Chapter Text
~*~*~
The first time Ilya wakes up, everything hurts so much that he passes out before he even opens his eyes. He does not remember this later.
The second first time Ilya wakes up, there are many beeping and blaring noises around him and people speaking a language that is not Russian. Someone shines a bright light in his eyes, someone else says his name repeatedly, but he feels heavy and sore, his head burns with searing pain, and his eyes water from the blinding light, so he passes out again. He does not remember this later either.
The third first time Ilya wakes up, his head hurts. The ache lets itself be known before he even opens his eyes; it's everywhere, a sharp, burning sensation that is trying to split his skull open from the inside out.
Ilya winces as he slowly blinks, trying to pull himself out of the drowsiness. His eyes are dry and itchy, he wants to lift his hand to rub them, but his arms feel too heavy, like they do when he practices shots for too long.
And that thought reminds him immediately where he is and what happened. Krasnaya Armiya, his team, lost the Kharlamov Cup in the Junior Hockey League playoffs. Ilya scored only two goals, Artemy scored third, but the other team scored five. Ilya failed his team and, even worse, his father. Failed to make him proud. Probably failed his chance to be scouted for MLH, too, with a loss that humiliating.
Ilya remembers the palpable, tense silence in the dressing room as they changed out of their gear, remembers their coach yelling and reciting their mistakes, calling them weak and pathetic, not deserving of their runner-up position, either. He remembers arriving home after the game, remembers breaking the silence after an uncomfortable car ride and asking his father about the scout that had talked to them before the game, remembers his father slapping him so hard that he hit his head against the wall with a painful thud, so that must be why it hurts.
The shame now stings worse than the headache. Ilya tries to swallow a whimper because real men don't cry, Ilya, and he has angered his father enough, but it still escapes his throat.
"Ilya?"
There is a sudden movement beside him, a small squeeze as Ilya realises someone is holding his hand, gently stroking a thumb over it in a soothing motion. Ilya's vision still feels blurry and unfocused. He tries to turn his head towards the voice, to see who it is, but his body fails to listen.
"Can you hear me, sweetheart?"
The voice is not Russian, Ilya realises. It's English.
He knows some English because he's been desperately trying to learn and improve it, hoping to be drafted to the MLH in two years. He has watched any player interviews he could find on his school's library computer, he has printed articles and brought them home to translate them word by word, with a heavy English-Russian dictionary in his lap. He has asked Svetlana to teach him American swearwords and phrases, recited "shit" and "fuck" after her, learned the meaning of "dumbass" and "shithead" first, then "bender" and "sieve" and "hoser" when they advanced to hockey chirps.
"Ilya?" The voice says again, letting go of his hand.
He whines because it had felt nice; nobody has held his hand like that since his mom died.
"It's okay, honey."
The woman's voice doesn't sound angry or upset that Ilya lost the cup. She actually sounds a bit like his mom, kind and comforting, especially supportive after his lost games. It's okay to be sad. You played so well, honey, I am so proud of you, always.
That hits Ilya in the chest and makes his breath unsteady. Maybe he died. Maybe he hit his head so hard against the corridor wall that he woke up in heaven. It must be heaven if his mom is here. Why is she speaking in English? Why does everything hurt so bad? His head does not like that, or the way his vision cannot settle on anything. Everything is hazy and moving, as if he is in a slow-turning kaleidoscope. Ilya doesn't like it either. The more aware he becomes, the worse he feels, light-headed and feverish. His headache is getting worse, and pressure is squeezing around his temples, while the soothing voice keeps going. He can barely hear it as the rushing sound in his ears becomes louder and louder.
"- in a hospital, you got-"
Ilya passes out. This time, he doesn't forget.
~*~*~
He wakes up a few more times, each a little easier than the last. He figures out he is in a hospital, his vision gets better, but his head still hurts the same; the pain has changed from sharp and burning to a dull ache. He tells a doctor his name (Ilya Rozanov) and his date of birth (1991), and asks why everyone is speaking English. He is surprised at his own voice, how rough it sounds, how he somehow knows the English words, and his stupid accent that makes Svetlana giggle is barely there. It scares him, so he lets the darkness swallow him again.
He passes out when someone asks him what year it is, and falls asleep again when someone asks if he remembers why he is in the hospital. The next time he wakes up, he pleads for silence because his head hurts from the questions and beeping noises. His voice still sounds strange, and he doesn't know how he knows the words that so easily come out of his mouth. He hears his heartbeat, fast and erratic, echoing in the beeps from one of the machines near him.
The kind lady from before explains in a quiet, gentle voice that the loud machines are monitoring his vitals because he is in a hospital after a car crash.
Ilya doesn't understand it. He remembers arriving home, remembers the slap and then nothing. Did his father take him to the hospital after? And they were in an accident?
"My father?" he asks in Russian, then again in English when the woman looks at him, confused. She's beautiful, Ilya notes, despite looking like she's been crying and hasn't had enough sleep, with dark shadows under her eyes and messy hair that falls over her shoulders. Her eyes are full of worry. She reminds him of his mom, just older, with lines around her eyes and mouth. Ilya does not understand why this lady is here and why she is worried about him.
"What about your father, Ilya?"
Ilya wants to ask if his father was in a car crash, too. Is he okay? Is he still angry? Is his car okay? God, he will kill Ilya if he is the reason why his father's car is totalled.
"My head hurts," he says instead.
"I will get a doctor."
Ilya wants to protest because doctors mean more questions, but his head is killing him, and he just wants some aspirin. A doctor should have that. He falls asleep before anyone comes back.
~*~*~
"Shane, honey, breathe," the mom-like lady from earlier whispers into her mobile phone as Ilya wakes up again. She's standing near the window, her back turned to Ilya. "I can't understand what you are saying."
She is too far away for Ilya to overhear what Shane says in return.
"He is okay, honey, I promise. He has a concussion, and they had to stitch his head, but the injury is not deep. Mostly some small bruises on his face, from the hit against the wheel, bruises from the seatbelt, but he-"
Ilya doesn't know how he knows what the English word concussion means. It could have been mentioned in one of the hockey articles he translated. Players sometimes get seriously hurt. It freaks him out how many strange English words he understands when a week ago he had to watch a post-game interview with New York Admiral players at half the speed and pause it to look up some of the words. And the interview had been mostly "good game, boys worked hard", "we blocked their shots", and "got some good passes".
"Not a single broken bone, doctors said Ilya is very, very lucky. He will be glad he bought the SUV you-"
Ilya does not feel very lucky at all, but he is relieved his injuries don't sound serious. He can probably play in a month or two, if his team still has him. Surely they can't bench him or trade him away after he scored two goals in the game, even if they lost. He is their best player, he knows. His points, his goals, and the scouts from the Russian Superleague are proof enough. His MLH dream might be dead, though, Ilya thinks bitterly. Unless he gets picked for the Junior World Cup. Unless Team Russia does well at it. So many things beyond his control.
"-working on it. I know, honey, I know. You couldn't have known. I will tell him that-"
The lady turns around, Ilya sees her eyes widen as she realises he is awake.
"Oh, Ilya is awake," she says and smiles at him as she explains: "Shane is really worried about you. He is about to board his flight to Ottawa."
Ilya doesn't know who Shane is. Or who the lady is. He still doesn't know where his father is, either. She seems nice, but Ilya doesn't want her to know he's scared of all the strangers or that it hurts that his father isn't the one at his bedside, so he pivots to annoyance instead.
"Why are you here?"
She frowns. "You're in a hospital, Ilya, of course, I am here. My name is on your emergency contact list."
"What is your name?"
~*~*~
After what feels like a hundred brain scans, a million questions, eye tests, nerve tests, more questions and scans, Ilya is back in his hospital room. He is told to rest and press a call button if the pain gets bad again.
Yuna Hollander wipes tears away when she thinks Ilya cannot see, and smiles and dotes on him when he can. Ilya sips water from the cup she holds and tells her it's okay to be sad and to cry, that she doesn't need to hide it from him. He wishes his mom hadn't tried to always be so strong for him. He doesn't want Yuna to do the same. She tears up about that, too.
He learns that she is "Shane's mom" and "you know Shane, I mean... Shane is... oh, I don't want to overwhelm you". Whatever that means.
"You're like a second son to me," she finally settles on, and Ilya feels like it's the first good thing he has heard since he woke up in the hospital with memory loss.
"Really?"
"Really," she smiles. "We love you very much, Ilya."
Wow. Nobody has told Ilya that since his mom died, besides Sasha, who never meant it, and Svetlana, who says it to everyone in the American way ("love youuuuuu, byeeee").
"We?"
"I mean, David too, and Shane, of course."
"Cool."
Yuna laughs as she wipes her tears and puts the water down. "You really do sound like Shane when he was... your age."
Ilya is unsure of his age. He woke up sixteen years old, but apparently, he turned 28 two weeks ago. Nobody told him that, but Yuna's fancy mobile phone said "Fri, June 28, 2019" in big white letters when she put it down on Ilya's bed for a moment, and Ilya is good at math, even when his head feels like it has been stuffed with cotton balls and tiny daggers scraping his skull.
He doesn't know what to think about it. He feels stuck somewhere between anxiety, nausea, and a feeling of mild terror settling in his stomach. He wants to run and hide, find someone else who can fix it and send him back in time. He wants to cry too, but he doesn't want his father to get angry when he sees Ilya's red eyes, and Yuna has been crying enough for both of them. So he doesn't let the panic take over and tries to piece together the details he has.
"Are we in Ottawa?" he asks.
He knows Ottawa through the Ottawa Centaurs from the hockey articles; the sports journalist described them as "a Canadian MLH team that has limped to the 2007 playoffs". Ilya remembers that their team's logo was the most hilarious he had ever seen. A horse-human with a hockey stick.
Yuna opens and closes her mouth. The way some adults do when they think you're a silly little kid who doesn't know anything, and you surprise them. Ilya gets that a lot from his teachers.
"You said Shane is about to board his flight to Ottawa."
"Ah, yes. Yes, we are."
"So I live in Ottawa?"
Yuna sighs. "Ilya, honey, you should rest. It's getting late, and the visitor hours are about to be over. We can talk more tomorrow."
She gathers some items, including papers, her phone, and its charger, and puts everything in her handbag. Ilya doesn't want her to go. He doesn't know her, but she seems to care about him in this new life. It's comforting that he is not alone in his upset feelings.
"I don't want to rest."
"I understand," Yuna says, squeezing his hand. She looks at Ilya, scanning his face as if her eyes have futuristic lasers that can read his mind. Maybe it's a thing in 2019, because she says: "You must be so scared. I am sorry, I cannot stay with you, honey. I wish I could."
Ilya feels the room suddenly grow too warm. He can feel his face heating up. He remembers his mom hugging him when he was young, his first year at a professional hockey school, before hockey games against stronger, better teams. She used to tell him, "I know it's scary, but you are very brave." He misses his mom terribly, always, but especially now. He wants nothing more than to have her here. She would hug him and promise it would all be okay.
Ilya bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying. He wants to say something dumb like please don't go, and I am scared to be alone, but doesn't. His mom is right, he can be brave, even when scared.
"I will be back tomorrow," Yuna says as she leans down and kisses his cheek sweetly. She smells like vanilla orchid and coconut, and Ilya so badly wants to ask for a hug.
"Promise?" he asks instead.
"I promise."
~*~*~
Ilya wakes up when his room is mostly dark and quiet; some of the machines had been taken away when the doctors figured out most of his injuries were surface-level. There are still some dimmer lights on, and one of the machines has a screen that glows green and blue with his heart rate and other mysterious numbers. Now that Ilya's eyes are no longer blurry, he can read the tiny letters at the top of the monitor: "ROZANOV ILYA, BED 1, ADULT, JUN 29 2019, 03:58:21". Four in the morning.
It still takes a few moments for Ilya's eyes to adjust to the darkness and realise that the person holding his hand is neither Yuna nor his father. It's a man with broad shoulders and short, dark hair. He is quietly sobbing, sounds muffled against the bedding. Ilya's palm is wet with his tears. It seems very dramatic.
"Don't cry, I am not dying," he whispers, because he doesn't know what else to say. It feels wrong to tell this stranger that men should not cry or that it's weak to do so; his father always says it, but Ilya's mom cried a lot, and she was the strongest person Ilya knows. Ilya doesn't cry, not anymore. He goes to an ice rink, puts on his favourite songs on the little Walkman Svetlana gave him for his fourteenth birthday, and skates until the sadness leaves his body or he is too tired to feel anything.
There's a gasp, and two dark and very wet eyes look up at Ilya. They are very pretty. He is very pretty, even in the dimly lit room. He looks like a movie star, someone famous, miles above normal people like Ilya. Someone whose face could be put on a magazine so everyone can admire how nature sometimes makes works of art like that.
"Oh," Ilya says, because he knows who this is, who he reminds him of. "You must be Shane, Yuna's son."
Shane, Yuna's son, looks like Ilya just kicked him in the shin with a skate. Ilya would never do that. Well, that's a lie. He could, if they played against each other and Shane was nasty to one of his teammates, if a fight broke out, and Ilya's blood was boiling hot with anger. Ilya once bit someone's chin when he was fourteen, and Sergey pushed him against the boards and asked him if his mom died because she was too ashamed to watch Ilya play. But Shane is too pretty to be a hockey player.
Shane finally nods, still looking miserable. Yuna must have told him about the memory loss.
"Your mom," Ilya says, then remembers that Yuna called him her second son, and fixes it, "our mom is very nice. We are very lucky."
"What?"
"Is your dad nice too?"
"What are... I mean, yeah, he is."
"Cool."
Shane stares at him. It seems he doesn't have Yuna's ability to read minds installed because he doesn't call Ilya out for anything embarrassing, like so you think I am pretty or you want to ask me where your dad is, Ilya, don't you?
"Did you sneak in to see me?" Ilya asks because it is 4 AM, and Yuna said visitor hours are over.
Shane makes a face, a pretty face that looks a bit guilty. Ilya guesses from the tears, and everything that Shane is just as worried as Yuna was, and that makes Ilya weirdly... happy? It reminds him of those times when his father had yelled at him again, listed all his wrongdoings and reasons why Ilya is such a disappointment, and Ilya had wanted to run away from home and see if his father would come looking, if he would care. Maybe he would move on and pretend Ilya disappeared in an accident. It's weird to have two people who are so worried about him. They keep holding his hand, too. He hasn't even broken any bones or needed surgery.
"You like trouble, Shane Hollander?" Ilya grins because they have that in common. And then his brain halts, as if someone has unplugged it from its power source, and restarts with a loud bang. Shane Hollander.
"Ilya? Are you okay?" Shane, no, Shane Hollander, looks at him with wide eyes.
"Боже мой," Ilya says, in Russian, then swaps to English because Shane Hollander wouldn't know Russian. "You are Shane Hollander. From the tapes. Shane Hollander from Canada," Ilya repeats his coach's words, "sixteen-year-old hockey prodigy. Fast and deadly, best hockey player in your league."
"You knew about me?"
"Crazy," Ilya says, because what else is there to say. "So you are not too pretty to be a hockey player."
"Oh my god, Ilya, shut up."
Ilya does because his head is actually starting to hurt again, and he is sleepy despite feeling like he just won. He doesn't know what, but Shane Hollander is blushing in Ilya's hospital room and still holding his hand, and that has to mean something. He falls asleep before he can figure it out.
~*~*~
"Why is Shane not here?" Ilya asks when Yuna and someone new enter his room the next day. It's midday. Ilya's morning had been busy with more tests, more questions, and many annoying doctor visits with no one explaining why he couldn't remember anything, so he is happy to be back in his hospital room. He is, however, a bit sad that Shane is not here because he has many questions for him.
Ilya had woken up early, before breakfast and had thought about Shane Hollander and Yuna Hollander a lot. Ilya thinks he plays hockey, too. Why else would he be in Canada? Why would he befriend a hockey star, Shane Hollander? Ilya must be an MLH hockey player. And a good one, too, if he's still in Canada, some ten years after being drafted. He guesses Shane is his teammate, they are friends, close friends, probably, and Yuna loves him so much that he is like a second son. She cried at his hospital bed and everything. He has a family here, in Canada.
Ilya Rozanov, at twenty-eight, is a very lucky man.
"You remember Shane?" Yuna asks, frozen at the entrance.
"No, but I know Shane Hollander is a hockey player." Ilya doesn't know if Yuna knows Shane had visited. He can keep a secret. "We watched his tapes."
"Yes, Shane was very talented, even at sixteen," Yuna smiles. She is a proud mom. "I am not surprised your coach wanted you to see."
"So he is very talented. Do we play together?"
The man who followed Yuna makes a sound, and Ilya looks at him. He looks a bit sad and a bit worried, just like the two Hollanders. Well, that means he must be-
"I am David," he confirms. "I am glad to see you are feeling better today, Ilya."
He says Ilya's name with proper Russian pronunciation, making ль into one sound, not two, as everyone else does. It makes Ilya's insides feel a bit mushy, this fact that Shane's father has learned to say it, and it instantly reminds him of his own father. Ilya has concluded that his father must still live in Russia; he might not even know Ilya was in a car crash, and Ilya has no way of calling him. He had tried to ask the nurse earlier about his mobile phone, but they had told him "no screens". He doesn't understand it until he thinks of Yuna's big screen phone on his bed, with those bold white letters. Phone screens are huge now, and for some reason, Ilya isn't allowed to look at them. And so he cannot call his father to ask whether he is proud now that Ilya Rozanov plays MLH.
"I'm okay," Ilya lies to David.
He is very much not okay. His head hurts despite all the pills they give him, the bright sunlight in his eyes feels like a personal attack, his body feels weird, heavy and too big, and mostly, he is terrified because he doesn't know a single person he has talked to. He feels like he has been kidnapped or teleported in time, locked up in some hospital in Ottawa, Canada, and he is too weak to escape. He gets woozy just from sitting up and could barely walk to the bathroom earlier, with two nurses helping him not trip and fall over. He had looked in the mirror just for a second and almost thrown up because his face looked so different.
But Ilya is an expert at taking his fears and shoving them in a box and hiding them in a far, far corner of his mind. If he can't see them, nobody else can either. He is brave and manly and not a fucking baby, are you gonna cry for your dead mommy, Rozanov? So, to the rest of the world, Ilya is okay.
Yuna sits down next to his bed and explains to him again what the doctors said. Other than the stitches on the side of his head and minor bruises, there is nothing wrong with him. He has a concussion that will take time to get over and some form of amnesia. The doctors think it is temporary and will go away as he recovers from his concussion. It might even disappear by tomorrow.
There is a knock on the door. Another stranger enters the room, and he smiles at Ilya, all dimples and friendly vibes.
"Rozy, you did not tell me I am on your-"
Everyone exchanges looks. The guy looks at Ilya, then at Yuna, then at Ilya again, then at Yuna again.
"Are you Shane Hollander's parents? I remember you from the Irina Foundation opening-"
"Irina Foundation?" Ilya asks. "My mom?"
There is a small panic; everyone has questions, and everyone ignores Ilya's. They leave the room in a hurry as if he were a child who cannot listen to adult conversations, despite his protests, and then Yuna returns a few minutes later alone.
"Who was that?" Ilya asks because the guy called him Rozy. That's a friend thing to do.
"Wyatt Hayes."
"And Wyatt Hayes is?"
There's a pause. Ilya groans.
"How can I remember anything if you don't tell me?"
Yuna looks sad. "We just don't want to overwhelm you."
"Is very overwhelming to not remember too."
"I know, but doctors think it's better if we don't tell you everything all at once."
"Doctors suck."
Yuna sighs as she sits down again.
"Is Wyatt Hayes on my hockey team?"
"Your hockey team?"
"I live in Ottawa, and I know Shane Hollander," Ilya explains, putting down his fingers as he counts the facts. "So I am playing MLH hockey too. So I have a team. I can have other hockey friends besides Shane. Like Wyatt Hayes."
"You are very perceptive."
That's a big word, and Ilya knows it. Maybe it's not the first time he's been told that in the future. Svetlana calls him nosy and tells him to stop trying to figure people out like they are jigsaw puzzles. Ilya loves a good jigsaw puzzle. Does he? He thinks he does, but he also can't remember ever having done one since he was a kid.
"So? Is Wyatt Hayes my hockey teammate?"
"Yes."
So it's true. Ilya Rozanov, at 28, plays hockey in the MLH, has hockey friends and a second family that thinks he is smart. They haven't blamed Ilya for the accident yet, either. Everyone is very caring. Maybe, Ilya thinks, maybe it's not a bad thing to be kidnapped and teleported in time if this is the place where he ends up.
I must be very happy, he thinks. It's hard to imagine what that feels like, but it sounds incredible.
~*~*~
"Am I a better player than Shane?" Ilya asks as they wait for the final papers to be signed. Yuna had brought Ilya his clothes and sneakers, she digs sunglasses out of her bag and puts them on Ilya's face so the daylight is less irritating.
"No," Yuna says, in a way that implies that nobody could ever be better than Shane.
"You're equal," David says as he hands Ilya a ball cap. Yuna looks scandalised.
"Shane has more cups than-"
"Cups?" Ilya interrupts, fixing the cap on his head. "My team has won Stanley Cups?"
"A cup. One," Yuna clarifies, then sighs when she realises that she's given more information to Ilya again.
Ilya has figured out that it's not so hard to do if he or anyone else says something wrong. Yuna cannot let it go without correcting the facts.
"Wow," is all Ilya can say. A day ago, he woke up sad about the Kharlamov Cup. The Kharlamov Cup is a child's play compared to the Stanley Cup, quite literally, as it's given to junior teams.
Ilya thinks of Fedorov, Datsyuk, and Zubov, other Stanley Cup winners from his home country. They're hockey heroes in Russia. Is Ilya a hero too? Is Russia proud of him?
"You are an amazing hockey player, Ilya," Yuna says, doing that thing again where she reads his mind. "You work very hard, play very well, and your fans love you. You don't need to worry about it."
"Okay."
Yuna's phone rings, flashing "Brandon Wiebe" on her screen before she can hide it from Ilya. Yuna catches him looking at it, says "No screens," and leaves the room as she answers the call.
David looks at the door, waits for Yuna to close it behind her, then leans in and fake-whispers: "That's your coach."
Ilya grins. He likes David. David had brought snacks (they made Ilya nauseous and touched at the same time), knew how to pronounce Ilya's name, and thought Ilya was as good as Shane, who has more than one Stanley Cup. That makes Ilya realise something important.
"Why are we friends?"
David looks at him, a flash of hurt on his face, before it goes neutral. Ilya realises his mistake. He did not mean David.
"I mean Shane and me. We have a different number of cups, we don't play for the same team."
"Ah," David says, following the road that Ilya is going down. "Yeah, you don't."
"But we are friends?"
It would be weird if Shane Hollander cried at his rival's hospital bed at 4 AM.
David pauses, just for a second, but Ilya notices.
"You are friends."
"For how long?"
"Since your rookie season, well, technically the summer before."
Oh. Ilya calculates that it means he will meet Shane Hollander in about a year, and then he remembers that he is not actually travelling in time and has already met Shane "the summer before". It's confusing.
"That's a long time," he says. "So we are friends all of our careers."
David nods, eyes shining.
For the first time since Ilya woke up, he thinks of his brother. When Ilya was younger, he wished Alexei would be his friend. Ilya had friends with older brothers who taught them how to ride a bike and skate, and how to steal cigarettes and sneak past the old ladies who sat at their windows, watching the neighbourhood like hawks. Alexei hated Ilya instead, wanted nothing to do with him, and probably still doesn't. Alexei quit hockey to become a cop when Ilya got so good at it that his coach recommended a professional school instead. It's nice to know Ilya found someone else to share his hockey world with.
"Will Shane be there? At home?"
Ilya knows they are going to his apartment, just for a few days, so he is still close to the hospital. Afterwards, they will go to Shane's summer cottage, where, according to Yuna, it will be less boring for Ilya. Ilya grew up in Moscow. He cannot imagine how it will be less boring at "this beautiful cottage near the lake, a lovely view, away from the city noise", but he doesn't protest because it's Shane's cottage, and Ilya is dying to see him again.
"Yes," David confirms. "He's at your apartment already."
Ilya tries not to look too excited, hoping his sunglasses and ball cap are hiding most of his face. It's just that Shane is the best hockey player, with multiple Stanley Cups, he is very beautiful, and he has a lovely family that loves Ilya. Ilya has a dream life that he knows nothing about. But Shane must know everything about Ilya, or at least, most things, if they have been friends for ten years despite being rivals. And Shane likes trouble, so he might be more willing to tell Ilya this "overwhelming information" that Shane's parents are hiding.
"Ilya, honey," Yuna returns, "are you too hot? You look a bit flushed. Is it a fever?"
It's not a fever, but it takes them another hour and a nurse with a thermometer to finally leave the hospital. Ilya falls asleep in the back seat of Hollander's car before they even leave the hospital's parking lot.
~*~*~
Ilya opens his eyes in an unfamiliar bed. A familiar situation. He doesn't know how he got here, but he guesses it's his Ottawa apartment. He looks around, but there's nothing specific about the room that makes it feel like his. It's nice, warm-toned colours and big windows with shades and heavy curtains to block the light. A few soft night lamps are on, illuminating the room in golden light. The bed is huge, comfortable, with enough pillows for three people and soft blankets on top. It's nice, but Ilya had hoped a place where he supposedly spent most of his nights would feel familiar.
Ilya's eyes land on his mom's gold necklace that's neatly placed on the bedside table. He had asked about it at the hospital, and Yuna had promised it was safe. Ilya sits up, carefully puts it around his neck, and fixes the crucifix in place. His arms still feel sore and heavy when he lifts them behind his neck. The big purple bruise across his chest and lower stomach that the seatbelt left feels like he got slammed into boards with no safety equipment on. Fucking car crashes.
"You're awake."
Shane Hollander stands at Ilya's bedroom door. He looks worse than Ilya feels. Still like a magazine-cover celebrity, just caught unaware, his shirt crumpled, his hair dishevelled, dark shadows around his eyes. His hands are shaking as he tries to hide them in his pockets. Not good.
"Am I dying?"
"What? No? Ilya, you are not dying."
"You look sad."
"I am not sad," Shane lies.
"You are a terrible liar," Ilya says. He can't believe he is friends with someone who is a bad liar. "You get us in trouble a lot?"
"No, I don't!"
Shane looks so outraged and offended that Ilya can't help but laugh at his angry kitten face. He sees now why they are friends. Teasing Shane Hollander is fun. He blushes or makes upset baby animal faces.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
"If anyone gets us in trouble, it's you," Shane accuses, then hesitates. He's just like Yuna, cannot help but correct Ilya and share more than he wanted.
"So we do get in trouble," Ilya grins.
"Oh my god," Shane murmurs, but it sounds more fond than annoyed. There's a small smile on his lips, and his cheeks are dusted pink. Ilya is ready to poke him some more; he wants to make Shane smile properly, but Shane changes the subject. "Let's not talk about it. Are you hungry? You need to eat and take your pain meds."
Ilya is hungry. It's the first time he's really wanted food since the hospital, and the thought of it no longer makes him queasy, but he so badly needs to know more about his life that the food can wait.
"How did we meet?" he asks instead.
"We are not talking about that," Shane says flatly. "Wait here, I will bring you your food and meds."
This is stupid. What is the point of being twenty-eight if he is still being treated like a kid?
"Why can't you tell me?"
Shane rolls his eyes. "You need to take your meds, Ilya."
Ilya doesn't understand why he has to figure it all out himself, from random clues and oversharing, and why these people, who say they love him, don't just sit down and tell him everything. It's fucking annoying. Why are they avoiding telling the truth when the truth is Ilya having a life he didn't even dare to dream of at sixteen? What's so bad about being a great hockey player with great friends, with Yuna and David?
"Ilya?"
"I want to talk to Sveta," Ilya decides. She is someone who would tell him the truth. She's honest, no bullshit and drama, that's why Ilya likes her. She's hot, too, but there are many hot girls and guys. Sveta is his friend first, a hot girl after.
Shane frowns. "Svetlana?"
"Yes. Can I call her? Or am I not allowed?"
Ilya doesn't even know where his phone is. He probably wouldn't know how to use it if it's like Yuna's, without the buttons. Shane hesitates to answer, and that upsets Ilya even more.
"Is she not my friend?" he snaps.
"No, I mean, yes, she is your friend." Shane pulls out his phone and sits down on the bed, near Ilya's legs, looking defeated. Ilya can tell that he is sad again. Fuck. So much for making Shane laugh.
"You can talk to her, let me just text her first, check if she can talk, okay?" Shane asks warily, as if Ilya is some anxious dog that will bite if spooked. The petulance leaves Ilya just as quickly as it arrived.
He sighs. "Okay."
Ilya watches as Shane's fingers slide over the glowing screen, touching invisible buttons. He realises Shane has Svetlana's phone number and wants to ask whether they're friends, but doesn't. He's tired of unanswered questions.
"Hello, Svetlana?" Shane confirms when the call connects. "Yes, I'll hand him the phone now."
Shane does as he says and puts his phone near Ilya's face, the side not covered in gauze, plaster, and stitches. It feels awkward and tense. Ilya almost drops the phone when Shane lets it go; it's big and heavy, and Shane acts like touching Ilya's hand will give him cooties.
"Do you still speak Russian?" Ilya asks in Russian because he is so tired of English. Shane leaves the room without a word, gently closing the door behind him. Ilya had expected him to hover over Ilya, listen to the conversation or something.
"Why are you asking that?" Svetlana answers, in perfect Russian. Her voice sounds familiar even through the phone's speaker. Ilya exhales and leans back against the pillows. She is real, and she is still his friend.
"Canadians kidnapped me, Sveta," Ilya replies. "They scared us with Americans, but it was fucking Canadians the whole time."
Svetlana laughs and asks Ilya how much he remembers.
~*~*~
The call with Svetlana ends too quickly for Ilya's liking; his headache from talking or maybe being awake, who knows at this point, quickly gets overwhelming. Svetlana tells him to take his painkillers and rest, and ends the call despite Ilya's weak protests.
Ilya puts Shane's phone on the nightstand, lies down and stares at the ceiling as the tight pressure around his temples presses in.
Svetlana had confirmed what he already knew. He played hockey in Canada. He played with the fucking horse-boys from Ottawa, and, yes, their logo was still the same. He was friends with Shane Hollander. Shane's team was in Montreal, and Svetlana liked Shane but hated his team. Svetlana didn't know why or how Shane and Ilya became friends, but they ran hockey summer camps for kids, and other hockey players joined them. It sounded cool.
Ilya hadn't asked about Russia, his father or brother. Svetlana lives in America now and sells cars to rich people like Ilya. She knows everything about Ilya's hockey stuff, says they are good friends, but Ilya can tell she doesn't know anything too personal. Ilya hopes it's just the distance. He loves Svetlana, and his future version should love her too.
Someone knocks on the door and opens it carefully. Ilya sits up or tries to, but it takes forever because everything hurts.
"Careful, honey, let me help you," Yuna says as she walks over. She has a tray with food and meds that she puts down on the floor before she can help Ilya. Together, they get him upright again.
"Where is Shane?" Ilya asks.
"Shane had some stuff to do," Yuna brushes him off. She's a much better liar than her son, or maybe is telling the truth, Ilya cannot tell.
"He left his phone," Ilya waves towards the nightstand.
Yuna looks at it and shakes her head. "It's your phone."
She puffs up some pillows, makes sure Ilya is comfortable and picks up the tray.
Despite the headache, Ilya's mouth waters as he looks at the homemade food. Crispy bacon, hash browns, toast, some sausages, and even pancakes with syrup.
"Wow," Ilya says out loud. He can make eggs and bacon; he had learned to cook when mom died, but this looks like a chef made it. The pancakes are all even and round, golden-brown, the eggs are in the perfect state between runny and overcooked, and the hash browns are nice and crisp.
"David made it," Yuna explains, "I married him for his cooking."
"I get it," Ilya nods with a smile as he tastes the hash browns. To die for. "I would marry him, too." And then, because he can't let a joke go and has to run circles around it, he adds, "But Rozanov-Hollander is a bit of a long name for a hockey jersey."
Yuna makes a strange sound, but Ilya is too busy with his food to focus on it. A new thought enters his mind.
"Is Canada bad with gay people?"
There's a pause. Ilya looks up to see Yuna looking at him with her mind-reading eyes. "No, honey, we love... gay people."
"Cool."