Chapter Text
It was the last three minutes of the third period, and the Centaurs were tied 3-3 against the Voyagers on home ice. Shane had scored two of the goals, assists from Haas and Ilya, while he had assisted the third for Haas. The other forward was out for the count now, ringing his bell against the boards in a rough check. It hadn’t seemed bad enough to land him in the hospital but the team doctor Terry, shortly followed by Ilya when he overheard, bullied him back to the bench anyway.
The Voyager that had checked him, a new defenseman they had traded in after Shane left, got hit with a game misconduct and a minor for the head injury, leaving the Voyagers shorthanded for almost the entirety of the rest of the period. Leaving Shane and his team set up for a power play right before they would be forced into overtime.
Shane breathed out slowly as he crouched down on center ice. There were moments in a game where the world slowed down, noise muffled. His mind would click at a higher frame rate than everyone else as he took in everything on the ice. Shane was 35 now. He may not be the fastest player anymore in the league, but no one could argue that there was anyone with better game sense or hockey IQ than Shane Hollander— not even his own champion husband.
Ilya flanked him on his left, trusting him with center, while Barrett replaced Haas on his right. The Centaurs had perfected playing loose and fast with their first and second lines, mixing and matching players. It was clear that Shane and Ilya were a menace unlike anything anyone had seen before when they played together on a line but both were best suited to play center, leading the league in face-off wins. Shane could play with Barrett just as well as he played with Haas on the second line, knowing how fast he could go on the ice with them and the best angles for his passes. All of their top defenseman were out of the sin bin, Dykstra and Young on the ice with the forwards. They were at the best technical advantage they could get.
Except, Barrett was favoring his left side, ribs definitely bruised from a first period hit. Dykstra had been on the ice almost as long as Shane had but without even half his stamina. Young had a black eye. Even Ilya was quiet, mouth pressed in a grim line, eyes dark with focus, and face soaked in sweat.
And the Voyagers were frothing for more blood. It only got worse every time Shane took to the ice, their greatest traitor. Every game they had played with the Voyagers ended up vicious in a way the Centaurs had learned to grit their teeth through and bear. Not to mention when they were on Montreal’s turf where the linesmen were intentionally blind.
Shane stared down Wilson who sneered at him. It had been nearly six years since Shane and Ilya had been forced out of the closet and Shane had been forced out of the Montreal lockers. Five years with the Centaurs, more than enough time to settle, to call them his team instead of his new team. But the Voyagers had always had a long memory and taste for vengeance on the ice, despite the fact that Shane had been the more injured party.
Shane also had a long memory: he would never forget the way his former teammates had at best shunned him and at worst, hissed slurs that they then knew were true, knew would sting. Ever since Hayden, the one friend Shane could rely on without fail in his old city, had retired at 32 to spend time with his family when Amber was diagnosed with pediatric leukemia, there were no friendly faces or restraint left in the opposing team.
“It’s alright Hollander,” Wilson smirked, “I’ll be gentle. We both know how much you like being fucked stupid.”
Shane ignored him, and made sure to win the puck.
He passed it to Ilya immediately, not having to glance back to pinpoint his location. He had a seventh sense when it came to knowing where his husband was relative to him on the ice, tuned to Ilya as if he was simply an isolated extension of his own body. Ilya shot forward, neatly dodging defensemen with that dancer-like elegance. Shane tracked Ilya from behind him, cataloguing the moving bodies and making plays in his head at lightning speed. His husband had apparently been reading his mind, hitting the puck at Troy once the other had crossed the blue line.
But their focus on the play was why Shane was the only one to see Comeau before the hit.
The puck was already gone by the time the Voyager player hit Ilya from behind at full speed, irrevocably a dirty check, elbow out to catch his head. Ilya’s neck snapped to the side, skates giving out under him and he crumbled down to the ice like a marionette with cut strings. The crack of his helmet against the ice froze Shane in place.
Time didn’t slow. Time stopped. Shane gave Ilya five seconds, ten, twenty to get back up, waiting for a referee whistle that still hadn’t come. Ilya still wasn’t moving, and Shane felt an old but familiar panic settle in his bones. The stupid fucking puck was still in fucking play.
“Ilya?” Shane called, ignoring the others on the ice. He shoved past a Voyager defenseman, barely feeling the shove back before he was across the rink and on his knees next to Ilya, dropping his gloves and helmet on the way. Finally, finally one of those incompetent linesmen blew the goddamn whistle to stop the clock.
“Ilya?” Shane tried again, hands shaking where they hovered over his husband’s helmet, “Золотце, my gold, can you hear me?”
Ilya was still unconscious when he started convulsing. Shane’s stomach dropped in terror.
“Medic!” he screamed out to the Centaurs’ bench, his own breathing shallow as he watched Ilya’s body jerk, slow and then fast with no clear rhythm. Shane shoved his nearby gloves under his head so his helmet didn’t knock against the ice. Ilya stopped shaking in seconds but hockey athletes knew enough about brain, head, and neck injuries to know that something like a seizure, even if short, was very, very bad.
“Fuck, baby,” Shane cupped his face gently under his crooked helmet, throat tight. Ilya’s breathing was uneven. “Hey, come on, need you to wake up. Please Ilya, you have to be okay.”
“Hollander, you need to move,” one of the senior medics, Jennie, joined them on the ice, already pulling out gear and trauma shears. Shane numbly leaned back, seeing Terry direct the other medics around Ilya, stabilizing his neck, several hands carefully moving Ilya’s helmet out of the way. “Call an ambulance,” Terry demanded, focusing on a head and neck exam. He checked Ilya’s eyes with a pen light, and Shane was still close enough to see how his left pupil was blown wide.
“Ilyusha,” Shane whispered, voice cracking, someone pushing him back more determinedly and rocking him back into his skates. Someone else grabbed him by his arm to pull him away, and Shane instinctively fought back. “Get off, get off of me–”
“Hollander, hey, Hollan-Shane, you can’t help him like this,” Barrett insisted quietly but firmly, “we need to get you off the ice so you can go with him in the ambulance.”
Shane stopped fighting, held tight in his teammate’s grip. Sound suddenly rushed back so fast and so loud he nearly bowled over. The muted chatter and uneasy murmurs rushed over him, the crowd watching Shane’s worst nightmare unfold right in front of him. He couldn’t look away from his husband laid out on the ice but he was peripherally more aware of the other players on the ice. Barrett, Holmberg, and Young were all heaving from a fight, the Voyagers tellingly nowhere around.
“Come on,” Troy urged, pulling him to his feet. Shane’s skates felt weak under him in a way they hadn’t since he was a child. “One of the rooks booked it to the lockers to get your things, you should be able to change out of your gear before the paramedics get here.” Troy was tugging him to the edge of the rink, Shane too dazed to realize they were moving. Boyle at some point reached them to help.
“He was seizing,” Shane suddenly gasped, fear making him dizzy. They paused. “Fuck, Troy, the hit was so bad he started seizing.”
Both Barrett and Boyle heard him, and the younger forward visibly paled. Troy swallowed thickly, before gripping the back of Shane’s neck like Ilya did when everything got too much and Shane had tunnel vision.
“He’s alive, the medical team is going to get him to the hospital, and we’re going to make sure you’re right there next to him,” Troy promised. “We’re right here with you, Shane. We’re going to get you both through this.” If Shane could feel anything but terror right now, he would have felt a flash of gratitude to his friend for keeping his head so Shane didn’t have to.
Shane stumbled over the hard edge of the rink and into the shadowed privacy of the player tunnel, feeling hands on him again, his teammates, tugging his jersey off and ripping protective gear velcro from his arms. He gained enough awareness to help strip out of the shoulder pads, leaving him in just his compression shirt.
“Hollander,” Wiebe found him, phone in hand. Inexplicably, Shane thought he might actually fight his coach if he suggested he couldn’t leave the game. He knew Theriault would have tried to force him to stay.
He shouldn’t have worried, because all Wiebe did was clap his shoulder firmly and nod at him. “We’ll handle everything here, you just focus on yourself and our Roz, alright Hollander?”
Shane nodded, thankful not for the first time that the Centaurs were unlike any other team in the league.
“Call when you have an update,” Wiebe told him, before pulling back to let the ambulance gurney come through. Shane was just barely tripping out of his skates and into normal shoes when the medical team joined them, Ilya on a spinal board with an oxygen mask. He vaguely heard the crowd on the stands clapping as Ilya was taken off the ice, in respect to an injured player.
“Terry,” Shane stammered, “what— what’s wrong with him, fuck–”
“We need to get him to the hospital,” Terry murmured, and even if he didn’t say anything devastating, the fact that the normally laidback and jovial doctor had gone quietly sober told Shane more than enough. The doctor turned away, steady and focused as he rattled off Ilya’s report to the receiving paramedics, medical jargon too complicated for Shane to follow on a good day.
They somehow got into the ambulance, Shane shoved into a corner but still close enough to thread his fingers with Ilya’s limp, clammy ones while the medics worked around them. It wasn’t much, but even the limited tether to his husband was enough to help Shane breathe again. At the hospital, he lost his grip on Ilya, left behind as his gurney was rushed over the black and yellow line into surgery.
“You’re family?” a nurse holding paperwork asked primly, suddenly next to him. Shane blinked at her, managing to remember to nod. “I’m his husband.”
“We’re going to need you to sign this for consent to surgery as his medical proxy,” she flipped over a clipboard, pushing it and a pen into Shane’s hands. She barely waited for him to nearly illegibly scrawl his name on the line before taking it back and replacing it with another. “This is for his medical forms. Family can wait over there.”
“Can you– can someone tell me what’s happening to him?” Shane blurted, “please, no one’s told me anything, just, please–”
“We’ll find you right away when we have information,” the nurse reassured him uselessly before hurriedly following the other healthcare workers taking Ilya away.
He was blankly filling out Ilya’s history (allergies: coconut; medications: 300 mg Wellbutrin) while sitting in a creaky upholstered hospital chair when Yuna and David Hollander forced open the doors.
“Shane, baby,” Yuna found him immediately. Shane dropped the clipboard, standing up to shortly slump into Yuna. She held him with the ease of a mother who would always be there to catch him.
“Oh honey, you’re shaking,” Yuna murmured, rubbing his arms, “let’s sit you down again.”
“Any news?” David asked quietly when they had settled, and Shane dropped his face into his hands, shaking his head.
“They haven’t told me anything,” he answered, voice broken. “Just had me sign forms for consent to surgery— fuck, fuck, mom, surgery-.”
“Shh, Shane,” Yuna soothed, pulling him into her so his head rested against the crook of her neck. She pet his head like she used to when he was eight and sick in bed. “It’s going to be alright. Ilya’s a fighter. All we can do is wait. It’s okay.”
Shane knew his mother well enough to sense her own taut anxiety and fear, equally as terrified as Shane for Ilya but unwilling to show it when one of her sons still needed her. David cupped the back of his neck.
“You want to talk through what happened?” his dad offered, knowing it was the easiest way to get Shane out of his head when he spiraled and ended up trapped there. Still Shane shook his head.
“I don’t— I can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry, he was seizing on the ice and I can’t—“ a gasp hiccuped out of him.. “I can’t lose him. I can’t. I’d lose a piece of me. The most important part of me.”
Yuna held him closer, pressing a kiss to his hair, not caring about the post-game mess he still was without a shower. He remembered years ago hearing about the Centaurs’ plane crash scare. He had been paralyzed at the mere thought of losing Ilya, the twenty-two minutes of limbo when no one knew what was happening to that plane. He had been entirely alone then, breaking down in an empty tunnel in the arena, sweat from the game still drying tacky on his skin. Left to think that if Ilya was gone, no one would have ever known how much he meant to Shane. That no one would have known Ilya was his entire world.
Later, Shane would be able to appreciate that he at least had his parents holding him up. He had a team staunchly supportive of Shane and Ilya’s marriage. The world saw now that Shane was not whole without Ilya. No one could deny the precious love that Shane and Ilya had so tenaciously fought years and years for.
“You haven’t lost anything yet, honey,” Yuna told him firmly, “he’s not gone.” Shane shook his head but stayed quiet. He let his mother hold him, stubbornly forcing the razor sharp montage of Ilya’s hit out of his head. And they waited.
+++
It took over an hour before they finally got an answer to what was going on. A nurse in scrubs found them in the waiting room. Yuna had gotten up a while ago and started pacing, while David took her place sitting with Shane, keeping him calmer.
“Family for Ilya Rozanov-Hollander?” the man called out, and all three of them stopped and turned.
“Yes,” Yuna straightened, shoulders back at attention. “How is he? Can we see him?”
“I can take you to him now, he’s asleep but in recovery,” the nurse told them, urging them to follow. “The doctor will be able to tell you more.”
A few months into their marriage, Shane was dropped on the ice by a hard check. He had been fine, taking a few seconds to blink away the dizziness and pain but the whistle blew because he didn’t get up immediately. Ilya had sprinted to him, and he had just barely caught him as Shane wobbled back onto his skates.
“Shane,” Ilya’s voice had been raw, and it surprised Shane. It hadn’t been a devastating hit: if anything, it was a little embarrassing that his skates had gone out under him like that and it had stopped the game. “любовь, you are okay? Are you hurt?” Shane had made Ilya swear before their pre-season started that they would keep the pet names and flirting off the ice and most definitely out of games, but Ilya calling him love hadn’t been fond or playful. He sounded truly, genuinely scared.
Shane had reassured him, less brusquely than he might have in another situation, but hadn’t asked the question and gotten his answer until they had won the match, the last two goals from Shane and Luca. Ilya had been more reserved after their win, nut it was nothing that the team would notice. Shane, who spent years cataloguing every minute detail of the man he was in love with, saw it right away but had waited until they got home to probe.
“I saw you on the ice and I see the first hit,” Ilya had confessed while holding him later in their bed. The words were quiet, vulnerable in the air between them, their bedroom dark. “You did not get up, then, when Marleau hit you. And I could not go to you. Was not allowed to care.” Ilya’s arms tightened, fingers gripping onto Shane’s shirt.
“I was okay,” Shane had whispered, soft, “both times. I was fine. I’m okay, baby, I promise.”
Ilya sighed, pressing a kiss to the arch of Shane’s brow. “Maybe. But I was not. I see you hurt and it is as if it’s me. It’s my heart, bleeding out on the ice. At least now, I can go to you. So I must. I will.”
Years later, now, Shane’s heart looked so much smaller, so much more fragile than he should in a hospital bed. Ilya was in a thin gown and hooked up to so many wires and tubes he barely looked human. They had shaved his head, getting rid of his beautiful curls, and a patch of gauze was taped over the left side of his bare scalp.
“Oh my god,” Yuna whispered, clutching David’s hand. Shane barely heard her, numbly walking to his husband’s bed. He collapsed into the flimsy chair next to him, his legs giving out without much warning.
His heart was beating. The monitor to Ilya’s left was a constant, steady reminder that his husband was still with them. When Shane grasped Ilya’s hand, it was warm. It would have to be enough. It had to be enough.
They hadn’t been in the room long, everyone uncomfortably settling in for the continued wait in tense silence, when they heard a knock and the door opened.
The doctor introduced himself as Dr. Lopez, Ilya’s attending, and shook Yuna’s and David’s hands. Mercifully he didn’t make Shane get up from his seat and let go of Ilya.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Shane asked, voice quiet. He was tired of asking. Thankfully, for the first time that night, he got a yes.
“We were extremely lucky,” Dr. Lopez told them simply. “Mr. Rozanov suffered from an epidural hemorrhage but received near immediate stabilization. He was also to brought the emergency department fast enough for us to alleviate the intracranial pressure causing his symptoms and stop the arterial bleed with surgical intervention. He seized once while in the operating room, but we administered an antiepileptic and we don’t anticipate it’ll happen again as he recovers. Dr. Jain, the neurosurgeon who operated, will be joining us soon to discuss more in detail about long term recovery.”
“Jesus,” David muttered, face ashen. “A hemorrhage.”
“I know it can be frightening to hear but the procedures were a success and he has a very positive prognosis,” Dr. Lopez reassured them. ”There’s a good chance he will fully recover.”
“There’s a chance,” Shane repeated slowly, “so you don’t know yet?”
Lopez tilted his head in concession. “We can’t know how extensive the damage was symptom-wise until he wakes up.”
“What might we need to worry about, symptom-wise?” David asked, arms crossed from across the room.
“There’s a range out of outcomes to cases like these. He could have memory loss, might have some motor or sensory deficits. Some temporary speech limitations is also not uncommon. In very rare cases, some subtle personality changes. But there’s also a possibility of the best outcome, of him being completely the same. Again, we’ll see when he wakes up.”
“And do we have an idea of when that’ll be?” Yuna asked for Shane.
Dr. Lopez gave a sympathetic smile. “I think you and I all know how unpredictable sports head injuries can be. For now, we wait for him.”
Shane exhaled, shoulders slumping as he sunk deeper into his chair. He reached forward and laced Ilya’s fingers with his own again. He was finally feeling warmer than he had in the arena.
“Thank you doctor,” Yuna murmured. Shane barely heard them go through the formalities, adrenaline finally fully crashing with Ilya’s pulse steady and strong under his thumb.
+++
Ilya wasn’t waking up.
It had been five days since the game and Ilya’s surgery and he still wasn’t waking up.
“I don’t understand,” Yuna fretted. She was chewing on her nails, a habit she despised and had forced herself out of decades ago. “Why isn’t he waking? You said the sedatives should have worn off four days ago.”
“We don’t know,” Lopez replied gently, “head injuries are truly unpredictable. He may just be asleep to help his brain fully recover and heal.”
“Will he wake up at all?” Shane asked, voice hoarse. He hadn’t said much from his station next to Ilya’s bed in the past few days. He had barely moved from the spot.
“We are still optimistic,” Lopez answered diplomatically. “We’re seeing signs of unconscious brain function, and he’s not on life support. These are all good signs. We’ve done everything we can, Mr. Hollander. At this point, it’s just up to him.”
The doctor left them again, in their days-long holding pattern. The air was stiflingly tense, all three of them quiet. Shane numbly raised his hand and gently traced Ilya’s cheekbone, fingertips on his chapped lips.
“He needs lip balm,” Shane mumbled absently. “He doesn’t like it when the skin peels.”
Yuna stood up suddenly, drawing their attention with the scrape of her chair. Her breathing was shaky before she covered her mouth with a palm.
“Mom,” Shane sat up, unsure. Yuna shook her head, and Shane realized suddenly that her eyes were bright with tears.
“I’m so sorry, sorry honey, I just need a minute.” Yuna gasped a shaky inhale, words broken. She rushed out of the room before anyone could interject.
“I’ll go with her,” David stood too, more slowly. He looked like had aged another decade. “It’s okay, son, you stay here with your husband. I’ll take care of your mom.” David paused by Ilya’s bed on his way out, resting his hand gently on Ilya’s head before leaning down to wordlessly kiss his forehead.
The door clicked as David exited, leaving Shane alone with the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest and the sounds of the machines monitoring him.
Without an audience, Shane felt like he could move closer and brought his chair up as close to the side of the bed as possible. Carefully, he tucked his head into the crook of Ilya’s neck, nose against the line of muscle, before he pressed a domestic kiss there.
Like this, Shane could pretend like they were at home, the position familiar and safe. Except, his husband didn’t feel comfortable and warm or smell like his cologne and the remnants of their home together. He was stiff, clammy, and smelled like antiseptic and hospital sickness. The heart monitor was a steady, strong reminder otherwise but like this, his husband’s bright life and light was snuffed. He barely seemed alive.
Shane felt the tight urge to cry in his throat, even though he hasn’t let himself in the past few days. He refused to let himself grieve what he hadn’t yet lost.
“Fuck,” Shane exhaled against his skin, his voice cracking. “You’re breaking my heart, baby. Please. Wake up. I’m so scared, I need you to wake up Ilya. I’m scared. We’re all so fucking scared.”
The past five days had been the most trying of his life. Only Shane had been allowed to stay overnight but both his parents and teammates had cycled through regularly everyday. Wyatt had come first with Lisa, who had taken to looking over Ilya’s charts with a clinical eye. She had sat with Yuna, going through Ilya’s treatment in detail and answered her questions. Dykstra brought homemade meals, and Shane was fussed over by his wife. After them, it was Troy and Harris, who had taken on Anya’s care while Shane stayed in the hospital and his parents supported them. Harris shared photos of Anya playing with the other couple’s dogs and new cat, and Shane laughed for the first time in days, a rough but honest chuckle, at a bewildered Anya being harassed by their playful kitten. The rookies had come as a group, following Haas in like ducklings. They had stood by awkwardly but worriedly as Haas held Shane in a strong hug, comforting him the way Ilya would have. He had to fight back his tears when Haas rubbed away his own, squeezing his captain’s limp hand and wishing them well.
He hadn’t thought to ask about the game until three days later and he was grateful no one had tried to bring it up before he did. Wiebe had made it clear that he didn’t want to see Shane in the locker room until Ilya woke up and Shane couldn’t find it in himself to be upset about it. He didn’t know what he might be like on the ice right now.
By the end of day six, Shane was falling apart at the seams, head down in his arms as he rested on the edge of Ilya’s hospital bed. Yuna was rubbing his back absently from the chair next to him, just as pale and withdrawn, while David rested on the couch behind them near the window. Shane turned his head, looking up at Ilya’s sleeping face as he rubbed his thumb against the back of Ilya’s hand. He hadn’t let go for much longer than an hour or two at a time.
“Please,” he whispered quietly, too exhausted and high-strung to care about his audience. “Ilyusha, please wake up. Don’t do this to me. Please.”
He had been begging practically daily, whispering pleas to his husband that remained unanswered, so he almost missed the subtle catch to Ilya’s breathing. Shane shot up from his position, heart racing and startling his mother.
“Ilyusha?” Shane breathed, hand stilling in Ilya’s. He felt the twitch.
“Shane? What’s wrong?” Yuna asked worriedly because no one knew Ilya the way Shane did. Didn’t know him well enough to recognize every little detail and change.
“I think he’s—“ Shane started breathlessly but he didn’t need to continue as Ilya’s heart rate began speeding up subtly and his face muscles moved.
“Oh my god,” Yuna covered her mouth but Shane didn’t dare look away, heart beating out of his chest as he watched Ilya slowly, but so surely, blink awake. He squinted at Shane blankly before Shane saw the way Ilya’s gaze sharpened into recognition.
“Hollander?” Ilya asked, voice rough. Shane could have collapsed. Instead he simply gave him a watery smile, pushing back a gasping sob.
“Yeah,” Shane breathed, “yeah Ilya I’m right here.”
Yuna was quick to call Ilya’s nurses, pressing the remote button. Shane ran his hand over Ilya’s scalp, missing his curls, while his husband still trying to blink away the grogginess and confusion. Shane was doing his best not to break down in tears.
“Mr. Rozanov,” the nurse and doctor were quick to arrive. Lopez was still assigned as Ilya’s attending and reached the other side of Ilya’s bedside. “You gave us quite a scare.” Ilya hadn’t reacted to him though, watching Shane like he was a puzzle as the nurse messed with the IV and vitals screen. His eyebrows furrowed, eyes still bright and bleary. Even drugged half out of his mind, Ilya clocked how badly Shane was struggling to keep it together. “Моя любовь, my love, what’s wrong? You are hurt? Your parents?”
Shane couldn’t hold back the half-laugh, half-wretched gasp then, curling forward to press his forehead to Ilya’s clavicle. He felt Ilya’s unsteady hand brush away his bangs. This impossible, impossible man.
“Am I hurt?” Shane repeated, breathing out. “Fuck, fuck Ilya, you were seizing right in front of me. You’ve been in a coma for almost a week and I– am I hurt?”
“Ah,” Ilya’s hand paused briefly. “I understand.” Shane closed his eyes.
“What do you remember?” Dr. Lopez interjected gently.
“A— a game,” Ilya frowned. “I was checked?” He began coughing from his dry throat, and Shane quickly found the water cup and straw waiting for him.
“Fucking Comeau,” Shane swore as Ilya sipped from the cup in his hand, finally feeling grounded again with Ilya breathing, moving, and touching him. “Dirty hit.”
“I was playing against you?”
Shane stiffened, and he heard everyone else in the room freeze as well. He looked up, vaguely noting that his parents were watching with horror across the room.
“No,” Shane managed to muster up, words drying up and dying in his throat. “What–”
“Mr. Rozanov, perhaps there are some questions you can answer for us,” Lopez interrupted, this time a touch more firm. “Can you tell me where you are?”
“Hospital,” Ilya waved the hand not holding Shane’s lazily. “Not fun.”
“Do you remember what team you play for?”
Ilya, to Shane’s dismay, had to pause.
“I,” he hesitated. “Ottawa, yes?” The Hollanders quietly let go of their collectively held breath.
“That’s right,” the doctor confirmed, “you seemed unsure. Is there a reason why?”
Ilya frowned. “Is strange. I remember playing with Ottawa, but then remember Boston. Suddenly I remember Ottawa again. Is unclear. Timeline… timeline is confusing.”
“I see,” Lopez made a note on his chart. “What other big events can you remember? You can go back as far as you’d like.”
“Mmm. Olympics. My father’s funeral. Draft. Moving to Ottawa. Winning Stanley Cup.” Suddenly, Ilya straightened, eyes shooting up to Shane. “We… our wedding. We are married.”
Ilya looked down to their joined hands. Ilya’s fingers were still bare but Shane had taken his own ring off the chain he kept under his jersey during the season and put it in its rightful place. He had needed the tactile reminder under his thumb, the cool gold metal comforting through the longest week of his life.
“Where is mine?” Ilya asked, voice small. He rubbed Shane’s ring absently, grip tightening momentarily when Shane moved to pull back from him. Ilya watched with a furrowed brow as Shane went to his own collar, tugging free the chain where he had replaced his own ring with Ilya’s, keeping it close to his heart. Shane was quick to remove it, and gently slipped it back onto Ilya before threading their fingers together again.
“Better,” Ilya relaxed. “Thank you.”
“What are you feeling right now, physically?” Lopez asked, patient. Ilya sighed.
“Nothing, really. Drugs, no? Feel just tired.” From the way Ilya was gripping Shane though, he had a suspicion he wasn’t being totally honest.
“Can you remember what happened when you were hit?”
Ilya was quiet for too long. “Not… not really,” Ilya admitted, avoiding Shane’s eyes.
“It seems that there might be some memory-related symptoms to your concussion,” Dr. Lopez told them, “it may resolve on its own, since it doesn’t seem you’ve lost your important memories, but seem to have forgotten how and when some of them happened. Forgetting the incident is pretty common but long-term amnesia would have been a different concern.”
“His English as well,” Yuna quietly brought up. “It’s a little… choppier than usual.” Shane had to stop, and think, and yes, she was right. Ilya’s English was near perfect after living in North America for over a decade but now, his accent was thicker and he was dropping articles he hadn’t had issue with since his mid twenties.
“Вы бы предпочли русский язык?” Shane asked. Would you prefer Russian?
Ilya blinked at him, before huffing a laugh. “Да. Ах, как я мог забыть, что ты выучил для меня русский язык?” Yes. Ah, how could I forget you learned Russian for me? “Was most romantic thing you ever did. Well, besides… Та неделя в коттедже, когда ты позволяла мне быть с тобой где угодно и когда угодно, как я и хотел…”
“Ilya!” Shane stopped him, flushing and covering his mouth with a hand. Ilya grinned under his palm, unrepentant.
“Well, good to know his personality is intact,” David muttered under his breath, but still clearly relieved.
“That is good,” Dr. Lopez agreed, smiling. “There are some more cognitive and ability tests we would like to do, especially to check for motor symptoms, but we’ll give you all some time to yourselves first. Please don’t fight the urge to fall back asleep Mr. Rozanov. It's good you’ve woken up but your brain will still need a lot of healing.”
“Ah, but doctor, how can I close my eyes and miss the view of my husband, the most beautiful man in the world?” Ilya grinned cheekily. Shane loved him. He loved him.
Lopez and his parents all laughed but Shane was doing his best not to cry. After the healthcare team left, the Hollanders crowded around Ilya, who pretended he was not basking in the attention.
“You had as worried honey,” Yuna murmured, sitting on the side of his bed. She straightened his gown briskly, fretting with his collar in the same way Shane did sometimes before awards or talk shows. “You need anything?”
“No, am okay. Glad you are here,” he smiled a little sleepily at Yuna, soft in the way he only was with her. Ilya still sometimes drew back into himself when his memories of Irina became too much. Ever since the first time Yuna had witnessed it herself, however, she had quietly and determinedly made sure that he didn’t feel alone without a mother’s touch. Normally, Yuna would have Ilya rest his head on her lap so she could run her fingers through his curls, something he had quietly admitted one night reminded him of his mother, but Ilya’s shaved head was an unwanted hurdle.
“How are you feeling, really?” David asked, and it was testament to how well his parents knew Ilya, knew that he would minimize his pain out of habit.
And it was testament to how much Ilya trusted them, because he paused and tried to come up with an honest answer. “I hurt. Everywhere. Head.” He shrugged a little. “Trying not to think too much.”
Shane closed his eyes, swallowing as he tried to get his breathing under control. Ilya rarely ever admitted his pain so honestly which was how Shane knew that it was worse than he had imagined.
“Why don’t we give you two a minute?” David offered. When Shane looked up, his dad gave him a soft understanding smile.
“Thank you,” Shane managed, his words cracking. He couldn’t bring himself to care enough to be embarrassed. Yuna kissed them both on the forehead before his parents let themselves out leaving Shane and Ilya alone without any fanfare. On their own, the room settled into something quiet, intimate. The only sounds were their breathing and the beeping and rushing noise of Ilya’s machines.
“Hey,” Ilya smiled back up at him, gentle in the way he was only gentle with Shane.
Shane swallowed, threading their fingers together. “Hi.” He breathed out shakily, rubbing his knuckles. “If you’re in so much pain we should call in the nurses, they can give you better medicine and—“
“You are really okay?” Ilya asked again, tilting his head, eyes bright and alert and watching Shane oh so carefully.
And Shane couldn’t stop it. He finally, finally broke into tears.
“Hey, hey, no, come here, sweetheart, shh,” Ilya soothed, reaching for the other. It was an awkward fit, but Ilya still managed to hold Shane against his chest. He rested his cheek on top of Shane’s head, and Shane felt him press a kiss to his hair as he shushed him. Shane couldn’t stop sobbing.
“Shane, малыш, baby,” Ilya murmured sadly. “It is okay.”
“No,” Shane shook his head, “god, fuck, I was so fucking scared. Илья, я так испугался.”
Ilya tugged him up just enough to hold his face and catch his eye. “Мы в порядке, да? Together. We are okay.”
“We didn’t know if you would wake up,” Shane rasped, averting his eyes down when Ilya’s open sincerity turned too much. “I thought I was going to lose you and I can’t. I can’t Ilya, если я потеряю тебя, я тоже умру. Я не могу жить без тебя.”
Shane regretted his words almost instantly when he saw Ilya flinch. Before he could apologize Ilya shook his head, brushing away Shane’s fringe. “You did not lose me,” Ilya told him firmly. “I am right here, yes? Я буду в порядке.” I will be okay.
Shane exhaled shakily, tightening his grip. “Мне жаль, I’m sorry, I know you don’t like when I— I just need you so badly.”
“Mmm, yes, even in hospital bed I am, you say, Неотразимый,” Ilya flashed a cheeky grin and Shane couldn’t stop the wet laugh that escaped him. God, he almost lost this.
“I love you,” he exhaled, closing his eyes briefly. He could choke on his gratitude. Ilya’s smile slipped into something fonder, rubbing his thumb against the back of Shane’s hand.
“И я люблю тебя.” And I love you.
There was plenty to still be worried about, especially Ilya's concerning memory symptoms and the unanswered questions of his seizures. But for now Shane let himself be pulled in by his husband into a close-mouthed kiss and let it be enough.