Chapter Text
Ilya was lying.
He'd been playing it off a monstrous hangover. The squinting and the way he couldn't quite look at food, the unsteadiness, the irritability. It was day two, yeah, but he had perfected his reputation: his teammates were just laughing, clapping him on the shoulder, asking what the fuck he'd done to get got so good. Called a legend. Even if today was a game day. He could play, he would play, it would be fine as long as he didn't puke on the ice. Admittedly, halfway through practice yesterday, he'd vomited in one of the trash cans just over the boards, but even that had only earned him a short quip from their coach, because he'd gotten back on the ice and kept going, even though his head was spinning. He'd played it off. He'd been so good.
Except that none of it was true.
He wasn't fine, he shouldn't have been playing, he hadn't been drinking.
Alexei had been here.
Alexei had come here, to America, to Boston, to Ilya's fucking apartment. He had no idea how Alexei had found out where he lived, but he had, and he'd showed up. Alexei had asked for money and Ilya had told him to fuck off and threatened to call the cops on him. Alexei had laughed and grabbed Ilya's shirt and yanked him close, asked if he thought that would work. If American police would save little Ilya. And for a second, Ilya had been unsure.
That second was Alexei's chance.
Alexei had snarled closer, trying to bait Ilya, asked why he couldn't spare money for his family when he was sure Ilya was spending it on his girls, on Sveta–Ilya had shoved him back, snapped don't fucking talk about her, but then Alexei had said, or is it boys now? Come to America and turn into the little faggot I always thought you were–
And in that moment, Ilya had been so dumbstruck by the terror that Alexei wasn't just using the term as the slur it was, rattled by the knowledge that Alexei could get to him in America now too, sick at the thought of Alexei knowing about him, knowing, by proxy, about Shane, that Ilya hadn't come up with a response.
And that was response enough.
“Jesus fuck,” Alexei had said, shoving Ilya away from him. “You really are, aren't you?”
And Ilya hated lying about this, far preferred simply not stating the full truth, and again he'd fumbled for an answer. He knew he should have just lied, should have flung back something all braggadocio, all flare, all things Alexei was jealous of, throw him off. But Ilya had dropped the ball. Missed the puck drop. For once in his fucking life, his reflexes had been too slow.
Which was when Alexei had grabbed Ilya's shirt again. This time he had hauled Ilya close and then slammed his head into the wall. Lights burst in front of Ilya's eyes, then darkness, then he was on the floor, Alexei's foot in his ribs. Ilya had been in so many fights on the ice he'd lost count and he'd been in bar fights too, he'd fought with Alexei before for fuck's sake.
But never like this. Alexei. The only family he had. Alexei, who'd blindsided him. The same Alexei who, once upon a time, long long ago, had taken Ilya skating for the very first time. The same Alexei who had laughed when Ilya presented him with a garden snake at their grandmother's house, with all the seriousness of a tsar bestowing land. Alexei, who was, quite probably, currently snapping several of Ilya's ribs.
But he'd stopped. Just short of permanent damage, maybe, he had stopped, and crouched, and gripped a handful of Ilya's hair, wrenched his head back. “Pathetic,” Alexei had hissed. “And if Father had known, he would have killed you the minute you were born.”
He let go of Ilya. And he left.
Ilya had curled around his broken ribs and stayed on the floor for a long time.
Eventually, though, he had to get up. He had to do what he always did. Assess the damage. Figure out how to keep moving. He had a game in two days. He had practice tomorrow.
He could have dropped out of the game. Gone to the team doctor. Said he'd been mugged. Random crime. The injuries probably fit. Except then why hadn't he reported it, and he was 6' 3" and scary and he looked like a god awful target for mugging and everyone in this goddamn city knew him and no one would believe him, they would all think he was in a fight and had lost and just didn't want to admit it–
Which. To be fair. Was exactly what had happened. But.
He would get in trouble. They would want him to report this.
Ilya had spit blood onto his floor. The world had swirled in front of him and for a second he thought he would be sick, but he'd pulled it together. He felt around in his mouth with his tongue. There. His canine tooth had cut his lip. It would maybe be fat in the morning, he'd have to ice it before practice, hope it wasn't too noticeable. But it was the cause of the blood. He hadn't coughed it up. He wasn't bleeding internally. Probably. He tried to get to his knees, but spikes of pain drove into his side and his vision went sparkly and then gray and he choked on a low moan, sliding back to the floor.
He couldn't play like this. There was no fucking way.
Except that he was Ilya Rozanov, and he had played through anything he could possibly hide. He could only be an asset to his team. If he was a liability, he was gone. If he was unreliable, he was gone. And not playing hockey meant no visa. Meant back to Russia.
Which was no longer an option.
Ilya swallowed, hard, and tried to get to his knees again. He went slower this time, incremental, tiny, and eventually, one arm wrapped around his ribs, he managed to get all the way to his feet. His head swam and he had to brace his hand against the wall, but he was on his feet.
Holy fucking god. Holy god his ribs hurt. And his head was throbbing. His vision kept blurring, going out of focus, doubling. There was no way he didn't have a concussion. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he fought to stay in control. If he threw up, he would die. If not from his ribs shattering and piercing his insides, then from pure fucking pain.
He breathed, slowly. Every breath was fire and knives.
But he was still standing.
Barely. He was sinking. Oh, Jesus, he was sinking back to his knees. He kept his arm around his ribs and ended up lying on the floor again. This time, at least, he got onto his back. And he mumbled a hoarse "Fuck it" as it was decided he would just sleep there. He could deal with this in the morning.
So he'd let the dizziness in his head pull him under.
When he had woken up to his phone alarm, still on the floor, it had been to ungodly pain. But Ilya had managed to get to his feet, and stay standing. He'd managed to get to the bathroom and evaluate: there was no visible bruising on the side of his face from hitting the wall, it had been more just over his ear, where hair covered it. The place throbbed, and every throb ticked Ilya's vision a little bit more sideways, but it was not visible. His ribs were a fucking disaster, red and purple, and Ilya had no idea how anyone wouldn't think they were boot toes. He needed a lie, but he couldn't come up with one. Whatever. He would wait the others out and then shower alone. And he would do it again, again, until he came up with a story.
He gritted his teeth and pressed his fingers to his ribs. The pain made him lightheaded, and he could feel tears making hot paths down his face, but he kept going. No. Not snapped. Fractured, yes, but he as long as he didn't get hit again, he could play.
Not what the team doctor would say, but the team doctor didn't have to know.
Ilya had gotten ready and he’d asked Williams to pick him up along the way, he passed right by anyway, please, he was hungover and didn’t want to drive. Williams said sure, because he was a nice guy. So he’d gone to practice and he was hungover, he was just hungover. At one point he got checked into the boards by Johnson, a little too rough as punishment for the hangover, roughhousing, but Ilya had sworn so badly the others left him alone the rest of practice. They’d done sprints, and he’d bailed halfway through, skating as fast as he could to the boards to vomit into the garbage by the tunnel. It had felt like brands pressed into his side. He’d managed to go back to practice, though it took everything in him not to crumple down to the ice.
After practice, he'd been chewed out by the coach, which was a convenient way to let everyone else shower before him. Then he went home, and crawled immediately into bed, and knocked out until his alarm went off again. Disgusting protein shake breakfast, but he was slightly less dizzy. His ribs were still awful. But he had a game. He had a game against Montreal.
He couldn't do this with Shane. He couldn't. He felt like shit and if Shane saw he would ask what happened, and Ilya would shatter. But the game was in Boston. Shane knew where Ilya lived. He couldn't just not send Shane his room number and shut down the evening.
He'd made it through the morning practice. Barely. His head was aching, and the rink was so fucking bright that his vision kept blurring, his focus–both physical and mental–shot to hell. His ribs hurt like fuck. He was trying not to be obvious about it, but he was hyperaware of everyone around him, trying to skate even faster than usual, trying not to let anyone touch him. Except that going faster made him breathe faster, made the fire in his ribs flare more, not to mention the blur in his vision–
He had at least made it till after practice before vomiting. He'd locked himself in a bathroom stall and dry-heaved. One of the others–one of the newer guys, Ilya couldn't quite pick out his voice through the ringing in his ears–had made some comment about how it must have been some epic night for Ilya, for him to be like this still, and someone else had mumbled something about Rozanov being an exception, that he would've been screamed at if he showed up like that. Ilya just stayed in the stall until they left, arms wrapped around his ribs. It hurt. It hurt so fucking bad. His breath came in harsh pants, and his ribs were on fire, and–
And he still had a fucking game.
—---
The game was a shitshow.
—---
Ilya hadn’t been yelled at like that by a coach since he was in Russia. He’d kind of tuned out, focusing all his energy on not passing out and looking like he was listening. Hollander had checked him into the boards and Ilya had seen stars, but not the kind he normally saw around Shane. He’d lost his breath. He’d nearly lost consciousness. Worse, he’d lost possession.
He wasn’t sure how he got home, but he did. And that was as far as he got. He shut the door behind him, and then he dropped his bag, and then his legs went out from under him. He caught himself against the wall and slid down, at least easing his fall from the dead faint he was contemplating instead.
He had a game in another three days. This had been awful. He truly was not sure he could pull it off again. Not without being benched indefinitely for being the worst player of all time. And not without actually blacking out in the middle of the rink and quite possibly bleeding to death internally.
Ilya swallowed, hard, and tipped his head back. He took a slow breath. He’d done this game. He’d managed. And if he–god, maybe he could call the team doctor, say he had a stomach bug, skip the next couple practices. Blame that for his poor showing today.
Would that work? He was so fucking lightheaded.
But he’d done this game. He could–he could do another. If he could skip the next couple practices, just stay here, rest, heal. He just had to… he just. He had to.
There was a knock on the door.
Ilya jerked awake. He was on the floor. Why the fuck was he on the floor?
Another knock. And then his phone started buzzing.
Ilya fought to drag his eyes open. He was in the hallway. He’d fallen asleep. He was slumped in his front hallway, approximately three feet from the door.
He found his phone. He had no idea who was calling, the screen too fucking bright and his eyes refusing to focus. Shit. If it was Coach LeClaire–
He slid his thumb across the screen. “What?” he rasped.
“Let me in, you asshole.”
Not LeClaire. Shane Hollander.
“Shto?”
“Let me in. I’m just outside, waiting in the fucking open–”
“Did you notice how I didn’t answer your texts?”
“Yeah, but I also noticed how shit you played. My mom thinks you had a stroke, you were so bad. What is going on with you? And let me the fuck into your house.”
Ilya knew Shane. He knew his stubbornness. He knew Shane wasn’t going to leave without an answer.
“Just come in,” Ilya mumbled into the phone. “I don’t think I locked it.”
Shane barged in and nearly tripped over Ilya. “Jesus Christ,” he said, steadying himself. Ilya let his phone drop from his hand. “Rozanov, what the fuck are you doing?”
It maybe said something about Ilya, Ilya thought hazily, that Shane’s first thought was clearly this is just something Ilya does, I guess.
“Laying down,” Ilya said. He let his eyes slide closed. “I know you are mostly unfamiliar with the concept.”
“Have you been here since the game ended? It’s been–seriously, have you been on the floor for like, two hours?”
Ilya nodded.
Shane’s voice was suddenly a lot softer, and a lot closer. “Ilya,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Tell me truth,” Ilya mumbled. “Are you fucking dumb.”
“What the fuck happened? Was this–I didn’t check you that hard, did I miss someone else hitting you? What hurts?”
“Wasn’t the game,” Ilya breathed. “Was the other day.”
Ilya could feel Shane’s gaze basically vibrating on him. “What was the other day?”
“Alexei,” Ilya whispered, involuntary.
“What?”
Ilya could correct. Could say a lie. Any lie. Even the fucking stomach bug worked, if he could get his stupid fucking brain around it. He’d been sick for days. And he. He.
“Ilya. Hey. What happened? Can you look at me?”
“My brother,” Ilya said instead. He didn’t lie. “My brother was here. He happened.”
Shane was putting things together. “Ilya. Hey. Hey, I need you to open your eyes.”
There was mild panic in his voice now. And Ilya hated it. He didn’t want to worry Shane. He wanted to rile Shane up and he wanted to fuck Shane and he wanted to compete against Shane and he wanted to wake up with Shane, but he never wanted to worry him. So he dragged his eyes open, looked blurrily up at Shane.
“Jesus,” Shane mumbled. “Are you–do you have a concussion? How many fingers am I holding up?”
Ilya fought to focus. “Three.”
“No. No, Ilya, I’m holding up two.”
“Was hoping for three. You like three.”
Shane made a choking sound. Ilya smiled slightly.
“I’m bringing you to a hospital.”
“No.” Ilya fought to breathe, then clenched his jaw and tried to get up. He got about three inches off the ground and then his ribs were burning and he had to press his forehead to the floor again, dragging breath in and out. Sweat was prickling all over his body, but he was suddenly very, very cold. Possibly he’d been cold for a while. Possibly he’d been cold since Alexei.
Shane’s hands were on Ilya. He had one on Ilya’s arm, keeping him steady, another on the back of Ilya’s neck. “Let me,” Shane murmured. “Here. Come here.” He manhandled Ilya, but it was the gentlest manhandling Ilya had ever experienced. He ended up with his head on Shane’s shoulder, his hips between Shane’s legs. He’d been here before, but not like this. Not soft like this. Not careful like this. Shane’s arms were around Ilya’s shoulders. “Why am I not supposed to bring you to a hospital?”
“Can’t,” he said. “I can’t. Will be big problem.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter,” Ilya breathed.
Shane was quiet for a moment. “What hurts?”
Ilya pressed his forehead to Shane’s neck, took a shaky breath. Everything. Everything hurt. “I fucked up my ribs,” he said. “And my head hurts. Fuck, my head hurts.”
“Are you dizzy?” Shane ran a hand up and down Ilya’s arm. “You’re shivering. That’s a concussion thing, your body isn’t good at regulating temperature, I was cold a lot after mine. And that explains your playing today.”
“Yes, yes, I was not good.” Ilya wanted to fall asleep here. In Shane’s arms. He was desperately uncomfortable, and his whole fucking body hurt, but Shane was there.
“Everyone said you were hungover,” Shane said.
“Everyone? On the networks?”
“No, no, just the players.”
Ilya nodded slightly.
“Do you think you can stand? I’ll help you. I just–I want you off the floor. And I want to look at your ribs.”
Ilya swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“I’m gonna help you. Okay? If you can’t stand, I’m bringing you to the hospital.”
Ilya took a deep breath. Shane shifted, and then his hands were under Ilya’s arms. He lifted. Ilya fought to stay conscious. He nearly crumpled when he put weight on his bad side, but Shane steadied him, and Ilya managed to stay up.
Shane reached back and locked the front door, then he got Ilya into the living room. “Can you get to the bedroom?”
“Please don’t make me.” Ilya had wanted that to come out whiny or deadpan or anything other than the pale, whispered version that he got.
So Shane got Ilya onto the couch. Ilya had intended to slump into the cushions but at least stay upright; this did not happen. He ended up on his side, but Shane was pushing him gently, trying to rearrange him. “Legs up, come on, might as well–no, not on that side, come on, lay on your back, you need to be able to breathe properly or you’ll get pneumonia–”
Ilya knew this. He’d had broken ribs before. But it hurt. It hurt to move and everything was spinning again, swooping under him. Shane had grabbed one of the throw pillows Svetlana insisted on, had propped it under Ilya’s head, but Ilya wished he had a second one, to hold, to grip instead of the couch. He felt like he was tipping but he knew he wasn’t, knew he was still, he just–
“Alright,” Shane said, by his head. Ilya dragged his eyes open again. Shane had disappeared and reappeared again, this time bringing Ilya’s duvet from the bedroom. He draped it over Ilya, tucking it carefully around him so it wouldn’t fall off the first time Ilya shifted. He knew Ilya was a restless sleeper. Ilya wanted to cry. Shane knew him. Shane was crouched in front of him. “Alright. I’m going to get you some water, okay? You have acetaminophen around here somewhere, right? I’ll get you some of that, too.”
“In my bag,” Ilya rasped. “My gym bag. By the door.”
“Right. Of course.”
Shane vanished. Ilya let his eyes close.
“Okay,” Shane said, back instantly. He handed Ilya the pills, then the water. Ilya managed not to spill all over himself, managed to prop himself up on his elbow on his good side. He took a deep breath. Shane immediately shoved a bed pillow behind Ilya, helping him stay propped up a bit, almost sitting up. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit. But I am fine.”
Shane did not deign to answer that. “I’m staying here tonight.”
“You have a flight–”
“Not till morning. And I don’t care. If it was tonight, I’d lie and say I had some kind of emergency. I need to make sure you don’t die, and you’re not looking convincing right now.”
“You are being dramatic.”
“I’m not.”
Privately, Ilya agreed. The whole taking a nap and/or maybe blacking out in his front hall thing was not ideal.
“Why can’t I bring you to a hospital?”
Ilya put a hand to his ribs. He didn’t actually want pressure there, but at the same time, he sort of felt like he was at risk of actually falling apart if he didn’t. He tried to focus on Shane. “They will be mad. Mad I played like this. Mad I got like this.”
“You said it was Alexei. It’s not like you got too drunk and fought someone at a bar, it’s–”
“Yes,” Ilya said. He closed his eyes. “But they will want to know why I am not pressing charges. Why I did not file report. They…” He shook his head, only a tiny bit because it made the headache worse. “Can’t. I can’t. They will kick me off team.”
“They’re not going to kick you off the team because you got hurt, Ilya–”
“I can’t risk it,” he rasped. “Shane. Alexei knows. About me. I–I can't go back. I can't go back to Russia.”
He'd thought about it. But Alexei's comment about the American police had only driven it home: in Russia, Alexei was king. In Russia, Alexei was police, with their father's brutal legacy, and Ilya was a defector to America. In Russia, Ilya was dead, and no one would care.
Moscow. His mother's grave. Taking his future kids to places he'd loved. Hearing Russian, all day, every day, in every interaction. Seeing signs in Cyrillic, not having to translate every fucking word because he was far worse at reading English than he was speaking it. The little pastries and cakes and foods he could not get here in Boston. His homeland.
Gone.
“What do you mean, Alexei knows?”
Ilya fumbled to reassure Shane. “Not about you. Don’t worry. Not. Not about you. He doesn’t have… pictures, or anything, is… it's not like that. He… he’s thought it for a long time, about me. And I. I just. I didn’t. I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t–I should have lied. I should have–but I’m so tired of lying, I’m so fucking tired of lying, I–”
“Shh,” Shane whispered. He found Ilya’s hand, squeezed it between both of his. “Shh, it’s okay.”
Ilya shook his head again, just a little. “I can’t go home.” He’d wanted–he’d wanted to see his mother one more time. Tell her where he was going, why he wouldn’t be around anymore. He’d wanted to walk around Moscow one more time. He’d wanted to say goodbye.
“We’ll figure it out,” Shane said. He stroked a hand through Ilya’s hair. “We’ll figure it out. But I’m really worried about you.”
“I just need to sleep,” Ilya said. “I… I will be fine.”
“Your breathing sounds kind of bad.”
“Am fine.”
“Let me see your ribs.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“What?”
He’d said that in Russian. Ilya tried to focus, tried to pull himself together. How the fuck had he played a game? He understood that it was the fact that he’d played a game and gone to practice that was the problem, that he was worse now because he’d done that. But fuck. He was supposed to heal.
“Ilya.”
“You are not doctor,” Ilya said, in what he was pretty sure was English.
“Let me see anyway.”
That stubbornness. It would maybe kill Ilya one day, but that was okay.
Ilya found the hem of his shirt, and pulled up.
Shane sucked in a breath. “Jesus.”
He reached out, and Ilya flinched.
“Sorry,” Ilya whispered.
Shane shook his head. He barely brushed against Ilya’s skin, tracing the deepest parts of the bruising, the awful purple, the deep deep blue. It looked like Alexei had used Ilya’s ribs as a ladder. “Fuck, Ilya. And you fucking played like this? One bad hit and–” Shane’s head snapped up. “I checked you into the boards, I–was that on this side? Did I–fuck, I had to have hurt you–”
“Not your fault,” Ilya mumbled.
“Shit,” Shane said. “I’m sorry. Jesus. I’m sorry.” Then he stared at Ilya. “When is your next game?”
“Three days.”
“No. Ilya, no.”
“Have to,” Ilya mumbled. “Will be fine.”
“Just say it was from today. Say it was from when I checked you, tell them it’s–”
“Not your fault.” Ilya shook his head. “And makes no sense. They will see the bruises. They will know that’s not it.”
“You can’t play in another game,” Shane said. “I’m serious.”
“I–”
“I won’t fucking talk to you,” Shane said. “If you play another game injured, I swear, I won’t fucking talk to you. I’m not letting you play, knowing that I could have done something about it, you’ll get yourself killed. I’m halfway to having my dad call your coach and tell him anonymously that his star player is fucked up.”
He wasn’t sure Shane would stick to that threat. But he wasn’t sure Shane wouldn’t, either.
“I will tell my coach,” Ilya said. “Tomorrow. At practice. I will tell him.”
“You shouldn’t even go to practice to tell him, you–Jesus, Ilya, you’re planning on driving, aren’t you? When you can barely stand? Actually, how did you get home?”
Ilya shook his head a little. “Williams drove. Nice guy. Goes past my house anyway.”
“You shouldn’t go to practice tomorrow.”
Now Ilya was a little bit irritated, even through the fog. He had handled himself through years of injuries, alone. Now Shane was here and thought he knew better? He knew, somewhere, that this was Shane caring. That this was–that this was how it was supposed to go. But Shane wasn’t listening to him. There were real risks here. If this got out–if Ilya couldn’t go home, but the US found out his brother was Russian police that beat people up on American soil, what were the chances they didn’t use him as political fodder? Ilya was fine with being a hockey household name, but if his name was plastered in real headlines? If Ilya was shoved into the international stage on a political level rather than just a sports level–Shane didn’t want to be out now for his career. What happened when Ilya was notorious for all the things he couldn’t control, instead of just his image as a bad boy hockey player? What happened when Ilya wasn’t a sports rival and good press and an interesting narrative, but tied to corruption and Russian political maneuvers, what if he was sanctioned, what if he was used as a pawn not just in friendly competition but between international superpowers? This could go so badly. Ilya could be so, so trapped. His chest felt tight and empty and Ilya was pretty sure it wasn’t his ribs, but it was suddenly very hard to breathe. He sort of felt like he was going to be sick.
“I have to go,” Ilya said, fighting to keep his voice even, to not show how terrified he was. “If I am telling them I am injured, they are going to want to do scans. I will have to go anyway. Might as well go to practice to tell them.”
Shane was quiet, turning that over in his head. Ilya could feel him planning, evaluating, and it made him wish, again, for something to hold onto.
Ilya was shivering. Shane had told him he was, but he hadn’t processed it. Now, though, aside from the bone deep cold, he realized it hurt like fuck. Apparently every muscle in his body was involved, and shaking, and that included every muscle along his ribs. A particularly bad wave went over him and he pressed his fingertips to his ribs just to focus the pain.
“I can go find another blanket,” Shane said, and Ilya was grateful that he’d dropped the other topic. At least for now. “Or we can get you into your bed, that might be warmer. And more comfortable–”
“Fine,” Ilya said. But not because of the warmth or his nice mattress. Because Shane had said he was staying. And maybe Ilya could convince Shane to stay in the bed. “I can get to the bed. I’m fine.”
“Say that one more time and I swear to god–”
“What?” Ilya asked. “You’ll leave?”
There was silence. Ilya wondered, dizzily, if he’d pushed too far. Maybe he should have pushed harder. This was bad for both of them. Maybe this was his chance to end it. If not for his own sake, then for Shane’s. Because if this whole fucking thing got out, it could ruin both of them.
Ilya wondered, not for the first time, if he should just give up. Give in to the dark in his head. Burn it all down.
“I already told you, I’m not leaving tonight,” Shane finally said. “But if you would stop being an idiot, that would be great. Do you want help getting up?”
Ilya opened his eyes. Shane was right in front of him, crouched next to the couch again, dark eyes earnest but tight, worried. Ilya gave in. He had no fight left in him. All he fucking wanted was Shane, and Shane was right in front of him.
He reached a hand out.
Shane helped him up. Ilya was a big man, but Shane was nearly two hundred pounds of pure muscle, too, and he helped take as much of Ilya’s weight as he could. Still, by the time Ilya was crawling into the sheets, his vision was going sideways and sparkly again, and he had to take shaky, insanely painful breaths just to avoid blacking out. His breath sawed in, stuttered out.
Shane got into bed with him, carefully arranged himself around Ilya, pulled the sheets over both of them. Ilya shuddered against the cool fabric and Shane reached around, found Ilya’s hands, warmed them in his. “Have you eaten?”
Ilya shook his head.
“You must be starving.”
Ilya shook his head again. He didn’t want to throw up, like he had yesterday, like the day before that. It hurt so badly.
“Okay. You need something, though. I can make a–actually, I don’t know what you have here. Let me go check, and if there’s nothing here, I can order–”
“No,” Ilya whispered. “Stay. You’re warm. Warmer than blankets.”
“I’ll be right back,” Shane said. “I’m already pissed that you’re going to practice tomorrow, I’m not letting you starve to death, too.” He pulled himself away and got back out of bed, padding out to the kitchen. Ilya tried not to take it personally. Tried not to panic about the loss. Tried not to shatter. He didn’t want to do this anymore. Not the hiding, not the fear, not the pain, not any of it. He was so fucking tired.
“Jesus, you really meant it,” Shane said, as he climbed back into bed. “You weren’t shivering this bad when I left.” He wrapped an arm around Ilya and molded himself to Ilya’s back. “Here. Shh.” He ran a hand down Ilya’s arm, pressed a small kiss to the nape of Ilya’s neck, almost instinctive. He wrapped his arm around Ilya again, slid his other under Ilya’s pillow.
“What happened to food?” Ilya mumbled.
“I brought back some blueberries,” Shane said. “You had them in the fridge and I actually–I remembered how many I ate when I had my concussion. They’re easy on your stomach, and they’re high in–you don’t care. But if you feel nauseated, they shouldn’t make you sick. You’ll probably be able to keep them down.”
“You’re going to feed me berries.” He meant it as a question, as a tease, as a lilt, but it came out flat and Ilya didn’t want Shane to think it was a command, he–everything was going wrong, he–
“Pretty much,” Shane said. Then Shane propped himself up on one elbow a bit and reached over Ilya to his nightstand. Ilya watched through barely open eyes as Shane’s hand came back, and then hesitated in front of Ilya’s lips.
Ilya opened his mouth. The blueberry went in. Ilya got to kiss the tips of Shane’s gentle fingers.
“I’ll order some other food later,” Shane said. “Have it delivered. Google what else is good for a concussion. But for now, at least, we’ll see how you handle this.”
Ilya bit into the berry. It was a firm one, which was good, he was pretty sure if it was one of those disgusting squishy ones he would have vomited. At least right now. He swallowed.
“Another?” Shane asked quietly. Ilya nodded slightly.
So Shane fed Ilya blueberries, one at a time, and then wrapped his arms around Ilya again, and Ilya wasn’t pulled under by dizziness this time but by normal, utter, exhaustion.
—---
In the morning, Shane headed back to Montreal, though even concussed, Ilya could read the tension in him. Ilya waited for Williams to pick him up. He spent the car ride fighting to act normal.
Ilya did not, in fact, tell his coach. He just got on the ice, skated out through the blinding white. He did his assigned laps. He did not vomit. Shane would understand. Shane would do the same thing.
Shane would never have a brother who despised him. And Canada would never hate Shane Hollander.
He stopped at the face off circle, for a practice scrimmage. He was so woozy. A new word, from Shane. Woozy. He was more woozy than dizzy, he decided, as he pressed his stick against both knees, tried to keep his balance. Dizzy was for big swooping circles. Woozy was for… well, for this. As the ground slowly tipped and there was a rushing in his ears and then everything was going gray and nothing even hurt anymore, not even as his feet went out from under him and he did the slowest fall of all time as the ice tilted to meet him and it all
went
dark.
—---
Ilya woke to a beeping.
His head didn’t quite ache anymore, but he felt entirely… wrong. Woozy? Floaty? Every breath tugged at his ribs, but they didn’t quite hurt anymore either. Just… he tried to lift his hand, to touch his side, but something pulled at his elbow.
Ilya dragged his eyes open.
On his first try, he only got them to stay open for a moment. On his second, he could actually focus.
Oh. A hospital room.
Was he supposed to tell them he was awake?
He was in luck, because at that moment, a nurse walked in. “You’re awake,” he said, catching Ilya’s eyes. “Good. How are you feeling?”
“What happened?” he mumbled.
“You fainted at practice,” he said. “I’m going to go let your doctor know you’re awake, alright? And I’ll send in your coach, he’s outside.”
He disappeared. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. He was about to be fired. He was about to be sent back to Russia. He was about to be yelled at like he hadn’t been in years.
The doctor came first, a kind woman who talked Ilya through what she was doing before she did it, and then asked if he wanted his coach to be in the room with him. Ilya supposed it didn’t matter. He would find out anyway.
“Jesus, Rozanov,” LeClaire said when he came in. “You scared us all.”
“What happened?” Ilya asked again. He remembered getting to practice, remembered thinking about the word woozy. After that it was just bits and pieces, fragments, and he wasn’t sure he was remembering or just making things up to fit.
“You just went down,” LeClaire said. “Not even a warning, just dropped.”
Ilya swallowed. “Sorry.”
“And then we find out here that you have a concussion,” LeClaire said, voice a little bit–Ilya wasn’t sure. Tight? With concern for his star player or with anger, that Ilya had hidden it? “And have been playing with cracked ribs for days. So you want to tell me what happened?”
Ilya was so tired. And he hadn’t been able to come up with a good story anyway.
“My brother was in town,” Ilya said, not looking at LeClaire. “He–he came to my house. And I let him in. And he–he did not like what I said to him.”
More that he hadn’t liked what Ilya hadn’t said. What he hadn’t denied.
“Your brother did this? I didn’t even know you had a brother.”
“He doesn’t like me very much,” Ilya said. “I don’t talk about him very much.”
“No shit. But I mean, you need to be pressing charges–”
Ilya shook his head slightly.
“I know he’s your brother, and maybe that means something else in Russia, but here–”
“Would be scandal,” Ilya said. He fought to stay in control, to be convincing. “I don’t want that kind of… attention. You don’t want that kind of attention. My brother. Do not want to give them a reason to deny my visa.” LeClaire visibly turned this over in his head. The risk of losing Ilya to a denied visa. Ilya pushed further. “My brother is police,” he mumbled. “Police in Russia. Could get… very political. Very fast.”
“Alright,” LeClaire said after a moment. “No charges. But if it happens again–”
“It won’t,” Ilya said. “I was–I was not prepared. This time. I will be, if he comes back.”
He wasn’t sure if Alexei would come back. If he could bear begging for money from Ilya now that he knew what Ilya was. Or if his absolute opposition to being useful would prove stronger, and he would come back anyway, just more vicious about it.
Maybe he should move. But he didn’t know how Alexei had found him in the first place.
But he would handle it, if he saw Alexei again. He would not be caught off guard a second time.
“I don’t think he will come back,” Ilya whispered.
“If you think so,” LeClaire said. “Maybe you should look into security.”
“I will get camera,” Ilya said.
LeClaire nodded. Then, like he was ripping off a mutual bandaid, “Well. Nothing to be done about this. You’re out for the rest of the season.”
“No,” Ilya said. He tried to sit up, swore at the way that collapsed his rib cage, and tried again, pressing one hand to the mattress and wrapped the other around his ribs. “No, I can–I can play–”
“Rozanov, you blacked out just at practice. And given your injuries, you legally can’t play.”
“Just in a couple weeks,” Ilya said. “I'll be fine. For playoffs.”
“Yeah, absolutely not. Your ribs alone have you out for six weeks, and that’s without you fucking it up further.”
Ilya shook his head slightly. He couldn’t let them down like that. He couldn’t–
“Sorry, kid,” LeClaire said, clapping him on the shoulder. Ilya flinched at the ricochet of pain down his side. LeClaire didn’t notice. “Besides, the only reason you’re not in more trouble for playing on an injury this bad is that the concussion is your excuse. You weren’t thinking clearly. And speaking of, who do you want taking care of you? I assume it’ll be a friend, since it sure as fuck won’t be your brother.”
“I don’t need someone to–”
“Yeah, you do. At least for a week, we want someone with you, just to make sure. They don’t have to be there all the time, but they need to be able to check in regularly, stay with you.”
Ilya felt a brief stab of panic. Who the fuck was he supposed to have stay with him? Shane couldn’t. His family was dead or useless. He–
“I have a friend,” Ilya said. He squeezed his eyes shut, then looked around. “Where is my phone?”
“You’re not allowed to look at screens right now,” LeClaire said, but picked up the phone and handed it to Ilya.
“She only speaks Russian,” Ilya lied. “I will call her. No looking at the screen.”
“Great. She can pick you up in a couple hours.” LeClaire patted Ilya’s shoulder again. “I’ll go sort out some of the technical shit, then I’ll leave you alone. Rest up, kid, because a punctured lung is not going to get you back in the fall.”
Then he was gone. Ilya was alone.
Ilya was out of the season.
He looked at his phone.
He ended up squinting, even at the lowest brightness setting, but he managed to get to Svetlana’s number. He called her. He would have texted, but fuck, it was easier to close his eyes.
“Ilyushka,” she answered. He turned the volume down, flinching away. “This is a terrible time for a booty call.”
“Not that,” Ilya said, in Russian. He let his eyes close, left the phone next to his ear on the pillow. God, this bed was uncomfortable. “I–you love me, yes?”
“What do you want?”
“Are you busy this week?”
“Yes. But not terribly. What do you want?”
“Do you want to be in my beautiful beautiful house with me?”
He could nearly hear her suspicious gaze. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I maybe have… not so great concussion. And six fractured ribs. I think they said six.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sveta said. “Could you lead with that next time? What the fuck happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. Am so tired.”
“Alright. Yes, I can stay with you. Fuck’s sake. Do you need me to come pick you up? Which hospital are you at? Which of the new cars you’re buying from me do you want me to drive to you?”
Ilya laughed, slightly breathlessly. “I do not know which one. But I will find out. And text it to you.”
“Jane didn’t want to help out?”
Ilya shivered, once. “No,” he said, carefully, steadily. “Jane has a business trip.”
“Oh, so I’m second best now.”
“No, no,” Ilya said. “Jane doesn’t even know I’m in the hospital. You’re my first call.”
“Oh,” Sveta said, sounding a little mollified. “Well. Text me which hospital. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Thank you,” Ilya whispered.
“Of course, Ilya,” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The call ended.
Ilya kept his eyes closed. Everything was a fucking mess.
Not everything. Shane was in Montreal–shit, he still had to tell Shane about this, but that could wait a few minutes, and Shane would be mostly just glad Ilya wasn’t playing right now–but Shane had been so gentle yesterday. Had cared so much. And Sveta was coming to him, and she would stay with him, and he wouldn’t be alone.
One thing at a time, his mother used to tell him.
—--
And the first thing Sveta did when she got to the hospital was kiss the top of his head, then put both her hands on his face–gently–and kiss him on the mouth–gently. “Ilyusha,” she said gently. “What happened?”
And if his eyes felt a little bit wet and he just tugged her down onto the hospital bed with him so he could press his face to her neck and she could murmur in Russian to him, that was okay. She would know what to do. She would know if he was being smart. He still couldn’t tell her about Shane, but maybe he could tell her about what Alexei knew. They’d skirted around the subject, but she knew, in theory. And she still loved him. One single piece of Russia still loved him.