Chapter Text
We didn't even kiss.
Shane pressed the backspace button until the text was cleared.
Shane tried to open his eyes.
White. All he can see is white.
He blinked, trying to push his head up so he can see properly.
A sharp, grating noise pierced his ears; a familiar and steady beep, beep, beep.
Shane had been in hospital enough to recognise that sound. It felt familiar, here. The scratchy material of a hospital gown, the ache of his bones, the foggy, drifting feeling that told him that he was on some pretty good drugs.
He blinked again, his vision finally clearing a little.
Yep, definitely in hospital. He tried to sit up but immediately his arms gave out.
Fuck, that hurt.
"No, no, don't try to move, sweetie." The familiar tone of his mother's voice was like a balm.
"Mom?" He tried to say. His voice cracked. He coughed, trying to clear his throat but it was too dry. He tried to speak again, to ask for water, but before he could, there was a glass being raised to his lips.
A man spoke next. "Slowly. Slowly."
Shane choked.
He knew that voice.
He'd know that voice anywhere.
He coughed, spluttering, his windpipe on fire.
"Shane-"
"Fuck." He heard Rozanov say. "It's okay, breathe -" Then he said something in Russian.
He blinked, pushing himself up, ignoring the shooting pain that wracked through his body. Rozanov's face swam into view.
What the fuck was Rozanov doing here?
His expression was unreadable to Shane; it wasn't one that he'd seen on Rozanov's face before.
Then Rozanov lifted and hand up to gently stroke at Shane's cheek. Shane froze. "Shane-"
Shane's head reared back, trying to get away as quickly as possible.
This wasn't right. Rozanov was never, ever like this with him. Caring wasn't in their repertoire. They fucked, end of. Rozanov had made that perfectly clear.
And calling him Shane? Not to mention his mother was standing right there.
"What-" Shane croaked out. "What are you doing here?"
"How are you feeling?" Rozanov asked, ignoring his question.
Well, two could play this game. Shane ignored him in turn. Thankfully, his throat had cleared and his voice came out stronger this time. "What are you doing here?"
Rozanov had the audacity to look confused.
"What?"
Shane's mom moved closer to the other side of his bed.
"How are you feeling, honey?"
"My head - it hurts. My arm, too." Shane said. "What happened?"
He watched as she pursed her lips together and blinked tears away. She looked emotional, as she always did when he got seriously hurt. "You had a fall, on the ice. It was bad."
Shit.
He racked his brain trying to remember the accident, but he found he couldn't even imagine the game that had preceded it. That, combined with the pounding in his head, was not a good sign.
Then, he heard a sniffling sound. He turned to Rozanov, alarmed. Honestly, Shane hadn't thought the Russian would be capable of crying. He had always seemed so unshakeable, like nothing ever got to him.
"Was it against Boston?" Shane asked. It was the only reason he could think of to explain why Rozanov would be at his bedside. Maybe it had been Rozanov that had wiped him out and that's why he was here. Still, it was weird. Shane knew there was something between them - a weird pull that kept them bouncing back to each other like magnets - but their history consisted of nothing more than some texts and a couple of fucks when they were in each other's cities. Nothing more.
Even weirder; when Rozanov frowned, Shane suddenly noticed that there were a fair few more lines lining his face than Shane had ever seen. He looked - older.
"What do you mean, sweetheart? Don't you remember? We were playing against Montreal."
Distantly Shane heard the beeping on the monitor quicken up. He glanced at his mom, searching for a sign that she'd heard Ilya fucking Rozanov call him sweetheart of all things.
But, no, her expression was only showing concern for him. There was nothing on her face to say that she'd just heard his arch-rival call him 'sweetheart'.
"No, I-"
Wait. Playing against Montreal?
The thumping in his head grew more intense as he tried to force the memories to return.
His mother stared at him, wide eyed and more than a little panicked. "Shane, honey, what do you remember?"
He searched his mind for a memory of this game, of the injury - but nothing came to him. The pain worsened, and he groaned, clutching his head. Fuck, that hurt.
"I don't know-"
"Shane, is okay. Don't hurt yourself more, please." Rozanov said.
Then he did something even weirder. He moved his hand towards Shane's, trying to grasp hold of it.
Shane swatted him away violently, aghast. What the fuck was he playing at?
"Get the fuck off of me, Rozanov."
Both Rozanov and his mother gaped at him, as if he was the one who'd done something insane.
"Shane-" Rozanov tried again, but Shane wasn't having it.
He was beginning to panic. It was too much; the too-bright blue lights, his mother's panic, the constant beeping of the monitor, the big gaping whole in his memory, the godawful scratchy feeling of the cheap fabric of the hospital gown - it was all making him lose his fucking mind because it was making him itch and too hot and - and worst of all, Ilya fucking Rozanov was trying to hold his hand and call him sweetheart in front of his mom.
It was all just too much.
His heart was racing now. "Are you fucking deaf? I said don't touch me."
What the fuck was Rozanov playing at, acting as if he gave a fuck about Shane? Shane knew better than to believe that. Rozanov couldn't even be bothered to respond to one measly text, and now he was calling him 'sweetheart' and trying to feed him water and hold his hand. And in front of his mom? Was Rozanov fucking crazy?
It was ironic that they were both looking at him like he was the crazy one.
"Er - I," Rozanov stumbled over his words, looking hurt and uncertain. His accent didn't sound as thick, even with the emotion choking his voice. But it was freaking Shane out seeing him like this - he'd only ever seen Rozanov looking secure in himself. "Shane. What's wrong?"
Okay, maybe Shane just had to say he was fine and Rozanov would go - whatever had happened, whether it was Rozanov's fault or someone else's, he would say he was fine, and Rozanov would be satisfied that his duty as captain had been completed.
“Nothing. I’m fine, Rozanov, so you can go. You’ve seen me, I lived. You can go and tell everyone that you visited and apologised and we’ll say no more about it. Okay?”
Unfortunately, Shane's assumptions had proved incorrect because his reassurances only served to make Rozanov go pale faced. There was a sudden, visceral terror in his eyes that Shane could not comprehend.
”Shane-“
”Hollander.” Shane corrected.
Rozanov’s head reared back in shock. “Hollander?”
“I’m going to get the doctor.” Yuna said suddenly, leaving the room before Shane could beg her not to leave him alone with Rozanov when he was acting so unhinged.
He eyed Rozanov suspiciously, trying to figure out Rozanov's game.
”Shane, baby, what’s the last thing you remember?”
Oh, that was the last fucking straw.
“Baby? Are you fucking insane?" He let out a scoff when Rozanov didn't respond, simply staring at him with wide, uncertain eyes. "Do you want everyone to know?" Shane hissed at him furiously. "Besides, when have I ever been your fucking baby?”
Rozanov reached out again and Shane shoved him. Hard. Which he immediately regretted as a white-hot shooting pain bolted through his torso, ripping the air from his lungs. He let out a feeble yelp.
Rozanov suddenly looked frantic with worry. “Shane, please-“
"Just stop! Whatever the fuck this is, just stop it and leave me alone." Shane said. He was sick and tired of whatever this was. He pursed his lips together and muttered, half under his breath. "It’s not hard for you, usually.”
Rozanov turned his face away but Shane caught a flash of his hurt, crumpled up expression.
But before Shane could think anymore on that, the door opened and both the doctor and his mom slipped inside the room.
The doctor smiled, clearly hoping to be reassuring. “Hi, Shane, how are you feeling?”
Shane wanted to say ‘shit’, and tell everyone to fuck off, because he was in pain and he was too hot to think properly and the blankets felt fucking awful on his skin and Rozanov was calling him baby and sweetheart and Shane as if he’d done it a thousand times before, as if he hadn’t ignored Shane’s texts for months after telling him in Sochi that they were nothing and that Shane was boring. As if Rozanov hadn’t practically kicked him out the Vegas hotel room without even a kiss.
But Shane didn’t say any of that because, unlike Rozanov, he hadn't been raised to be a complete asshole to people who didn't deserve it. Besides, he was Canadian. It wasn't in his DNA to tell innocent doctors to fuck off, no matter how much he wanted everyone to just go away and let him sleep until everything made sense again.
“Okay. Head hurts. Shoulder’s fucked.”
The doctor nodded. “You had a nasty accident, Shane.”
Shane watched cautiously as the doctor moved around to his bedside, gently pushing past Rozanov so he could examine Shane. He began asking questions about what hurt and asking Shane to wiggle his fingers and toes and flashing a light in Shane's eyes to check his pupils.
At the bright light flashing in his eyes, he flinched. He'd always been sensitive to bright lights when he was overwhelmed and he was one second away from a full meltdown if that doctor didn't get that fucking light out his eyes right now.
Then, Shane felt a light, soft squeeze of a hand on his. A calloused thumb stroked the back of his hand soothingly. Immediately he felt himself calm slightly, the touch grounding him. A second later it was gone. Rozanov had yanked his hand away, looking at Shane warily, as if recalling what had happened the last two times he’s tried to touch Shane.
Good, Shane thought viciously, pretending he wasn't itching to reach out and pull Rozanov's hand right back into his own.
"What do you remember, Shane?" The doctor asked.
Shane shook his head uncertainly. It was too vague to even know where to begin answering that question.
"Do you remember the game?" Rozanov asked. "It was Ottawa against Montreal."
Shane tried to think, but nothing came to him. It was strange - Ottawa barely ever played against Montreal because they were usually kicked out of the running early. And why would Rozanov be here if it wasn't against Boston?
He felt his brows furrow as he tried to unthread the complex, tangled web of information he was being given.
Eventually, he simply shook his head. Rozanov pursed his lips together and blinked furiously, as if trying to hold off tears.
"What's the date, Shane? Do you remember that?"
No, he didn't. Shane winced. Thinking was too hard right now.
"Is okay. Take your time." Rozanov said.
He tried to remember what he had been doing before all this. Had there been a game? He didn't remember one.
In fact, the last thing he remembered was... Vegas.
Why had he been in Vegas again? His brain was foggy. It felt like he was swimming through thick mud trying to get the answers.
He glanced at Rozanov.
A memory came back to him. Them on stage. The flash of the bright lights. Rozanov taking selfies of them. The bathroom. His forehead on Rozanov's shoulder. The smell of cigarettes and Rozanov's aftershave. Genetic. The penthouse.
See you next season.
We didn't even kiss.
"4th June, - um, 2014?" He glanced at the doctor, trying to read on his face whether that was close enough.
He heard a gasp. His mother's hands flew to her face as her face crumpled.
Shane looked at her, alarmed. "Mom-" He tried to reach out to hold her hand, give her some comfort, but the pain was too much and he was beginning to panic. "That's not right, is it?"
The doctor shook his head. "No, Shane. It's not."
"When?"
"Calm down, Shane. Please. It's okay." The doctor's voice was gentle and soothing but it couldn't do anything to prevent the sheer panic whirling in Shane's chest.
"When?"
"Mr Hollander, please try to remain calm."
Shane tried to slow his breathing to satisfy the doctor. "When?"
"2024."
Oh, God.
Ten years.
His breath quickened and almost instantly his chest felt constricted and sore, as if he'd just ran a marathon. Ten years. God, he couldn't remember ten years of memories. He was fucking thirty three.
He could feel himself hurtling towards a panic attack. He'd only ever had a few, but he knew the symptoms by now. He was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that Rozanov was still in the room.
"Get him out of here!" He couldn't let Rozanov see him like this. "Why the fuck is he in even in here?"
His mother tried to placate him. "Shane, baby, calm down."
"No, is okay. I should go." Rozanov said the words quickly, and almost sprinted out of the room, the door banging loudly behind him.
"I don't understand, how was he allowed in here in the first place? Don't hospitals have rules about family only, I mean, fuck-"
Yuna studied him. "Shane. You should know, Ilya-"
"Ilya?" He repeated incredulously. "Ilya?"
She pursed her lips. "I think we should discuss this later, honey. Just lay back down, please."
"No, no - what were you going to say?" He had to know what on earth had happened in the last decade for his mom to call Rozanov, Ilya.
Fuck.
Did she know?
His chest was tight with sick anxiety as he waited for her to respond. He searched her face, trying to read any hint, but as usual he couldn't.
When she spoke, it was soft and hesitant. "He's part of our family now, Shane."
Shane reared back. "What?"
"You two - he's here because he's family. Your family-"
Shane's heart sank. She knew. She knew.
"Rozanov is not my family-"
She bit her lip.
"What?" He knew he was being pushy but he didn't care. "What?"
"Shane, he's your husband."
Husband.
No, no - this couldn’t be true.
No.
Whatever this was with Rozanov it was just a fucked up, dirty habit. A phase he would grow out of one day - once he finally found the right woman.
It was never meant to last.
"No. No. I'm not - I'm not gay." Shane fumbled the words. "I'm not gay -"
Yuna's lips trembled as fresh tears tracked down her face. "Oh, honey, it's okay-"
"I'm not!"
Yuna turned to the doctor, who was standing there looking extremely uncomfortable. "Can we please have a moment?"
The doctor nodded and left the room. "I'll come back to check on Shane's progress later."
"Thank you." Yuna nodded.
Then she turned her attention back to Shane. "Shane, honey. I know. I know you two have been seeing each other since rookie season, it's okay-"
Shane felt faint. This was his worst nightmare, his mother knowing about this - whatever this was.
She held his hand. "Shane, it's okay. I promise, baby. I know you're gay because you told me, and it's okay. I love you so much, baby. Nothing will ever change that."
Shane felt the tears coming now, hot and salty over his lips. Fuck. A sob burst out of him. It was all too much. His head was still pounding and he felt as if he would explode if he had to deal with one more thing. Only a second ago he'd been begging for the truth. Now, he just wanted to bury his head in the sand. He didn't want to learn anything more about his future.
"I'm tired." Shane mumbled. He didn't want to deal with this anymore.
"Okay. Please just rest, sweetie." His mom stroked the skin under his eye, across his freckles. He felt warm at the familiar touch. "It's okay. I'll be right here, and your dad is on his way. Just rest. We'll talk more later okay?"
Shane closed his eyes and let himself drift.