1 – 5 of 5 Works in Hospital
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Agony! Beyond power of speech by Sourdough_and_Tears (Bread_and_Breakfast)
Heated Rivalry (TV)
2026-03-31
After needing jaw surgery following a game injury, Shane receives a flirty message on his phone. Does the very handsome dental surgeon who took care of him want to know him better? Shane has to ask him. Reader, he was wrong about half of the story.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 38,464
- Chapters:
- 8/8
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #79822841
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Time was doing that thing again. The medics should be here by now. The rubber band was pulling back, everything in slow motion, everything but Shane and Ilya. Ilya, whose brusque, lofty demeanor could occupy a whole room, who was so still and not lofty now, whose head was bleeding onto Shane's lap. I needed whump & hospitals so I wrote it Shane had seen bodies before. Not like, mid-emergency-situation, but suited up and made up and already in caskets. Just two. Not people he really knew. His grandmother, when he was 8. He'd only met her a couple of times. Her glossy red-oak coffin had been mounted on a wheeled table and someone had lifted him up to look at her. He vaguely remembered the soft, cotton-candy tufts of hair puffed up around her bland face; how pale she was, how old-looking. He hadn't formed a clear enough memory of her alive to know whether or not she looked like herself going into the ground. What he remembered most about that funeral was his mother crying very quietly against his father's shoulder. His mom never cried. In eighth grade, his art teacher, Renee, died suddenly. He was already on his way to giving up on art, as hockey took center-stage in his life, but he hadn't told her yet. She was well-loved. Kind of an odd woman, freer with her feelings and affection than Shane expected people to be, easy to amuse and always light on her feet. He guessed her family was the same way, because her daughters held an open-casket funeral right there in the school auditorium and invited anyone who wanted to come. Shane couldn't imagine inviting a whole school to look at his dead mom. Shane's parents took him. He hadn't known what he would feel; of course he was sad that she was gone--they'd had a rapport, and she really liked Shane, even though he wasn't all that good at art. But he didn't know her. His father stayed in line with him for the viewing while his mother made the rounds, socializing and offering condolences and sharing memories. It had seemed strange to get in line for something like this. To say goodbye. But that was what people were doing, and Shane Hollander went with the flow. He remembered this funeral because he hated it. Everything leading up to the viewing was fine. A little sad. Nothing unexpected. Students hung their art on a corkboard and a few people spoke. Her daughters spoke. Shane thought about how it would feel if it was his mom. That made him sad. But the viewing wasn't exactly sad. He didn't know what the word for it was. It was...uncanny, maybe. He hated it. Renee still had her long, light hair, blonde struck through with coarse silver. She was dressed in an outfit that she would have worn to school. Patterned dress, layers, heeled boots with laces, a yellow scarf around her neck. Her nails were painted a glossy red. They shone where her hands were crossed over her stomach. Shane heard someone behind him say, they did a wonderful job. She could just be sleeping. But Shane didn't agree. Renee was not sleeping. Renee was not even Renee. She looked like a puppet of herself. The light was gone out of her. The color of her skin was wrong in a way Shane couldn't quite identify. Her hands were stiff, forced together, and he couldn't believe they were the same hands that he'd seen at the pottery wheel in class, shaping soggy lumps of clay into trinket trays. It was the first time in his life that Shane had gotten a glimpse of what death actually meant. That a person could truly stop existing. His teacher had been there one day, a whirl of life and energy and laughter, and now her body was still here, but she was gone from it. It had made him feel sick. The only saving grace was that her eyes were closed. He didn't think he could stand to see her eyes. He dreamed of her dead eyes opening for a week afterward, of a glazed stare with nothing behind it. The dreams weren't about Renee, exactly, but more about death in general; the absence of life; the fragility of physicality. It wasn't a dramatically life-altering experience. There was no epiphany, no sudden surge of energy that propelled Shane into pouring all his energy into hockey, into living, into embodying his physical form for as short a time as he might have it. It was just a moment in time. A subtle shift in worldview. One of the many maturities a person accumulates as they grow up. Everyone confronts death for the first time some time. The only thing was, Shane didn't expect to be doing it again so soon. He was twenty-four. He hadn't thought of his grandmother or Renee in years. Had no reason to. But he was thinking of them now, while he stared at Ilya lying prone on the ice. Hockey wasn't the most dangerous team sport--that honor probably went to football, or maybe rugby, Shane honestly didn't know--but it wasn't easy on a person, either. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who had at least been disabled by an on-ice accident. And there were the horror stories, the rare deaths, the skate-slashing and head-banging and high-speed collisions. Two bodies slamming into each other at 25 MPH was not a pretty sight. Ilya's body. It occurred to Shane that he hadn't moved in some time. It couldn't have been very long-- there hadn't been a surge of movement from the crowd yet, no follow-up to the hushed gasp that Ilya's collapse had warranted. But it felt, suddenly, like time had caramelized, and Shane was stuck in it. He was looking at Ilya, whose eyes were closed, and around whom Harris was flitting frantically, and around whose head a dark puddle had begun to form, oozing out from the place Ilya's helmet had been knocked off, and he was telling himself to move, to go across the rink and check on him, but time would not let him. Until it did. The universe snapped back like a rubber band. It had slowed only long enough for Shane to set his sights on his target, the way the world slowed when he was about to take a shot, and as soon as it let him go, he was catapulting across the ice, probably dangerously fast, but he didn't care. He was in the zone. Stray players who had only just begun to realize what happened, who were slowly turning around to look at Ilya and then at Shane, were obstacles he easily avoided. The path lit up before him like magic. It had always been this way with hockey, with skating, and now it was this way with Ilya, too. He made it before anyone else did. Except Harris, of course, who had hit Ilya, accidentally. Harris was bent at the waist, hands on his knees, wheezing from the impact and trying to say Rozanov. "Get out of the way," Shane snapped, and didn't look around to see Harris comply. He knelt beside Ilya. His eyes went first to his hands. It wasn't a choice. He wanted to look at Ilya's face, to see if his eyes were open. But he couldn't do it yet. It was too scary. Hands first. Rozanov's hands were crossed over his stomach, and an image of Renee's superimposed itself over them, glossy red fingernails, plastic-y dead skin. Shane's breath left him. But Ilya's hands were clenched and twitching. Holding himself. Not dead. Not still. Not yet. That made it safe enough to look higher. His eyes were closed, his helmet half-off. He'd been taking it off when Harris slammed into him.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,141
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77509111
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Hayden pieces together the not-so-subtle cues from Shane and Ilya throughout the years. Some are clearer than others. Like a very intoxicated Shane leaving his phone open after a night with Lily. Where "Lily" loves how desperate Shane was for his dick. Afterwards, a lot of heart eyes later, things are out in the open and Ilya couldn't be happier to have a new Canadian to torment. A how to for traumatising Hayden Pike
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 4,357
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76684266
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When Ilya gets injured while swimming in the lake, Shane scrambles to save him from drowning. ("We all get our bell rung, eventually." -Shane Hollander) It was a less than perfect day at the lake. A gray day—little sun. But Shane Hollander was overflowing with light. He felt it on his cheeks, all over his skin, in his bones. He couldn’t stop smiling with it. The cottage itself seemed to glow with a living aura. The night before he was looking into his longtime lover’s eyes when he said—twice in Russian, and then once in English—“I love you.” Shane said it back. And his world shifted like tectonic plates. No day would ever truly be gray again. Ilya Rozanov stood on top of the large, slanted rock on which Shane sat. “Don’t dive into the water, you idiot. It’s shallow here—up to your waist.” Ilya ruffled Shane’s slate-black hair. “I do little jump,” Rozanov said. “Barely dive. Closer to —what do you say—eh, belly flop.” Shane rolled his eyes as he carefully rearranged his hair. “You’re going to belly flop into cold water with bruised ribs?” Ilya winced and wrinkled his nose at the thought. “You dive in there and you’re going to sprain your wrists on the bottom before your feet hit the water,” Hollander warned. “Fine!” Ilya made a show of putting his hands behind his back by stretching his long arms up and around. He clasped his own fingers together and stared down at Hollander. “No arms. Half belly flap, half dive. Yes? Approved?” The fondness for Ilya that glowed in Shane’s heart warmed. “Fine!” he said, pronouncing the word with a Russian accent, speaking it the same way Ilya had a moment ago. “But there’s a downed tree down there so aim to the—” Ilya rotated to the right and dove nose-first over Shane’s knees. “—left.” Shane gulped. Ilya disappeared into the water—all six feet of him—and Shane sighed. He looked around, taking a moment to ingest the view. The hockey captain took in the trees, the horizon on the water, the sky. All beautiful, he concluded. But not as beautiful as Ilya Rozanov’s body in those swimming trunks. That was his favorite view of all. Shane looked down at the spot in the water where Ilya had disappeared, and curled his hands into fists when he realized that a whole half minute had passed. How long could his lover hold his breath? Shane didn’t know. “Rozanov?” he called to the silent lake. “Ilya!” The clouds shifted then. Shane concluded that an entire minute had passed. Sunlight through the trees illuminated the colors of the water—blue, black, teal, green... And red. “FUCK,” Shane gasped at the sight of the blood. He eased himself into the water and started swimming as fast as he could. His leg bumped something solid. Shane took a deep breath and dropped underwater, eyes open. Arms paddling, fingers reaching, mostly blind, Shane felt around for the solid object. Fingers found the underwater tree, first, but then he found something hard that felt like skin, and he pulled. Shane summoned all of his strength and swam for the surface. He emerged gasping, holding the limp, unmoving body in a bridal carry. Rozanov’s head lolled against Shane’s bicep— eyes shut, mouth open. “Ilya!” Hollander shouted at him. “ILYA!” When not even an eyelid flinched, he swore again and stomped toward the shore. Shane had never heard his own heart beating. But it was thundering in his ears when he gently laid Ilya’s waterlogged body down on the grass. Rozanov’s skin was corpse-colored except for the massive gash at his hairline that was leaking blood. “Dammit!” Shane shouted, voice cracking, when water leaked from Rozanov’s blue-tinted lips. He rolled him onto his side and watched several cups of water stream from his mouth. Then Shane knelt, pressed his ear to Ilya’s lips, and both listened and felt for his breathing. Nothing. No inhale. No exhale. Tears erupted from Shane’s dark eyes. He pressed two fingers against the pulse point on Ilya’s throat. He found it. Ilya had a pulse. But Shane was certain his heart was beating too slow—the sensation shallow under the white skin. Shane’s eyes were so soaked with tears that everything went funhouse mirror blurry. He rolled Ilya onto his back, squeezed his nostrils shut, and blew air into his lungs. Again. Again and again and again. Over and over he breathed breath into his lover. In the distance, a loon called—mocking, almost. “Please,” Shane said against Ilya’s lips. “Wake up, you asshole! Please!” Shane pulled back and looked down at Ilya’s slack face. “Ilya,” he begged. “ILYA!” Then, with all his strength, Shane pushed down on Ilya’s stomach. Water, vomit, and who knew what else erupted from Ilya’s stomach and chest. A cough followed it—then another. After three more, Ilya’s eyes burst open and he went into a coughing fit that Shane had no doubt killed his already bruised ribs. Shane lifted Ilya’s body, then. Lifted him up into his arms so that he was almost sitting. Shane held him while he coughed—didn’t care about the blood slowly soaking his swimming trunks or the vomit under his knees. Ilya’s wide eyes found Shane’s and refused to look away. Shane whispered into Ilya’s ear, “I’m here, I’ve got you, just breathe, you’re ok—you’re ok—you’re ok.” The blood flow didn’t stop, but the coughing eventually did. “Shane,” Ilya wheezed. “S- Sorry…” “Shhh,” Hollander soothed. “You hit your head. You’re bleeding bad. I have to get you to the hospital—can you stand?”
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,707
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76486586
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“Sorry, sorry, I’ll whisssss-peeerrrr,” Shane says, not exactly in a whisper, but more like, in a quiet yell. But it’s still technically quieter than a moment ago. Then he immediately goes back to his inside-voice-but-absolutely-not-whispering volume. His smile opens up and he says, “Basically I didn’t want you to think I was just in love with you because of your nine inches, or because I was riding you all day or something, and then when we said each other’s names I just got freaked out and too in my own head about everything.” “Nine inches?” Ilya says, laughing nervously, remembering that lie about his dick size. And then his universe closes in on a single word. “Love?” Shane is recovering from a concussion on the ice. Ilya visits him in the hospital. They're both surprised by what Shane has to say.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,390
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76257806