Summary:

Ilya Rozanov doesn’t like asking for help, especially at four in the morning. Unfortunately, his appendix doesn’t care about pride. When the pain gets bad enough to force his hand—and Shane is hours away—he calls Yuna. She answers before the second ring. Ilya is dreaming about his mother. At least, he thinks he is. The dream is already slipping away by the time his eyes open and he jolts awake. He can’t remember what she was saying, or even if she was really there, but the feeling of her lingers in his chest. He has just enough time to register that before something else cuts in. A twisting, terrible pressure low in his abdomen. It’s deep and wrong and sudden enough to make him suck in a breath. He lies there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, trying to get his bearings. It’s nothing, he tells himself because he has a team breakfast tomorrow and he doesn’t have time for this. He can’t afford to be dramatic about a random ache in the middle of the night. So he stays still. Doesn’t shift, doesn’t test it. He waits for it to fade on its own. It doesn’t. It gets worse. Just enough that it’s impossible to ignore. It pulses, sharp in a way that makes his jaw tighten. Sleep is clearly not happening. He closes his eyes anyway, stubborn about it, but every breath seems to set it off again. He wishes, as he does every night, that Shane were there beside him. But Shane is in Montreal, and Ilya is in his Ottawa house, alone in the dark. If Shane were here, he’d probably be sprawled half on top of him asleep, and Ilya would have to nudge him off his chest which would probably wake him up. Shane would probably already be asking what’s wrong… Okay, he thinks. Enough. Ilya shifts toward the edge of the bed, moving carefully, like that might make a difference. Maybe he just needs water or maybe there’s something he can take for the pain. His feet hit the floor and for one stupid second he thinks it’s fine— Then the pain spikes, sudden and blinding, and the room tilts violently. His knees give out before he can grab anything, and he goes down hard onto the floor, the impact jarring and loud in the quiet house. He lies there, gasping, curled around the pain, knowing with cold certainty that this is not something he can ignore. The anger comes next, sharp enough to almost cut through the pain. He’s furious with himself for lying there and being weak. He’s had so many hits on the ice, he’s lost count. He knows how to push through discomfort; it’s practically a job requirement. This shouldn’t be enough to put him on the floor. And then a worse thought slips in, quiet and horrifying that makes him feel so alone, alone and scared. What if he dies like this—alone on his bedroom floor, the house dark and empty, no one even knowing something is wrong. The idea makes his heart race, panicked and uneven. What if he never sees Shane again? The thought is unbearable. He tries to shove it away, to replace it with something simple. He tells himself to get up. To move. To stop being ridiculous. He digs his hands into the floor, tries to push himself upright. It’s not determination so much as instinct. He drags himself across the floor, slow and awkward, the movement setting his stomach on fire. His phone is still on the nightstand. The distance to it feels ridiculous, like it’s on the other side of the house instead of just a few feet away. He gets there eventually and fumbles it into his hand, fingers slick with sweat. The screen lights up the dark. 4:07 a.m. He opens a text to Shane anyway. The blank screen stares back at him. He can picture Shane waking up to it, groggy and alarmed before he’s even fully conscious. Texting him in the middle of the night would send him straight into panic mode, and Ilya can’t do that. He doesn’t want to be the reason Shane spends the rest of the night terrified hours away. He doesn’t know what he would even say. Hey, I think something’s wrong feels like too much. Another spike of pain rips through him, sudden and brutal, bright enough to wipe the thought clean from his head. His breath catches, vision blurring, and his thumb slips off Shane’s name as the decision is made for him. He calls Yuna. He isn’t entirely sure why. Maybe because she’s listed as his emergency contact on a dozen work forms and in his phone, so his brain goes to her automatically. Maybe because she’s close by. Maybe, secretly, because he loves Shane’s mother very much, and she’s the kind of person who will know exactly what to do. She answers before the second ring, and Ilya opens his mouth and realizes he has nothing. The words are tangled up and useless. English refuses to cooperate. For a split second he thinks, If I were still in Russia, I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t call anyone. I wouldn’t be this weak.