Chapter Text
Ilya was in the locker room when the world ended.
The game was over, and unsurprisingly, they had won.
The Centaurs had been on a win streak lately, the thought making Ilya stand a little taller. They had won 3-1 against Tampa tonight, and to celebrate, he had taken a long, leisurely shower. He chatted happily with the guys, throwing the occasional chirps in between the praise of winning a game. He had taken great joy in how Luca Haas’s face went red when Ilya complimented the goal he made– he wasn’t sure if it was because the compliment was coming from Ilya or if it was because they were still in the shower. Either way, he was on cloud nine by the time he sat down on the bench with a towel around his waist. It was the best he had felt in months.
He hadn’t thought to check his phone any sooner than that.
The first few messages weren’t of any importance. Svetlana sent a few comments about his performance during the game, Marlow had sent a bizarre meme that he would need to decipher at a later time. A few more random messages, and a few from Shane… on Instagram?
That is odd. Shane does not use Instagram, especially not the messaging part of it. Ilya hardly uses the messaging part more than to send posts to a few friends every now and then.
“Holy shit,” Barrett yelps. “The Metros plane went down.”
The room comes to a stop, the buzzing energy of a win quieting, but Ilya barely hears him, still too caught up on Shane messaging him through Instagram. They have barely talked since their fight. What could he have to say on Instagram of all places?
What did Barrett say?
Ilya blinks.
A plane went down. The Metros plane?
As in Montreal?
That cannot be true. Ilya must have heard wrong.
“What? Are they okay?” Wyatt asks, still dressing, though his movements are slowed.
“I’m reading,” Troy answers, eyes glued to his screen.
Ilya stares blankly at his phone, eyes still glued to the notifications from ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer.
“Oh okay. The headline took it out of context. It says the plane had to make an emergency landing, but it didn't go down. Still it says there were… critical injuries from the turbulence and…” he skins the article some more. “Most players were taken to a hospital in Washington.”
There is a feeling growing inside of him that he cannot put a name to. It feels like he is sitting at the top of a rollercoaster and staring down at the drop to come, a pit opening in his stomach of pure, unadulterated fear.
Critical. The word sits on his tongue, not foreign exactly but not well known either. He’s sure that he’s heard it before, in broadcaster’s voices as he scores a critical goal, or when it is critical that something must be done. He knows it, but just like the word compatible, he would need to look it up to be sure.
He echos it, more to himself than his team. “Critical.”
“Seriously injured,” Wyatt informs him from the other side of the locker room.
“Holy shit. Critical like they could die?”
Ilya’s eyes bounce from Wyatt to Haas who is staring at Barrett, still scanning the article that he has pulled up on his phone. His head spins, the adrenaline from the game still pumping through his veins and making him feel light headed.
Barrett hums, scrolling faster. “Doesn’t say anything about casualties yet. The article was posted an hour ago.”
It can’t be real.
That is the only thing his mind can supply at the moment. It’s fake, it’s a prank, he thinks frantically. Someone out there is fucking with him because Shane is okay, he is safe he… he just played a game.
… In Washington.
Ilya does not panic, or at least, he doesn’t think that he is panicking. In the back of his mind he knows he should be panicking, but his hands don’t shake and his breathing doesn’t change as he clicks on the Instagram messages. Strangely enough though, his eyes won’t focus. Is something wrong with his eyes?
Ilya blinks, and blinks again, flinching at the wetness that drops down to his cheek. It’s only then that he realizes he can’t see because he’s crying, but he doesn’t know when he started.
He wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms until the edges burn raw, and then he forces himself to focus.
I love you. I love you so much. I need you to know that I would choose you over hockey.
Over anything.
You are everything to me Ilya.
Everything.
No matter what, you were the best thing to ever happen to me. You are all that I can think about right now. you
The message read strangely, too many periods in between words as if Shane was fighting his fear to get the words out. His last words.
The ending is cut off and uncapitalized, like something happened before he could finish his next thought and Ilya’s heart turns to lead in his chest, dropping down into his stomach hard enough to make him feel as though he were about to throw up.
A horrible, twisted image pops into his head of Shane, terrified and all alone as he tries to message Ilya who didn’t even answer in his final moments.
No no no no no, he thinks feverishly. It isn’t true. It cannot be true, Shane is okay, Shane is… Shane is alive.
Except his thumb is hovering over his last words and Ilya can’t breathe. He can’t think, his finger tips numb as he tries to rationalize what he just read with the words Barrett just spoke but none of it makes sense because Shane cannot be dead.
His first reaction is to text him. He is going to text Shane and he will answer and tell him everything is fine.
Lily: Are you okay?
Lily: Shane
Lily: Answer
The messages are delivered, but never read. He clicks on the contact, and then the phone, bringing it up to his ear, but the call goes straight to voicemail.
Ilya clenches his fist, wanting to hit something, terror masquerading as rage flowing through him. He tries again, cursing when the same voicemail greets him and the darkest parts of his mind twist the failed calls into dread.
He frantically opens Instagram and does the same thing, but seconds tick on and there is no answer, not a single message changing from sent to read.
Oh God.
No. No no no no nonono-
When he was twelve, he had lingered in the backyard, unwilling to go inside on such a warm day after school. He soaked in the sunshine the same way he had soaked in the showers just now, laughing with the guys without knowing…
But Shane cannot be gone like his mama was. They are going to grow old together, they are going to marry each other and have a dog and kids. They are going to retire together and finally the grand plan that Ilya has held onto like a lifeline since Shane proposed it to him in bed at the cottage that day so long ago will happen. He grasps for it now, the promise of someday, but it feels like someone took a pair of scissors and cut the cord that he had been using to guide himself through the dark. Hopeless and stranded, all he can do is struggle to breathe and choke on the fear that someday is gone; that Shane is gone and all those thoughts will go from present to past tense.
“Hey, Cap?” Dykstra tries to get his attention, but his words sound far away as if he were calling to him from underwater. Or maybe Ilya is the one underwater and that is why he cannot get a full breath.
He gasps uselessly, but all it does is turn into a gut wrenching sob, his mind flashing to everything left unsaid and unfinished between him and the love of his life.
“Roz, hey. What’s wrong?”
Wyatt, of course it is Wyatt with his goalie eyes who sits on the bench next to him, a firm hand laid on Ilya’s bare shoulder. He melts into the contact absentmindedly, still hyperventilating. He cannot do this without Shane, he cannot do life without Shane. What would he even have without him? It would all be pointless. Shane is too good to be gone. He is too kind, too loving to just disappear from the world like this. Shane is his sun and he cannot imagine a future without him there to turn towards like a flower chasing his energy. Without him there would be… nothing. He cannot even bring himself to imagine a future, when he tries, it comes up bleak and the cold seep of dread soaks further into his bones.
He cannot voice this though. The words stick to his throat and vaguely he is aware of more eyes on him, confused and worried and he doesn’t know what to say.
Wyatt glances down at his phone. He approaches Ilya like a wild animal, movements careful and controlled as he takes the phone from his trembling hands.
Ilya wants to protest. Shane would want him to protest. He needs to protect their secret… or does he? Would any of it matter anymore if Shane is gone? Would Shane be okay with Ilya telling someone that the love of his life is dead, or would he need to take their secret to the grave?
Gone. He cannot bring himself to think the word dead. It seems too final, too terrifying, so he swallows back the bile that comes with the word.
It is too late though. Ilya sits frozen as Wyatt reads over the messages, and maybe he could have snatched it back and hid away from his team the way he has always done, but he is so, so tired. His arms weigh a million tons and he cannot bring himself to do it.
I’m sorry. He thinks helplessly. He knows now. I’m so sorry.
Wyatt says nothing at first, but Ilya is too tired to think of the worst outcome, so he sits, mind blank, awaiting judgement.
For a horribly, crushing moment, there is relief beneath it all. Someone else knows how much he loves Shane, what Ilya has wanted for longer than he is willing to admit to himself. A friend is staring at the proof, and the relief that cuts through him is enough to make him sick with guilt. How can he feel relieved right now when the best thing to ever happen to him is scared and hurt or gone?
Curious, Bood walks over, reading the messages over Wyatt’s shoulder and the team watches, still dressing unsurely. Ilya dares a quick glance up from the two men reading his phone, only to find piercing blue eyes staring him down from across the room. Ilya figured that Troy might know, and the way he is behaving right now is probably confirming any suspicions he had.
Bood and Hayes do not gasp, they do not whisper to each other or berate Ilya with slurs. They share a quick look with one another, and then Bood is pulling his clothes out of his duffle bag.
“It’s okay,” Wyatt reassures him. “Troy said there is no casualties that we know of. Shane is okay.”
Ilya gasps, hearing his name outloud. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck–
He’s so scared he’s going to pass out. Ilya has never passed out before in his life but he thinks he might right now. His stomach roils and he curls in on himself to make it stop, feeling far too small and far too alone.
He needs Shane.
Ilya takes a shaky breath that doesn’t quite fill his lungs and begs. Silently, he pleads with the universe for Shane to be alive. Hasn’t he had enough taken from him? Can he keep this one good thing?
He squeezes his eyes shut, hot tears rolling down his cheek and then asks his mama to take care of Shane until he sees him again. He doesn’t really know what that means.
“Here, can you get dressed? Then we can figure out what’s going on, okay?” Bood pushes a wad of clothes against his chest.
Ilya wraps his arm around them uselessly, but then nods. He can do that.
A voice that sounds like his father murmurs how pathetic he is, falling apart in front of so many people. He needs to move, he cannot just sit here naked and moping. He cannot help Shane like that.
He barely slides his underwear and pants on when Wyatt suddenly takes Ilya’s phone up to his ear.
“Mrs. Hollander?” he asks uncertainly.
Ilya’s stomach drops. Yuna.
“Yes, this is Wyatt Hayes, his teammate. He’s here,” Wyatt glanced over at him uncertainly. “No, I don’t think he can talk on the phone right now. Yes ma’am, he is very upset. Do you know anything?”
Is she calling to confirm the worst?
Suddenly Ilya wants nothing more than to see her. He feels like a child, wanting to crawl into his mama’s arms again and pretend as though it were the safest place in the world.
He watches, numb, as Wyatt puts the phone on speaker and holds it close to Ilya’s ear.
“Ilya? Sweetheart can you hear me?”
Ilya nods dumbly, as if she could see him through the phone.
“He can hear you,” Wyatt answers for him.
“Shane is at the hospital,” Yuna says, voice shaky and wet. “He’s alive.”
Ilya quivers, his lungs screaming as he finally takes in a full breath. The sound he lets out is pitiful, echoing off the walls in a way that will haunt him later.
The relief is almost enough to knock him to the ground. Shane is okay. He is hurt but he is alive and Ilya has not lost everything.
Ilya falls forward, elbows braced against his knees as he hides his face in his hands.
“Are you okay?”
He nods again, forcing his voice to croak out, “Da.”
Of course he is okay. He is okay because Shane is alive and he will be able to hold his hand again and count his freckles and run his fingers through his hair.
“They didn’t say anything other than he was at the hospital and being admitted. We are looking at flights out to him, he won’t be alone,” she assures. “We will call you as soon as we know anything, okay?”
“Okay,” he whimpers. He opens his mouth to ask if he can come too, and then closes it.
Shane is in the hospital along with the rest of his team. It is bad enough that The Centaurs know now, he cannot damn them even more by showing up.
He doesn’t want to be alone either though. He wants to see Shane’s face and see his chest rise and fall. He wants to hear the monitor beep that tells him his heart is still beating.
Would Shane be mad at him if he did come?
Ilya wilts at the thought. They just had a fight about this, their last moment together could have been a stupid, useless fight all because Ilya wanted people to know about them.
A sinking realization floods him. Shane is not dead, but Ilya did break down in front of everyone.
Nervously, he looks up again. Most of his teammates have their backs turned, facing their lockers in an attempt at giving him privacy. The jovial atmosphere from before is gone, everyone quiet, all subtly trying to listen in.
They know.
The big dark heavy secret Ilya has carried with him for all this time now is out in the open, and Shane, his Shane who already was upset with him about people knowing, is alive and in the hospital.
He’s going to be so mad at him.
What has he done?
Wyatt is speaking to Yuna again on the phone, but all Ilya can do is stare at the faces of his team. He knows most of them, he would say. There are a few he is not particularly close with, but he knows the majority of them are good people. All it takes is one though. One person to decide that Ilya being with Shane is wrong, one person to decide to tell everyone, one person to ruin their lives.
His stomach churns, and again he thinks he might be sick. He can never go home to Russia. He can never see his mother’s grave again. And Shane might never want to see him again either.
The thought seems dramatic, even to him in the current moment, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to totally rule it out either. This is big. This could end their careers, all because Ilya could not keep it together, and Shane would not be able to live without hockey. Ilya could, he thinks. Maybe. He would grieve losing it but not in the same way he would grieve for Shane.
Would Shane freak out if it were the other way around? Would he lose his mind in front of his team if he thought Ilya was dead in a plane crash?
He thinks the answer is no, and his chest stings with something bitter at the thought. His father’s voice is in his head again, and this time Ilya agrees with him.
Ilya needs to fix this. He needs to pull himself together and… threaten his team or something to make sure no one talks. He needs to stop being so pathetic and control the damage that he’s created.
Ilya runs a stressed hand over his face, rubbing the tension from his expression as thoughts of how to salvage this situation race through his head.
Wyatt hangs up the phone, and before he or anyone else in the room can say anything, Ilya claps his hands together. The sound makes everyone jump, including himself, but he musters up the last of his energy to put on a facade. It feels like he has been doing that a lot lately, but he cannot dwell on that right now.
“Why are you staring at me, we have a win to celebrate, yes?” he asks. “Drinks on me tonight.”
No one moves. Haas sends him an uneasy glance, concern plastered across his face.
He can still salvage this though. So far only Hayes and Bood know the truth. The others only know that he was worried about Hollander, he can work with that.
“Ah,” the lie falls out of his mouth with as much confidence as he can manage when his eyes still itch with slow drying tears. “Hollander is my friend. You know this. I would be very sad if the world’s second best hockey player was- was dead.”
He would be devastated. He would grieve for as long as he lived.
“Rozanov-”
“We have charity together, his mother helps.”
His mom also cooks him dinner and buys him Christmas presents and hugs him like he is another son.
“That is why she called. I will be- I will be in charge until Hollander is okay again, I am sure,” he keeps going, and for a fleeting moment, he thinks they might believe it.
“Cap, it’s okay,” Dykstra says quietly.
“Yes,” He agrees. “It is okay, all good.”
Ilya looks down, trying to force his brain into action. Clothes. He is mostly dressed but he needs to put on more clothes. How badly is Shane hurt? He needs to put on a shirt. Will he be able to play hockey still? What if it is career-ending? He needs shoes. Socks and then shoes because it is cold outside and Shane would not want him to leave without socks on. Is it cold outside? This is not Ottawa. He is in Tampa. And he needs–
“Hey, breathe,” Bood reminds.
Ilya takes in a breath.
“I’m going to go tell Wiebe, I think he’s still with the press,” Bood says.
Oh, fuck the press. They are probably waiting for their captain to come out and talk to them, boast about their epic win streak and how the Centaurs are no longer the worst team in the league. It feels like something is crushing his chest just thinking about going out there.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promises, as if reading Ilya’s thoughts. “Just get dressed.”
Ilya nods helplessly. He cannot muster up the energy to talk to the press, but he can at least get dressed.
And then what? Does he go to the hotel? Sit and wait?
“... I found a flight from Tampa to Washington that leaves in three hours.”
Ilya looks up, surprised to see Haas holding his phone close to his face, reading over the details. “Do you want me to book it for you?” he asks when he notices Ilya staring at him.
“I don’t…” Ilya struggles to say. “I don’t need to go.”
“Roz, it’s okay. We know.”
“You do not know anything,” Ilya denies, voice rough and as threatening as he can manage after the emotional turmoil he just went through. He steels his face, slipping on the cold mask he knows how to do all too well, but something must make its way through the cracks.
Some of the other players who have had time to dress filter out with gentle waves and nervous smiles. They do not stare at him with disgust, but his stomach still does a flip at the sight of them leaving.
Ilya had wanted to tell his team, or at least, he had wanted to tell his friends, the ones who are still sitting on the benches and trying to comfort him. He had wanted so badly for them to know and Shane had been so upset at the thought of Ilya telling a single soul, much less his whole team.
“Roz-”
“No! You do not know anything. You cannot know anything. He is going to be mad at me,” Ilya slumps down, miserable and defeated. It feels as though all of the air he had left inside of him has been drained, like sticking a pin in a blow up mattress. It starts slow, but eventually there is nothing left.
“I think Hollander will understand with this,” It’s Dykstra who reassures him next. “He seems like an okay guy.”
“No. He…” He is amazing and wonderful and anxious. Shane is scared to lose hockey, and hockey is everything just as Ilya is scared to lose Shane because he is everything.
“I’ll call an Uber.”
Ilya looks up again.
Barrett looks horribly awkward, as if he himself cannot believe he just blurted that out, but he looks determined to help all the same.
“And I’ll ride with you,” Wyatt offers. “Come on, get your shoes.”
“He would not want me there,” Ilya tries to protest, but he’s slipping on his shoes all the same, not bothering with the laces as he shoves his foot inside.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Wyatt shakes his head, hauling Ilya up by his elbow.
He stands on shaky knees, like a new born deer. He needs to tell them no. The words ‘it’s no big deal’ need to leave his mouth so he can go home and break down in the privacy of his own house and cling to his phone like a lifeline.
But then Luca is handing him his phone asking if he spelt his name right for the plane ticket and he’s hitting confirm before Ilya can make the words leave his dry mouth.
“I’ll send you confirmation in case you need it,” Luca says dutifully, already texting away.
Ilya moves in a daze after that. He’s guided down hallways by a strong hand on his shoulder, Barrett just in front of him glancing around to make sure no one sees the mess that Ilya is right now.
Eventually, they make it out into the humid night air. Thankfully, a good majority of the fans are gone, and those who linger are not near where they stand now, Troy watching the Uber on the map closely.
“We’ll come with you to the airport, make sure you get there okay,” Wyatt offers.
“Is okay-” Ilya shakes his head, but before he can do that, a sleek black car is pulling up in front of them, and Troy is guiding them inside of it.
In the time it takes to drive to the airport and board the plane, Ilya manages to collect himself in the steady presence of his teammates. They stay by his side until his boarding group is called, neither saying anything about what they just saw or what they now know.
If Ilya had it in him, he thinks he might cry at the love they have shown for him tonight. He wants to say as much, express his gratitude, but Wyatt just claps him on the shoulder and reassures him that he doesn’t have to say anything.
“We can talk when you and Hollander get back safe, okay?” Wyatt asks when Ilya lingers behind, boarding pass in hand. “And I will talk to the guys and make sure no one says anything. They won’t though, we’ve got a good team. You know that.”
Ilya nods. They do have a good team, with both good players and good people. Their team feels like a family, oddly enough, in a way that even Boston did not feel to him.
The ‘thank you’ Ilya mumbles out to Wyatt and Troy don’t feel like enough, but the next thing he knows, he is sitting in a plane seat, paid for by Luca, on his way to see his boyfriend who will hopefully still want him after all of this.
_______
Ilya bites his knuckles nearly the whole way there thinking about everything. Everything.
Anxiety makes his nervous system feel as though he were about to vibrate out of his seat. His thoughts bounce from one thing to the next, intermittently reminding himself that things will be okay as long as Shane is okay.
Shane would not want him to come though, the more he thinks about it the more sure he is. Ilya’s team knowing is risk enough, the Metros finding out would be disastrous for them.
He isn’t sure, mostly because Shane will not talk about it, but coming out to the Metros as gay did not go well. Or at least, not as well as either of them had hoped. They had not been as accepting as Shane thought they would have been, and they have become more withdrawn with him than ever before. Finding out their captain is not only gay but also seeing Ilya Rozanov sneaking into his hospital room? They might just have Shane’s head for it. That is an expression Ilya had learned early on in his hockey career, having someone’s head. And Shane will have his head for exposing them like this to everyone.
Even Yuna did not invite him to come. She did not extend the invitation to fly out to Shane in Washington when she called earlier. She had assumed that Ilya would stay at his hotel room and wait for information. That is what he should have done.
Yuna not inviting him had hurt. Now that he has had time to think about it, it made his heart throb painfully in his chest. Shane’s parents have been nothing but supportive thus far of their relationship, welcoming Ilya into their lives and home, treating him like a son. It felt incredible to have a family again.
Now, the family he thought he had gained feels uncertain. Had he done something to make himself unwelcome in the hospital room? He cannot think of a single instance that would have made it so. Puzzles with David, cooking pasta with Yuna, sitting on the couch together to watch Shane’s games… nothing was ever bad. Ilya knows that he can make a fool of himself. He’s cocky and arrogant and loud and sometimes his jokes are a bit crude or inappropriate, but he has always been on his best behavior around Shane’s parents, or at least the best behavior that can be expected from him.
Do they not think of him as family?
That must be it, Ilya concludes, staring out the window at the sea of clouds, high in the sky. He may view the Hollanders as family, but they do not think the same of him. He is just a boyfriend after all, not… husband, or anything of importance.
The thought makes him flinch, and vaguely in the back of his mind, he knows that he is spirally. Isn’t that the word Shane had taught him for these kinds of moments? Spiraling. When one thought leads to another and then another, like a runaway train or falling down a rabbit hole. He is probably being dramatic, but the pain is reassuring in a way. He understands pain. So he lets himself wallow in it, convincing himself of the worst by the time he lands in Washington several hours later.
When he takes his phone out of airplane mode, he’s met with a few missed calls from Yuna and David, and a few texts as well.
Shane is at Washington General with a mild concussion, a fractured arm and a cut on his temple. Other than that, he is okay.
By the time he makes his way off of the plane, he almost convinces himself not to go. It’s late now, or early rather. Four in the morning.
How is it already morning? How is it only four?
Time does not feel real. He is sure that he looks a mess. A quick stop in the airport restroom had shown him looking frazzled in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, red rimmed with tear stains down his cheeks. His hair is wild, untamed from the shower he took without his usual hair care routine, and there is a weariness in his bones that makes him feel as if he were to sit down for too long, he would never get back up.
If he was smart, the good choice to make would be to go to a hotel. He should get a room for a night, shower and sleep so he can explain his presence with a clear head.
Ilya rarely makes good choices though. He stopped making good choices the day he shook Shane Hollander’s hand in that parking lot before they were even drafted. When he first became obsessed with the weird boy with pretty freckles who is far nicer than he should be and so incredibly boring with his ‘you can’t smoke here’.
Ilya gets in an Uber to the hospital without another thought about it. He will apolgoize and beg for forgiveness when it comes to it, because right now all he can think about is seeing Shane again.
Shane and the way he folds his clothes when they have sex, and has to do the dishes a certain way– definitely not the way that Ilya does them. Shane and his stupid diet and clean kitchen that Ilya can not leave dirty cups in. Shane and his sense of humor that most people miss because he is so boring. Shane and the way he chides Ilya for smoking still because he does not want Ilya to die of lung cancer even though they both know that Shane thinks it is a little sexy to catch him with a cigarette between his teeth. He denies it, but Ilya has seen his blush.
Shane who he almost never got to see again.
In the Uber, Ilya almost manages to calm himself down by the time he reaches Washington General. His phone is on 15% but he keeps staring at Yuna’s text assuring him that Shane is okay.
He thanks the driver, and climbs out, though he has no idea where to go exactly. The hospital is huge, with three buildings. He looks around and takes a chance with the one that is closest to him.
Walking in, he half expects the be greeted by the Metros in the waiting area. Instead, there is only a few people sitting in the chairs when the clinical smell of a hospital hits him.
He scrunches his nose and makes his way to the front desk. Behind it sits a young woman who gives him a warm smile in greeting, soft and compassionate. She doesn’t look taken aback by his appearance, but working at a hospital, one probably gets used to it.
“I am here to see Shane Hollander,” Ilya says in a hushed voice, betraying his nerves. He cannot offer her a smile, the most he can do is hope that he is not being too rude.
“Okay, Shane Hollander… can I ask what your relationship is to the patient?”
Oh.
Ilya swallows. Fuck, he has had to answer this question before, when he went to see Shane in the hospital after Marlow took him down. That time had been easier though, expected even. A rival captain visiting an injured player is good publicity, a sign of good sportsmanship even. A rival hockey captain flying all the way from Tampa in the middle of the night over a plane crash injury?
Saying he is just a friend does not sound like a guaranteed way to get into his room though, and now that he is here, Ilya cannot stand the thought of being so close and not being able to see him.
He opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again, like a gaping fish.
“I am family,” is what he settles on saying.
The woman watches him for a moment. He feels horribly exposed, and it must show on her face. "Scott Hunter is my favorite player," she says casually. "You are his... brother?"
He nods. They both know he is not Shane's brother, especially if the Scott Hunter comment is anything to go by. Ilya doesn’t tease her about the Scott Hunter comment, even though something inside of him wants to, despite it all. For the first time in his life, he lets it go.
“He is not in this wing of the hospital, he is in room twelve twenty-one. It’ll be in the building just to the right, if you follow this hallway it will connect to that building,” she gestures vaguely, and Ilya tries to memorize it all. The number, however, he cannot forget. Twelve twenty one. One two two one.
He has forgotten many hotel room numbers over the years, but he has never forgotten that one. It feels a bit like fate.
“Do you need someone to walk you there?” she asks.
As nice as the woman is, he does not think it would be wise for more people to know that he is there, so he declines and thanks her, and begins on his way.
The hallways and rooms are confusing to say the least. He walks for what feels like forever before coming into what must be a newer building, the paint on the walls changing from tan to white being the only indication. The smell of disinfectant stays the same as he makes his way through the hallways that bleed together. At one point he ends up in an elevator and all he can desperately hope is that it will take him to the correct floor.
Finally after what feels like an eternity, he steps off onto floor twelve. The space opens up into another waiting room, this time with much more life to it. He knows how to spot a WAG after all of these years, and there are few huddled up in the corners of the room together, not looking up at the sound of him entering, thankfully.
It is both a relief and anxiety inducing. If other WAGs are here, then he must be in the right place, which means that other teammates could be anywhere now.
Ilya ducks down, wishing he had a jacket with a hood on it. Or really, just a jacket in general. A jacket hadn’t been necessary in Florida, and his brain had not been working when he left, leaving him in nothing but a short sleeve white shirt and Adidas track pants.
As quick as he can, he hurries down the hallway, all but running as his eyes scan over the numbers that flash around him as he speeds past. Shane Shane Shane Shane Shane. The only thing he can think about is Shane.
1215,1217,1219,1221.
He doesn’t bother knocking, his heartbeat hammering in his ears as he opens the door and pushes himself in, hoping desperately that no one saw him, and that Shane would have no other visitors.
His body goes lax as he enters, all of the stress leaving his body just knowing that he is once again in Shane’s presence.
The room is incredibly dark. There is a monitor that beeps with every thump of Shane’s heart that glows green in the corner, next to the bed. The room is private, and big enough that there is a connected bathroom to it that spills harsh fluorescent light from where the door is cracked. It is just enough to illuminate the silhouette of his lover in the bed.
Shane looks terrible. There is a cut across his right temple, it is the first thing that Ilya can see. It is covered with thick white bandages, hiding what he presumes are stitches beneath. His face is bruised and swollen, nose red like he took a bad hit to it. And his freckles. His beautiful freckles are still there, faint in the light.
His arm is in a cast. It makes him look horribly fragile, nothing at all like the force to be reckoned with that Ilya has always associated with Shane. He’s two hundred pounds of pure muscle, he has knocked the wind out of Ilya on more than one occasion slamming him against the boards. Even play wrestling, Ilya has to truly fight to get the upper hand on Shane, unless Shane wants to be pinned down.
Right now though, he looks delicate, like breathing wrong in his direction could hurt him, so Ilya holds his breath.
His lover squeezes his eyes shut at him, blinking the sleep away, nose scrunched adorably. His eyes stay unfocused for a while, before finally those gorgeous brown eyes land on Ilya and his whole face lights up with joy.
“Ilyyyaaaa?” Shane greets him with a dopey smile, so very reminiscent of when Marlow took him down on the ice. The only difference now is that his voice is hushed, sweet and quiet in the early morning hours.
Guiltily, Ilya realizes that Yuna and David must have gone to a hotel so Shane could sleep, and here Ilya is, barging in and waking him up, even more unwelcomed than before.
Shane holds his only free hand out though, pleading. “Baby,” he whines. “Please.”
Ilya nearly collapses. His knees wobble as he rushes to Shane’s side, taking his hand. As soon as it is within reach, he peppers kisses to every bit of skin he can get to, across his knuckles and palm, up his wrist until he makes it to Shane’s bruised face. There, he is gentle, pressing kisses to his chin and cheek and finally his lips.
Tears drip onto both of their faces, but when he pulls back, Shane is crying too.
“Mom tried to call you for me,” Shane whispers, voice heavy with sleep. “You didn’t answer.”
Oh.
The guilt nearly makes him double over, remember the missed calls he had when getting off of the plane.
“I am so sorry. Shane I am so sorry, I was on the plane. I was coming to you. I thought I lost you,” he mumbles frantically, holding Shane’s hand to his face so he can soak up his warmth.
“Tell me again in English. When you’re ready.” Shane giggles, the drugs making his eyes shut for far longer than they should when he blinks.
“I thought I lost you,” Ilya cries, in English this time.
“It was scary. Very scary,” Shane answers, tone suddenly solemn. “I thought I lost you too.”
“Please,” Ilya sobs, the weight of the past twenty four hours hitting him like a ton of bricks. “Please do not do that to me ever again. Shane I cannot live without you,” he says with certainty. “I would not live without you. You are okay, yes?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” Shane tries to pet his cheek, but his fingers only curl a few times before he gives up. “I love you. So much. I hope you got my texts. On um…” he trails off, wracking his brain.
“Instagram,” Ilya supplies.
Shane lights up. “Yeah! Instagram. I couldn’t… I couldn’t text or call for real. I didn’t want to die without talking to you so I did the only thing I could think of.”
“I got it,” Ilya promises. “You must have been so scared.”
“I was. I needed you to know,” Shane nods, eyes slipping closed.
For a second Ilya thinks he might go to sleep, and that would be fine. He would stay awake and count all of his freckles and kiss his fingertips and memorize his face until he wakes again, but then Shane opens his eyes and peers at him lovingly. “I would choose you.”
Ilya swears his soul quivers inside of him. “Moy lyubimiy,” he squeezes his hand that Ilya cannot bring himself to let go of, Shane’s fingers still curled against his cheek. “I love you.”
Shane smiles happily.
Ilya almost thinks of not telling him. He wants to protect this soft and drugged version of Shane, with his sweet smiles that he gives freely. That would not be fair though.
“I was scared too,” he starts, and curious brown orbs trace over his face as he speaks, not interrupting. “I’m sorry, Shane… I- when I found out I thought… and my team they- they were there,” he chokes on his words trying to force them past the lump in his throat. “They know.”
Ilya lowers his head, ashamed. He braces himself, unsure what he will be met with. They have fought before, Boxing Day had been a terrible fight even, but he isn’t sure that he knows what Shane is like when he is truly angry.
His bottom lip trembles, and Ilya has to sink his teeth into it to make it stop as he waits. Shane doesn’t yell though.
Ilya looks up, unsure. “Shane?”
Shane nods, eyes half shut. He doesn’t look angry like Ilya expected. He doesn’t scowl at him or…
Belatedly, Ilya realizes he was imagining his father’s expressions on Shane’s face. The look of fury in his eyes, the disappointment, the scrunch of his nose when he snapped at him for making careless mistakes.
He waits for it to happen, for Shane to realize what he said and twist in righteous anger.
“It was a stressful situation,” he answers instead, tone even and voice light.
Ilya’s eyes sting. “You are not mad?”
“What? Why would I be?”
“You were not ready,” Ilya’s voice trembles. “I couldn’t tell anyone before, nothing has changed.”
Has it?
Shane’s face- despite the heavy medication- crumbles. The look in his eyes tells Ilya he’s thinking back to their Boxing Day fight. “Oh.”
“I am sorry, Shane,” Ilya breathes. He hasn’t yelled at him, but he feels chastised all the same.
“Baby no,” Shane holds his arms out, and Ilya is a weak, weak man. He crumbles, folds into his lap and lets Shane cradle him. “No, I am not mad. It’s okay. Please don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya whimpers again. He could not stay strong in front of his teammates, and now he cannot stay strong in front of Shane despite him asking for Ilya to. The tears come unbidden, forcing their way down his cheeks and he grimaces, trying to fight them off to no avail.
“I’m not mad at you,” Shane repeats, like he just knows that Ilya needs to hear them again. “I’m happy you’re here.”
Ilya trembles with relief.
“Come here,” Shane pats his chest in invitation.
“I do not want to hurt you,” Ilya whispers. The bed is nowhere big enough for both of them to fit into.
“You won’t. It’s just my arm. Come here.”
“But your arm is broken,” Ilya insists.
“Just a fracture,” Shane waves him away as if that would ease his worries. “They gave me the good stuff anyways.”
Ilya smiles a little at that. “The good stuff,” he repeats with adoration making his words sickly sweet.
“Oh yeah,” Shane nods. “So you can’t hurt me. What would hurt me is you not getting in bed with me.”
“We do not fit,” Ilya stands, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, hoping that will be enough for Shane.
It is not.
Shane stares him down stubbornly. “I want you to lay with me.” he pouts.
Someone should have warned him when he first invited Shane Hollander into his hotel room that if the man pouts with his perfect lips and big brown eyes, that Ilya would always crumble for him. It really isn’t fair.
He should say no, but it’s impossible when Shane scoots as far over as he can manage and then looks at Ilya expectantly. “I want to touch you.”
“Ah, not in hospital bed,” Ilya jokes weakly. “Pervert.”
Shane smiles, soft and sleepy. “You know what I mean, asshole.”
“I do,” Ilya relents.
It is far from comfortable. Wiggling into the bed, Ilya is hyper aware of his every move, terrified to hurt his lover in any way. Shane on the other hand, is grabby like an octopus, tugging him down until Ilya is pressed against his side, curled up awkwardly next to him. Despite the discomfort though, there is nowhere else in the world that Ilya would want to be.
He lays his head down against the thin mattress, the sheets scratchy beneath his cheek.
Shane reaches over with his good arm and cradles his head close.
“You are not mad?” Ilya asks again, just to be sure. He knows Shane through and through. He knows that when something bothers him, he will not always voice it. He will sit with the problem in his head and think it over far too long before letting it out. It has happened before, and this is too big for Ilya to let it go like that.
“No, I am not mad at you. Moy lyubimiy.” Shane fumbles the word out in his terrible Russian accent.
Ilya’s heart squeezes something violent at the pet name being turned to him now.
“You thought I died,” he nods with each word. “... Who knows?”
“Just my team,” Ilya carefully rests his arm across Shane’s stomach, watching his face for any kind of pain. “They are good people, I think. They helped me get to you.”
“You wanted to tell them before, right?”
Ilya nods subtly. A few of them, yes, maybe all of them. At least about being bisexual.
There’s still that sickly feeling beneath his skin when he thinks about how relieved he was that someone else in his life knew about him and Shane. It doesn’t help that Shane is not mad at him, he wasn’t ready, and the guilt over being relieved about them finding out is going to make him sick.
“I could have died today.”
Ilya winces at that, looking up at Shane.
“And all I could think about was you. Waiting until retirement is not possible.”
“We should talk about this later,” Ilya shakes his head. As much as he would love to run through the halls screaming his love for Shane, Shane cannot possibly be in the right state of mind to talk about this.
That is confirmed when Shane sighs, long and hard, and his eyes slip shut again, sleep threatening to drag him back under.
“We should sleep,” he mutters out.
“Sleep would be good for you,” Ilya agrees.
“Oh!” he suddenly opens his eyes again, making Ilya jump. “I will be out for a few weeks at least,” Shane begins, petting Ilya’s hair with soft tenderness that feels undeserving. “I could stay with you. At your house. Be your house husband.”
Ilya chokes on a happy laugh. “Husband hmm?”
“Yeah. Oh no, I forgot,” Shane exclaims. “I didn’t ask.”
Ilya sits up, looking at him questioningly.
“I want to marry you,” Shane keeps playing with his hair, twirling the blond curls around his knuckles so it tugs pleasurably across his scalp. “I thought about it when we…” he trails off, and then his nose scrunches adorably while he thinks. “Crashed?”
“Shane,” Ilya pets his thumb over Shane’s stomach soothingly. “Maybe now is not-“
“I’m gonna buy you a ring,” he says with certainty. “As soon as I can look at a screen again I am going to order one and propose.”
Ilya is certain his insides have turned to mush. “You will?”
“Would you say yes?”
In what world would he not? Ilya wants to wrap himself around Shane and never let go of him. Crawling beneath his skin wouldn’t be enough, some days he thinks he wants their souls to merge into one being and maybe then he would be satisfied.
“I will say yes when you ask me,” Ilya confirms.
“Good,” Shane looks down at him sweetly. “Ilya Rozanov, will you marry me?”
He’s being silly, a smile playing at his lips, but new tears bead at Ilya’s lashline as he nods. “Yes. I will marry you, Shane Hollander.”
“Yay,” Shane giggles.
Ilya smiles wetly at him, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh leaving him. “Sleep, Shane.”
“Okay, okay.” He lets his eyes slip closed again.
A beat passes, and then.
“Ilya Hollander.”
“Shane,” Ilya chuckles.
“Shane Rozanov.”
“Enough,” Ilya closes his own eyes. He’s exhausted in a way he does not ever remember being before in his life. The weight of the day is lifted though when Shane’s fingers go back to twirling his hair, holding him close while he tries on their last names. “You have been through a lot today, you are medicated. We will talk more about this in the morning, okay?”
“Okay,” Shane echoes in Ilya’s accent. “Goodnight.”
________
Ilya slips from the bed after an hour, and sleeps in the chair instead, too afraid to hurt Shane. He doesn’t miss the look of betrayal though when a nurse comes in to check in and Shane finds he left the bed. It took a lot of convincing to get him to go back to sleep for a bit more.
Soon enough though, the morning sun creeps up over the horizon, and another nurse comes with more pain medication and breakfast.
Ilya stares at Shane, trying to gauge his reaction to the nurse seeing them together, but Shane doesn’t panic. He doesn’t send Ilya worried glances or try to scramble and make up a story about why Ilya is here.
Was he serious about telling more people? Telling everyone?
“You should get breakfast too,” Shane encourages.
Ilya nods. He should. But right now, he just wants to watch Shane for a bit.
“Jackie could bring you something I bet. If you don’t want anyone to see. Or mom. You could text them.”
“Jackie is here?” Ilya asks, then feels a bit dumb. Of course Jackie is here, because Pike was also on that plane. “Is Pike okay?”
He is selfish. Ilya didn’t think twice about anyone else involved in this beyond Shane. His heart aches for Jackie and the kids (and Pike too, he supposes). Are the kids here? Where are they staying? Do they need anything? Ilya may not love Shane’s best friend, but he does love his wife and kids.
“I don’t know,” Shane shrugs, opening the straw to the cup of water that was brought to him. “I haven’t seen him. He seemed okay yesterday, when we got off the plane. I was gonna ask Mom to ask.”
“I could ask,” Ilya offers, pulling his phone from his pocket only to find it dead. Shit.
“Oh no,” Shane frowns, watching. “I don’t know where mine is. Mom probably has it.”
“Is okay, we will ask when they come to visit,” Ilya reaches over, opening Shane’s silverware for him and his muffin that sits on the tray.
“You’re gonna be a good dad one day,” Shane says casually.
Ilya’s heart aches in his chest while he sticks the straw in Shane’s water, leaning back to let him eat.
Shane plays with the paper wrapper that the straw came in, making a little loop out of it. Then he slides it on his own ring finger with a dopey grin.
Ilya’s face splits into a wide grin. He scoots his chair up to Shane’s bedside and kisses his knuckles with the paper still wrapped around it, though it’s on the wrong hand. Ilya won’t be the one to correct him though, especially not when Shane starts trying to work the paper ring onto Ilya’s fingers instead.
He helps him out, guiding it over his knuckles. The paper is warm from Shane’s skin, thin and delicate but the intent is there all the same.
“My husband,” Shane states.
“Yours,” Ilya promises. “Always yours.”
A knock at the door makes them both jump, interrupting the tender moment.
Ilya starts to push away from Shane but Shane holds onto his hand firmly, not letting him get far.
“Hey bud,” David’s warm voice fills the air. “How are you feeling?”
“Ilya?”
Ilya flinches, hackles suddenly raised. He keeps close to Shane as his parents step through the door. Their confusion is evident on their faces, and Ilya keeps his expressions off of his face to hide the fresh panic deep inside. He didn’t forget that Shane’s parents did not want him here. It has been at the back of his mind since that phone call when it had been assumed that Ilya would go home and wait for more information. Now though, he doesn’t know what to do with himself in their presence.
There is an expression for this feeling, he thinks. Having the rug pulled out from beneath you. He thought everything with David and Yuna was fine, great even. He had started to think that they loved him like a son, and now it feels like the rug has been ripped out from beneath him, and he’s about to fall flat on his face.
“What are you doing here?” Yuna glances at the door, eyeing the hallway. She shuts the door quickly behind herself, calculating eyes darting between Ilya and Shane. She looks put together as she always does, not a hair out of place, clothes neat and styled. It makes Ilya feel out of place, with his slept in athletic wear clothes and wild hair. He hadn’t had time to step away and look in a mirror, but he can only imagine what a mess he looks like right now.
“I needed to be here,” Ilya answers, surprised at how steady his voice sounds. Without a doubt, now he knows that he needed to be here. He needed to be here for Shane, and to be able to know him and see that he is okay. He did not need to go back to that hotel room by himself. He doesn’t want to think about what he would have done all alone after that.
“Did you fly from Tampa?” David asks, a look of concern etched into the lines and creases of his face.
Ilya nods, and squares his jaw. “I know you did not want me to come but I could not stay there.“
“Who said they didn’t want you to come?” Yuna asks.
Ilya swallows against the lump in his throat as his confusion grows. He tries to recall the conversation on the phone, but he was too panicked at the time to remember what was said exactly.
He opens his mouth, but he isn’t sure what to say so he shuts it again.
“Ilya is going to marry me,” Shane says smugly to them, fingers still on the paper ring. The pain medication seems to have kicked in again. “He said yes.”
Yuna looks between her son and Ilya, back and forth as she processes what is happening. She pointedly ignores Shane’s marriage comment, and instead focuses in on Ilya. “Why did you think we didn’t want you here?”
Ilya struggles to think back, and eventually says, “When you called, it did not seem like I was invited. You and David were flying out and I needed to wait in hotel room for news. I could not do that,” Ilya shakes his head at the thought, the ice cold fear he had felt yesterday still lingering in his blood.
“Oh, Ilya,” She coos softly, her tone so very different than what he had been expecting. He doesn’t have much time to stand as she crosses the room, coming to a stop just before him.
Yuna pulls him against her in a tight hug. Despite how much bigger he is, she has a way of making him feel small.
“It’s not that we didn’t want you to come,” Yuna promises with a squeeze. “We thought you would be afraid to be seen.”
Oh.
“We’re glad to see you,” David’s voice is suddenly closer, and Ilya opens his eyes just long enough to see him rub a warm hand across Ilya’s shoulders. “We were worried when you didn’t answer our calls yesterday. We were about to send out a search party for you.”
Oh.
He got it all wrong then?
Shane is not mad at him and his parents did not reject him. Shane loves him, and his parents love him too. No one hates him for how he reacted or for being here.
Ilya thinks he has cried enough these past twenty four hours for a lifetime. Tears fill his eyes, and he clings tightly to Yuna.
“We love you, son. We want you here,” David assures with a kindness Ilya never knew with his own father.
“My husband,” Shane adds with his pain medicated sing-song voice.
Yuna lets go of him with one last squeeze to his hand where the paper ring is still wrapped around his finger. Noticing the crinkle, she frowns and pulls his hand up to investigate.
Despite himself and any previous arguments he may have against blushing, Ilya feels his cheeks heat up as she examines the poorly made paper ring. “Marriage, huh?”
“Yeah,” Shane says dreamily. “I’m gonna buy a ring as soon as I’m out of here.”
“Wouldn’t you need two rings then?” his mom asks.
Shane frowns, and then his face brightens so enthusiastically Ilya wishes he could take a picture. “He said yes, I do need to buy two rings.”
“Did you think I would not say yes?” Ilya asks, baffled at the mere thought of saying no to Shane at all, much less to marriage.
“I didn’t want to assume,” Shane grins at him.
“We have been together for years, I think you can assume some things,” Ilya rolls his eyes at him.
“I’m so happy for you boys,” Yuna takes in a sharp breath. “This is so exciting, my Shane getting married,” she looks over at her husband who shares the same awe at the idea.
“This is big news,” he agrees, unable to fight the smile on his face.
“What is the plan? Exchange rings and be officially married after retirement?” She asks, looking more at Ilya than Shane.
“No, this summer,” Shane announces anyways.
“This summer?”
This summer?
“Yeah. I don’t want to wait. Besides, Ilya’s team knows.”
“Your team knows?” Yuna turns to him, all of her former giddiness gone. “I knew the one player who answered the phone had found out, but the whole team?”
Ilya shrinks under her eyes, wanting to reach for Shane’s hand and retreat behind him to hide. He doesn’t, no matter how much he wants to. Instead he stands tall and nods. “I was in locker room when I found out about Shane. I did not take it well.”
Something in her gaze softens at that. “Understandable, I suppose. But- we need to get on top of this. Have you had any contact with your team since you left? Did you let Farah know?”
Fuck. He has not done any of that. He had been so focused on Shane and himself he had not even thought about it.
“My phone is dead,” Ilya pulls it from his pocket again.
Thankfully, David steps in. “Son, you look terrible. When was the last time you ate?”
Ilya thinks about it, but the last thing he can come up with is his snack yesterday before the game, to hold him over until dinner, which he never got.
Shane looks up from his tray of food in front of him and over at Ilya. Guilt flashes across his features, and Ilya quickly reaches over and smoothes his thumb down the side of his face. “Is okay,” he promises. “I could not have eaten yesterday. I was too worried about you.”
“You should eat,” Shane pleads, pushing his face shamelessly into Ilya’s palm.
“And shower, and probably sleep,” David adds. “How about I take you back to our hotel? Yuna will stay with Shane and we can get breakfast on the way. I have a charger you can use too.”
Ilya glances at Shane first and then Yuna to decide if that would be okay. When he finds no looks of objection, he sighs, and nods. As much as he wants to stay close to Shane, he does need to take care of things.
“We can come back as soon as you’re okay,” David assures.
“Okay,” Ilya nods. He turns his attention back to his husband, the thought turning him into a pile of mush once more. “I love you,” he kisses his forehead.
“Love you,” Shane answers. “Go tell everyone we got married for me.”
“I will, moy lyubimiy, I will.”
As they leave the hospital, even though they make the choice to sneak out through back stairwells, Ilya cannot recall the last time his chest felt this light. For the first time in a long time, it feels like things might be alright.