Chapter Text
Ilya’s mother had always told him that he would suffer more than others, and that he had to be ready for it. She also told him that joy, love, and happiness would come to him more intensely than to anyone else.
He experienced every emotion he knew as if it were the last thing he would ever feel.
Ilya understands his emotions. He knows what he feels, when he feels it, and why. That knowledge, however, never taught him how to cope with them.
They’re playing in Boston tonight. The Bears are aggressive, always more energized and motivated on home ice. The Voyageurs aren’t far behind. They adapt to the constant pressure and refuse to broke.
Ilya waits for the whistle, timing his shift. Hollander stepped onto the ice moments ago. Ilya is waiting for the face-off.
Everything happens suddenly.
One moment Hollander has the puck, the next Marlow crashes into him. It’s a clean hit. But Marlow comes in at such speed that they both lose their balance, a tangle of limbs confusing even the referees. A second later Marlow is already back on his feet, and Hollander manages to drop to one knee. They both seem too disoriented to drop the gloves. Marlow lunges back toward the puck, which has been picked up by one of the Bears. The officials don’t blow the play dead. The game continues.
Ilya watches as Shane begins to get up, leaning heavily on his stick.
A heated scramble in front of the net pulls his attention away. He tracks the play, knowing that any second Hollander should drive straight into the crease, probably blowing up the scoring chance. But Hollander doesn’t appear.
Ilya looks for him.
Hollander is still down on one knee, still gripping his stick, not getting up. He tries, but fails. He can’t set his skate properly on the ice. The stick slips, barely giving him support as he tries to brace himself with one hand.
Ilya doesn’t even realize when he himself stands fully upright. Everything is happening so fast. Marlow hit Hollander, what, fifteen seconds ago? Why isn’t he getting up?
No one else seems to notice. The referees are watching the play in front of the net. It feels as if only Ilya’s eyes are fixed on number 24. He sees only Hollander’s profile, sees him close his eyes and try to push himself up again. This time the stick slips completely from his hands, skidding a short distance away and leaving behind a red streak.
Ilya follows the crimson trail with his gaze. Hollander has slipped in his own blood.
Ilya vaults the boards at the same moment the first shouts break out. He reaches Hollander first.
Hollander doesn’t seem to see him, still trying to get up. Each attempt leaves him worse off, his coordination deteriorating rapidly.
At first glance, there are no visible wounds. Ilya follows the blood again. The stain on the ice is smeared outward from Hollander’s knee, which keeps sliding through it. Ilya circles around him, and then he sees what happened.
A gash runs from the eyebrow down to the jaw, maybe further. He can’t tell. The amount of blood is overwhelming. Ilya tries not to panic. Cuts to the face and head always bleed heavily, grotesquely, like scenes from a movie.
Then the air leaves his lungs when he realizes the cut runs straight through the eye. He can’t see anything else. Everything is covered in blood, which has already soaked the front of Shane’s jersey.
“Hollander.” Ilya tries to focus his attention on him. It doesn’t work. Shane seems dazed, the healthy eye unfocused and darting. “Shane.”
Hollander abandons his attempts to get up and looks at Ilya. His face twists in terror. “Ilya?”
Nausea rises sharply. Ilya’s vision tunnels, narrowing to Shane’s face, the massive wound still pouring as if someone has turned on a tap, the terrified look on his face. Shane opens his mouth as if to say something else, but nothing comes out.
Hands yank Ilya away hard enough that he lands on his ass. A group of bodies blocks Shane from view. Ilya gets back up and tries to push through them. He has to see what’s happening. Everyone is shouting, and it isn’t the calm, professional tone of medics. There’s panic in their voices, only a fraction of what Ilya feels, but still unmistakable.
“Get the fuck out, Rozanov.” Someone grabs him by the collar and shoves him toward the Bears’ bench, where the rest of his team has gathered.
Hayden Pike fixes him with a furious glare. “Get the fuck out,” he repeats, shoving Ilya again.
Ilya wants to scream that he has the right to be there, that out of everyone here he should be the one at Shane’s side. Talking to him. Keeping him calm. Watching him closely to make sure he’s okay.
Before Ilya can shove him back, Marlow steps in front of him. Pike skates away toward the chaos around Shane without giving Ilya another glance.
“Calm down, Cap.” Marlow raises his hands, effectively blocking his path.
Marlow towers over him, heavier, taller. Combined with Ilya’s fear and disorientation, it’s enough to push him back toward the bench. Several pairs of hands grab him, pinning him against the boards.
All the while, Ilya never takes his eyes off the medics and referees crouched over Shane. He can’t see Shane himself anymore. They’ve laid him flat on the ice and are waiting for the stretcher. They’re shouting words Ilya should understand, but his brain isn’t translating English into Russian right now. He catches fragments: bleeding, unconscious, time.
Ilya has never felt so useless in his life.
***
Marlow never planned this. Hollander had the puck. Marlow only wanted to bodycheck him, separate him from it, and swing the momentum.
They both lost their balance. Marlow had no idea Hollander was injured. If he had known, he would have gone straight to the referees and the play would have been stopped. But the game continued.
Marlow realized something was wrong the moment Montreal’s goalie came out of his crease. Everyone noticed. The goalie turned toward the referees and began waving frantically. Players froze. Goalies don’t do that.
Unless they’ve seen something no one else has.
***
Shane feels hands on him, many hands. Too many to count.
He’s cold and shivering. Only half of his face feels warm. Wet, he realizes. Something slick runs down his temple and cheek, into his mouth. A cough tears through his body as the liquid hits his throat. Shane chokes and it goes into his lungs. The convulsions are violent, and he’s exhausted. He wants to close his eyes, but someone taps his cheek.
“Shane, stay with us.”
And the thing is, Shane is trying. He really is.
***
Hayden Pike is frozen in place. He watches helplessly as the medics press one piece of gauze after another to Shane’s face. Each one soaks through, bleeding into the next. When the stretcher is brought out, Shane is lifted onto it, leaving behind a horrifying amount of blood on the ice.
Hayden looks down. Beneath his skates are red streaks. At some point he must have skated close enough to drag through the blood.
He looks around. There are more streaks, not just his. The darkest ones lead toward the Bears’ bench. The streaks end at Rozanov’s skate blades. Rozanov doesn’t seem to notice them at all, his gaze fixed on Shane as he’s taken into the tunnel.
***
Ilya’s vision blurs. When Shane disappears into the tunnel, something in his head shuts off and instinct takes over. The guys had stopped holding him a moment earlier, unsettled by his sudden stillness. He glides across the empty ice, aware that the stoppage will last at least until the blood is cleaned from the surface, then slips into the tunnel almost alongside the medics. This time, no one notices. Ilya matches the pace of one of them, careful not to stand out, careful not to cross an invisible line.
A blood-soaked dressing covers half of Shane’s face. His skin is pale. He’s unconscious. His body moves with the rhythm of the medics’ steps, limp like a puppet. He looks so lifeless.
This time it’s Yuna Hollander who steps into his path. Ilya knows this isn’t how he should be meeting Shane’s mother face to face, but courtesy isn’t the first thing on his mind right now. Yuna is a small woman, so Ilya sidesteps her easily, but in a moment of inattention he stumbles into the path of one of the medics.
“Someone get him out of here,” the man snarls.
“Ilya Rozanov!”
Against his will, Ilya stops mid-step. He spins on his heel, anger flaring, a curse already on his tongue.
Yuna Hollander stands in front of him. Her hands are braced on her hips, fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles have gone white. She’s breathing fast, her eyes red-rimmed.
“You’re in the way,” she says. Her voice is controlled, though it trembles slightly.
“I have to…”
“No.” Yuna lifts her hand, cutting him off. “What you have to do is go back to your team and stop interfering with the medics.”
Rationally, Ilya knows she’s right. There’s nothing he can do to help. But he can’t stay behind.
He can’t.
He can’t-
Ilya makes a decision.
“Where are they taking him?”
Yuna frowns. Ilya steps closer and looks at her. Whatever she sees, it’s enough.
“Boston General.”
***
In the locker room he strips off his gear, doesn’t bother with a jacket or a tie, buttons his shirt while running across the parking lot. The drive to the hospital passes in a blur, the city lights smearing together as he barely registers the road. By the time Ilya arrives, the automatic doors have never seemed slower. He reaches the reception desk and braces himself on his elbows against the counter, lungs burning, with no idea how he managed to get there at all.
The nurse clearly recognizes him. The pen she was scribbling with slips from her fingers. Her mouth freezes in a silent oh.
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya pants. “Where was he admitted?”
“Are you family?” she asks, though Ilya knows perfectly well she already knows the answer.
“No.”
Ilya lowers his forehead to his clasped hands on the counter. His eyes burn, red and raw, but nothing comes. His chest tightens, breath catching in shallow, uneven pulls. He feels useless, hollowed out. A silent hitch shakes through him. Poor girl. He doesn’t have the strength to think about the position he’s putting her in, or about how, within minutes, Twitter will be full of images of Ilya Rozanov slumped at a hospital reception desk in Boston.
The girl clears her throat. That’s probably his cue to leave. He straightens, pressing his hands to his eyes, trying to erase as much evidence as possible of how messed up he is right now.
“He…” The woman bites her lip, clearly struggling with herself. “Shane Hollander is currently in emergency surgery. His condition was stable when they began.”
Ilya knows this is one of the worst things he could possibly be thinking, especially now, when Shane has already been on the operating table for three hours. But Ilya feels like he’s dying. The heaviness doesn’t fit inside his chest, the thoughts don’t fit inside his head. He doesn’t fit inside his own body.
Ilya is about to lose his mind.
***
Hayden Pike bursts into the hospital, slamming his shoulder into a man coming out through the doors. Hayden can’t bring himself to care.
The rest of the game was the worst he’s ever played. Boston won, barely. No one’s heart was in it.
Rozanov wasn’t on the ice even once. Hayden noticed he wasn’t on the bench either. The commentators didn’t say much about it beyond noting his absence, and the cameras didn’t catch much. That much blood doesn’t get broadcast live. The Bears didn’t release any information either.
Right now, Ilya Rozanov doesn’t mean shit to him.
Until Hayden comes face to face with him.
Rozanov looks like he crawled out of the depths of hell. Hayden has never seen him like this, not even after any knockout on the ice.
“Pike.”
Rozanov doesn’t seem surprised to see him. But what the hell is he doing at the hospital? Just standing there, directly in the way, like this isn’t the worst possible place he could have chosen to exist right now.
“What the fuck do you want?” Poison drips from his tone. All the fear flips instantly into rage.
Fucking Ilya Rozanov.
The name alone feels like a pressure point.
The guy who never shut up. The guy whose face Hayden associates with noise, with commentary, with everything surrounding the hit that put Shane on the ice and didn’t stop replaying in his head once the game ended.
Hayden moves before his brain can catch up.
There is no thought process. There is only the sudden, overwhelming need to get past him, to get Rozanov out of the way to put all of this somewhere that isn’t inside his own chest.
He grabs Rozanov by the front of his shirt and shoves him backward until his back hits the wall. Hayden is smaller than Rozanov, but he has the element of surprise, and the fury driving him makes Rozanov’s head snap back against the wall with a dull sound.
Rozanov doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are wide, fixed on Hayden. He opens his mouth to say something, but Hayden doesn’t give him the chance. His fist lands squarely on Rozanov’s cheekbone.
The wall behind Rozanov doesn’t allow his head to recoil, which only amplifies the impact. For a moment, Hayden thinks he’s broken his own knuckles. He draws back for another punch. This time Rozanov barely dodges, Hayden’s fist skimming past his temple. Hayden goes for a third swing when he realizes that Ilya Rozanov isn’t fighting back.
That moment of hesitation is enough for Rozanov to clamp a hand around his wrist in an iron grip.
“Pike. Where is he?”
Rozanov’s voice is quiet, weak. Blood runs down from the split cheekbone. Ilya Rozanov looks, in every sense of the word, pathetic.
Before Hayden can snarl out any kind of answer, hospital security is on him. They twist his arms behind his back and restrain him with practiced ease.
“No.” Rozanov turns to the guard. “No. Please let go. I… I provoked him.”
Damn right he did.
Hayden twists at the waist, trying to talk the guard into letting him go as well. When their eyes meet, Hayden can pinpoint the exact moment the guard recognizes them. The man’s confused gaze flicks between the two of them.
“We won’t cause any trouble,” Hayden says. “Please.”
The guard hesitates, then releases him, shooting them both a wary look.
“Don’t try anything. Next time I’m calling the police.”
***
Yuna is terrified.
***
David is convinced he hasn’t breathed since the moment he saw his son hit the ice.
***
Someone from the hospital staff gave Ilya a piece of gauze. He presses it to his cheek in silence as he follows Pike.
He isn’t even angry. He wishes Pike had hit him harder. Knocked him out. Made him wake up when it was already over. Made the first thing he heard be that Shane was fine.
Shane’s parents stand up when they see them approaching down the corridor. Yuna doesn’t seem surprised to see Ilya, or the bruising on his face.
The same can’t be said for David.
“What is he doing here?” he asks. There’s no accusation in his voice, only confusion.
“I’d like to know that too,” Pike snorts, then steps forward and hugs David. He does the same with Yuna, who holds him a moment longer in a motherly embrace.
Ilya feels a sudden, overwhelming need to be hugged.
A moment later, all three of them turn toward him, watching him expectantly.
“I need to know how he is,” Ilya says. It comes out rough, scraped thin.
“That’s why you left the game?” Pike raises an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
The silence that follows feels like permission. Ilya takes a seat a few chairs away, at the far end of the corridor. He doesn’t test his luck by asking a dozen questions. Yuna and David know little more than what the nurse at reception already told him.
Still, he’s closer now. Close enough to know when the surgery ends. Close enough to try to see him, even if it’s only for a moment.
For now, he waits.
***
Yuna doesn’t stop stealing glances at Ilya Rozanov. Her already overloaded mind is trying to process a million thoughts a second. She always understands things.
But not now. Now Yuna doesn’t understand why Ilya Rozanov looks like a broken man.
***
David doesn’t need to look at Ilya Rozanov to know.
***
An indeterminate amount of time later, the sliding doors open and a doctor steps out, still wearing surgical scrubs, a cap pulled low, a mask hanging loose around his neck. Everyone is on their feet instantly.
“The surgery is over,” he says first with practiced, even voice. “It was successful. We were able to preserve the eye.”
Something in Ilya finally gives. His body goes slack all at once, relief hitting him so hard he has to brace a hand against the wall to keep from dropping to his knees.
Yuna breaks with a sob. Hayden pulls her into his arms, David with her, holding them both as they cling to him.
The doctor keeps talking, outlining the extent of the injury, the repair, the risks ahead. Swelling. Infection. Vision still uncertain. Follow-up surgeries not off the table.
Ilya doesn’t process the words. They slide past him, meaningless. All that reaches him is the fact that Shane is alive. That his eye is still there.
For now, that is enough.
Shane is okay.
Shane is okay.
Shane is okay.
But the image still blurs, and Ilya feels unbearably alone.
***
Yuna and David are given permission to see Shane. They’re told he’ll be unconscious for some time, but that he should begin to wake eventually.
Their son’s face is wrapped in bandages. This time they’re clean, without a trace of blood. His face has been washed, the blood-soaked jersey replaced with surgical clothing. Yuna hopes she never sees that jersey again.
Shane looks better.
He doesn’t look good.
But better.
***
Hayden has no idea how Ilya Rozanov managed to beg Shane’s parents to let him see Shane. If it were up to Hayden, he would have told him to get the fuck out.
No one, however, is stupid enough to let Rozanov go in there alone. All three of them stay in the room as guards.
Rozanov stops in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the linoleum floor. The harsh fluorescent lights make his skin look even more colorless than Shane’s. Hayden frowns, watching Rozanov take several deep breaths before finally lifting his head. Hayden realizes that Rozanov is scared.
***
Despite how hard it is to tear her eyes away from her son, Yuna finds herself watching Ilya Rozanov’s face. She notices the way his brows draw together, the slight parting of his lips, and the sudden glassy brightness in his eyes.
Ilya Rozanov crosses the threshold so suddenly that Yuna instinctively starts to move, ready to intercept him. Hayden acts first. He steps directly in front of Rozanov and stops him, an open palm pressed to his chest.
That saying, if looks could kill? Yuna is seeing it with her own eyes for the first time. Ilya Rozanov shoots Hayden a look so lethal that Hayden, thrown off, lets him pass.
Rozanov reaches her son’s bed, and in an instant his face softens. He stops being abrupt, and the last few steps are slow and careful, uncharacteristic of a professional hockey player.
Yuna watches as Rozanov slowly extends a hand toward her son’s face. She takes a step toward them, when a hand on her shoulder stops her. David shakes his head. Something in his eyes makes Yuna freeze.
All three of them watch Ilya as if he were a wild animal.
But Ilya doesn’t behave like anything wild. With the backs of his fingers, he gently strokes Shane’s uninjured cheek.
The room is silent. No one speaks.
Until–
“Ilya?”
***
Shane feels a warm touch on his cheek, light as a feather. His eyelids flutter open. He can’t see anything through the bright light that blinds him completely.
But Shane knows this touch. He knows the hand brushing his cheek. He doesn’t need to see to know who it is.
“Ilya?”
***
Under any other circumstances, Hayden would already be hauling Rozanov away by the collar. Now, however, he stands rooted to the spot, watching as Ilya fucking Rozanov breaks.
A sob tears through him as he sinks heavily into the chair beside the hospital bed. He rests his forehead against Shane’s, one hand still cupping his uninjured cheek, the other closing around Shane’s hand and pressing it to his lips.
He murmurs words, some in English, some in Russian. For some reason, Hayden knows they aren’t meant for anyone but Shane and Rozanov.
The intimacy of the moment hangs in the room, impossible for anyone not to feel.
***
At the back of his mind, Ilya knows they have an audience. He knows they’re probably all in shock, that Pike is restraining himself from lunging at him. Right now, he can’t even think about it.
Ilya forces himself to pull back just enough to look Shane in the eyes.
Shane’s lids are still heavy. It takes a moment before his gaze finally sharpens on Ilya’s face. His pupils are dilated, probably from the medication, or a concussion. Or both.
“Shhh. Baby. It’s okay.” Ilya doesn’t know whether he’s speaking English or Russian. It doesn’t matter. Shane doesn’t seem aware or lucid enough to parse the words.
“Where?”
Ilya understands the single-word question.
“Hospital.”
“How?”
“Marlow hit you. It looked like a clean hit. But when you went down…”
Ilya cuts himself off when he sees Shane frown, trying to understand what’s being said to him.
“Doesn’t matter. An accident. Everything’s okay now.”
“I’m tired,” Shane murmurs.
“I know.” Ilya strokes his hair. “Sleep.”
“Okay.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“You’ll be here when I wake up?” Shane’s voice is so quiet it’s barely audible. His eyes are already closed, halfway asleep.
Ilya flicks a quick glance toward Yuna, David, and Pike. He can’t read anything in their faces.
“Yes,” Ilya promises.
***
Yuna watches as the first words her son speaks after a four-hour surgery are directed at Ilya Rozanov. Shane doesn’t seem surprised by his presence at all. He lets himself be stroked across the face, through his hair, lets himself be held by the hand.
Every word is perfectly audible in the small, quiet room.
When Shane falls asleep again, Yuna realizes she hasn’t spoken a single word to him herself. Ilya Rozanov took that moment from her. And yet Yuna feels neither anger nor resentment. Above all, she feels relief that her son is alive, that he woke up, that he can speak.
The next thing she feels is one, overwhelming–
***
“What the fuck?” Hayden is the first to break the silence.
Rozanov flinches. Startles, like something spooked him.
“What the hell is going on here?” Hayden demands.
He doesn’t understand. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.
Hayden recognizes the look Rozanov fixes on Shane. He recognizes the fear that was written all over his face. Hell, Hayden is pretty sure he actually understands the words Rozanov was murmuring to Shane.
That still doesn’t mean he can wrap his mind around the situation.
Rozanov gets to his feet with his hands raised in a defensive gesture, as if Hayden might come at him again. Which, truth be told, Hayden had considered for a moment.
“It’s difficult,” Rozanov forces out, immediately wincing at the useless explanation.
Hayden scoffs. “No shit.”
“It’s… We. We are–” Rozanov stumbles over the words, like he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.
“You’re what?” Hayden presses.
“Uh… lovers?”
“What?” Hayden takes a step toward Rozanov. He wants to make sure Rozanov understands the meaning of that word, strange as it is for describing someone’s relationship, before he plants a fist in his teeth. “You’re fucking my bestfriend?”
A muffled sound comes from behind him. Hayden knows Shane inherited his virgin-level awkwardness from David.
“That’s not it!” Rozanov raises his voice, visibly frustrated. He gestures with his hands as he searches for the right words.
“Then what is it?”
Last chance.
Rozanov closes his eyes. “I love him.”
Hayden backs off.
***
David knows he should be shocked.
He isn’t.
***
Yuna certainly is.
“Does he love you?” she asks before Hayden can choke out a response.
“You have to ask him. But I think so, yes.”
For the first time, Ilya Rozanov looks her straight in the eye. Not only unflinching, but defiant.
Oh.
Yuna knows that look. It’s the exact same look she gives anyone who dares stand in the way of her family.
“For how long?” Yuna asks.
Ilya Rozanov frowns, as if he’s never considered the question before. And maybe he hasn’t.
“Two years, maybe” Rozanov answers slowly.
“You’ve been together for two years?” Yuna doesn’t hide her surprise. Hayden and David both make startled sounds.
“I’ve loved him for two years,” Ilya corrects.
David beats Yuna to the next question.
“And how long have the two of you…”
“Since our rookie season.”
Yuna gasps. “Since your rookie…”
“No.” Ilya cuts in, thoughtful. “Summer before that.”
The room falls into a dead silence.
The first person to break it is David. Her husband lets out a snort. Yuna looks at him, confused.
“The summer before that!”
***
Ilya watches as David and Yuna crack into near-hysterical smiles. Pike still looks stunned, his brows drawn together as if he’s piecing something together in his head.
***
Fucking Lily.
***
The absurdity of the situation reaches Ilya too, but instead of pulling a crooked smile from him, his eyes fill with tears. The image loses all sharpness. Ilya stands frozen, afraid that if he takes a step in any direction, his legs won’t hold him.
Everything is out in the open.
Shane’s parents know.
Fucking Hayden Pike knows.
And Ilya loves Shane so much. So much. The fact feels as obvious as breathing, like it’s always lived in his head. Why did he only say it out loud today? What if he’d never had the chance? If the accident had gone differently, Ilya would never have been able to tell Shane that he loves him.
He manages a few unsteady steps toward the door. Ilya leans heavily against the frame, trying to steady his breathing, to force his heart to slow down.
A small hand on his shoulder pulls his attention back.
***
Yuna’s heart breaks as she looks at Ilya Rozanov.
Suddenly, it all seems so obvious.
So many years of keeping this a secret. So many years of hiding everything from the world. From family. From friends.
Such a vast feeling, and they carried it completely alone.
Two boys left to the mercy of a cruel and unpredictable life in the spotlight.
Yuna makes a sudden decision to protect her son with everything she has, to keep the outside world from devouring him whole. Shane will never have to be alone with this again.
Neither will Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya turns toward her slowly. His eyes are so tired, so sad. Probably a mirror of her own.
“It’s okay,” Yuna says.
Ilya starts to shake his head, but Yuna doesn’t let him speak.
“It’s okay. You’re not alone in this.”
Ilya’s face crumples, and the only thing Yuna sees is a defenseless boy in front of her, burdened with emotions too big to carry by himself.
Yuna opens her arms.
***
And Ilya Rozanov lets himself fall into them, wrapped in all the care a mother can give.