pushing it open with his shoulder and promptly takes a dive. The huge cooling box that the apothecary sends up to keep the chilled medicine cold is still on the floor and nearly goes flying as Ilya, swearing up a storm in Russian, runs into it, losing his clog in the process and stubbing his poor, unprotected toes. “блять!” he curses, his face contorted in pain and rage, and it has Victor and Cliff pausing where they’re working. It would be comical, the way they both freeze where they stand, heads turning towards Ilya in scary synchronization if it wasn’t for Ilya’s ruined mood.

He kicks the box for good measure as he stalks past it, stuffs his feet back into his clogs and eyes the finished ABs on the counter and tries to find his patient’s.

“You good, Roz?” Cliff asks, eyeing him skeptically.

“Stubbed my toe,” he mutters back, and it sounds too angry even to his own ears. He doesn’t give a shit.

“Right, mate. Whatever you say.” Cliff sounds doubtful, but thankfully doesn’t press. Ilya doesn’t miss the concerned look thrown his way, though, but he ignores it.

It’s nothing he can’t, won’t, get over soon. It’s just a temporary setback born from an unwanted crush. It’s fine. He just hooks up with Shane because it’s convenient, because it’s a safe bet that’s fun and easy and they know each other now, know what they like and it just clicks —

“Cliff.” Ilya narrows his eyes as he re-scans the different bags and syringes of medicine.

“Yeah?” The reply is hesitant, given after a brief, considering pause.

“Compatibility. The fuck does that mean?”

Cliff snorts. “Rozy, it means whatever you think it means. I know for a fact that you know that word — I watched you study for fucking hours on your English exams, my friend, or have you forgotten?”

Ilya doesn’t answer, just makes a displeased sound and gathers his medication. He flees the room before Cliff can ask him any questions Ilya doesn’t want to answer like ‘why?’.

Ilya knows he shouldn’t have involved himself in this Rose situation, because now the universe punishes him immediately. He started the medicine round, and thus is now responsible for all of the medication for those patients, which includes the drips. Which means he needs to go back to that corner of the department, and, inevitably, back into that room, and then he’ll have to play nice to make it seem like there’s nothing amiss. Because there isn’t.

He really needs to start thinking his actions through.

COW towed behind him once again, loaded with antibiotics and yet more painkillers and god knows what else, he scuffles back into the far corner of the department, plugs the computer back into the socket and actively starts wishing for a natural disaster to level the hospital to the ground within the next five minutes.

Shane’s still with Rose, and somehow, they’re still talking.

“Anyway,” Rose says, clearly winding up a story she’s been telling Shane. “He was a dick, obviously, and I finally kicked him out.”

“He didn’t deserve you.” Shane sounds convicted, sure of his case, and it makes Rose giggle, a soft melody that grates on Ilya’s nerves.

“What about you, oh sweet lover boy of mine.”

“What about me?”

“Well? Is there someone special in your life? Someone you’re sweet on?”

“Sweet on?” Shane sounds so affronted that Ilya can picture the look on his face clear as day — eyebrows pulled up to his hairline, mouth set in a displeased line. “The only one I’m sweet on is you,” he says instead, covering his deflection with a joke.

“If only that were true. But I know for a fact that you’re gay, Shane.”

“Shit, I am?!”

“Fuck off,” Rose laughs. “Are you being difficult on purpose? Do you want to talk about, ah, what was his name again? I—”

“No!” Shane exclaims, and there’s the sound of a slap, presumably by Shane slapping his hand over her mouth.

Ilya frowns. Is there someone special in Shane’s life that he’d missed, that he hadn’t noticed? It’s not him, he’s 100% sure of that, the way that Shane is so adamant about them being a casual fling. It’s not impossible, either — Ilya’s seen the way other nurses, regardless of gender, go a little starry-eyed whenever Shane steps into a room.

Not that he can blame them. He’s sure he has the same fucking besotted look on his face whenever Shane seeks him out.

“There’s no one,” Shane says, and, yeah, that effectively ends Ilya’s spiral.

With a growing horror, he realizes he hasn’t moved a muscle for these past few minutes, too busy putting his nose in other people’s business. Feeling caught out, he starts heading into the farthest room, but not before he catches the last of the conversation.

“You should give Miles a call, Shane,” Rose says, with the voice of someone who’s just repeating something they’ve said before and find their friend just unnecessarily difficult by refusing to listen, instead of following directions. “I think you two would look cute together. He’s really sweet.”

“Maybe,” Shane replies, non-committal in a way that suggests that he, too, is following a familiar script.

Ilya gets the hell out of there.

By the time he’s done providing all the other rooms, Lola finds him, thanks him profusely for his help and takes over, sending him off to lunch. He ignores the urge to invite Shane along, convinced he’s still with Rose and probably has forgotten all about him anyway. All the extra help has left at this point as well, and Ilya responds to Cliff’s text inviting him for a beer with a single thumbs up emoji.

Waiting on the elevator takes too fucking long, and so, beyond agitated, he sets off the flights of stairs, running down the steps in futile hope of burning off this pent-up energy that makes him feel awful but can’t seem to find an outlet for.

He blindly grabs some food from the restaurant, settling for his usual orders of a diet coke and whatever the menu of the day provides, and is just on his way towards the nurse’s section when his ears catch on that, by now ingrained, giggle. Turning to the side, he watches as Rose and Shane are seated at a small table for two, plates of lunch in front of them, the air between them easy and Shane’s posture loose and relaxed in the way that Ilya only sees him after sex.

His feet stop him dead in his tracks, mind reeling. The weather’s not too bad, and now that he knows they’re both working, he’d just assumed — it’s rare, these days, for Shane and Ilya to not share a stolen moment or two during lunch time. But here he is now, instead, having lunch with Rose, a patient, and there’s not a single care in the world.

He isn’t aware he’s staring until Cliff bumps into his shoulder roughly, cutting him out of his trance. “Where do you wanna sit, bro? You’re lunching with me, since you’ve been ignoring my texts and avoiding hanging out with me.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Marly,” Ilya snipes, not exactly denying it, and follows closely behind as Cliff finds them a table.

Unfortunately, as Ilya sits down, he can stare at the other table over Cliff’s shoulder. As Cliff makes an actual effort to catch up, droning on about his most recent hook-up and his new gym routine that, he swears, is actually paying off this time, Ilya spends his lunch staring over Cliff’s shoulder, stewing in jealousy and irrational rage as he looks at all the things he can’t have.

And, really, maybe this is where things really started to break.

Ilya’s pretty sure he’s dead. His heart is certainly giving that impression, the way it’s giving him palpitations, like it’s trying to beat so hard it’ll break right out of his chest. There’s sweat and come drying on his stomach and chest, and the sheets beneath him are clinging to the dampness of his skin, but it holds no significance yet in this serenity, this post-fuck haze that Ilya is stubbornly clinging on to.

The only sound in the room is the harsh, labored breathing of two people who have just concluded on an activity that rivals a marathon in intensity.

Above him, Shane seems to be in similar condition, and he looks down to Ilya with an elated smile, softened around the edges it only gets when Ilya’s managed to make him come so good he’s past speech. There’s a deep flush on his cheeks, drawing attention, always drawing attention to the constellation of freckles there, and the flush extends all the way to his sternum. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, mussed up where Ilya had run his hands through the silky strands when Shane had kicked the night off by blowing him like his life depended on it.

He has never looked more beautiful.

A hand softly lands on his pec, scratching lightly at the skin there as Shane leans forward, pressing a kiss that’s entirely too soft to Ilya’s lips. “Alright,” he mutters.

Ilya hums in response, knows where this leads and tries, against better judgment, to draw the inevitable out, leans up where Shane leans back, trying to chase the kiss and prolong this peace with five more minutes.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs against Ilya’s lips, a vague hint of amusement detectable in his voice. Ilya whines. “We’re dirty. I’m gonna clean up.”

They both groan as Shane lifts and rolls off, and Ilya’s cock slides free from where he’d still been buried deep in that tight heat that Ilya’s slowly getting addicted to. “You’ve killed me, Hollander,” Ilya groans, flinging his arm over his eyes.

Shane chuckles. “So dramatic,” he teases, as he gets off the bed and heads down the hall towards his bathroom.

And just like that, the real world comes crashing in. A bird screams outside, the sounds of the city floating back in to Ilya’s awareness through the cracked-open window. The breeze hits his cooling skin, making him grimace where it’s just on the cusp of too cold, and it makes him itch.

A cold, damp wash cloth gets unceremoniously dumped on his chest, and Ilya shoots an unimpressed look at Shane, who raises his eyebrows at him in challenge, then climbs on the bed again but leaves some space between them that feels, to Ilya, like a chasm that’s impossible to bridge. Still, Shane reaches out and grabs the cloth and starts to, gently, wipe Ilya down.

A phone buzzes, and Shane makes a grab for it, a small, apologetic noise from the back of his throat as he hands Ilya the cloth, leaving Ilya to his own devices. It’s fine. Ilya is more than capable of taking care of himself.

As Ilya wipes the cloth over his stomach, dissatisfied by the implication that a shower is off-limits, Shane snorts softly at whatever text he’s just received and seems to be replying to it. The name at the top of the screen does something funny to Ilya’s heart for all the wrong reasons.

Rose.

“Oh, I completely forgot to tell you,” Ilya says idly, trying too hard to sound casual. He winces internally, but thankfully, Shane doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hmm?”

“Your friend? What was her name… Miss Landry, right?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, glancing over at him briefly before redirecting his gaze back to his phone. “Rose?”

“Yes, she got discharged yesterday evening. I thought you might want to know.”

“Yeah, she just texted me,” Shane replies, a small smile on his face, engrossed in the conversation. “Says she’s feeling much better and only needs to finish her antibiotics for the next couple of days.”

“Hm.” Ilya dismisses that line of conversation, but refuses to leave the bed just yet, just to annoy Shane a little bit. He’s rude enough to start texting people while he still has Ilya naked next to him, he can deal with the consequences. “So what’s the story, anyway? Not many people are this close with their… ex? Or girlfriend?” he inquires, emphasizing the last word.

That makes Shane look up from his phone, his gaze landing heavily, calculating, on Ilya. Feigning indifference, Ilya shrugs, looking away to start locating his clothes. “You know nurses — they talk. They thought it was very cute of you to visit her.” It is a downright lie, but Ilya’d rather die than let him know he’s been eavesdropping on their conversation.

“I… guess,” Shane says. “We’re just really good friends, though. I’ve known her since my first year at high school.”

“Yes, yes, okay,” Ilya cuts in, impatient. “But you dated, yes? Are you still dating?”

“No, it’s nothing like that!” Shane denies vehemently. “We were friendly, yes, but we only became close just before prom because she was being harassed by some dick who didn’t understand the word ‘no’, so she grabbed me by the arm and introduced me as her boyfriend, before she kissed me to get this guy to fuck off. It certainly made me sure I was gay, but I like her, she’s my best friend, so we went to prom together and we kept up the play every time some idiot tried to ask her out. It was a good excuse for both of us.” Shane turns around, eyes narrowed as he takes Ilya in, who’s pretending to be busy buttoning his shirt up. “I’m sure that sounds hilarious to you.”

“Yes, a little,” Ilya shrugs. It does soothe some of the anxiety in his chest, but it doesn't satisfy him completely. He needs to know if there’s someone else in Shane’s life. How did Landry say it? You need to call Miles?

Changing tactics, he says, “You can fuck girls if you want to, Shane. So if you are sometimes fucking Landry —”

“Rose,” Shane cuts in, impatient.

“Than that’s your business.”

“I —”

“Or, if you don’t want to fuck girls, but men —” and the word tastes like ash in Ilya’s mouth, but he powers through, so adamant to appear casual when all he wants to hear is that he’s Shane’s only — “then that’s okay, too.”

“I’m not fucking other men,” Shane spits out, exasperated. “We —”

“We are not anything, Hollander. This,” and Ilya waves a hand between the two of them, and it’s a lie but a necessary one to protect his own poor heart from disappointment and heartbreak, “is just fun and convenience.”

Shane frowns at him, and something passes over his face, too fast for Ilya to read anything into. Instead, he says, “You are aware I am gay, right?”

Well, Ilya is not an idiot, no. The enthusiastic, dedicated way he’d just ridden Ilya like his life depended on it and the spectacular way it had gotten him off untouched are a pretty good give-away, but still. Ilya just wants to know. “I do not assume,” he replies instead, all faux nonchalance. “I do like girls. I like them a lot.”

“I know you do,” Shane interjects, and there’s a hint of annoyance in his voice now, so Ilya glances at him over his shoulder and smirks. “Are you fucking anyone else? Besides me?”

No, I haven’t for weeks. “Sometimes,” Ilya lies, shrugging.

Shane’s frown seems to be permanently etched into his face. “Right.” He swallows, eyes sliding away from Ilya to look literally anywhere else. “Anyone special in your life?”

“Special? No.” Ilya scoffs a little. “There is only Sveta — she is my best friend. Reliable,” he says, and he knows he’s starting to sound a little soft, can hear it in the way he says her name, warm as it rolls off his tongue. “But for fucking? No one special. No one besides this cute nurse with all these freckles.”

At that, Shane rolls his eyes, but his lips pull up in a satisfied little smile. “Oh? Sounds like a catch.”

“Hmm,” Ilya hums in agreement, strolling slowly towards where Shane is tracking his every move, waiting to come into his space. “He sure is. Easy and convenient, you know what I mean. A sure bet.”

“Fuck off,” Shane huffs out, but there’s amusement there now, something pleased in his expression. He bridges the distance between them, pressing his lips hungrily against Ilya’s, and Ilya is more than happy to comply, opening up beneath Shane’s demanding press of his tongue against his lips.

It gets heated in the way that it always gets, harsh breathing and open mouthed kisses, licking into each other’s mouths. Ilya’s dick makes a valiant effort but can’t manage much more than twitch pathetically, and by the way Shane groans into his mouth, he isn’t faring much better.

“Next time,” Ilya breathes into Shane’s mouth, pressing some light pecks against his lips like it will seal this promise, etch it into his skin somehow.

“Sure, Ilya,” Shane replies, amused still, and there should be comfort in the knowledge that they’re both in this, in this dance where they no longer need to deny that they want to see each other, that they can speak of next times without the coaxing, the roundabout ways to get the other to agree. But Ilya is a greedy, greedy man, and wants it simpler still, wants the security of exclusivity, of knowing that Shane Hollander is a safe bet and will be there every single time Ilya asks it of him.

He will ask too much of him. He knows he will, and so he simply takes what he gets and tries to give back as good as he can, will continue to ask Shane where he stands on fucking other people and will breathe a little easier for every time he denies there being anyone else.

They trade more kisses, and eventually Shane has worked him towards the door, shooing him out into the dark of deep autumn, its harsh winds tugging at him, the rain never far off. He waves, though, as Ilya makes his way down the street, and it warms something no icy gust can touch.

Chapter 9: 9 i'd overdose

Chapter Summary

This thing with Hollander is becoming complicated.

Or, well. Its complication lies in that it is simply too good. His heart is acting weird in his chest whenever Shane's in his periphery, his bed feels lonely if Shane's not in it. The way his body feels all warm and tingly whenever Shane touches him is concerning.

They see each other as much as they can outside of the hospital, hooking up whenever the opportunity arises, even if they don't spend the night.

All of it is going too well. And good things, in Ilya's limited but hard-learned experiences, simply don't last. There’s always another shoe to drop, and Ilya's been waiting for that to happen.

Chapter Notes

This thing with Hollander is becoming complicated.

Or, well. Its complication lies in that it is simply too good. His heart is acting weird in his chest whenever Shane's in his periphery, his bed feels lonely if Shane's not in it. The way his body feels all warm and tingly whenever Shane touches him is concerning.

They see each other as much as they can outside of the hospital, hooking up whenever the opportunity arises, even if they don't spend the night.

All of it is going too well. And good things, in Ilya's limited but hard-learned experiences, simply don't last. There’s always another shoe to drop, and Ilya's been waiting for that to happen.

He hasn't fucked anyone else in months. To his astonishment, he doesn't even miss it.

This… thing with Hollander has been going on for a little more than a year at this point, and with every meet up, every time he climbs in Shane's car and with every minute he spends in his bed it feels less and less casual, like they're on the precipice of something else.

It scares the ever living hell out of Ilya. He's well aware Shane is miles out of his league, that he is too much of a mess with too much baggage to justify being worth it to shoulder all of that.

A part of him, the part of him that is the loudest, takes comfort in their current arrangement, where Shane is still just a regular guy he hooks up with, and if that number of hook-ups is a little higher than what other people might consider 'casual', well. It's not like they actually talk — what they know of one another barely scratches at the surface, and neither one of them seems to be willing to fuck with that careful balance in case it tips over.

And so they remain like this, teetering over a precipice that is becoming more of a slippery-slope every time Ilya has Shane arching beneath him, breathless in his demands of Ilya to give him everything.

Ilya teeters there, once again, as the annual Christmas party arrives with a lot more fanfare than is usual. Next to being the biggest holiday in the country, it is also the hospital's anniversary, and so management had the brilliant idea to combine the festivities with a huge party for all of its personnel. They're even allowed to bring a plus one. From what Ilya's heard, there's going to be an open bar, multiple food trucks, and a DJ that should be half-decent. It sounds like it could be a great fucking party with a lot of free booze, and it definitely helps that half of Ilya's department is going, including Troy, who's being dragged along by Harris. Wyatt and his wife Lisa are also going to be there, as is Evan Dykstra with his wife Caitlin, and even Haasy with his Gen-Z friends/colleagues who Ilya only ever has heard referred to as LaPointe and Young are planning on attending.

When Ilya brings the party up, as he lies in Hollander's bed, sweat cooling rapidly on his overheated body but still able to bask in the warmth of a working CV for the moment, Shane shrugs noncommittally. "It is not really my thing," he says as he stares up at the ceiling, avoiding Ilya's eyes. "Though Hayden is going, bringing his wife too, Jackie? I don't know if you know her?"

"I do not," Ilya says mildly. "And I do not care."

"Oh," Shane replies, sounding a little embarrassed. "Anyway, they told me I absolutely cannot be the only one from the department not showing up, so I guess I am going too, but with them, I think. For a little while," he adds, a warning in his tone as Ilya's eyes widen. "I do not intend to get myself wasted on a work party in front of my coworkers. That is just embarrassing. Besides, I have a day shift the following day."

For one wild, unguarded moment, Ilya entertains the idea of asking Shane to be his plus one. He stomps that idea down, but not fast enough - the alarm on Shane's face betrays him, and, panicking, Ilya asks instead, "Are you bringing anyone?"

"I haven't thought about it," Shane replies a little too fast, and something twists painfully in Ilya's chest. "I wasn't planning to, but. You know we can't go together, right?"

It stings more than it should. "Why the fuck not?" he asks, and it sounds — it sounds hurt, even to Ilya's own ears, and he knows this is going to end so badly.

Shane flinches, starts scooting up the bed to get himself into a sitting position, purposely creating more distance between the two of them. "Do you want a list?" he snaps back, all defensive, and Ilya just takes it because it cannot be salvaged, and he shouldn't even care. Fucking Shane is just fun, it's familiar and it is easy in that he knows that Hollander is usually down for whatever shenanigans Ilya comes up with. Even when they both know it's Shane who calls the shots, who arranges Ilya to his liking until he gets what he wants, and Ilya is only too eager to comply. "For one, I just told you I'm going with Hayden. I'm going with my direct coworkers, who you do not even like. So you would be miserable all evening tagging along."

Digging his own grave, Ilya raises his eyebrows and asks: "And reason number two?"

"It is just a bad idea," Shane repeats, losing some wind in his sails, staring down at the sheets as he twists them between his fingers. "I don't —. I just don't want to give anyone the impression that we —" he hesitates, gesturing lamely between them.

"Oh, I know, Hollander," Ilya says. He tries so hard not to take it personally, knows on some level that it isn't personal, that Shane is just paranoid about not being seen as anything but professional, and that he is desperate to avoid any rumors of them hooking up. It is bad enough being a male in this profession, it is basically assumed you must be gay. And when you are, there are a number of fellow queers who are single and wouldn't you two like to date?

It is, once again, pushing them in a direction to make a choice, and while Ilya is slowly edging towards wanting to make one, Shane only seems more adamant to shy away from choosing entirely.

He knows he's transparent about it because Shane resolutely avoids his gaze again, looking at anything but Ilya as Ilya, agitated, climbs off the bed and frantically throws his clothes back on. He's not even pestering Shane into sharing his high water pressure shower with him before kicking him out. In truth, he can't get to the front door quite fast enough.

"Those rumors you are so scared of? They already think that about you and me," Ilya says calmly, adding the final nail to the coffin. He doesn't even know if that's true or not, but he doesn't care. Nothing left here but smoking ashes, so he might as well. "How bad it must be for you, to be linked like that to someone like me."

The silence is deafening. Shane sits on his bed, naked as the day he was born, yet he has never been more untouchable to Ilya. He doesn't look up as Ilya shrugs on his coat. His face has lost all color.

"I'll see you around, Hollander," Ilya snipes before fleeing, putting a nasty emphasis on his last name, running back out into the abandoned hallway and rushing out into the cold, the smell of sex stuck in his nose and haunting him all the way home. It lingers around him as he takes the subway, an almost tangible thing that surrounds him as he's sitting down in a nearly-abandoned wagon and for the first time ever since hooking up with Shane, he experiences something akin to shame about it.

It doesn't dawn on him that they didn't even kiss before he'd left until he steps over his threshold, slamming the front door shut behind him. The realization does something painful to his chest, and he struggles to breathe. It is insane how close he feels to crying, and this is not a normal reaction to having been told no about going to a fucking party with someone who’s barely a coworker, someone he would hesitate to call a friend (even if Shane Hollander has become exactly that, to a degree, someone who’s a constant in Ilya’s life, someone who he texts with and shares rides with and sometimes goes out for a coffee with, ignoring all the mind blowing sex they have, of course. Someone who he has an inside joke with, the way they refer to one another by their last names like nicknames). Ilya feels untethered, and as he stares blankly to the dark screen of his phone where he’d opened it, his fingers blindly finding his text thread with Shane and then inactive long enough for his phone to go back on stand-by.

He knows what this is. Of course he does — he’s not a complete idiot, even if it is spectacular how long he’d managed to convince himself it was nothing, that there weren’t feelings involved and that he’s not in lo—

He is so, irreversibly, undoubtedly, fucked.

He sheds his clothes where he stands, striding into his shitty bathroom urgently while his hand clutches his phone.

As he waits for his shitty boiler to finally heat up his water, he rings Sveta. She doesn't answer, so he shoots her a text.

Ilya: you are free around the american christmas, right?

Ilya: come with me to my boring work party

Ilya: be my plus one

Ilya: make sure to dress in something sexy

Ilya: we'll look so smoking hot we'll be the hottest couple there you will enjoy it

The shower is both scolding hot and freezing cold, and yet Ilya stalls, staying beneath the spray until the hot water actually runs out. He stares forlornly at the water flushing down the drain, his mind blank but for the argument playing out on loop, again and again. There are a million different ways he could’ve reacted, and yet he doubts the outcome would’ve been any different.

He towels off and climbs into his bed, shivering as he piles his blankets over himself, cocooning himself in. There are a couple of messages waiting for him.

Sveta 🖤👑: Ilyusha

Sveta 🖤👑: this desperation doesn’t suit you

Sveta 🖤👑: did something happen with that cute coworker you’re definitely fucking even though you lie to my face about it?

Ilya: maybe

Sveta 🖤👑: I am clearing my schedule

Sveta 🖤👑: you better be appropriately grateful

Ilya: when have i not been grateful for you

Ilya: but yes, fine

Ilya: thank you 🖤

Ilya closes the chat, grateful to have her in his corner unconditionally, even when she bullies him about it and, occasionally, beats his ass until he starts seeing sense. He knows she’s been really curious about Shane, Ilya having mentioned him enough times, even when he’s been trying to be vague about it, that she picked up on it.

He stares, a bit unseeing, at the other bold name in his text list, indicating there’s an unread message. After a bit of hesitation he allows himself to open it. He’s already feeling low; nothing can ruin his mood now.

Lyosha 🤢: papa is getting worse

Lyosha 🤢: send more money i am getting real fucking tired of asking

Lyosha 🤢: you wanted particular care, specialists, so do your fucking job and fund it

Ilya: fuck you

Ilya: i already sent it two weeks ago

Ilya: it should be enough to last you two months what the fuck are you doing that it’s already gone

Lyosha 🤢: i have a fucking family to feed next to this bullshit

Lyosha 🤢: if it is not to your liking get your loser asshole back to russia and do it yourself

Lyosha 🤢: you fucking faggot all you do is run away and leave me to clean up your mess

Ilya bites his lip so hard it bleeds.

Ilya: i was saving up for a ticket to make it back for christmas

He watches as Alexei types, stops, and types again. His chest feels hollow as he reads:

Lyosha 🤢: it’s not like we were expecting you we cannot fit you

Lyosha 🤢: stay in america or wherever the fuck you are you coming here is only going to fuck with papa even further

Ilya doesn’t respond. He closes the app, navigating to his banking app, looks a moment at the decent amount he’s saved, the little savings account named ‘plane christmas’, empties it and sends it to Alexei, feeling nothing at all.

It takes him a long time for his shivering to stop. He falls asleep when he can no longer keep his eyes open, fixed on the dark screen of his phone, despite his better judgment hoping that a certain someone sends him a text, forcing open a door he’d earlier tried to close.

The text never comes.

His day shift is fine — it’s usually fine around this time of year, when the holidays are approaching fast and the hospital downsizes on its bed occupation, so less patients means, for most of the time at least, less work load. The OR starts working on half its capacity as well, and the general atmosphere is nearly peaceful.

This time of year does, however, ask for a different kind of care. It should be a study, Ilya thinks, why so many elderly people seem to pass away round the holidays. They have no less than four patients on palliative care.

Some part of Ilya, cruelly, wonders if this is his dad’s last holiday season, too, and he promptly shuts that line of thought down. It’s not like he’ll be there to witness it, and it’s not like his family want him there. He’s not invited, after all.

So, it’s a slow shift, and Ilya has all the time in the world to provide some much-needed TLC for his patient: time, love, care. He answers the questions their family comes up with, he takes his time freshening his patients up, he even manages to spend nearly fifteen minutes sitting at their bedside, idly chatting until they fall back asleep comforted.

Still, the end of the shift can’t come fast enough, and it has Ilya feeling like it might never end at all. It doesn’t help that he’s barely slept last night. How could he? Yesterdays events keep replaying in his head, from the spectacular way the day had started, Shane’s expert mouth around his dick, to its epic climax where he’d nearly put Shane through the headboard, the bed frame creaking ominously beneath them, to their fight, to the silence that followed, to the realization that Ilya’s a fool and in love and that once again, he wants too much, asks too much and is then left with nothing but ashes slipping through his fingers.

He transfers his patients’ care as soon as he’s allowed to, then spends another ten minutes staring off into space before Troy shakes him out of his misery, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Roz, are you okay?”

“Hm, what?” Ilya blinks, straightening up, taking in the couple of concerned looks his coworkers give him.

Troy shifts. “We’re ready to go. Are you?”

“Yes, sure,” Ilya says, standing quickly and gathering his things. “I just slept terribly last night,” he mutters, as he leads the charge out of there. “Am a bit tired. I’m fine.”

“Sure, Ilya. Whatever you say,” Troy says, but there’s doubt in his voice and concern in his eyes as he looks at Ilya.

There’s a chorus of byes as the group breaks off — most of the women change in the locker room on the fifth floor, and some of the men follow suit. Only Ilya and two others have to go down to the subterranean level to get into their daily clothes; one of them is a student, who only works with them for a couple of weeks as part of their internship, and the other is a nurse of the flex pool, who’d been called in to substitute for a sick colleague. Ilya flashes him a grateful smile. “Thanks again for filling in!”

“Anytime!” Connors calls back, an easy smile on his face as he heads for the stairs.

Troy taps him gently on the shoulder, pausing in his trajectory as he heads towards the locker room around the corner. “Wait for me downstairs?” he asks. “We can head out together, if you want a ride?”

“I’d appreciate it,” Ilya says, nodding. The elevator dings, announcing its arrival, and he heads towards it. “See you in a bit.”

The locker room downstairs is blissfully quiet, and Ilya lets himself fall down on the bench, sighing deeply as he takes a couple of minutes to breathe. He’d kept himself busy enough during the day so that he hadn’t had a lot of time to check his phone, but the urge to see his notifications now (or lack thereof) is becoming too big to ignore.

Dreading what he won’t find, he opens his phone anyway.

The text thread with Shane is disappointingly quiet.

Maybe it’s for the best, Ilya tells himself. There’s no good coming out of that chat now, anyway. It’s clear they’re done. He’s successfully ruined whatever they had last night, and there’s no coming back from it. Not when Ilya knows he’s in love, and Shane so glaringly obvious is not.

No, it’s best if he lets go of Shane. It’s unfair to cling to him as he has, when he’s holding Shane back from finding someone he’s proud to be seen next to. Not held back by some dirty secret in the dark, by him and all his baggage and his demands and his unattainable standards. Shane’s right to cut him loose. He’s nothing but dead weight.

Throwing his phone none-too-gently aside, he quickly strips out of his uniform and gets dressed. For a millisecond, he considers jumping beneath the showers here, but determines quickly he’s not fallen that far down just yet.

Troy is waiting for him in the main hall, bag slung over his shoulder and hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. Ilya mutters a quick apology for keeping him waiting before he rushes to stuff his uniform down the chute and get the hell out of there.

They silently walk side by side until they’re outside, and Ilya takes in a deep breath, smelling the rain in the air. The pavement is still wet, the humidity clinging to the air around them, but it’s dry for the moment. It’s not as cold as it usually is, the temperature above zero for the moment, which means that Ilya can get home safely without the pavements turning into ice, if he hurries. The sun is already setting, and it’ll take any lingering warmth with it.

He intends to cut this — thing — with Troy short, say he changed his mind about catching a ride and get the hell out of there, but then Troy finally decides to speak up.

“I asked Harris out,” he rushes out, his cheeks turning a little pink that has nothing to do with the soft breeze that blows into them.

Ilya stops mid-stride. “Oh. Really?” Despite himself, he feels a sliver of excitement. “What did he say?”

Ilya’s never seen Troy smile that big before. “He said yes. We’re going out to dinner, and we’re going to go together to the party this weekend.”

“Good man!” Ilya says, slapping him harshly, affectionately, on the shoulder. “I told you he was into you!”

“Yes, well…” Troy ducks back into his coat a little, smiling bashfully down at the ground. “It was terrifying, though. Asking him.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ilya smiles. “He said yes! I am very proud, Barrett. I want to be best man.”

“Jesus, Ilya,” Troy laughs, shoving him harshly. “Slow down! We haven’t even gone on a date yet.”

“That’s going to go fine,” Ilya says dismissively. “You guys are cute together. Just don’t fuck it up. Easy.”

Troy scoffs. “Yeah, right.” But the smile on his face betrays him.

Ilya’s really happy for him.

“So,” Troy continues. “Are you going with anyone Friday night? Anyone special? I know you’ve been seeing, well, someone. Can I at least know a name?”

“There’s no one,” Ilya answers bitterly, and it’s too transparent because Troy looks at him with alarm. “I don’t think I’m going,” he confesses.

“What? Why not?”

Ilya shrugs. “I have no reason to. I asked one of my friends to go with me, but I doubt she’ll actually make it to be here on time, and I’m not sure I’ll do her any favors by forcing her to come along to something work related.” He pauses, thinking. “I’d rather keep her around until New Year's, so we can celebrate that together. I think that’s more important.”

Carefully, Troy asks, “You can come with me and Harris, if you want to? We’d love to pick you up and come party with us. Harris said he’ll provide some of his family’s cider, so we just have to go pick some crates up before we go so as long as that’s no trouble for you, you’re welcome to join.”

“That’s… kind,” Ilya says, forcing a small smile on his face. “But, uh. There’s no one special, anymore.” The confession hurts more than it has any right to. It’s not like he had gone around and tell people that he had been seeing someone — Troy had just been observant enough to catch Ilya in a weak moment, and Ilya simply hadn’t denied it.

He regrets that, now. He hates it with a passion when he sees the sad look Troy gives him. “I’m sorry, bud.”

“Nah, don’t be,” he waves off. “It wasn’t meant to be anything anyway.”

He doesn’t look at Troy as he says it, is careful to avoid any look that might be pitying. “I’m really happy things are working out for you,” he says sincerely.

“Thanks,” Troy says. “If you change your mind about the party, let me know? I mean it — Harris and I would love to drag you along all night.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Ilya’s face. “Sure,” he lies, but it sounds convincing enough that Troy finally drops it.

“Alright, can we get out of here now?” Ilya asks, complaining.

The two of them set off again, crossing the grounds quickly in a comfortable silence. It gets cut abruptly by the screaming of a motorcycle engine, approaching rapidly. Ilya knows that specific purr of engine very well, definitely different from other models like Yamaha and Honda — knows his friend has only ever ridden Kawasakis ever since she’d gotten that first model, back when she turned 20 and her license fresh in hand. He finds he’s holding his breath. He knew she’d said that she’d clear her agenda, but it had been such short notice he wasn’t entirely convinced she’d actually pull through.

Guess he’s wrong.

The Kawasaki is a definite beauty. Its sleek, retro inspired frame is black and an orange so subtle it appears gold. Its drop-shaped tank, painted in the bold colors of orange and black, sits significantly higher than the low-dropped, leather seat. The analogue buttons wink at them from the handle bars. Ilya whistles lowly between his teeth as it pulls up to the curb, and Troy next to him looks at it like a man in love.

Ilya recognizes the tall, slim frame from his best friend before she’s managed to rip her helmet off. Svetlana pushes her hair back from her face, leans back in her seat and shoots Ilya a look that he’d recognize in his sleep. “Hello, stranger,” she calls out in Russian, raising a judgmental brow. “Are you just going to gawk at me all day? I thought I raised you better than this.”

“Who,” Troy says slowly next to him, eyes wide, “is that?”

“That is a literal nightmare,” Ilya says, but he’s already grinning, walking her way and spreading his arms as wide as he can. “Sveta!”

Svetlana, despite her tough demeanor, has already climbed off her bike, helmet placed carefully on her seat, and she’s dashing his way, arms equally wide as she crashes into him. Ilya spins her around, pulling her off her feet, making her squeal against him, hands slapping him on the chest. “Put me down!” She’s beaming up at him when he releases her, though, so he knows she’s only putting on a tough act.

Next to them, Troy watches the two of them silently, a slightly calculating look in his eye as he looks at Ilya when they separate.

“So, I shall just introduce myself,” Sveta says in perfect English, crisp and effortless in a way that still sparks some jealousy in Ilya, who still sounds more accented than he’d like after all these years. “Svetlana.” She hold out a perfectly manicured hand for Troy to shake. “Ilyusha’s better half.”

“Troy,” Troy introduces himself, shaking her hand, but the look on his face tells Ilya he’s confused as hell right now.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “She wishes.” In Russian, he continues, “Must you introduce yourself like this? I’m never going to be able to convince him now we’re not together."

Sveta shrugs, a glint in her eyes. “Oh I know. He was already making assumptions, though. Nothing you would’ve said would’ve helped. At least it’s more fun this way.” She smiles at Troy, easy and slightly devious. “As if you’d ever be considered good enough for me. I have standards.”

Ilya scoffs, but switches back to English for Troy’s sake, who’s starting to look a little uncomfortable. “Sorry, that was rude. We’re childhood friends.”

“Among other things,” Sveta smiles beatifically.

Ilya shoots her another warning glare that Sveta is only too happy to ignore. While he’ll always be grateful to have had Sveta in his life in some form or the other, sometimes she really keeps pushing his buttons.

Troy seems to relax a little. “Oh! Is this the friend you were planning to take with you to the party?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods.

“I should hope so,” Svetlana says, shooting Ilya a warning glare. “I better not got myself on a last minute for nothing.”

Ilya grimaces at her, and she rolls her eyes, punches his bicep affectionately. “Let’s go — we’ve got places to be.”

“Do we?” Ilya raises his eyebrows, which makes Sveta roll her eyes at him.

“I am two days early,” she says, jabbing her index finger into his chest as she viciously makes her point. “You need a new wardrobe and are in desperate need of a haircut. Two days is, by current standard, a fucking crisis. So say goodbye and hop the fuck on.”

She gives Troy another friendly smile as he gapes at her. “Lovely to meet you. It’s nice to see that Ilyusha has friends here.”

“Uh, likewise?” Troy says bewildered, while Ilya groans. He quickly claps Troy on the shoulder in goodbye and follows Svetlana tightly on her heel.

“Do you have to embarrass me every time?” he complains, switching back to Russian with a relief he shouldn’t feel, and he knows the smile donning his face is too soft.

“You do this to yourself, my sweet,” Sveta tuts at him, handing him the spare helmet she pulls out of the storage space beneath the seat.

They each put on their helmets, before Sveta climbs on the front seat, patting the back with a smirk in invitation. Huffing, Ilya climbs on, winding his hands around her narrow waist as Sveta kickstarts the bike, kicking it into gear the moment the engine roars to life. She starts to pull up, and Ilya glances back towards the hospital, where Troy is still lingering next to the car park, a dazed look on his face. Further back, Ilya spies Harris making his way, accompanied by Zane. They both gape a little as they start to make their way down the street, Ilya flipping them the finger in goodbye.

It’ll be discussed in one of the numerous group chats, no doubt — Ilya’s sure he’s going to get harassed about this “mystery girl” picking him up. Marly, though, will just be sour he wasn’t notified that Sveta’s in town, but genuinely, Ilya fails to see how that’s his problem.

True to her word, Sveta’s got them on a tight schedule. They stop by Ilya’s apartment, first, where Sveta forces him into the shower to freshen up, makes him wash his hair too even though he hadn’t been planning on it. He takes the small, private moment to gather himself, blows out a breath and squeezes his eyes shut as he wrestles the persistent feeling of sad sad sad sad sad, of the spike that pierces his heart on every fucking beat which causes him to bleed and bleed and bleed back under firm control, locks it behind lock and key.

“How the fuck did you even get that bike here?” he shouts from beneath the spray of water into the open space beyond — Sveta’s left the door of the bathroom open, and he hears her moving about, putting away her own stuff in the living room while occasionally re-appearing in the bathroom, chatting with him and taking care of her own skin routine.

“I didn’t,” Sveta says, loud enough that Ilya can hear it over the roar of the shower. “It’s a rental, but I’m definitely buying it when I’m back in Boston. It’s the latest model — do you like it?”

“Fucking love it. Smooth as soft fucking butter.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Ilya rinses out his hair, wipes the water from his eyes and takes a peak out of the shower stall by sliding the door a millimeter open, a gap just big enough to peek through. The burst of cold air that invades the heated confined space is enough to make him shiver. He spots Sveta leaning over the bathroom vanity, stripped down to her underwear and bra, face mere centimeters away from the mirror as she applies her eyeliner with scary precision. “Did you want to shower?” he offers, while he rubs soap all over his body. “I’m done in a minute.”

She glances briefly his way, shakes her head. “No, I took one before I picked you up. You don’t think I would go around Ottawa stinking of airplane, would you?”

Shrugging, Ilya rinses off and turns off the faucet.

“You did wash your hair, right?” Sveta asks sharply as Ilya steps out of the shower, snatching up his towel and starts drying himself off as fast as he can to fend off the cold.

“Of course I did,” he grumbles. “You only told me like five times to wash it, after all.”

“Good,” she says, then turns on her heel and marches out of the bathroom without a second glance. “Hurry up! You have your appointment at five, and then you’re taking me out for dinner at six thirty.”

“I am?” he mutters quietly to himself, just to bitch a little, but in truth Ilya isn’t mad about it at all. He’s missed her fiercely, the familiarity of Sveta, the way she knows him down to the marrow of his bones, so he doesn’t have to pretend. He’s missed her demanding, bossy character, her sharp wit and even sharper mind. It’s the only downside for settling in Ottawa, instead of moving to Boston like he’d originally planned — he doesn’t have her in his life as much as he needs her to.

Sveta watches him get dressed while tapping her foot impatiently on the floor, which has Ilya give her an unamused glare until she takes the hint and changes the tapping into glaring at him, which is not less intimidating but a little more quiet.

“So, tell me what your schedule looks like for the next few days.”

Ilya glances up from where he’s wrestling with his socks. “What?”

Sveta flicks her hand at him. “I mean, are you free tomorrow? Do we have time to go downtown? Do you need to be in bed early tonight?” She raises an eyebrow at him. “So, your schedule. I need to know what I’m working with, here.”

Ilya grabs his phone from where he’d thrown it on the bed, yanks out the charger and squints at his calendar app. He’d swapped a lot of shifts, lately, so the details on his work schedule have gone a little hazy.

He smiles up at her. “I have the next three days off,” he says excitedly. In truth, he had been dreading those three days in which he’d have nothing to do, but now, with Sveta here, he’s actually relieved he hadn’t managed to snag more shifts. “So tomorrow, Friday — that’s when the party is — and the day after, Saturday. And technically Sunday, too, but then I start my row of night shifts, all the way through Christmas.” He pauses, then offers, “You’re free to stay, of course. For as long as you like, but Monday, well, you’re okay to sleep here as long as you head out during the days for a bit, so I can sleep. I wasn’t planning on celebrating Christmas.”

It’s not unusual for him to work nights during big holidays. He usually picks up the shifts on Christmas that no one wants — being in an ‘essential profession’ means working holidays. Usually it is a trade-off, you either work Christmas or during New Year’s. During Ilya’s first year, back when he was an intern, he hadn’t fought for his preferences, opting to take what was offered to show his willingness in adapting to the needs of his department, and he’d ended up with a morning shift on January first. That had been the first and last time he’d shown up to work slightly hungover and massively sleep deprived. He’d gone out celebrating like he usually did, spending it with a few of his fellow students who also didn’t leave campus, and had realized around 3am it was simply too late to even try to get some sleep at that point. It had been literal hell.

Ever since, Ilya made sure to work during Christmas, not really invested in a holiday that wasn’t even a holiday back home (even if he’d started to appreciate the coziness during the dark days after all these years in both the US and Canada, though he still disliked how commercial it all was) in favor of being free during New Year’s, which has always been a huge holiday for him. He already has plans to celebrate it with Sveta, and there’s a ticket to Boston waiting in his mailbox.

He stops himself there, doesn’t voice the rest that had been on the tip of his tongue. The offer to spend the holidays together. He knows Sveta does celebrate Christmas too, has been celebrating it since she was young, spending the holidays at her mother’s, who lives in one of the small towns just outside of Boston, even though her parents have long since divorced and she spends most her time with her father, moving between Russia and Boston.

Regardless, Sveta’s face softens significantly. “I’ll stay until Sunday morning, I have my flight in the afternoon. You are, however, coming to Boston for New Year’s. No discussion.”

“Of course,” he scoffs, hiding behind the familiar bite. “I’ve got a ticket.”

“Good,” Sveta nods. “Now, let’s go. Hopefully they’ll be able to save whatever sad situation is going on there.” She waves a hand distastefully at his hair, scowling a little.

Ilya scowls back at her, which she ignores with a smirk, and then they’re off.

Chapter End Notes

I’m so sorry y’all, but it had to be done 😔

Chapter 10: 10 if your love was a cig

Chapter Summary

Sveta ruins — saves — the moment, though, when she sighs, her hands tightening slightly in his hair, and demands, “So, who are they and do I need to kill them for you to wipe that sad pout from your face?”

Ilya makes a strangled, undignified noise from the back of his throat. “What the fuck are you saying?” he asks to buy himself time, eyes stubbornly trained on the TV.

Behind him, Sveta snorts. “Please, I know you are at least a little smarter than this, Ilyusha. I was at your graduation after all. I know you at least occasionally have the ability to think.”

Chapter Notes

IT'S ART!!!!! aaaaaaa
Again thank you so much Lilybet aaa look at them they are my babies!!!!!

The days starts dark and wet, the rain refusing to let up even a little. It’s perfect for their current plans: sleeping in, getting ready and then heading off to the party.

The last two days have been, well, nice. Sveta had dragged him to a hairdresser that specialized in curly hair, which means they charged him nearly double, but Sveta hadn’t blinked an eye as she’d included his bill in her own.

He always has, and probably always will, feel conflicted when she pulls something like this on him. On the one hand, she knows intimately about his current situation, the state that his father’s in. On the other — he doesn’t need charity. Doesn’t want it. Sveta knows, and thus doesn’t ask.

He takes her out to a fancy, slightly overpriced restaurant to balance the scales, doesn’t flinch at the bill at the end of the night, and withdraws some money from his savings without comment. Sveta allows all of it without another blink.

She does take him out shopping the next day, buys skin care products and shampoo and conditioner and hair oil that don’t match with her skin nor her hair type (but conveniently match the descriptions from the hair dresser just the day before, when she’d talked Ilya through a whole routine to optimize his curls), but she swears she means to use for herself, Ilyusha, mind your own fucking business.

She drags him through numerous clothing stores, and Ilya loses the argument about her buying him a new, warm winter coat (“It’s a late birthday gift, Ilyusha, stop being difficult. I didn’t get you anything.” “My birthday was in June.”), which he only stops fighting on because the coat is warm and water proof and his current one is being worn thin after all these years. He watches Sveta fall in love with a piece of fabric that can barely be called a dress, the hem barely reaching below her ass, though it is long-sleeved, off the shoulder, so it shows off her long neck and the delicate cut of her clavicles. The material is definitely too thin for the winter, but it’s silver and shiny and it brings out the warmth of her undertone and she looks stunning in it, so Ilya nods his approval anyway.

He invests, himself, in a pair of black dress pants and a dress shirt that has the illusion of silk, a very fine, silver thread woven through the material that, when he allows it to billow and pops open a few buttons, give off the air of casual chic — it shows that he tried, but not that hard. It’s perfect, and it puts Sveta in a great mood because he’ll be matching her at the party. She tuts in disappointment when it becomes clear he doesn’t have any matching dressing shoes, and she promptly buys him a pair. At this point, Ilya’s given up the fight.

They wander into a shop that’s small enough they overlooked it the first time they passed it, even if they’d been actively looking for it — Sveta had seen it recommended on her socials, a small secondhand store that had just opened their doors and hosted clothes and materials that were considered a bit more high-end. Two steps in, and Ilya’s eye had been drawn to a vintage Jean Paul Gaultier white dress shirt that gives the impression of having a leopard fur draped on the chest. The sleeves, too, are leopard printed, and its cuffs and collar are black. Ilya tries it on, and it takes a solid ten-minute stare from Sveta for her to decide that, yes, it suits him actually, and he ends up buying it with little to no remorse.

Today, they’re wasting most of the morning away in bed, not doing much besides watching the Boston game from the night before and fucking around on their phones — Ilya’s addiction to Candy Crush is getting out of hand. When hunger starts to win out, they get up, eat breakfast in their pajamas and then take a shower each.

It doesn’t occur to Ilya until that afternoon, when they’re both wrapped up in fluffy bathrobes Sveta had managed to stuff into her luggage , and Ilya’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Sveta who’s sitting behind him on the couch for better access, her hands in his hair as she rigorously recreates the hair routine his hair dresser had used, that they haven’t fucked at all since she’s arrived.

He’s about to remark on it, already has a lewd joke brewing that’ll have Sveta roll her eyes at him, but then, if he’s lucky enough, she’ll allow him to drag her into his bed.

The words catch in his throat, though, refuse to make their way past his lips and out into open air. In truth, he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to ruin this hard-found peace where they’re just content to sit quietly, her hands in his hair and the Wizard of Oz playing quietly on the screen in front of them.

He needs to get over himself.

Sveta ruins — saves — the moment, though, when she sighs, her hands tightening slightly in his hair, and demands, “So, who are they and do I need to kill them for you to wipe that sad pout from your face?”

Ilya makes a strangled, undignified noise from the back of his throat. “What the fuck are you saying?” he asks to buy himself time, eyes stubbornly trained on the TV.

Behind him, Sveta snorts. “Please, I know you are at least a little smarter than this, Ilyusha. I was at your graduation after all. I know you at least occasionally have the ability to think.”

The amount of possible excuses he can come up with are exactly zero. So, instead, he deflects. “What makes you think there is someone?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sveta mutters, as her hands rearrange his hair for the umpteenth time, not yet quite satisfied. “Stop deflecting.”

“I am not,” he says, and cringes inwardly a little at the petulance that’s crept into his voice.

“You are a shit liar, you know that?”

Ilya bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard, and says, “Nobody.”

There’s a very pregnant pause, and Ilya’s heart beats painfully in his chest as Sveta blurts out, “Oh my god.”

“No.”

“This is about your colleague, isn’t it? The one you’ve been seeing occasionally?”

“Sveta,” Ilya pleads, as she ruffles his hair, forcing a stray curl to fall artfully across his forehead.

“He wasn’t in your department, right? What was it he did? ER? Recovery?” She hums as she thinks, and he knows she’s seconds away from muttering his name, so he braces himself, closes his eyes in resignation. “Shane Hollander,” she says triumphantly, snapping her fingers. She rolls the R, drags it out.

“ICU,” Ilya mutters, resigned to his fate. “He’s ICU.”

A soft exhale of breath, and then Sveta says, in a tone that’s too soft for her, “Right. ICU.”

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, and it has Ilya biting his tongue to keep it all in, because there’s nothing to talk about really, because they hadn’t been, not even for a second, anything to begin with.

He swallows.

“Oh, Ilyusha,” Sveta says, and then she’s pushing her feet into his lower back until he grumbles, sliding forward to create enough space for her to slide down the couch. She joins him on the ground, legs extended on either side of his hips, and she plasters herself all over his back, arms winding around his middle to hug him tight, pulling him back against her until he gives in.

There are no words that he can offer, so he sits and lets himself be held. He draws the line at crying, though, so he doesn’t, and he doesn’t acknowledge that the screen in front of him has gone suspiciously blurry.

“I guess it wasn’t just casual, then?” Sveta hedges carefully. “Not to you, obviously?”

Ilya barks out a laugh, and it sounds wet and a little pathetic. “I guess that is kind of the problem?” And fine, he can’t go any lower than this, so he might as well go for broke.

Sveta’s arms tighten around his waist, anchoring him. “Have you discussed this with Shane at all?”

At Ilya’s guilty silence, she huffs and Ilya can practically hear the eye-roll as she mutters, a little disdainfully, “Ugh, men.”

“It isn’t my fault,” Ilya’s quick to defend himself, sounding only a little offended. “We, just. Didn’t talk about it. A lot.” He swallows. “Or ever.”

He can practically feel Sveta’s judgment burning into the back of his neck where he knows she’s staring at him. She withdraws her arms with a curse. “Fuck, Ilyusha. I am moving. I need to be able to see you so we can properly discuss this.”

She wiggles without any dignity at all until she’s dislodged herself from Ilya, then scoots over until she’s sitting by his side, turning aside to fully face him, a frown on her face as she waits, patiently, for him to face her too.

“So,” she says, as she stares at him with a serious expression on her face once Ilya, reluctantly, turns towards her. “How long has this been — a thing?”

“A little over a year,” Ilya cringes, shrinking in on himself a little as Sveta just blinks at him, baffled.

“Okay,” she says, blowing out a slow breath. “Okay.”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya says, as he brings his arm up to his eyes so he can cover them, break this intense staring with Sveta for just a moment. He’s fully preparing for her to rip into him, to spell out what kind of idiot he’s been, except that he already knows. He’s thought about it so much these past couple of days.

Of course Shane was going to say no. Of course he was! In truth, if Shane had asked him if he’d wanted to go together, Ilya probably would’ve said the same thing. It wouldn’t have been sensible for the two of them to show up together, unless they had been entirely certain they wanted their coworkers to wonder. They would’ve seen one another at the party anyway — there would’ve been plenty of opportunity for them to seek each other out.

But that, too, ventures into territory that isn’t as safe as meeting at work, where they are friends, yes, or when they meet up for a run because most of the time, there’s someone else of the group joining. It is very rare for the two of them to run alone. But this? A party where the boundaries of professionalism no longer work, where they can’t hide behind etiquette and where they are much more prone to act irrationally, where there would be a lot of eyes who could see the wrong thing.

The rumor mill will be unbearable after the holidays, it always is after these kind of things. It’s going to be so well-documented who got too drunk while at a work event, who ended up kissing who, what kind of affairs were born from an evening like this and who is cheating on their partner because of it.

Ilya thinks back to that day on the ICU often, and while it still makes his blood run hot, it also spikes a lot of fear in his heart. He can’t risk it, ending up in that same rumor mill attached to Shane, not while he still need to go back to Russia occasionally for his father, not while he doesn’t have a permanent visa.

“Oh, Ilyusha,” Sveta says, and her tone has gone soft as she takes him in, and then she’s hugging him, climbing into his lap like she’s done a million times before. She doesn’t say anything more, but Ilya can hear it nevertheless, the way she’s sorry for his situation, the way she does judge him, just a little bit, for not talking to Shane about it. How unfair, how impossible, the entire situation is for him, with Russia still looming over him, with Canada still looming, too.

“Maybe we can find him tonight, hm? See if you both can explain yourselves?” she asks, trying to cheer him up, to see if it can be salvaged anyway.

“Maybe,” Ilya nods, but he doesn’t hold out hope.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

Ilya snorts. “You don’t even know what he said,” he grumbles into her hair, as he buries his face into her neck.

“Maybe not,” she agrees easily. “But I can make an educated guess. Besides, you can point him out to me tonight when we go look for him, and then I can tell you a little easier if he’s worth it to pursue.”

That startles a weak laugh out if Ilya. “Oh, trust me, he’s worth pursuing.”

“I’m sure he is,” Sveta says casually, after they’ve broken up the hug and she’s climbed off his lap in order to grab the chilled bottle of white waiting in the fridge. “I am loathe to admit that you actually do have a decent taste in people.” She flicks her hand towards herself.

“Obviously,” Ilya replies drily. He accepts the glass she hold out for him and takes a small sip. “Oh, god. This is terrible.”

Next to him, Sveta pulls a face as well, and she sets the glass down with a finality to it. “Yuck. Next time, I’m taking care of the wine.”

“Fine.”

They finish their glasses in between grimaces anyway.

“It’s going to be alright, Ilyusha. I’m certain of it.”

Ilya stares down at the last dregs of wine in his glass before he tips his head back and swallows with a barely concealed wince. “We’ll see,” he concedes, and Sveta smiles at him.

“Right. Enough moping, and enough terrible wine. There better be vodka in the freezer, though, or I am revoking your citizenship rights.”

“What do you take me for, an animal?” Ilya asks, affronted, and he sags a little in relief as Sveta, mercifully, effortlessly changes the subject. 

The music is already loud, but the buzz of a crowd all talking to each other is even louder by the time Ilya and Svetlana make it to the party. To accommodate the huge number of people attending, the hospital had rented out a barn that also hosts huge parties and functions as a wedding venue, just outside of the city. There’s a huge expanse of land behind it, where a massive tent has been erected as well which functions as the dance floor, string-lights strung overhead and a small DJ booth erected at its head. It is bitterly cold, but it does nothing to dampen the mood as the music thumps and people dance closely together.

Between the barn and the tent, a huge impromptu food court has been realized, small trucks lined up on either sides with various foods, from TexMex to Asian wok to hamburgers. Smoke curls high into the air where the barbecue is, people milling about there closely to soak in the warmth. The floor, which is just a patch of grass, has been covered with hay to keep it dry, preventing the dozens of feet from turning it into a muddy pool. There are oil lanterns placed intermittently, lighting up the space and providing sources of warmth.

The barn itself is a beacon of warm light, the large double doors wide open to show the huge bar and long tables lining the space, where already groups of people are sitting down, the atmosphere decidedly less nightclub-like and more social. It’s there where Sveta leads him, the two of them turning heads as they pass. How could they not with the way they’re dressed. As predicted, Ilya’s outfit compliments Sveta’s dress, which is barely hanging on on her tall frame. They do look a little out of place, since most people seem to have opted for jeans and flannel and cowboy boots, or dresses with long sleeves at least, leaning a little into the farm theme of the party, but Ilya is the last person to care about that kind of thing.

He’s carefully undone some of his buttons, making his collar pop and his crucifix the centerpiece of his outfit. There’s a silver brooch on his chest. His hair is arranged carefully, giving off that look that looks effortless but in reality had nearly taken him an hour to pull off, and which had needed a lot of Sveta’s help.

Svetlana makes straight for the bar, Ilya following her at a leisure pace, subtly looking around to see if he sees anyone he knows while trying to look like he isn't looking at all. Sveta clocks him, smirking in amusement. “Don’t try too hard,” she says in Russian, a glint in her eyes.

Ilya merely scoffs, gesturing at her to continue towards the bar.

“Rozy! Hey!” Wyatt Hayes grins at him, wide and open as he opens up a spot next to him where he’s lounging at the bar.

Svetlana raises an eyebrow at him at the nickname, mouthing, “Rozy?” at him in mockery, and Ilya flips her off.

“Only he’s allowed to call me that,” he confides in her quietly, before grinning, splaying his arms wide as he exclaims, “Hazy!”

They hug briefly, clapping each other heartily on the back before Ilya steps back, introducing Svetlana.

“It’s nice to meet you! I’d introduce you to my wife Lisa, but I’m afraid she’s been abducted by her coworkers — I think they’re currently tearing up the dance floor.” Wyatt smiles, shrugging. “So, how’s life at IM?”

“Oh, you know —” Ilya starts, going off on a tangent about his work, the recent developments regarding its staff where, every once in a while, multiple people quit at the same time while new staff gets hired.

In turn, Wyatt updates him about the children’s wing, and how he’s thinking about moving to Ottawa’s children’s hospital where Lisa also works — there might be an opening there for the particular specialization Wyatt trained in.

“You should go for it,” Ilya says, just as Svetlana rematerializes next to him, handing him a vodka and Hayes a beer, she herself sipping on a vodka of her own. “Your talents are wasted here. Though I will be sad to see you go.”

“Oh, Rozy,” Wyatt says, sounding suspiciously sentimental. “We’re family, dude. There’s no getting rid of me now! Don’t think I will forget about you or leave you alone just because I’m leaving the building. We’re still running twice a week, like we discussed. We have the group chat!”

“Of course, Hazy,” Ilya says fondly. “Have a good night! I’ll find you later but I have a lady to entertain tonight.” That earns him another one of Hazy’s laughs and a sharp elbow from Sveta.

As they walk away, Sveta leans in, telling him softly, “I like him. He’s a good friend, Ilyusha. He’s good for you.”

Ilya hums. “Wanna get something to eat?”

“Fuck, I thought you’d never ask,” Sveta practically moans, walking a pace faster. They’d forgone dinner earlier tonight, knowing that there’d be a large arrange of food available at the party that’s free.

The temperature drops significantly as they step out of the barn, goose flesh traveling all over Ilya’s torso as he refuses to wear a coat, ruining his aesthetic. Svetlana, of similar opinion, shivers next to him before they share a meaningful look that says ‘we’ve dealt with worse, suck it up’.

They wait a while in the queue for the BBQ, but then Ilya spots who’s manning the grill and he promptly gets excited. “Zane! Boody!” he hollers, and Zane’s head whips up, scanning the crowd.

“Ilya! My man! Come here!”

Grinning at Sveta, he grabs her by the hand and tugs her out of the queue, ignoring the angry rumbles of the waiting people they pass as they join Zane behind the grill.

Ilya gets another hug, this one a lot tighter than the one Wyatt gave him as Zane whacks him on the back a couple of times, and he can feel Sveta’s approval radiating from behind him. They do the entire introduction spiel effectively fast, and Sveta’s more than happy to stun Zane with her vast knowledge of hockey as they end up discussing tonight’s chances for the Centaurs, and not for the first time, Ilya wishes he could introduce Sveta to Shane. They would hit it off extremely well, Ilya’s certain of it — they’d match each other in that analytical, sharp wit and the way the both of them have such sharp opinions, especially when it comes to hockey. In fact, Ilya suspects their entire conversation wouldn’t be about anything but hockey.

The thought is both endearing and, right now, bound to make him extremely miserable.

Fortunately, Zane pulls him back into the conversation. “Have you guys eaten yet?” he asks, and then doesn’t bother to wait for an answer as he fills up a plate with some meats and fish and vegetables, fresh off the grill.

“Thanks, Bood!” Ilya grins at him, as he holds up the plate for him and Sveta to eat from, while Sveta stabs her fork into a bit of salmon. “You’ve got yourself a sweet spot, my friend. Any good gossip yet?”

Zane’s eyes flit thoughtfully over the crowd in front of him. “Hmm. To be completely honest, I haven’t seen many people from our department yet,” he says slowly. “Oh! Troy came by earlier, with Harris. They are adorable, Roz! I did not think Troy could actually look like that! All sappy and blushing and shit. Adorable, I tell you.”

As in an afterthought, Zane turns to Sveta. “Troy is a coworker, and a friend, and Harris, well. He handles the hospital’s social media, helped us set up our channel — you do know about the stuff Ilya does on our TikTok and Instagram page, do you not?”

"“Ilyusha,” Sveta crows, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “You do what now?!”

Ilya groans. “Oh, fuck. Bood, I tried not to tell anyone! It is embarrassing!”

The next ten minutes Ilya eats sulkily off his plate, while Zane and Sveta squint down on the screen of her phone in between Zane’s grilling, after Zane had directed her to the hospital’s social media pages. She’s delighted to have found new material to blackmail him with, and she’s not very subtle in letting him know that either.

“Right, well,” Ilya says desperately, trying to change the subject. “Who else did you spot already?”

“I think the youngsters said something about not showing up before midnight, because that would be uncool?” Zane says, unbothered. “So I fully expect to see Luca, LaPointe and Young — and maybe Holmberg? Though unclear if he was coming as well — to show up completely hammered. You know how those kids are.” He shrugs, waves his tongs around a bit in emphasis. “We were all young, once.”

Ilya snorts. “Speak for yourself, old man.”

“Rude. What else? Hmm.” Zane flips a couple of burgers once more before moving them towards the table next to him, where all the ready products end up for the people to grab and which had run dangerously empty again. The burgers barely touch the plate before they’re scooped up, but Zane seems unperturbed and grabs a new, fresh load of patties to grill. “I saw Wyatt and Lisa, of course, and Nick and Selena, but other than that, not many of our group yet. Oh! I saw our ICU friends earlier! Shane and Hayden and JJ.”

“Oh,” Ilya says, as his heartbeat picks up and Sveta cuts him a knowing glance.

“Yes! So what I’ve heard is that Pike is leaving.”

“He is?” Ilya asks, baffled.

Zane nods. “Yeah. Though, I haven’t asked him that, but he and Shane and Jackie — his wife, lovely lady and way out of his league if you ask me — seemed to be discussing something like that. Apparently Hayden is going to Montreal MC, work at the NICU.”

“Really?” In truth, Ilya thinks that is most likely a better career choice for Pike than remaining at the ICU. “That sounds like something for him, yes.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. Shane, too, apparently. He was encouraging Hayden to go for it. But I can imagine it could be hard for him, too — the two of them work together a lot, right? You’re friends with Shane, you probably know this better than I do.”

Sveta’s eyes are burning a hole through the side of his face. “That’s interesting,” she says politely, and Ilya nods. “Maybe we should see if we can find him, right, Ilyusha? So we can congratulate Hayden on his new job.”

Ilya glares daggers at her as she thanks Zane for the delicious food and, after a promise of returning to hang out with him some more before the night is out, she drags him forcefully along by the sleeve of his shirt.

“Sveta.”

She ignores him, which is to be expected, and he sighs long-suffering but still follows her around.

They quickly scan the dancefloor, where Ilya recognizes Nick and his wife Selena and, after another few minutes of small talk and introductions, they each go their different ways again, and Sveta leads them back towards the barn.

“It is cold as fuck,” she complains in Russian, shivering a little. “Let’s see if they’re inside. If not, we can warm up a little before circling back.”

“Sveta,” Ilya tries again. “I really don’t need to see him. It’s fine. I can fix this later.”

The glare she throws his way would shrink lesser men. “Right,” she says sarcastically. “Because the chance of you actually doing that is how big exactly?”

He glares back at her, affronted, which she ignores as she finds them a standing spot near one of the tables. Ilya’s face lights up as he recognizes Harris and Troy, lounging near one of the high cocktail tables and he beelines for them, steering Sveta their way. They look to be in their own little bubble, and Ilya isn’t above rudely interrupting that, if only to tease them about it later.

Another round of greetings and reintroductions, and as Sveta introduces herself as his childhood best friend and very hot date for the night to the two men, Ilya takes a moment to look at Troy, who’s already looking back at him a little abashed, and he is faintly blushing, interestingly enough. Harris just looks like Harris, cordial and happy and grinning widely, but it is definitely a little more sappy, a little more lovesick.

Ilya is genuinely so very happy for the two of them. He is also, just the teeniest bit, jealous of the easy show of affection, from the way they’re clearly holding hands to the open, naked way they look at each other. Anyone here looking at them can tell that they’re dating, that they’re in love, and —

Ilya wants that, too. So very much.

They hang around the table for the better part of an hour, and Sveta, clearly enjoying herself by making Harris tell her all the embarrassing things he’s had Ilya do for the social media reels, seems to have forgotten about her mission of tracking Shane down, and gradually, Ilya relaxes. The conversations don’t veer into any dangerous situations, and the beer and apple ciders flow freely, and there’s a pleasant buzz beneath his skin as Sveta’s warm against his side where’s she’s plastered against him. It’s familiar and safe in the way they cling to each other, the way his arm is draped over her shoulders, tucking her close, while she’s stuffed her hand into his back pocket, anchoring herself to him. They’ve been doing this since they were children, and Ilya doesn’t think anything of it.

Harris and Troy glance at them briefly as they naturally gravitate towards each other, but after hearing them bicker for over five minutes, understanding seems to creep in, and, after sharing a brief, amused look between the two of them, they don’t comment on it.

Against all expectations, he’s having a pretty good time, and for a second, he forgets about his aching heart.

“— Should let us help set you up, Shane,” a familiar voice floats by, as Ilya’s heart sinks.

“You should,” a female voice interjects.

Slowly, Ilya turns around. It is just his luck, apparently, that Shane, accompanied by the Pikes, has taken up residence at the table at their back.

His eyes, as if drawn by fucking magnets, immediately find Shane.

Shane, who is already staring back at him like a deer in headlights, eyes wide and fearful. But then he hones in on Svetlana, who’s tucked securely against his side, her arm wound around his waist, his arm tight around her shoulders.

Ilya tries to let her go. Too late.

Shane’s eyes narrow, and he turns resolutely away from Ilya.

Ilya, who’s standing frozen in place, who is powerless against the tide that is coming so what he ends up doing is tightening his hold around Sveta’s shoulders, tugging her more securely against him like she can protect him as he watches Shane turn to Hayden and say, “There’s no need. Rose has a friend…” he shrugs, and immediately, the two Pikes latch on, interrogating Shane with unrestrained curiosity and glee.

Ilya, who, after his argument with Shane had left that apartment with a cracked heart, feels it break into a million fucking pieces.

“Ilyusha,” Sveta asks him quietly in Russian, a concerned look on her face. “What’s happening?”

“He saw us,” he whispers back, and it should be concerning, maybe, how quickly he can shut it all down, forcing this swirling hurricane of emotions behind lock and key so he can steel himself, straightening, hardening until there’s only room for one emotion — anger. So this is how it’s going to go, how it’s going to end? Fine.

He rearranges the two them a little bit so Sveta can see who he’s talking about, and her face fills with sympathy as she squeezes his hand.

“Ah, fuck,” she says with feeling, but she doesn’t move, eyes roving over Shane as he tries to dodge the incoming flood of questions from the Pikes. “Oh, he is hot, Ilyusha. No wonder you’ve been this hung up on him.”

“The fuck does it matter?” Ilya bites, but at least it breaks his spell and he finally manages to tear his eyes away, settling on Sveta instead.

She’s casting a glance at his face, pondering something as she glances back at Shane, who’s trying very hard (and failing) to keep his gaze to the Pikes only, but whose eyes keep sliding to Ilya.

Ilya’s vaguely aware of their audience, of Troy and Harris whispering quietly among themselves, before they quickly excuse themselves, slipping away and leaving Sveta and Ilya alone at their table. He acknowledges their departure with a quick nod, though his eyes never leave Sveta, looking at her imploringly.

He isn’t exactly sure what he’s asking of her until she rolls her eyes at him, but then she smirks, arranging herself in his arms a little bit, pressing herself against him more firmly as the hand tucked into his back pocket tightens, groping. “You better make this good, then,” she says, her voice pitched low in seduction, loud enough to be picked up by the people surrounding them even if the words are uttered in Russian.

Ilya smirks back at her as his free hand comes up to caress the side of her cheek, familiar and sure in its path as he continues on to slide his fingers into the wild array of her curls, carefully tucking them back a little.

His eyes find Shane’s.

Shane, who’s staring at them, stock-still, eyes unblinking as he watches Sveta tuck her face into the side of Ilya’s neck, lips puckered as she presses feather light kisses into his skin as she finds his pulse point.

Ilya, with hooded eyelids, tips his head to the side to grand her easier access, to make it more visible the way she’s marking up the skin there with smudges of her lipstick. His hands wander down her body, following the line of her ribs, over the gentle curve of her hips before landing, obscenely, on her ass.

Shane follows every move, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Ilyusha,” Sveta murmurs the nickname into his skin, and she draws back lightly. “We can stop here, if you want.”

In lieu of answering, he presses his lips against hers. Sveta, thankfully, is quick to answer, pressing back against him just as hotly, meeting him beat for beat, and she parts her lips easily for him when he strokes his tongue against them, kissing him back just as ferociously and dirty as he asks of her.

Once upon a time, it would’ve set his blood aflame.

His eyes don’t stray from Shane, eyeing him with a challenge in his eyes while Shane stares back first in shock, and then in heartbroken defeat.

Then, all at once, a flurry of movement. “I’m sorry,” Shane says, turning away from Ilya, all frantic energy as he apologizes again and again to Hayden and — presumably — Jackie, untangling himself from them. “I — it’s just, I gotta — gotta go. Uhm, family emergency. Yeah — yeah my mom, she just texted.”

Sveta clings to him, sneaking a glance over her shoulder as the two of them watch as Shane leaves the baffled Pikes behind, who are eyeing him in concern as Shane flees the scene like he’s running from a crime scene.

As soon as he’s out of Ilya’s line of sight, he deflates.

Sveta doesn’t allow them to linger, either — with a gentle but firm hand pressed to the low of his back, she steers the two of them towards the exit, saying something lightly about having experienced enough drama for one night, something about wanting to catch up on her show, and did he watch the latest ep of Love Island yet?

Ilya ends up in the passenger seat while Sveta floors her rental, tires screeching and slipping a little over the ice covering the asphalt as she swears up a storm in Russian, lamenting about Ilya’s mess and how she’s sorry but that he deserves better, and Ilya stares out of the window without really taking in the scenery speeding by, and he doesn’t allow himself to feel anything beyond the gaping emptiness where his heart used to be.

“If you tell any of this to Cliff before I’ve had a chance to tell him,” Sveta warns him, her voice a dangerous pitch as she keeps her eyes on the road, “I will crush your balls with my bare hands.”

And — right. Marly. Who hadn’t been at the party, because he’d picked the short straw and had been saddled up with a shift for the evening. It’s such a bizarre concept to him, still, his best friend with Sveta, and then everything that happened between Sveta and him tonight that despite himself, Ilya laughs.

And he laughs, because it’s better than the alternative, where he wants to scream until his voice gives out, or worse, where he starts crying until he physically can’t anymore.

Sveta sends him a scandalized look, but then the corners of her mouth curve up all the same, and she allows a flicker of a smile to poke through, just for a moment, before she lays her hand on Ilya’s upper thigh and squeezes, grounding him.

Ilya’s hand finds hers and, entangling their fingers, he tightens them as he holds on to her like a lifeline.

Chapter End Notes

ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD

everyone still with me?

Chapter 11: 11 i'd smoke my lungs

Chapter Summary

“Jesus, Roz,” Cliff says as soon as Ilya’s wrenched open the front door. They’re both breathing heavily, and Ilya has had to lean against his doorframe, gasping for breath and shaking so badly he couldn’t insert his key into the keyhole. “You fucking maniac.”

“No one told you to follow me, Marly,” Ilya says in between gasps. There’s a stitch in his side that’s been bothering him for the last five streets, and he can’t breathe deep enough to try to force it out, and so he bends over with a hand pressed to his side. “Fuck.”

“I need a fucking drink,” Marly mutters to himself as a slightly hysterical laugh passes his lips.

Chapter Notes

As you will see, I am a firm member of the 'Ilya deserves besties' club. That means that Ilya has besties, and those besties Pay Attention.

Enjoy <3

As Ilya hurries inside, trying to escape the snow— it might be the end of March by now, but the weather has been as unpredictable as ever, and this latest snowstorm had been blowing in from the north, despite the temperature of the last week steadily climbing towards a comfortable 10 degrees Celsius — the posters greet him everywhere. Ilya doesn’t pay them any mind. There’s a new poster nearly every day, some about the theme of the month, others about educational opportunities, or a poster where the staff of a department sends off a beloved colleague with a good-natured joke and well-wishes. He’s seen them all at this point, every variation of them, and he’s late as it is. It had been a dark morning, and Ilya had been contemplating calling in sick to get out of work, but he’d suffered a wave of such self-loathing at the idea that it had forced him out of bed anyway. He's already exhausted and he’s not even changed into his uniform yet.

As he makes his way down the steps to the basement to pick up his outfit, sighing in annoyance when he hits the queue for the distribution machines mid-step, there’s a general buzz among the waiting people. He scans, briefly, for people he knows and, thankfully, finds none, so he tunes the gentle hum of flowing conversations out, staring at his phone and its utter lack of notifications.

He misses the stupid fucking memes so fucking much.

The locker room, blissfully, resentfully, is utterly abandoned, and Ilya changes as quickly as he can, avoiding the empty space to his right where clothes lie, neatly folded, on the bench.

He can’t do this.

He moves on anyway.

He makes it to his floor five minutes past seven, and he’s met by the night shift with visible relief. They assure him he’s fine, it can happen that he’s late, traffic can be the worst, right? And Ilya nods, murmurs something about the metro being a nightmare, is perfectly polite and grins as they joke but it doesn’t reach him, not really.

Life has been so heavy, lately. He knows it’s bleeding through, that he’s less able to conceal it — notices it in the careful way Cliff had been texting him, asking him if he’s alright and that he’s there to talk if he wants to, notices it in the way the group chat has been more insistent in scheduled runs, Wyatt in particular forcing him along, dragging him out of his apartment. He noticed it at work, in the way that Zane was hovering, in the way that Troy came in to check on him at random points during his shift, helping him even if he didn’t need any help at all.

He noticed it in the surprise appearance of Sveta, just last night, who’d been banging on his front door, cursing it to hell and back for not opening to her key until Ilya had let her in. He hasn’t seen her since that fucked party last Christmas, and she’s a great sight for sore eyes.

She’d taken one look at him and had hugged him tight, allowing Ilya to squeeze her to his chest and bury his head in her curls, the familiar scent of coconut and citrus a soothing balm to his aching soul. They hadn’t fucked, and they hadn’t talked, not really. But Sveta had taken care of dinner, working loudly as the utensils banged and clanged together, a constant stream of gossip and hockey speculation leaving her mouth as she talked to Ilya, rather than with, and it had soothed that sharp sting of loneliness that had threatened to bury him whole.

They’d ended up on the couch, watching a Bears game before switching to some mindless action film, Sveta draped all over him like a weighted blanket. He can’t recall the match at all, won’t be able to tell you who they even played against let alone the score, nor did the movie leave any impression. But it was nice, being grounded by his best friend like this.

When Ilya had finally realized that it was rather suspicious of her to show up now, they were already in bed, Sveta fussing about his bed (too small), his mattress (too soft), his pillows and blankets (those were fine, miraculously), which side of the bed she was supposed to be on (she was always on his left, has been that way since they were children so now she was just being difficult). She complained about being unable to fall asleep if he kept clinging to her, Ilyusha, but had cuddled back into him regardless.

“What are you doing here, Sveta?” he asked into the darkness of the room. “I appreciate you being here,” he wisely added.

“Unfortunately, Cliff is rather cute when he’s worried,” came as reply eventually, Sveta sounding dismayed by the admission. It had started a small, genuine laugh out of Ilya, the first one in days and it had felt foreign and good, and it meant that he was slowly climbing his way out again.

It’s just hard, is all.

Sveta had kicked him out of bed that morning, a terrifying force that saw him showered and fed before bullying him out the door, even if Ilya dreaded every step he’d have to take.

“You’ll never forgive yourself if you bail on your work,” Sveta had said, and Ilya resented that she was right. “So go in, see how it goes, and when you’re done you’re done. You call me, I come pick you up, no questions asked and a promise of minimal bullying from me.”

“That’s so very kind of you,” he’d replied, and the bite was slowly coming back to him too, but it still sounded way too genuine when he’d followed up to it with a sincere, “Thank you.”

She’d kissed his cheek, patted him lovingly and shoved him out the door. “I’m going back to bed. Get lost.”

“Hm. Shall I say hello to Cliff for you?”

“I’d rather die,” Sveta said, cocking a mischievous eyebrow at him before she’d slammed the door in his face. “Bye!”

He sighs as he picks up his patient overview, gives it a customary glance. They’ve gone easy on him — a single room, four patients, only one discharge and a planned admission following that afternoon. He could take it easy.

He’s barely sat down behind the computer to read up on the charts when Troy materializes at his side, clapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, Ilya, good to see you.” It’s so genuine in the way that only Troy can be, and he smiles as he grabs a chair and sits down next to Ilya.

Ilya doesn’t react, just carefully swallows with his eyes trained on his screen, unseeing. Manages a nod.

“You’ve had such hard cases last week, and the planning had you on the same rooms as yesterday, but I stepped in on your behalf, if that’s okay? I thought you could use a bit of a breather, so I gave you room eleven. I know that you don’t know them, but I thought you might prefer it anyway. We divvied up your patients among two others to lighten the workload, so they’re going to be fine. I had them for the last few nights, so if you want I can talk you through them, saves you a bit of time on reading.”

Ilya nods, and Troy talks him through his patients as Ilya takes notes, feeling relieved at the lightened workload, guilty that it’s now given to others. He’d been fine keeping the same rooms — after all, he’s worked with them for the last two days, knows the required care intimately.

The relief, eventually, as Troy finishes his notes, wins out. “Oh, one more thing,” he says. “The others wanted to make you the charge nurse of today, but I convinced them it should be one of the rookies instead. We settled on Haasy.”

Ilya had been incredibly proud when Luca had come up to him last week, smiling from ear to ear when he’d told Ilya he’d gotten his diploma, and Wiebe had offered him a position on the spot.

“I have made you the back-up, though, so he’s probably going to find you a lot, asking questions. Help him along?”

“Sure, no problem,” Ilya says tiredly, as he musters up a smile that he’s sure doesn't reach his eyes. “We all had to learn at the beginning, right?”

“Absolutely,” Troy nods. “Have a good shift, Ilya.”

“Good night, Troy.”

Ilya rubs his eyes tiredly, contemplates texting Sveta for a full minute before he decides that, no, that means quitting and that’s not who he is.

“Oh,” Troy says, and Ilya blinks a little stupidly at him, fully convinced he’d already left. “Don’t forget, Ilya. Tomorrow morning bright and early, no excuses. We’ll barge into your home if we need to.” He’s giving Ilya a stern look, and Ilya scowls mightily at him.

Unfortunately, Troy doesn’t seem properly phased by it. “Fine,” he mutters darkly eventually, when it becomes clear that Troy isn’t going to let it go.

“Good,” Troy says, looking too pleased. “I’m off to bed now. Good luck today, Roz.”

“Yes. See you tomorrow.”

The shift goes fine, all things considered. It’s not a heavy one in every sense of the word — no one needs help bathing or getting dressed, and most of his activities are either the discharging of his patients or admitting the next ones. All in all, he doesn’t go into the rooms unless he’s called, or needs to hand out the medicine or put up the IV drips. It allows for a lot of time wallowing, which Ilya indulges in.

It’s quiet enough that even Luca doesn’t need his help, though he regularly checks in with Ilya to make sure he doesn’t forget any of the additional tasks assigned to the charge nurse. He’s doing perfectly well, and so Ilya doesn’t even have that to keep an eye on.

He absolutely despises it, the way it allows his mind to wander, the abyss ever nearing.

He’s allowed to leave a little past three, after the evening shift come in and tell him straight up they don’t have any questions regarding his patients. He beats the evening rush and makes it home in record time, only to find that Sveta’s not there.

Back tonight! the post it reads, and Ilya huffs and heads straight to bed.

He wakes a couple of hours later, as Sveta shakes his shoulder ruthlessly. “Come on,” she says sternly. “Up. Food’s getting cold, and if you sleep now, you’ll be awake all night.”

He notices her suitcase’s packed when he, after an indiscriminate amount of time later, makes it out of bed. His eyes catch on it, looking at it with that quiet sense of dread that’s his most trusted companion these days. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve been meaning to stay longer,” Sveta says, and Ilya hates how apologetic she sounds. “But I can’t. Work requires me back in Boston, and tonight’s flight was the only available option.”

She is looking at him while he stares at the suitcase, unblinking. She’s frowning at him. “I can cancel.”

“No.”

Sveta waits as Ilya finally turns to face her, and he doesn’t like the unhappy curve of her brows, pulled down. There is no pity in her face, though, there never is when it comes to him, and he’s so immensely grateful for that. If only he knew how to voice it.

He knows she knows, of course. They’ve grown up together. There’s no one on this world that knows him better than Sveta does. So it doesn’t come as a surprise when she crosses the small distance between them and grabs him lightly by the biceps. “Ilyusha.”

Ilya swallows. “I can’t.”

“Yes,” she says sternly, her dark eyes never wavering from staring into his. “You can. You just won’t.”

“What does it matter, Sveta?” he sighs, and he sounds so goddamn tired. “It’s too late anyway.”

“Come now,” she scoffs. “You know why it matters. You like him. Ilyusha. You have for ages at this point. He might feel the same. He better — he’s on thin ice.”

“He doesn’t,” Ilya denies, so very sure of this. “He’s moved on. You saw him at the party.”

“You won’t actually know that,” she points out gently, “unless you ask.”

Ilya scowls at that. “Too late,” he mutters again, and he breaks free from her hold, moves towards the couch where steaming containers of take out are rapidly cooling.

Sveta sighs and follows, but doesn’t bring it up again. They spend the rest of the evening in a heavy silence until she presses her lips against his forehead, orders him to call her if he needs her, and then she’s gone, the grinding noise of the wheels of her suitcase following in her wake until there’s nothing left but the white noise of his apartment and the sound of his own breathing, too loud to his own ears.

His mood is already sour as Ilya steps out of his building at the terrible hour of six in the morning. It’s not that unusual for him to leave at that time — what does make it unusual, is that it is his free fucking day. Wyatt, unfortunately, had insisted, and to make sure Ilya couldn’t back out at the last fucking minute, he’d made sure Bood and Barrett were also part of the scheme. And so here Ilya is, bitterly cold in his flimsy running gear because he refuses to dress warmer, knowing he’s about to be dragged along a 10 km run and will be running hot as soon as he’s two steps in.

The sky overhead is pitch black still, and snow seems to be hanging heavily in the air, an inevitability at this point after the snow storms from just yesterday. It’s a miracle Sveta’s plane didn’t get cancelled. The ground is still covered in little puddles of melted snow, and it’s the drab color of gray from where it’s mostly slush and ice. Ilya just hopes they can do their run without getting snowed on. There is nothing quite as bone-chilling as being cold from snow, after all. Spring shouldn’t be far off, but as it stands it feels like it’ll be winter forever.

Grumbling beneath his breath and trying to salvage some feeling in his fingers by blowing on them, he waits around for his friends to show up.

He watches idly on his Garmin as ten minutes pass, then fifteen, and with each passing moment Ilya’s regret increases. He’s just about to contemplate giving up and going back inside when a shout reaches his ears. “Hey, Rozy my man!”

Wyatt waves enthusiastically at him, picking up a slight jog until he’s within arm’s reach and envelops Ilya in a bone-crushing hug. “It’s been too long!” he says, beaming widely as he steps back, creating room for more bro-hugs from Zane and Troy, who greet him a little more subdued, the two of them looking like they’re two seconds away from sleeping where they stand, obviously feeling as much regret as Ilya is about agreeing to this.

There is begrudging respect for Troy especially, because if it had been Ilya, fresh out of a row of night shifts just the day before, he wouldn’t even have bothered to pretend to show up.

Ilya grouches at them in return, before turning to Wyatt. “Yeah well, you decided to actually fuck off and go work somewhere else.” He’s grinning, though, a valiant effort of one anyway, and Wyatt’s smirk says he’s not at all impressed by Ilya’s mood. “So how’s the competition? Are you enjoying working for the enemy? Are they treating you right?”

“Oh, it’s amazing,” Hazy says, eyes glinting. “I’ll tell you all about it after, okay? Time to get a fucking move on.” He laughs as the other three groan and whine about regretting life decisions.

They do some warming up right there on the sidewalk, and Ilya and Wyatt start up an easy conversation as Zane and Troy pair up as well. In truth, he does miss Wyatt — even though they were working on different floors and barely had any overlap between departments, they still saw each other multiple times a week, mostly during lunch breaks, before Ilya started to anticipate his meet-ups with Hollander, also something that now belongs to the past. So it’s nice, that Wyatt reached out and forced Ilya to hang with him, because he genuinely likes Hazy and wants to stay in touch.

Even if that means he’ll subject himself to some insane marathon aspiring training schedule. It’s on Hazy’s bucket list, and he wants to run one next year, even if Ilya knows that the original plan had been this year, but he hadn’t started training for it yet and the Ottawa Marathon is usually hosted in May. So, instead, Ilya had opted the two of them run the half marathon instead of the full thing — if he likes it, he might be persuaded to sign up for the full one too.

The four of them set off, falling into an easy rhythm as the city around them starts to wake up, traffic in full swing, people emerging from their houses to get into work.

It usually takes a couple of kilometers for Ilya to get into a rhythm that is sustainable, liable as he is to start too fast. Running with a couple of mates works in his favor in this regard — especially Zane and Wyatt start up slow, the two of them talking animatedly as they run, while Ilya and Troy find themselves side so side, leading the way. Ilya adjusts to Troy’s speed, even if Troy gives him a questionable look and waves him on. “You can go ahead if you want,” he says, keeping his breathing forcefully even.

Ilya shakes his head. “No, I like your speed.”

Troy looks at him for a beat longer before shrugging. “Okay.”

They don’t talk — Ilya secretly, on days like this, likes to run with Troy specifically, because he doesn’t try to force Ilya into being social and trying to engage him in meaningless conversations (except that one time when Troy had come out to him and had then proceeded to ask for Shane’s number, of all people. Ilya would rather forget that happened). The only sounds they make is the wet slap of their feet hitting the concrete and the labored, even breathing leaving their lips. It’s nice and it takes up all of Ilya’s mental capacity, and he doesn’t need to focus on anything but matching Troy’s pace and maintaining his breathing, keeping his heart rate under control. Even the animated conversation happening behind him doesn’t really reach him, instead just adds to the gentle hum that his brain is refusing to acknowledge.

So, it entirely ruins his mood when next to him, Troy opens his mouth. “So,” he says, and he sounds a little awkward but he keeps his face straight ahead, carefully avoiding to look at Ilya. “Harris and I are going steady.”

It’s clearly a conversation starter, and normally Ilya would be all over this; he’d ask for details, delight in teasing Troy about his boyfriend of just a few months, about going steady.

Instead, he just grunts. “That’s nice,” is all he manages to offer.

Troy hums like Ilya has just given him a meaningful answer. “Yes, well. He’s going to take me with him to his parents’ farm this weekend. I’m officially going to meet them.”

“Ah.” Ilya doesn’t offer anything more, hoping that it will kill this talk the same way it was born; abruptly.

Troy, though, juts his chin out a little in stubbornness and casts Ilya a cutting glance. “So, what about you? Did something happen between you and Shane?”

Ilya’s foot catches against the curb as they move off the sidewalk, and he nearly takes a dive. “What the fuck!”

Troy’s hand wraps around his upper arm, keeping him upright. Ilya grunts his thanks as he regains his balance and ignores the chirps of the other runners around him. “I’m fine,” he bites out at Troy as he shakes off his hand.

“Sure,” Troy replies easily, withdrawing a full step to give Ilya some space.

Ilya’s cheeks burn and he keeps his eyes straight ahead, glaring at the asphalt like it’s personally offended him. He can still feel Troy’s gaze burning in the side of his face, and he’s dimly aware that even the conversation between Wyatt and Zane seems to have stalled a bit.

The pointed silence lingers for another five minutes before Ilya cracks. “Nothing happened.”

“Okay,” Troy says evenly, but his face is doing something complicated as Ilya glances at him, and it’s very clear he doesn’t believe Ilya for a second. “I just thought you two were —”

“Were what?” Ilya bites out. “We were — are — nothing. So nothing happened.”

“That’s not true.” Ilya grinds his teeth together as Troy calls him out on his bullshit. “You guys have been, well, something, for a while now at least.”

Ilya can’t hide the surprise on his face as his pace slows, and Troy slows right along with him. He gives Ilya a rueful smile. “You guys weren’t as discreet as you thought. At least, not all the time. Not to people who were paying attention.”

Ilya’s blood runs ice cold through his veins. “Who else..?” he chokes out, and Wyatt slaps a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, just us,” he says comfortingly. “And Marly, of course, though we’re not sure where he is yet. He was supposed to join us, too.”

“And it’s pretty fucking obvious something happened, Ilya,” Zane adds. “It’s pretty telling now that Shane doesn’t join us on runs anymore unless you’re not coming. Not to mention he seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth most of the time.”

Ilya’s been noticing that, too. Shane hadn’t been very active in the group chat to begin with, but he usually replied to let them know if he wanted to join on the group runs or not. Ever since Christmas, it’s been radio silence and he’s stopped replying completely. JJ, too, doesn’t seem to join the group a lot anymore, only joining when Shane’s going, which is rare these days.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Ilya repeats, but the bite has gone out of his tone, and now he just sounds sad, which is worse. He keeps his gaze straight ahead and tells himself firmly he’s not going to cry or break down in hysterics, just because this group of idiots have decided to care about him. Quietly, he adds, “I wish there had been something to tell.”

“Ah,” Troy says, understanding clear in his voice. He doesn’t ask anything else, but shares a look with the other two men, following close on their heels. “You can tell us if you want to,” he offers then, as he picks up his pace again, forcing Ilya to join in. “Or not. But know that we’re here for you.”

Ilya nods curtly once, then lets out a relieved breath as the subject gets changed and plans to get something to drink are made. When they turn around the corner, they find Cliff waiting there on them, and he calls out at them, swears goodheartedly that they’re late and were supposed to pick him up a lot sooner. Wyatt and Zane immediately start to argue with him, something about Cliff waiting on the wrong fucking corner, and the group rearranged itself until they’re running again in rows of two. It means that Ilya is running by himself, leading the charge, and he finds he doesn’t mind it one bit. Behind hem, his friends continue arguing, and occasionally his name gets called to get him to engage and it is nice, knowing he has people he can fall back on.

Cliff swears by one of the small cafeterias they pass as they circle their way back to their starting point, some local hipster bar that serves matcha lattes and a wide variability of iced coffees that piques Ilya’s interest enough that he vetoes the ongoing discussion of where they’ll have their break by slowing to a stop and turning around. His Garmin tells him they’ve just passed the eleventh kilometer, which is one km past their initial goal anyway.

“Okay,” he says, breathing hard. “I like this, I side with Cliff. We’re done for the day.” He finishes his running app as well, cataloguing and saving his progress of today.

Wyatt offers up some protest, but he’s quickly shut down by the other three men, who breathe and grunt out sighs of relief as they’re finally done.

Zane leads them through some cooling down exercises that Ilya usually skips, but will always inevitably regret skipping because his legs will feel like they’re dying the next day, so he dutifully follows along and pays some extra attention to his hamstrings and his calves, and he ignores the slight twinge in his ankle from his near-dive off the sidewalk.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Cliff complains after nearly twenty minutes of stretching out on the sidewalk. “I’m getting really fucking cold now so I’d like to go in.”

He doesn’t wait for the others as he makes his way towards the door of the coffee shop, but Ilya follows close behind. It’s fully light out at this point, but still the lights are burning brightly inside the building, casting a warm yellow light that is visible through the glass door. The smell of roasted coffee beans greets them as Cliff pushes open the door.

There’s a bit of a line, and the two of them silently step into it, waiting their turn and keeping a spot open for the other three men who, after another two minutes, finally decide to come in as well. The heater’s on so the space is pleasantly warm, but the sweat is drying rapidly along Ilya’s skin, which leaves him still shivering uncomfortably.

There’s idle chatting while they wait and Troy is telling something about the farm Harris’s family has and the apple cider they make. Ilya’s not really paying attention, looking around the store instead as he squints up at the industrial lights hanging from the ceilings, the exposed brick walls and the open air shaft adding to the industrial look of the place. There are benches placed alongside the walls with small, wooden tables in front of them, and here are a variety of mismatched chairs and small side tables to house small groups, most of them in front of the large windows at the front of the cafe. At the counter they sell a wide variety of drinks, and there’s also a small section of hand baked goods — most of them healthy and vegan, and Ilya’s attention lingers there as he debates on getting something to eat as well, until part of the order the barista tells the waitress catches his attention. “A mocca latte and a jasmine tea for the table at the back.”

The thing is, it is a totally normal order. It’s not like it’s a Shane Hollander Special — a lot of people order tea, many of those like jasmine tea.

Still, Ilya’s eyes follow the waitress as she departs with a tray in her hands, a small, steaming tea set and a large glass of what can only be the mocca latte set upon it. She makes her way into the back of the store, where the natural light of the windows doesn’t quite reach. The dimmed lights overhead give it a more romantic atmosphere, and Ilya finds himself squinting a little bit as she drops the tray at the table furthest in the back, hidden away in a corner.

Shane accepts the tea with a friendly nod, says something to the waitress that Ilya has no hope of overhearing, and then turns his attention back to his companion.

Ilya feels like he’s frozen — his limbs seem to be locked in place, and even though he’s desperate to look away, his eyes refuse to obey him. He watches as Shane leans back in his chair, his hands cradling the cup delicately, as he smiles and nods as the other man — black, handsome, full lips and dark eyes and short cropped hair perfectly styled — is telling something animatedly, punctuated by big gestures.

Ilya doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it one fucking bit.

The way the guy is staring at Shane he likes even less.

Around him, business goes on. The barista takes another order — the queue moves, and Ilya gets jostled at the guys complain at him that he needs to move up, that he needs to decide what he wants —

He wants Shane Hollander, and by the looks of it, he’s never getting him again.

His eyes burn and he can feel the color draining from his face the longer he stares, deaf to the teasing of his friends, oblivious to the agitation of the barista at his loitering. Shane’s date seems to be leaning in, his hand held aloft as he slowly, so slowly, lays to rest it against Shane’s cheek.

He’s not sure what happens, after that. Maybe the universe intervened — maybe Ilya made an embarrassing sound that was heard all the way at their table. Maybe Shane was looking for an excuse to break the moment, to divert, to look for something to change the subject so that he won’t make it awkward if he leans back.

Or leans in. Ilya doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know and yet. He stares and keeps on staring because on some level, he needs to know.

Except that Shane’s eyes land on Ilya, and that ruins everything.

In his periphery, he sees Cliff staring at him worriedly, talking to Ilya and asking if he’s alright, if he’s ready to order or needs another minute to think about it. But in this moment, Cliff seems to have ceased to exist — the whole coffee shop has. The hustle and bustle of the place gets muted to such a degree that Ilya can’t hear anything over the frantic beating of his own heart. His eyes see nothing but Shane, who’s staring back with a shell-shocked expression he’s sure is mirrored on his own face. Time is meaningless and for a few horrible seconds, it even ceases to continue and they seem frozen, caught like a dragonfly in amber, this version of them etched into the ether.

Shane leans back and his eyes slide away from Ilya, and just like that, everything else comes rushing back in, like a tidal wave hitting shore. The screeching of the coffee machine; the cacophony of voices holding a multitude of conversations at once; his friends, staring at him worriedly.

Without another word, Ilya slips out of the queue and flees outside. He’s gulping in air like he’s just concluded his run instead of standing around in a queue for ten minutes.

The bell above the door chimes, and for one moment, Ilya’s worried it’s Shane, that he’s gotten up, that he’s following Ilya out and will force him into a conversation that Ilya doesn’t want to have.

Instead, it’s Cliff, and Ilya scoffs at himself and, before he’s even thought about it, starts running. It’s a terrible idea, running again when you’ve cooled down to the point that the sweat is cold on your skin and the salt of it is starting to itch — his muscles are screaming at him, and it’s so fucking nice Ilya grins nastily to himself and starts to run like his life depends on it.

Behind him, he can hear Cliff swearing up a storm, but then the telltale footfalls of a second pair of running shoes hitting asphalt fill the air, and he follows behind Ilya without saying anything.

Ilya pushes himself so hard he barely takes stock of his surroundings, and he nearly forgets Cliff is even trailing him for when he can hear him, muttering quietly to himself as he follows Ilya all the way to his home. His legs burn; his lungs are screaming at him. There’s no oxygen left and his body is running on fumes and it feels so fucking good, the way he can channel all that he’s feeling into this, this punishment he’s putting himself through.

“Jesus, Roz,” Cliff says as soon as Ilya’s wrenched open the front door. They’re both breathing heavily, and Ilya has had to lean against his doorframe, gasping for breath and shaking so badly he couldn’t insert his key into the keyhole. “You fucking maniac.”

“No one told you to follow me, Marly,” Ilya says in between gasps. There’s a stitch in his side that’s been bothering him for the last five streets, and he can’t breathe deep enough to try to force it out, and so he bends over with a hand pressed to his side. “Fuck.”

“I need a fucking drink,” Marly mutters to himself as a slightly hysterical laugh passes his lips. There’s a deep flush on his face that’s slightly concerning. His hands, too, won’t stop shaking, and he nearly falls over when he tries to pull off his shoes.

“Marly if you take off your shoes I will throw you out.”

Breaking his own sacred rules, Ilya doesn’t even bother to try and unlace his own, so he turns on his heel and makes his way, unsteadily, towards the kitchen.

Cliff follows behind, but there’s a confused tone in his voice as he asks, “But I thought you didn’t want people to wear shoes indoors.”

Ilya rips open the fridge, locates the bottle of mineral water and generously pours two large glasses. “I don’t, but this is a special occasion. I’ll mop the floor tomorrow.” He hands Marly a glass, who’s leaning against the wall at the edge of his kitchen.

“Thank you for this drink, and I did mean a different kind of drink,” Marly tells him, as he wipes his mouth to catch any stray drops of water and hands Ilya the now empty glass back. “I was thinking something along the lines of that vodka you keep stashed — the good, Russian stuff, Rozanov, not the cheap shit you pull out when you don’t want it wasted on the company you have.”

Ilya blinks at him. “How the fuck do you know about that.”

“I have a hotline,” Marly mentions idly. Ilya wrinkles his nose, unwilling to think about who that hotline might actually be, and silently observes as Cliff makes his way through his kitchen with the same energy that an elephant would have inside the porcelain closet. His gait, too, is a little unsteady, and there’s a clear tremor running up his leg every time he moves. “Sveta did not lie when she said you live in an absolute shithole,” he says, as he inspects Ilya’s living quarters with a worried frown edged into his face.

“It’s cheap,” Ilya shrugs, as he forces his heavy, uncooperative legs to move so that he can collapse on the couch. “It’s functional.”

“It should be illegal,” Cliff mutters, as he rifles through Ilya’s freezer, then makes a satisfied sound as he straightens, one of Ilya’s good bottles of vodka held aloft.

“This is a terrible idea,” Ilya says idly, as Cliff struggles to get to the couch as well, screwing the cap off the glass bottle and putting the rim to his lips, taking a swig.

“Fuck off,” he tells him, then passes him the bottle.

Ilya doesn’t argue and, even though it hurts a little bit in his soul to be wasting good vodka by drinking it straight from the bottle, takes a drink as well. He’ll compensate with another three glasses of water, he vows silently. And some food, too, if he wants to make it ‘til the next morning.

The bottle passes back and forth between them for a while and neither of them speaks. Gradually, Ilya’s edges become a little softer, the ache of his heart a little duller. The sharp, piercing pain is replaced by the much more manageable drunken kind of sadness, which still lingers at the forefront of Ilya’s being but is a lot more easy to ignore.

Ilya makes a valiant effort to reach the remote, which is laid on the far edge of the table and doesn’t quite manage to reach it without risking falling off the couch, so he just huffs and flops back into his earlier position.

Cliff snorts at his antics, but doesn’t even try to move, so Ilya flips him off. Cliff repays him in kind.

“So,” he says, after another few exchanged sips of vodka. “Are you drunk enough yet to talk about it?”

“No,” Ilya says curtly, then immediately takes another sip.

“‘There’s nothing to talk about’, huh?”

Ilya huffs out in annoyance as Cliff presses anyway. “I saw him, too, when you were staring at him like a psycho, dude. Shane. Hollander.”

“Yes,” Ilya snipes back snidely. “I know his name.”

“Sure,” Cliff nods magnanimously, “I believe you do.” There’s a pause, then, and Ilya hopes that he’s going to let it go, that Cliff actually doesn’t care that deeply anyway. “So, he seemed like he was on, like, a date or something.”

Ilya groans, grabs one of the throw pillows that is within reach, and presses it into his face.

“What was that?” Cliff asks mildly, then wrestles Ilya for a bit to remove the pillow, which has both men groaning painfully as it pulls at muscles they prior only knew of in theory.

“Fuck, you’re gross,” Ilya says, when his face is free again from the pillow.

“So are you,” Cliff says easily. “But that’s not what we were talking about.”

llya throws Cliff a baleful look. “So what if he was? That’s his right and all. I do believe that Canada is a free country, of sorts.”

“Oh, sure,” Cliff agrees readily. “But it wasn’t with you, though.” He gazes expectantly at Ilya, who immediately darkens as he throws Cliff an angry look.

“What the fuck do you even want me to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Roz. Perhaps we can talk about it like grown men.”

“There is nothing to talk about!” Ilya explodes, losing his temper completely. “We were nothing, and now we’re definitely not anything! The end!”

Cliff gazes at him steadily while Ilya heaves in breaths, and then he nods. “Okay,” he says, surrendering. “Whatever you say, Roz. But we both know it’s not the truth.”

“What does it matter?” Ilya asks, suddenly bone tired. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Perhaps not,” Cliff muses. “Except that maybe you should talk to him about it.”

“Ugh,” Ilya complains. “I need people to stop telling me that. And you,” he says viciously, pointing his index finger to Cliff’s face. “You need to stop texting Sveta.”

Cliff merely shrugs and smirks at him. “I’m not the one texting her. She is texting me. Anyway,” he says, changing the subject abruptly, before Ilya can lose his mind over that bit of (truthful?) information. “So, what’s up, Ilya? Why are you living here? Is someone blackmailing you? Did your landlord get his hands on your sex tape or something?”

The change is so abruptly that Ilya snorts in surprise. “What the fuck? No, of course not. Like I said, it’s dirt cheap, it’s a roof over my head and it’s all I need.”

Cliff clicks his tongue at him. “Stop lying to me, Ilya. You’re better than that.”

Ilya squints at him, while Cliff holds out the bottle for him to take. “Fine.” He takes another sip, then says, “It’s all I can afford right now.”

“Oh, shit, Roz.”

“Hm.”

“Family?” Cliff knows, to some degree, what Ilya’s family situation looks like — not explicitly, but over the years Ilya has implied enough that Cliff can make an educated guess. That, and the fact that he’s now apparently talking with Sveta (which Ilya refuses to think about too hard if he can help it) means that Cliff probably knows more than Ilya is strictly comfortable with.

“Yeah.” He passes the bottle back to Cliff, who puts the cap back on and places it on the table. Ilya eyes it mournfully.

“How much?”

“Too much.”

Ilya shrugs while Cliff stares at him for a moment. “Shit, man. Fuck.”

“Yeah, but. Yes. You know how it is.” Ilya shrugs again. “Dad’s sick.”

“Hm.”

He’s thankful, then, that Cliff doesn’t say he’s sorry, doesn’t offer any sympathy. Just hums in acknowledgement and doesn’t press to ask Ilya how he feels about it, or makes some meaningless comment on how horrible it all must be because what is the point? Ilya feels conflicted about it anyway, the way he still cares when he so very clearly shouldn’t.

“I’m going to make you an offer, and I know you’re going to decline, but I will feel better having offered it anyway,” Cliff says, and his words are slurring a little but he’s looking at Ilya all sincere, and so Ilya finds himself nodding.

“Okay.”

“I have a spare room.”

Ilya shakes his head.

“We could be house mates again,” Cliff continues, unhurried. “The rent would be, well, bare minimum.”

“Marly,” Ilya says, and he’s looking at Cliff, who’s already leaning back, nodding along. “You know I can’t.”

“Nah, I know. It’s not ideal,” he admits easily. “But if things get more shit —”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Ilya promises, and he sounds a little too sincere, a little out of control. “Ugh. Drinking was a terrible idea.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Cliff argues lazily. “That’s the good shit right there.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, dismayed. “And we drank it like a bunch of animals.”

“Hey, Roz?” Cliff asks after some time, when they’ve both just kind of nodded off on the sofa.

“Yes,” Ilya replies. “You can hang around, the couch is yours. The shower’s terrible, though.”

“Figures,” Cliff grumbles, but he settles himself further in the cushions, and Ilya finally reaches the remote and the rest of the day is spend lazing around, devoid of any more hard conversations.

Chapter End Notes

ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD (the remix)

Chapter 12: 12 every time i think i'm done

Chapter Summary

Ilya: Hazy!!

Ilya: [charitymatch.pdf]

Ilya: do u want to be honorary ottawa nurse and play goalie?

Ilya: first round on me 🍻

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: took you long enough

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: thought you’d never ask

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: I’m in

Ilya:❗‼️🤩🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️🏒🥅❌🏆🙏🕺

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: don’t think this gets you out of our 30k run

Ilya: 🙇‍♂️

Chapter Notes

It turns out that the newest posters, the ones generating a lot of buzz among the nurses hospital wide, are promoting one of the hospital’s latest attempts to raise money for charity — to fund research, more specifically, into pancreas carcinoma, which is one of the deadliest kinds of cancer people can get.

Ever since seeing Shane on a date in that coffee shop and then getting drunk with Cliff on his sofa right after, a strange sense of calm has settled over Ilya. Yes, the situation sucks beyond belief, but he’s got people in his corner, who go out of their way to show him they care. He goes into work feeling better than before, and while he’s not fully there yet, it is miles better than where he came from.

He feels good enough to inspect the brightly colored poster a little more carefully.

SIGN UP NOW; CHARITY HOCKEY MATCH

Interest piqued, Ilya quickly reads the rest of the paper, feeling a stir of excitement as it explains that nurses can sign up for the match, hopefully with enough of a single department that a department can become a team, and that there will be further information provided when they have enough people who have signed up.

Ilya’s hit with a stab of longing so intense it nearly bowls him over. It’s been too long since he’s been on the ice, since he’s held a stick in his hand and he’s chased a puck down the rink.

He signs up with a flourish, and bullies his coworkers to do the same for the next week.

In the end, a little over four hundred nurses signed up for the hospital’s hockey charity event. Which, knowing that there are at least three thousand nurses employed, isn’t that much, but it’s more than enough for the event to be officially greenlit. The IM has by far the largest pool – nineteen people signed up, which means they have technically enough for the full four lines, or for two teams, depending on the set up of the matches. The one thing they lack, however, is someone who’s willing to play goalie.

Ilya was one of the first people added to the puck around and find out 🏒🔥🍻 group chat, and has since watched the heated discussion continue for over two hours. He’s been trying to start making dinner, but instead ends up hovering in the kitchen, standing near the stove and watching the drama unfold like a soap opera.

When it threatens to get too out of hand, Ilya finally intervenes.

Ilya: Hazy!!

Ilya: [charitymatch.pdf]

Ilya: do u want to be honorary ottawa nurse and play goalie?

Ilya: first round on me 🍻

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: took you long enough

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: thought you’d never ask

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: I’m in

Ilya:❗‼️🤩🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️🏒🥅❌🏆🙏🕺

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: don’t think this gets you out of our 30k run

Ilya: 🙇‍♂️

puck around and find out 🏒🔥🍻

Ilya: okay listen up

Ilya: ur captain is speaking

multiple people are typing

Ilya: i bring salvation

Ilya added Wyatt Hayes to the conversation

Bood👨🏾‍🍳🥩👑: Holy shit Rozy

Bood👨🏾‍🍳🥩👑: How did u manage that?

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: Bood!! Hello

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: Well I do realize most of you guys don’t know me

Hazy 🦸🏒🥅: Roz and I go way back to college and I goaltended for a while 🥅🏒❌

Ilya: welcome my friend

Ilya: be nice to hazy or i WILL hear abt it 😤

Evan🎶🤠👎: roz not to be a buzzkill

Evan🎶🤠👎: and no offense to hazy because it’s good to have you brother

Evan🎶🤠👎: but you’re not an employee of Ottawa General anymore

Evan🎶🤠👎: and you certainly didn’t work with us

Multiple people are typing

Ilya: shh no is not true

Ilya: if anyone asks pls meet our newest intern

Haasy👼🐣🤓: cool 👍

Bood👨🏾‍🍳🥩👑: as your A I feel compelled to mention that this might be considered cheating

Bood👨🏾‍🍳🥩👑: so consider it mentioned

Bood👨🏾‍🍳🥩👑: let’s gooooo hazy!!

Connors😷🥼😎: Well if that doesn’t work we’ll just say you’re doing some flex hours at the IM for whatever reason

Connors😷🥼😎: also grateful to be here ladies and gents I can’t wait to be a honorary IM nurse as well 🙏

Mathilde 🌸🌺💮: oh thank god

Boyle🧍‍♂️🏥💊: great! Welcome to the club, Hazy! It’s been a while!!

Bood👨🏾‍🍳🥩👑: Good! Now that we’ve got all that out of the way – rozy and I already discussed some line options

Mathilde 🌸🌺💮: so thats what you guys were up to instead of working this morning

Mathilde 🌸🌺💮: smhmyhead

Ilya: hey! we worked and then we did more important work

Bood👨🏾‍🍳🥩👑: [themasterplan.docx]

Bood👨🏾‍🍳🥩👑: Remember this is just a set up so it all can literally still be changed nothing is final!! let either me or ilya know if you have some thoughts

Troy😐🌈🏃‍♂️: I’m sorry again guys for spraining my ankle while at winter sport! Harris and I will be there to take a lot of pictures!

Wiebe (Da Boss)👨‍⚕️🩺🥼: looks great guys! remember, I am just here to coach and to step in as a back up if necessary!

Wiebe (Da Boss)👨‍⚕️🩺🥼: another note from the organization

Wiebe (Da Boss)👨‍⚕️🥼🩺: they urgently want to remind all teams that, while the Centaurs have been as gracious as to allow us to host this event at their rink, this isn’t a MHL event, so neither are the matches. fighting is NOT allowed

Ilya: u all heard coach

Ilya:

Wiebe (Da Boss)👨‍⚕️🩺🥼: that includes captains, ilya

Ilya: 👎

Weeks fly by, in which lines get changed and finalized, thoughts and strategics are discussed, and various lines and pairs meet up outside of work to get some practice in, see if they click well. There are no stakes in the match ups – the committee organizing it has let the various teams know that there will be a small prize for the top three teams, but its main goal is to raise money and thus the games are mostly meant for fun. There are twenty teams total with more or less twenty players, all representing different specialties. It’s big enough that they’ve made two different pools, bracket A and bracket B, and teams will be playing by elimination – if you lose, you’re out of the competition. The winning team moves up a spot, and will be playing against another winning team in their own pool, until there’s eventually four teams total will be playing for third, second and first.

The matches itself will be short — instead of three periods, they’ll just be playing the one, and not for full time either, so each match will be fifteen minutes, with a five minute window for teams to either get on or clear off the ice.

All this is met with the stoic anticipation of employees who are participating for fun, and of which a large group has never held a hockey stick in their hands before in their life.

The notification that there’ll be an open bar for anyone participating is met with much more enthusiasm. There will be food stands as well, offering a small variation of the usual foods one can find at events like this one; burgers, fries, pizzas.

Everyone’s free to bring people as spectators, but spectators are required to pay a small stipend to get to the stands, and have to buy their first drink before being rewarded with a wristband to give them the same privilege. It will be the main source of income for the charity, and there’s no way it will be profitable like this, so the committee as been very vocal about participants bringing as many people as they want and can.

Another source of income will be more passive – it lies in the sponsors. The Centaurs, for example, are giving access to the Tire Centre – the regular season over and no spot in the playoffs, and they’re more than willing to give up a Friday night to sponsor an event like this one. They’re also supplying them, with some help from CCM, with enough equipment (old, maybe, but functional and thoroughly washed) for everyone, so players are only required to bring their own skates and can bring their own equipment if they have it.

And then there are the jerseys. Everyone gets their own. It’s a simple white, but each jersey has the player’s name across the back in Ottawa General’s dark blue, resembling their official uniform, and below it is stamped which team they belong to. The logo of the hospital is front and center of the jersey’s front, and all across the arms and along the sides, various benefactors and sponsors are mentioned.

Each player also has his own number, randomly appointed, mostly pulled from home address numbers. Ilya’s reads Ilya Rozanov, Internal Medicine, 81.

The hospital is buzzing with it, and Ilya hangs onto it like a lifeline. He runs with the Cool Runnings group, he texts Marly, he texts Sveta, he visits Sveta once, too, and he works. And outside of that, he tries not to think too much about Shane, and works hard with Bood to have everything arranged for his team – the jerseys handed out, work shifts traded if necessary. He ends up a couple of times at the local rink, too, where the ice is for recreational purposes and not high-end hockey he was used to, but as Ilya works to get that feeling back into his body, into his feet, into his thighs, it doesn’t really matter.

He’s missed this more than he’d realized.

The first Friday of May arrives with the first signs of spring – a small, watery sun, the first flower buds visible along the low grass.

Ilya arrives at the rink, solo, at four thirty. The first match will kick off at five, sharp, and the whole thing is meant to wrap up around midnight. No one really believes they’ll manage that, and there’s already been some grumbling about it hospital-wide; some people will need to leave earlier because they’ve got a night shift, and some people didn’t manage to get the next morning off either. By the time the finals roll around, Ilya doubts there will be a full team left to play it.

It’s fine, though. No one is going into this for the competition.

There’s been a last minute change to his roster, and he smiles as he spots Zane already in one of the changing rooms in a deep discussion with Brandon Wiebe. Wiebe, who’ll be Ilya’s left winger, as Carmichael had had to withdraw last minute because of a relative who’d fallen ill. They’d run the line, once, just last week, and Ilya’d found himself out skating both his teammates but he’d clicked well enough with them that most pucks connected to blades at the end of their practice, so Ilya’s in a good mood as he wanders over, plops down next to Bood and is easily accepted into the conversation as he starts changing as well. Fortunately, he’s kept all of his own equipment from his college days, all neatly wrapped up, so he can use his own gear. It’s a little gratifying to find that it still fits him perfectly.

They aren’t on for another two matches, their first match being match number three, so Ilya keeps his skates in hand, slides his feet into his trusted slides, and follows a couple of his teammates out towards the main hall. He feels slightly wrong-footed; he’s always rigorously followed a routine where it came to dressing for a game, putting his stuff on in a very specific order, making sure everything’s on tight.

Now, knowing there’s huge stretches of time between his games, he just made sure he can pull his skates off and on pretty fast, and remove enough of his gear to make sure he can still move around easily, make his way towards the stands or to the bar or even outside of the arena, if he wants to get some fresh air.

The hallway is busy enough that it’s loud the minute Ilya steps into the space. A huge impromptu bar has been erected along the far wall, alongside the various food stands. It’s already bursting at the seams, the hallway flooded with various players in various states of dress, donning their jerseys, and spectators alike.

He claps Evan on the back, mutters something about finding them a seat in the stands somewhere, and heads towards the closest entrance to the stands.

Before the first teams are allowed to get on the ice, the Board of the hospital make their way over a walkway towards the center of the rink and start their, somewhat standard, speech – they welcome everyone here, want to say thank you to all the nurses who’ve signed up and to all the people coming to see them play, and to wish everyone a great evening. There’s also a reminder that spectators must buy their seat on the stands and their first drink, and that any voluntary further donations are encouraged. All profits go back to medical research to further their field, and Ottawa General is proud to tribute to such a cause. Then, all sponsors are thanked, and a special shout out is given to the Centaurs.

And then, finally, the prizes are revealed. “For third place, each player gets a gift card of 50 Canadian Dollars. For second, each player gets a gift card of 100 Canadian Dollars. And for first place, made possible by the Ottawa Centaurs, who we’ll proudly cheer on in the next season, the reward is that all players will be invited to watch the first home game of next season right here in the VIP section, at the Canadian Tire Centre!”

A ripple goes through the crowd at that, and Ilya sees more than one head perk up in interest. The head of the Board smiles up at the crowd. “Thank you all, again, and we of the Board wish you a very good and joyful night!”

The opening match is of the ICU versus Pediatrics.

Technically, there is no time for warm-ups – the teams are allowed on the ice five minutes prior to puck drop, and so Ilya watches as a handful of skaters take some quick laps around the rink, while most of the players just stand in huddles on the ice, making small talk until the referee calls the centers to center ice.

There’s one skater who’s the fastest of them all, expertly weaving through the traffic as he skates some fast laps to get some heat into his muscles, doing some small, easy but legit stickhandling drills as he passes.

Even from this distance, even if he hadn’t been wearing a jersey that read Shane Hollander, Intensive Care Unit, 24, Ilya would’ve recognized him immediately. He’d know that posture, that control anywhere, after all.

Ilya’s vaguely aware of Zane and Evan sitting down on either side of him, and he gets handed a drink and offered a hand of popcorn – the first he accepts, the second he declines – but his eyes seem unfortunately to be glued to Shane, who slowly glides to a stop at center ice as the rest of the ice seem to find their position.

The referee is talking to both centers, and Shane is nodding seriously, before he smiles politely at the center player of PEDs, a woman Ilya’s seen around plenty of times, but actually doesn’t know the name of until he sees it on her jersey. Marjorie Verhove, 78, it reads. More pleasantries get exchanged, friendly greetings get yelled and then they’re getting ready for the puck to drop.

Shane wins the face-off. The game quickly descends into pandemonium.

Next to him, Zane and Evan are laughing, yelling encouragements at the ICU team. The stands are slowly but surely filling up, teams and spectators mixed all over the stands, and the atmosphere is great – everyone seems to be having a good time, and most people are just yelling for the players they know, or are rooting for both teams on the ice.

From the first pass, it is clear this isn’t professional hockey – hell, most players seem like they barely know how to skate as it is, gliding carefully across the ice. Some are not moving at all. The puck gets lost more than it connects, sticks seem to slip out of hands with great regularity, and the rules are more for show than anything else. Off side rarely gets called, and icing doesn’t exist, because any time anyone even manages to connect their blade to the puck in the first place, ends up giving it such a hard swing it ends up behind the net more often than not. The first time someone gets a penalty for high sticking – which was entirely accidental not even a minute in – the entire arena explodes. The player – one of the ICU’s – is led bewildered to the penalty box, but there are no on-ice adjustments to the teams, the terms power play and penalty kill utterly meaningless here.

The ones who do know hockey stick out like sore thumbs. There are a handful; Shane, obviously, and his right winger Stedlund, Hayden Pike, and JJ Boiziau, who is playing left defense, and a couple more nurses Ilya doesn’t know but who play on the other lines. They are the ones actively chasing the puck, or trying to defend if the puck makes it back into their zone. Ilya loathes to admit that Shane and Hayden play well together, even if Pike is nowhere near Shane’s level. He watches as the two of them now clear the neutral zone – Shane has no left winger to speak of, but it’s not like he needs one. Both of the defenders of PEDs move halfheartedly in Hayden’s direction, leaving Shane’s lane wide open. The puck connects easily with his blade, and he rushes towards the goalie, who, honest to God, nearly dives into the net, clearly badly startled at Shane’s rushed approach.

Shane, bewildered, slides to a stop, looks around him to see if anyone moves to defend their goal, but the defense players are more than happy to continue their current trajectory and don’t seem too urgent to try and stop Shane from shooting the puck. The goalie is cowering a little, and they must be a nurse who ended up with the shortest straw, Ilya thinks pitying.

Shane must’ve come to the same conclusion, because he’s looking at Pike with a look of utter disbelief and hopelessness, the puck still nestled snugly against his blade. Ilya can’t hear whatever it is that Pike is yelling at Shane, as the volume coming from the stands seems to rise with each passing second. After a moment, Shane turns towards the goal again while the rest of his team is screaming, half of them already celebrating like they’ve won the Cup, and his shot is halfhearted at best, merely a nudge than anything else. The puck glides across the ice in a crawl so slow Ilya could’ve picked it up and carried it three times around the ice by the time it connects with the post with a small metallic ting. The people in the stands seem to collectively hold their breath as it, finally, slides in. The goalie didn’t even move, instead tracing its path with the same intensity as Shane did and just lets it happen.

The person operating the lights and sound system must be one of the arena’s employees, because as the puck slides over the line, the VO announces the goal, the celebratory lights go off and music blares from the speakers. Pike collides into Shane, urgently speaking in his ear, as Shane is still staring at the puck like it personally offended him before he finally looks at Pike, an unhappy curve to his mouth.

“Well!” Zane shouts in Ilya’s ear as Ilya watches how Pike taps Shane’s helmet twice and then turns to skate to join the celly thrown by the rest of his team, leaving Shane alone in front of the net still. “Do you think this is how all matches will go?”

“Probably,” Evan yells back. “So maybe we just say ‘fuck it’ to any and all strategies and just have fun, yeah? Do some crazy stunts or something.”

Ilya nods. “Hm? Yes, sounds great,” he answers absentmindedly.

The goalie, meanwhile, has come out of the net and is talking animatedly to Shane, gesturing wildly at the net as he speaks, and slowly Shane seems to relax, his facial features rearranging into something a lot softer. He laughs shortly, nods, and then his eyes flit over the sea of people, taking in the celebrations thrown all over the stands like he’s just scored the game-winning goal in overtime.

Somehow, among the hundreds of people, his eyes find Ilya’s and hold.

Ilya freezes.

Shane takes a moment to look at him, but then he grins, full and unabashed and genuine, and he raises one gloved hand to give him a wave. He visibly relaxes and he gives Ilya a tiny, ‘what-can-you-do’ kind of shrug, motioning to the ice around him. To Ilya, he’s clearly aggravated by the level of hockey, if one is generous enough to call it that, but is also now coming to the conclusion it’s best if he tries to let it go.

Ilya, meanwhile, stares back in confusion as tension swirls in his gut.

“Dude!” Zane says, poking him in the ribs as he and the rest of the team – who’ve slowly started to gather around the three of them, spread out along the seats – give Shane a friendly wave back. “He’s waving at you! Have you guys made up?”

Ilya, in a state of uncertainty and suffering through a silent crisis, raises his hand automatically, reluctantly waving back, and Shane’s grin impossibly becomes even wider. He moves on, then, looking for other familiar faces in the crowd and he finds them eventually, in a corner that Ilya can’t see who he’s waving at. Probably his parents, he muses.

Possibly Rose, too. Or maybe even worse and it might be Miles, a tiny voice nags at the back of his mind. His boyfriend, who you’ve seen him go out with to a coffee shop, remember? Miles, who he’s definitely dating, who he would’ve asked as his plus one to come see him play.

The thought sits ill in his stomach, and Ilya gets up abruptly, startling his neighbors badly. He mutters something about going to take a piss and flees from the stands, not even bothering to look back and thus missing the way Shane watches him leave, frowning at his retreating back as Ilya flees.

He doesn’t return to the stands, doesn’t know how the game finishes, but by the sound of the cheers, the ICU end up winning. Ilya hangs around the main hall, nursing a diet coke and contemplates getting some food, but decides to forgo that and makes his way out of the arena to the parking lot.

Instantly, the noise quiets down and the air is crisp, slightly chilling, the direct opposite of the oppressive heat that’s generated by too many bodies in a confined space. Ilya finds a quiet spot along the outside wall and sags against it, tilting his head back with a heavy exhale and closes his eyes.

He’d known, of course, that Shane was going to be here. Of course he’d known – his name had been the first on the sign-up form of the ICU. Still, he’d expected the two of them would go on and do what they’ve been doing for weeks, for months, now – ignore one another. Not acknowledge each other, like Shane had just done. What the fuck? This is so far off script that Ilya’s left confused, not sure what to think. Is Shane so secure in his relationship that he’s no longer thinking of Ilya, that he can start acknowledging Ilya exists again but only in the superficial way, like one greets coworkers you do not exactly know by name, but you see them every morning at the elevator so you just end up saying ‘hi’ and ‘have a good fucking day’? Because that’s something Ilya’s not sure he can handle.

It’s easier when they pretend the other doesn’t exist, because then he doesn’t have to confront himself with the fact that he’s still utterly in love, and thus utterly fucked over Shane.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want the perfectly polite coworker Shane, because that will lead to a ‘let’s try to be friends’ kind of situation, and how can they even try to go there after everything?

Annoyance floods his senses as his fingers twitch against his thigh and his nerve endings feel raw. He’s itching for a smoke he doesn’t have on him – he’d decided to stop smoking rather abruptly just three days ago, and he rigorously had thrown out all his remaining packs and all but one lighter. The department had been having a lot of pneumo patients, the respiratory department overrun and at full capacity, and Ilya had had patients all week who had been suffering from COPD, who were either gasping for breath or trying to survive body wrecking coughs like their lungs were trying to forcefully remove all the built-up tar by coughing alone.

That, and the way he’d burned through his packs with a concerning speed ever since last Christmas that he actually couldn’t support financially, and which had let to him developing the same kind of cough, dry and grating, first thing in the morning. Up to last Christmas, he could start up his day easily without a smoke, could forgo a whole day with no problem, but now he’d started to wake up and crave a smoke first thing, and as he’d stood freezing on his shitty, creaking balcony, staring at the dying embers as he flicked his cigarette, he’d decided enough.

Already, he feels physically better; his lungs don’t protest him that much and his coughing is already receding again, even though his few practice runs on the ice had him gasping for air way earlier than it used to, but his temper is off much worse. He’s irritable, he’s constantly looking for something for his hands to do, and he’s chewing so much gum his jaw is starting to ache.

Still, it has kept his mind effectively off Shane. Until now, that is. “Ugh, fuck,” Ilya mutters to himself.

“Is this a bad time?”

Ilya’s eyes snap open as Cliff sidles up next to him, his lower body already dressed in gear and pants, while above his waist he’s bare chested.

Ilya raises his eyebrows at him. “Forgot the second half of your outfit?” he snarks, and Cliff huffs out a laugh.

“No, I was getting dressed until I saw you stamping by like an angry bull. Thought I’d check in,” he says matter-of-factly, leaning back casually against the brick wall.

“Ugh,” Ilya repeats with his whole chest. “I quit smoking.”

It’s not the full truth, but if Cliff’s caught on, he doesn’t show it. “Good for you dude! How long’s it been?”

“Three days.”

“Ah,” Cliff says knowingly. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Ilya agrees vehemently.

“How’s the jaw?”

“I never want to chew gum again in my life,” Ilya complains, and Cliff claps him heavily on the shoulder.

“Hang in there mate. You’ve got this. Go see one of the respiratory PAs if it gets too bad, though. They can set you up with some nicotine patches.”

“Nah, I want to do this on my own.”

Cliff frowns at him. “You know,” he says, and his voice deepens a little like it only does when he’s trying to be serious with Ilya and needs him to actually listen, “sometimes quitting cold turkey isn’t what’s best for you. You know this. It’s not shameful to need help, Roz.”

Ilya closes his eyes again and rests the back of his head against the wall. “I know, Marly.”

A beat. “Let me know when it gets too much, Roz.” Cliff sighs. “You’re a stubborn asshole, you know that right?”

“Shut your stupid face, Marly.” Ilya sighs, and valiantly tries to smile a little. It goes as well as can be expected. “Thank you,” he adds, sincerely.

“Anytime, brother.” Cliff pushes off, ruffles Ilya’s hair despite protestations, and takes his leave. “Fuck, it’s cold!”

“That’s because you came outside naked like an idiot!” Ilya yells after Marly’s retreating back, before resuming his previous lounging against the wall, eyes closed.

It doesn’t take long, however, until Ilya feels the presence of another body resting next to his own, the soft sound of sneakers scuffing against the concrete of the parking lot. “Back so soon?” Ilya asks without looking, assuming it must be Cliff because that man can never let things stand, usually circles back because he’s forgotten to tell Ilya something he deems important.

“Am I interrupting?”

Ilya freezes.

Next to him, Shane leans back against the wall not unlike Cliff had done mere moments before. Ilya keeps his eyes stubbornly closed, doesn’t change his posture in the slightest, isn’t ready to acknowledge Shane because he doesn’t know what to expect. He is rarely caught this off guard, but Shane manages to do it to him time and time again, and it’s fucking with him because this, he thinks, is going to lead him to do something he’ll regret, and then there’ll be nothing left to fix for good.

Still, his body betrays him because it’s Shane, and Ilya shrugs.

Silence settles, heavy and uncomfortable, and Ilya’s ready to itch out of his skin if something doesn't happen —

“I, ah,” Shane starts, and Ilya doesn’t miss the way he sounds just a little nervous, there. “I started following the IM’s Instagram account. I really like your sketches, they’re funny and really good,” he says, and it’s so out of left field that Ilya’s eyes snap open.

Shane continues oblivious while Ilya stares at him, “I especially like the Facts On Friday bits you do. You’re really good at explaining basic stuff to the general audience. Your explanation on how to recognize sepsis is my favorite.”

Harris’s project had kicked off with some bumps in the road just a couple of weeks back. He, Troy, Ilya and the ‘rookies’ Luca and LaPointe had been working hard over the winter to find some trends online they’d liked to try and recreate, and then the hassle of clearing everything with the hospital’s policy had begun. Some sketch ideas hadn’t been approved, because it either involved too expensive equipment, or because the hospital thought the humor was either too niche or potentially too hurtful, but in the end they’d come up with some pretty good ideas.

Harris had helped them set up the Instagram account, and then had given Troy and Ilya a speedrun on how to film and edit a reel. They’d both ended up struggling enough that Harris had eventually decided that they could just film and he’d end up editing it down, helped by the two younger colleagues – he’d been hired long term anyway, and he loved getting excuses to go see his now-boyfriend while at work, so he didn’t put up too much of a fight when Ilya and Troy had demanded that Harris remained part of their work group.

They tried to go with the trends, which Harris was mostly up to date with, his algorithm full of short reels of other nurses and hospitals and clinics recreating memes and coming up with original content. The five of them would brainstorm on what original content they would do, and Ilya had eventually come up with Facts On Friday — during the week, followers could send in questions and requests on a topic they’d want explained, and then one such request would be explained by either Ilya or Troy (or, when it started to gain some popularity after a few weeks, by a PA or one of the specialized nurses who wanted to chip in – the latest one was even explained by one of their internists!) in a short reel. Ilya’s explanation on liver failure remains one of their best-viewed reels, and has been wholeheartedly approved by the gastrointestinal department, and even has been reposted by various other hospitals in the area.

Filming the reels is fun, and sometimes even a little bit embarrassing, but Ilya really enjoys Facts on Friday. He’s very proud of those.

If he wants to watch memes, he’d rather watch sketches by Nurse John anyway. Thankfuly, the two interns are having enough fun to recreate memes that both Troy and Ilya are left off the hook.

Slowly, Ilya turns his head to look at Shane and finds Shane is already looking back. He’s looking, well, relaxed, leaning back against the wall with a loose posture. It’s as loose as Ilya’s ever seen it, probably, in public before. He starts smiling widely as Ilya looks at him, feeling wrong footed. “Thank you,” he says eventually.

“I mean it,” Shane says immediately, like Ilya’s acknowledgment is permission for him to linger, to keep talking now. “I look forward to next week. Did you pick a topic yet?”

Ilya shakes his head. This is ridiculous, and he should put an end to this, because what does Shane want with him, what is going on? “No, not yet,” he says slowly. “We usually pick on Wednesdays, record on Thursdays, upload on Fridays.”

“It’s such a clever concept,” Shane gushes. “And, well, the ICU kind of want to follow your lead – there’s a lot of buzz and myth and misunderstandings around the department among common folk, and we kind of want to try and bring that barrier down a little, so people know a little better what to expect when they, or a loved one, needs to spend some time with us. I’ve been asked to do a recording as well, but I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I’m not the best, social wise, as you well know.” He laughs a little self deprecatingly.

Ilya hums. “I think it’s a good idea,” he offers, because he genuinely thinks that, and what else can he say? Then, because he can’t help himself, “I’d think you’d be very good at it. You should consider it.”

“Oh,” Shane blushes a little. “Well, if you think so. I might think about it, then.” He bumps his shoulder against Ilya’s.

They both stare out over the parking lot for a bit, and Ilya doesn’t speak. Surely, this is where he’ll say his goodbyes, having gotten what he wanted and —

“So, excited for your match?” Shane asks, laughing a little disbelievingly, shaking his head. “I noticed you in the stands during mine. I, just, this can barely be called hockey, right? What a mess.” He chuckles. “I don’t know what I was expecting, honestly. We’re all nurses, after all, hardly professional players.”

“But did you have fun?” Ilya asks, because he can’t help himself, because Shane is lingering for whatever fucking reason and maybe it is out of pity but Ilya can’t care, he’s enjoying it, because he’s missed this proximity and the easiness of it, and it loosens that tight knot in his chest significantly and for the first time in months it is easier to breathe, if only a little.

“Yes, eventually,” Shane beams. “When I stopped looking at it like competition and realized it is just fuckery on the ice. So, yes, I don’t know, I wanted to tell you the same. Just go in to have fun, fuck around a bit and make sure to score one more than the OR, if you can,” he says teasingly, but there’s a serious note beneath it. “I want to play against you in the semis, Ilya. It will be fun.”

“Okay,” Ilya offers weakly.

Shane hums, looks at him curiously. “Did you bring anyone with you today?” he asks.

Ilya’s stomach tightens. “No,” he says, and because he has no self respect, he asks, “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Shane smiles, watching up at the sky where the moon is slowly on the rise. “Both my parents are here – I should probably meet up with them, soon. My dad’s one of the linesman, actually, but I asked him if he wouldn’t play when I’m playing – I didn’t think it’d be fair.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, looking out at nothing in particular at all. This doesn’t tell him anything. “Anyone else?” he asks helplessly.

“Hm?”

“No Rose?” he asks, then, swallowing bile, he soldiers on. “No Miles?”

“No, neither of them,” Shane says, looking directly at Ilya intently. “Rose is out of the country, back to California, and Miles… Turns out we weren’t compatible.”

And there’s that word again. Compatible. Ilya’s betraying heart bleeds with every beat. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah,” Shane says, and he’s still staring at Ilya, and Ilya’s looking back now, like a moth drawn to the flame, and Shane is opening his mouth to say something, something Ilya’s half hoping he’ll actually want to hear, when they’re interrupted.

“Shane!” a female voice calls out, and Shane sighs a little, shaking his head.

“I need to go,” he says apologetically. “I’ll definitely watch your game! Crush the OR, will you? They’re all pricks anyway.”

That startles a laugh out of Ilya, a sharp bark of a thing, and he bemusedly nods. “I will.”

“See you in semis, then,” Shane honest-to-God winks at him. “And, uh, maybe we can talk a little, after? There are some things I need to say to you, but I want to discuss those with you somewhere a little more private, if that’s alright?”

“I – ah.” Ilya gulps. “Okay,” he nods.

“Okay,” Shane parrots, and he reaches out and lays a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. His fingertips graze the side of his neck, making him shiver. “I’ll find you,” he promises, and then he retreats, while Ilya’s shoulder burns with his touch.

Chapter End Notes

thanks a million again to hewt for helping me with all the emojis,,,,, what a ride
assertive shane my beloved <3

Chapter 13: 13 i need another one

Chapter Summary

“Do you hear that?” Ilya grins shark like. “Shane Hollander. Will you disappoint them?”

Shane is grinning right back. “Fuck no.”

The puck drops, and Ilya loses the faceoff.

Chapter Notes

i just,,, had to have them play hockey somehow, y'know?

His first game against the OR is as chaotic as he came to anticipate. His line connects well, and Ilya, Zane and Brandon find each other easily, passes connecting smoothly. There’s barely any press back, and so they secure their first goal, just to be ahead, and then they start to fuck around. For most of his ice time, Ilya doesn’t even bother to cross back over the neutral zone, and hangs out with the left back of the OR, an old colleague of the IM who decided to take on the recovery specialization. Ilya grills him on his workload, asks about his classes and weighs for himself if it might be a career switch he might want to consider eventually.

In the net behind him, Hazy has given up all pretense of being a goalie, and has pushed up his mask and is mostly catching up with Dykstra. Wiebe, in the meantime, is mostly hanging out near the bench, where he’s chatting with the manager of the OR. Any puck that makes it his way, he redirects to Ilya, who sends it back to whoever he finds available of his team. No one really tries to score anymore, but that doesn’t dampen the mood of the crowd. The music is loud, the food is good and the drinks are free, after all.

As Ilya skates back to the bench to send Haas in, he finds Shane sitting near the glass by their bench, cheering. Tentatively, Ilya smiles at him.

Shane smiles right back.

There’s a bit of a lull after that, since the IM’s next game isn’t for another two and a half hours. He ends up getting something to eat and drink and spends his dinner with Zane, Evan, Luca and a couple of others, though the bulk of the group quickly falls apart as most start to spend it with the people they’ve brought along, or once they find friends from other departments. Ilya’s eyes keep catching Shane, and he always finds Shane already looking back. He’s mostly hanging out with JJ and Hayden, though, and spends most of his time up in the stands, where Ilya presumes he’s also watching his father out on the ice.

Ilya makes it back to the stand to cheer on Cliff and his ER team, but unfortunately, half of his team is already out of the competition and they show up with a skeleton crew. Cliff, however, seems like he’s having the time of his life and doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck. He mostly fucks around, fumbles a few pucks he has no right to fumble, and doesn’t seem too upset when the ER gets eliminated in their first round. Ilya finds him as he gets out of the dressing room, and Cliff agrees to staying around, even offers to fill in any inevitable gaps in the IM team as the hours start to go by.

There’s curiosity mixed with dread as their game against the ICU approaches, as both teams make it to the next round. The IM’s game against the gastrointestinal department is a bit meaner, since the two departments famously have a bit of rivalry going on. There are also a bit more players on the ice with some levels of hockey knowledge, and Ilya finds himself properly defended this time, so he puts in a bit more effort and writes a beautiful assist to his name, as Zane profits off the rebound. They end up winning 2-3.

The semi final ends up being played a little before ten pm, and already people are thinking about leaving. Ilya has to negotiate with the better part of his own team to at least play the semis – down the hallway, he spots Shane in a similar position. They both manage to get most of their players to at least stay until after the game, but it’s reluctant at best. Some people can’t be persuaded, and when Zane frantically waves Ilya aside, Ilya sighs and is mentally preparing to play with half a roster and without his best winger.

“Cassie’s pregnant,” Zane says, as soon as he’s physically dragged Ilya into the nearest empty alcove. He’s buzzing with frantic energy, and there’s a mix of emotions on his face warring but rapidly loosing to utter delight.

“I – Wow, congratulations, Bood!” Ilya congratulates him, a little stunned. “Did you just now find out?”

Zane shakes his head. “No, we officially found out this morning,”he says beaming. “But Cassie’s been sick all week – nauseous all through the day and she can’t really keep anything down.”

Ilya blinks at him. “Why the fuck are you here then?”

“Have you met Cassie? I said the same, but she wouldn’t hear of it. But I made her promise to call me if she wanted me to come home, and she just rang, so…” Zane shrugs.

Ilya nods curtly. “Get fucking going, then.”

“I’m sorry to do this to you,” he says apologetically, and Ilya firmly shakes his head.

“I don’t want to hear it, Boodram,” he warns, but the smile on his face really kills his stern intent. “Go home and congratulate Cassie for me, will you?”

“Thanks, Rozy,” Zane smiles. “And you know, no one was really supposed to know, so if you don’t mind..?”

“I’ll be silent as the grave,” Ilya promises. He hugs Zane briefly, mutters another heartfelt congratulations in his ear, and sends him on his way.

“Fuck,” he swears, scrubbing a hand down his face. There goes his first line. Unless…

Ilya: Marly tell me u r still around

Marly🤴🧚🥵: ofc bro what u need

Ilya: want to obliterate the icu w me? <3

Marly🤴🧚🥵: and they say romance is dead

Marly🤴🧚🥵: when?

Ilya: rn!!!!

Ilya: plz marly I need rw

Ilya: ur my only hoe or whatever the fuck carrie fisher said

Marly🤴🧚🥵: close enough

Marly🤴🧚🥵: see u on the ice 😎

Ilya is already at center ice, chatting amicably with this match’s referee – one of the intensivists who also occasionally refs for his son’s youth hockey club – when Shane approaches at last.

“Sorry about the delay,” he grimaces, addressing both men at once. “I was trying to retain enough people to even make it to the ice.” He gestures at his side of the ice – it looks like they’ve lost enough people that their entire fourth and third line have simply ceased to exist.

His eyes slide over to Ilya’s side, quietly taking stock of his people, and then his eyes find Ilya’s. “Ah,” he says friendly, “looks like we’ve both suffered some losses.”

Ilya, unsure and guarded enough that he keeps his face completely blank, working very hard to let nothing through, merely shrugs.

Shane smiles at him regardless.

“Alright, boys. Everyone ready, then?” Dr. LeClaire asks, then turns to Shane, “You sure you can play with your current numbers?”

“Eh,” Shane shrugs. “We’ll see. It’s not like we’ll need a full roster to send these guys home.” He looks at Ilya as he bends down, tapping his stick on the ice a few times, a clear challenge in his gaze.

Ilya snorts despite himself. His control is slipping fast, even if the raging storm of nerves is still wreaking havoc in his gut. “We’ll see,” he shoots back.

Dr. LeClaire blows his whistle and produces a puck out of his pocket. “Alright, the rules are still the same as last time,” he says, as the players start to take up positions around the faceoff circle. Out of all the faces of the ICU, Ilya only knows JJ and Hayden by name. “No fighting, fifteen minutes of play time, and no checking each other unless you know what you’re doing, but preferably not at all.”

Shane glances up as Cliff joins the ranks. “Hey, Cliff,” he greets easily. “I did not know you’re at IM? Interesting change of career for you.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Cliff replies breezily. “I thought I’d try something new, just for today. Just like Hazy over there.” He points towards the IM’s home goal, where Wyatt thwacks his stick against each post just once before settling in.

“Oh, yeah, I saw that,” Shane replies, and he’s smiling with all his teeth. “That’s not going to be enough, though. Sorry.”

“Alright, that’s enough. Ready?” Dr. LeClaire cuts in, though he’s eyeing their group with an amused twinkle in his eye.

From the stands, the screaming is already getting more intense. There are quite a few shouts for Ilya mixed in there, but there’s an even bigger crowd already chanting Shane’s name. Not surprising – he’s from the EIT so there’s barely a department left where he’s not been.

“Do you hear that?” Ilya grins shark like. “Shane Hollander. Will you disappoint them?”

Shane is grinning right back. “Fuck no.”

The puck drops, and Ilya loses the faceoff.

The first two minutes actually feel like a proper hockey game. It’s clear that Shane’s been prioritizing what players to get on the first line with him, since some obvious changes have been made. He still has Hayden on his left wing, and his right wing is looking like he’s spend some minutes on the ice in his life as well, though he’s not exactly keeping up with Shane. It’s what costs him the puck, as Dykstra intercepts it in a sloppy pass back to Shane.

And while Ilya misses Bood, it is equally as thrilling to have Marly back with him on his wing, especially since they still, after all this time, manage to read each other well enough. Sure, it isn’t exactly magic – Ilya needs to keep his plays familiar enough that Marly recognizes them from their college days, and thus it needs to be pretty straight forward, but they are connecting. It is too bad that it couldn’t be Zane and Cliff and Ilya, like they’d done plenty of times before. Though Wiebe is not a terrible substitution, but it is clear that he and Ilya don’t read each other that well.

Ilya races across the neutral zone, shoots the puck over at Wiebe, who’s slightly ahead and thus can keep his stride as he crosses into the offensive zone, Marly and Ilya hot on his heels. JJ moves to intercept Ilya, so he veers left, accepts the puck and is just about to shoot it back to Marly when a heavy body collides with his own and checks him, hard, against the plexiglass.

Fucking ow.

Ilya’s wheezing slightly as his ribs ache, and the hit had been so unexpected he’s left reeling – didn’t LeClaire mention something about no checking? In his previous round not a single check had been made, so who the fuck —

“Thank you,” Shane chirps cheerily into his ear, as he steals the puck from Ilya like it’s child’s play, and he takes off in the opposite direction.

For a millisecond, Ilya watches him go. Then, his eyes find Marly, who’s already looking at him before they simultaneously take off after Shane.

Okay, Ilya thinks. Game on.

Shane, completely left open and undefended, tries his luck by shooting at goal, more a trial run than a serious effort, and Hazy manages to snag it easily before he kills the play.

The lines change – and Ilya sits down on the bench, takes a couple of sips of water, and watches at the next bench over, where he finds Shane already looking back, smirking.

Ilya tries to stare back impassively, but he’s not entirely sure he’s succeeding.

“Doing okay, Roz?” Marly asks. “That was quite the check.”

“Oh, fine,” Ilya replies, smiling.

Ilya waits patiently until the lines change a second time – usually they change when the play falls dead and the refs signal for a change, since they can’t do the hop-the-boards-style of changes that the professionals do all the time – and is vocally cheering on his team mates out on the ice, even when it’s quite obvious now that both teams have put all their best players on the first line, and the second (and in the IM’s case, the third line) lines just shoot the puck when it’s convenient to do so, and wait around until the first line can go back in and resume play.

The entire time, Ilya can feel Shane’s eyes burn on him, and he forces himself not to look back.

He finds it an impossible thing to do, and he’s stealing more glances than he’ll want to admit. It still hurts to look at him – he’s so beautiful, and competent, and apparently also an amazing hockey player, and his freckles are so prominent even through the cage of his helmet, and his eyes are dark and warm and he hasn’t stopped smiling at Ilya once.

Ilya loses the faceoff after, against all expectations, their third line manages to slide the puck into the ICU’s net, entirely by accident, and setting them ahead 1-0. Shane takes off like a bullet, but this time, Ilya’s there to match his stride, and as soon as the opportunity arises, he returns the favor and pins Shane against the boards while furiously jabbing his stick in front of Shane’s skates, trying to steal the puck out from under him. Shane gives as good as he gets, doesn’t make it easy for Ilya, and they scrimmage against the boards for a while until the refs ultimately pull them apart.

The rest of the game continues in a similar fashion, and Hazy gets some good saves in but there’s no saving the beautiful goal Shane scores from the blue line, cutting through enough traffic that there’s no way Wyatt could’ve tracked it.

Other than that, Shane seems to have made it his personal mission to stick close to Ilya, following him around on the ice, challenging him for every puck that makes it Ilya’s way. He chirps, he jokes, and he is very clearly trying to get Ilya to engage with him, to chirp back. Ilya’s not sure what to think – surely he’s just being friendly now, trying to see if Ilya’s going to be receptive to Shane’s proposal for a chat later, which can only end with the inevitable outcome of Shane, after dating Miles, realizing he’ll no longer want something that’s just strictly casual, and that dating Ilya is not something he’s going to consider.

So, Ilya allows all of it, basks in these moments where Shane is still close to him on Shane’s initiative, and he takes it as an opportunity to commit all of it to memory, from the way he laughs to the way he smells, before he looses all this in a much more definitive way.

The game ends in a tie 1-1, which sparks a debate because, how, exactly, are they going to determine who’s the winner? Somehow, in all the rounds already played, it never ended in a tie.

After a ten minute discussion, during which the team’s managers and their respective captains (Shane for ICU, Ilya for the IM), eventually agree to both teams promoting to the finals, but then as a single team.

“That’s fine with me,” Shane shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes as he looks at Ilya. “I managed to persuade enough people to stay for this round, but quite a few wish to go home now. I won’t have enough of a team left to play a final match, if I’m honest.”

“Same for us,” Brandon answers. “And I’ve already vetoed a few of our players from participating in this round, too. If they’re too drunk to walk in a straight line while on land, they have no business putting skates on their feet. Ilya, what do you think?”

Ilya looks at Shane, sees the tentative hope in his expression, and decides that he is utterly and irreversibly fucked. “Sure,” he finds himself say. “That works.”

Everybody in agreement, the four of them – Shane, Ilya and their respective managers – make their way off the ice. Wiebe claps Ilya’s shoulder while he casts a friendly smile at Shane. “I’ll tell the team,” he tells Ilya, “and see who will remain for the finale. I’ve been told it’s meant to be on in an hour or so.” Ilya checks the time on his phone, finds it’s already a quarter to eleven pm.

“Okay,” he nods. “Anyone who cannot walk cannot play.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Wiebe nods, but a mischievous smile follows that statement. “So we win, yeah? And then we’re going to the bar. Celebrate our victory. I know just the place.”

“Sounds great.”

Wiebe takes his leave, then, but not before he’s shot a curious glance at Shane, who’s still lingering besides Ilya, clearly waiting on something. Still, he shoots a, “See you both later. Bye, Shane!” at Shane, who waves at him awkwardly.

“Ilya,” Shane says, and it actively stops Ilya in his tracks from wandering off. “Can we talk, now?”

There’s a hopeful look in his eye, a small smile on his lips, and he’s looking entirely too happy while Ilya’s heart plummets. Still, he’s helpless as he nods his acquiescence. “Yes, sure.”

“Okay,” Shane nods, beaming at him. “Let’s meet after changing first?”

Ilya nods and follows after Shane as they get off the ice, and Shane gives him one last encouraging smile before he’s swallowed by the crowd, heading towards one of the changing rooms.

They reconvene in the hallway, where Shane is already waiting on him, dressed in soft sweats and a grey, nondescript hoodie. He grabs Ilya by the sleeve as he starts to walk down the hallway, clearly looking for a spot that’ll give them the privacy Shane so clearly thinks they’ll need. It’s nice, the way he is considerate enough not to break Ilya’s heart any further where anyone can see.

Miraculously, they find a small office space that’s left unlocked, a single desk and plush desk chair behind it the only things in the room. The walls are decorated with framed photographs of the Centaurs – single head shots of players, action pictures clearly shot during games. Some of these are old and go all the way back to the ‘90s, when the Centaurs last had won the Cup. The picture of the Stanley Cup celebrations is grainy and slightly unfocused, but the joy shines through anyway.

The Centaur logo design was just as ugly back then as it is now.

Ilya takes that one to keep his eyes on, inexplicably drawn to it. Or, maybe, he is just a little bit of a coward who isn’t ready to face Shane, even if Shane is stuffing his hands in his pockets and is carefully picking a spot on the pristine desk to sit down on. “Ilya?” he asks once, softly.

Exhaling, deflating as he blows out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, Ilya moves over to the desk like a man being sent to the gallows, and he gingerly sits down as well, twisting his upper body so that he’s facing Shane. It’s not entirely comfortable, but honestly that’s the last thing on his mind right now. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Shane says, and he’s getting his hands out of his pockets again, instead twisting the hems of his sleeves between his fingers nervously. “I – uh.” He grimaces.

Ilya, sick with his own nerves, his stomach twisting agonizingly, is in no position to even be remotely helpful, but still his eyebrows rise as he looks at Shane. “What is it, Shane?” It is a little unfair, maybe, how the exhaustion is clear even to his own ears, and Shane visibly winces.

“I – wanted to talk to you,” he says, and it sounds small and fragile and it causes Ilya to snort, ugly and a little mean.

“Yes, well,” he gestures. “You’re here. I’m here, aren’t I? So, what, after weeks of nothing, you suddenly remember I exist?”

“That’s a little unfair,” Shane shoots back, and, ah yes, back on familiar terrain because there’s that slight agitation in Shane’s voice whenever Ilya pushes his buttons. It’s safe and well-known territory and maybe Ilya can save himself after all. “You have been avoiding me like the plague! You wouldn’t even let me approach you.”

“Yes, well,” Ilya cries back. “What else was I supposed to do? You clearly didn’t want to have anything to do with me! You wouldn’t even look at me!”

Shane opens his mouth to retaliate, but then shuts it abruptly and shrinks in a little on himself. It’s unexpected, and Ilya finds himself unable to look away as Shane swallows, avoids eye contact and mutters, “I’m sorry.”

Ilya blinks. “What?” He’s not entirely sure he’s heard that right.

Shane lifts his head, resolve visible in the lines of his face, in the way his shoulders set and he’s looking directly at Ilya like he’s working on a problem he needs to solve. “I wanted to talk to you,” he starts, loud and clear so that there’s no mishearing anything. “Because I wanted to apologize to you. And, maybe, if you decide that you don’t hate me – which I am hoping for, but would understand if that’s not the case – maybe see if you would be interested in giving me another chance.” There is a slight, hesitant pause. “Unless you’re with her, of course. That woman from the party last Christmas.”

Something like hurt flashes briefly in Shane’s eyes, and he tries to hide it as he stares at Ilya expectantly.

Ilya shakes his head. At least he can give Shane that.

Another chance of what, exactly? Ilya’s so scared to find out, and his heart is trying to beat its way through his chest instead of staying in it. “Apologize?” he asks instead.

“Yes,” Shane emphasizes, and he softens, the frown smoothing away and a tiny, hopeful smile curve his lips. “If you’ll let me? There’s quite a few things I want to talk to you about, and I want to say I’m sorry for.”

“Oh.”

Ilya’s left frozen, staring at Shane like a deer in headlights, so that Shane just softly snorts to himself, mutters something quietly beneath his breath and then, bravely, looks at Ilya again. “I want to start by saying that I’ve never before had someone quite like you in my life. And it was… terrifying, in a sense. Thrilling, but terrifying. I think that from the moment we met we clicked, and we had good chemistry —” a wry smile appears on Shane’s face while Ilya snorts his obvious agreement.

“Well, yeah. Obviously. But what I try to say is that you read me, you could see the whole of me from day one, and I was so scared of that, Ilya. Scared by how transparent I was to you, how easily you could figure me out. And I was scared of what that meant, what that could mean if things got further than we’d allowed it to until that moment.”

Ilya nods. “I – ah.” He swallows. “I feel like sometimes, you see more of me than other people do, too?”

A crooked smile spreads over Shane’s face. “Really? Oh.” He looks a little pleased at that, and Ilya wants to roll his eyes, to pull this conversation out of the depths and back to the more familiar waters of the surface, but Shane isn’t going to allow him to.

“I’m happy that’s the case, honestly! Sometimes I feel like I misread you completely, or that I cannot see any further than you allow me to, so it’s nice,” Shane smiles at him.

“But terrifying,” Ilya points out, and Shane nods.

“Yes, exactly. And, well, it made me lose a bit of control over myself. It’s just – you know, I was aiming for another life than this one, where I was going to play hockey professionally, make it to the MHL. And, I know it’s not really a good excuse, but it’s what’s been holding me back all this time, so I want to explain it.”

He takes a breath, looks at Ilya until he nods. “This is not the life people had in mind for me, nor was it the life I had in mind for me, and yet here I am. It also means that I am not living up to a lot of people’s expectations, and that’s hard. That’s so fucking hard, and all it made me do was tighten my hold on my control on myself even more so – I was the perfect student, the perfect intern. I studied day and night, dedicated myself to my studies and my job just so people would start to see that I wasn’t just hockey, but a damned good ICU nurse, too. I wanted people to see me as a professional.”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts. “You are the most professional nurse I’ve ever met.”

“Oh. Maybe,” Shane says, but there’s gratitude there, shining in his eyes. “That’s kind of you to say. And that might have been true, until I met you.”

Ilya rears back as if slapped, his mouth opening to voice his protests, but Shane is already leaning forward, soothing his words. “No! That’s not what I meant. It’s just – well, you, you know. You read me so well, and then you make me forget myself, and I let go. It terrifies me, Ilya, by how easily I disregard my own rules when it comes to you. That day? In the ICU?”

And, yes, Ilya remembers that vividly, even if Shane is already talking about it. “I dragged you into our changing room, Ilya, in the middle of a shift! At work! Where anyone could’ve wandered in. And I vowed to myself, never again. And I’ve been trying to keep my distance, some control and professionalism between us, ever since.”

“I noticed.” Ilya nods, a sad smile twisting his lips. “You were never fully there again, I think. You would always put a stop to something if it looked like it could lead somewhere.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Shane says. “Not at work, anyway. Outside of it? I was all yours, Ilya, always, and every time. Have been since the beginning. But never at work. I was so scared of how easily I could fall into you, and how people would notice it.”

“People are friends at work, though,” Ilya feels compelled to point out. “Some are in a relationship, too. And there’s a lot of queer coworkers as well. There is no need to hide.”

Shane sighs a little, fondly. “Oh, no it was never about that. I’m gay and proud of it, and while it’s true I am not really vocal about it, I’m still on the Committee for the hospital to participate in next year’s Pride. I don’t mind being noticed. What I do mind is, when it comes to you, Ilya, I have no professionalism left. When it comes to you, I completely lose myself, and I tried so hard to avoid it, that I started to shut you out. And for that, too, I apologize.”

Ilya’s quiet for a moment, but then he forces the words past his lips. “I thought you were ashamed, to be seen with me.” The moment the words are out, he regrets muttering them, wants to swallow them back in as Shane looks at him in shock.

“Oh, no, Ilya. That was never the case. I was more ashamed of me, maybe. Of what you could bring out of me. Ever since that shift, I just kept thinking, ‘what if we were found out’? We would’ve been fired, and then we would’ve tried to look for a new job, and when asked why we were fired, how would we ever be hired again?”

“I never wanted to repeat that, either,” Ilya confesses. “I cannot afford to be fired. I’ll never get a permanent visa that way, and then I’d have to go back to Russia…”

“Exactly!” Shane nods. “I worried about that, too. What could happen to you, I mean. I wanted to protect us, and I got so scared in the process that, when you asked if we could go together to the Christmas party…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t trust myself. I figured you and me and some alcohol and the party in general could only lead to one thing there, and, well… People would talk, and maybe, even worse, people would see.” He grimaces.

“People knew we were friends.” Shane winces a little as Ilya points it out.

“I know,” he agrees. “And I loved that. I just didn’t trust myself enough to be normal around you at that party. In truth, I wanted to dance with you, and then kiss you right there on the dance floor, but where would that leave us? We were both working so hard to keep things casual between us.”

Ilya winces like he’s been slapped. “Ah.”

“Yes. But then, I don’t think it’s ever been truly casual for me. And that’s what scared me, too. The way I was in so deep. And then, Christmas happened and our fight, and Rose had a friend who she’d wanted to introduce to me, and I thought that I should… try? See how it is when I let go of you, because I was hanging on to something that was bound to end eventually, because it was casual to you and not to me, and I didn’t want anything to happen at work ever again and I just thought it might be smarter to try and keep my distance? And Miles was nice, and he’s funny and I genuinely liked him, but he came nowhere near you, to be honest. He wasn’t the one I wanted to talk to at the end of the day, nor the one I wanted to kiss in a closet at work.” He barks out a short laugh. “So I am sorry, Ilya, for all of that.”

Ilya’s mouth is dry and his throat is parched as he swallows. “It isn’t —” he grimaces, then tries again. “It hadn’t been casual for me for a while,” he admits, closing his eyes as he can hear his heartbeat drum in his veins. Waiting.

“I know,” Shane admits quietly. “I think I realized that, too, around that time, and just didn’t want to see it. I’m sorry for that, as well.”

Ilya huffs out a breath. “You don’t need to keep on apologizing,” he says. “Though you were a bit of a dick.”

Shane laughs. “Yes, I really was. And I’m sorry.” He smiles at Ilya, and Ilya tentatively smiles back.

“So,” Ilya asks. “What now?”

“I think I’ve said my piece.” Shane frowns down as he unlocks his phone, scrolling through something on the screen. “Ah, yes. I think I’ve mentioned everything.”

“What, you’ve got some notes on your phone?” Ilya asks incredulously, swallowing down a laugh.

Shane, however, just shrugs, mirth visible in his eyes. “I wanted to come prepared.”

He bites his lip, then, and leans a little more towards Ilya. “Oh, but there’s one more thing on my list,” he says, and Ilya perks up. He can’t really put into words what this conversation has meant to him, but the way Shane’s explained his thought process is insightful enough that Ilya’s already forgiven him.

In truth, he’s not sure there was really anything he needed to apologize for. All that his brain is screaming at him is that Shane cared just as much for him as he has for Shane. It wasn’t casual. It’s never been just sex for Shane. We were much more.

“Oh?” he inquires. “What’s that?”

“Well,” Shane says coyly, as he gets up from the desk and makes his way over to Ilya, slots himself between his thighs where Ilya spreads them automatically, making space. “The last point says, ‘kiss Ilya, if he wants to’.” He pauses, looks deeply, imploringly, into Ilya’s eyes as his hands stuff his phone back in his pocket, before reaching out and cupping Ilya’s face. “Do you want to?”

“Fuck, yes,” Ilya says, his eyes already closed as his arms wind around Shane’s face, pulling him impossibly closer as he tilts his head up, waiting for that first brush of Shane’s lips against his own.

The kiss is surprisingly tender as Shane holds him like he’s something delicate. His lips are soft against his own, and the first brush of his tongue against his lips feels like coming home. Ilya easily yields beneath Shane’s lips, sighing into it contently.

“So,” Ilya asks, as they break apart long enough to catch their breath. “What now?”

Shane leans back, his palms leaving Ilya’s cheeks. Ilya instantly regrets asking as the cold air hits them. “Well,” he says slowly, shyly. “As I said, I was hoping for a second chance.”

It takes a lot of effort to keep the elated smile off his face. “Really?” Ilya asks. “But, what if people notice?”

Shane shrugs. “I have missed you so much these past few weeks,” he says in brutal honesty. “And I know that has been my own fault, but I don’t think I can bear much more of it. The only thing I absolutely won’t want to do is do anything unprofessional while at work.” He looks at Ilya for a long moment. “But I also think you don’t want that, either, so going forward I really want to trust on you, too, to prevent a repeat of that.”

Ilya nods. “I have missed you too,” he replies, and Shane’s elated smile is blinding. “But. What counts as unprofessional?”

Shane blinks at him.

Ilya waves a hand. “Beyond the obvious. Like, our first kiss was at a night shift.”

“Oh, I know,” Shane says, a faraway look in his eyes that has Ilya preening a little bit. “I think back on that often.” He raises a judgmental eyebrow at Ilya’s smug face. “Oh, fuck off.”

“No, no,” Ilya says cheerily. “It was that good.”

Shane hums, but it’s not denial so Ilya takes it as the acquiescence it is. “Kissing would be okay, I think,” he says after some thought. “If we’re not at work, maybe?”

“Or during a night shift with fuck-all to do,” Ilya argues back.

“Or that,” Shane nods, which surprises Ilya, but he’s not going to argue it any further.

“So you really wouldn’t mind if people noticed us?” Ilya checks, rather safe than sorry.

“No, Ilya,” Shane says, looking deadly serious. “I’d be proud to be noticed with you.”

And, well, what choice did Ilya really have? He gets to his feet then, grabs Shane by his jaw and draws him in for another bruising kiss while Shane laughs and kisses him back just as fiercely.

Last minute adjustments are made as the ICU and IM teams are merged into one single team, opposing the PAs, who’ve formed their own team. The finals for third and fourth place have just concluded, with Oncology taking third from the Urology department.

After playing rock-paper-scissors, it is decided that Shane’s playing center, while Ilya moves to his right wing, while Hayden Pike remains his left. Marly, Wiebe and Shane’s former right wing, Stedlund, move down to the second line, and they have just enough people left to shape a third as well. Ilya and Shane and Wiebe have vetoed a couple of people off the ice again after a couple too many drinks, and Ilya is ready for this evening to end. He wants to go out, he wants a drink, and he wants to kiss Shane Hollander before he has to go home tonight.

He’s staring openly as Shane takes up position at the center circle, and Shane sends him a wink as Ilya beams back at him, before taking up his own position outside of the circle.

Shane wins the faceoff, and what follows it Ilya can only describe as pure magic. They’ve never played together before, and the first minute or so they need to do some adjusting – a pass goes a little wide that has Ilya veering to make it, and his own pass back is sloppy enough that Shane’s already past it and Pike catches it instead. But by the second shift, it’s like he knows where Shane’s going to be without even looking. It’s instinctual, the way they move. Where the puck is, is Shane, and where Shane is, is Ilya, ready to catch, to create, or to react.

They win 4-2, two goals for Shane with both assists for Ilya, one goal for Pike, and one goal for Marly, and despite the fact that there’s no goal on his name, this is probably one of the most fun games of hockey Ilya’s ever played.

He persuades Shane to join in on celebrating, and he agrees easily enough, follows along as their group, considerately sized down from the whole team to their main core: Wiebe, Wyatt, Luca, Hayden (who, drunkenly, admits to Ilya that he’s had his last shift at Ottawa General the week before but had wanted to be there for the game regardless, which Ilya doesn’t give a fuck about), JJ, Evan, Jake, and even Troy and Harris join their little ragtag group as they make their way towards a karaoke bar. The edges blur a little bit around Ilya’s fifth drink, and Shane is nursing his second beer next to him and they cheer on as Troy and Harris absolutely butcher a duet, and it is a night that is surely ranking somewhere in Ilya’s top three nights out. Shane and him are nearly inseparable, and he even manages to bully Shane into singing a song, which he does after he downs the rest of his beer. He’s not a singer, obviously, but Ilya’s not sure he’s ever been more enamored.

The group stumbles out of the bar in the wee hours of the morning, drunken goodbyes get shouted down the street as they break up, everyone making their own way back towards home.

Shane, a flush on his cheeks and a slightly drunken smile on his face, leans heavily into Ilya, making them stumble on the sidewalk, giggling like children. “Come home with me,” he breathes into Ilya’s neck.

Ilya shivers at the brush of Shane’s lips against his skin and nods, allows himself to be dragged by Shane, who navigates them home.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya's reference (iconic):

ready for the fluff? 👀

Chapter 14: 14 just let me go

Chapter Summary

“Ugh,” Ilya groans instead. “Do we have to keep talking about this?”

Shane frowns down at him, a determined look in his eye and a cute little dent between his eyebrows that Ilya wants to kiss and bite at. “Yes, we’re talking about this,” he says sternly. “We were going to be more honest to each other, right?”

It is a marvel, still, waking up besides Shane and not being kicked out. It’s been two days since Ilya’s last been home, and if he has anything to say over it, he’ll extend that streak with a few more days.

What is less marvel, honestly, is his phone ringing insistently on the night stand next to him.

“Ilya, what the fuck?” Shane groans into his pillow, wiggling indignantly away from Ilya so that he can bury his face deeper into his arms and pillow, blocking the annoying ringing out.

You know it’s bad when you get that reaction out of Shane, who, as established, wakes up at 7am sharp (Ilya had been delighted being proved right about Shane’s routine, even when he’d complained about being woken at ass-crack of dawn on a free day).

“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya mumbles sleepily, barely cracking open an eye to localize the disturber of peace. Squinting at the screen, he sighs and picks up. “Hello?”

Next to him, Shane rolls back over with a groan and gives him a disbelieving look. “The fuck is calling you?” he mouths quietly, and Ilya just shrugs apologetically.

“Ilya, hi! It’s Evan, sorry to wake you.” There’s a faint static running on the background, not loud enough to cut out the voices of at least two nurses sitting next to him, quietly conversing.

“‘s Alright,” Ilya manages to slur, sounding drunk on sleep still, making his accent sound more prominent than it usually is these days. “What is matter?”

He’s vaguely aware of Shane giving him a slightly exasperated, but fully adoring look. He flashes back another apologetic grimace.

“We were wondering if you were able to come in? We were already shorthanded, but Caroline called in sick and we just can’t make it work.” When there’s no immediate response, Evan Dykstra carefully hedges on. “You were listed as a potential back-up for this weekend. Is that still applicable?”

Shane, who’s shifted close enough to Ilya that they’re skin to skin again, and so close enough to catch on the conversation, minutely shakes his head at him.

Ilya sighs. “It’s not ideal,” he says neutrally. He doesn’t like how guilty he sounds. “Do you have another option?”

Evan heaves a sigh that Ilya’s sure even Shane can hear. “Hang on.”

There’s a few minutes of rustling, then the soft hum of conversation dies as Evan, probably, moves away to somewhere quieter. “On the record? You’re our best, most reliable option, but Ilya,” he continues urgently, before Ilya can reply, “you’ve filled in four open shifts in the last two weeks. Off the record? We can call someone else, there’s over seventy nurses on our department I’m sure we can find someone who’s willing to step in. It doesn't always have to be you. Tell me no, and I’ll say you tried everything but you had plans that couldn't be cancelled and then I’ll see you Monday, yes?”

Ilya gazes at Shane, who stares back at him and ultimately shrugs. His decision then.

“I, uh, appreciate that, D.” The relief he feels about not having to go in is warring with the guilt at leaving his team high and dry. He knows, rationally, that he’s merely a cog in the wheel, and that the department won’t collapse now that he’s declined another extra shift, and that everybody, at the end, is replaceable.

That is not, however, how he was raised, and he still can’t not take things personally when the things around him hit a bump on the road, has always been taught that every failure or shortcoming he’s directly, personally, responsible for.

Shane reaches out, fingertips grazing softly the side of his cheek, caressing. Ilya turns, chasing, kissing the pads.

“No problem at all dude. I’d suggest going back to sleep. See you Monday, bright and early and me fucked up from this insane row of night shifts I volunteered for.”

Ilya hums. “Sound like someone else would also benefit from setting boundaries,” he chirps back, and Evan laughs.

“Probably. Bye.”

The line goes dead, and Ilya lets the breath he’s been holding escape, relaxing back into the mattress, burying his face into the pillow. “Sorry,” he says, muffled.

A hand cards through his hair, blunt fingernails lightly scratching over his scalp. “What’s the matter? Something wrong?”

Silence follows for a beat as Ilya contemplates how to answer. “Not really? They’re short handed, and I was first back-up.”

“So they’ll call someone else,” Shane says, following up on Ilya like it’s no big deal, with the confidence of someone who’s dealt with this type of situations for a long time. “They’ll figure it out. Trust me — we’ve been in a similar situation many times before, and I’ve also been the one to call out to others, and we’ve never not found some sort of solution to fix it. It might not be perfect, but they’ll make do.”

“I know,” Ilya groans, before he lifts his head enough to be able to look at Shane again, who’s now sitting up against the headboard, gazing down at him with a mixture of worry and fondness. “But usually I am the one fixing it.”

He locks his phone without checking the group chat, dreading the texts that will surely be coming in on the IM chat, showing the rows and rows of open shifts and begging if someone, anyone, can work a little extra. He purposely sets his phone on do not disturb and then places it screen-down on the nightstand, out of immediate reach.

Shane pauses, the hand carding through his hair stilling for a beat, before resuming its hypnotic path. “Ilya, do you want to go into work?”

Ilya grimaces. “No, not really,” he admits, the words foul on his tongue. “But it’s not like we planned anything for today. And usually, when I have nothing planned, there’s no excuse not to go in, and so normally I do.” He drags in a breath, blowing it our harshly through his nose. “I just don’t know how to feel right now,” he admits, flinching a bit as he waits on Shane’s judgmental reply, telling him that he’s weak, that he’s lazy and that he’ll never amount to anything and that he doesn’t deserve Shane’s affection —

Shane says, so soft it’s terrible, “Baby, you’re going to burn yourself out.” The pet name catches Ilya’s attention, the way it is uttered; deliberately, the way Shane does when he says something he’s been meaning to say for a while, slightly rehearsed, maybe, but wholehearted in its intent, incredibly meaningful. It fills Ilya with warmth. “That mindset is not good at all — trust me, I’m very familiar with it. If you start to feel guilty for not showing up to your workplace on the days you’re not even supposed to be there, you really need to take a step back.”

“What do you mean, you know?” Ilya asks, as he moves around in bed until his head is laid in Shane’s lap, Shane’s hands in his hair and fluttering down his neck, massaging his shoulders.

“Oh, well, you know,” Shane starts, sounding a little disconcerted. “My first year of internship, I… might’ve overdone it a little. I wanted to see everything, wanted to do everything, and combining that with the uni workload and my perfectionism — a recipe for disaster. Thankfully I had a great clinical educator, who recognized I was heading towards a burn-out rather quickly and helped me to avoid it. I’ve been better at recognizing symptoms ever since, and hitting those metaphorical breaks.”

Ilya can feel his gaze burning into the side of his face, where Ilya’s stubbornly refusing to look up. “I just mean to help,” Shane continues softly. “I don’t like where you’re headed. I do know you work a lot — you’re practically always working when I am, and you’re also working on days that I am not, which means you punch way above your weight, Ilya. It worries me. It is not sustainable, not in the long run.”

The thing is, Ilya knows this. Knows it in the way his body feels when he works eight to ten shifts back to back, the way he feels tired but restless at the same time like he’s buzzing out of his own skin if he doesn’t do something, feeling guilty if he doesn’t offer to take up the shifts that no one wants, helping his colleagues out. His previous manager had called him, once, on a day off after coming off a grueling series of night shifts, asking him if he was able to fill in an evening shift that very day. ‘I’m very sorry to having to ask you for this, but we’ve run out of options, and I’m obligated to ask you despite knowing the shifts you just worked, so here goes. We need you, Ilya. We’re critically understaffed.’ And Ilya, tired in a way that made him feel slightly delusional, like he was lagging every time he blinked, his body slow and sluggish, had slurred out a ‘No’ that had sounded suspiciously close to tears. His manager had understood, had sounded relieved by Ilya turning him down in fact, but Ilya’d been deaf to it, instead hearing the voices of his father and brother in his ear, whispering their disappointment, calling him a failure, calling him lazy, a shame to the family. Too much like his mother, his father would say. Destined to fail, unable to achieve anything in life but being a nuisance, a waste of space.

He’d gone into work, pale and sweating and nauseous. The charge nurse had taken one look at him, shook his head and had directed him to one of the cots in the doctor’s office nearby, telling him to ‘Get some fucking sleep, we’ll wake you if we need you.’

Since then, he’d learned to maintain a bit more of a balance — a precarious balance, sure, but one he could theoretically maintain. He just didn’t need to stare at his calendar too closely, and it would be fine. He would make sure his body was fed and felt a bit rested, would go for a run or a work-out at the gym and experience what it would feel like, and then he would decide if he could push his poor body through another extra shift.

So it hurts a little, now, with Shane telling him he’s noticed, and that Ilya’s carefully constructed regime isn’t feasible.

“I’m fine,” he replies instead. “I don’t mind working a lot, especially if I have nothing planned all day. I’ll just get bored.”

Shane hums skeptically. “I am just as bad at taking a break as you are,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile in his voice, a self-deprecating curve to the corner of his mouth as Ilya gazes up at him. “But even I can recognize the importance of having a day off. You need to recover at some point, right? Like we are doing, right now, today.”

“You wake up at 7am every day,” Ilya feels compelled to point out, but Shane refuses to go along with it.

“The fact that I don’t sleep in doesn’t mean that I don’t rest.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Wanna try again?”

“Ugh,” Ilya groans instead. “Do we have to keep talking about this?”

Shane frowns down at him, a determined look in his eye and a cute little dent between his eyebrows that Ilya wants to kiss and bite at. “Yes, we’re talking about this,” he says sternly. “We were going to be more honest to each other, right?”

And, yes, they did promise that to each other just yesterday, when Shane had invited Ilya to come over to his place, even though Shane had had the day off and Ilya had come over straight off a night shift. Shane’s good morning text had come in at 7.01am sharp, followed by a ridiculous meme, and had Ilya smiling down giddily to his phone, which had caused a series of ‘oohs’ and catcalls throughout the office, which Ilya had dutifully ignored. Shane had asked about his plans for the day, and Ilya had replied that he’d just finished up his third and last night shift, so his plan had been to go to sleep for a short while, and ‘being sad the rest of the day because of the lack of sleep’. And Shane, who’s sweet and considerate and everything Ilya doesn’t deserve, had called him as Ilya’d wandered off the department, asking him if he’d wanted to come to his place instead.

“You can sleep here, instead of at your place,” Shane had offered, sounding nervous and adorable. “I’ll leave you be for as long as you want, and then you can stay until tomorrow, maybe? We’ll have the afternoon off together, and I can help you through “being sad and sleep deprived”, if you want?”

“Oh, whatever do you mean by that, Hollander?” Ilya had teased back, smiling from ear to ear.

“Fuck off, you’re such an asshole sometimes,” Shane had replied without any heat, his own smile notable even over the phone, the sound of it woven through his voice. “But yeah, I think it could be nice if you spend your free days with me, here? Maybe we can talk — be more honest with each other?”

“I would like that,” Ilya had said, shrugging out of his uniform as fast as he could. “I am on my way.”

He’d hurried towards Shane’s as fast as he could, and when he’d arrived, Shane had been waiting for him, a steaming mug of tea prepared in his hands, the blinds already drawn in his bedroom. He’d kissed Ilya hard and thoroughly against the doorframe, licking into his mouth with abandon, nearly spilling his tea in their eagerness, before herding Ilya into his bedroom, wishing him a good night’s sleep. That afternoon, Shane had joined him in bed, and they’d been too busy to talk for a while, but after, lying sweaty and sated, cuddling close, they’d finally admitted to each other that they liked each other, had spoken about becoming exclusive, and the term boyfriend had been floating in Ilya’s mind ever since. He just hasn’t had the opportunity to say it, yet.

Of course Shane would want to talk about it, after all that. Ilya moves to defend himself. “I don’t mind picking up open shifts.”

“Hm,” Shane hums in acknowledgement.

“I like working irregularly.”

“Sure, as do I.”

“I like having an unpredictable schedule.”

“I gathered as much.”

Ilya pauses, squinting up at Shane who looks back at him with angelic patience. “What if I like filling up open spots?” He grins as he says it, putting emphasis on ‘filling up’, which makes Shane roll his eyes and pull a disgusted face.

“Then there are ways to make that happen without getting overworked. Have you talked to Brandon yet?”

“Wiebe has offered me to reduce my scheduled hours so that I have more flexibility on picking up open shifts,” Ilya admits reluctantly.

“That’s great then, right?"

Ilya shrugs, and Shane cocks his head, confused. “Is it not?” he continues.

Ilya looks away, doesn’t know how to answer him anymore. Sure, on paper it sounds ideal, but it defeats the purpose of working all those extra hours. Right now it builds up on his overtime hours, which he can have paid out whenever he wants to. If he reduces his regular hours to compensate for all those open shifts he takes on, it simply means less pay. He just doesn’t know how to tell Shane about that without sounding pathetic.

“It’s not about the hours, is it?” Shane says slowly, understanding dawning on his face, even if Ilya refuses to look him in the eye. Carefully, he asks, “Ilya, are you in some kind of money trouble? Debt?”

God, the way Ilya wants to deflect, wants to cut and be mean to make sure Shane stops his awful prodding makes him a terrible man, but he refrains. They don’t do that anymore, after all, and Shane does deserve the best — at the very least as good as Ilya can give him, he supposes. “No, nothing like that,” he says instead, and doesn’t offer any followup.

“Okay, good,” Shane says, blowing out a relieved breath. He’s stopped petting Ilya a while ago, his attention swallowed by their conversation, but his fingers appear back on Ilya’s head, winding themselves lightly into his curls, tugging softly. “I am going to ask, though, because it makes no sense to me —”

“Shane —”

“And I know it’s technically none of my business, but I do worry about you —”

“Shane, please —”

“But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, obviously. I just want to help, if I can,” Shane rushes out, and Ilya deflates, slightly overwhelmed by the rush of feelings that course through his veins, the love and adoration he feels for this man.

“Is nothing you can do,” he replies kindly.

Shane looks at him doubtfully. “Are you sure? Because Ilya, I’m sorry, but I know you earn enough to be able to afford to live, literally, anywhere else but that shit hole you currently call your home.”

“You don’t know that,” Ilya deflects. “You are a specialized nurse, whereas I’m just a regular RN. We are not the same.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Shane says. “I got this place on a student’s salary, so don’t even go there. And it’s not like I can afford to get a cottage built on my current salary, the way my parents have when I was little, but who knows? Someday, maybe. Look, I know I’ve brought this up already —”

“Numerous times,” Ilya nods, smiling teasingly up at Shane, who flicks his ear in retaliation. “Ow!”

“— but I can help you find a place, literally, I beg you, any place other than where you are now, preferably one that doesn’t grow mold on the walls, Ilya. It’s a health hazard. It doesn’t have to be expensive, I promise. We can look for places that are budget friendly and don’t actively try to kill you while you live there.”

“I know, I know,” Ilya says, and he swallows harshly past the lump stuck in his throat. “And I really appreciate it, Shane. I mean it, but it’s just not that high on my priority list right now.”

Shane pauses, worry etched into his face as he visibly contemplates on what to say, so Ilya decides to let the words out that, against better judgment, have been on the tip of his tongue for days now. “My father is dying.”

“Oh! Oh, God, Ilya. I’m so so—”

“Don't,” Ilya cuts him off, the warning clear in his voice. “Don't be,” he continues softer, more gentle as Shane looks at him in alarm. “There’s a reason I’m an ocean away and not back in Russia.”

“Ah,” Shane says after a beat. There is gentle understanding in his eyes now, and it’s clear as day to Ilya that he's respecting his boundaries and so won’t, despite his curiosity, ask any further if Ilya cuts off this conversation. It’s tempting, still, to keep this part of his life buried, not only for others but certainly for himself, where he won't have to deal with any of this until it is, literally, too late.

“Can I ask?” Shane asks quietly, reaching out again to grab his hand where Ilya had been resting it on Shane’s thigh, writing nonsense into his leg.

Yes, no. It is so tiring, to keep all of it locked away. It is exhausting, even thinking about trying to explain everything that's made Ilya who he is today.

He wants Shane to know who he is.

“He’s sick,” he forces out, and the words float around for a brief moment, and just like that his father’s predicament is made real.

It still doesn't make him feel anything except bitter frustration at himself for grieving.

Shane’s touch is grounding and comforting, as his fingers press in a little harder into the meat of his shoulder, squeezing tightly. “I can’t even imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

“It’s — ah,” Ilya snuffs, frowning as he mulls over his words. “It’s dementia — some form of it, anyway, but you know how it is. Not officially diagnosed, even if I can confidently say it's Alzheimer’s. Because if we don't diagnose it, it isn't real, right? Because that’s how that works back home, for my family at least. And so there’s no proper care either.” And Ilya recognizes that he should stop talking, that he’s ranting and unloading on Shane and that there’s no universe out there that won’t push him away. He’s always been too much, after all.

He just can’t make himself stop. Not when Shane has resumed petting his hair, is making small, soft sounds in acknowledgment. “And so it’s up to me to take care of all that. And it’s all my piece of shit brother wants — money. Money for hiring care, money to support his own family as he, presumably—” and he spits that word out, not even believing the feeble lies as they fall from his lips in retelling, “—is too busy taking care of Father before taking care of his own fucking daughter. And I can’t catch him out on lying to me, because I’m not even there.”

“What do you think he does with your money instead?” Shane asks carefully.

Ilya snorts. “Oh, how should I know. He’s a cop, and a dirty one at that. Probably uses it to fund his own coke addiction, or pay off some debts or something. I don’t know.”

Shane hums. A finger carefully strokes the curve of his ear, and it makes Ilya shiver a little and he shifts, getting impossibly closer to Shane, curling a little bit more into himself and safely tucked into Shane’s lap, who, against all odds, is still here.

“No one would fault you for going home,” Shane says eventually, when the silence has settled over them, a much needed lull in the conversation. “If you want to check on your dad? Even if your relationship with him is a difficult one, he’s still family. I understand that.”

Ilya immediately shakes his head. “He will not want to see me,” he admits. “Nor do I have any real wish to see him, especially not like this. I mean, he would barely recognize me as his son when he was sane, but what if he genuinely doesn’t remember me at all?”

Despite everything, Ilya doesn’t think he’d survive it. He’s spent all of his childhood and most of his teens desperately seeking his approval, and had left when it had finally become clear to him that it was something he would never achieve. And it had been for the better — the few, brief times he’d spoken with his father over the phone had been almost civil, until it became clear that his mind was deteriorating much faster than anticipated.

“It might be worse,”Ilya continues, as he forces the words past the lump in his throat, because he’s on a path to destruction already and might as well commit to all of it, “for him to recognize me still. It will only lead to disappointment. I think it’s a kindness if he won’t — he hasn’t called me in a long time. The last time he asked me what time I was going to be home, and if my m— mother was with me.”

Shane’s hands still, and Shane exhales. “Oh.”

“She’s dead,” Ilya powers through, Shane’s curiosity palpable in the air but he’s too careful to ask, so Ilya offers it freely. “She, she passed when I was twelve. Depression, you know,” he trails off, rallies, gathers himself. “I found her.”

“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane says thickly, and his folds himself forwards, draping himself over Ilya and cuddles him tightly. “That’s awful, I am so sorry.”

Ilya nods into Shane’s tummy, inhales the scent of him, the laundry detergent that smells like soft cotton, the vague sent of jasmine and amber and something so undeniably Shane that it’s like floating in a warm bath. He clings on, allows himself to be comforted, and cries quietly, deeply, at the unfairness, the impossibilities of it all, and Shane gently, softly, carries him through it.

Later, when Ilya’s tears have dried and he’s had the chance to regain some of his dignity by washing his face, feeling lighter than he has in ages, Shane has arranged a breakfast for the two of them, omelettes and fresh orange juice. There’s a jar of granola and cups of yogurt present as well, the whole fat kind that Ilya prefers over the skim variation, and Ilya doesn’t bother to hide the soft smile that breaks out at the sight of it.

“Right,” Shane opens, after they’ve both taken their seat and Shane slides a cup of freshly brewed coffee Ilya’s way. He looks at Ilya with a determined glint in his eye, and Ilya eyes him warily back as he takes a sip of his coffee — black, slightly too strong and definitely lacking sugar. Shane rolls his eyes at him as he grimaces, but slides him the sugar without another word.

“Hm?”

“So, I get it now, and I wanted to say thank you — thank you for telling me, for opening up to me, and I am sorry for your situation. I also want to help.”

“I don’t need your money,” Ilya is quick to counter, probably a little too sharp. Then, he takes a breath and admits softly, “I have been thinking about… About getting help, maybe?”

“Oh,” Shane says, just as softly. He nods. “Like a therapist?”

Slowly Ilya nods. “Yes. And maybe, well, maybe medication? For…” For my head. For the sadness that clings to him and that threatens to pull him under every once in a while. For the war he has to fight against himself every day. The words are right there, hanging heavily between them, but he doesn’t quite manage to say them out loud. “Well, therapist first, maybe,” he huffs.

Shane seems to understand anyway and looks at him with understanding shining in his eyes. “I think that’s a good idea, Ilya.”

Ilya huffs out a breath. “Yes, well. Am quitting smoking first.”

“Really?” Shane says, perking up. “That’s really impressive! You can do it, no doubt in my mind.”

Ilya shrugs. “I think so, too,” he admits. “It is just — a lot, right now."

“Yeah, I understand,” Shane says sympathetically. “Which is why I want to help, if I can. I know it is not my business, of course. But, um, have you made a plan?”

Ilya cocks an eyebrow. “A plan for what?”

“Well,” Shane says calmly, as he meticulously cuts into his own omelette. Ilya recognizes it for what it is, the professional calm demeanor that he’s seen Shane adapt a million times at the bedside. It’s a little surreal seeing it applied to him, now, over breakfast, but he can admit it helps his own jittery nerves. “I understand you want to continue supporting your father’s care, even if the situation with your brother is this, for lack of better words, fucked up. And I don’t know how it’s going right now? Have you had any contact with them at all?”

Ilya shakes his head. “I think Lyosha called me three months ago, and hasn’t since. And like I said, my Father hasn’t called me in ages. I think maybe Lyosha has taken away his phone.”

“Maybe,” Shane agrees. “But we can assume it must be stable, right?”

“For now,” Ilya nods hesitantly. “Yes, I think so.”

“That’s good! But you and I both know how fickle diseases like this are, especially when they go unchecked and without proper care and preventions — which, none of that is your fault, Ilya. Knowing you, I know you’ve tried,” he says sternly, seeing Ilya flinch. “So we have to consider that it might change at any moment. Have you made an emergency savings? So that you’re able to fly to Russia if you want or need to?”

“Yes, I have. They’re easily accessible, and should be enough for a two-way ticket. I’ve also arranged a place to stay in Moscow — Sveta has a small apartment there, I have a spare key.”

At the mention of Sveta, something interesting happens with the corner of Shane’s mouth where it’s briefly pulled down in an unhappy grimace. It satisfies a small, possessive part of Ilya, and he lets himself feel it for a small second before he files it away for another day.

“That’s good,” Shane manages to say without much emotion at all.

Ilya nods in agreement, then gets up to get the two of them a coffee refill, which Shane accepts with a smile that’s soft and genuine and only reserved for Ilya.

“We do need to think about your living arrangements, though.”

“It’s fine,” Ilya says shortly.

“I find it a bit worrying, to be honest,” Shane fires back. They stare a bit at each other, neither willing to back down, until Ilya deflates.

“Fine. I am thinking about it,” he grouches, settling back into his chair as he watches Shane relax at his acquiescence. “I’m putting a bit more on the side to see if I can move by summer.”

The elated grin Shane shoots him is enough to make him feel warm all over. “Ilya, that’s great!”

“Hm,” Ilya hums noncommittally, though he’s secretly quite pleased. “I am changing the subject now,” he announces, and Shane rolls his eyes as he starts gathering the dishes.

“Fine, but I am not discussing Montreal's humiliating defeat to fucking Buffalo,” he says sourly.

“No?” Ilya teases with a shit-eating grin. “I thought it might be my favorite topic to discuss currently.”

Shane narrows his eyes at him. “Talk to me when the Bears finally make it back into play-offs in the first place, instead of losing to fucking Florida.”

Ilya pulls a face at that, making Shane laugh.

“Talking of hockey, I really enjoyed the charity match last weekend.”

Ilya nods. “Yes. I did too.” Idly, he asks, “You played in college, right?”

Shane gives him an odd look. “Yes, I did. I’m a pretty solid center — or I was, anyway, back then, though I am a little proud of my performance. How did you know?”

Ilya shrugs noncommittally, avoiding his eyes. “I pay attention.”

Shane, thankfully, doesn’t ask any further and seems to accept it for the feeble answer it is.

Ilya sighs a little wistfully. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the ice. I should maybe see if I can sign up somewhere locally. I’ve really missed it.”

“You’ve played?” Shane asks with rapt attention, surprise coloring his features. “I mean, I guessed it,” he confesses, blushing a little. “It looked like you had — you’re really good, Ilya, if a little rusty.”

“Rude! But, hm, yes. For most my childhood, and I was really, really good. Center, as well, as you’ve seen, though I can be a decent winger too, for the right center.” Shane huffs, and Ilya smirks at him. “No, really. Talented enough to be on scout’s radars. My father thought I’d make it into the KHL, but I had my sights on the MHL, for obvious reasons.”

“Really, that good?”

Ilya leans back into his chair, puffing his chest a little bit. Grinning like a shark, he says, “First round draft material right here, baby. I would’ve ended up at the Bears, I just know it.”

Shane rolls his eyes a little bit. “Right, second round draft material. I would’ve been first, if I’d stayed in hockey.”

“Keep dreaming, sweetheart.”

They stare at each other, challenge and heat in their eyes as they measure each other up. “So, what team, then?” Ilya asks. “Ottawa?”

“Rude,” Shane scoffs. “Montreal, if I had any say in it. That Cup would’ve been mine.”

“Ha! Funny!”

“Oh, I am not joking,” Shane smiles at him with all his teeth. “It would have been interesting, don’t you think?” he asks, sobering a little. “Us, both in the MHL.”

“Rivals, maybe,” Ilya offers, and they look at each other for a beat more before they simultaneously say, “No.”, “No way.”

They laugh a little bit, and Shane asks, “What happened, then? If you were as good as you say, why not stick to hockey?”

“Why didn’t you?” Ilya asks back, even though he already knows the answer.

Shane shrugs, fingers toying with the hem of his hoodie. “Oh, you know. My dad, his accident. It just wasn’t feasible anymore, but it was my own choice ultimately.”

Ilya nods. “It wasn’t for me,” he admits. “Though I wouldn’t go back and change it now, I think.”

“What happened?”

“Ah, well, Ilya grimaces a little. “After my mom died, I —uh, acted out. You know, parties, booze, sex. Drugs, too, one time, but that fucked me up badly enough that I didn’t bother repeating that. I was 14? 15? Something like that. It was the only thing my brother was good for, honestly, getting me into clubs I was way too young to get into. And, well, it was fine, as long as my hockey didn’t suffer, and I made sure it didn’t. I was smart enough to recognize that it would get me out. And it would’ve been fine, if it hadn’t been for Sasha.”

“Sasha?”

Ilya clicks his tongue. “Yes I guess I was experimenting, and figured out I was into men as well, fooled around with Sasha — the son of my coach. It wasn’t smart, but I didn’t really care at the time. My brother caught us, and so my dad found out, who ruined my life by pulling me out of hockey, and I had to come up with a contingency plan.”

He can still feel it sometimes, when he thinks back on it. The phantom touch of the slap that had connected with his cheek, hard enough that his head had snapped sideways and he’d needed to correct his step to remain upright. He’d been lucky the hand had been flat — a fist would’ve fractured his eye socket, broken his jaw. The words still ring in his ears, the unbridled rage, the swears as his father had screamed at him. “You think that just because you’re a Rozanov — just because you bear my name, the family name — you are protected? That rules do not apply to you? You think that I would let a good for nothing fag like you drag our good name through the fucking mud? You’ve thought wrong, boy! I do not care how you do it, but you are done with hockey! I will not waste funds on a lowlife such as yourself. So you better think on your future, Ilya, for I will not help you. You can live here until you can move out, but I do not want to see you, I do not want to hear you, am I clear?! And you are done with that fucking boy. I find out you’ve seen him again, I will fucking bury you. You shame me. Get out of my sight.”

Ilya shrugs. “Sveta helped me figure it out, actually. We were looking at possible jobs where I could easily emigrate — I tried to continue playing hockey, but my dad held enough sway that I couldn’t get back in, the scouts wouldn’t give me another fucking glance. So, back-up was either Canadian or American college, play college hockey and then make it to the MHL anyway. We figured out that you can get a special visa for healthcare studies in Canada, and I figured why the fuck not? If there was any profession I might go for, one where I could actually help people sounded nice, and I was lucky enough to get in. And I figured I’d just do the program and then focus on the hockey anyway, so it didn’t really matter.”

He shrugs, pauses a little as Shane looks at him with a mixture of pity and concern. “But then I fell in love with the nursing program, the study, the job, and I guess it became fulfilling enough that when it became clear that college hockey wasn’t going to help me get into the MHL either, I couldn’t really mourn it. It would’ve been nice,” he continues, sounding wistful, “But yes. I don’t regret any of it.”

There’s a small pause as Shane seems to think his words over. “I understand your reluctance to go back to Russia,” he says eventually. “I probably wouldn't go home if my parents had treated me like that when I came out.”

Ilya hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. I think I got off lucky — so protective of the family name they didn’t report me or anything. I could have been much worse off. But they are still family, and Russia is still home on some level, even if there’s very little for me there.”

Shane sighs. “Sounds fucking complicated.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “It is, yes.”

“For what it’s worth,” Shane says impossibly soft, “I am glad you’re here, now. Despite how hard it’s been.”

“Me too,” Ilya whispers, turning his gaze away. It threatens to burn him, sometimes, the full and concentrated gaze of Shane on him — like staring into the sun.

Chapter 15: 15 i've lost control

Chapter Summary

“Hi?” he says carefully.

“Shane,” Ilya breathes, and, oh, the tears threaten to return full force, and he bites his tongue to prevent the whimper forming in his throat from escaping.

“Ilya! Hi!” Shane says, sounding relieved. “Are you alright?” he asks immediately, and Ilya’s heart could burst.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, as he makes his way down the street.

Chapter Notes

Well, it had to happen, didn't it?

(1) Missed call from: Sveta 🖤👑

Ilya is barely managing to drag himself into the land of awareness, blinking the sleep from his eyes as his bedroom is once again cast in darkness, the screen of his phone dying along with the insistent vibrating that had initially woken him up. A quick glance at his alarm clock tells him it is currently 4.08am.

Given the ungodly hour, Sveta must be back in Russia, or on some other continent somewhere around the world that isn't North America.

He has a morning shift in a few hours, his alarm going off in less than two hours — he can use all the sleep he can get. Mentally he takes a note to text Sveta, promising to call her back after his shift whenever she texts him she's awake enough to do so.

She calls him a second time.

The cold dread that curls in his stomach is enough to shake him wide awake. "What happened? Are you okay?" he rushes into the phone as he struggles himself into an upright position, untangling the blankets around his legs.

His bed is so, so cold, and he’s missing the furnace that is Shane next to him fiercely.

There's a beat at the other end of the line, and then Sveta asks him, voice grave, "He hasn't told you?"

Later, Ilya will look back at this moment often, wondering how that simple sentence had been enough. But as it is, cold, dead, heavy grief settles in the pit of his stomach, spreading through his veins like ice, his mouth opening and closing uselessly a few times as he tries to rationalize.

It takes him a while to stammer out, "Told me what?"

"That motherfucker," Sveta spits out, venom in her voice as her anger is tangible to Ilya, even over the phone. Distantly, he realizes he's staring off into space, this ugly dark thing consuming him whole and he doesn't know how to claw his way out —. "I am going to fucking murder him, Ilyusha. I will dance upon his fucking gra— That ugly, vile, piece of shit!"

"Sveta," Ilya manages to choke out, his finger wrapped around his phone so tightly they're white. "Sveta, told me what? He hasn't told me what?"

"My father called me yesterday," she starts, voice gone quiet and grave again, like she's unsure how to bring this; she knows about the difficult relationship between Ilya and his father, and she has told him many times Ilya would be better off cutting all ties, and yet. How do you deliver such a devastating thing, when it's not even yours to share? "I— I got on the plane immediately, back to Russia. Figured you'd already be here, arranging things. I thought I'd help you, but you weren't here and Alexei —"

A wounded noise leaves Ilya's throat unbidden, and Svetlana falls quiet at the other end of the line. Ilya swallows, swallows again as he squeezes his eyes shut. "Am I too late?"

"Fuck, where are you?" There's the sound of clutter on the other end, Sveta's rushed, frantic voice sounding further away all of a sudden as Ilya sits frozen, unmoved. "Still in Ottawa?"

Ilya only manages to nod, making a confirming noise at the back of his throat. His whole body throbs with each painful heartbeat. Sveta still hasn't said it, and it feels much too surreal. He puts her on speaker, too, checks his phone — last incoming call from Alexei over three months ago, last text not much later after that.

His father's call records go back way more than that.

There's one more name he scrolls past, his calls and texts a lot more recent, as recent as a few hours ago, when they’d talked on the phone until one of them had fallen asleep, and his heart aches.

"I'm booking you a flight," Svetlana says, calmness returned to her voice as the quiet of her background is replaced by the familiar sounds of her nails hitting her keyboard.

Somehow, this is what snaps him out of his shocked stupor. "I can book my own flight," Ilya scoffs.

He's already moving, haphazardly throwing on clothes and dragging his beat-down laptop from beneath his bed when Sveta scoffs. "Yes, I know, but now you don't have to. I will yell at airport employees, yes? So you can get at the airport in time. There's a flight leaving in three hours. Don't overpack, don't bring a suit, I will handle that for you here. You'll be in time for the funeral, Ilyusha, and then you can go back to Ottawa and never speak to your god-awful brother again."

The words leave his mouth unbidden. "I have a shift in a few hours." He cringes internally, realizing how it sounds.

The silence is judgmental. "I'm calling work."

"You do that," Sveta answers sweetly. "I'm hanging up now. I will get you on that flight, trust me on that. Again: pack lightly, only essentials. I will take care of everything else. See you in a few hours — I'll pick you up at the airport."

"Okay, thank you," Ilya tells her sincerely. "I will be paying you back, tough, for the tickets."

"You absolutely don't have to," Svetlana argues back. "You can use those savings for something more important."

"Sveta," he warns instead, and sighs a relieved sigh at Sveta's noise of acquiescence. It means more than she probably realizes, her not fighting him on this.

Another pause, before Sveta says, in a soft tone that Ilya hasn't heard her use since his mother died, "I'm sorry you had to find out like this, Ilyusha. But that is all I will be sorry for. They have both treated you like shit, and you deserve the world. We will go to the funeral, and we will mourn, but after that I hope you can put this shit behind you and never look back."

The line is already dead by the time Ilya has figured out what to say.

In a stupor, Ilya stares down at his phone in his hand, watches the screen go dark. He can’t bring himself to move. The news refuses to hit him, his brain aware of the fact that his father died, apparently fucking days ago.

No one had bothered to reach out to him.

He makes it in time for the funeral.

It is a small fucking mercy, too — thanks to Svetlana using her dad’s funds, she’d pulled him a first class ticket on the first flight out of Ottawa. Unfortunately, the hours-long flight left Ilya with little to do but stew in his own complicated emotions for hours on end. He keeps idly toying with his phone in his hands, turning it over and over, opening and closing his text thread with Shane. He desperately wants to reach out, to hear his voice, to cry and scream and curse and for Shane to tell him it will all be alright, in the end, and to hold him, maybe, but —

He lacks the courage. This is his cross to bear, and they’ve just recently patched things up between them, and it is so fragile, still, and this is too much of Ilya’s shit to put on Shane and it will taint this bright thing between them and —

His plane touches Russian ground just a little before noon. She’s there in person to pick him up as a black, expensive car idles behind her, the driver not even glancing their way as Sveta meets him halfway, arms thrown open wide as she crashes into him, her arms snaking around his middle so tight his ribs ache.

“Sveta,” he says, and he sounds all wrong, all choked up and exhausted and so utterly lost Sveta just holds him tighter, impossibly so.

“Fuck, Ilyusha,” she says with feeling, and then she herds him into the car, where a neatly pressed black suit is already waiting for him, hanging from a hanger. “It’s your size,” she says, because of course she knows his exact size, like there is even a universe in which she won’t know everything there is to know about him.

Ilya gets dressed in the back of the Mercedes as the driver speeds them across the outer ring of Moscow before inevitably directing them towards the city center, heading for the Ostozhenka district where Ilya has spent most of his adolescence, when his father had moved their family out of their previous residence after his mother had died. He doesn’t allow himself to glance out the window, taking in the familiar outline of the city that, some part of him, still calls home. Doesn’t allow himself to feel that perpetual ache of homesickness in his heart be soothed. He’s learned from a young age that just because you’re born somewhere, it is no guarantee that it will love you back. He’s carved himself a new home back in Ottawa, and right now, he’d rather be there than anywhere near here. Love is conditional here, and Ilya has made the conscious decision that goes both ways.

If everything goes well, he’ll never have to set foot on Russian soil again.

The thought is both a relief and a terrible pain.

“Did you eat?” Sveta asks, as she swats his hands away before he can ruin his tie with the way his hands are shaking. She knots him a double Windsor like it’s nothing, and pushes the tie into place snugly around his neck.

Ilya shakes his head, and she merely nods. “Thought as much,” she murmurs, as she shoves a brown paper bag into his hands. “Don’t spill and ruin your suit.”

He shoves Sirnikis into his mouth without really tasting them, even though he knows she probably got him from that one corner restaurant where they make them just right and they’re probably Ilya’s favorites, and as the car pulls up to the curb just outside of the church where the service is being held, Sveta’s dabbing a napkin against the corners of his mouth, eyes critically flying all over his person as she straightens his tie one last time and then nods. “Ready?”

She’s out of the car before he can answer, before he can beg her to turn the car around, to get him out of here as fast as she can. It leaves him with no other option than to follow, and when she holds out her hand for him to take, he takes hold of it like a lifeline. “You got this, Ilyusha,” Sveta tells him silently, as she starts to move, gently tugging him along. “And don’t forget; you don’t owe them anything.”

He’s a ghost among his own family, a stranger in his own home. He’s surrounded by faces he’s known all his life and he knows them as little as they seem to know him. They stare at him, they whisper about him behind their hands, behind their veils, behind bodies half turned away so he doesn’t see them talking to one another; Grigori’s lost boy, the black sheep of his family, oh how he takes after his mother, what a disappointment he must’ve been to his poor father. In a place where he must feel right at home, surrounded by blood relatives and his native Russian sounding all around him, Ilya’s never felt more alienated.

They come up to him, offer him condolences, tell him what a terrible loss it must be for him, how unexpected, how sudden. They inquire, what is it that he does these days? Where is it that he lives? Canada, you say? How odd, to want to live so far away from your home, how hard it must’ve been for poor Grigori to have a son he couldn’t rely on because he was half a world away. How unfortunate it must’ve been for him, as well, to not be able to take care of his father like a good son would have.

For the first time in his life, Ilya feels inadequate in his native tongue. It is a lot easier to deflect, to utter words of thanks and half-truths in a secondary language, where emotions don’t factor in quite as heavily as it does in your first. His tongue feels useless in his mouth, the Russian awkward and stilted and insincere as he forces it past his lips, tells them his thanks, tells them that circumstances couldn’t be helped. For the first time, Ilya wishes he were conversing in English — at least then he could’ve hidden.

Sveta doesn’t leave his side for a second, cuts in with sharp remarks and flat looks and biting remarks that effectively put an end to the endless inquiries as she herds him along inside the chapel. Ilya’s resigned to sit at one of the benches at the back, but Sveta won’t have it, guides him towards the bench at the front with her head held high, cutting through the traffic like a regal queen walking among her commoners. They part for them, too, because how could they not?

Alexei’s already there, wife and kid situated on either side of him, rigid and seemingly composed and utterly emotionless. His wife sees them first, as her eyes widen comically and her demure and timid demeanor are replaced with something akin to fear as her eyes flicker to her husband beside her. It’s then that Alexei spots him — his wife freezing up against his side must’ve tipped him off — and as his eyes flicker up to see Sveta and Ilya, Ilya sees a myriad of emotions flicker over his face; surprise, anger, contempt the most prominent ones, and his eyes rest on Sveta for a beat, an ugly sneer sent her way because of course it must be her fault that he’s here after all.

Sveta’s hand around his own tightens and she tugs Ilya along, settling them across the isle instead as she deems Alexei unworthy of another glance.

Ilya has a little more trouble tearing his eyes away, even when Sveta gently urges him to sit. His brother isn’t even looking at him anymore, eyes stubbornly cast ahead while a muscle ticks in his jaw by how hard he’s clenching his teeth. His niece, however, is staring back at him, and by the blank, mildly curious look in her eyes, she doesn’t recognize him. That’s not that weird, Ilya knows — he’s barely seen her in all these years, and young children’s minds aren’t that great with memories as it is. Still, it stings a little, and he raises his hand to give her a small wave, which she hesitantly returns. It’s a relief to see she takes after her mother; she’s as blond as she is, has the same cut to her eyes, the same startling blue. It worries him, too, what it might mean for her in the future, and as he turns his attention towards the centerpiece of the church, the altar of Christ all donned in ornate carvings and covered in gold leaf and painted in bold colors, he prays silently that her future, at least, will look differently.

Sveta’s father is already there, sitting in the second row behind them, and Sveta takes a moment to greet him, kissing him quickly on the cheek before Vetrov’s large hand claps Ilya briefly on the shoulder. Ilya sends him a quick, small smile over his shoulder, and Vetrov just nods at him before leaning back.

The ceremony takes forever, and Ilya witnesses it like a man not fully there — his mind wanders even if his eyes refuse to leave his father’s casket alone. It’s sleek black, polished until shiny, and gold trimmed around the hard edges. It’s open, still, and from where Ilya’s sitting, he can just see the dark color of his uniform, the colorful medals pinned to his chest. He cannot see his father’s face, and he thinks he might prefer it like this. This way, the memories he will take home with him will be of an alive Grigori, even if they’re bad.

After the ceremony there is more obligations to get through, his father’s funeral held in the utmost traditional way. More condolences, more posturing, more trying to look like his father’s passing is anything more than a complicated mess that Ilya’s dying to leave behind. He sits through dinner with a clenched jaw and twisted stomach and trembling hands and Sveta keeps trying to get him to eat something because he’s starving only the rest of his body doesn’t agree with that sentiment and he can barely manage to swallow anything down.

Alexei keeps cutting glances at him throughout the entire affair, and Ilya keeps expecting him to — to pick a fight, maybe, confront him and chew him out and Ilya will let him, because the worst thing about all this is the guilt that lies underneath it all, and it is an irrational emotion to feel, he knows that, but still there it is anyway.

His brother doesn’t do anything, and long after the sun has set and the casket is in the ground and people are finally, finally, leaving, he takes his leave without saying a word to Ilya. He’s clearly decided that Ilya no longer has anything to offer what he might want.

“Are you okay?” Sveta asks him quietly as he watches them leave, and he finds himself nodding.

“Yes,” he says, and he means it. “This is as good as it could’ve gone, I think.”

“Yes, well, fuck him,” Sveta says vehemently, and Ilya snorts softly, nodding his agreement.

“I guess I am just sad that I’ll never see Nastya grow up,” he says wistfully, and Sveta squeezes his hand. She stays close by as Ilya takes one last wander around the space, saying his goodbyes to the very few relatives he actually wanted to see, and then sends Sveta on her way, as well.

“I am just going to go back out to the cemetery,” he says, giving her a grateful smile. “Thank you for today. I couldn’t have gone through this without you.”

“I know,”she tells him, but she’s looking at him fondly and gives him a hug that lasts a little longer than usual. “Text me when you come home, yeah? I’ll leave the front door unlocked for you.”

He quietly slips out into the last light of dusk and, for the first time since jumping on a plane, he feels like he can breathe. He breathes deeply, feels the cold, crisp air make a home inside his lungs until he exhales. He forgot to pack his cigarettes, finds he doesn’t miss them.

Nodding quietly to himself, he heads back to the cemetery.

He knows the path to the family plot by heart — has spent here so many hours every time Grigori forced his sons to come along and pay their respect to his grandparents and his great-grandparents before them, even if he hadn’t known them at all.

So he lets his feet take him there, now, comes to a stop in front of the freshly uprooted soil there and the shiny new headstone that reads something akin like, Grigori Ivanovich Rozanov, loving husband and father, Ilya isn’t sure since he refuses to look at it properly, to see the lies edged into stone for the rest of eternity.

He stares at the freshly dug grave dispassionately, the large array of flowers distastefully, his mind struggling to come up with something, anything, he can say — despite everything, he still feels like he should, that there needs to be some parting words that he can utter down to his late father, ones that make him feel like he’s closed this chapter and not like, in twenty years’ time, he’ll come to the regretful conclusion he regrets not saying anything at all.

“Well,” he tries, forcing the word past his lips, and he’s speaking English and that’s fine by him, his Russian useless here, unable to give him the clarity, the sharpness it usually brings him when he doesn’t have to filter, to sift through idioms and hope for the best.

He pauses, tries again, his mouth opening and closing a few times uselessly. Digs deep into himself to try and discern what kind of emotions are swirling in his chest, and doesn’t get any further than the absolute relief of realizing he’ll never be buried in this cursed family plot, that that honor is reserved for Alexei alone.

He nods decisively once, eyes sharp and devoid of tears as he settles on, “I’m sorry,” and it is enough.

He turns then, and goes to find his mother. Twelve-year-old Ilya had shaken with rage when it became clear Grigori had decided to bury Irina a significant distance away from the family plot; the means of her death shameful enough to haunt them for a little while, enough that Grigori had decided to uproot his son’s lives enough by relocating them to a new and upcoming neighborhood, where the neighbors didn’t know them yet but where his status would still be recognized. Shameful enough that no one had batted an eye when she’s been given a cheap plot of land on the outskirts of the cemetery, her grave unadorned except for the simple white headstone that reads Irina Dmitriyevna Rozanova, no second line, nothing about being a loving mother, nothing about being a dutiful wife. No poem, no loving parting words. Even the maintaining of her grave is minimal — she rests partially beneath the canopy of a great oak, and there are still some remnants of dead leaves skittered over the grass that covers her resting place. Her headstone, once a pristine white, has become a faded gray.

It suits her, Ilya decides, as he sits down on the cold ground and crosses his legs. It makes the white of her name stand out more. “Эй, мама,” he says, and there it is, finally. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He’s not sure how long he sits there, talking to his mother to get her up to date on his life, on his migration to Canada, his nursing degree, his work, his friends. Shane. Long enough that the chill seeps into his bones, long enough that his legs go numb and he can’t quite feel his fingers either. He talks until his voice gives out, until the emotions get the better of him and the tears, finally, fall.

This, he thinks, might be the only regret. “I don’t think I will see you again,” he sniffs, using the sleeve of his coat to wipe away his tears. “I don’t think I will come back.” He exhales on a shaky laugh. “I would take you with me, if I could,” he tells her. “I like to think you would have loved Canada as much as I do.”

A beat as he looks around, finds himself utterly abandoned. “I also like to think you would’ve loved Shane,” he says quietly, soul-baring. “Like I do. I love him, Mama. It is almost unbearable.”

Wind sweeps over the cemetery, creaks through the branches of the oak, rustles the first leafs of spring. It ruffles his hair and caresses his cheek and it is not as cold as it had been, and Ilya laughs wetly, nods to himself as he forces his body to move, unfolding his legs and standing on shaking feet. “I love you, Mama,” he says, and he reaches out to touch the headstone one last time.

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Hi Ilya

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: You haven’t been texting me back and I got a little worried so I went to IM and asked what was going on, sorry for sticking my nose in something that’s not my business but as I said I got a little worried about you

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: I heard about your dad

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: If you want to talk I’m here for you, even if you’re back in Russia

It is close to 3am by the time Ilya makes his way out of the cemetery and starts walking towards Sveta’s place to spend the night. He’s kept his phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ for the entire day, and now, with a mind that is less buzzing than before, he catches up on his notifications. Most of them are from his coworkers sending him their condolences (he’d given Wiebe permission to share with the department why he’s suddenly absent) and from Marly, who he’d texted himself, but his favorite thread, the one he’s pinned to the top so he can always find it, is the one he saves for last.

He hits the ‘call’ button before he fully realizes he does it, and for a second thinks about hanging up knowing the rate of trying to call overseas, but then Shane picks up after the first ring.

“Hi?” he says carefully.

“Shane,” Ilya breathes, and, oh, the tears threaten to return full force, and he bites his tongue to prevent the whimper forming in his throat from escaping.

“Ilya! Hi!” Shane says, sounding relieved. “Are you alright?” he asks immediately, and Ilya’s heart could burst.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, as he makes his way down the street.

“That’s okay. That’s totally okay.”

A wet laugh breaks free as Ilya crosses the street, skimming the outskirts of the park before he can cut a significant part of the way back by taking the small tunnel that runs beneath one of the busier streets of this part of the city.

“We buried my father this afternoon,” Ilya says, after some time listening to the steady breathing of Shane on the other side of the connection.

Shane hums, a small empathetic sound. “Do you want me to tell you I’m sorry for your loss?”

Ilya considers it. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I think so?”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ilya. It’s a heavy blow despite everything.”

“Thank you, Shane.”

They lapse into silence again, Shane seemingly more than willing to wait Ilya out, to have this conversation at Ilya’s pace. It’s nice, having him here; Ilya wishes he were here physically, so that he can hold on to Shane and let Shane squeeze him back as tightly as he can, but this, this is nearly as nice. It ground him, a little. Steadies his heart and soothes his soul and tames that whirlwind of emotions that’s refusing to let up.

“Where are you?” Shane asks curiously, when it becomes apparent that Ilya’s not going to say much more. “It sounds like you’re walking? Isn’t it very late for you?”

“Yes, I am walking, and yes, it is very late. Middle of the night. Heading towards Sveta’s to sleep."

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Don’t be jealous, Shane,” Ilya finds in himself to tease.

“I’m not!”

“You are. A little bit.”

Shane pauses before he grouches, “Maybe.”

“You have no reason to be,” Ilya assures him. “She’s just being nice. It is that or sleeping on the sidewalk. I don’t think my brother will let me into the house.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Did you — did you speak to your brother at all?”

Ilya takes a moment as he heads down the tunnel, using it as a strategic moment to gather his thoughts. He leans back against the wall and sighs. “No. I do think it is for the better, though.”

“Hm. He sounds like a dick to me.”

“Ha!” Ilya exclaims, but it sounds too fragile. “He is, yes.”

“Ilya,” Shane says so very sweetly, and so very carefully. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Yes he does. No he doesn’t. Ilya can’t make up his mind, doesn’t want to unpack all the emotions this trip have dislodged, doesn’t want to acknowledge that there’s some piece of him, now, broken and that it can’t be fully mended again. But he doesn’t want to walk around with it, either.

“I went to see my Mama,” he settles on eventually. He swallows. “I got to talk to her, for a while. It was very nice.”

“That’s good,” is Shane’s soothing reply. There’s some rustling on the other side of the line, and Ilya can nearly picture him, wherever he is on the other side of the sea. Maybe he’s at work, taking the call in the stairwell, or in one of the small offices around the department. Maybe he’s at home, reclining on his couch, lying on his bed. Fuck, Ilya has completely lost what time it’s supposed to be in Ottawa. “She must’ve been an incredible woman.”

Ilya keens a little, involuntarily. “She was,” he says thickly. “How did you know?”

“Well. I know her son, don’t I?”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says, wiping furiously at the tears leaking from his eyes. He rests his head back against the wall. “She isn’t even buried with family. And I don’t know whether to be angry about that, or relieved.”

“Oh, baby.”

The pet name is murmured so sweetly, so full of compassion that a small smile still tugs at Ilya’s mouth, even if there’s little to smile about.

“I bet her place is really nice, though,” Shane hedges carefully.

“It is,” Ilya nods. He wants to explain what her site is like, but the words don’t seem to flow anymore, and he sighs, exhausted.

“Ilya?”

“Hm?”

“You can talk to me in Russian, if you like?”

“Uhm,” Ilya says, blinking a few times.

“It is just,” Shane says, and he sounds nervous, like his offer is silly or stupid or anything like that, and Ilya is just so, so fond of this man. “I can imagine how exhausting this must be for you, speaking to me in English. So, I thought that if you want, you can just speak Russian? I don’t have to understand it, but it might make you feel a little better?”

Ilya can picture it clearly, the way he can ventilate his feelings, uncensored and without having to think about it, about translating it and hoping he’s using all the correct words, even after all this time. He thinks about what he could tell Shane, how demanding his family had been, how much he misses his mother still, and what he feels for Shane, too. It sparks a longing that threatens to overtake him.

But it is also unfair.

“No,” he says, and Shane makes a surprised sound on the other side of the phone call.

“No?”

“No. It is very sweet of you, Shane, but when I tell you how much I like you, I want to tell you in a language you understand and I want to see you when I do.”

“Oh.” Shane sounds flustered, and he rushes on, “But — that’s. Oh. I, uh, I just wanted to offer, y’know? Just so you could talk about stuff that you maybe didn’t want to share with me.”

“No,” Ilya says, pushing himself off the wall as he starts walking again. “I can talk about it. I need you to understand what I am saying. I don’t think I can do this more than once.”

“Okay,” Shane says, and then there’s more rustling, like he’s settling himself down more firmly. “Are you at least nearly at Sveta’s?”

“Is nearly another half hour, maybe?” Ilya estimates, as he picks up his pace. “Why? Do you have to leave?”

“No, no nothing like that. I’m off today, just dinner at my parents.” A pause. “Just letting them know I’m running a little late. It’s no problem.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but I want to. I’m here for you, Ilya. I mean that.”

Ilya’s heart could burst if it wasn’t so bruised currently. “Okay.”

“I’m staying with you on the line until you’re at Sveta’s,” Shane tells him matter of factly. “Talk to me about the funeral.”

And Ilya does, all the way towards Sveta’s apartment. He talks about the service, how rigid and traditional it had been. He talks about his relatives, the way they’d inquired about his life and choices and had judged him for it. He talks about Alexei and his cold shoulder. He talks about his niece, who hadn’t remembered him. He talks about his father, the way he’d lain there in his coffin, and how Ilya had had trouble feeling anything at all.

He talks about his mother, and how nice it was to say one last goodbye.

He talks about never returning to Russia ever again.

And all through it, Shane is quiet, attentive, sweet. Gives small commentaries when Ilya gives him the space to, asks questions when he needs to.

By the time they finally say goodbye, with Ilya promising to call him the moment he’s back in Ottawa, Ilya’s inside of Sveta’s apartment. Sveta’s long gone to bed, but she’s kept the lights on for him, and the guest bedroom is all made up. There’s even a cup of coffee waiting on the kitchen counter, but it’s long gone cold.

Ilya brushes his teeth and undresses and collapses on the bed, plugs his phone into the charger and smiles, just the tiniest bit, at the ‘Sleep well, Ilya,’ text that’s waiting for him.

He texts back a simple, ‘Thank you’, which gets a heart reaction from Shane, and then he promptly falls asleep.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry about that, folks. We'll be returning to fluff now! Promise!

Chapter 16: 16 i've forgotten who i was

Chapter Summary

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Can’t wait to see you tonight! 🥰

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Hopefully I can stay for more than an hour or so, so maybe we can watch a movie?

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Are you sure it’s fine if I swing by?

Ilya: yes its fine!!!!!! cant wait

Ilya: if it is bad time i will tell u 💋

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Okay! 🥰

Chapter Notes

Welcome to the fluff! Part one! 💓

Ilya: i dont think i will see u v much this week ((((

Ilya: long row of nights

Ilya looks stupidly at his phone as the call comes in, nearly dropping it as the Caller ID lights up on his screen.

Incoming call from: S🥰🔥🍑👅💦

Across from him, Troy gives him a questioning look, but at Ilya’s dismissive shrug he turns back to Harris, who’s deeply, animatedly, relaying a story of some sort to the other boys of the Cool Runnings Club. They’d just finished their run — sans Shane, who had had to cancel much to Ilya’s dismay, and Zane, who’s on shift — and Troy had suggested they’d all get lunch at some bistro nearby. He’d confessed that Harris had asked to meet up with him, and had wanted to meet the rest of the group. Ilya had looked at his watch for approximately two seconds, contemplating to go home instead of going with the group, but the vibe had been so nice he’d hate to miss out.

He slides out of the booth, studiously ignores Cliff’s growing smirk as he, from next to Troy, glances at Ilya’s face, down to the blatant caller ID, back up to Ilya’s face. “Say hi from me,” he says flippantly, but there’s a glint of glee in his eyes that Ilya doesn’t like.

“Do you tell Sveta the same from me?” he bitches back, making Marly scowl but he waves him on, then, without further comment.

“Hello?” he asks into his phone, as he answers the call. He hates that he sounds this hesitant, still, even when Shane has been making it more and more a habit to call him instead of text him. It still feels a little surreal.

“Hi.” Shane’s voice on the other end of the line is soft and slightly amused.

“Hi,” Ilya copies him, a stupid smile breaking out over his face.

“I saw your text,” Shane says, getting straight to the point, and Ilya can’t help the amused huff of breath he exhales. “I was just wondering. How many nights are you working?”

“Four,” Ilya complains. “In a row! They must want me dead.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Shane teases, but it sounds horribly fond. “But that is a lot, yes.”

“Yeah,” Ilya whines. “So I don’t think I can see you. I will be working and then, hopefully, sleeping.”

“Hm, yeah, makes sense.” Ilya squints at his phone, can’t figure out why Shane is sounding this fucking chipper. “But I guess in this case it’s not a bad thing.”

“What do you mean?”

Ilya can practically hear the smile on Shane’s face through the tinny connection. “I guess our schedule is lining up, Ilya. I started my row of nights last night but I’m working five. So four more to go.”

“Five?” Ilya repeats weakly. “Okay, I guess you win. Your team must want you dead. I am so sorry.”

“Stop it.” There’s definitely an eye roll there that Ilya is fortunate enough he can’t see. “I signed up for them, we had a shortage. Although — no, never mind.”

“What is it?” Ilya pushes. “You’re allowed to complain, Shane. Although I am wondering why the fuck you are awake.”

“Hush, I just called you to let you know we’re both working nights! And if the upcoming nights are the same as last night, then I’ve got so much fucking time on my hands. I’ll come down to see you, if that’s alright with you.”

Ilya’s heart definitely picks up at that, and he’s smiling so wide it’s starting to hurt. “You will?”

“Well, only if I can, obviously. But yes, if they don’t technically need me present for a bit of time, I’ll come see you.”

Silence settles over the line, as Ilya is just smiling from ear to ear, already daydreaming a bit of seeing Shane in the middle of his nights. It’s a little nostalgic, maybe — their whole thing started with a night shift after all, more than two years ago now.

They both seem content to just listen to each other breathe, but eventually, Shane yawns, and Ilya huffs out a small laugh. “You should go back to bed. I do not understand how you are awake.”

“Me neither,” Shane grumbles, though he sounds happy as he speaks with Ilya. It makes Ilya feel all warm inside. He isn’t sure how he got lucky enough to have this. “I’m a little nauseous as well — that first night usually kills me, which is why I try to get all of my mandatory nights out of the way in one go. I can’t sleep before or after that first night, not properly. I got in around 9, I think? Slept ‘till twelve and have been awake ever since.”

Ilya glances at his watch. “Shane, it’s nearly 2.30.” Shane hums. “Have you eaten?”

“No, not yet. But I had a proper meal at four this morning, so I’m not really hungry.”

“Okay, hm.” Ilya hums. “Are the blinds closed?”

“Yeah, it’s pitch black here,” Shane replies, sounding deeply amused as Ilya fusses.

“Did you take a warm shower?”

“Obviously.”

“Avoided any screens?”

“It’s on Do Not Disturb, but you are an exception to that. Your calls and texts still come through. I wouldn’t want to miss them.”

Fuck, that’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for Ilya, ever. “Oh.”

“Ilya, I’m fine. Nights just fuck with my circadian rhythm, it’s nothing new for me. I’m just —” and he cuts off there, yawning audibly. “I’m gonna put my phone down, alright?”

“Okay, Shane,” Ilya says softly. “But eating something light will help with the nausea. Maybe try to get some toast or something? And a cup of tea? Or warm milk, that’ll get you sleepy. Oh! Eat a banana.”

“Okay, nurse,” Shane says, laughing a little. “And try to get some sleep yourself, yes?”

“I’m heading home soon,” Ilya replies, looking back at the table where his friends are starting to dig in to their food, his own plate of beef carpaccio waiting on him. “And then I will nap.”

“Oh, right! You’re out running, yes?”

“We finished up a while ago, we’re just getting lunch.”

“Ah,” Shane says. “Enjoy lunch, yes? I’ll go do the same.”

“Good.” Ilya feels reluctant to hang up the phone, but he’s starting to get another questioning look from Troy, and Cliff is looking like the cat that got the cream, all smug. “We’ll text, yes?”

“Absolutely,” Shane answers immediately, definitively. “Get some rest.”

“You too.”

The line goes dead, then, and Ilya pockets his phone as he makes his way back to his table.

“That took a while," Cliff says, still smirking. Ilya levels him a deadpan look and doesn’t answer.

“Everything alright?” Harris asks, looking a little concerned.

“Oh, yes of course,” Ilya says, waving his concerns away. “Was just work related.”

Across from him, Cliff snorts into his coffee. Ilya kicks his shin, hard.

Next to Cliff, Troy gives Ilya a contemplating look, so Ilya looks away, turns to the side where J.J. and Hazy are in some kind of debate, and he involves himself with that conversation with ease.

He doesn’t linger after he’s finished lunch, the excuse of going into his row of night shifts falls easily off his tongue, and he is genuinely looking forward to a hot shower and then, for as long as he can, a nap. He has little to no trouble sleeping during the day, so he can’t quite imagine what it must be like for Shane, but he’s had plenty of days where the sleep deprivation have caught up on him, especially after a row of day shifts, and that sucks severely. He just hopes Shane manages to sleep some more, and then come see him during the nights. It almost sounds too good to be true.

As soon as he’s made his way through the front door, he kicks his shoes off by the door, slides on his Adidas slides and makes his way to the bathroom. The pipes groan and the water’s not nearly as hot as he wishes it was, but the water pressure, for once, is just right. He slides into bed immediately after. He’s lucky to remember he needs to set an alarm, just in case, and then promptly falls asleep.

When he wakes, it’s already dark out. He heats up some leftovers from last night, some lasagna recipe he’d decided to try out but isn’t too fond of, then spends the rest of his evening lying on his couch and catching up on one of his shows — he’s trying out Ted Lasso, since it was recommended to him by Cliff, and it’s nice and easy and very light hearted, which is everything he needs right now.

He gathers some more leftovers to take with him, gets his beloved Boston Raiders hoodie and then sets off around 9.30pm. Technically, the shift starts at 10.45, but the night shift always tries to come in a little sooner, around 10.30 because there’s double the amount of patients to read up on. During a night shift, Ilya usually looks over a section of a hallway, up to thirteen patients. On their 40-bed capacity, it means there’s three nurses on shift each night. It’s nice, to have colleagues to pass the time with. The smaller departments, especially the surgical ones which close down on beds during the weekends, have night shifts with just one nurse on call. In Ilya’s opinion, it’s a very delicate situation to put your staff in. Usually, these departments share halls with a neighboring specialty, so they can call for help, but still. It must be quite lonely.

Ilya sets foot on the department’s floor a little over 10.15pm. He’d missed Shane in the dressing room, unfortunately — the ICU having different shift times will never not irritate Ilya — but there had been a sweet text from Shane waiting on his phone, so he’d spent a couple of minutes staring at it stupidly, grinning like a fool.

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Can’t wait to see you tonight! 🥰

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Hopefully I can stay for more than an hour or so, so maybe we can watch a movie?

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Are you sure it’s fine if I swing by?

Ilya: yes its fine!!!!!! cant wait

Ilya: if it is bad time i will tell u 💋

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Okay! 🥰

He’s on shift with Amber and Celeste, who he’s on cordial terms with, sure, but doesn’t really speak to outside of work. They tend to stick to a different group of nurses than who Ilya interacts with, and that’s fine. When you have over seventy nurses on your payroll, there’s bound to be different groups of friends, of people who cluster together and prefer to work with one another. Amber and Celeste are close, Ilya knows, and they don’t particularly care about him — there’s no negativity, they just don’t know each other well enough to form anything other than a professional opinion of one another, and neither party really cares enough to invest in changing this. Factoring in that Ilya slept with Amber once, before he’d known she’d applied to the IM, and then had gently let her down when he had said he wasn’t looking for anything exclusive, this wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

Normally, Ilya would think this row of night shifts is doomed — he likes if his colleagues are up for things like movie night or board games or don’t mind oversharing when swapping personal stories, all sorts of things he’s sure he’s not going to get from this particular set up. It’ll mean he has to entertain himself, which he is perfectly capable of, but it makes the ticking of the clock just that much slower.

Tonight, though, he can’t believe his luck — the two ladies will be doing their own things, not bothering Ilya unless it is absolutely necessary. Which means they won’t care that Shane is visiting him, or how long he’ll stay around for. They’ll be perfectly content to leave Ilya on his side of the department, and the two of them on the other side. Sure, he’ll see them eventually, most likely around 3am for some food, but after that it’ll be every man for himself.

It’s perfect.

He smiles brightly at the two of them as they, eventually and a lot later than Ilya, come in. They eye him warily for a moment, and then Ilya spends a few minutes exchanging pleasantries before resolutely turning back to his computer screen.

As he waits for the evening shift to wrap up properly and give him the opportunity to ask some clarifying questions, he shoots Shane another text.

Ilya: lol dw at all

Ilya: ur free to stay for as long as u want

Ilya: colleagues do not care they keep to themselves

Ilya: i am alone all night 😏

“Ilya!” A gaggle of nurses stumble into his sanctum, voices chipper. It’s been a quiet shift, they confirm, as three different colleagues give him the last updates on their patients. No open beds, no unstable patients — perfect conditions to spend a few stolen hours with Shane.

It’s like the universe is smiling down at him.

“It’s promising to be a boring night,” Annie says, smiling. “Or, at least, we’re manifesting that for you! But not too boring, of course, that you’ll fall asleep.”

“Good to know!” Ilya smiles. “Perfect time to catch up on my shows.”

“That’s the spirit!” Ezra says. “You working tomorrow as well?”

“Yes, first of four.” The nurses around him grimace in sympathy, but Ilya shrugs. “Will be fine.”

“Yeah, cool, man! See you tomorrow then, bright eyed and well rested!”

Ilya laughs and waves them off, out of his hair. Peaceful quiet settles instantly, most of his patients already asleep, and it adds a tranquility to the department that’s only reserved for the nights.

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Is that a good thing? Or should I be concerned?

Ilya: no no no is v good

Ilya: means we dont have to come up w excuse y ur here

Ilya: they dont care )))

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: I’m trusting you on this one

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: I’ll be there around three!

Ilya tucks his phone away and sets to work. The first part of his shift goes by uneventfully — he completes his rounds, sorts the medicine for the next day, and cleans up the department so that the day shift has a fresh and well-stocked start.

He’s back on his chair by two, and he buries into his hoodie, kicks his feet up on the empty chair next to him, and starts filling out his charts, scalding hot coffee in hand. He meticulously works through each of his patients’ files, checks their treatment plans and updates them if needed, validates the filled-in records if needed.

He’s resigned to taking his sweet time, having a little over an hour to kill before Shane comes by, but he’s only halfway when the door, which he’d left slightly ajar, swings open and Shane appears in the doorway, smiling softly at him.

“Shane!” Ilya says, surprised, though he’s already smiling. He briefly glances at the clock at the bottom of his screen. “You’re early!”

Shane smiles a little sheepishly as Ilya frantically moves, kicking his feet off the chair next to him and turns it towards Shane in easy invitation. “Yes, well,” he says, and Ilya notices immediately how tired he sounds. “We have a student on shift, so he’s technically not on the roster because he’s a student, but he is a nurse already so he does all the things he needs to do during a night shift, so there’s literally nothing for me to do.”

He huffs out an annoyed breath, and Ilya merely blinks at him because, holy shit, Shane Hollander is complaining to him. About work.

“I don’t even have any patients,” he finishes, whining a little bit as he scowls down at his clogs before he, deliberately, kicks them off, tucking his feet up with him on the chair and squeezing them beneath his thigh. He grabs Ilya’s chair and uses it to pull himself tightly against Ilya, their knees gently knocking together.

“That sucks,” Ilya says, when his brain cells start functioning again after staring at Shane’s seated position. He’s not sure he’s ever seen anyone flexible enough to pull off that pose, and here Shane is, comfortable as anything.

“Sorry, I just came in and immediately started complaining.” Shane blows out a breath, angles his upper body in Ilya’s direction, and gives Ilya a sincere, though tired, smile. “Hi,” he says so very sweetly.

“Hello,” Ilya says fondly. “You look tired.”

“Hmm,” Shane acknowledges. “Yeah. I am. Tired,” he clarifies.

“Did you manage to fall back asleep at all?”

A guilty smile tugs slowly at Shane’s lips, and Ilya frowns at him with concern. “Okay,” he says resolutely. “You’re taking a nap.”

“Ilya — no,” Shane protests immediately, watching wearily as Ilya jumps up from his seat and dims the lights as far as they go. It casts the small room in a dim glow, just bright enough that Ilya can still make out Shane’s bewilderment on his face. “What? Why?”

“You look like you need one,” Ilya points out, as he drags another chair with him towards his corner before falling back into his chair and throwing his feet up on his makeshift table.

“The whole point of me coming here was to spend some time together,” Shane points out, an unhappy frown pulling down his brows. Ilya wants to reach out to smooth them out, then remembers that he can, and so he does.

“We are,” he says easily, thumb following the sharp curve of his cheekbone. Shane’s face relaxes, a warm smile replacing the harsh lines from a second ago. “But you need the rest, and I am not done charting yet. I will be very boring for you, Hollander,” he says, teasing.

“You, boring?” Shane replies, arching a brow in amusement. “I thought that was my job.”

“Yes, it is! How unfair!” Ilya cries out, throwing his head back dramatically as he swipes his card against the computer screen, using his badge to log back in.

Shane hums, humouring him, and tries valiantly to lean into Ilya’s space and show interest in what Ilya’s doing. Unfortunately, every time Ilya looks at him, his eyes seem to droop further and further.

“Sweetheart,” Ilya says, trying out the pet name carefully, and he melts a little as Shane positively beams, even though his eyes remain closed. “Do you want a blanket?”

Something nonsensical passes Shane’s lips that must’ve been an answer. Ilya snorts softly, presses his lips against the crown of his head, and then quickly steps out, going for the heating unit built in either sides of the hallway where the heated blankets are stored. He grabs two and wraps one around himself, shivering a little against the chill that creeps into the hospital anyway.

He shuffles back into their little solitary corner and stops dead in his tracks, hovering in the doorway. It appears Shane has finally made himself more comfortable, has fabricated himself a little couch to lay on with the backrest of the chair kicked all the way back, and another chair in front of him to rest his legs on. This, in itself, is nothing to lose any thought on.

He is also, somehow, wearing Ilya’s hoodie.

Black suits him, throws him in darker, more complementary, contrasts than the white of his uniform does. The Raiders’ logo sits proudly across his chest, nearly obscured where Shane has his arms crossed over it. He’s burrowed fully into the collar, the lower half of his face hidden from view.

The sight of it, his favorite person in his favorite team’s merch, would be enough to get him hard as a rock within seconds, and would probably have Shane break up with him for lack of endurance. Instead, soft snores fill the tiny office, and he looks peaceful and relaxed in a way that Ilya feels special just to witness it. It’s so aggressively cute he wants to bite him.

Tip toeing as quietly as he can, he gently drapes the warm blanket over Shane’s curled up frame — he is too big for his current set up, and his thighs are just floating between two chairs and it looks uncomfortable as fuck but also incredibly hilarious — and doesn’t miss the quiet sigh of contentment as Shane burrows even further in on himself, tugging the blanket against himself tightly.

Satisfied, Ilya returns to his computer and quietly continues to work.

By the time Shane startles awake, nearly two hours later, Ilya’s got the television playing on mute, and he’s grossly invested in the latest season of The Ultimatum (queer edition, of course).

“Ow, fuck!” Shane curses, scrubbing a hand harshly over his face to wake himself up. He glances at Ilya, then relaxes back into his chair a little bit as Ilya give him an unconcerned look. “How long was I out for?”

“Nearly two hours,” Ilya tells him cheerily, then grabs the TV remote to put the volume back on. “Did you sleep well?” He swaps the remote for the yogurt he nicked from the kitchen, half eaten.

Shane blinks sheepishly. “I — yes, I guess so. I was pretty out of it.”

Ilya snorts and gives him a fond smile. “That’s an understatement. I fear you would not have heard a bomb go off. I had, maybe, five calls, and none of them woke you up.”

“Shit — sorry — oh, no.” Shane looks horrified, and Ilya is quick to reach out, rubs his thumb soothingly over Shane’s shin.

“No, no! Is fine. Nothing happened. Besides, they are my patients you are just a guest here. I like that you got to rest a little bit.”

Shane looks at him, searching for something he doesn’t find because he relaxes, then stretches with a groan and a rumble about how bad all this must be for his back, and Ilya smiles as he focuses back on the TV, rewinds his show a bit because he missed the pairing off. “I would’ve woken you to eat with us, in a bit,” he says flippantly, feels like it’s important that Shane knows this.

“I know, Ilya. Thank you.” Shane sighs deeply as he rubs his neck, then pauses as he remembers he’s wearing Ilya’s hoodie. “I — uh. I forgot my own, so I —” he trails off, blushing furiously. “I got cold.”

“I don’t mind,” Ilya answers, sacrificing a moment of gleefully watching sour and frustrated lesbians watching their partners paired off with other, hot lesbians to look at Shane. “You look very cute."

The blush intensifies, and Ilya returns his attention back to his show with a deep sense of smugness. Next to him, Shane smiles a bit, bashfully, but then settles back in his seat, folds the — by now cooled — blanket in his lap and squints up at the TV. “What the fuck are you watching?”

“The Ultimatum,” Ilya says, already grossly invested again. On screen, the girls are all interviewed to give their opinions on their partner’s new partners, and while some of them are concerned, there are a few who are downright cocky, saying that this “new relationship” won’t mean anything, that their partner is loyal to them and their relationship. Ilya sniggers. “That’s not going to end well,” he predicts in a conspiring tone.

Shane blinks. “Please explain what I’m looking at.”

Ilya sits up, abruptly punching the ‘pause’ button on his laptop which he uses to stream it, and turns to face Shane. “Right. So. The Ultimatum is about a show where two people are together, yes? And then one of them wants to get married. The other one doesn’t. So they have the brilliant idea to do The Ultimatum, where they break up, enter a ‘trial marriage’ with someone else for three weeks, then go back to their original partners for another ‘trial marriage’, and by the end, they need to decide if they want to get engaged or break up forever.” He pauses, takes a breath. “It’s fucking great.”

Carefully, really carefully, Shane stares at him, and then says, “They’re all women, though?”

And Ilya, he can’t help it, he laughs a little and says, “Harold, they’re lesbians!”

“Oh!” Shane blushes more furiously than before. “I knew that. I just didn’t want to assume.”

Ilya just looks at him with a cocked eyebrow, amusement clear on his face but decides to let it go. “Right, so what you’ve missed is the dating period, where they all mingle and go on dates with girls who are not their current partner, and try to see if they find anyone they feel a “connection” with.” He uses air quotes at ‘connection’. “Basically, if they find someone hot and want to fuck.”

Shane makes a small, strangled noise. “Right.”

“Yeah. So now they have matched up all the ladies, and now we will follow the trial marriages for a couple of eps. It’s going to get so messy so fast.”

It might be possible he’s enjoying this a little too much, but when Sveta had introduced him to the first season during Christmas, the two of them cocooned in blankets on his couch and eating pints of ice cream while Ilya had been nursing his broken heart, he’d found he really enjoyed this show and had gotten unironically invested.

“I… see,” Shane says, like a man who doesn’t see it at all, not even remotely. Still, he watches quietly as Ilya highly enjoys himself and settles in, occasionally asking Ilya for clarification like he’s trying to get it, just for Ilya.

“So, is there, like, a male version too?” Shane asks as the end credits roll. He stands, stretching out his back a little, and Ilya disconnect his laptop, following suit.

He shakes his head. “No, unfortunately. I don’t know why. There’s just the straight version — boring — and the lesbian one, that’s called the Queer Edition. But what if there was? I think it would be fucking great!”

Shane shakes his head. “I will never understand why people voluntarily sign up for these kinds of shows. Like, would you want to break up and have a fake marriage with someone else for three weeks?” He looks at Ilya, then. “Can you imagine if we signed up for something as stupid?”

For a brief moment, Ilya can imagine it, spending some weeks on a sunny location, Shane in nothing but some swimming trunks and some make up to appear so fucking pretty and hot on the television. But then, the realization that they’ll break up, and having to watch Shane enter a marriage with some other loser who definitely won’t deserve him and be out of reach for three whole weeks for Ilya…

The spike of jealousy strikes hard and hot and has Ilya stare at Shane darkly for a moment, irrationally irritated over a hypothetical scenario that can’t even happen in real life.

The possessive side of Ilya is incredibly pleased when he finds Shane already staring back at him, a similar look of outrage on his face. Shane glances quickly out of the office, finds the hallway empty, and then he pushes Ilya back into the farthest, darkest corner of the small office, his hands gripping Ilya tight enough at his waist to bruise.

“No,” Shane murmurs quietly, though not any less intense, before he’s on Ilya, kissing him, lips parting immediately as he seeks out Ilya’s tongue. It’s filthy, in the way only Shane can make it, wet and hot and demanding. He sucks on Ilya’s bottom lip, softly nibbles on it, and Ilya groans, his hands wandering down his body, trying to bury beneath the hoodie only to be met with his scrubs and he’s wearing too many goddamn layers —

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya breathes, when they break apart to gasp for breath, and Ilya immediately tilts his head, nuzzling into the soft skin just beneath his jaw, lips caressing his pulse point for a bit before he, gently, worries the skin between his teeth.

Shane keens, presses even further into Ilya, as far as he can go, like he wants to crawl inside of Ilya and has to settle instead for the next best thing. Ilya can feel the hard outline of his cock against his thigh — thank you, scrubs, for hiding nothing — and Ilya snakes a hand down their bodies, palms him roughly over the soft material.

“I know I said ‘never again’,” Shane gasps, and his hands are wound tight into his collar, into his hair. But then he stops. But. There’s a definite but in there, and Ilya feels insane, is already reaching out to unzip the hoodie, has a brief flash of possibilities, but all of them end with Shane, naked beneath him, folded over the desk as Ilya stakes his claim, fucking him hard and deep and possessively just the way Shane likes.

“But,” Ilya says instead, swallowing past his parched mouth. He presses a small, apologetic kiss against the reddened skin of his neck and lingers there, taking a moment to breathe.

Slowly, that frantic, all consuming energy dissipates between them. Shane is still plastered against him, but he seems calmer, steadying, and he’s taking deep, even breaths that Ilya finds he’s matching.

Shane snorts, and it breaks the tranquil, warm atmosphere.

Ilya looks at him, then, looks in those warm, brown eyes that are shining with mirth and a little bit of self-deprecation, and promptly laughs along with him. “Fuck,” he says, and he gently pushes Shane aside, steps out of that corner, away from the wall that’s slowly biting into his back.

He has to adjust his pants, which Shane tracks with a look of naked hunger and no small part of utter satisfaction. “Smug bastard,” Ilya says, calling him out on it, and Shane just raises an eyebrow, gestures at Ilya.

“Teapot, kettle.”

Ilya shrugs, unbothered because, well, it’s true, isn’t it.

He steps back into Shane’s space, hands twisting into the soft material of his hoodie. He loves that hoodie, but now he doesn’t particularly want it back, if it means he’ll get to see it on Shane more often. Preferably always. “It suits you,” he says quietly, genuinely. “You should wear it more often.” He leans in, brushes his lips over Shane’s, a tease. “Maybe I’ll fuck you while you’re wearing it.”

“Oh my god.” Shane huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes. “I did not realize you’d be this possessive, Rozanov,” he says, but Ilya is watching his eyes, can see the idea take root in Shane’s brain, can see the lust as he imagines it.

“What, no,” Ilya says, a cocky smirk stretching his lips. “It is just hot, having you scream my name while you’re wearing a Raiders’ hoodie. I think my team will really appreciate it. Will be good for morale and definitely take us to the play-offs next year.”

“Wow, asshole,” Shane laughs, shoving Ilya playfully. He doesn’t move to take it off. Ilya’s definitely won the lottery. “Let’s go eat, maybe? It’s past three already.”

Ilya’s head whips up to the clock mounted on the wall and softly curses. “Shit. Right.” He gives Shane another small peck, just because he can, now, and because it makes Shane’s eyes flutter closed so prettily as he kisses Ilya back, always, body leaning in to chase him and extend the kiss with a few more precious seconds. “I just — will go do my rounds real quick.” He tugs on one of the strings of his hoodie. “You go warm up your food, I will be back here in a second.”

“Don’t you want to join your colleagues?”

Ilya pokes his head out of the office and eyes the fishbowl in the middle of the hallways. “No,” he says. “They’ve started without us. That’s fine. I’d rather spend this break with you, anyway.”

“Rude,” Shane mumbles, as he gathers his Tupperware out of his bag. “I’ll wait for you. Do you want me to heat up your food as well?”

Ilya grimaces. “I just took some yogurt and granola from home, and I finished my leftovers earlier tonight — I got hungry,” he confesses, feeling a little awkward and inadequate. “And I finished those earlier. It’s fine — I can eat when I get home.” That’s technically a lie, but Shane doesn’t need to know about that. He’ll figure out how he’ll get some food. It’s not the first time his budget ended up non-existent and he’d have to make do with scraps.

He can always try and eat at Bood’s, or at Cliff’s — they won’t ask any hard questions and are more than happy to host Ilya for a meal or two. Cassie, bless her, always ends up shoving multiple Tupperwares filled to the brink with dinners in his arms.

Shane looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “But, baby,” he says, sounding distressed even if Ilya reels a little bit by being called ‘baby’ so casually. “That’s not enough to sustain yourself. Night shifts are the hardest shifts there are. You need the fuel, a proper meal, or you’ll end up feeling sick.”

Ilya shrugs. “I’ve had worse,” he says casually. Shane frowns even harder at that, and Ilya is left scrambling. “Really, don’t worry about me. I ate earlier, I promise. Worst case I’ll just raid the patient kitchens.”

Shane’s lips pull down as he frowns unhappily. “Go do your rounds,” he says. “I’m just heating this up, then.”

“Right, okay.” He feels a little off, so he hesitates a little before he steps out, putting on his small flashlight. He’s not entirely sure what he’s done to warrant that disapproving look from Shane — he has eaten, and he will eat whatever he can find in the kitchen, most likely something like crackers if he’s lucky. It’s fine. He’s hardly the only nurse here who barely eats during the night — he knows enough people who don’t manage to eat anything at all. The only difference is that Ilya can definitely use a meal, but that hardly counts.

His rounds are unexciting, all his patients sleeping soundly. There are quite the few snores, which always makers Ilya huff out an amused breath.

He checks Foleys, empties a few and writes down how much urine he disposes of. His PTC-drain, positioned in the gallbladder because of cholecystitis, is nearly dry with minimal production and he writes that down, too, puts in an additional note that the day shift can maybe ask the resident physician if it can be removed. His patient is looking a lot less icteric too, the yellow tones gradually going down as far as Ilya can make out in the dim lights.

He returns to his and Shane’s small haven after nearly ten minutes, and walks into the aromatic smells of rice steaming on the table, grilled vegetables and salmon. It’s mouth-watering. “That smells amazing,” he says, which he nearly immediately regrets. He regrets even more the way his stomach grumbles in appreciation.

“It does,” Shane says, as he moves around the table and pointedly sets down a second plate across from him, cutlery included. “My dad is an amazing cook — but you know this. He usually insists on cooking for me when I have my nights, because he knows how badly I handle them. I wish I was as good as cooking as he is, but I’m just not that patient, honestly.”

“That’s very sweet,” Ilya says, while he hovers, a little unsure where to go from here.

Shane gives him a tight look. “Will you sit down? It’s best when it’s hot, still.”

And, “Oh,” he says, then quickly sits down across from Shane, who’s already using one of the big spoons to dish out the meal, dividing it between two plates.

“I hope you like salmon.”

“I do,” Ilya says, eyeing his plate hungrily before Shane hands it to him. “You didn’t have to, you know. Now you have less food.”

Shane shrugs easily. “I wanted to, and I’ll survive. I usually don’t finish the whole meal, divide it at home into smaller containers because my dad thinks I am still on my hockey diet. I don’t eat that much anymore, but it’s nice that I have emergency food in my freezer.” He gives Ilya a reassuring smile. “Really, this meal is for two, trust me. I just didn’t have time to split it up earlier — now I’m happy I didn’t. I’d rather we both enjoy this.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing besides a very humble, “Thank you.”

“Alright, bon appetit.”

They dig in.

“Fuck, Shane. This is good.” Ilya moans around his first bite. Somehow, the rice is still soft and rich, like it’s fresh from the cooker, the grilled vegetables and salmon a complementary addition. There’s a very subtle sauce added to the meal, enhancing the flavors. “If this doesn’t work out,” he says between bites, gesturing between himself and Shane, “I might have to marry your father.”

Shane snorts as he grabs a new bite. He’s brought his own chop sticks, Ilya notices. “Good luck with that. He’s obsessed with my mother.”

“That’s okay. I can be very persuasive.” He winks as Shane looks at him blankly.

“Sure,” he says, dismissively.

Ilya makes a sound of protest. “What? I managed to get you, did I not.”

“Sure,” Shane says again, but now he’s smirking down into his food, coyly looking up at Ilya from beneath his lashes. “Except that I approached, you, though. So really I managed to get you.”

Ilya shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s right.” He takes another bite. “If I hadn’t pursued you, we would still be strangers. Vague acquaintances at most.”

“Pursued me?” Shane asks. “When did you pursue me, exactly?”

“Well, you know,” and Ilya gestures around, in a general ‘you know’ kind of motion. “Spending lunches, inviting you to my running group, that first night shift…”

The left side of Shane’s mouth curves up. “Oh, sure,” he agrees readily. “We’ll settle, then, on me letting you pursue me, how’s that.”

Ilya squints his eyes at Shane, who still looks much too amused. “Fine,” he settles after a moment of contemplation. He can’t deny that’s probably true, too. Shane’s sought him out a lot as well — if he hadn’t, Ilya for sure would’ve given up eventually.

Dinner is pleasant, and they remain seated at the table, as Ilya breaks out a deck of cards and starts to teach Shane how to play Durak, a game his mama had taught him when he was young and which they used to play all the time, him and mama and Alexei. It’s only played with cards up from 6, and its adjective is getting rid of his cards as soon as possible. The last one with remaining cards is the Durak, or The Fool. They each draw six cards from the deck, and turn over the top card to determine the trump suit. Then, the attacking player draws a card from his deck, which the defending player (or players, if there are more than just two), need to beat the card by a) picking a higher number of the same suit, or b) play a trump suit. Or; if the defender has the same number, they can add it to the played card on the table and give the cards back to the attacker, so that he’ll have to defend both the cards. They keep adding cards until one of them can’t add another card, or doesn’t have the trump suit. If the defender successfully defends, the cards are discarded and the next player, Shane in this case, starts the next attack. If the defender can’t play a card, he must pick up the just played cards.

It’s relatively easy, and Shane gets it within the first round after they’ve played a round of open cards. It’s a perfect game to play in the middle of the night — it’s fast paced enough that they’re through the deck in a couple of rounds, and it keeps you hooked enough to force you to remain sharp eyed.

Ilya wins the first round, much to Shane’s dismay, who appears more competitive than Ilya had given him credit for. They get competitive enough that Ilya closes the door of the office, afraid they’ll wake up patients with their bickering, that’s slowly getting more and more loud.

“Fuck yes!” Shane whoops, when he’s the first to clear his hand. Ilya, dismayed, throws his full hand down on the table, squinting at Shane. “You cheated.”

Shane gasps. “The fuck I did.” But he’s got a smugness to him that definitely says he got away with something Ilya should’ve noticed.

“Oh! You bastard!” Ilya laughs. “You threw spades instead of cloves! I should’ve seen it!”

“Took you long enough,” Shane says drily, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This was fun!”

They both look up at the clock, and Shane heaves a sigh. It’s a little past four. “I should probably go back down,” he says, sounding like he’s sorry. “Though I doubt they missed me — not one text where the hell I’ve gone.”

Ilya clicks his tongue dismissively. “They do not deserve you.”

“I wish I could’ve stayed home, though. They clearly do not need me to supervise our student.” He shrugs, fingers toying with the zipper absentmindedly. “Ah well, I’m in it now anyway, and it’s better, knowing I can come up and see you.” He smiles shyly at Ilya then, who feels like he’ll melt into a puddle of lovesick goo.

“Feel free to come by any time,” he says sincerely. He opens his arms wide in invitation. “As you can see, I’m quite on my own here as well."

“Hmm, lucky us,” Shane mutters, as he bends over Ilya and gives him a sweet, lingering kiss. “I will see you tomorrow. Sleep well.”

“Good luck down there,” Ilya says, and he watches him go. Fortunately, Shane leaves the hoodie behind, and Ilya brings it up to his face, inhaling the familiar scent of Shane, warm amber and citrus and jasmine.

The second night, in Ilya’s professional opinion, is the best night. You’re tired enough from the first night that you sleep really well during the day, and Ilya wakes up early evening. He feels fresh and alert in a way that rivals the day shift. There’ll be no nodding off tonight, no need for small power naps. He starts his day like he would any other, but treats himself to a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and, feeling in a particularly good mood, starts baking American pancakes. He bakes enough for two, sets three to the side and wraps the rest, once cooled, with aluminum foil to take with him to work, throws in a small jar of maple syrup.

There’s been little to no change at work, especially on Ilya’s side — he’s met with the exact same patients as last night, no one got dismissed and so no one got admitted, since there are no open beds on his side of the hallway. On the other side, there’s two new patients and one open bed, but the charge nurse has assured them the ER is, surprisingly, really quiet.

It’s nothing his two colleagues can’t handle, anyway, so they remain in the fishbowl for half an hour to chat amicably and talk about some expected hiccups — there are none, so that’s fast, at least — and then they each go to do their own thing — Celeste and Amber end up sitting side by side, bent over a the small screen of an iPad, leaving Ilya to his own devices. “I’m just, going to —” and he points at the small office on his own side of the hallway, and they wave him off without looking at him at all. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Call us if you need help.”

“Likewise,” Ilya says, muttering a silent, “Rude!” beneath his breath as he retreats into his own nest and settles in for the night.

He goes through the motions — checking on his patients, distributing medicine, cleaning up the designated section of the department — and ends up back on his chair even faster than last night. It’s a good thing Shane will come by again; if he won’t, it’s going to be a fucking long night.

It’s barely a quarter past two when Shane slips into the office. “Hi.”

“Hello again,” Ilya smiles up at him from where he’s burrowed himself in some warm blankets, the TV once again playing The Ultimatum — he’s even filled in his charts already. A small thrill passes through Ilya as Shane bends down and presses a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips. Is this what they do now? Kiss each other hello and goodbye? Ilya’s not entirely sure he’ll survive it.

“Did you sleep?” Ilya asks, eyeing Shane with concern as Shane flops down into the chair next to Ilya, throwing off his clogs and settling his feet up on the chair next to Ilya’s. He doesn’t necessarily look worse than yesterday, though the circles around his eyes are as dark and prominent as they were yesterday.

Silently, Ilya holds out his hoodie, and Shane takes it with a knowing but grateful smile. He shrugs it on, zips it up all the way to the top and sighs contently as he pulls the sleeves over his hands, burrowing into it.

“Hm? Yeah, a little better than yesterday. Got into bed around nine and woke around three, so… Six? Hours? Tried to go back to sleep and managed it eventually, but I feel like that fucked me up more than it did me any good. I still feel a little wobbly.” He grimaces. “I overslept, didn’t even have time for some breakfast. I’m feeling that, now.”

“Oh,” Ilya says, brightening slightly. “Do you like pancakes? I baked some, I should have enough.” He reaches down besides his chair to drag his bag closer to himself, unearthing the wrapped package freshly baked pancakes. “They’re banana pancakes,” he explains, holding them up.

“You baked pancakes?” Shane asks, blinking at him.

“I — yes. I’d thought you’d like them.” Ilya shrugs noncommittally. “But it’s fine if you don’t. More for me, I love these things.”

“The banana ones are the best ones,” Shane says, nodding. “Full of protein too.”

“Exactly! And I added in some extra protein powder, too, so they’re good enough for work." Ilya jumps up from his chair. “I’ll heat those babies up. Give me a minute.”

He rushes to the kitchen, unwraps his pancakes and throws them in the microwave for a minute, grabbing plates and cutlery in the meantime. When he gets back, Shane has arranged the office in a similar way as the night before — the table, now empty, set in the middle, the chairs on either side of it so they end up facing each other.

Ilya sets his breakfast down with a flourish, and Shane ends up inhaling most of them, starts looking a little less green around the edges as he gets some food in his stomach. He looks a little less tired, too, some alertness returning to his eyes, and Ilya breathes a little easier, then.

“Those were pretty good,” Shane compliments, sitting back in his chair and watching with amusement as Ilya uses the last of his pancake to wipe his plate clean of any stray drops of maple syrup. Shane has declined, had gone for some honey instead, and Ilya has made it a mental note to take honey with him the next time he’ll make pancakes.

“Yes, I agree,” Ilya smiles. “I’m glad you liked them.”

Shane hums. He looks curiously at him for a moment, clearly weighing the benefits for asking something versus letting it lie. He decides on the latter, and Ilya blinks at him a little, but doesn’t get into it either. In truth, he’s not sure he’ll have an answer for Shane’s inquiries.

They mutually decide to resume last nights’ activities, and Ilya is fast to continue watching The Ultimatum. Shane, prepared this time, fishes a small crossword puzzle book out of his bag and a pencil, and starts to frown down at his page as he begins solving a Swedish crossword.

Ilya casts a curious glance at his page, is surprised to see half the puzzle is already filled in. “I don’t like those,” he comments. “The words don’t make sense to me.”

“I can see why you say that,” Shane replies, his eyes not leaving his page. “It’s hard even if it’s your native language. Though, it does get easier when you learn to recognize which connections to make. There’s usually some kind of standard answer for questions that’s used for all puzzles. Once you start to know those, it becomes easier to fill them out.”

“Sure,” Ilya says doubtfully, and he tries to get his attention back to the screen. Instead, his eyes remain glued on Shane’s beautiful face, minutely taking in the way the tip of his tongue darts out between his lips when he’s deep in thought and is committing to writing down a word, pencil scribbling down his answer. To Ilya’s amusement, Shane immediately flips to the back of the book and hums in satisfaction as his answer proves the right one.

“I think that’s technically cheating.”

“I don’t look!” Shane defends immediately. “It’s just — if it’s wrong, it’s going to fuck up the rest of the puzzle. I just check the ones I’m not sure about.”

“Right,” Ilya agrees readily, nodding a little.

Shane squints at him. Ilya shrugs his shoulders innocently. “Ugh, go back to your stupid show.”

“Is not stupid,” Ilya says, only slightly offended. “It’s very, how do you say. Riveting.”

Shane rolls his eyes and dives deeper into his puzzle, intentionally ignoring Ilya.

Ilya tries to pay attention to the beefing couples on TV — some of these fake marriages are not clicking at all, while some others are already having full on sex and then proceed to lie about it during their interviews. Unfortunately, his mind is convinced watching Shane complete his stupid puzzle is a lot more important.

“Ilya.”

Ilya, whose mind had been wandering blissfully, his head resting in the palm of his hand, snaps back to attention. “Yes?”

The left side of Shane’s mouth curves up. “You’re staring.”

“Am not.”

“No? Then what are you doing?”

“I am wondering if you could be any more boring,” Ilya says, gesturing at the completed puzzle. “This is what old people do when they have nothing left to do but wait for death.”

“Ilya, that’s rude.” It’s clear Shane doesn’t take offense, though, since he’s still smiling — barely, but it lights up his face like a beacon. It will always be a mystery to Ilya, how other people barely seem to notice just how expressive Shane really is. You just need to pay attention.

“You’re doing a Swedish crossword puzzle,” Ilya states, “in the middle of the night. I am a little worried about your welfare.”

Shane’s lips curve back, revealing a row of perfect white teeth as his smile grows into a grin. “Wow. Well, I appreciate your concern.” He cuts Ilya an amused look, and Ilya notices his eyes are a little red.

“Are your eyes bothering you?” Ilya asks, all teasing replaced by concern.

“Ah, yeah. A little. Which has nothing to do with me doing crosswords in the middle of the night.”

Ilya puts his hands up. “I didn’t say anything.”

“It’s just — these fucking contacts,” Shane grumbles, blinking rapidly a few times and then squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “I might have to take them out — somehow they are more bothersome during nights. Maybe because I am tired.”

He blinks some stray tears out of his eyes and rummages around in his bag, pulling out a sleek, black case, a small mirror and a small container with some contact fluid. Stalling it all out on the table, he quickly washes his hands in the small kitchenette between the two patient rooms next to the office, then makes quick work of getting his contacts out of his eyes.

Sighing in relief, he pulls out his glasses, sliding them up his nose until they’re settled neatly on the bridge of his nose.

Ilya’s pretty sure Shane’s out to murder him tonight. “Oh, my god,” he mouths quietly to himself, remains staring at Shane’s profile, enhanced by the sleek black framed glasses now proudly perched on his face. They make his eyes seem even bigger, complement his freckles even more. He looks so hot Ilya wants to swallow him whole.

“Oh my god. Shane. Don’t do this to me,” Ilya groans, and Shane turns to face him, frowns at him.

“Do what?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“Ugh,” Ilya groans, more dramatic this time, but no less earnest. “Look like that. I will not survive it.”

Comprehension dawns on Shane’s face, his mouth forming a small, perfect ‘o’. “They’re just glasses? They’re not that special.”

“Not special?” Ilya cries out, outraged. “Not special?”

“Really, though,” Shane mutters, but he’s starting to look a little bashful now. “It’s not like they were expensive or anything. Really, I just have them on the side, for like, at home or in emergencies like right now, when my contacts start to hurt my eyes. I rarely wear them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ilya says, reaching out to trace the frame, then following the curves of the apples of his cheeks, seeking out his freckles. “You look perfect.”

Shane crashes into him, then, drawing him in to a kiss that starts a little frantic but ends surprisingly sweet.

“Go back to your stupid show,” Shane says fondly, as he fingers at a stray curl draping itself over Ilya’s forehead, tucking it back gently.

“I give up,” Ilya says, blindly reaching for the remote to turn the TV off. Leaning in again, he mutters the words against Shane’s lips. “I’d rather be doing this, anyway.”

They trade kisses for a while, neither of them in much of a hurry to be doing anything else. It’s quiet too, nearly eerily so; the only sounds that filter in from beyond their little cocoon are the occasional snore, or the occasional beep from the IV pumps.

It’s so easy to lose track of time like this, when Ilya’s sense are flooded by, nearly consumed by Shane. It’s a little terrifying how easily he falls into this, this easy display of affection so readily given. The small kisses that remain small, that don’t have the urgency to lead somewhere else, neither of them in a hurry to move things along and instead just basking in whatever this is. It’s precious, and it’s theirs for as long as Shane will have him, and for now that is enough.

They both startle badly when Ilya’s alarm goes off. Shane nearly leaps a meter into the air while Ilya curses loudly, untangling his fingers from his — Shane’s? — hoodie. “Fuck! I forgot I’d set that.”

Shane’s eyes had immediately sought out the clock. “Oh! Smart. I usually set alarms, too, especially on slow nights like these.” He smiles shyly at Ilya. “Though I wouldn’t have minded it, if you hadn’t set one.”

“Me neither,” Ilya smiles back. He turns to stand. “But duty calls. I am starving.”

“Good! Because I brought you dinner!” Shane beams at him as he lifts up the small cooling bag he’d been carrying alongside his backpack, triumphantly showing Ilya the two Tupperware containers. “I made these, so be nice,” Shane warns, as he hands Ilya one of the containers. Ilya cracks open the lid and eyes the two nearly wrapped wraps. He’s not entirely sure what’s inside it, but the smell that greets him has his mouth watering, spices and herbs used generously.

“You cooked?”

“I tried,” Shane corrects, which is highly unnecessary in Ilya’s opinion. It smells fucking divine. “It’s my dad’s recipe, but it was a recipe for four pieces, and it felt like a waste to throw them out because this is not something you can easily freeze, so I thought —”

“What, you couldn’t have cut the recipe in half?” Ilya interjects teasingly, effectively cutting off Shane’s rambling that was getting on the verge of a little too panicky.

“Oh.” Shane stills, diverting his gaze. “I could’ve, yes.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. More food for me,” Ilya says, lightening the mood a little as Shane snorts, mutters a small “Asshole,” beneath his breath. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he continues carefully, holding up the container. “It smells really fucking good. So I’m going to see if all my patients are still breathing, yes? And then we’ll eat.”

“I’ll go warm them up,” Shane smiles, taking the container back from Ilya before heading to the kitchen.

The wraps are as good as they smell, and Ilya devours them in record time. Shane is humming with every other bite with satisfaction. “I’ll text my dad real quick, let him know this recipe is a keeper.”

“Thank him from me as well,” Ilya says, as he continues to lick off his fingers.

Shane looks at him them, really looks at him, and Ilya feels stripped bare for a moment before Shane nods. “I will.”

Shane lingers for a while, baits Ilya into another few rounds of various card games, where he remains opposite of Ilya and, as far as Ilya is concerned, uses that to his advantage by looking at Ilya over the rim of his glasses. Ilya immediately loses train of thought and knows he’s wasted quite a few hands that way.

Shane just looks incredibly pleased.

His pager goes off around four thirty. “Ah,” Shane grimaces. “I was wondering how long it would take. Guess they need me back.” He looks apologetically at Ilya as he stands.

“Just ignore them,” Ilya jokes, though he’s actually quite serious.

Shane cocks an eyebrow at him. “Would you?”

“No,” Ilya admits, as he moves towards the door, opening it for Shane. Leaning against the doorframe, he watches as Shane gathers his things and carefully takes the hoodie off. “You should take it,” Ilya says on a whim.

Shane pauses. “Really?”

His heart is beating so fast. “Yes, of course.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “You can give it back tomorrow.”

Shane’s smile is blinding. “I’ll wash it,” he promises. He presses a small kiss to the corner of Ilya’s mouth, gives him one last look over his shoulder, the glasses on his face gleaming in the dim light enticingly, and leaves Ilya alone, leaning against the doorframe of his office and wondering when, exactly, this became his life.

Chapter 17: 17 before you came

Chapter Summary

Ilya blinks at him. “That’s — really kind of you, Shane,” he says, gratefully. Then, teasingly, “Mr. Identity Fraud.”

“Oh Christ,” Shane groans. “Stop it.”

“Mr. Criminal.”

“Fuck off.”

Chapter Notes

Part 2! Enjoy!! 💓

The third night hits like a sledgehammer. He’d gotten home at 8.15am that morning and, after a brief shower, had climbed straight into bed. He sleeps like the dead, but wakes up briefly around two completely disorientated, a sense of vertigo flooding his senses. The nausea hits like a tidal wave, and he stumbles into his kitchen by willpower alone, forces some salted crackers down his throat and washes it down with a couple glasses of water. He lingers there for half an hour, maybe, staring at the electric kettle like it might turn itself on if he stares at it hard enough.

It doesn’t.

The itch for nicotine hits sudden and demanding, and Ilya, who hasn’t smoked in three weeks, is fighting a losing battle. He ends up sitting on his counter, cracking open the window to let the smoke escape.

He’d liked it, the way Shane hadn’t hesitated to pull on Ilya’s clothes, had seem so incredibly happy to take his hoodie home with him, and not once had he pulled up his nose on the lingering stench of nicotine. It’s something he wants more of, in the (near) future.

This, he vows as he stares at the burning end of his cigarette, is the last one he’ll ever smoke.

He crawls back into bed an hour and a half later, falls asleep for another fifty minutes or so, but when he wakes up after that, he knows there’s no chance he’ll fall back asleep. He doesn’t feel rested, feels the fatigue down to the marrow of his bones. His thought process is slow, like his brain is one step behind on processing whatever is going on around him. He lies down on his couch, settles on some reality program and finds that parsing English is a task the poor mush of his brain is not up for. So, saving his energy for tonight it is and he drifts off, balancing on the edge of sleep but never quite reaching it, waiting for his alarm to tell him it’s time to go.

Unsurprisingly, there are no changes in patients. There aren’t even any differences for Amber and Celeste either, who appear nearly as haggard as Ilya. As the evening shift chats with the three of them, having concluded their activities for the night nearly two hours ago, they had been waiting for them to show up and had nothing to report, the two women sound relieved when they mention it is their third shift of three.

Ilya groans inwardly. Not only does he have one more night on his roster, it also means a change of guard. Even if he isn’t exactly friends with the two girls, and he would’ve been bored to death if Shane hadn’t been coming by, they’d given him the opportunity to spend uninterrupted time with him. He doesn’t know if his colleagues tomorrow will allow for the same.

The evening shift break out the snacks and some sodas and seem more than content to hang out, since most of them are on the last shift of their respective rosters as well. It helps, being surrounded by a group this lively, and for a moment Ilya thinks he might actually pull through tonight. He chugs down a coffee, setting as strong as it goes, and then another. It’s mostly weekend plans being discussed, and some latest gossip about the last new group of medical interns that had gotten introduced just last week.

They have to shove the group out when it’s nearly 12.30am, the lot of them leaving a bit more rowdy than appropriate, and Ilya can see some of the lights flickering on in a few patients’ rooms. He starts his rounds, apologizes on behalf of his colleagues for the noise, and goes through the motions of his shift. He tries to remain busy for a while, takes a bit longer on his rounds, listens to some music as he reviews the medicine cart, distributing for the next day.

Nevertheless, he’s back in his chair by two. He shoots Shane a text, wondering if he’s still coming (yes), and what time he’s going to be here.

H 🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Sorry, it is actually a little more busy here tonight. I will be a little later, probably closer to three :(

H 🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Coming as fast as I can.

It is a testament to how tired Ilya really is, because he can’t think on turning that phrase into anything suggestive.

He’s actually cold tonight, and so he gathers some heated blankets and piles them on, even when he knows this is, technically, a very bad idea when he’s this tired. Resolved to stay awake, he opens his computer, stares a bit at the blinking cursor in his patients’ charts, means to fill it in so that he won’t have to do it early in the morning, and then promptly falls asleep.

He drifts back into consciousness gradually — it’s not the best sleep he’s ever had, nor has it been the longest, but it’s been a nice enough nap, enough that he feels slightly less like a walking corpse and a little more like himself, even if the fatigue is persistently lingering.

Things are different than when he’d nodded off. His neck hurts where he’d rested it in an unnatural angle — his back is killing him. He keeps his eyes stubbornly closed, but he can hear the TV playing in the background — he’s entirely sure he hadn’t turned it on in the first place, so that’s… Odd. It’s set to a sports channel, Ilya can hear the commentators discuss the game between the Anaheim Geese and Las Vegas Squires, recently concluded in Anaheim’s favor by the sound of it.

The blanket around his shoulders is, curiously, warm. That definitely makes no sense, the blasted things cool down within ten minutes. Which means that it must’ve been recently replaced by someone.

And then there’s the definite presence of another human being in his proximity, a source of warmth that’s so very close to him. The gentle sound of breathing that’s not his own, following a different rhythm.

Ilya groans.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Shane says, deeply amused, and Ilya’s eyes snap open.

“Fuck,” he says with feeling, forcing himself upright. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes aggressively, presses the heels of his palms slightly into his eye sockets. Breathes in; breathes out.

“Take your time.” Ilya risks a peek out of the corner of his eye, and sees Shane sprawled comfortably across his chair in another pose that should physically not be comfortable at all, if attainable in the first place. His attention is on the TV, and there’s a satisfied curve to the corner of his mouth — it must’ve been a good game. “Shut-out for Anaheim,” he remarks, glancing briefly at Ilya and finds him already looking.

“Great,” Ilya says, meaning it deeply. Fuck Las Vegas. “How long was I out for?”

“Not sure,” Shane says, and he’s looking far too amused, so that doesn’t bode well. “But you were out cold when I got here a little over two. And it’s now, well. A little over a half past four, actually.”

Horror floods Ilya’s senses. “Why the fuck didn’t you wake me up?!” he cries, launching himself off his chair.

Shane shrugs easily. “You looked like you needed the sleep, and you missed exactly zero calls. Your coworkers didn’t check up on you once, though — I’d discuss that with Brandon, if I were you. I did your three AM rounds — I’ve filled in the fluid balances where needed, emptied some Foleys, replaced some saline drips and made sure all of them were breathing. They’re all dead asleep, Ilya, you didn’t miss anything exciting.”

He blushes a little, fingers toying with the hem of the sleeves. He’s going to ruin them, Ilya thinks idly. He can’t find it in himself to particularly care. “I, uh, might’ve used your badge to log you in, though. I know that’s bad — but I thought it would be weirder still why I would’ve been in your patient files. I’ve added in some charts on your patients. Feel free to change it up or delete it if it’s irrelevant or wildly different from how you’d put it. Though,” Shane muses, “I did go back to your previous night to see how you put stuff down. I think I’ve done a pretty good job.”

Ilya blinks at him. “That’s — really kind of you, Shane,” he says, gratefully. Then, teasingly, “Mr. Identity Fraud.”

“Oh Christ,” Shane groans. “Stop it.”

“Mr. Criminal.”

“Fuck off.”

“Who knew you were such a baddie, Shane.”

“Baddie?” Shane asks, slightly outraged. “Baddie?! Who the fuck teaches you these words?”

Ilya laughs, shrugging. “There are a lot of us Gen Z’ers,” he says. “As a fellow Gen Z, they keep me in the loop on the latest lingo trends.”

“Ilya,” Shane deadpans, utterly serious. “You are a Millennial. It’s important to me that you know this.”

“Am not. Maybe you are.”

“What? Yes of course I am! Just like you.”

“Is lie,” Ilya says, grinning maniacally. “Liar told you that.”

“We’re literally a month apart in birthdays,” Shane says exasperated, but the twinkle in his eye is telling Ilya he’s allowing Ilya to rage bait him and is enjoying this senseless debate endlessly.

Ilya shakes his head. “We’re not the same.”

Shane snorts. “Fuck off, you idiot.”

They grin at each other, and then Ilya, as apparently it is his thing now, softly says, “Hi.”

“Hey,” Shane replies, sounding equally fond.

“You should’ve woken me,” Ilya says, and he’s a little sad about it as he stares up at the clock mounted on the wall above the doorframe. Their time together has been cut so very short, now that Ilya had fallen asleep. “You didn’t need to do my work for me, and I would’ve liked to spend time with you awake. You must leave soon now, right?”

“I should,” Shane replies, but he seems unconcerned about it. “But I’m on shift with Wilson and J.J., along with our new student Leslie, so they technically sent me home, since this is the fourth night for me where I had jack shit to do.” He shrugs easily. “So, is it alright if I stay here?” He looks at Ilya hopefully, then, as Ilya blinks owlishly at him.

“You’d rather stay here, with me, than go home and get some rest?”

“I’m not tired,” Shane says, like he’s rehearsed a few bullet points to convince Ilya of an argument Ilya had no intention to even start a fight on. “Going home and getting to bed would do me more harm than good, at this point. And I’m actually on roster tomorrow, so I thought I might as well stay and stay in this rhythm, if that’s alright.”

Ilya stares at him, while Shane waits, looking back at him with ease. He looks a lot better, in fact. Though the dark circles are still there, bruises beneath his eyes, they are a lot less intense tonight, and his face has a much healthier color to it, opposite the ghostly white of the previous few nights. He looks like he’s decently-rested. So, sure, Ilya is willing to believe Shane’s found his rhythm again and isn’t willing to fuck it up, and going home in the middle of the night will only result in getting into bed. But mostly Ilya is just selfish, and won’t ever refuse an offer like this one, so easily given.

“Makes sense,” he settles on, which rolls awkwardly off his tongue. “I would like that very much,” he follows up with, and that, at least, sounds like he intended to, grateful and happy.

The smile Shane sends him is blinding. “Great!” He lifts the hand holding the remote and points it towards the TV. “Want to watch some Western Conference game highlights? I’m trying to keep up with the play-offs on that side, too.”

“I can’t believe Montreal is actually pulling through,” Ilya grouches. “I hate to see it.”

“Shut up.” Ilya catches Shane’s eye, sees him fighting a smile.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, sliding his chair a little closer to Shane. “What did I miss?”

Shane launches into a couple of game summaries Ilya had slept through, whilst rewinding the highlight reel that follows after a game, vowing that he doesn’t mind rewinding it one bit. By the time Ilya is all caught up, an hour has passed.

Despite Ilya’s protestations, Shane follows him around as Ilya concludes his last round, helps him with his charts, assists with his antibiotic drips by dissolving them and handing them to Ilya ready to be administered. It doesn’t mean that Ilya works any faster, though, utterly distracted by each other as they are. Instead of leaving Shane to it, he watches instead, lingering behind him.

They end up sitting side by side behind the computer, Ilya filling in his charts and putting in Shane’s additions in his own words if they look a little too off for Ilya’s liking. It’s not that they don’t speak the same language — the protocol of charting is the same hospital wide — but it’s clear that Shane works on a different specialty, has different points of observation than Ilya does.

They end up rewinding another game that Shane had already watched a few hours ago, but swears to Ilya is amazing enough to warrant a second watch. When the first of the day shift starts to tickle in, Colorado has just severely embarrassed Vancouver with some hockey that was bordering on perfection. Shane, next to him, had been deeply satisfied by the competent display. “That is how you play hockey,” he’d said, bumping his shoulder into Ilya’s. “Not whatever it is that your Boston guys get up to.”

“Hockey?” Ilya had said sarcastically.

“Eh,” Shane had dismissed. “Debatable.”

They manage to watch the game all the way through, right up to the last buzzer, when the door slides open and Luca blinks at them. “Uhm. Hi?”

“Good morning, Luca,” Ilya greets him back, and Shane waves at him a little bemused. “How are you? Slept well?”

“Fine,” Luca answers, still eyeing between him and Shane like he’s trying to decipher what it is he just walked in on. “How was your night?”

“Oh, it was fine,” Ilya says easily, waving a hand. “Very boring.”

“Jerk,” Shane says, shoving him lightly.

Luca’s eyes are wide as saucers.

“There’s a computer free, if you want,” Ilya says a little pointedly, just to get the kid to stop gaping at them. “I understand if you need to read up on your patients. I’ll wrap things up and vacate, leave you to it.”

“I should probably go,” Shane mumbles quietly to Ilya, shooting Luca an apologetic smile. “I just came here to keep Ilya company. But I think it’s time I take my leave,” he says a little louder, standing up and packing up his things. He catches Ilya’s eye a few times, though, as Luca slides behind the computer Ilya just pointed at, firing up the software and opening the charts.

“I’ll see you later, Shane,” Ilya says as neutrally as he can.

Shane nods at him, flashes him another quick smile. “Sleep well.” And then he’s gone.

His last night fares a little better. He actually sleeps, which is great. Unfortunately, the exhaustion that had slipped into his bones during his previous night isn’t easily dispelled, and so he still feels more tired than anticipated. Still, it’s a hell of a lot better than it was yesterday, and Ilya’s pretty confident he’ll manage to get through the night without falling asleep.

Ilya’s glad it’s his last night, but he’s even more grateful to know he’s got a few days off at least, so there’s some room there to catch up on actual, good sleep and try to get his rhythm back to normal as soon as he can.

Tonight, at least, looks like it’s going to be a bit more busy, plus there’s a new crew to work with; a lot of his patients had gotten discharged or relocated, and so there’s two open beds at the start of his shift, as his patient overview shows. The other three that they’d initially had have been filled up by the evening shift already.

He’s also very surprised to see Connors sitting in the fishbowl, one of the many flex workers the hospital has, and Carmichael. “Oh, hell yeah!” Connors exclaims as Ilya steps into the space, the last one to arrive. He carefully sets down his steaming cup of triple espresso, then looks up to give Connors and Carmichael a grin, who gives him an enthusiastic wave. “This is fantastic. An all-brother crew!”

“My man!” Carmichael says in greeting as well, giving him a nod and a huge grin.

“Oh, this is much better,” Ilya says, looking at the two men. His shoulders sag a bit in relief. “Connors, dude. I did not know you were working nights? I thought those who worked flexible were excluded of such torture?”

“Hah, you’d think that, right? Nah, they were looking for someone tonight because someone called in sick, apparently, and I thought, why the hell not, right? I had nothing much going on and I’ve been free for a couple of days already. And I thought, I might see my good friend Ilya, and what do you know. Here you are.”

“Well, we’re very grateful to have you,” he says.

“Well, y’know.” Connors shrugs easily. “No biggie. But did you know Marly is also on shift tonight? If it’s quiet enough I might go visit him, too. It’s been too long, we keep missing each other.”

“Oh, we’ll probably see him soon enough,” Carmichael says, looking a little dismayed. “There’s quite a few open beds. Seven in total, two on your side, Ilya. The rest is for us poor suckers.”

“Well, what can I say,” Ilya says, kicking back his chair and leaning back into it dramatically. “Some of us were born lucky.”

The other two pull similar faces at that, but the conversation veers quickly non-work related topics until the evening shift arrives, looking a lot more haggard than they’d done the previous few days.

“Hi, Ilya,” Mathilde says, giving him her megawatt smile. “Just letting you know we just brought up another admittance from the ER. Dana is working on her now, but her reason of admittance is a social indication – elderly, a little malnourished, has not been taking care of herself, you know the drill. She’s already got a Foley; she had a retention of one and a half liters in her bladder. No history of any cognitive problems, so I hope she doesn’t go off the rails tonight. Keep an eye on her, anyway?”

Ilya nods as she talks, writing her notes down on one of the empty squares on his sheet, and dutifully writes down the patient’s name and date of birth as Mathilde slides him a note. “Should be easy enough,” Ilya says, reviewing her medical history and takes a quick glance through her medicine use. “Mostly cardiac. I just hope she doesn’t start dropping her blood pressure.”

“Well, here’s to hoping,” Mathilde says, clapping him on the shoulder and slipping out of the office again. “I’m just going to help wrap up. The others can start their transferal already, I’ll come seek you out later, is that okay?”

“Anything urgent?” Ilya shouts at her, at which Mathilde gives him a thumbs down. Good enough.

Most of the evening shift end up leaving twenty minutes past eleven — except Mathile and Dana, who are still working on the new patient — which is not too bad for as busy as it has been; they usually work until eleven fifteen, and some start slipping out earlier, too, if they’ve finished handing over their patients to the night shift.

Silence settles comfortably over the three men. Connors grabs the remote of the TV, switches it from the department overview to CBC Sports, and settles on hockey. Ilya snorts softly to himself, at which he receives two questioning gazes from his colleagues, which he waves off.

Ilya: [attached image]

Ilya: hockey is on!! ))

Ilya: new night shift tho I don’t think we get much alone time (((

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Hi baby!

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Oh, here as well!

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: [attached image]

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Oh, that’s too bad :( But I truthfully hope I will make it to come see you at all, it’s very busy here unfortunately.

Ilya: oh ((((

Ilya: okay

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦 is typing…

Ilya watches with mild curiosity as Shane is apparently typing a whole saga.

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Well I don’t want to force you to do anything, really, and I don’t know how flexible your department is and if your coworkers would let you go? But if you want, you can also come hang out for a little bit at the ICU? It’s JJ and me again, and Johnson, miraculously no student this time, and well I think it would be nice if you came by? If only for like, ten minutes? I really want to see you. I have something to ask you.

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: I realize now that sounds rather ominous… Nothing bad, I swear! :)

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: It’s just, it’s something I want to ask in person, if you get what I mean?

Ilya: you will not murder me?

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Not yet >:)

Ilya absentmindedly chews on his lower lip. He’s sure Connors and Carmichael won’t mind if he steps out for a little bit. He just hopes his new group of patients allow it.

Ilya: I will try!

Ilya: got a new group of patients and an open bed so might be busy (((((

Ilya: I will text u!

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: Yes of course! Let me know! :)

His first round takes a while — he ends up helping Dana and Mathilde with their newest patients, gets her ready for bed after some food and a small questionnaire on her medical history. He’s still earlier than both other men, so he ends up helping out on their end as well, especially as the first new admittance gets rolled in by the ER. Unfortunately, it isn’t Marly who ends up bringing the new patient, so they’re done with patient transferal pretty fast. All three men end up in the medication room for medicine distribution, and Connors ends up blasting some godawful rap music, and the whole thing becomes too rowdy for a night shift, but Ilya finds he doesn’t care that much. He’d rather have this than what he had for the last three nights, coworkers who didn’t acknowledge him at all. No, he’d rather he needs to tell them to shut the fuck up a few times, force them to behave at least a little professional, for fuck’s sake, than endure the absolute silence of the last few nights.

“Alright, fuckers,” he announces when they’re finally done, the whole process taking twice as long as it normally would since they kept being in each other’s way. “Please do not break anything while I’m gone. All my patients are asleep, or at least they are quiet about being awake. Can you survive for half an hour while I’m gone?”

“Sure thing, Rozy,” Carmichael says, confidently giving him a thumbs up. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“That’s none of your business,” he answers teasingly, but follows it up with, “Going to briefly visit the ICU.”

“Okay, alright!” Connors says. “When you get back I might swing by the ER, if that’s okay, too.”

“Of course! I won’t be too long,” Ilya says, then waves his goodbye and fishes his phone out of his pocket.

Ilya: on my way!! )))

S🥰🔥🍑👅💦: I’m on break! I’ll wait for you near the entrance, see you in a bit! :)

Ilya makes it down the stairs in record time, and lingers in front of the ICU doors to catch his breath, desperately trying to look a little more casual than he’s being right now. When his heart rate has settled nicely again, he texts Shane a small, ‘here!’

The doors open, and Shane stands waiting on the other side, a private smile that’s just for Ilya. “Hi,” he says, meeting Ilya halfway as Ilya passes through the doors. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

And then they’re kissing, right there in the middle of the hallway. Shane doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t as much as blink before he’s enveloping himself into Ilya’s arms, pressing his lips against Ilya’s oh so softly.

“Uh,” Ilya says, lost for words. “I – is this okay? Here, now? What about your coworkers?”

“Oh, I told them,” Shane says cheerfully, but his expression is a little troubled, guarded. “I told them that you were going to stop by for a moment to hang out with me, and they kept making all kinds of assumptions and, well, they kept pestering me on why so I got fed up and…” he trails off, a blush coloring his cheeks. “Well, you know. Us. That we are...” He waves a hand between them, and Ilya can’t hide his bemusement.

“Are lovers?”

“Ew, no, Ilya. That’s gross,” Shane says, pulling a disgusted face.

“It’s not!” Ilya says, only slightly offended.

“Well, just. I just told them about us, and I hope that that’s okay. Shit, I – I should’ve asked.”

“Shane, it’s fine,” Ilya reassures.

He’s not entirely sure if it’s fine, though. While he’s happy Shane has apparently decided to stop being that tight-lipped about them, it does sting a little that he had no say in who gets to know. He knows that technically, Sveta knows, because Ilya has never before in his life managed to keep anything a secret from her and he wasn’t going to magically succeed now, and he thinks that Cliff knows, or at least suspects, but that is in utter Cliff fashion. It’s not acknowledged out loud, and Cliff doesn’t hint and Ilya doesn’t hint, so they’re going to be stuck in this does-he-or-does-he-not-suspect limbo for a whole while longer until Ilya decides to just come out and tell him.

“No, it’s not and I’m sorry,” Shane says unhappily, looking genuinely upset.

“I know. It’s really fine,” Ilya says, and it is, he decides right then and there. “I’m glad they know. Now we don’t have to sneak, right?”

“No,” Shane snorts, and he settles a bit, his shoulders dropping back down to something a little more relaxed. “And, really. If they’d just fucking stopped bothering me about it.”

“Ugh, yes. They are the worst,” Ilya nods his agreement.

“Well, they’re not actually the worst,” Shane mutters, but Ilya cheerfully ignores it, grabs Shane by the hand instead.

“Where to?”

“Oh! Uh, well,” Shane stammers, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, a bashful smile on his face. “I thought we might look for some privacy, too, like we had the last few nights at your department. There’s a small doctor’s office that’s vacant – we usually use it to take naps during the night. They know not to interrupt unless it’s important.”

Shane leads him through the hallway then, and it will never cease to surprise Ilya at how vastly different it feels from his own department. He knows, technically, the lay out should be the same, except that it so very clearly isn’t.

Shane uses his badge to open one of the doors, and drags Ilya in after him. It’s a small space with just enough room for a tiny corner sofa and two desks, which are shoved together so that the backs are resting against each other, and two office chairs across from each other behind the desks.

Ilya lets himself be dragged to the sofa, sits down after Shane tucks himself into the corner. Shane immediately reaches out, dragging him closer to himself so that they’re arm to arm. This close, Ilya can take a closer look at Shane. Ilya wouldn’t have been able to guess he’d be on his fifth night in a row — somehow, he looks, objectively, great. The dark lines beneath his eyes have all but evaporated, and his skin is looking healthy and glowing. His eyes are bright and alert and look nowhere else but at Ilya.

There are two glasses of water, condensation on the glasses, waiting on the desks, and a small bowl of emping, an Indonesian version of krupuk made of the dried and flattened seed of the melinjo tree, which is briefly fried. They’re full of antioxidants and thus on the healthier side of snacks with a saltish bite to them, and Shane had introduced them to Ilya a few weeks back and Ilya had been hooked on them ever since.

He refrains from reaching for them, though, instead turns to look at Shane, who’s been tracking his every move ever since he set down. “I brought them for you,” he says, eyes flickering to the emping for a a second before settling back on Ilya. “There’s a whole bag. I thought you’d like them.”

“I do! They won’t last ‘til morning,” Ilya warns, which makes Shane smile warmly at him.

“That’s fine, really. Can’t say I fare much better,” he confides, leaning into Ilya briefly, knocking their shoulders together.

They smile at each other for a beat more before Ilya leans in, pressing a kiss to Shane’s lips. It should be less intoxicating, now that is becoming a bit of a familiar thing, but it’s not. It’s still as sweet and sincere and heart stopping as it was the first time.

“What did you want to ask me?” Ilya asks, as he leans back. The words curdle a bit of anxiety in the pit of his stomach — what if Shane is bored of him? What if he’s seen what it is that Ilya has to offer and finds it lacking? It’s not like Ilya can blame him for that — he has nothing to offer, after all. In all truth, he isn’t sure he’d pick himself, too.

Excitement flows over Shane’s face, makes his eyes shine just a little brighter, his smile just a little bigger. “Well,” he starts, and he’s looking a little shy. It makes something warm settle in the pit of Ilya’s stomach, and slowly, it starts pushing the anxiety out. “I was just wondering… Please know it’s alright if you say no, though. I know they can be a bit much,” Shane rambles, and Ilya watches on in curious amusement. Shane takes a deep breath. “But I wanted to ask you…”

“Yes?” Ilya presses gently.

“Well, I don’t know. It’s a bit stupid, but I wanted to invite you…”

Ilya blinks. “Shane, I’m shivering in antici…” he trails off teasingly, looking imploringly at Shane, who blinks at him a few times.

“…pation,” Shane finishes weakly, chuckling lightly. “Okay, well. Here goes. Do you want to come to dinner with me and my parents? Meet them properly?”

“Uh,” Ilya says intelligently. Never in a million years had he expected this. “Do they know? About..?” he gestures between the two of them, waving his hand in a general ‘you know’ motion.

Shane grimaces. “No, not yet. But they do know I’m gay — they’ve known for a while, you know? They’re supportive, or try to be, even if they don’t really, uh, understand it?” He flinches a bit. “I am not really selling you on this, I’m sorry. They’re great, and if I take you home they’d love to meet you, Ilya. They’ve been wanting for me to date for a while now, and they’ve been that awkwardly helpful in a way only parents can be? Slightly embarrassing?”

No, Ilya doesn’t know what that’s like, but it doesn’t sound too bad. Shane flinches a little. “Fuck. Sorry, Ilya. Please ignore all of this. They’re lovely, they’re supportive, they are a little overbearing and my mom took it pretty hard when I didn’t want to pursue a hockey career, but my dad helped a lot in her coming to terms with that. Just, be prepared for some awkward but well-meant questions, and know my mom looks a lot tougher than she actually is, okay? They’ll love you.”

Shane looks at him imploringly, but Ilya finds himself speechless, which is rare.

Shane reaches out and grabs him by the hand. “I would love to bring you with me to dinner. It’s a small family affair — I try to go over and eat at their place once a week, so usually Monday nights. It would mean everything to me, Ilya.”

Ilya’s mouth is dry, and he swallows thickly. “And I would come along as a friend? Or..?”

“If you say ‘lovers’ I will forget to pick you up,” Shane threatens.

“As boyfriends, then?” Ilya offers, and it’s such a juvenile thing to say, to ask, so why does his heart still feel like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest with nerves?

Shane smiles blindingly at him, squeezes his hand tightly. “Yes, as boyfriends,” he confirms. “I would like that very much, Ilya.”

And, god, they actually are twelve year olds, with the way they’re beaming at each other, all pleased that they can call each other boyfriend. Ilya doesn’t give a fuck when it feels this good.

“When did you say dinner was?”

“After this weekend,” Shane says. “Monday night, does that work for you? If not, I can see if we can arrange a different day, that shouldn’t be a problem at all.”

It’s so sweet, the way Shane so resolutely is willing to adapt his entire schedule to include Ilya. “No, no, it’s fine,” he says. “That’s perfect. Means I can catch up on some sleep before.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely agreeing with you there,” Shane says vehemently. “I need at least two days to start to feel a little human again, so this weekend I’m doing nothing but resting and getting my rhythm back under control.”

“It’s the worst,” Ilya agrees. “So for me as well. Me, the couch, and some shitty TV that does not ask me to think too much. Will be perfect.”

“Sure,” Shane says, a little amused and a little skeptical. “That does sound delightfully unproductive.”

“Ah, well. I might be persuaded to go on a run, if the right person were to ask me.” Ilya raises his eyebrow, and Shane huffs out a small breath, shaking his head.

“I might be persuaded to go if my plus one is a safe bet,” he counters.

Ilya leans in. “The safest,” he murmurs, and Shane’s eyes flicker down to Ilya’s lips, tracing the curves of them and Ilya hums softly, watching as Shane’s tongue darts out briefly.

“Hmm,” Shane hums. “I might consider it, then.”

Shane bridges the last few millimeters between them, pressing his own lips against Ilya’s, all soft and pliant. They trade kisses back and forth for a while, in that new, languid, unhurried way that has no urgency behind it, just the enjoyment of this, of kissing, of being in each other’s space and breathing in each other’s scent.

“Ilya,” Shane mutters after a while, when he tries to lean back and Ilya chases him right after, leaning into him.

“No,” Ilya replies, trying to distract Shane by dragging him into another kiss.

“Hm. I hate to be the one doing this to you —”

“Then don’t,” Ilya interjects. "‘s Simple, yes? Just don’t say anything and we can… go on…”

“Ilya,” Shane says, firmer now, but there’s laughter in his eyes as he reaches out to stroke a finger down Ilya’s cheek, making him open his eyes. “You’ve been here for more than half an hour.”

“Ugh, Shane,” Ilya groans. “Now the problem exists.”

“Like it didn’t prior to me mentioning it?”

Shane’s eyes go all crinkly round the corners as they scrunch up a little, amusedly gazing at Ilya while Ilya groans dramatically. “No, then I could’ve said I lost track of time. Now you will make me a liar, Shane. Are you satisfied now?”

“Immensely,” Shane replies drily. “Take the emping.”

“Ow!” Ilya gripes, as he goes to stand anyway, heading over to the table and grabbing a handful, whilst his other hand closes around the bag. “Is this it, then? Thrown out by my own boyfriend.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Shane says fondly, following him out of the door and walking with him down the hallway. “I’ll pick you up Monday, yes?”

“No,” Ilya says. “I’ll see you Sunday, for a nice and not punishing run, Shane. Nice, for fun. 10K max.”

“Okay,” Shane agrees readily. “I’ll think about it.”

Ilya groans. “Oh, no,” he mourns, as Shane laughs at him, urging him out of the ICU wing. “That means 15K or more. Shane, please don’t do this to me. Is supposed to be fun.”

“Bye, Ilya. Have a good shift!” And with another laugh, the doors close.

Chapter 18: 18 wrap me in your arms

Chapter Summary

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“What?” Ilya snarks, as he makes his way over to the passenger side and climbs in before he can regret it. “They don’t know I’m a Boston fan?”

“No, asshole,” Shane spits back, but he’s already pulling away so he’s not that mad about it, apparently. “I did mention you were into hockey, but I didn’t suspect you’d go in willing to commit murder.”

Chapter Notes

More fluff! Say hi to the Hollanders 💓

Shane is picking him up at 6, which in reality means that he’ll pull up outside Ilya’s at 5.45, which means that Ilya is waiting outside, nervous as all hell, at 5.30pm sharp.

Early summer is finally arriving, and with it, the rise in temperature is a welcome one. Ilya has a light jacket draped over one arm, since the breeze is still cold as fuck and the temperature is promised to drop quite dramatically when it gets dark, but for now, basking in the late afternoon sunlight, it’s enough to stand loitering on the curb in just his t-shirt.

He’s slowly starting to regret donning his Boston Raiders shirt — he’d thought it would be funny, maybe, since Shane had told him his mother in particular is a die hard Montreal fan, and it would certainly be a great ice-breaker — and he’s actively considering going back up to change into something a little more appropriate, maybe, like a button down or something, when he spots the familiar Land Rover making its way down the street.

The decision is made for him when Shane spots him, parks along the curb, rolls the window down and says in lieu of greeting, “Oh, absolutely not.”

“What?” Ilya snarks, as he makes his way over to the passenger side and climbs in before he can regret it. “They don’t know I’m a Boston fan?”

“No, asshole,” Shane spits back, but he’s already pulling away so he’s not that mad about it, apparently. “I did mention you were into hockey, but I didn’t suspect you’d go in willing to commit murder.”

Ilya shrugs. “It will be fine. They’ll like me despite my hockey preferences.”

And he so hopes that’ll prove to be true. He doesn’t try to explain his reasoning for picking out this shirt specifically. Doesn’t mention the nerves that are threatening to eat him up from inside out, doesn’t explain that he’s never before been in a situation where he’d been seeing (no, dating!) anyone, and that it had been serious enough that they’d want to introduce him to their parents. Sveta doesn’t count — he’s known her for as long as he can remember, and he’d also known his father since childhood, since his father and Vetrov had moved in the same social circles. By the time he’d finally met her mother, he’d spoken with her over the phone and had intruded on enough Skype conversations that he’d felt like he’d known her personally all his life, too. And Sasha doesn’t make that cut at all.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Shane says, and he’s bravely putting on a reassuring smile, but Ilya can see the nerves break out clear as day. “Just —”

“I’ll be nice,” Ilya says deadly serious.

“Sorry,” Shane grimaces as they stop for a red light. “I’m just nervous, is all.”

“I know. It will be fine, Shane.”

Shane shoots him a grateful smile and reaches out over the console, grabbing Ilya’s hand and squeezing tight. “They’ll love you,” he says. “I just know it.”

That remark soothes more than he can probably realize, and Ilya settles back into his seat, a little more sincerely relaxed than what he’d been trying to display.

He sneaks glances all throughout the drive. Shane is looking really good, Ilya thinks, though that is a thought that is becoming the norm at this point. The bags beneath his eyes are gone, and his cheeks are lightly rosy again, dusted in freckles that are turning darker now they’re more exposed to sunlight. He’s wearing a short sleeved soft pink button down above dark-washed jeans. His hair is carefully styled, he bangs out of his face. It’s slowly getting longer again, and it suits him a lot better, Ilya thinks. He might carefully mention Shane should grow it out a little more, maybe.

They move to the outskirts of the city, heading towards the suburbs where the houses are a little bigger and a little further apart, the gardens go from non-existent to quite spacious, and traffic seems to dissipate. Instead, there are trees lining the roads, a small park built here and there, and the chaos and noise of downtown seems to disappear entirely.

“I grew up here,” Shane says fondly. “It’s a nice neighborhood.”

“I can see that,” Ilya says. It looks near perfect, in Ilya’s opinion. Like what you might find on postcards or something equal.

“We’re nearly there,” Shane says, and the nerves are creeping back in. Ilya’s own flare enough that he doesn’t even have anything soothing to say.

Shane parks the car in silence, killing the engine. Neither one of them moves, and Ilya finds himself looking at Shane, silently begging for a handhold, anything to reassure him it’s really going to be okay.

Next to him, Shane is taking deep, even breaths, but he must sense Ilya’s been staring at him because he turns to face him. He forcefully relaxes, gives Ilya a reassuring smile that looks like he actually means it, and asks, “Ready?”

No. “Yes,” Ilya says a little hoarsely.

If Shane heard it, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he throws open his door and climbs out of the car, which leaves Ilya with no option but to follow.

They make their way up the gravel path, and Ilya hovers, desperately wanting to hold Shane’s hand but not sure if it’s the right move, and he feels very grateful when Shane reaches out and grabs him. “Okay?” he asks quietly, and Ilya musters up a watery smile.

“Yes.”

Shane manages to knock exactly once when the door is opened, revealing a tall man (though not as tall as Shane) with graying, short hair neatly combed back, and a friendly, calm smile on his face. Ilya can immediately tell he’s Shane’s father — though his dark eyes Shane must’ve inherited from his mother, Ilya can see the kindness he sees in Shane reflected in those blue eyes, and there’s definitely some resemblance in facial features, like his nose, or the sharp curve of his jaw. “Hi,” Shane’s father says, giving Ilya a kind and encouraging smile as he steps aside. “Come on in, boys. Just in time for dinner.”

“You told me to be here around 7,” Shane complains. “And we’re early, too. We could’ve helped.”

“I know, son,” his father says. “But you didn’t need to. I thought it would be nicer if you boys could just show up and join us at the dinner table, so we can get to know each other.” His eyes linger on Ilya, who can’t help but fidget a little, cursing himself to hell and back as Mr. Hollander’s eyes flicker down to his shirt for but a second. He doesn’t outwardly react, except an infinitesimal uptick of one corner of his mouth.

Mr. Hollander holds out his hand for Ilya to shake. “You must be Ilya. I’m David. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hollander,” Ilya replies. The handshake is firm and steady, and it neatly lines up with Ilya’s assessment of the man in front of him. This must be where Shane gets his patience from, his kindness and steadfastness he so easily displays when he’s in his flow, uninterrupted by his own anxiety. Ilya relaxes slightly, settling a little more securely in his bones.

“Oh, it’s David, please,” David says, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepening as he gives Ilya a friendly smile. “It will help to keep me feel young.”

“David,” Ilya says exactly once, just to try it out and it makes him promptly decide that, no, they’re nowhere near that level yet. He’ll call Mr. Hollander David after his tenth wedding anniversary with Shane or something, and even that’s a big maybe. For once, Ilya is grateful for the strict way in decorum he was raised. He’s not a fan of the immediate familiarity the Northern American continent so easily adopts.

David leaves them to it as he wanders out of the foyer, and as he goes, Ilya notices there’s a telltale sign of a limp in his gait. He turns to Shane to spot him taking off his shoes and promptly follows his lead, lining his own sneakers neatly by the door, right next to Shane’s. He doesn’t miss, however, how Shane’s eyes follow his dad out of the door, a small sad frown on his face.

“Okay?” Ilya asks quietly, and Shane’s attention snaps back to him.

He nods. “Yes, alright. Come on.”

Shane leads the two of them out of the foyer and into the living room, where Shane’s mother is waiting on them. David stands at her side, still as calm and collected as earlier, and his hand is resting on the small of her back.

Mrs. Hollander, too, is clearly Shane’s relative; it’s in the cupid’s brow of his lips, in the high curve of his cheekbone, in the dark brown of his eyes, in the athletic built they both possess. It’s in the way she holds herself, upright and tightly controlled, a nearly correct posture he’s clearly learned from her. It’s in the way her eyes flit over him, seizing him up with a carefully controlled expression, until her eyes land on his Boston shirt.

She turns to Shane, raises a sardonic eyebrow at him that has Ilya thinking ‘Oh, that’s where he gets that from’. “Absolutely not,” she demands, and some part of Ilya wants to bend down in hysterics as she parrots her son’s words exactly.

“Mom!” Shane protests, as Ilya remains rooted on the spot.

“Really, Shane. Your father and I pride ourselves in being open-minded —”

“Oh, my god, mom!” Shane groans, as Mrs. Hollander’s sharp eyes stay locked on the both of them.

“— And we’re absolutely fine with you bringing home a man, Shane, you know this.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane moans, burying his face in his hands. Next to Mrs. Hollander, Mr. Hollander looks at Ilya in amused acceptance, clearly used to these kinds of antics, and sends him a tiny wink.

It immediately makes him feel better.

“But I just have to draw a line somewhere! You can’t expect me to welcome a Raiders’ fan into my home!”

Shane gapes at her, as she ruthlessly continues, “Honestly, baby. If I’d known your taste in men would be this abhorrent, I would’ve tried a little harder to set you up.”

“Ah, Yuna,” Mr. Hollander steps in smoothly. “Don’t scare off the boys, yes? Give the lad a fair chance.”

“I – ah,” Ilya says, and he shrugs a little self-consciously as all three Hollanders face him at once. “I root for Ottawa, too? Hometown and all.” He doesn’t break eye contact with Mrs. Hollander – Yuna, Ilya notes mentally – even though he can see Mr. Hollander give him an encouraging smile.

There’s definitely a smile now, on Mrs. Hollander’s face, but it’s a dangerous one. “So, which is it? Do you not know loyalty?”

“My god, Mom! What about his loyalty to me?!” Shane groans, and he steps closer to Ilya, even if Ilya can’t help but grin a little, and he steps forward boldly, holding out his hand.

“No, no, that’s fair,” he says. “Hi, Mrs. Hollander. I’m Ilya, it’s absolutely lovely to meet you.”

Mrs. Hollander looks at him a beat longer, but then he must have passed whatever small test this was, because she shakes his hand firmly. Her hand is quite smaller than both men, but she doesn’t lack for strength. “I’m Yuna. Welcome to our home. Though, be a dear next time? Leave that shirt at home. Burn it, maybe.”

Next time. Ilya is on cloud nine.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he answers smoothly. “It was a present.”

“Some gifts should be returned to the sender,” Mrs. Hollander says without missing a beat, and Ilya grins fully at her even if Shane, embarrassed, is being consoled by his father with a steadying slap on his shoulder.

“I’ll pass the memo along,” Ilya promises.

“Good. Well, pleasantries done, are you boys hungry?”

Something settles then, as Shane’s parents head towards the kitchen while Shane takes a moment to show Ilya the living room, leading him past a wall that’s full with pictures. Pictures of relatives, pictures of the three of them and pictures of Shane in various stages of his life. There are a lot of his youth and adolescence where he appears to be on the ice, skates on his feet and hockey stick in his hands. Ilya stares a long while where a young Shane, no more than three, is sitting in some sort of tub, bubbles nearly as high as his eyebrows and a huge grin on his face. The photo is a little blurry like Shane couldn’t or wouldn’t hold still for the photo to be taken, and it is slightly discolored from sun exposure. It’s the most charming picture on the entire wall.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks him quietly, once he’s certain both his parents have retreated to the kitchen, where the sound of cutlery being pulled out of drawers and plates being drawn out of cupboards is filling the air. “I’m sorry about my mom,” he says, slightly embarrassed. “I warned you she could be a lot.”

“I’m good,” Ilya says, and he finds that he means it. The initial nerves have settled, the discomfort mostly faded to the background as the household moves around them like it’s just another normal day. It’s nothing Ilya’s experienced like this ever since his mother died. The domesticness of it soothes something sharp inside Ilya that he wasn’t aware of he was carrying still. “I like your mom.”

Shane scoffs a little, and Ilya grabs his hand, while his other settles on the curve of Shane’s hip. “I mean it,” Ilya says, staring into his eyes imploringly. “I can see where you got your sense of humor.”

Shane snorts. “Oh, fuck off,” he says, but he seems mollified all the same, gives Ilya one of his rare smiles. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Ilya replies sincerely, and he pulls Shane closer, who comes willingly and meets him in the middle. The kiss is simple and chaste and totally appropriate in a setting like this, yet the both of them still startle badly when behind them David enters the room.

“Right, boys, are you read – oh, excuse me!” They jump apart like they were caught doing something naughty, and they watch guiltily as David hastily retreats back to the kitchen. “Oh, no, Yuna, they need a minute,” they hear faintly, and Shane knocks his head with a groan against Ilya’s shoulder.

“Oh, end me now,” Shane groans, embarrassed.

Ilya chuckles into his hair, presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Come on,” he says, spurring Shane gently into action.

Shane nods against him and then straightens, grabs Ilya by the hand and leads them to the kitchen. “Right, we’re coming in,” he announces loud enough that his parents can hear, and he pushes open the door leading into the kitchen. It is a spacious room with a lots of counter space, and a state of the art stove where a couple of pans are steaming.

“Do you need us to set the table up?”

“Nope,” Mr. Hollander says cheerily, as he stirs the pasta sauce one last time. It smells divine. “All done. Head on towards the dining, Shane. Go sit down.”

As both men sneak a glance inside the pot and David shoos them out, Shane and Ilya step out of the kitchen to the dining, where an old, wooden table takes up most of the floor.

The table is set for four.

That, in itself, is not surprising, nor special – they are four people, after all, but it still catches Ilya somewhat raw, because it is so clear that it is not the usual set up of the space. He can see it in the way the left side of the table has dents and discolorations and ink marks and paint marks all near the middle, from where he assumes Shane has spends hours and hours at the table eating, or making homework and working on other school projects or hobbies.

It shows in the way that one of the chairs is slightly less sun washed than the other three, and, yes, as Ilya peers into the next room over, a small office of some kind, he notices that one of the desks is missing its chair.

He notices it as Shane notices it, because Shane titters for a moment, clearly unsure on which side of the table he wants to sit, which parent he wants to face, because for him, the status quo is sitting in the middle of the space, occupying the space between his parents, never sitting across from the one but always equally across both.

And, well, it really is something, isn’t it, when a family so easily makes room for you. It’s not something Ilya’s experienced a lot in his life – sure, he has friends he considers family, who he can call in the middle of the night if he needs to, but this? This is different, because he loves Shane even if he hasn’t told him that yet, and he wants this to go well because there are no other parents in this scenario left, and maybe he’s a fool for hoping this set of parents, at least, will like him at least enough that he’s allowed back in through the door, and that Shane will never hesitate to ask him to come along to visit his parents because he’s never had that, not since his own Mama –

Shane glances at Ilya and then promptly decides on sitting on Ilya’s right.

Ilya blinks a few times at the empty chair on Shane’s left and then gingerly sits down. Shane’s hand immediately lands on his knee, squeezing a little, grounding. Ilya turns to look at him then, finds Shane gazing at him a little concerned, so he sends back a small, definitely watery, smile. “I’m okay,” he whispers quietly.

“You sure?” Shane asks sweetly. “We can leave – reschedule if you want.”

“No. I like it here.” Something in his expression must have shown how sincere he’s being, because Shane nods.

“Alright, careful, boys. Lean back please,” Mr. Hollander says, as he comes into the room with a steaming pot of pasta sauce in hand. Behind him, Mrs. Hollander follows closely, a damping pan of pasta in her hands.

“I hope you like carbonara,” Mr. Hollander says to Ilya, as both of Shane’s parents take their seats. Ilya is seated across from Mr. Hollander, and Ilya sends a curious glance at Shane, who only acknowledges him with a tiny uptick of the left corner of his mouth.

Plates get filled up, and Ilya is willing to lose himself in some of the best pasta he’s ever eaten in his life, except that the conversation that’s happening around him quickly returns to hockey.

“So, Ilya,” Mrs. Hollander begins, with the air of a woman who knows her business. “Why Boston? Out of all the teams in the MHL, why settle on that one?”

“Well,” Ilya says around a mouthful of pasta, which he quickly swallows. “My best friend lives in Boston, and when I first came to North America, she took me to one of their games. I hadn’t been that close to the ice since I quit hockey years ago, and, well. It felt nostalgic, and I’ve been supporting them ever since.”

“You’ve played?” A sharpness enters Mrs. Hollander’s eyes, and next to him, Shane sighs quietly.

“Yes, during my youth. Circumstances forced me to quit, though, but I still love to play,” Ilya says, bumping his shoulder lightly into Shane’s. “Especially against Shane, like we did at the charity last month. That was amazing.”

Shane smiles back at him, nodding.

“It was quite something, watching the both of you play,” Mr. Hollander agrees. To Ilya, he says, “We came to watch Shane play, and we thought it would be nice to support the hospital. I volunteered to help referee some games, though I am not as fast as I used to be, but I think I did rather well as a linesman.”

“You did, Dad,” Shane says. “You were one of the best. It definitely helps that you know the rules, opposed to some of the others.”

“Ah, it was all in good fun,” Ilya shrugs.

“There really was something quite magical during that last round, when the two of you paired up,” Mrs. Hollander says, and there’s definitely approval in her voice. “So maybe we should’ve suspected there was something happening between the two of you.”

She smiles briefly, warmly. “But I’m sorry to hear about having to quit, Ilya.” Mrs. Hollander pauses for a second, brings the rim of her wineglass to her lips but pauses. “May I ask what happened?”

Next to her, Mr. Hollander doesn’t say anything and is eating his own pasta, but there’s a small curiosity shining in his eyes as well.

“Mom,” Shane says warningly. “Don’t pry.”

Mrs. Hollander leans back into her seat after setting her glass back down and holds her hands up in surrender.

“Oh, no it’s fine, Shane, I don’t mind.” Ilya takes a sip of his own wine. It’s fruity with a dry after taste, and he hums appreciatively. He’ll need to ask for the label before he leaves. “I was, uh, caught. With another boy,” he says, and he shrugs as both Hollanders glance at each other. “And in Russia, well. My father did not take lightly to it, either, but I got lucky, in retrospect. Could’ve been much worse.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Ilya,” Mr. Hollander says, while Mrs. Hollander nods.

“It’s fine,” Ilya says. “I loved hockey, really, still do, but mostly because of my Mama – my Mama saw how good I was at skating, and she argued and argued with my father until he relented and allowed me to go to hockey practices. They said I was quite good, too, and I don’t know. If I’d been able to stick with it, I might’ve gone far.” He smirks then, and adds, “I might’ve been playing for Boston, but who knows. Instead, I found something else to love, and my nursing degree got me out of Russia after all and to Ottawa, where I met Shane, so all in all I think everything worked out pretty okay.”

“Oh,” Shane breathes quietly, and he beams at Ilya.

Ilya smiles back at him.

He isn’t aware of Shane’s parents looking at them with similar expressions on their faces, before once again quickly glancing at each other, communicating something that Ilya can’t hope to decipher.

“I support Ottawa, too, like I said,” Ilya says, as the moment breaks and he winds more pasta around his fork, steering the conversation back into safer waters. “How can I not? Ottawa’s been my home for nearly a decade, now, and I’ve caught a few home games with some friends over the years.” He pauses, looks at Mrs. Hollander who is already looking back at him, ready to poke.

“Those are quite the teams to support,” she points out. “Neither of them is doing particularly well in the standings. Surely it must be easier, for someone like yourself with no prior loyalty to a club, to choose one that is promising enough to win a Cup, or has already won one in recent years, like Florida, for example, or Edmonton, if you want to pick a Canadian team. Even Vancouver looks more promising.”

“What? Boston is promising,” Ilya counters, only slightly outraged.

Mrs. Hollander raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Promising how?”

“They’re rebuilding! Their prospects are good, they definitely have some experience under their belt, and they have a very steady goalie.”

“They’ve been rebuilding since ‘11,” Mrs. Hollander says deadly calm. Ilya stares at her like she just shot his dog. “And don’t even get me started on Ottawa.”

“Oh, hey, now,” Mr. Hollander cuts in. “You know the rules, Yuna. No bad word about either Montreal or Ottawa at this table.”

Shane, however, cuts in. “Ottawa’s rebuilding a team that actually seems to be leading somewhere. Some of the trades are looking good. They’re getting some good draft picks, so hopefully they’ll put some young talent on the roster so that we’ll actually, in the seasons to come, might start winning more games again.”

“They’re awfully young, though,” Mrs. Hollander counters, but there’s an analytic gleam in her eye as she runs with Shane’s observations.

“Maybe,” Ilya says, shrugging a little. “But so is San Jose. And so is Montreal, right? They’ve been collecting some promising draft picks as well. They’re nowhere near a play-off run yet, but give them a few years. All these teams seem to be playing the long game, and I hope their efforts will pay off. There’s some real young talent in play.”

Mrs. Hollander nods, but her eyes are stuck on Shane, who is looking away, too busy pushing some of his pasta around his plate. He’d flinched at the words ‘young talent’, so small it was barely there, but pressed up against Ilya as he is, he’d felt it. At the same time, he’d seen the expression on Mrs. Hollander’s face, fleeting and carefully disguised and even faster hidden again, but even to Ilya it was clear as day. Young talent, promising enough to be potentially drafted to Montreal – nothing Shane hasn’t mentioned to him before, or discussed with Rose before that, but it is something that is still raw between them, between Shane and his mother. ‘You could have been that young talent at Montreal’ her expression said, and there’s accusation there, the disappointment of a parent who recognizes just how insanely talented their kid is but sees it become unfulfilled.

Ilya doesn’t doubt that she’s proud of him – he can see that in the warmth of her gaze as she’s regarding him, in the stories Shane’s told him of his mom being that embarrassing parent to show up for every little milestone, camera in hand, can see it in the numerous photos mounted on the wall. So she recognizes that her son is also very talented in a different field, but there will always be the ‘what if’ between them.

“Hm, maybe,” she relents. “We’ll see. I can’t deny it would be good to see Ottawa make it to the play-offs again some day.”

“Surely you must support two teams as well?” Ilya asks carefully, trying to redirect again, to which Shane snorts.

“Oh, no, she doesn’t,” he says, sharing a quick knowing smile with his mother, and it immediately soothes the tension between them. “My dad is the Centaurs fan in this household. Mom will sit in another room if the Cens end up playing against Montreal.”

“That’s true,” Mr. Hollander nods, but he’s looking more amused by the notion than anything else. “Yuna was a born and raised Montreal fan. You can take the gal out of Montreal, but not her unwavering loyalty to the Voyageurs.”

From there, the conversation moves on from hockey, and the further it strays, the more relaxed Shane becomes next to him. After dinner, David breaks out the good vodka, which has Ilya nod his approval and demanding he takes a look at the label. It is also the point where work makes its way into the conversation. After learning what both Hollanders do (David works at the Treasury Board of Canada, while Yuna works as a treasurer at a trust fund).

“Right, so, Ilya,” Mr. Hollander says. “You’ve mentioned you’ve lived in Ottawa for nearly a decade, now. Is that also how long you’ve worked at Ottawa General?”

“Hm, not quite,” Ilya says, sipping his vodka. “I went to uni here, and did my internship in my last year at some private clinic. Lots of knee replacements, which helped me make sure I wasn’t into orthopedics,” he smiles. “After I got my diploma, I stayed there for another year, before I got hired at the Internal Medicine at Ottawa General.”

“I had been wondering about that,” Shane says, looking warmly at Ilya. “We both started our first day there on the same day, after all. That’s when we met.”

“Yes, I know.”

Ilya shakes himself and looks at Mr. Hollander. “Shane has told me about his choice to work on the ICU – I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says carefully.

Mr. Hollander smiles at him ruefully. “Did he mention everything?” he asks, cutting a glance at Shane, who’s shaking his head. “Ah. Well. It was bad luck, really. The car accident wasn’t initially that bad, though Shane will tell you differently.”

“Oh, that’s absolutely not true,” Mrs. Hollander sharply cuts in, while Shane protests as well. “You were a mess! Broken clavicula, broken ribs, which led to a collapsed lung. You nearly died, David!”

Mr. Hollander shrugs, which causes Ilya to smile ruefully. He can envision immediately what kind of patient David must’ve been; kind, but extremely stubborn. “Yes, well. All of that got mended. Except for the part where a piece of metal ripped up my leg. Bad in itself, right?” he says, and Ilya nods sympathetically. “Right, except that I got the bad luck of the century, and ended up with fasciitis necrotis.”

“Shit,” Ilya says, the swear leaving his mouth faster than his brain could catch. Next to him, Shane’s mouth is firmly set. Even Mrs. Hollander is looking a little white as Mr. Hollander retells his story.

“Yes. The bacteria spread extremely fast, eating away at me – it was the first thing they operated me on. I am extremely lucky to have my leg at all, even if they left gaps the size of my fist all over my leg.” In demonstration, he stands and starts pulling up the leg of his pants. The skin is marred with old scar tissue and discoloration from where he’s had skin replacement. “I spent weeks in the ICU with open wounds, until I’d healed enough to get off the heavy pain killers. Let me tell you, withdrawal is no joke,” he flashes a grin and sits back down.

“I’m glad you are alright,” Ilya says, “even if recovery was this long.”

“I had a very good team of nurses,” Mr. Hollander says, and his eyes shine warmly on Shane, who’s looking back at him with a complicated look on his face. “And I am extremely glad to call my son one of them.”

A small, careful smile reaches Shane’s face, and Mr. Hollander winks at him. “Right, so. Who’s ready for dessert?”

They linger for an hour or so more, before Shane starts to make them excuses to leave. Mostly, he knows that Ilya has an early morning the next day, and so they leave around nine, after some promises that Ilya joins them the following week, too.

“Just one more thing, Ilya, Shane, before you go,” Mrs. Hollander says, as she steps outside of the house after the both of them.

Shane pauses at the door of the driver’s side of the car, hand already on the handle. Ilya, meanwhile, quickly climbs out of the car again.

“Yeah?” Shane asks, curiosity in his eyes.

“You boys should probably discuss this among yourselves, so I don’t want an answer yet,” she says sternly, looking at both boys in turns.

“Of course, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya says, to which Mrs. Hollander rolls her eyes.

“Yuna,” she corrects.

Ilya smiles politely.

“What is it, Mom?”

“Well, your father and I thought it could be a nice idea, but again, discuss this first without us, and no is also an answer, Shane.” Mrs. Hollander directs that last bit to her son, giving him a stern look to which Shane huffs a little. “But we wanted to grant availability to the cottage this summer for the two of you. That is, if your schedules line up for a break, and assuming that that is something you’ve already discussed and thought about.” Her eyebrows raise as both men look a little guiltily at each other.

“We have not,” Shane says slowly, but his face lights up in barely contained excitement. “But, you guys go every year for the full summer.”

Mrs. Hollander shrugs easily, a small smile on her lips. “Yes, well, we thought we could probably miss out on a week or two, if it is something you both want.”

“That’s very generous,” Ilya says gratefully. Then, he says to Shane, “I have no plans for this summer.”

“Ah,” Shane says, a huge smile blossoming on his lips. “Well. I had none either, except visiting my parents there.”

“Well, of course the two of you would be welcome to spend time there with us there as well,” Mrs. Hollander adds mildly. “But think it over and let me know in advance, okay, Shane? Just in case we need to stock up on extra groceries.”

“Of course, Mom. Thank you.”

Mrs. Hollander smiles at the both of them. “Alright, now get out of here. We’ll see you boys next week.”

They exchange another round of goodbyes, and when they’ve climbed back into the car and are pulling out of the driveway, Shane laughs softly to himself while Ilya mutters a quiet, “Wow.”

“I told you they’d like you. Despite your wardrobe choices, even. What the hell, Ilya,” Shane chuckles, and as soon as his car is put in drive, his hand lands on Ilya’s bouncing knee.

The car ride back to his house is a silent one, but they keep smiling at each other all throughout the ride, and Shane's hand doesn’t leave Ilya’s knee at all.

Chapter 19: 19 until my heartbeat slows

Chapter Summary

Shane🥰🔥🍑👅💦:: I took care of it!

Shane🥰🔥🍑👅💦:: Meet me upstairs in 15? ❤️

Chapter Notes

and we're at the last stretches! thank you for coming this far -- i hope this is to your liking!

It is 20 minutes until midnight, and Ilya is practically sprinting through his first round. He’d started a little earlier than usual — there had been an agreement among the night and evening shift that the night shift would show up half an hour earlier so that the evening crew could get home in time for the countdown, and the night crew would have a moment to pop alcohol-free champagne and ring in the new year on the work floor.

Lots of his patients are still awake, sitting upright in their beds and the TVs are playing, tuned in on the national countdown. He greets them excitedly, introducing himself with a big, goofy grin and quickly excuses himself, promising to check up on them after the festivities.

Normally, Ilya would loathe to work this particular shift. This year? He’s strangely excited.

Shane had apologized profusely when Ilya had asked him to ring in the new year together, suggesting the two of them could get out of town and maybe go to Shane’s parents’ cottage, even if it was out of season. Shane’d explained he preferred to have the Christmas days off, spending those with his family ever year, and thus usually opted to work the night shift during New Year’s Eve.

Ilya had looked at him in abject horror as Shane had shrugged sheepishly, “It wasn’t like I had anyone special to celebrate with? I usually hated being on a night like that at home all by myself. So, I always work the night shift on New Year’s, and in turn I get Christmas and the days following that off as I usually do a row of six.”

“Six?!” Ilya had echoed weakly, to which Shane had grimaced.

“I’m so sorry, Ilya, but I fear I won’t be able to get rid of them.”

And so Ilya had pulled a lot of strings, and found himself here, now, working New Year’s Eve a few floors above his boyfriend. In exchange, he’d just spent his very first Christmas at the Hollanders’, enveloped in such warmth by Shane and his parents that he’d felt like he was practically part of the family. Such a foreign concept, not an unwelcome one at all but it had left Ilya an emotional mess in the safe confinements of his own home days later.

Shane had pulled him through it, soft and understanding. So when Ilya got the confirmation he could work the night shift on New Year’s, even if it is the biggest holiday of the year back in Russia, it didn’t feel like a hardship at all.

His phone, stuck in his breast pocket and his flashlight shining, has been buzzing almost nonstop at this moment. For a moment, Ilya lingers in the hallway, scrolling through his texts with a smile.

Sveta 🖤👑: [attached image] happy novy god ilyusha

Sveta 🖤👑: miss you here in boston next year you better fly out and join me

Sveta 🖤👑: kiss that cute boyfriend of yours a happy new year from me too

Sveta 🖤👑: tell him he's still on thin fucking ice 💋

Ilya snorts softly, looking at the grainy pic of some nondescript nightclub, Sveta clearly gone out for the night. He sends her back a happy new year too and the promise to catch up soon.

Marly🤴🧚🥵: yo roz heard u were stuck here as well

Marly🤴🧚🥵: hny bro beers post shift find me in the ED!!!!!!

Marly🤴🧚🥵: bring hollander!!!!!!!

Ilya: i’ll think abt it

Ilya: happy new year!!! 🎆🎆

Surprisingly, there are even texts from Yuna and David Hollander.

[Unknown number]: Hi Ilya this is Yuna (Shane’s mom). David and I wanted to wish you a happy New Year. We’re very happy Shane has you, we couldn’t ask for a better son in law

[Unknown number]: Have a good shift, be safe and hopefully we’ll see you soon!

[Unknown number]: PS I got your number from Shane, hope that’s okay.

Ilya stares at his phone a little misty-eyed, then saves the number to his phone. He sends back a text thanking them, wishing them a good night too and it might actually be a little too sappy, but he finds he doesn’t really care that much. He blows out a breath, gathering himself and is about to pocket his phone and continue his rounds when his phone buzzes again.

Shane🥰🔥🍑👅💦:: I took care of it!

Shane🥰🔥🍑👅💦:: Meet me upstairs in 15? ❤️

A grin spreads unbidden, and Ilya sends back a single heart before getting back to work. He’s seen all his patients with ten minutes to spare, and he rushes back to the nurses’ station, finding his colleagues already there. Zane grins at him knowingly as Ilya shrugs on a thick hoodie. Ilya’s on shift with Zane and Evan, and the post is littered with confetti and heaps of celebratory food. There’s a bottle of champagne to toast with, and even though they’re technically not allowed to drink while on duty, everyone usually takes a single sip before switching to the children’s variation sans alcohol.

“Ten past, Ilya,” Bood says, a clear warning in his tone but the look on his face is playful. “We’ll save you some donuts.”

Evan holds up a second bottle of champagne, and Ilya takes it gratefully before dashing out of the room. “Happy new year guys! I’ll owe you one!”

“You’ll owe us multiple,” Evan yells after him, laughing, and Ilya shrugs, heading for the doors.

He makes it to the rooftop at 23:58. The wind that greets him is blowing harshly, cutting through all his layers and bringing a bone-deep chill. It’s quickly disregarded, as Ilya finds when he manages to blink away the tears, at the sight of Shane, shivering and huddled into his own hoodie, who had already been waiting on him and is quickly making his way over.

“You’re barely on time, asshole,” he says in way of greeting, but there’s no heat to it, especially as he practically barrels into Ilya, opening his arms and wrapping them tightly around his ribcage, bringing the two of them tightly together. Shane wastes no time planting a searing kiss to Ilya’s lips, and Ilya kisses him back with abandon.

“‘Barely’ being the key word here,” Ilya says teasingly as they break apart, both breathing a little heavy. “I’m right on time.”

Shane rolls his eyes at him, smiling softly, and wraps his fingers around Ilya’s, tugging him with him towards the edge of the rooftop.

Technically speaking, the roof is off-limits for everyone, except the trauma helicopters flying in. But Shane knows a friend of a friend and had managed to beg ten minutes on the roof with Ilya.

Ilya allows himself to be guided, his eyes barely managing to leave his boyfriend before his vision is drawn to the city. Even this close to midnight, the city is loud, the murmur of voices floating up along its never-ending traffic. Wafts of music float on the wind, as quickly gone as they arrive.

“I hope this makes up for having to work tonight, even though I know it is an important holiday to you,” Shane says sweetly, wrapping himself tightly against Ilya’s side. “We’ll take next year off, I promise.”

Next year.

For a moment, all ability to speak has left Ilya, and so he nods, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Oh, I don’t know,” he manages to croak out eventually. “I guess I can see its charm.”

Shane huffs out a laugh at that and presses his lips against Ilya’s cheek. “I am happy to be able to celebrate this with you. Right here, right now.”

He unlocks his phone and opens up a live stream of the countdown, holding it out in front them.

“It’s very romantic and all,” Ilya says as he watches the clock count down the last thirty seconds. “But I hope I can still feel my lips when I get to kiss you. My face is numb.”

Shane makes an affirming, tortured noise, huddling into Ilya as much as he can, trying to preserve any heat. The rooftop gives a spectacular view, but does nothing to protect them from the elements. They look at each other, and promptly start laughing, giggling like children.

“Shit, the countdown,” Ilya says excitedly, squeezing Shane’s hand.

On the screen, the broadcast cuts out to a countdown of digital numbers as the last seconds of the year tick away.

Ten

Nine

“I think I love you,” Shane says, voice thick, as he gazes out over the dark city, out over the twinkling lights of buildings.

Shane had purposely picked this spot to look out over, he’d explained earlier to Ilya — it’s in the direction of Parliament Hill, from where the national fireworks will be lit up. They basically have a front row view. None of that matters now, as Ilya turns to look at the man next to him, who’s biting his lip nervously as the seconds slip away like sand.

Six

Five

“No,” Shane says, sounding resolved, as he lifts his head and gazes steadily into Ilya’s eyes. “I know I love you. I love you, Ilya, and happy fucking New Year.”

Two

One

Ilya stares, speechless, as he sees in his peripheral vision how the sky lights up with fireworks and celebration. None of it matters besides the way it all reflects in Shane Hollander’s eyes, who looks at him with such open adoration it makes his heart beat in his throat.

The way they gravitate towards each other feels like the most normal thing in the world, and when their lips meet it’s easy as breathing. In a way, it always has been; it had been everything else that had made it as much of a challenge as it has been. But, Ilya thinks, as this definitely isn’t one of their best kisses due to the fact that neither of them seems to have any feeling left in their numbed lips, but maybe still is the most special one, he definitely wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“I don’t think you’ll ever understand how deep my feelings run for you,” Ilya breathes against Shane’s lips. “But know that I love you too. Even if you made me forget about the countdown.”

“Oh, fuck,” Shane says, breathing out a laugh that Ilya is helpless against but joining.

“Is okay,” Ilya says, as he starts tugging Shane back towards the warm, beckoning light of the stairwell, fireworks forgotten. After all, they have a bit of unfinished business there, and, well, Bood did say ten past. Ilya can work with that. “We’ll try again next year.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a dopey grin on his face as he slams the door shut behind him, immediately crowding Ilya against the wall. “I like the sound of that.”

Chapter End Notes

And,,, that's it! thank you for getting on this ride with me, and thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it! 💓💓