Summary:

The first sound Ilya hears is a thin, discordant symphony of beeps and whirs. Something vibrating. 

The next thing he hears is…wet. A sort of shaking, gargling sound, that feels like the ugliest crying he’s ever heard. And through it, Shane’s voice. 

“I’m with him now, mom. He’s— he’s not fine. He’s not. I know—”

Ilya wants to ask who's not fine, but he can’t feel his own body, his mouth, enough to ask.

“Yeah,” Shane is saying, only slightly calmer. “I know. He wasn’t breathing—"

Ilya knows there's a link, between the clinical musicality of medical settings, Shane’s audible, awful distress, and his own physical incapacity. It’s just, it’s so tenuous, and the air around him is so thick, so heavy. It would be easy, to sleep, a little. 

-
Footage of the last game between Ottawa and Montreal is everywhere; it’s breached containment from the sports world, and now it seems like everyone is baying for Montreal’s blood. Except, Ilya is oblivious. Not exactly blissfully so, but as the fight for accountability within the league rages on without him, Ilya just wants someone, anyone, to tell him what happened.