Chapter Text
Ilya had always disliked MRI machines. Not for the same reason Shane did, who tended to get anxious in the small, enclosed space, haunted by banging and clacking sounds from the magnets turning.
No, Ilya hated the stillness that came along with it. Absolutely no moving for half an hour, or the images would be shit. They gave him headphones with music playing, but he had set the volume too low, so the music was now drowned out by the MRI noise.
With the stillness came the thoughts. And there was nothing to hold them at bay, nothing he could hide behind. He just had to lie there, wait, and hope that his knee wasn't as fucked as the faces of his doctors had suggested.
Ilya closed his eyes, squeezing them shut. The season so far had been going so well. They had shown great strength in the pre-season, and the Centaurs were amongst the favorites predicted to make the playoffs. They had missed them last year; the team was still adjusting to the new reality of having a married couple on the team. That hadn't come without issues. Shane and Ilya had to navigate the newly acquired closeness between them, balancing that with personal space and team dynamics. Not to mention the external pressures they had faced.
But this season had started incredibly well. Until the stupid training accident a couple of days ago. They were running drills, nothing out of the ordinary, when one of the rookies had checked Ilya with a bit too much excitement and at a very wrong angle. Apparently, the rookie had caught an edge or something, so rather than checking Ilya shoulder to shoulder, he had fallen full speed onto Ilya’s right leg, causing it to unnaturally bend inwards. Ilya had dropped immediately, as pain had shot through his knee. He hadn’t even been able to put weight on it after.
The doctors were concerned about his MCL and ACL, possibly the meniscus as well. At first, Ilya had been positive; he had seen plenty of guys with MCL injuries coming back to play, no issues. It was a very common injury. His doctors, however, had not been so optimistic after rudely twisting his knee in painful positions under the guise of testing. They feared he was out for the season. The season that was supposed to be theirs.
The world seemed to tilt as the MRI cot slid out of the MRI machine. Waves of nausea rolled through him, accompanying the rhythmic, stabbing pain in his knee. A nurse helped him get dressed again. The familiar weight of his crucifix chain settled around his neck again. His hand rested on it, and then came to fidget with his wedding band.
A doctor showed him the imaging, explaining how his MCL had a grade three injury, meaning it was completely torn. Out for the season indeed. He’d need surgery to repair it. His meniscus looked fine, and his ACL only showed a minor tear.
Yuna sat next to him, frantically taking notes and asking questions that Ilya hadn’t even thought of asking. He took the opportunity to zone out, trusting Yuna with this part. Shane was on a roadie, multiple away games in a row. He had apologized profusely and genuinely considered staying in Ottawa, but Ilya had practically kicked him out of the house.
Shane’s parents had been incredibly forthcoming. Yuna had immediately taken over his medical appointment scheduling, making sure that she would be able to drive him everywhere. Had his left knee been injured, Ilya would have at least been able to drive himself. No one had laughed when he had teased the rookie about that, encouraging him to aim better next time. Ilya wished they’d have laughed. His injury wasn’t that serious. And if he didn’t laugh, he was not sure how to keep the looming darkness at bay.
Back at Shane’s and Ilya’s house, David was making chicken parmesan. Ilya’s favorite. He smiled as he hobbled on his crutches towards the kitchen, and the warm, rich scent floated towards him.
“Now that I’m out for the season, Shane has no reason to lecture me about performance diet,” Ilya joked, once again only earning forced smiles from his audience. “You can laugh. Is okay.”
“Sweetie, you don’t have to entertain us for us to show up for you. We love you, also when you are in pain,” Yuna said, her hand coming to rest on top of Ilya’s. Tears pricked in his eyes. Sometimes, he caught himself thinking that he hadn’t done anything to deserve their love. Then Galina’s voice would remind him that he didn’t need to deserve love.
“It’s really not that bad,” Ilya deflected and shrugged, his eyes glued to the plate in front of him. “I’ll be back next season.”
“And we’ll help you get there,” David nodded. Ilya raised his head, meeting David’s eyes. They were always so gentle, Ilya thought. Even after having known David for three years, it continued to catch him of guard, how caring this man was. His presence felt like a warm hug, and Ilya found himself relaxing in his presence, which he had never been able to do around older men.
They watched Shane’s game together, huddled on the couch under a pile of blankets. The warmth contrasting the coldness of the ice pack resting on Ilya’s knee. Ilya had taken the opportunity to slip under the fuzzy wool blanket. Shane didn’t like that one, complaining about it being to scratchy, so usually they settled for a different one. But Ilya secretly liked the wool blanket best. It reminded him of the blanket his mom had made.
The centaurs lost the game. Ilya couldn’t help but feel guilty about not being able to play. Later that night, he and Shane faced-timed, both of them lying in bed.
“I already miss having you on my line,” Shane admitted. “Have the doctors given you an approximate timeline?”
“Probably out for the rest of the season. Will have surgery in a week or two, once the swelling is down.”
“Oh,” Shane deflated, sending another pang of guilt through Ilya.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, Ilya. Don’t be sorry,” Shane said, hastily. “Injuries are part of the game, right? I’m just happy you don’t have a concussion or something like that. You cannot afford to lose any more brain cells.”
Ilya smiled, appreciating Shane’s banter. “If I lose any more, I might become even more Canadian and say sorry more.”
“You ass,” Shane laughed.
“Sohrry aboot that,” Ilya said, doing his best, yet terrible impression of a Canadian accent, earning another laugh from Shane. They sat in silence for a while, just looking at each other. Shane’s expression softened, and then he broke the silence. “I miss you.”
“We’ve been apart for two days,” Ilya remarked, upon which Shane put on his angry kitten gaze. “I miss you too.”
Time moved sluggishly for Ilya as he waited for Shane to return from his roadie. Yuna and David continued to show up, bring groceries, and cooked meals. David also took it upon himself to walk Anya. Ilya had first tried to dissuade him, saying that he could just drop Anya off at the dog hotel. But David had stood his ground.
Having Anya at home helped. They would cuddle together, and it felt good to have someone he had to take care of. Yet Anya seemed confused as to why her Dad wouldn’t run around with her, constantly standing in front of the backdoor her tail wagging. She would drag her leash and drop it in front of Ilya’s feet. To her excitement, Ilya could play ball with her in the garden. But she seemed to be trying to get Ilya to run with her, which contributed to the guilt that was pooling low in Ilya’s stomach.
At some point, Anya started hopping around on three legs, her right front leg held up. Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. He filmed it and sent it to the family group chat, claiming that Anya was mocking him, and that he was deeply hurt. He also sent it to the Centaurs group chat, amongst a description that Anya was up for adoption. He immediately regretted the caption, his father’s voice haunting him, and he went back to edit the message, now citing Anya proudly as his comedy champion.
But Anya could only do so much. Ilya frequently found himself sitting on the couch, staring into nothingness. There was nothing in him to propel him forward, nothing that urged him to move or do something. Even turning on the TV did not appeal to him. It didn’t matter. Whether the TV was on or not, in the short amount of time he was forced to sit still at home, all his preferences and aims had vanished into the growing abyss.
Galina had warned him about it. They had briefly talked after the MRI, Yuna having urged him to schedule more regular sessions. Ilya’s body was used to moving every day and relied on it. The first two days, he had been restless, with too much excess energy that he couldn’t put anywhere. But that had changed quickly, and now he had no drive whatsoever, his body and brain no longer benefiting from the exercise-induced highs.
One more night alone, then Shane would be back. They called again.
“What have you been up to?” Shane asked.
Ilya shrugged. “Had PT. Hurt. And hanging out with Anya. Your mom brought me miso soup.”
“That’s nice.”
Ilya forced a smile, noting Shane’s worried gaze. They didn’t talk for long; Shane was tired from his game, practically falling asleep on the call. It relieved Ilya. If Shane fell asleep, he wouldn’t notice how Ilya hadn’t even hinted at phone sex. Instead, he watched Shane slowly doze off, Ilya reciting a Russian nursery rhyme. Ilya stayed on the call for another couple of hours, watching Shane’s relaxed face and listening to his barely audible snoring. At some point, Shane’s phone died, and Ilya was left to the emptiness of his bed, which mirrored his own.