Archive of Our Own

Ten games into his second season with Ottawa, Ilya takes a hit from some guy on Carolina’s team he’s never even heard of, goes flying into the boards and blacks out for a second.

When he blinks again, he’s face down on the ice, his head is spinning and his shoulder is on fire. 

None of that is good.

He forces himself upright and only allows one player to help him off the ice because his father told him he always had to get up. Men get up. But once he’s in the tunnel he pukes down his front and is shepherded into the medical room.

He definitely fails the concussion protocol. He throws up twice more, the light hurts his head and his ears are still ringing. 

They manage a few scans of his shoulder, which is still on fire, before pumping him full of pain meds and guiding him into the bad room. The dim quiet room with a comfy chair for him and an uncomfortable chair for Terry.

“Is bad, yes?” he asks when Terry sits down, nausea meds finally kicking in enough that his stomach isn’t rolling. Terry sighs. 

“Moderate concussion, but I’m guessing you knew that,” Terry says before glancing at his shoulder. “I’ve booked you for more scans on the shoulder tomorrow, couldn’t see everything with the equipment here.” A pause. A very bad pause. “And a meeting with an orthopedic surgeon.”

Oh.

“Surgery then?”

“It’s a labrum tear, unfortunately. Need more details to know how severe but yeah, surgery Roz. I’m sorry.”

“Season is done?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Get the scans, talk to the surgeon. I’ll pick you up at eight, drive you over. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Ilya says because what else is he supposed to say? 

“Tonight, lots of ice, meds every four to six hours. You’re on concussion protocol, obviously. Do you need me to send one of the guys home with you? You can’t be alone.”

“Oh, ah…,” Ilya considers. The idea of some staffer spending all night babysitting him sounds terrible. “You have my phone?”

“I’ll have someone grab it from your locker.”

A few moments later there’s a knock on the door and Terry comes back with Ilya’s phone.

“Here you go. Limit the screen time, yeah? It’s going to hurt your head.”

It does. He winces at the bright light and turns it off. This is what Siri is for. 

David picks up immediately.

“Hey kid, how are you? We’ve been freaking out.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, feeling a tremendous wave of guilt, “Needed tests and scans, you know. Just got my phone.”

“Bad?”

“Eh…not good. Concussion, shoulder tear. Will need surgery.”

“Shit, Ilya. That’s no good.”

“I need um…I cannot stay by myself, tonight. Is it…,” he swallows around the lump in his throat, “I could stay with you and…. tonight, maybe? If it is not too much trouble? Or they can have someone from team come to my house, if you cannot-,”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Already have my shoes on.”

Ilya sighs in relief.

It’s a bit awkward, sitting with Terry waiting for David to pick him up. He feels like a kid in trouble in the school’s office or something. 

A very large, smelly kid who is slightly high on pain killers. 

Terry helps Ilya out to the parking garage, carrying his bag and supporting him as he walks awkwardly down the hallway, still a bit dizzy and off balance from the sling holding up his arm. He doubts Terry will recognize David as Shane’s dad, Yuna maybe, but as big of a deal as Shane is, it’s not like everyone involved with hockey recognizes David by sight.

And even if he does, it’s fine, probably. Yuna helps run the foundation. He and Shane are friends now. It’s not weird.

Or maybe it is. But Ilya’s head hurts and he’s tired and he wants to see someone he loves. So, David it is.

David hops out of the car as soon as they walk up, moving around to open the passenger’s side door and looking over Ilya carefully.

“Tough night huh kid?”

Ilya manages a smile, it’s probably more of a grimace, and takes David’s help to climb into the car.

He lays his head back against the seat, closing his eyes as Terry gives David a bunch of instructions about how to take care of Ilya, probably. Because he is apparently not capable of caring for himself right now. Which is true. He doesn’t remember any of the medication doses Terry told him to take or how often. 

Somewhere deep down, he feels shame about that. He’s a grown adult. He needs his boyfriend’s dad to take care of him.

But he’s too groggy and uncomfortable to care right now.

Finally David slides into the car next to him and Terry looks back at Ilya, reaching out to give his good shoulder a squeeze.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, alright?”

“Mhmm,” Ilya says, blinking his eyes open. They feel so heavy.

Ilya waits until David gets onto the road to say anything, grateful the pills seem to be keeping the nausea at bay and he doesn’t want to vomit all over his car.

“Thank you for coming. Is not…convenient. I know.”

David huffs a laugh.

“Yuna was ready to leave the second you went down on the ice. Wore a hole in our carpet waiting for an update. She was going to come with me to get you but Shane was worried someone might recognize her.”

Ilya’s grimaces.

“Shane knows?”

David looks at Ilya like he’s insane. Understandably.

“Of course he does. He was watching the game, I think. He was freaking out a bit, to say the least.”

Fuck.

“We can call him?” Ilya asks because he is a very shitty boyfriend. He should have gotten in touch with Shane earlier but his phone hurt his head too much to text and he couldn’t call, stuck in the room with Terry. For what feels like the millionth time this season, Ilya feels a wave of misery about their situation. He’s hurt and tired and Shane is freaking out and he can’t just call his parnter like any other player.

He feels like he’s going to cry.

“Well you’ll see him in about,” David glances at the GPS, “Ten minutes so he can probably make it until then.”

“What?” Ilya asks, completely confused. He glances at the GPS and winces but sees they are in fact going to his house, not the Hollander’s. “See him?”

“He should have gotten there about thirty minutes ago, I think. Left as soon as they announced you were done for the game and none of us got a text.”

Ilya does tear up then. Just a little, not enough that any actual tears fall, but they blur his vision even more. Shane is at his house. He’s about to see Shane. 

David doesn’t say anything so Ilya thinks he understands.

As soon as David pulls the car into the driveway, Ilya sees the front door fly open and Shane hurries out onto the driveway, feet bare and in his pajama pants. Ilya wants to hug him, kiss him, eat him, bury himself inside of him all at once. He settles with falling into his open arms when he gets the door open and out of the car.

“Hey,” Shane sighs in his ear, rubbing a wonderful hand up and down his back, lips brushing his temple. Ilya leans harder. “I was so worried.”

“I am okay,” Ilya manages around the lump in his throat. It’s kind of a lie. “Just you know…”

“Fucked up?” Shane says and Ilya laughs a little bit. He knows it’s time to pull away now and walk into the house but Shane is warm and smells so nice so he just buries closer and lets Shane shift him into his side a bit so he can walk them both to the house.

“Mom and Dad said you need surgery? For the shoulder?”

Ilya nods, remembering the sling around his neck. Fuck. That is probably going to hurt very badly when the drugs start to wear off. 

“Meeting with uh…some kind of doctor tomorrow morning. For surgery.”

“Orthopedic surgeon,” David calls, shouldering Ilya’s bag. Ilya vaguely feels bad he has to carry it but is too focused on how good it feels to lean on Shane.

“Something is torn,” Ilya says, whining a bit when Shane untangles himself and helps him down onto the recliner chair in the living room. That isn’t good. He can’t cuddle with Shane alone in this chair. 

“Labrum tear, probably,” Shane says, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s temple as he stands up, “You need ice, I’m sure. Meds?”

“I’ve got the list,” David calls and Shane hurries over, looking anxiously over David’s shoulder at everything Terry must have given him.

Ilya closes his eyes and opens them again when he hears Shane approaching, ice pack in hand.

“Here,” he says, nose screwed up in concentration as he places the ice pack carefully on his shoulder, just under the sling, “My mom sent food with my dad too. I’m microwaving it now.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ilya,” David calls, heading towards the door, “If you guys need anything, just give us a call.”

“Thank you, David,” Ilya says and is proud of how steady he keeps his voice. “So much.”

“Anytime, Ilya. You know that.”

The door closes and Shane flits around doing…something. Ilya has no idea what. He is looking at meds and opening the fridge and doing a lot of things that are not being on top of Ilya.

“Shane,” he whines, reaching a hand out in the abyss between them. Shane pauses whatever he is doing and hurries over, lip pulled between his teeth and a frown on his forehead.

“What’s wrong? Your shoulder? Do you need-,”

Ilya doesn’t let him finish before he tugs on Shane’s arm, hard enough he lets out a huff and catches himself on the back of the chair before he falls on top of Ilya.

“Hey, stop it! I am going to hurt you!”

“You cannot hurt me. Sit with me please? On my good side. I am fine there. No problems at all.”

Shane chews harder on his lip.

“I don’t know if-,”

“Please,” Ilya fully pouts now, blinking his eyes up at Shane and tugging on his sleeve until he watches Shane give in, shoulders slumping and bottom lip sliding out from between his teeth.

“Fine. But if it hurts, you tell me to get off right away, okay?”

“Deal,” Ilya says and it’s maybe true. Shane gently lowers himself across Ilya’s lap, perched a bit awkwardly so he doesn’t get anywhere near Ilya’s sling or shoulder. Ilya immediately kisses him.

Shane kisses him back, gently at first, but ends up sucking on his lower lip and poking the tip of his tongue into Ilya’s mouth. It’s incredible. When Ilya tries to deepen it, Shane pulls back, cheeks red and mouth pink.

“Come back,” Ilya whines, leaning forward again but leans a little too fast and feels a sharp tug in his shoulder. Shane frowns and does not come back to kiss him again.

“Stop it. Stay still.”

“You are the one who puts his tongue in my mouth. Gets me worked up.”

“I didnt-,” Shane cuts himself off with a sigh and then, to Ilya’s surprise, pulls Ilya’s face carefully into the crook of his neck and buries his own face in Ilya’s hair. “Fuck. I was so fucking scared.”

Ilya’s heart flops over and he feels a guilty tug at his chest.

“I am sorry, sweetheart. I should have called sooner.”

“No, no you didn’t do anything wrong. I figured you weren’t like…dying. You got off the ice and they didn’t transport you to the hospital. But you went down so hard. I was just sitting there on my couch like an asshole refreshing twitter for information.”

Ilya knows the feeling. Remembers watching Shane go down three years ago. Sitting in his locker room afterwards, trying not to puke, thinking of ways to ask anyone who might know what was going on.

And Shane hadn’t gotten up. He did go to the hospital.”

“I am okay,” Ilya finally manages to say, pushing through all the weird, sad feelings coursing through his body right now and pushes his face harder into Shane’s neck. “Just um how do you say…banged around?”

Shane sits up and smiles at him. Ilya loves that smile.

“It’s banged up, Ilya.”

“Stupid language. Bang means sex too, yes? Let’s do that instead.”

They do not do that. Instead, Shane cuts up the lasagna Yuna sent into little pieces so Ilya can eat it with one hand. Then he asks Ilya a bunch of questions and points a flashlight at his eyes to apparently help determine if Ilya has an undiagnosed brain bleed. Ilya doesn’t think Shane is really qualified to determine that but he is so happy Shane is here he goes along with all the silly tests and only intentionally answers incorrectly to freak Shane out twice. 

“I need to shower,” he finally says before Shane can google more concussion complications.

“Okay,” Shane says, standing up so quickly it makes Ilya a little dizzy. His head is starting to hurt again but he doesn’t want to tell Shane yet in case WebMD says it means he actually broke his skull or something, “Let’s go.”

Ilya makes a lot of innuendos as Shane helps him up the stairs and out of his clothes but really it is the least sexy shower of his life. He has to keep his arm in place without the sling so he can’t do much of anything. But he is happy to let Shane scrub his body and his hair, chubbing up a bit when he washes Ilya’s dick and ass.

“Are you serious?” Shane asks, looking genuinely surprised at the reaction, “You have a torn up shoulder and a concussion, how are you getting hard right now?”

Ilya shrugs, which hurts very badly and Shane yells at him. That does not make him go soft, to Shane’s even further shock.

Really though, Ilya is too tired for anything. He half-heartedly offers to jerk Shane off with his good arm when Shane chubs up a little too watching Ilya chub up, a normally wonderful chain reaction, but Shane shakes his head and herds him out of the shower, slips the sling back over his head and then towels him off with one of the giant, delightfully fuzzy towels Shane ordered him to match the ones he has at his house in Montreal.

“You should probably sleep on the recliner downstairs,” Shane says as he helps Ilya into boxers and sweatpants. 

That doesn’t sound good. He can’t cuddle with Shane in the recliner. His shoulder is throbbing from the shower activities and his head is ringing. He tears up a little. He is so tired. 

“Hey, hey come on. Let me get your meds. But you really can’t sleep in the bed, I don’t think. You don’t want to roll onto your shoulder. Trust me, I had to sleep in a chair for weeks after my collarbone.”

He knows Shane is right so he only protests for a second before allowing Shane to lead him downstairs and put him at the kitchen counter while he gets the meds portioned out.

Again, he feels the shame flare in his belly. He imagines his father across the counter from them, watching this unfold. Watching Ilya be babied by his fucking boyfriend. He remembered how he’d yell at his mother for babying Ilya, the word soft being thrown around a lot. 

But Ilya likes being babied. He likes watching Shane fuss and frown as he portions out the pills, filling a glass with Ilya’s favorite juice to wash them down with, then bustling up and back down the stairs with Ilya’s favorite pillow and the sleep mask he keeps in his travel bag for planes and hotels. 

He is soft. Weak too, probably. His father’s voice spits through his thoughts, sharp and disgusted. Ilya feels them settle on his shoulders, tug at his spine.

“You okay?” Shane asks, hair messy from the shower, Ilya’s pillow against his chest. 

His father’s voice fades.

“Yes, moya lyubov. I am okay.”

Shane settles him into the recliner, Ilya pouting the whole time. He is sure he will fall asleep anyway, he is miserably tired, but he hates having Shane here and wasting the night not in the same bed. 

Shane tucks the blanket carefully around him, fretting not to bump his bad arm, making sure his pillow is fluffed and he is comfortable as one can be in a recliner. 

Apparently content with his work, Shane stands back up and nods. Ilya sighs.

“You will be leaving very early?” Ilya asks around the lump growing in his throat. Shane didn’t really have the time to come here tonight, he knows this. But he hates that he has practice in the morning all the same.

Shane blinks at him.

“What? No. I mean, I’ll hide when Terry comes to pick you up. But I’m not leaving.”

Ilya frowns.

“But you have practice tomorrow, no?”

Surprise crosses Shane’s face.

“I’m not going, obviously.”

That…does not make sense. Ilya is too tired.

“Is optional?”

“No. But I’m not going. I ate something bad tonight, I guess. Can’t make it.”

Ilya blinks.

“You are skipping practice?”

“Of course I am. It’s just practice. They’ll be fine. I want to be here.”

“Oh,” Ilya says, blinking furiously in hopes the tears burning the backs of his eyes aren’t realized. “You are always mad when I say I would like to skip practice.”

Shane rolls his eyes.

“Well I wouldn’t skip for no reason or because McDonald’s was out of the breakfast sandwich I wanted,” he gives Ilya a pointed look. Ilya feels no shame about that phone call. “But you have a concussion and need surgery, Ilya. I am skipping practice.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, feeling simultaneously elated and miserable. Shane being here for another day is the most wonderful thing he has ever heard of in his life. He is pretty sure he would cry for at least an hour if he did leave at sunrise to make it to practice. But what a pathetic, miserable mess he must look like if Shane is skipping practice just to baby him more. Shane never skips practice. Even optional ones. He must be annoyed to miss one now, for Ilya. 

Ilya closes his eyes because he is going to cry if he doesn’t. Shane seems to think he is going to sleep, which is for the best.

“One second, I’ll get the lights okay?”

Ilya just hums. Words are not good.

He waits for the lights to go and for Shane to say goodnight and leave for the bedroom. Instead he hears Shane’s footsteps disappear for a few moments and then return, a lot of rustling along with them. Ilya blinks his eyes back open.

Shane is carrying another set of pillows and a spare sheet. 

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks. He had started to drift a bit when he closed his eyes.

“Well, I’m not going to just sleep on the cushions. I mean I know you have a cleaner and stuff but the texture is kind of off and you do eat on it when I’m not here. I see you do it on FaceTime.”

Oh. Shane is making up the couch. To sleep on. 

The tears flood back.

“You should not…you should sleep in bed,” he croaks out and Shane looks at him, frowning.

“Are you crying?”

“No,” Ilya lies, rubbing at his eyes with his good arm and ruining all of Shane’s elaborate blanket work.

“Ilya,” Shane says, voice soft and gentle and god his father would hate that but Ilya loves it so very much. “I’m not sleeping upstairs. The whole point of being here is to make sure you’re okay. I wouldn’t be able to sleep in another room.”

He comes over and fixes the blanket before kissing Ilya gently. Once on the lips, once on the cheek, once the forehead. Ilya breathes in deep so he doesn’t cry more.

“Is not good for your back. You need good sleep.”

“Go to sleep, Ilya. I’ll be fine.”

Ilya kisses him again for good measure and because he really doesn’t know what to say.

Besides, “I love you. So much.”

Shane cups his cheek and rubs a thumb over his cheekbone.

“I love you too.”

Ilya wakes at some point to a fire in his shoulder. He isn’t entirely sure where he is, it’s dark and he’s in a chair. He groans, mouth dry and eyes swollen shut.

“Ilya?” a voice says. A lovely voice that makes Ilya’s thumping heart settle a bit. His shoulder burns again. “What’s wrong?”

“Shoulder,” he manages to get out, trying to blink his swollen eyes. “Ouch.”

There’s a gentle laugh from nearby and a lot of scurrying. A moment later two pills are placed in his palm.

“Take these. I’ve got water for after.”

Ilya does as instructed, placing the pills on his tongue and then letting Shane hold the water up while he sips. 

“Thank you,” he manages, mouth less dry now. He finally blinks his eyes open for real and lets Shane’s beautiful face swim in his vision.

“Does anything else hurt? Just your shoulder?”

Ilya nods, which makes him a little dizzy and nauseous. It must show on his face because Shane frowns and hurries away again. 

“No, come back,” Ilya whines because Shane being far away is basically the worst thing that could happen.

Shane reappears with another pill and they do the same routine. 

“For the nausea,” Shane explains as if Ilya cares. He just wants to sleep more and be near Shane. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya murmurs when the pain begins to fade and sleep comes back for him.

Someone says it back.

The morning stinks.

He is groggy and sore and barely has the energy to let Shane feed and dress him before he is giving Ilya the quickest of kisses and darting off to hide in the bedroom before Terry rings the bell. 

Terry gets him into the car and Ilya dozes in the car as they drive to the hospital.

He so wishes he was home, in bed, wrapped around Shane.

The scans take forever. His shoulder is sore again and he is cranky by the time he’s sitting in the surgeon’s office, looking at images of his apparently torn up shoulder.

They use a bunch of words he doesn’t know to tell him how he’s torn his labrum and dislocated his shoulder and they need to go in, clean it up and sew it all back together. At least that’s what he thinks they are saying. He wishes, not for the first time, that Shane was here. Shane would understand everything and ask good questions and take notes. Ilya just wants to go home.

He does listen when they tell him the timeline. 6 weeks of immobilization in the sling. No active movement, no reaching, no anything really. Then PT, lots of PT. Months of it. And then in six to nine months, he can hopefully play again.

“So season is over?” he asks, getting to the point. 

Terry sighs.

“Well if we make the playoffs and go deep and you heal fast-,”

“So season is over,” Ilya concludes because they both know that isn’t happening. Terry sighs again.

“You’ll be at a hundred percent next season though, Mr. Rozanov,” Dr. Patel says, an older Indian man who seems very nice and smart and Ilya kind of wants to throttle right now, through no fault of his own. 

This time Ilya sighs.

Surgery is scheduled for nine a.m. tomorrow morning. No food after nine tonight. 

Ilya spends the drive back trying not to laugh at how much the Cens must be regretting all the money they paid him. The team still stinks, Ilya has been a mostly terrible captain and now he is missing his entire second season. 

What a waste of money.

Terry maybe picks up on Ilya’s mood because he lowers the radio volume and gives Ilya a serious look.

“Your friend last night, David, he’s going to come by again? Or someone else?”

“He will be there,” Ilya says. He leaves out that Shane Hollander and his mother will also be there. “I will be fine, Terry.”

Terry chews on his bottom lip.

“I have to be with the team tomorrow night for the game but I’ll be there for the surgery, okay? And I’ll check in while I’m gone. My team’s around for anything you need. Recovery for this stuff sucks, Roz. You’re going to need support. I’m sure the guys and wives will help you out too. Food, whatever you need.”

Ilya just hums in agreement.

He must really look so pathetic, from Terry’s eyes. To him, Ilya has no family, no friends outside of the team, living in his big empty house in a suburb of families in Ottawa. 

And for as much as Ilya usually sees Shane, maybe it’s not so wrong of a picture.

He is so tired and miserable when he walks in the door, he thinks he is hallucinating when he sees Yuna standing in his kitchen. 

“Ilya, sweetie,” she says and hurries over to hug him. He starts to cry. He doesn’t even know why.

“Shane! Ilya is home,” she calls over his shoulder, combing lovely fingers through his hair while he collects his emotions. “What can I do for you, baby?”

“I’m hungry,” he finally decides because he is. Food, then sleep. And ideally a lot of cuddling with Shane mixed in there too. 

Yuna gets him seated at the table and gives him a very yummy looking, very easy to eat bowl of soup. Ilya loves her dearly.

Shane hurries into the room, looking like he has been doing something he considers to be very important. Ilya loves when he looks like that. But he loves Shane being as near as him as possible too. 

“Shane,” he whines, dropping the spoon so soup splatters a bit. Shane smiles and slides into the seat beside him, kissing his temple and then his cheek, before immediately grabbing a napkin and wiping up the soup. 

“Hey baby. How was it? What did they say?”

Ilya knew this would happen so he directs Yuna to bring them the folder from the surgeon so the two of them can sit at the table and carefully read through everything while Ilya finishes his soup and feels completely useless.

“So done for the season?” Yuna asks, frowning. Ilya nods miserably and feels a little better when Shane rubs his hand up and down Ilya’s spine.

“I will be perfect next season though,” he mutters, slurping the last of the soup. “Assuming I do not tear something else and the team does not fold.”

“Don’t say that,” Shane chastises but squeezes the back of his neck and then carefully takes his bowl and spoon over to the kitchen. “Do you want more?”

“No, I want to sleep,” he moans, then remembers he will need to sleep in the stupid recliner. Which…no longer exists.

“Mom and I moved it to the bedroom,” Shane explains, starting to get Ilya’s meds ready. Ilya didn’t even realize it was time for meds. “It’s bright down here. It will be better there. I was looking up how you can set up a pillow under your arm, in your bed. So you hopefully don’t roll so much. Not yet but in a few weeks after the surgery, maybe.”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees because he just wants to sleep now. Yuna hands him water and pills and he takes them obediently and then lets Shane help him upright and up the stairs. 

He starts to cry a little when Shane helps him into the recliner again. He doesn’t want to sleep here. He wants Shane to hold him.

Apparently, he says this out loud.

“I’m right here baby,” Shane shushes him, pulling him into a tight but slightly awkward hug because Ilya’s body has to be titled a bit so Shane doesn’t squeeze his bad shoulder. “I’ll hold your hand, okay? While you fall asleep.”

“Okay,” Ilya sniffles, feeling exceptionally like a giant baby but too groggy and uncomfortable to care. “

When he wakes up, he keeps his eyes closed. He can hear voices coming from somewhere in his house, it sounds like David and Yuna. He lets the muffled voices wash over him for a bit. It’s nice having people in his house. He doesn’t like being alone. He is usually alone here.

But eventually he has to pee so he blinks his eyes open and shifts in the recliner. The first thing he sees is Shane sitting on his bed scrolling through his phone.

“Good view but you should have less clothes on,” Ilya croaks and Shane snaps his head up before rolling his eyes. There’s a smile in his eyes though.

“My parents are downstairs weirdo.”

“I have good sound system. Tell them to turn it on very loud.”

Shane flushes a bit but puts his phone carefully on the side table. The side table that is neat and organized. Not like Ilya’s. Ilya’s is cluttered and dusty.

 “How are you feeling?” Shane asks and Ilya bites back a sigh. He will be getting asked that a lot for now, he thinks. 

“Like I will piss on this stupid recliner,” he says and starts to maneuver himself up. He gets most of the way before Shane is next to him, holding his good elbow. “I can do it.”

“I know. But I can help.”

“I do not need help walking. Just cutting meat or…,” he blinks once he reaches the toilet and brings one hand to his jeans, “Undoing my fly, I think.”

Shane laughs but undoes the button and zipper.

“I went through your clothes and put all the easy clothes in the top drawers,” Shane explains and Ilya stares at him. “You know, sweatpants, button up flannels, stuff like that. You won’t be able to raise your arm over your head and getting real pants on with one hand sucks, trust me.”

“I did not even think of that,” he admits, finishing at the toilet and moving to wash his hands. He catches sight of himself in the mirror. He looks terrible.

Shane must see his expression because he curls himself, very carefully, around Ilya’s back and presses a kiss to his good shoulder, then his neck. 

“You look sexy. You always do.”

“Mmm I am glad you think so. Because mostly I look like I went through a blender.”

“I like smoothies,” Shane says and Ilya barks out a laugh. He loves when Shane is funny.

Back in the bedroom Shane helps Ilya into comfy pants and Ilya looks at his very carefully folded “easy” clothes in the top drawer of his dresser. He is suddenly very aware Shane will have to leave tomorrow morning.

“Mom and Dad are going to stay here for the first few days after surgery,” Shane says, like he can read Ilya’s mind.

Except Ilya’s mind doesn’t want that, at all. 

Well, it does. But mostly it doesn’t.

“No. That is too much,” he says immediately, shaking his head. He watches Shane’s shoulders set in that square, determined way they do when he is about to become the most stubborn human on the planet.

“It’s really not. You’re going to need help. It was their idea.”

Ilya feels the overwhelming weight of being an absolute fucking burden settle on his shoulders.

“I can have team do it. Medical staff will come and help if I need. Terry already said-,”

“You want some random medical person here? In your house?”

And no, Ilya does not want that. Of course he doesn’t. He wants Shane here. He wants Shane to cuddle him and help him.

And okay, if he can’t have that Yuna and David are admittedly second on that list but Yuna and David have their own home and lives and things to do that aren’t sitting in Ilya’s messy house and spoon feeding him because he has no one besides their son in his life.

“Shane-,”

“Ilya,” he replies in that way, which means this is not a discussion but Ilya is being told what’s happening. “They want to do this, okay? And I want them to do this. I feel awful that I have a game tomorrow and I’ll be worrying the whole time. So at least let my parents help so they can update me and you can call me without having to go hide somewhere so some random Cens medical person doesn’t see me on FaceTime, okay?”

Ilya scowls. Shane is playing dirty. He knows Ilya will do anything if it’s for Shane. 

“Fine but only for you. Because you are annoying and stubborn.”

“Fine,” Shane agrees, looking far too happy. He leans forward and kisses Ilya. Ilya sticks his tongue in Shane’s mouth and sucks on it for a bit, his dick starting to stir in his sweatpants and Shane’s cheek heating up under where Ilya brings his hand to cup it. 

When Ilya moves his hand down to grab Shane’s ass, Shane pulls away.

“Enough,” he mutters, taking a big step back from Ilya. Ilya grins at the flush on his cheeks and how red his lips are. “Like I said, my parents are literally downstairs. Come on.”

Ilya whines but goes easily.

“Thank you for staying,” he says as soon as he sees Yuna and David at his kitchen table, feeling an indescribable amount of guilt at the thought again. “After my surgery. You do not have to do this. The team can-,”

“Nonsense. You’re family, Ilya. We want to help.”

Ilya pretends to cough so they don’t see him crying again. 

David and Yuna plan to pick him up from the hospital tomorrow and Yuna goes through a kind of ridiculous list of food they’re going to make while they’re here and freeze for him while he’s recovering. Ilya just nods and says thank you as much as he can. 

He wonders what this would look like with his own family. His mother is the only one who ever cared when he was sick or hurt. When he’d broken his wrist when he was fifteen after a bad fall at practice his father had refused to come pick him up and take him to the hospital so their coach had driven him, looking annoyed and exasperated at both having to cut practice short and losing his star player.

He’s had Alexei’s number blocked for years but even so, he could reach Ilya if he really wanted to. Has before, from strange numbers and facebook accounts in the middle of the night begging for money and cursing him out for abandoning the family. But if he’s heard about Ilya’s injury, he hasn’t said anything. Not that Ilya expected him to. But still. Shane’s parents are willing to sleep in his guest room and cook him food for months when his brother hasn’t said a thing and his father wouldn’t drive him to the hospital as a child. 

Once they leave he and Shane camp out on the couch and Shane helps him go through all the texts on his phone since it still hurts his head too much to text that much. 

There are a bunch, apparently. He’s still in an old group chat with Boston guys that has a bunch of get wells in it and one from Marly that says “nasty fucking spill bro, hopefully you’ve got a girl to give you head to make up for yours.” Ilya laughs even though Shane wrinkles his nose at it and refuses to type in the response Ilya says out loud.

The Cens chat is busy too, apparently. Lots of offers to come by and bring food, hang out. And other things.

“Smoke weed?” Shane asks, sounding affronted. “You’re injured and getting surgery, why would you smoke weed?”

“Is good for pain,” Ilya says, “Also is fun. You should try it. Very relaxing.”

Shane turns down the offer on Ilya’s behalf without asking. 

“They said they’re moving the Halloween party tomorrow night to Hazy’s house and that should come by if you are feeling up for it.”

“I did not realize tomorrow is Halloween. Will be very spooky surgery. I will eat lots of candy when I get home.”

Shane makes a face. 

“Don’t do that. Your stomach will be off from the anesthesia. I told Mom to make some bland things actually, so you don’t get nauseous again.”

Ilya just buries his face in Shane’s chest and breathes in hard because he loves this stupid man so much.

“Say no to party. I will be too out of it.”

“Do you want me to ask them to come over the next day or something? You guys don’t have a game. It could be nice. Seeing your teammates. My parents can clear out for a couple hours.”

Ilya feels that heavy weight that’s been spending too much on his chest lately. Shane is right. He should do that. He should see his teammates who are probably wondering how he is doing and spend time with people to distract from everything.

But it sounds so exhausting. To smile and laugh and spend time with people who aren’t Shane.

“Maybe. I will see how I feel.”

Shane gives him a look but relents, putting his phone down on the side table of the couch. Ilya sees his opening and presses a very open mouthed, very tongue filled kiss to Shane’s neck. Shane shivers.

“Ilya,” he says as Ilya kisses more of his neck, then uses his good hand to tug his loose t-shirt to the side and kiss his collarbone and shoulder. “We shouldn’t. Your shoulder-,”

“What, you can not do work? Is too hard to ride me while I lie here nice and pretty?”

Shane flushes and scowls. He’s so easy. 

Shane doesn’t ride him because he claims that involves too much jostling even when Ilya promises not to jostle but he does give Ilya a fantastic blowjob, kneeling on floor in front of him, keeping Ilya’s hips pinned down while he bobs his head so Ilya doesn’t accidentally thrust and bang his shoulder back against the couch. It’s insanely fucking hot, letting Shane control the blowjob, only being able to sit back and take what he gives. He loves when Shane takes control. He comes so hard down his throat he blacks out a bit. 

Of course, blowing Ilya makes Shane outrageously hard and he sticks his hand down his pants halfway through so Ilya instructs him to get in his lap and come all over his chest, which Shane does. Then they both breathe heavily for a few minutes before Shane wrinkles his nose at his messy fist. 

They shower, Shane washing him carefully again, shampooing and conditioning his hair exactly how Ilya likes. 

“Will be weird when I shower with your dad next yes?”

Shane makes a gagging sound.

“You are perfectly capable of showering yourself. I just…like to.”

“You like to see me naked? Do you have a crush on me Shane Hollander? Seeing my ass gets you hard?”

“Fuck off.”

“Is okay. I will not tell. I think you are not so bad naked too.”

“Not so bad?” Shane asks, biting back a grin. His eyes are bright. Ilya wishes he could take a photo, put it in a frame next to his bed for the mornings he wishes he didn’t wake up.

“Not so bad.”

After more meds and icing, Shane tucks him into the terrible recliner bed and sits across his lap, his wonderful weight heavy across Ilya’s legs. His eyes drift shut as Shane combs his fingers through his damp curls.

“I’m so sorry I can’t be here tomorrow. If it was just practice I’d skip again.”

Ilya just hums because his throat is suddenly feeling a little tight. He focuses on Shane’s fingers.

“Are you nervous? About the surgery?”

It’s a good question. He hasn’t really given it a lot of thought, more preoccupied with his present discomfort and the reality of being out for the season. Ilya’s only had one surgery before. He was eleven and woke up in the middle of the night with a terrible, radiating pain in his side. Mama took him to the hospital and didn’t leave his side until they wheeled him down a long hallway to remove his appendix.

He doesn’t remember much about it besides how Mama told him jokes through the pain to distract him and brought him big bowls of ice cream once they got home. He remembers loving being able to skip school and even hockey for a few weeks, holed up in the living room with Mama. He loved her so much, loved having her attention so closely for so long. Loved the way she sang to him when he went to sleep, the way she made fun of the old movies they would watch so he would laugh.

She was already sad then, he knows that now. So many times he could hear her crying late at night. But he thinks she was happy those two weeks too. He remembers her laughing, remembers thinking how nice it was that she stayed in the living room with him instead of behind the closed door of her bedroom.

Of course, he also remembers the way her face would change when his father came home. How disgusted he looked to see Ilya in his pajamas on the couch, ice cream bowl in his lap. Lots of angry yelling, telling Mama he needed to toughen up, be a man, take care of himself. 

But he will always have those two weeks with Mama. He didn’t get her for very long after that. He thought about breaking his arm once, when Mama got really sad, just before she died. He thought if he had another surgery, they would get two more happy weeks again. She would smile.

He still sometimes wonders if that would have changed anything. Probably not. He’s not a silly child anymore. But still, two more weeks would have been nice.

He forces his brain back to Shane, away from his beautiful Mama on their old, squishy couch. 

He wishes he had two weeks with Shane like that. Two weeks to be alone and eat ice cream and watch old movies while Ilya healed. Ilya would be so happy, like Mama was. 

Two weeks could fix everything.

“No, I am not nervous,” he says instead of everything he is thinking about. “Will go to sleep and wake up and eat ice cream, yes?”

“Ice cream?”

“Is what you get after surgery. Lots of ice cream.”

Shane hums, seems to consider it.

“After my surgery I had lentil soup I think. With kale.”

Ilya pretends to gag.

“This is terrible. What is point of surgery?”

“To fix my collarbone.”

“Ice cream helps to fix it. I know this.”

Shane laughs and kisses his forehead.

“Okay, I’ll make sure you have lots of ice cream ready. I’ll tell my mom to get some.”

The last part of the sentence makes Ilya’s heart sink a bit. Right. He will be with Yuna and David. Not Shane. 

“When do I see you after? You have roadtrip soon, yes?”

Shane sighs and looks so guilty Ilya knows the answer is not good.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. We leave tomorrow night and it’s a ten day roadie. It’ll be a couple weeks, unfortunately.”

Ilya is very proud that he does not let himself cry in that moment, even though he really, really wants to.

“Okay,” he manages, voice flat but not shaky. “Is okay.”

“I’ll drive over as soon as we land when I get back. It’s only for a day because we have a home game the day after but still. And you’ll have my parents whenever you need them. And your teammates will come by a lot, right? Or their wives if they’re gone?”

Ilya nods. It’s probably true. It would be more true if he was a better friend or a better captain to them but he’s too tired to be that right now. He doesn’t tell Shane this, though.

There’s a long silence. Ilya closes his eyes again, focusing on Shane’s warm hand, now tracing his cheekbone. The weight of him on Ilya’s thighs. The smell of him that hopefully clings to the room for days.

“Do you…do you want me to skip the game tomorrow?”

Ilya’s eyes fly open. Shane is chewing hard on his bottom lip. His wide brown eyes are blinking at Ilya with confusion, with guilt. They will always be Ilya’s favorite color.

“What do you mean skip the game?”

“I mean…if you needed…I guess I could say I have the flu or something. They think I’m sick from practice. Guys miss games for the flu.”

Ilya searches his face. He wants to see…something. Something other than pure conflict and guilt. 

“You never skip games unless you are hurt and team says you cannot.”

“I know but…if you want me to…,”

And god, Ilya wants him to. Ilya wants him to skip the game so badly it physically hurts. He wants to wake up from surgery, groggy and confused and hold Shane’s hand. 

But what he wants is for Shane to tell him he is skipping the game. 

He doesn’t want to be asked.

He can’t tell Shane to skip. He can’t be that burden. He can’t watch Shane on his couch tomorrow, in his bed, in his kitchen and know that Shane is only with him instead of on the ice because Ilya is weak and pathetic and didn’t tell him to choose his team.

“Your team needs you,” he says, the words tasting like bile on his tongue. “Is important game. You should be there.”

“Are you sure?” Shane asks, fingers combing through his hair again.

“Yes, I am sure.”

“Okay.”

Ilya thinks it is probably not normal how much his heart breaks. 

The next morning is a blur. Shane wakes him up with just enough to get him dressed and ready before Terry knocks. Ilya doesn’t say much. He’s tired and worried that if he opens his mouth for too long, tears or even worse, pleas for Shane to stay with him, will come out. 

Shane keeps looking at him for too long, like he’s trying to find something in Ilya’s puffy face. 

“My dad will pick you up from the hospital. My mom will be here when you get home.”

He keeps repeating this information like some kind of mantra. Maybe he thinks Ilya is so dumb or drugged up he won’t remember. Ilya just nods and accepts the long and very dry kiss goodbye when the knock comes at the front door and Shane scampers back towards the bedroom.

At the hospital they put him in an ugly gown and hair cap, tell him how there is a very small chance he could die or be disabled forever during surgery, he signs a bunch of papers he doesn’t read agreeing to that, and then counts back from ten to about seven before everything goes black.

He doesn’t remember much after that. Blurry memories of a nice nurse patting his hand when he complained he was hungry and then holding a plastic tray while he puked up bile into it. He thinks he might have whined about wanting to talk to Shane. Being told the surgery went well, to keep his arm immobile for the next six weeks and to come back in one week to see how he’s doing. The good drugs for two days then only over the counter pills. Fevers are very bad. Yes they will give him a paper with all this information before he leaves.

Once they get him up on shaky legs and walking around, Harris appears in his room, far too chipper, and takes a bunch of probably very bad photos for the Cens social media. Ilya doesn’t know why fans would want to see him in a hospital bed with a very big, padded sling on but Harris knows more about this than he does so he forces a very fake smile and thumbs up with his good arm. Maybe this post will make the team not regret his stupid, giant contract.

Finally, David shows up. Right before he is being discharged. Ilya wants to cry.

The doctors repeat all the care information they told Ilya he forgot already to David and give him a bunch of papers that will definitely end up with Yuna. Then David helps Ilya back into his clothes, the comfy, easy to put on clothes Shane dressed him in this morning, and guides him out to the car. 

Shane facetimes him on the way home and Ilya grins when he sees him on the small screen. He tears up a little too but they both ignore it. He’s in his car, hair damp from his post morning skate shower. 

He asks a lot of questions about how the surgery went and what the doctors said afterwards. Ilya is mostly too loopy and tired to answer so David does most of the talking which is fine because Ilya can watch tiny Shane on his screen, the way his brows furrow when he’s concentrating, the way his lip swells up a bit after he stops chewing it while listening to David.

When he hangs up to go home and take his pregame nap, Ilya leans his head back against the seat and hopes he can sleep so long, when he wakes up he doesn’t feel so heavy. 

Yuna and David take such good care of him, Ilya feels a bit sick about it. Every meal is ready for him, his dishes washed, his house cleaned, his meds portioned and given to him exactly on schedule. David goads him downstairs and out of his recliner bed with puzzles and boardgames, even when he wants to sleep all day. 

He’s never been so grateful. He’s never felt like more of a burden. He can’t imagine they’d want to be here, picking up behind him, cutting up his food. He believes that they love him, sure, even if only because Shane loves him, but he also thinks they must feel bad. He’s in this city for Shane. He hasn’t made good enough friends to have someone else come do this. He must be so pitiable like this, not understanding all of the medical terms or medication names because his English still isn’t perfect and still groggy from painkillers. 

So on day three of recovery, he basically forces them out of his house.

“I am okay. I have so much food I do not need to cook at all. I have medication alarms on my phone. You have other things to do than be at my house.”

Yuna frowns, looking exactly like Shane as she does, but David sighs and puts his hands on her shoulders.

“Yuna, he’s an adult. He doesn’t want us taking up all his space anymore. It’s normal. He’ll be okay.”

And well that’s not really true. He loves that they are taking up his space. If anything, he is the one taking up space. But he is sure David is just saying that so he doesn’t hurt Ilya’s feelings. It takes David an extra twenty minutes on his commute to come here after work. Longer if Yuna asks him to stop at the pharmacy or grocery store on the way home. It makes Ilya’s stomach hurt every time he walks in the door so late. 

“But he has his follow up in a few days. If we just wait until then to be sure-,”

“I see team doctor tomorrow,” he lies, hoping it will persuade her. “If there is problem he will know I am sure.”

David nods and starts to pull his shoes on.

“If you need anything, kid, you call. Okay? Only twenty minutes away.”

“I can come by tomorrow or the day after, if you need anything,” Yuna adds, finally shrugging her coat on. 

“I will invite some teammates over soon, so maybe text before you come,” he says, even though he isn’t sure he will really do that. But he does not want to admit he has absolutely no plans to see anyone or do anything when they leave and would like the opportunity to pretend to be busy if she does come by.

They both give him slightly awkward hugs that don’t hurt his shoulder.

When they are gone, the house is oppressively silent. The quiet is thick, settling all around Ilya, weighing down his feet, his shoulders, his head. 

He sits on the couch for a bit watching some movie he has no interest in. Shane’s on the west coast now, his game late tonight against Seattle so he is probably at his morning skate. Busy. Laughing with his teammates, enjoying their winning season. He’s a good captain. Pays attention to all the guys, even the quiet rookies. 

Ilya has a phone full of texts from his team he hasn’t answered. He stretches his fingers out like he might grab his phone and go through some of the texts but he drops his hand instead. That seems like so much work. 

His phone dings at him, signalling he needs to take his medication. Right. Yuna set all his alarms. And apparently put all his pills into pill boxes for him. Since he is pathetic and can’t take care of himself. 

Tears in his eyes, Ilya makes his way upstairs. It’s barely mid afternoon but he’s so tired. He doesn’t want to sleep in his stupid recliner bed anymore. So with a bit of wiggling, he lays down on his bed and tugs the comforter up all the way to his ears. He should probably at least have a pillow under his arm or whatever but he feels too tired to care.

He blinks awake an unknown amount of time later to dark windows and his phone lighting up the room, Shane’s face on his screen.

He fumbles for it, eyes puffy with sleep and body still terribly heavy.

“Hello?” he manages, voice thick and hoarse. Shane’s face blinks at him from his phone screen.

“Were you asleep?”

“Yes,” Ilya replies because it must be fairly obvious given how he answered the phone. He flops back down onto the pillow, sleep still grasping for his mind.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Shane says, sounding a little bit concerned. Ilya rubs his free hand at his eyes, trying to force them to open properly. It must be night, there’s no sun streaming through the blinds. “Are you in bed?”

“Um…yes.” There’s really no point in lying.

“But your shoulder.”

And now that Shane has brought it up, Ilya’s shoulder is throbbing. In a sharp way it probably shouldn’t be. He’s not going to mention that to Shane though who is staring at him so intently through the phone, Ilya is worried he might go cross-eyed.

“Is fine. Doesn’t hurt. Just needed a good sleep for a bit, not in stupid chair.”

“But the doctor said-,”

“I will sleep in the chair tonight, okay? Shoulder is still attached.”

Ilya pushes himself up to sit and swallows a moan as his shoulder radiates pain again. He needs his painkillers but they’re downstairs in the kitchen and there is no chance he is getting his body all the way down there right now. 

“Okay,” Shane says but doesn’t drop the look on his face so Ilya knows there is more. “Why did you tell my parents to leave? They would have stayed longer. They told you that.”

“Because I did not need them to stay anymore,” Ilya barks, the frustration slamming over him like a wave, hard and fast. He’s so tired and uncomfortable and doesn’t want to talk to Shane about any of this right now. But now Shane’s eyes are wide and he’s blinking at the camera looking hurt and confused so Ilya forces himself to take a breath because Shane caring about him is the most precious thing he has and the least he can do in return is not yell at him for doing it. “Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to snap. I am just tired.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane replies and now Ilya feels terrible because Shane did nothing wrong. “I shouldn’t be jumping on you like that. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

“I am fine,” Ilya lies because he has already fucked this call up and doesn’t need to ruin the rest of it with Shane worrying even more. “Hard to sleep. But I have what I need. Your parents gave me so much food I’m going to drown in it.”

“I hate that you’re alone. It’s not fair.”

Ilya shrugs with his good shoulder and doesn’t let his lower lip tremble the way it wants to.

“I am going to have some teammates over,” he lies because he doesn’t want Shane to picture Ilya alone in his house. The actual picture of it is probably even worse than Shane’s imagination. “We’ll hang out. It’s easier if your parents are not here for that anyway.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Shane says and looks relieved by the information so Ilya only feels a little guilty for the lie. 

“How is Seattle?” Ilya asks, shifting again and biting down on his lip so he doesn’t make a face from the pain. 

“Raining. Shocker.”

Shane tells him about the bumpy flight and how the ice was bad for morning skate so he’s worried about the game later. Ilya listens and watches Shane’s face, taking in every beautiful angle and expression even in his shitty hotel lighting. He wishes so badly Shane was here that it hurts him in a physical way. Or that he could be there, in his hotel bed, cheering him on from the stands tonight, kissing him after the game. 

His eyes are suddenly burning and he blinks them hard. Fuck. What is wrong with him?

“And Hayden says he hopes you have a good recovery and are back on the ice soon,” Shane finishes and Ilya tunes back in, hoping his weird emotions aren’t showing on the video call.

“No, he did not.”

“Yes he did. Well, technically Jackie told him to say it. But then he did.”

“Well tell Pike thank you and maybe this year he can score more goals than me if I only play 10 games. But probably I still beat him.”

“You’re such a dick,” Shane laughs and the corners of Ilya’s mouth twitch in return because he loves Shane’s smile so fucking much. His real one when his eyes crinkle up and Ilya can see a little bit of his upper gum peeking out. He’s so beautiful like this, so real. 

“Mmm maybe, but you love my dick very much,” Ilya says, diverting from the strange, inappropriate emotional responses bubbling inside of him again. 

“I do love your dick,” Shane says with a sigh and Ilya smiles but it’s mostly fake this time. He knows what should happen. Shane is alone in his hotel and probably has at least thirty minutes before he has to leave. Plenty of time for phone sex. It’s time for Ilya to initiate it, use Shane’s opening and have them both naked in short order.

But he doesn’t want to right now. His cock is soft and uninterested under his briefs. Shane looks perfect, of course. But Ilya is so tired and his shoulder is throbbing and he’s already calculating how much effort it is going to take for him to get the pills already laid on his kitchen counter. And how weak he is for laying here in pain because he is too lazy to get them. Shane shouldn’t want anything from him like this. He doesn’t even have the mental energy to help his perfect, sexy boyfriend jerk himself off right now.

“I need to go get my pain medication. And take a shower, I think,” Ilya says instead, staring just past Shane’s shoulder on his screen. “You need to leave for the game?”

“Oh um, yeah in a bit,” Shane says, looking surprised and a little embarrassed. Ilya feels fucking horrible. “Yeah of course. Do you need anything else? I can call Mom and Dad to come back over they really don’t-,”

“I am fine. Just sore. Normal recovery things, you know. Maybe now that I took this nap I will stay up and watch you.”

He won’t. He fully intends on going back to sleep as soon as his medication has soothed his shoulder enough to allow it. But Shane doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ll score for you,” Shane says and Ilya rolls his eyes.

“So your team stays better than mine and you catch up to my career goals?”

“I’ll make it a pretty one.”

“Well if it is you scoring it is always going to be pretty,” Ilya says because Shane deserves it. Because he still feels bad about snapping at him and brushing off phone sex. 

“I love you,” Shane says, those beautiful brown eyes searching his screen like they are trying to find something hidden in Ilya’s face. “Call if you need anything. Please.”

“I will,” Ilya says knowing he probably will not. “I love you too.”

He spends a weary hour forcing some food down his throat until his medication kicks in and he can sink back into a blissful sleep. 

Ilya actually feels a little bit better when he wakes up the next day. He ended up in the recliner halfway through the night because he rolled onto his bad shoulder and woke up cursing in pain. But, despite that, he feels lighter than he did last night. More alert.

Maybe it was just the injury that brought on the dark, heavy feelings. Not that he is maybe like his mother. Not that he is depressed.

He makes himself breakfast and a cup of coffee. Checks the box score of Shane’s game, they won 4-2, and watches the highlights of Shane’s goal and assist. Texts him that he loves him and that his backhand was weak on the second goal. He even calls Terry back after only sending clipped texts for the last few days. Terry encourages him to do a short workout on his stationary bike, which he does and feels good about the sweat all over his body afterwards. 

When Shane replies saying he loves him too and he’s an asshole his backhand is not weak, Ilya replies with a selfie of him shirtless and sweaty. 

Shane then immediately facetimes him and they have some pretty fantastic phone sex before he has to leave for the flight to Vancouver.

All in all, it’s a very good morning. So good Ilya does invite some teammates over. Now he’s not lying to Shane or Yuna. He’s doing great. 

Bood, Hayes and Dykstra barrel in carrying beers and food that had clearly been prepared by wives and girlfriends.

“Cassie has been freaking out,” Bood says, setting a very nice looking stew carefully loaded into a tupperware on Ilya’s counter, “She knows you’re not like married or anything so when I said you turned down my offer for food she was worried you were going to starve.”

“Do I look skinny?” Ilya asks, carefully loading the stew into the fridge, tucked amongst Yuna’s food, “I have so much fucking food in here you will have to roll me back onto rink next season.”

Hayes holds up a very good looking plate of cookies.

“Lisa makes these from scratch. Nearly got my hand slapped for trying to steal one.”

“Give,” Ilya instructs and takes one of the cookies because they look delicious. And it is. “Is Lisa looking for new, better husband? I am more handsome and am definitely better lover.”

It’s nice, sitting around his living room drinking beer and watching the three of them inhale the food he instructs them to put out from his fridge. He’d never be able to eat all of it himself and this will make Shane and Yuna happy. They commiserate with him over the injury, talk about how fucking bad the team is now without Ilya and then Hayes sets up the playstation so they can play video games for a bit.

As the sun starts to set, Ilya feels his body start to weigh a bit more, that heavy feeling creeping back in. He’s tired. The joy he’d gotten from seeing his friends a few hours ago has evaporated completely. He can’t really bring himself to keep forcing conversation, mostly sticking with grunts and nods to reply when a question is directed at him. 

He’s such a shitty host. These guys are here, being nice when they really don’t have to be after what a shitty teammate and captain he’s been, and all he can think about is wanting them to leave so he can get back in bed. 

“You alright Roz?” Dykstra asks and Ilya pulls his attention back to the room to see Dykstra frowning at him.

“Yes, just tired. Pain meds make me sleepy,” he says which is maybe a little bit true. 

“You want us to head out?” Bood asks and Ilya feels like even more shit. He’s sure they want to leave anyway, get away from his brooding.

“I should probably try to sleep,” is all he says, stretching his good shoulder and forcing what he hopes is a convincing smile onto his face. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Any time dude! Seriously, we know you don’t have family or shit around. You should come to practice soon, everyone misses you. Rookies are running wild without you.”

Ilya is sure that isn’t true. Bood is probably doing a better job filling in as captain than anything he has done since he’s gotten here.

“I will soon,” he says with no idea if it’s true or not. 

“And call Lisa if you need anything when we’re on the road. She’ll get the WAG train over here with whatever you need,” Hayes says and Ilya smiles.

He manages to walk them out, waving as they climb into their cars and keeping the smile plastered on his face until their cars disappear down the driveway. He slams the door closed as soon as they are gone, face crumpling and he slides with his back against the door, ass hitting the cold tile of his entry way. 

Fuck, he feels like shit again. So tired. He doesn’t want to be awake anymore or deal with any of the reality around him. He’s alone in his huge house with no prospects of leaving it any time soon besides to see a doctor in a few days and be reminded his season is still over, he still can’t do anything and then get dropped back off at his giant, lonely house. 

He briefly considers calling Shane. He had the day off and was only planning on going downtown for a bit with Hayden and JJ. But what would he even say? Hi sweetheart I am very sad for no reason and maybe I actually am a little bit depressed? What does he expect Shane to do about this? Jump on a plane from Vancouver?

He’s a grown adult. An adult who has a million dollars many, many times over and a career kids all over the world can only dream of. He isn’t going to bother his boyfriend to whine about feeling sad today. He isn’t going to worry Shane or worse, drive him away because he sees that Ilya cannot deal with his own brain. 

He climbs the stairs to his room, legs dragging at each step, and crawls into his bed, ignoring the twinges of anger from his shoulder.

He doesn’t set an alarm. Doesn’t even check what time it is. Just closes his eyes and lets the sweet relief of sleep wash over him. 

Despite his exhaustion, his sleep is restless. His shoulder burns and his brain throws him through bits of different dreams. His mother on the couch with him after his surgery but when she gets up and walks away he follows and finds her already cold on the bathroom floor. His father calling him on the phone, calling him weak and soft, before asking for him to bring bread when he comes home from practice. Shane kissing his hair, tracing his face before morphing into Alexei and calling him good for nothing. 

Finally, he blinks fully awake at some point the next morning, sun in his eyes and comforters tangled around his body. His shoulder aches and his bladder twinges but he can only stare at his ceiling, eyes burning. He can’t imagine getting out of bed. And he has no reason to. He doesn’t have anything until tomorrow when Terry is bringing him to his follow up with the surgeon.

He wonders what Shane would think if he could see him now. Greasy, unkempt, unable to so much as take a piss. Ilya’s sure he would be terrified and probably try and fix him. But it wouldn’t work. Ilya doesn’t know if he can be fixed. So after exhausting himself trying to mold Ilya into someone actually worthy of his love, he would eventually walk away. 

He also understands that he is probably like his mother. That the cold claws that are keeping him in this bed are the same ones she felt. Tears leak from his eyes, dripping into his hair, onto his pillow. His shoulder burns. 

He should probably find a therapist. That is the right thing to do. But that would require energy he simply doesn’t have right now. And the idea of putting all his thoughts into words…into English? He knows there are probably Russian therapists in the greater Ottawa area but he can’t get up to take the painkillers that will relieve the burning in his shoulder, there is no way he is hunting through the internet to find them.

You could ask Shane to help. Or Yuna. Or your teammates.

He shakes his head at his own internal voice. He isn’t going to bother anyone with his inability to do anything for himself. He’s the one who has nothing to do until next season. He’s not going to put work on someone who has actual things to do. 

The day doesn’t progress much more. He eventually heaves his body out of bed long enough to pee and gag around dry swallowing his pills. Pulls on a clean pair of sweat pants and a zip up from the drawer set up for him, grimacing a bit at the grime he feels on his body from not showering. He shoves some of Yuna’s food down his throat purely for caloric purposes.

 He convinces himself to lay back down on the couch and ignore a movie in the background. It feels less pathetic than lying in his smelly sheets. 

When he looks at his phone again it’s nearly five in the evening. He has wasted his entire day. The sun is a deep orange out his window. He has texts from Shane and Yuna. Yuna asking if he needs anything, sending a photo of a soup she made and offering to bring some by. He texts back that he went out for lunch with friends.

Shane has texted a few times. Asking how he is, sharing that he spent too much money on some gifts for his mom’s birthday at a fancy store in downtown Vancouver. Then a more recent text asking if everything is okay. 

Ilya stares at the text until tears blur the words.

His lovely, perfect boyfriend texting him about his day and wondering why Ilya isn’t replying. 

Sorry sweetheart I couldn’t get myself out of bed and smell like a greasy old pan. 

He doesn’t say that. 

Ilya: was with team again, sorry moya dushevaya leyka.

Shane: showerhead?

Shane: I didn’t look it up

A tiny smile flickers across Ilya’s face.

Ilya: very good. 

Shane: how was the team?

Ilya’s stomach rolls with guilt at lying.

Ilya: they miss me very much. I said they should trade for you while i am on ltir.

Shane: ha. We’re winning the cup again this year, I’m not going anywhere.

Ilya: so rude not to help a team in need.

He almost hates how easy it is for him to pretend. To text Shane like nothing is wrong, banter like they always do. He thinks back to Mama, how he didn’t know how sad she really was until she was on the floor, cold and pale. How she would still make him laugh every day, smile at him when he ate dinner across from her every evening. 

She must have felt so sad. To pick up those pills. She must have been so, so heavy to decide nothing was better than what she had. 

Better than Ilya. 

Shane: how is your shoulder? I’ll be home soon I can Facetime.

Ilya’s phone screen blurs again. He can’t call Shane. He can fake a text but he can’t fake a video call right now. 

Ilya: promised to video call with Marly and boys in a little. Maybe after?

Ilya knows full well he will tell Shane he fell asleep before he can do that. But he doesn’t want Shane to worry.

Shane: okay. I miss your face. 

Shane: and the rest of you. 

Shane: not just your body, I mean. Well I do miss that. A lot. But also I miss you. Generally. 

Ilya’s heart clenches in the way only Shane can make it do. He loves this boy so much he feels physically sick with it. 

Ilya: I love you very much.

Shane: I love you too. 

Ilya: moy udil'shchik

There are several minutes before Shane responds, undoubtedly looking the word up. 

Shane: why do you even know that? 

Ilya smiles. Then he place his phone back on his table and shuts his eyes. 

He drags himself out of bed with just barely enough time to shower and pull on new clothes before Terry arrives. He can’t find it in him to shave though, his facial hair now out of stubble territory and firmly into a slightly patchy beard. It doesn’t look very good but it doesn’t really matter. 

Terry helps Ilya into the car and keeps sending him looks during the drive. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, after Ilya answered affirmatively the first two times he asked. “You just look a little…I don’t know. Tired, maybe.”

“You are saying I am not handsome?” 

Terry just rolls his eyes. 

“I’m serious, Ilya. If the shoulder is hurting worse than it should, let me know. I wish you’d come to the rink, say hi a bit. Let me check in on you more.”

“I cannot drive yet.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Someone will pick you up.”

Ilya knows it’s probably true. Maybe he will after the boys get back from their road trip starting tomorrow. That sounds like a good idea.

Ilya feels like a child again as he sits on the table in the exam room in his hospital gown, swinging his legs a bit as Terry sits across from him. They asked him a bunch of questions about his pain level and immediately sent him for new scans of his shoulder. Now they are sitting, waiting for the surgeon and Terry is telling him about his daughter’s recital the night before. Ilya asks him to send videos, fully intending to watch them. 

The surgeon comes in, folder in hand and not smiling very much.

“Mr. Rozanov, how are you doing?”

“I am okay,” Ilya says even though it’s not really true.

“And your shoulder? You said you are having some pain?”

“Some,” Ilya agrees, not mentioning it’s mostly when he is too lazy to get his painkillers or sleeps in a bad position because he didn't listen to Shane about the recliner.

“Well you still have more inflammation at the surgical site than I would like to see. Are you keeping it immobile?”

“Yes,” he says, because he doesn’t intentionally move his arm. “Only when I sleep sometimes it moves.”

“You should sleep in a recliner. Or set up a pillow under your arm so you don’t roll on it. That’s probably causing some of the slower healing I’m seeing.”

Ilya curls into himself. He is so pathetic he can’t even sleep correctly and is making his shoulder worse because of it. His healing isn’t going correctly. What if he misses even more time?

He doesn’t look at Terry, staring at the floor which begins to swim from the tears in his eyes. He must be so disappointed. He’s sure the team will be too, when he tells them. Taking millions from them and can’t even sleep in a chair to get back and contribute sooner.

The doctor says more things about timelines, healing, icing. Says something about possible infection and putting Ilya on antibiotics. Ilya wonders why he is even bothering to tell Ilya all of this considering he can’t even follow directions.

By the time Terry is ushering him out the door, all he can think about is getting home and going to bed. He doesn’t want to be awake anymore, to feel the shame coursing through his blood.

“Do you want me to help get a recliner set up?” Terry is saying from beside him in the car, “The sleeping thing sucks. I remember Bood complaining about the same thing when he dislocated it a couple years back.”

“Is fine,” Ilya manages to choke back, “I will make sure to do better.”

“Try rolling up a towel and putting it under your arm. Bood liked that more.”

Terry is being very nice. Ilya doesn’t understand why. 

They stop at a pharmacy on the way to get Ilya’s antibiotics and Ilya has already forgotten how long he is supposed to take them for. He hadn’t been listening when the doctor said. He wishes Shane was here. Or Yuna or David. 

His phone buzzes as they pull back up to Ilya’s house and he glances at it, Shane’s name on his screen.

Shane: how did the appointment go?

Ilya really, really wants to cry. 

“You need me to come in and help with anything?” Terry asks as he pulls into Ilya’s driveway, frowning a bit at Ilya. “Not easy getting stuff done with one arm, I’ve been there.”

Ilya doesn’t say the things that need to be done, taking the trash out, doing the dishes, his laundry, aren’t waiting because he can’t do them himself. They haven’t been done because Ilya is too tired to even try.

“Is fine, I am easy. Just me in the house, you know? Not much to do. I have cleaner who will come soon.”

Ilya needs to remember to cancel that appointment. He doesn’t want anyone to come into his house and see his current state. 

“I know we’re going on the roadie tomorrow but my staff will still be around. Come by. They’re rehabbing Jonesy and Eriksson right now. You can hang out, get out of the house. I think it would be good for you.”

Ilya has a sudden urge to tell Terry everything. How he feels so tired and miserable right now. How angry he is at himself for being this way. For screwing up his shoulder and being a bad captain. To not force a smile and say he is okay.

“Okay. I will try.”

He swallows everything back up.

Ilya texts Shane, and also Yuna because she also asked, that the appointment went great and everything looks good. He isn’t sure why he is lying at this point but the idea of telling Shane and Yuna the truth makes him feel sick. 

He heats up soup and then spills some on his shirt trying to get it ready one handed. He has to stop and breathe through his nose for several moments after it happens so he doesn’t swipe the bowl onto the floor like he wants to.

He takes his pills and reads the instructions for the antibiotics and sees he has to take twice a day with food. He will take them with dinner. Hopefully.

Upstairs he takes off his dirty shirt and shoves it in his hamper, grimacing at how full it is. He really needs to do laundry. He only has so many clothes he can manage to get on and off with one arm and he is running low. 

He’s too tired right now. He will do it later. 

He slips off his pants too and stops at the foot of his bed before climbing in like he wants. He crawls onto the recliner instead. 

As he settles in, his phone lights up and Shane’s face flashes across his screen. He takes a deep breath before answering.

He’s immediately glad he did. Seeing Shane’s face settles something inside of him, his warm eyes and soft smile.

“Hey baby. I missed you.”

Ilya forces himself not to cry.

They chat for a bit about Shane’s day and Ilya’s teammates and appointments. The lies curdle in his stomach but he knows it’s better this way. He wants Shane to smile and laugh and not worry about Ilya and his angry shoulder and big, empty house. He can’t let Shane see this side of him. It’s not good enough for Shane. He either needs to fix himself or keep this part of him so locked up, Shane never has to know it exists. 

The next few days pass in a blur while also dragging on. At points of every day Ilya tells himself he is going to fix this. Promises that he will get to the rink, see his team, visit David and Yuna, clean his kitchen, do his laundry, take out his trash. 

But as soon as it comes, it seems to vanish. As soon as the thoughts come, they are replaced with other ones. Ones that ask what the point of cleaning his house is when no one wants to live it in with him? The Cens staff doesn’t really miss him so why would he bother them by visiting? 

Yuna is relentless so he manages to convince her to pick him up for lunch instead of coming inside to see the state of his house. She agrees and Ilya finds himself across the table from her at a sweet little cafe, eating a delicious sandwich and sipping a coffee. It’s so wonderful, he could cry. 

“You should come over for dinner tomorrow. We can make that salmon you like.”

“Yes, maybe,” Ilya agrees because right now in this sunny restaurant and lovely motherly figure, it sounds like a good idea. He wants to go. “I will do my best.”

In the moment, he means it.

When Yuna drops him off, he walks inside with a plan. He’s going to clean his house, clean himself, get it together and go to dinner tomorrow night. He will right this ship. He will not end up like his mother, he will be the person Shane deserves.

He starts with his laundry. It’s overflowing and he’s out of his comfy clothes and almost out of underwear. He gets to his closet and looks at the hamper.

It occurs to him, after a moment of staring and a few awkward squats, that he cannot get his hamper to his washing machine. There is no way he can pick it up with one hand. 

He sits down on the edge of his bed, staring at it, eyes tracing the clothes overflowing from it. 

He could call Yuna and David. He could call his teammates. He could call his housekeeping. 

But shame pours over him, hot and heavy. He can’t let anyone see this. He was supposed to fix it himself so no one ever knows. He doesn’t know how to fix it now.

He sits for a while and cries until he crawls over to his recliner, pulling his blanket up around him and waiting with a heavy heart until sleep takes away the pain. 

He doesn’t leave his room the next day except to move his meds into his bedroom and piss. He texts Shane that he went to the rink and spent the day with the medical staff. He tells Yuna the same thing and adds that they’re all going to dinner so needs a raincheck on coming over. 

Four days. He has four more days until Shane gets home. He plays Edmonton tonight, Calgary two days after and then he’s on a plane back to Montreal. He already told Ilya he would drive here as soon as he landed even though it will be late. He has the day off after. Only one day before he has to get back for a home game but still, it’s a day. A whole day. 

Ilya stares at his ceiling and thinks about how he can get through four days. How he can not only survive them but get his shit together before then. 

He thinks a lot about his mother. How she still got up every day, got him and Alexei dressed, cooked breakfast for everyone, made lunches, cleaned the house, did her makeup. How she made him laugh, came to his games, picked him up from school. 

He wonders if she planned her death or if one morning it became too much. Had she tried before? Did she tell anyone? She hadn’t left any notes, at least not ones he had ever seen. 

He wonders what it would be like to die. To fall asleep and not wake up. For the pain, the shame, the exhaustion to simply end. Would it really be that easy? What is next? Is his mother really just gone? Bones in the dirt? Is she somewhere else now? 

Wherever she is or isn’t, is the pain really gone? 

Could it really be that easy?

Shane calls the next day, a FaceTime request lighting up his phone. Ilya stares while it rings. He’s down to his last clean pair of boxers and out of sweatpants completely. 

He declines the FaceTime, clearing his throat before calling Shane back without video. He can’t let Shane see him right now. He can’t hide how he looks.

“Ilya?”

“Hello, moya tennisnaya raketka.”

“Well that one isn’t too hard it sounds the same. Why didn’t you FaceTime?”

“I am at the rink. Do not want anyone to walk by and see,” he lies.

“It sounds so quiet.”

“I am in someone’s office. Glass door. But maybe some very sneaky phone sex.”

“God, no. You just said someone could walk by.”

“That is fun part.”

“Are you okay? You sound…weird.”

Ilya clears his throat again.

“Have a little cold, I think. Is fine.”

“You should go home and rest. Don’t push yourself.”

“I will. I will leave after I hang up.”

“Do you still have enough food? I think I still have some tea there you could make.”

“I have so much food you will need to eat it all when you come.”

“None of that is in my diet.”

“You will leave me alone to watch all this food go bad?”

“Shut up. Are you going to watch my game tonight? Hayden tweaked his ankle so I have to play with Clarkson instead. He’s so slow, it’s going to be awful.”

Ilya has barely watched any of Shane’s games on this roadtrip. He checks the score in the mornings, watching as Shane’s point and goal totals climb higher and higher than Ilya’s. His superstar, perfect boyfriend and his secret, broken lover sliding away, off the stats board completely. 

They chat for a bit about that. It’s nice. Talking about hockey is easy, it comes to Ilya without having to think. He misses hockey. He thinks being able to skate, even just for an afternoon, would bring him some joy. At least for a moment. 

It’s always for a moment now. He doesn’t know how to ever make it last.

He rolls over in his bed and listens to Shane talk. His voice is so beautiful. So warm. So full of passion. He wants to bathe in it, listen to it on loop forever and ever. 

He would miss Shane so much. If he ever wasn’t here. If the pain ever got too much. He wouldn’t do that to Shane though. He couldn’t.

Unless he had to. But he won’t. Unless he really, really did

“Ilya?”

He’s zoned out, missing whatever Shane asked. He clears his throat.

“Sorry. Someone is coming to see me, I think. I will watch game tonight, I promise. Even better I do not have to watch Pike try and skate while I do.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Mmm yes maybe. But could you send a picture of yours?”

“That’s….no. Well…I don’t know. No. Maybe.”

Ilya smiles. His first smile in days. The muscles feel weak. 

“I miss it very much.”

“Shut up. I miss you too, fuck. I’m so horny.”

Ilya could never ever leave Shane.

Shane does send Ilya a picture after they hang up and Ilya jerks off to it, Shane’s beautiful, puckered hole the first thing to give him a burst of energy in days. He sends back a photo of his hand covered in cum.

Shane hearts it. Then probably deletes all the texts. 

Ilya ends up ordering more boxers overnight delivery from Amazon because he is completely out and can’t bring himself to even try to do some of his laundry. He considered carrying it in trips, as many as he could hold with one hand. But as soon as he thinks about how many trips it would take, he climbs back into his bed. He’s too tired to even think about doing it. 

Two more days until Shane comes. He will do it tomorrow. Get the clean boxers from the delivery and shove the rest of his clothes into bags or something so he can carry them. He will take out the trash too. He can drag it outside to the bins, probably. It’s completely overflowing right now and smells very bad but tomorrow, he will have the energy. He’s sure he will. He can get the dishes into the dishwasher. He doesn’t need two hands for this. Except he never unloaded the clean ones after Yuna ran it  so he has to do that too. Maybe he will just throw away the dirty ones and order new dishes also. Tomorrow. He will stop being such a lazy piece of shit tomorrow. 

For today, he will sleep.

Tomorrow does come. Way later than it should based on the angle of the sun in his bedroom and the stiffness of his body in his recliner. He grabs his phone. 11:50. He grimaces and licks over his grimy teeth and slimy tongue. He can’t remember the last time he slept this late. He barely feels like he slept at all. 

His phone is busy, the team group text buzzing about apparently winning last night. Ilya sends a stupid gif of a celebration since he hasn’t said anything in a few days now and is happy they won. Or vaguely happy. Like a light that flickers in his chest once, twice before it is subsumed by the darkness. 

He’s terrified what happens if those tiny flickers go away entirely.

He has texts from Yuna and David asking if he needs anything. Another from Terry checking in.

And then one from Shane. One he just sent. 

Shane: good morning. Call me when you can. Day off. Love you.

The warm light in his chest flickers again. Shane. He’s coming home tomorrow. He will be here tomorrow night, tired and travelled but here. With Ilya. Finally.

Ilya gets up. He brushes his teeth, takes a shower, even trims his beard. He needs a haircut pretty badly. Maybe he could ask Yuna to take him for one tomorrow. She would probably like that.

Maybe he could call his cleaners that he cancelled and see how much he could pay to get them to come today or tomorrow. He can fix the worst of the mess and let them do the rest. For Shane. 

He takes his meds, makes a pot of coffee and puts some toast in the toaster. Then he calls Shane. Smiles while it rings.

“Hey, baby.”

“Moya lopata dlya snega.”

“I don’t…what does that mean?”

“Something very romantic.”

“I don’t believe you at all.”

“It is shovel for snow.”

“Oh yes, so romantic.”

“I know. Snow shovel makes me very horny.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“Mmm, maybe. I will show how very horny tomorrow night. Or morning after, maybe if you are very tired.”

It’s quiet after that. Too quiet. Ilya’s stomach clenches.

“Okay so the thing is,” Shane begins and Ilya feels like he might puke, “I completely forgot that I told the team I would visit the kids hospital that day. I didn’t put it on the calendar since you were supposed to be on a road trip then anyway so I didn’t think it would matter…I told them I didn’t think I’d be able to make it but apparently they told the kids I’d be there and a bunch of them have jerseys and….fuck. I can still skip it. Should I?”

Ilya tastes bile. He wants Shane to skip this event so badly he almost asks him to. Begs him. Drops to his knees and bursts into tears and tells Shane he needs to see him so badly he aches with it.

But is that how miserable of a person he is? He is going to ask Shane to disappoint a hospital of dying children? Kids who have probably marked the day on their calendars that they get to meet Shane Hollander. He is so pathetic and lonely and selfish he will take this away from them? 

He swallows around the lump in his throat, fights back the tears and the vomit and manages to say, in a voice he hopes is steady

“You should see kids. I am sure they are very excited.”

Shane is silent for another beat.

“I know. But you’re…I mean I want to see you. It’s been so long and I have a game the day after…maybe I can ask Mom if she can drive you out here? And you could stay with me for a few days? I have games and practice and I told the team I’d do these stupid social media things but they can get JJ to do it or something. Or if Mom can’t you could get an Uber? Right? I mean it would be a lot of money but maybe-,”

“Is fine, Shane,” Ilya lies. Maybe the biggest lie he’s over told. “We will find good time, yes?”

He leans back against his kitchen wall and slides to the floor, knees pressed to his chest. Shane is sitting there trying to shuffle his life around, shuffle his mother’s life around, because Ilya is sad and alone. He is nothing more than a burden in Shane’s life, something that doesn’t fit, doesn’t have a place. 

“But I want to see you now,” Shane whines and Ilya bites down on his lip so he doesn’t cry. Shane has no idea. Ilya would crawl to Montreal if he asked him to. Would burn his house down, tear up his contract, drive every car he owns into the river. 

Shane could ask Ilya to do anything and he would. Ilya can never ask the same of Shane, his perfect, beautiful boyfriend who has shit together and has plans and things to do and hockey games to dominate. 

Ilya belongs here. In his giant, empty, dirty house. He belongs in his dirty sweatpants. 

He takes a shaky breath. 

“Is okay, Shane,” and that is true. It’s okay. This is how it should be. Shane should be there and Ilya should be here. “I love you.”

“Are you sure you’re…I mean I can come. I can skip the hospital.”

“No, you cannot,” Ilya says immediately. “This is important. You need to go.”

“I’ll talk to Mom, figure out how to get you here, okay? I love you so much.”

Ilya is going to start crying any second now. He needs to get off the phone.

“I have to go. I have appointment for a haircut, I need to call an Uber.”

Shane sighs.

“Okay. I’m really sorry. I’ll call you later, okay? I love you.”

Ilya hangs up the phone. And bursts into tears.

Ilya doesn’t have to wonder what it feels like to lose that flicker of hope in his chest. It’s extinguished now. 

He lies in bed and feels so hollow, so dark he knows this is it. This is life without hope.

Everything was hinged around seeing Shane. There’s no point in doing anything if that isn’t going to happen. His laundry basket doesn’t budge, his dishes stay in the sink, his trash smells so bad he just stops going in the kitchen altogether.

He makes excuses every time Shane tries to call. He is at the rink, he is visiting with Cassie and Lisa, his neighbors invited him for dinner.

He barely bothers replying to Yuna and Terry. Enough to say he is fine and nothing else. Ignores the group texts entirely.

He sleeps so much his body is stiff and aching from lack of movement. 

Shane wins his afternoon game in Calgary and Ilya watches the little tracker of his flight taking off and heading back to Montreal. Ilya lays in his bed, his greasy sheets clinging to his body, and watches as the plan passes over Ottawa. Somewhere in the sky above him Shane is laughing with his teammates, celebrating an undefeated roadtrip, planning out the next day. Unaware of Ilya below, rotting inside his house, listening to his father’s voice repeat over and over in his head.

Lazy. Weak. Soft. 

It was an accident. Stop crying. 

You bring shame to this family.

He dreams of the aftermath of his mother’s death that night. Or the next day. Time is beginning to blur.

He is twelve again, sitting in the hospital waiting room next to Alexei, his father sitting across the room, praying to whatever god his mother believed in that the doctors will walk out and tell them she is fine. That he will run down the hall and find his mother in one of those beds, arms wide and smile big. That she will hold him and stroke his hair and tell him he is silly to worry so much. 

When the doctor comes out, face grim, and gestures for his father to come talk to him, Ilya knows. Knows from how his father nods, how his shoulders grow stiff and hands clench into fists, that his mother is gone. He knows she was probably gone by the time he found her on the floor. Why did he stop at the store on his way home from school? If he hadn’t, maybe he would have been home in time. 

And sure enough his father nods, shakes the doctor’s hand and crosses the room to his sons, every step echoing as his shoes click on the hospital floors.

“Your mother is dead. It was an accident.”

It wasn’t an accident. Ilya saw the pills. 

He bursts into tears. His mother is gone. His beautiful, funny mother is gone. He has no one to smile with, no one to hug, no one to hold. 

“Stop that, Ilyusha,” his father scolds but he can’t. The tears are pouring out, hot and salty, soaking his cheeks, dripping into his open mouth. “Stop that now. People are looking.”

Ilya doesn’t care. He sobs harder. Loud, strangled things coming out of his throat.

He feels something sting his cheek. A loud sound echoes in the room. He vaguely registers that his father slapped him. He doesn’t care.

“You are so weak. So pathetic. Get out of my sight.”

So Ilya does. He scrambles outside, still sobbing, and stumbles along the wall outside the hospital until his knees give out and he collapses onto the sidewalk, retching.

He heaves for a bit, bile splattering the icy sidewalk below. Tears are still hot, snot dripping now too. 

“Why did you leave me?” he chokes out, slamming his fist against the ground, sharp pain shooting up his arm, “Why would you leave me?”

He wakes up in his bed in Ottawa, drenched in sweat and tears sticky on his cheeks. 

He blinks around, the hospital parking lot slowly fading away, his bedroom coming into focus. It’s dusk. He fumbles for his phone. 5pm. He slept through the whole day again. He has missed calls from Shane, texts.

Shane: hey where are you? Call me when you can. I’m getting worried.

Ilya puts together a text through the tears.

Ilya: left me phone at the rink. Someone just brought it to me. sorry.

Shane: i was worried.

Ilya: sorry, moya lyubov. Was an accident. How was hospital?

Shane sends a bunch of photos of him with kids, most of them wearing Shane Hollander jerseys.

Shane: this guy was my favorite

It’s Shane with another kid weaning a Rozanov Centaurs jersey. Ilya hearts the message and stares at the photo for a while. At his beautiful boyfriend and this poor child who has to wear the jersey of a man who hasn’t gotten out of bed in days.

Ilya: did you tell him he has bad taste?

Shane: of course not. I said I’d want a jersey from the best player in the league too. 

Sweet Shane. Ilya doesn’t deserve him. Ilya probably doesn’t deserve anyone.

He ponders that thought as time passes at some strange interval, hours, minutes, seconds all bleeding together as the sun moves through the sky and disappears entirely.

He deserved his family. He deserved his angry father and bitter brother who he could never charm or impress. They saw through him and into the lazy, broken person he really is. 

He didn’t deserve his mother, clearly. That’s why he lost her.

He rolls over in his bed, ignoring the protest in his shoulder and the towel he tried to roll up under it his doctor suggested. His bottle of tylenol sits on his bedside table, mostly full.

He doesn’t know what pills his mother took. He asked his father once when he came home drunk from the club with his friends. He had slapped Ilya across the face and told him to get in bed and never bring that up again.

He doesn’t know if they were prescription. Maybe from his father’s knee surgery a few years earlier. Maybe pills to help her sleep.

Or maybe it was just a bottle of painkillers from the pharmacy. Something from the bathroom cabinet. The ones Ilya took after a hard practice. Boring. Simple. Non-descript.

Easy.

Ilya watches Shane’s home game the next night. He isn’t sure what compels him to, considering he hasn’t been watching hockey at all since his injury but he wants to see him. He is so beautiful, hair long enough to peek out from under his helmet. Face focused and intense until he scores a beautiful backhand goal. He smiles, wide and excited and Ilya swears he can hear his laugh from his bed. His teammates converge, swarming him and celebrating and Ilya’s eyes fill with tears. He loves this man so very much. 

You are so weak. 

His father’s voice rings in his ears.

He grabs his phone and sends Shane a text.

Ilya: your backhand is beautiful, moya lyubov

Ilya: you are so beautiful. Since the moment I met you.

They are strange texts to send, he knows that, but he doesn’t care. He is so full of pain, he needs Shane to know he is the only beautiful thing in Ilya’s life. That Ilya can only shine if Shane is near him but Shane can shine anywhere.

The Voyageurs lose in a shootout but Shane scores in it so Ilya gets to watch him smile one more time. 

He hopes Shane wins the cup this year. He hopes he wins it every year until he retires. 

Ilya’s phone dings.

Shane: is everything okay? You sound weird. Its making me worried.

Shane: please respond.

Ilya blinks back tears. He is making Shane worry. Making his night worse.

I am not okay, Shane. I am so far from okay I don’t even know where okay is anymore. Please help me find it.

Ilya: I am fine. Just love watching you play hockey. 

Shane: are you sure? I can call in a bit, once I head home. 

Don’t call, come see me. Come save me.

Ilya: I am going to bed now, don’t worry. Sleep well, I love you. 

Shane: Okay, if you’re sure. But I am always here if you need anything. I love you too. So much. 

Ilya hearts the message. Then closes his eyes. 

Ilya blinks awake some amount of time later. He’d been having a good dream. He was raising the cup above his head, roaring to the cheering crowd. He’d passed the cup to Shane. They’d kissed in the middle, in front of the whole crowd. 

He felt glorious.

He wakes to his grimy sheets and greasy hair and burning shoulder. His miserable existence comes back into focus.

He will never be that dream. He and Shane are a secret. And even besides that, Shane will find out soon what Ilya really is. He can’t hide this forever. He will see him soon and leave him like everyone eventually does. People who see into Ilya’s soul never stay. He can’t have a family. 

Ilya stares at the Tylenol bottle through his tears. He doesn’t know how many you have to take to die, but he thinks the whole bottle would probably be enough. He could get his vodka and take them all, not at once of course, but handful by handful. It would take long enough for Shane to notice he wasn’t responding that he wouldn’t be found in time. 

Would it hurt? Would it be slow? Would he see his mother right away?

Would it really end his pain?

Maybe. Hopefully. 

Oh god. What the fuck is he doing? 

Fear hits him like a tidal wave. He’s considering dying. He might actually do it. 

He doesn’t want to die.

Ilya grabs his phone, hitting at buttons through his blurry lashes until he pulls up Shane’s name.

He hits dial before he can chicken out.

 He doesn’t want to die.

It rings once, twice, then.

“Ilya?”

Shane’s voice is rough, thick with sleep, but there. On the other end of the phone.

Ilya starts to sob.

“Ilya? Baby? Ilya what’s wrong?”

“I need-,” Ilya cuts himself off with another sob.

“Ilya please, what do you need? You’re scaring me. Please tell me.”

“I need you. Shane. I need you.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m coming. Right now.”

He hears shuffling on Shane’s end of the phone. Rustling, clanking, doors squeaking open and closed.

“Ilya? Talk to me. I am coming, okay? But do I need to call my parents? Or an ambulance? Are you hurt?”

Ilya shakes his head before remembering Shane can’t see him.

“No, not…none of these. I am just…,”

“Just what, Ilya?”

The sound of a car starting comes over the line. More tears leak out. Shane is coming.

“I am…,” Ilya licks his dry lips and lets the words out, “I am scared. That maybe I will hurt myself.”

Shane inhales sharply. Ilya sobs again.

“Ilya,” Shane’s voice cracks around his name, “Okay, okay I am coming. Can you um…fuck can you tell me what you were you going to do? If you did?”

“Probably swallow a whole bottle of Tylenol,” Ilya admits, staring at the bottle in question. 

“Can you go dump them down the toilet and flush them? And send a video of you doing it?”

“Shane,” Ilya whines, feeling terrified and exhausted but also strangely lighter. Shane knows. Shane knows.

“Please, Ilya,” Shane says, his voice catching on his name again, “Just do it for me so I can…if you don’t want me to call my parents or an ambulance. Just send me that video so I know you’re not going to do it while I’m driving there.”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees because it’s literally the least he can fucking do considering Shane is driving from fucking Montreal for him at, he glances at the time, two o’clock in the morning, Jesus. Poor Shane. He played a game just a few hours ago. 

Ilya heaves his body out of the bed and stumbles to the toilet with the bottle in hand, pulling out his phone and filming as he dumps the pills into the water and flushes them. He sends the video to Shane and climbs back into bed.

“I sent it,” he says, pulling his blanket back up to his ears, phone tucked next to his ear.

“Thank you,” Shane says softly and his voice sounds so stressed, so scared. Ilya feels teary again. “I will be there in an hour and forty minutes.”

“Do not get in an accident,” Ilya says, “Would not help this situation.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Shane says and Ilya feels guilty. “Fuck, I knew I should have skipped the stupid hospital visit. Are you…are you sure you don’t want me to call someone else? Until I get there. My parents or a teammate or-,”

“No, no. I do not want anyone else. Just you. Just hearing your voice is helping.” 

Ilya’s raw, burning eyes are starting to feel heavy. 

“Okay. Okay, I can keep talking.”

“I may fall asleep,” Ilya says. It seems crazy he could even think of sleeping right now but the crash of everything that just happened is hitting him. 

“Can you Facetime then? Just set the phone up so I can see you while I drive. So that I know…,”

Shane trails off but Ilya’s heart clenches at the thought. So Shane knows Ilya isn’t trying to hurt himself.

“Yes, okay. I do not look very pretty right now, I am sorry.”

“I don’t give a shit about that Ilya,” Shane says, a little sharply, “I just want to know you are okay.”

“Alright,” Ilya agrees with a sigh and hits the Facetime button. It takes a moment but then most of Shane’s face is on his screen, clearly propped up on the dashboard. “Hi.”

“Hi baby,” Shane says softly, his eyes darting between Ilya and ahead of him, watching the road, “You look perfect by the way.”

Ilya snorts. He is shaggy and greasy and has dark blue bags under his eyes. But he chooses to focus on Shane. Shane is coming.

His eyes grow heavier.

“I love you,” he says, unsure if he’s speaking in English or Russian. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya is in and out of sleep while Shane drives. It’s never a deep sleep, Shane’s breathing and the sounds of the road never fully gone. He feels safe. Shane is coming. He always feels better with Shane.

He returns to full consciousness when he hears the sound of his front door opening. His heart starts to race and he pushes himself into a sitting position, listening to the sound of footsteps thundering up the stares.

And the bedroom door flies open and there is Shane, messy hair and wild-eyed, still in his shoes and puffy jacket clearly thrown on over his pajamas. 

“Shane,” is all Ilya can manage to whine before he bursts into a fresh round of tears. Shane is here. In his smelly, dirty bedroom. Shane came here for him.

“Ilya,” Shane replies, voice thick and reedy. He shrugs off his jacket as he toes off his shoes, leaving them both haphazardly on Ilya’s floor. Then he hurries over to the bed, climbing in beside Ilya and tugging him tightly against his chest. “Ilya, baby.”

Ilya just cries, letting himself be supported fully by Shane, face buried in his neck. He smells so good, so perfect. His scent had long since faded from Ilya’s house and he can’t get enough of it, straight from the source.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, curling further into Shane, “I did not want to die. I swear. It just hurt so much.”

“It’s okay,” Shane hums and Ilya thinks he’s crying too but he doesn’t lift his head to check, “It’s okay. Thank you for calling me. We will figure this out.”

“I wanted to fix it for you. I kept trying to fix it but I was so sad and lonely.”

“Shhh, there’s nothing to fix. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here. We’re okay. I love you so much”

He falls asleep eventually, Shane’s soft words and hands in hair easing him into a dreamless sleep.

He wakes up to sunlight. He blinks, taking stock of his body. He feels exhausted, but not in the same way he has. His body feels wrung out and bled dry but the persistent heaviness isn’t as strong, the pit of hopelessness in his stomach feels smaller.

He blinks again, the night coming back to him.

Right. The pills. Shane.

Shane.

That’s when he notices the fingers combing through his hair, gentle and soothing. He closes his eyes again for a moment, ignoring the reality of why the fingers are there and just enjoying the sensation for a bit. He missed touch so much. This touch specifically.

He feels a little dread settle in while he lies there. The secret is out of the bag. Shane drove here in the middle of the night when Ilya called him sobbing. He’s seen Ilya’s house, is in his greasy sheets, sees the state of Ilya. They will have to talk about this. Shane will have to decide if he can deal with that part of Ilya too.

If he can’t, Ilya tells himself that’s okay. He didn’t sign up for this. Ilya isn’t sure what he will do without Shane. He will love Shane forever, he knows that, but he will find a way to keep living. He wants to live. At least today he does.

Finally he rolls over and sees Shane sitting up against his headboard, blinking down at him with those big, brown eyes.

“Hey,” he says, so soft and gentle Ilya wants to tear up but he is maybe all cried out because nothing wells up. “How did you sleep?”

“Okay,” Ilya says, being honest. He’s pretty sure Shane had fixed the towel under his arm while he slept because it doesn’t feel so bad. He had slept okay. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven.”

“Your practice…,” Ilya begins but Shane gives him a disbelieving look.

“Are you joking? Fuck practice.”

And considering practice has already begun and Shane is in his bed two hours away, he decides not to argue about it. He is so glad Shane is there. He moves his head and lays it on Shane’s thigh, pressing a soft kiss to his sweatpants. 

After a moment of quiet Ilya isn’t sure how to interrupt, Shane speaks instead.

“I have coffee. And a breakfast sandwich, if you want it. I also have your medication. Does your shoulder hurt?”

“Where did you get a breakfast sandwich?” Ilya asks, pushing himself to sit next to Shane.

“I ordered it. And the coffee. You didn’t really have anything in your kitchen I could make. Most of the stuff in the fridge is bad, by the way.”

Ilya grimaces and looks at his fingers.

“Sorry.”

“Hey, I wasn’t criticizing. I was just letting you know. I put in an order for groceries to be delivered later. And took some of the stuff my mom put in the freezer out to thaw.”

Ilya nods, feeling very ashamed. Shane has been here for a few hours and is already fixing so much Ilya couldn’t.

A coffee and a plate are shoved into his eyesight and he finally looks at Shane when he takes them.

“Thank you. This looks good.”

“I um…I have some painkillers. You had another bottle downstairs. I hid it but here’s two for your shoulder.”

Ilya’s cheeks flame and his eyes burn a little but he takes the two pills and knocks them back, chasing them down with the coffee.

“There was also a bottle of antibiotics. I read your doctor’s notes from your check up and it said they were worried about an infection. It didn’t look like you’ve taken enough of the pills and you seem a little warm so please take this too. If you get an infection that will be really bad.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, sinking down against the headboard, face burning in a way he didn’t know it could. He is such a fuck up. Shane must be horrified. “I am sorry.”

“Hey, can you look at me please?”

Ilya takes a shaky breath before he does. Shane is blinking at him, brown eyes glassy with unshed tears. It rips at Ilya’s chest.

“I don’t…no sorry, okay? I don’t want you to be sorry. You shouldn’t be sorry. I should have…I knew something was wrong. I knew you weren’t okay but I didn’t…fuck. I’m just glad you called me, okay? That’s all I care about. That you’re here.”

Ilya’s bottom lip just trembles in response. He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say.

“Let’s just eat now, okay? We can talk more after.”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees and takes a bite of the sandwich. He thinks it’s good. He can’t really taste anything.

He eats in a relatively comfortable silence. At least as comfortable the silence can probably be right now.

Ilya watches in surprise as Shane picks up a coffee of his own and takes a sip. Shane doesn’t usually drink coffee. That’s when he notices how bloodshot Shane’s eyes are.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asks and Shane swallows his coffee before answering.

“Um no, not really. I couldn’t. I cleaned your kitchen a bit. Took the trash out.”

Ilya grimaces at that.

“It was not good.”

“It was…fine. Not a big deal.”

Ilya raises a disbelieving eyebrow at Shane who reddens a bit.

“Well it was a little gross, I guess. But I don’t care. It was kind of nice to clean actually. Helped me relax a bit.”

Ilya can’t say he understands. Guilt is rolling around in his gut.

“Can I um…can I ask some things?”

“You can ask me anything,” Ilya says, honestly. 

“Okay. And you will tell me the truth?”

Ilya considers this. Before last night, the answer would probably be no. Right now, he wants to be truthful. He doesn’t want to be alone with this anymore.

“I will try.”

“Has this, um, been going on for a while? The depression? Or only since the injury?”

The word makes Ilya flinch a bit. He knows that is what this is, obviously that’s what going on, but it still feels a bit too real coming out of Shane’s mouth.

“I think…I think probably I have had depression for a long time. I would have moods, sometimes. Since I was much younger, back in Russia even. I would have days or sometimes maybe weeks that I am very tired. Do not want to do things. Feel very angry with myself. But these times it would not last for so long. I did not ever think about…about hurting myself like this.”

“Okay,” Shane says, nodding like this makes sense or something, “But this time, this is worse?”

“Yes, very much.”

“And it started when you got injured?”

Ilya wants to say yes. That feels like the easier answer. 

But he doesn’t want to lie anymore. He looks down at his fingers again, the ones holding the coffee cup. A little bit is leaking down the side, smudging Shane’s name on the label.

“I have been a little bit sad since I came back from the cottage, I think. Like before. Tired, do not like getting out of bed, skipping things with team.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Shane says quietly and Ilya sighs. 

“I know. I thought…it would be like before and go away. Or maybe I could fix it without bothering you.”

“It’s not bothering me. You never bother me.”

“Even when I bake cookies and put them on your plate next to your boring food?” Ilya asks and risks a glance at Shane. He doesn’t look mad.

“That’s different. I mean you could never bother me with how you’re feeling.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. He is sure Shane thinks that is true. That is fine. 

“So you were a little depressed and then…the injury?”

Ilya looks back down at his lap.

“Mmm yes. The injury made things…much worse, I think. Even though I am sad before this a little, I still get up in the morning for practices, go to games, do my dishes, feed myself,” tears begin to burn in his eyes, “After the injury…I do not have reasons to get out of bed in the morning, cannot do a lot of things myself, is easy to be alone all the time. I am not so good at being alone.”

“But you weren’t,” Shane says, sounding frustrated, “I mean, yes I know you didn’t have practices or games but my parents were here and then you were with the team all the time and-,”

Shane is really going to hate him.

“I was maybe not always doing the things I told you,” he admits, voice small and shaky, “Most of the time, I was just here. Alone.”

“But you… you lied? About seeing people?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Why?”

Shane sounds so…sad. Ilya can’t help but look at him and his stomach clenches so sharply, he is worried he might be sick. Shane’s eyes are glassy and filled with some combination of confusion and heartbreak. Ilya wants to vomit knowing he put that there.

He takes a deep breath. He wants to curl up under the covers, close the blinds and stop having this conversation. Pretend none of this is real and just create a cocoon with Shane. 

But he owes Shane this. He needs to try and explain.

“Because I do not want you to worry. Sometimes you want to talk and I am not in a good way and you will probably know if you talk to me. So I need an excuse. Sometimes because it makes me sound like I am okay. So you do not think I am alone so much.”

“But you were alone!” Shane replies indignantly. “And I did need to worry! I mean, I was worried but I should have been a lot more worried, clearly. Why did you make my parents leave? My mom wanted to stay. She said you basically kicked them out. If you don’t like being alone-,”

“Your parents are amazing people, Shane. I appreciate them so much. But they are busy and have things to do besides take care of me. I cannot waste their time like this.”

“It is not wasting time,” Shane says so sharply, Ilya flinches a bit. “Sorry I just…you keep saying all this stuff. How you don’t want me to worry, my parents are wasting their time. And…do you really think you don’t deserve that? Ilya, I love you so fucking much. Last night was…I have never been so scared in my life. I want to worry about you, my parents want to take care of you because we love you. Because we want you to be here and be happy. You’re not a bother, baby. I’d rather be here taking care of you or being on the phone hearing about how you are struggling than doing anything else in the world if it would help at all. The idea that you could have…I would do anything, Ilya, anything so that doesn’t happen. Please, please let me help if I can at all.”

Shane is fully crying now and so is Ilya, he realizes. Hot, salty tears slipping down his cheeks, dripping down his chin. 

He can’t say he really believes everything Shane’s saying. He still doesn’t think Shane understands everything, how bad Ilya can really be, how much more he probably deserves, but Ilya loves the words anyway. Lets them power up that flickering light in his chest so it burns a little brighter today.

He reaches up and clumsily wipes at the tears under Shane’s eyes.

“Is hard for me to believe all of this, right now,” he admits because the truth is good right now. Shane opens his mouth to rebut but Ilya shakes his head. “But I will try. Okay?”

Shane considers this for a moment before nodding.

There’s another few beats of nothing but sniffling before Shane speaks again. 

“The pills last night was that…have you thought about doing that before? Are there other things you’ve thought about?”

Ilya shakes his head quickly.

“No. No, that was the only thing. And it has never been close like that before. I have had times where I thought about dying maybe. And thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But I did not ever think about doing it to myself before.”

Shane nods, wiping at some of the tear stains still staining his cheeks.

“Okay so just like passive ideations?”

Ilya blinks at him, confused by the word. Shane flushes a bit.

“It’s like what you said. Thinking about death or even wanting it but not actually you know…planning it,” Shane is still blushing a little bit so Ilya cocks his head. “I was googling while you were sleeping, I guess.”

“Ah,” Ilya replies, grimacing a little as he brings his coffee back to his lips, “That was probably not so nice.”

“Um I mean, it was helpful I guess. And scary, yeah. I feel like an asshole that I run fucking mental health foundation and didn’t know a lot of this shit. Or recognize it in you.”

Ilya shrugs.

“Is different when it is not so…imaginary.”

He thinks back to his mother. He didn’t know the warning signs at twelve of course but when he read about them later, he tried to match them up. Some fit, some didn’t. But it was eerie, reading these things on a paper and trying to figure out if anyone could have figured out what was going to happen before it did. If someone had been there to pay attention. 

He likes to think that if he had been older he might have known. That he could have stopped it.

But he looks back at Shane, so earnest and sad and loving and knows that probably, that isn’t true. That he had withered away for weeks now, skirted around in his misery, stayed in the periphery of any watchful eyes. If last night had ended differently that could be Shane today. Sitting there reading a list of signs someone is suicidal not in the comfort of his breathing boyfriend’s greasy but warm bed but through griefstricken eyes, wondering what he missed.

Ilya takes a sharp breath, forcing the image out of his head. Not forever, he may need it later if he ever gets back to where he was last night, but it is not helpful right now.

“I have one more question for now. We can take a break after if you don’t want to talk about this anymore but can you try and answer honestly, please?”

“Okay,” Ilya replies a little hesitantly, scared.

“Do you um,” Shane drops his gaze to where he is twisting his fingers together, “Do I need to take you to a hospital right now?”

Ilya’s instinct is to say of course not. There are so many reasons he does not want to go to a hospital. He would have to report it to the team, for starters. He is sure he would be recognized by some of the other people in the psych ward who are not subjected to privacy laws. He doesn’t know if he’d be allowed to see Shane or even talk to him. 

But he pauses before he replies. Because he knows none of those things really have anything to do with what Shane’s asking. So he considers his response. 

“I think…I think no. I do not want to die right now. And I think that you knowing this now will make things better. But if you want me to go, I understand. I will do it if you ask.”

Shane takes a sharp breath in, clearly not expecting that response.

“I was reading about that too. When to take you and at first I wanted you to go because I was so scared of you doing something and not…,” his voice breaks a bit but he sniffs back the tears quickly, “But I think, if you’re telling the truth, then maybe not right now. But you have to agree to some things, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya replies easily because he will reply to whatever Shane says. 

“Well you’re not going to be alone right now, obviously. So I’ll stay here for a few days and then-,”

“You have games, Shane,” Ilya interrupts but Shane gives him an impatient look.

“Fuck that, Ilya. I said I had a family emergency. They’ll be fine for a bit.”

“But-,”

“Ilya. This is when you have to believe me. The only place in the world I want to be is with you. I couldn’t get on the ice right now even if I wanted to at all. You’re all I’d be able to think about.”

Ilya sniffs, feeling the itch to argue more, to try and relieve some of this weight of feeling like a burden but he bites his tongue. He will listen to Shane. He will let himself have this today.

“And then I was thinking when I’m playing at home you can come to Montreal and stay with me. At least until you start physical therapy. When I’m on the road you can stay with my parents or they can stay here.”

Ilya looks down again.

“Do they…did you tell them?”

“I didn’t give details but obviously my mom was going to ask questions if she heard I didn’t show up at practice. And anyway, I was freaking out to her a little last night after you texted me and she was really worried too and said she’d come by this morning if I didn’t hear from you. They can tell you haven’t been doing that well, Ilya.”

The idea of Yuna Hollander finding Ilya’s lifeless body in the morning because Shane told her to go check makes Ilya physically flinch, coffee spilling onto his hand a bit. 

“You can tell them,” he says at that moment, the big picture coming into view. If he is asking Shane to help with this, to be part of this at all he needs support. He needs his parents. “It is fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. They have been wonderful, they should know. And if it ever…it is good probably, that someone nearby knows.”

“Thank you,” Shane says, sounding relieved. Ilya is glad he could give him this.

“Also, you need a therapist.”

“I know,” Ilya agrees. “I thought about it but I could not find the energy to look. I am sorry.”

“No sorries,” Shane says quickly and Ilya smiles at him, “But that seems like something my mom would be pretty good at. Can I ask her to look?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, nodding, “Yes, that would be good, I think. I do not know if it is possible but could she maybe look if there is anyone who speaks Russian? I think if I could not worry about English, therapy would be easier.”

A pained look crosses Shane’s face and Ilya frowns. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry I’m so slow at learning. I haven’t been spending enough time on it. I promise I will-,”

Ilya shakes his head.

“No. I do not think this. That you know anything means everything to me. Do not feel guilty about this, moya lyubov.”

“I know that one,” Shane says, reaching for Ilya’s thigh and placing his hand there. It is nice. They haven’t been touching since they started this hard conversation besides Ilya brushing away Shane’s tears. It was probably for a reason they weren’t but now Ilya feels the warmth spreading through his body from it.

“So not being alone, getting a therapist and I need you to tell a doctor. You don’t need to tell them all the specifics but you might need medication, Ilya.”

Ilya grimaces looking down at Shane’s fingers instead of his eyes.

“Medication is a little scary. What if it has bad side effects? What if it makes it harder to play next season?”

“I was looking it up, there are a lot of options, Ilya. Just have the conversation, okay?”

He plays it out in his mind, admitting to Terry he has been very down and hopeless. He thinks Terry would be nice, he has been so nice to Ilya this whole time and only been supportive. But it feels like yet another mark against him. The Centaurs spent the entire wallet on an absolute dud. 

“What are you thinking?”

He blinks up at Shane and sees him eyeing Ilya carefully so something must have shown on his face.

He opens his mouth to say nothing, to brush it off, to make a joke.

But today he wants to tell the truth. So he does. Shane frowns while he does but moves his hand from Ilya’s thigh up to his hair, combing through it again. Ilya leans into it. It feels so nice.

“No one thinks you’re a dud, Ilya,” Shane says softly and takes his hand out of his hair to wrap it around his shoulders and pull him fully into Shane’s side. He goes so easily. “You’re the best player this city has ever had. And you chose to come here. No one does that. They love you. My dad tells me all the time how people here talk about how amazing it is you are here. Missing a season isn’t going to change that. You’re going to come back even better next year.”

Ilya sniffs, pressing his face into Shane’s neck. 

“What if I don’t?”

“You will. Because you are Ilya fucking Rozanov and there is no way you are letting me get a whole season ahead of you in the scoring race and get away with it.”

Ilya laughs, genuinely laughs, and curls tighter into Shane. 

“This is true. I love you but I cannot let you get away with this. You should take season off too and spend it on a beach with me.”

Shane sighs and presses his cheek against the crown of Ilya’s head.

“Don’t tempt me.”

They stay that way for a little while. Ilya knows Shane probably hates how gross the bed is, and how gross Ilya is, but he doesn’t say anything, just holds Ilya while they finish their coffees.

“If I am in Montreal with you…aren’t you worried someone will see? I know I will mostly be inside but-,”

“I don’t care,” Shane says, a little sharply. “I don’t care.”

“But…how would we explain-,”

“I just don’t really care, Ilya,” Shane says, squeezing him tighter and sighing. “I mean I’m not saying I’m going to like announce that you’re staying with me and suck your dick in front of the team-,”

Ilya chokes a little on his coffee.

“But after this, after last night, it just really doesn’t matter to me anymore. If people have to find out about us so I can help you feel better and make sure you are safe then so be it.”

Ilya’s eyes burn.

“But…we said…,” Ilya trails off. Shane frowns.

“If it got out, would you be upset if people-,”

“No,” Ilya says so quickly, cutting Shane off. “I mean, we should probably make a plan. Make sure I am okay with visa but I do not care anymore either. I am so tired all the time. I do not want to worry about secrets anymore.”

“Okay,” Shane says, nodding. “I’ll talk to my mom. Talk to Farah. Maybe we can plan out an official time to come out or something but for now let’s just…do whatever we want. Subtly. But what we want.”

“Okay,” Ilya whispers. “Thank you.”

He had been so sure when Shane saw the truth, he would run. Or try to patch things up until he could without feeling guilty.

He did not expect Shane to blow up their entire secret for him. 

His heart is going from so hollow to so full so quickly, he is worried it might burst.

“For now…maybe we can take a shower?” Shane suggests, trying to sound very casual. Ilya chuckles.

“I do not smell good, I know. I am sorry, moya zubnaya shchotka. I have not been showering so much.”

Shane just squeezes him again before getting out of bed.

“It’s fine. I know that’s normal, for depression. But it would probably feel good,” he pauses as he is grabbing clean towels from Ilya’s closet. “What was that word? I don’t know it.”

“Tooth brush,” Ilya says, heaving himself out of bed. There is still a strong sense of wanting to climb back in but he wants to get up more than he wants to sleep today.

“Oh. Let’s do that too, for sure,” Shane stops as he exits Ilya’s closet, eyes landing on Ilya’s overflowing hamper. 

“Oh,” Ilya says, feeling his cheeks grow hot, “I could not…with my arm. Is very bad. I know.”

Shane blinks at the hamper again and then looks back at Ilya, brown eyes misty again. Shane surges across the room and to Ilya’s surprise, takes his face in his hands and kisses him, hard. 

“You never have to let your hamper look like this, Ilya. Never again. I will come help you with laundry anytime you call. Whether your shoulder is fucked up or not.”

Ilya stares back through equally watery eyes.

“Okay. I promise next time, I will call.”

And at least for today, he really, really means it.