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It wasn’t a bad hit. In fact, it wasn’t even the intentional slam into the boards that sent him crashing down.
Ottawa was only trailing by one goal against the Raiders, and with the clock ticking down the final minute of the game, the Centaurs were fighting hard. Ilya sailed past the net, effortlessly taking control of the puck in a pass from Wyatt after a blocked shot. He positioned his body to protect the puck, dropping his shoulder and setting up a quick pass to Barrett. He felt the Boston defender approaching from his blind side only a split second before the hit, and knew the angle wouldn’t be good. Suddenly, he was slammed into the boards, the impact awkward with his arm pinned in front of him and his shoulder taking the brunt of the force. The crushing weight of the player behind him forced the air out of his lungs, and he felt white, hot pain flash through his ribs on his right side.
The Raider peels himself back quickly, assisting a teammate with taking control of the puck they’d stolen in the hit. Ilya forces himself to inhale, and staggers backward. The refs must have thought the hit wasn’t too bad, because there’s no whistle, and play continues. He shakes his head quickly, moving his feet before fully regaining his balance and focus, play shifting back. Another Raider swings wide around the net, setting himself up for yet another goal attempt. Ilya inhales, and pain shoots through his side as he slides in front of the defender. The player leans forward, roughly tossing himself into Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya lets a groan escape around his mouth guard, and his feet involuntarily slide to a wider stance for stabilization against the pain to keep him upright, just enough for the opposing player’s stick to catch the side of Ilya’s skate, the force of it dragging Ilya’s foot from under him.
The fall feels like it happens in slow motion, his shoulder not responding quickly enough to soften the impact, his hip taking the brunt of the fall even through the padding of his shorts, and his knee wrapping awkwardly around the post. He hears the sickening crack of his helmet against the ice and the sounds of the arena turn to a collective hush.
“Roz!” Wyatt shouts, his position in the net only a few feet away.
Ilya immediately thinks of Shane sitting on the bench, of Yuna and David in the stands, of his teammates. Every instinct inside him screams at him not to show weakness, not with his former team on the ice and the people he loves watching. With adrenaline fueling him, he pushes himself to a sitting position on the ice, hoping it gives the medics enough confidence that they’re not needed.
Wyatt pulls off both his gloves, bending down beside him with outstretched hands just as the final buzzer sounds.
“Careful, man. You sure you can get up?”
Ilya simply nods, his jaw set, determined.
“Ilya!” Shane shouts, and Ilya looks up to see his husband leap over the boards, quickly closing the space between them.
Shane hits his knees, sliding the last couple of feet on the ice to come to a rest beside him, his hands hovering and unsure.
“Are you okay!?” he asks, his voice clearly panicked.
Ilya nods again, and swallows hard.
“Let us help you…” Wyatt starts, and slings Ilya’s left arm around his own shoulders.
Shane moves to grab his right arm and Ilya subtly shakes his head, communicating without words in his eye contact with him before wrapping his arm more protectively around his midsection.
“Slow…” Shane warns him, wrapping a strong arm around his back instead, helping Wyatt lift him to his feet and steady him.
Ilya can’t help the groan that escapes him as he puts weight into his right leg. He makes his way slowly to the bench, flanked on either side by Shane and Wyatt.
“Talk to me, Rozanov,” Terry says immediately as he steps off the ice, and Ilya looks up to see him and Weibe waiting with the medics behind them.
“Is good,” he bites out, looking around at all of the eyes on him. “No medics.”
He watches them all exchange glances, watches Shane discretely shake his head at them, and Terry nod in understanding.
“Let’s just get you back to the training room then, yeah? And we’ll see what’s going on,” Terry answers, and Weibe thankfully nods in agreement.
Ilya sighs and allows his weight to sink into Wyatt and Shane as they half-carry him to the training room, away from the medics and the prying eyes of the arena.
They have barely gotten him through the door and placed him on the training table before the adrenaline starts to fade and the pain starts to build. Wyatt steps back to place a steady hand behind him, and he grips the shoulder of Shane’s jersey with his right hand, his knuckles white. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, concentrating on breathing.
“Just checking out your neck and your head first, Rozanov,” he hears Terry say, right before feeling the man prodding the back of his neck and removing his helmet. “Tell me what happened, what you’re feeling.”
Ilya opens his mouth, but the pain in his side - his knee, his hip, his ribs, his shoulder - is overwhelming, and his brain isn’t cooperating.
“больно,” he manages to exhale.
“He’s hurting,” he hears Shane translate, and he nods, moving his hand to squeeze Shane’s forearm in gratitude. “He has more trouble with English when he’s like this.”
“Let’s get your gear off, Rozanov…” he hears Terry say and he cracks his eyes open.
Wyatt lifts an eyebrow, as if asking permission, and Ilya nods once. Shane moves to help, and Ilya moves the hand that was on Shane’s arm to the side of the training table, gripping it hard. They remove his skates, socks, and shin pads, as well as his elbow pads, with little trouble.
Terry quickly shuts off the lights and stands in front of him, shining a small penlight into each eye. He flips the lights back on and holds up his finger. Ilya tracks it with his eyes as he moves it up and down, thankfully knowing what to do without understanding the verbal instructions Terry gave him.
“Probably no concussion,” he says. “What took the weight of the hit, man? Where are you feeling it?”
Shane and Wyatt flank him again, their hands hovering behind him in support.
“First hit here,” Ilya answers through clenched teeth, motioning to his shoulder and his ribs. “Second here,” he says, motioning then to his hip. “And this was under,” he adds, pointing to his knee. He exhales sharply, swallowing the moan that threatens to escape as Terry places his hands around Ilya’s right knee.
“Okay, think you can stand so we can get those pants off?” Terry asks as he moves Ilya’s aching knee through some stretches.
Ilya nods, and lets Terry support him, reaching out to grab Wyatt’s steady shoulder, balancing his weight on his left side. Shane carefully unties Ilya’s pants, and meets his gaze. Shane’s eyes are red, his lip quivering.
“Is okay…” he tries to reassure Shane, his accent thick. He is almost immediately betrayed by the hiss that escapes him when Shane tugs his shorts down over his hip.
“Got you, Roz,” Wyatt says, helping Terry lower him back onto the table.
Ilya takes short breaths through his nose, and closes his eyes, waiting for the pain in his hip to settle, and not wanting to make the pain in his ribs any worse.
“Terry, we can cut the jersey and the shoulder pads off if it’s easier,” he hears Weibe interject. Ilya hadn’t even heard him enter the room. By the time he processes and translates, Terry was already in front of him, holding his trauma shears.
“No, no, is okay,” Ilya bites out, moving to take off his jersey and pads.
“Ilya…” Shane tries to argue, but Ilya meets his eyes with a hardened glare.
“Then at least let us help, man…” Wyatt tries.
Ilya huffs and resigns himself, Shane’s increasingly anxious gaze chipping away at his stubborn resolve.
He allows the men to lift his jersey and his pads up at the same time, groaning loudly in spite of himself as his shoulder is stretched above his head and the pan in his ribs flares.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Shane repeats quietly as they remove everything, finally leaving Ilya in just his boxers and undershirt.
Ilya holds his right arm against him and curls his left arm protectively around his forearm and midsection, finally able to collapse back against the slight incline of the table. He closes his eyes and feels Shane’s fingers run gently along his forearm and thread his fingers through the hand he has protecting himself.
“Starting here, Rozanov,” Terry announces, mercifully keeping his communication short and direct.
Ilya keeps his eyes closed, focused on keeping his composure, focused on the feeling of Shane’s fingers in his own.
Terry finishes with his knee, testing the range of motion. He grunts when the man presses into the side.
“Maybe just a sprain,” Terry says, and Ilya nods in agreement. “Definitely no tears. How’s this hip?” Shane moves to the other side of the table, carding his fingers through Ilya’s hair. “Can you roll over a bit?”
Shane reaches around Ilya’s back, and puts a hand behind him, supportive and strong. He bends slightly at the waist, putting his face near Ilya’s.
Ilya feels Terry move the waistband of his boxers aside, and hears Shane suck in a strained breath at whatever he sees.
“Is okay…” Ilya says again quietly, and Shane cups the side of his face with his other hand.
“A lot of deep bruising…” Terry assesses. “Might need imaging.”
Ilya bites his lip, anticipating the next move.
“Can you bring your knee up?”
Ilya takes a deep breath, pain shooting from his side, and brings his knee up toward where Shane stands in front of him.
“Good…” Terry says. “Now out?”
Ilya freezes, the pain clouding the words again, and Terry puts a hand around his thigh from behind him, rotating his leg outward and testing the range of motion. Ilya lets out a groan and his breath catches as his hip hits a particularly painful position and he can suddenly feel his pounding pulse in it. A small cry escapes his throat before he swallows hard and grits his teeth harder.
“Hey, hey…” he hears Shane say quietly, his thumb gliding over Ilya’s jaw. “Breathe.”
Ilya lets out a shaky exhale.
“You can lie back…” Terry tells him, and he immediately feels Shane gently lowering him back. “Can we get this undershirt off?”
Ilya opens his eyes and shakes his head, gripping his hand tighter around his midsection.
“Can we just cut it?” Shane asks.
“Da, please…” Ilya answers, relieved.
Terry starts gliding his scissors through Ilya’s shirt. Shane cards a hand through Ilya’s sweaty hair, and he allows himself to sink into the touch, feeling more exhausted by the minute.
“Ilya!” he hears suddenly as the fabric of his shirt falls to the floor. He cracks his eyes open to see Yuna rush through the door to his side, one hand instinctively covering Shane’s, tangled through Ilya’s curls, her other hand hovering over him, processing the scene. David follows closely, his presence steady behind her and Shane.
“That hit, and then that fall…” David starts, concern laced in his voice.
“How are you, sweetie?” Yuna asks, her hovering hand finally coming to rest on his left arm he has protectively wrapped around himself, her thumb rubbing gentle strokes back and forth.
“I am okay,” he manages to answer, his voice more unsteady than he’d like. “Just sore.”
“No concussion. Neck and spine cleared. Knee looks okay, maybe sprained,” Terry reports. “Might need imaging on that hip, but I’m thinking just deep bruising. Still need to get a look at his shoulder and these ribs.”
Terry carefully pulls away the arm Ilya has wrapped around himself, and Shane immediately wraps both hands around around his wrist and forearm, bringing it to his own chest. Ilya steals a glance down at his own chest, the angry red blotches that will soon turn to a deep purple spreading across his right side.
Terry lays his gloved hand across Ilya’s abdomen first, and presses.
“Pain?” he asks, moving his hand to different locations as Ilya shakes his head.
When he moves up from his abdomen to his ribs, Ilya hisses, and Terry looks at him apologetically. His hands move higher, pressing gently, and Ilya inhales sharply, his breath catching in his chest, instinctively pulling his hand from Shane’s and pushing Terry’s hand away before he realizes what he’s doing. Shane catches his hand again, and holds it tighter.
“извини…” he groans, his breath stuttering, and he clenches his fists.
“You’re doing great,” Terry assures him, before continuing his exam. He presses gently again as Ilya takes short, strained inhales, and Ilya sets his jaw, determined not to react again. Yuna strokes his hair and David keeps a steady hand on his left shoulder, grounding him.
“Cracked…” Ilya chokes out, feeling the familiar grit of bone shifting beneath Terry’s hands.
“Maybe broken this time, Rozanov…” Terry answers, and Ilya opens his watering eyes again, immediately locking his gaze with Shane’s concerned stare.
“It’s okay, just breathe,” Shane whispers.
Ilya squeezes his eyes shut again, focusing on the feeling of Shane holding his hand, of Yuna stroking his hair, of David’s strong hand on the side of his neck.
He feels Terry grasp his left elbow and start to prod his shoulder. He grunts, and Shane squeezes his hand, placing soft kisses on his knuckles. He steels himself when he feels Terry testing his range of motion, and feels a new layer of sweat form over his face as his shoulder throbs and protests each movement.
“Probably another sprain and some deep bruising,” Terry finally reports. “But we need to get those ribs checked out at the hospital.”
“I am okay,” Ilya says automatically, opening his eyes. “They will heal.”
“No arguments, Rozanov,” Weibe says with authority from where he’s been standing watch, and Ilya groans.
“No ambulance,” Ilya tries, desperate. “Shane can drive.”
He looks between Shane and Weibe, then Terry, then to Yuna and David, and they seemed to all be considering his request. He stares at Terry, hopeful.
“If you’re not there in 30 minutes…” Terry warns.
“Yes, will go,” he says, relief flooding through him.
“You’ll leave your car here,” Yuna says decisively, “and David and I will drive you both.”
Ilya takes one look at the concern on their faces and shuts his mouth, not daring to argue with her.
“C’mon, let’s get your shorts and your jacket from your locker…” Shane says, extending a hand to help Ilya stand.
“We’ll meet you outside,” David says to Shane.
Ilya takes Shane’s hand and stands slowly, tentatively. The shift was taxing, because he felt nausea rise up immediately and he reaches out a shaky hand to grab the table behind him again. Shane lets him steady himself for a beat before he nods, thankful for the support as they slowly trudge to the locker room.
Most of the rest of the team has showered and gone, but Wyatt is still getting dressed.
“All good?” he asks.
Ilya nods his head and concentrates hard on not showing the pain or the nausea threatening to overtake him completely, “Hospital for ribs.”
Wyatt grimaces, “Sorry, man. You need help?”
“No, is good,” he answers, short, clipped.
Shane pulls his clothes from the top shelf of the locker beside Wyatt for him and helps him gently pull on his jacket. He has his shorts halfway on, almost finished, when he shifts his weight into his injured right hip and cries out, folding over and crumpling to the ground.
“Roz!” Wyatt yells, his quick goalie reflexes sending him to the ground instantly and catching Ilya’s head in his lap.
Ilya gasps, the pain in his hip pulsing with each pounding beat of his heart, and his chest now screaming with a new pressure he hadn’t felt before. He absently swats the air, looking to remove whatever is crushing his chest. When he finds nothing there, he uses his good arm to grasp Wyatt’s jacket.
“Ilya!” he hears Shane panic, and his eyes dart wildly, landing on his husband’s shocked face.
“Shane!” Ilya croaks, his face twisting, the pressure in his chest growing more intense.
“Is it your hip?! What’s wrong?!” Shane asks frantically.
Ilya grips at his own chest, trying to inhale.
“не могу дышать…” he chokes out, and squeezes his eyes shut.
He can feel his body shaking, sweating. He hears shouting, someone roughly shaking his arm, patting the side of his face.
“Get the paramedics in here, now!” someone yells.
He feels the people gathered around him, and he wills himself not to panic.
“Open your eyes, Rozanov!” he hears, and he tries, but the crushing weight in his chest is too intense. He shakes his head, and a small whine escapes him.
Someone slips something around his face, commands him to breathe. He can feel the cool air against his lips, but his lungs won’t pull it in. He pants against the mask, shallow and strained, his panic rising as he feels himself being strapped to a gurney and wheeled out of the locker room.
***
Shane can feel himself vibrating with anxiety as he sits in the ambulance with Terry, gripping Ilya’s hand. The sirens are screaming and Shane watches intently as Ilya pants against the oxygen mask on his face, the amount of air moving in and out of his lungs barely enough to cause a fog at all.
Ilya’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s gripping Shane’s hand hard, alternating digging his heels into the stretcher beneath him, no doubt causing himself more pain in his knee and hip.
“Ilya, baby, try to be still. You’re going to hurt yourself,” Shane tries as he reaches forward, trying to use his free hand to still Ilya’s legs.
He watches Ilya’s face twist, sweating and pale, his lips a concerning shade of blue around the edges.
Terry is standing over him with the medic, a stethoscope pressed to his chest, when the ambulance lurches, coming to a quick stop and the doors immediately flinging open.
“Hockey player we called about…” the medic tells the waiting team.
“Secondary fall with broken ribs, no breath sounds on the right, tracheal deviation,” Terry reports as they slide Ilya’s stretcher out.
Shane jogs beside the stretcher as best he can and stands protectively at the head of the bed when they reach the trauma room, trying his best to ignore the chaos around them. He focuses on Ilya’s pained face as people swarm him, connecting monitors and attempting to start a peripheral line. He grips Ilya’s hand and brushes the side of his face. He vaguely hears the team talking about pain management when Wyatt rushes in.
“Your parents are getting his information settled with Terry. They’re coming,” he says, out of breath.
Shane doesn’t have time to respond.
“Mr. Rozanov, we need to put in a chest tube to relieve the pressure around your lung. We don’t have time to wait. It will be painful, but we’ll be quick,” a man says to Ilya as someone ties a sterile gown around him.
Ilya’s eyes open and dart around wildly, panicked.
“I’ll need you boys to wait outside,” a nurse says to them, ushering them toward the door.
Suddenly, the monitors start alarming and Ilya starts clawing at the equipment, trying to sit up.
“Wait, he doesn’t understand!” Shane exclaims as he and Wyatt both push back toward the bed, standing on his left side.
“Shh,” Shane says, gently pushing Ilya back onto the bed, “расслабляться…”
He nods to Wyatt, who takes up position to grip Ilya’s thighs, holding him.
“Just me and Wyatt,” Shane says, lowering himself to talk directly into Ilya’s ear. “ты в безопасности.”
Ilya’s stuttered breathing resumes, tears leaking from the sides of his eyes as he squeezes them shut again, and Shane swipes at his own eyes before grabbing Ilya’s shaking hand.
The team has continued to prepare around them, and Shane looks up expectantly.
“You can stay. This won’t be pleasant. You need to keep him calm, and still,” they instruct.
Shane looks to Wyatt, who nods back at him in agreement.
“We’ve got him,” Wyatt answers the doctor.
Everyone seems to make eye contact and the doctor nods, ready.
“Alright Mr. Rozanov, I need you to keep this arm up here for me,” he says, raising Ilya’s right arm above his head. A pained whine escapes Ilya’s throat as Shane grabs his arm, keeping his bruised shoulder held tight above him.
“It’s okay,” Shane says quietly, his voice shaking.
The doctor throws a blue sheet over Ilya’s bare chest and quickly scrubs in a circular motion over the skin peeking out through the hole in the middle. Ilya continues to pant against the oxygen mask.
“You’ll be able to breathe easier so soon, Mr. Rozanov,” a nurse says from beside Shane.
“Okay, boys, keep him as still as you can,” the doctor says, a scalpel in his hand.
Shane grips Ilya’s forearm, pinning it against the bed above his head, and keeps one hand on the side of his face, pulling it toward him. The doctor slides the scalpel over Ilya’s chest and a small cry escapes his blue lips as the nurse grips Ilya’s hips and Wyatt presses into his thighs.
Shane doesn’t have time to process which of them could be hurting Ilya’s battered body the most before Ilya’s eyes shoot open and he tries buck his upper body off the bed, trying to twist. Shane leans against him, throwing his weight on top of him, and sees that the doctor has plunged two fingers into Ilya’s chest and seems to be feeling for something. He inhales sharply and swallows his own nausea.
“There we go,” he hears the doctor say. “Hang in there, Ilya.”
A startling, guttural sound escapes from Ilya’s chest as the doctor spreads his fingers, widening the hole and swiftly inserts what looks like a clear garden hose. The sound turns into cry, and a then shuddering sob as Ilya seems to take a full gulp of fresh air for the first time.
Shane watches the mask fog properly as Ilya inhales and exhales full breaths of air, and takes his weight off, using a shaking hand to wipe the sweat gently from Ilya’s forehead.
“A couple stitches,” the doctor says. “You did great. Breathing okay, now?”
“боль…” Ilya croaks without opening his eyes.
“He’s in pain,” Shane translates for the second time that day.
“We can get his pain under control now that he’s stable,” the man says, and Shane can feel a wave of relief wash over him. “Once he’s comfortable, we’ll get some imaging and talk about our options.”
The man turns to talk to the nurses, and Shane takes the opportunity to bring his face to Ilya’s, brushing the sweaty hair from his head and wiping the drying tears from the sides of his face.
“Помоги…” Ilya whispers, cracking open his bloodshot eyes.
“I know, дорогая. They’re going to help you,” Shane says, his voice breaking.
“Alright, Mr. Rozanov, this will probably make you sleepy, but you’ll be more comfortable,” a nurse says as she pushes a clear liquid into the line connected to the inside of Ilya’s elbow.
Shane watches as Ilya’s face instantly smoothes, his muscles relaxing, his fists unclench. His breathing deepens and evens out. He feels someone put a steady hand on his back.
“They said he’ll be out for awhile. Let’s go get your parents,” Wyatt offers, and Shane lets the man help pull him to his feet, stealing one last look at Ilya’s sleeping face.
***
Ilya’s senses didn’t come back slowly. Consciousness seemed to hit him like a freight train. Like the flip of a switch, it seemed like he transitioned in a single second from darkness and silence to the rest of the world.
The beeping of the monitor rings in his ears, picking up speed. He tenses his muscles involuntarily, groaning against the pain and clenching his fists before feeling a hand on his head.
He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly to focus, and finds Yuna standing over him, stroking his hair. He looks around slowly, processing.
“Hey, sweetie…” she says softly.
He hears movement behind her and turns to see Shane close the space between them, his red-rimmed eyes tired and his hair sticking out from where he’d obviously been sleeping. He quickly rounds to the other side of the bed and takes Ilya’s left hand in his own, pressing light kisses to his fingers.
He goes to reach for Shane with his right hand, only to find his arm lightly wrapped against his chest with a gauzy strip of bandaging. He looks down at himself, confused, until Yuna reaches out and tips his chin up, looking into his eyes.
“You scared us, son…” she says sincerely, tears in her own eyes.
“I am sorry,” Ilya responds, his accent thick and his voice scratchy. He swallows hard, and Yuna notices, reaching behind her to grab a cup of water, bringing the straw to Ilya’s lips. He takes a small sip and then sags back, wincing again as pain shoots through his side.
“I am okay?” Ilya asks, directing his question to Shane before noticing the tears spilling down his cheeks.
“моя любовь,” he says, taking his free hand from Shane’s to wipe the tears from his face.
Shane scrubs at his eyes and huffs, nodding his head. Ilya pats the bed next to him and tries to use his free hand to push himself up, making a place for Shane.
“Ahh…” he groans, his hand immediately crossing protectively over his midsection and landing on his hip, his fingers gripping into the pain.
“Hey…” Shane says quietly, sliding onto the bed beside him and carefully pulling Ilya’s hand from his hip.
“Here, sweetie, let us help you,” Yuna says, as David carefully wraps ice packs in hospital washcloths and hands them to her.
She places one just under his right hip and he steels himself, letting the cold seep in.
“Take some deep breaths…” Shane coaxes him, and Ilya brings his hand back around himself, bracing his ribs. His eyes widen as he runs his fingers over a large pad of bandaging, and he gingerly pulls the hospital gown aside to see.
“My ribs?” he questions.
Shane slides his hand lightly over Ilya’s and pulls it back from the bandaging.
“You fell in the locker room when we’re getting dressed to come to the hospital,” Shane explains, his voice quivering slightly. “Terry said one of your broken ribs punctured your lung. You couldn’t breathe.”
“Da, I remember,” Ilya says, the memories coming back.
“The medics brought you in, and they put in a chest tube,” Yuna takes over for Shane. “Once you were stable, they got some imaging of your injuries from the game, and you had surgery. They put some plates here to stabilize your ribs.”
“When?” Ilya manages to ask.
“The game was yesterday,” David answers. “You had surgery late last night.”
Ilya nods slowly.
“Here, let’s see if this helps…” David places another ice pack around Ilya’s midsection and Ilya inhales sharply. “Try to relax, son. Your body took a beating.”
“Is good now?” Ilya asks, directing his question to Shane again, searching his eyes for any indication that they’re holding something from him.
“You’re going to be fine,” Shane says, bringing his hand to cup the side of Ilya’s face and then carding his fingers through his hair. “Some time off for your ribs to heal, definitely some rehab for your hip, and maybe for your shoulder, but you’ll be back for next season.”
Ilya is still processing when a nurse walks in.
“Mr. Rozanov, good to see you!” she says, smiling.
Ilya stiffens, the ingrained instinct to appear strong taking over.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, already at his right side, unwrapping the wrap from his shoulder to inspect the bruising, and then quickly moving the ice pack from his ribs to assess before replacing it.
“I am fine,” Ilya answers, his stoic facade slipping only momentarily as she removes the ice from his hip and rolls him slightly to prod the back of his pelvis. A small sound escapes his gritted teeth.
“I think he could use another dose of pain meds,” Yuna says, slipping from concerned mom mode to omniscient manager mode.
Ilya opens his mouth to refute it, but quickly closes it and grits his teeth again as the ice pack is replaced and his weight sinks back into it.
“Can you give me a number, Mr. Rozanov? 1 to 10? What’s your pain like right now?” she asks.
Ilya’s eyes dart between the nurse, his husband, and Yuna, torn between telling the truth and keeping up his facade in front of this stranger.
“Four…maybe five,” he says, his accent thick.
“Ilya…” Yuna chides, and he feels heat creep up the back of his neck.
“Okay…” he relents. “Six. Or, maybe seven here,” he admits, motioning to the side of his chest and his hip. He can feel the tears threatening to spill and he swallows hard.
“Let’s see if we can get you a little more comfortable,” the nurse says, injecting something into the line running to his arm. Then she pats Ilya’s arm and motions for him to turn. His hand shakes as he grips onto Shane’s shoulder and shifts his weight.
“Here,” she says, sticking a long, flexible cold pack under his side before patting him gently again and helping him lower his weight back onto it. “The medicine should kick in soon, and the cold pack should help a little. Today and tomorrow will probably be the worst of it, okay?”
Ilya sighs, closing his eyes, and then shivers, the cold from the ice packs sinking deep.
“Let me know if he’s not feeling any relief in the next 20 minutes or so…” she says, presumably to Yuna or Shane, before he hears the door click shut behind her.
“Are you cold, baby?” Shane asks, rubbing his arm, already leaning forward to pull a blanket from the foot of the bed.
“Come here,” Ilya says, opening his left arm and Shane tentatively settles into the space, letting Ilya rest his chin on Shane’s head.
“Is this okay?” Shane asks.
“Better,” Ilya says, smiling softly.
Yuna pulls the blanket over the both of them and Ilya pulls Shane as close as he can without shifting his weight. He feels Shane put a light hand over the top of his chest, and he cracks his eyes open, looking down at him.
“Just want to feel you breathing…” Shane whispers, and Ilya gently bows his head to kiss the top of Shane’s hair.
Yuna strokes his hair away from his eyes, and he looks at her, his eyes shining with gratitude.
“Let us take care of you now, tough guy. No pretending, okay?” she asks, the sincerity and concern and love obvious in the way she’s staring at him.
“Okay,” he says, closing his eyes as the pain medication starts to take the edge off the throbbing pain in his side and concentrating on his breathing. “Thank you.”