Summary:

There are footsteps outside, a nurse probably, so Ilya readies himself for goodbye. It’s too soon. Too soon. How am I meant to leave him here? Bruised, without wrapping him up in that navy weighted blanket he likes. Without feeding him his stupid, regimented rabbit diet and his ginger ale? Without teasing him about his neatness habits and about the singular pass he missed in that game we played against each other years ago? Without kissing him all over–his cheeks, his lips, his eyelids, across his chest, and the curve of his spine. His scapula, where his wings must be hiding. Angel Hollander. Boring Hollander. Beautiful Hollander. That’s all he is, beautiful. Ilya’s chest feels full to bursting. If his heart were a machine, it would destroy him, and then the world, with love. OR, Shane gets hurt on the ice. Ilya does not take it well. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks.