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Pacing, Shane rapidly swore under his breath as he ran a hand through his hair drenched in sweat and winced. The hospital hallway was pretty empty, though he did give half a mind to the way his jersey clung to his skin.
“It’s alright,” Troy said, hands on hips, “I’m sure it’s nothing.” He looked to the half-transparent windows into the room.
Shane’s eyes have been glued to it the whole time. Anything to keep the image of Ilya hitting the ice like he did from replaying in his mind. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, really, except Ilya did not move until Shane rushed up to the boards from center ice and shook his shoulder. And even then he only got something incoherent out of him.
“He tried to get up almost right away,” Troy went on when Shane didn’t answer, “I think I heard him say something, too.”
“Not helping, Troy,” Shane said, and then heard himself, and turned to the guy. Troy was probably saying this more to himself. He cared about Ilya, too. “Sorry, it’s just…”
“No, no, I know.”
Nothing serious, right? His husband of barely a year could not be in danger, right?
“I just hope…”
The door finally opened and a nurse started to say something, but Shane could only exhale another swear word and sneak past him inside. “Shane Hollander?” he heard him say, and assumed Troy confirmed with a nod.
Ilya lay on his back, on a bed that was raised just so, head turned to the side, eyes closed. He was without a hospital gown but covered with a blanket, Shane assumed because of all the stuff they’d strapped to him to monitor and the bandages they’d had to apply. He beelined for the chair by the right side of the bed, which Ilya was facing away from, sat down and reached out to lay a hand on Ilya’s left arm. It was warm, he even felt a pulse throbbing. Shane let out a long exhale. It was okay. Whatever it was, he’d manage. The doctor said some things, that Ilya was alright, just some bruising, a concussion, and a fracture somewhere, so a lot of pain meds, a bit delirious, and Shane felt himself nodding frantically.
“And, uh,” the doctor stalled, so Shane had to actually look at the woman, “he is… well.” She paused, and in that moment Shane’s mind sped through about ten thousand wort-case scenarios, which would mean not all of them were worst-case, he supposed; there had to have been one or two that would be worse than others, but then– “Do you speak Russian?” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Or, uh, Ukrainian, I actually am not sure, but…”
“Yeah, it’s Russian.”
“Okay, so you do,” she seemed relieved. “I think… it might be the meds that’s making it a bit difficult to communicate in a second language. Most likely, though, it’s a side effect of concussion. We couldn’t get him to speak a word of English, which I assume he does, but, just – not right now.”
Shane processed that for a long moment. That was not on his list of worst cases.
“Is it, like, permanent?”
“Oh, probably not,” she said, looking over at Ilya, who stirred a bit and Shane leaned in, but Ilya stopped. “In extremely rare cases it happens that patients lose their second language entirely,” Shane looked to her with wide eyes, “we’re still waiting for CT scan results, so it’s hard to tell,” she reassured, “but, Shane, it is very, very rare, and very unlikely. He is fine. He will be fine. And you speak Russian, anyway. It’s alright,” she gave him a smile. “It’ll go away after some time. Now, I’ll be right outside if you need me, okay?” and walked out.
“Right,” Shane said. He stared ahead, at the closed door, and tried to make sense of whatever he’d heard.
– Ушла, наконец-то, – a rumbling sound came from Ilya’s side.
“Hey, you okay?” Shane immediately leaned in, his free hand reaching up to gently stroke Ilya’s jaw.
Ilya slowly turned his head, squinting, his lip in a half-smile. Shane couldn’t help but return it, his fingers caressing his cheek now, the other hand gently squeezing Ilya’s forearm. His husband woke up, was looking at him, and everything else would be okay now. Ilya let out a low whine.
– Так себе, зай, – he murmured, – но сейчас получше, – and looked at Shane, dreamily.
So it was real. Shane fought not to swear under his breath. For a moment he floated between confusion and comfort, because he surely has heard Ilya speak Russian a lot, but he never actually had to seriously engage with it before. The felling was weird, a little unsettling.
“I, uh,” Shane slowly shook his head, “I do not know what you’re saying, baby.”
– Да, да, я понял уже, – Ilya sighed dramatically and looked up to the ceiling. Shane recognized the two consecutive da sounds as affirmative and suppressed a chuckle with a smile. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. – Кошмар какой-то. Ох, я главный козырь просрал, получается, Шанечка.
“But you, uh,” Shane scooted closer, with the chair, and leaned elbows on Ilya’s bed, “you know what I’m saying, right?”
– М-мм, – he turned to faintly kiss Shane’s fingers. – Вообще все понимаю, а сказать ниче не могу. – Ilya’s eyes closed for a brief moment. He looked and sounded exhausted. – Да.
“Da,” Shane repeated. “Okay, then. Why do you…. How?...” he was not sure what he was asking, looking into Ilya’s eyes.
Ilya mimicked his confused look and the corners of his mouth turned down. He lightly shrugged, as much as he could.
– Понятия не имею. Херня какая-то, честно скажу, родной.
“Okay, so you don’t know. Can you remember any English words?”
– Да я даже помню все, – Ilya said in a rumble, and looked disappointed. Shane listened for any familiar words, brows furrowed in concentration, – Как это объяснить-то вообще. Прочитать бы смог, наверное, написать… написать, блин!
Ilya looked agitated by the end of it, and Shane frantically followed his expression. “What is it?”
Ilya then lifted his right arm from under the covers and folded fingers like he was holding a pen, and writing in the air. “Oh, you can write, of course!” Shane nodded and beamed in understanding when Ilya nodded with an easy smile. “Hold on, I’ll grab a…” he looked around and quickly found a notepad and a pen by the heart rate monitor. “Here.”
Ilya’s grip on the pen was awkward, what with a finger clasp for heart rate monitoring, but he adjusted himself a bit and tried at it. When Shane leaned in to look, he said, “oh.”
The scribbles on the notepad looked like a toddler’s first try at calligraphy. A cold shock of dread shot through Shane in a moment – what if that meant Ilya’s brain was damaged beyond repair?
“Shit, okay,” Shane said as Ilya dropped hands on the banket in exasperation. “This can’t be good.”
– Окей, давай без паники только, – Ilya said as he looked at Shane, soft, reassuring. – Все хорошо будет. Хо-ро-шо.
“Horosho ,” Shane repeated. He knew that one. “You think it’ll be good?”
– Уверен, точно, – Ilya nodded. – У меня просто, – he lifted a finger to his temple and waved it in a circle, – туман в голове какой-то. Или стена толстая, – he moved a hand in front of himself, as if signing a shield, – Не могу достать, включить этот твой ебучий английский… – he rubbed his eyes with one hand, the other Shane grabbed to thread their fingers together, held it with both of his hands. – Ладно, нормальный язык. Твой, значит хороший. – Ilya sighed again. – Но у меня как отрезало.
Shane met Ilya’s eyes, apologetic. “Shit, I’m… I’m sorry. I should’ve… I should’ve been way better at Russian by now.”
Ilya gave him a soft look, a soft smile. It was a very particular type of look and smile that Shane knew very well. It sent a jolt of heat through his core – nothing like arousal, no, but a deep, emotional wave. Like he was being pinned down and really seen, very carefully considered. The intensity of it was hard to bear because of how open it was, but Shane had learned to lean into it. His husband could look at him any way he wanted.
His husband.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll start taking lessons,” Shane went on and kissed Ilya’s fingers. “Like, actual lessons, not this Duolingo bullshit,” Ilya chuckled at that, and Shane did, too. “Hire a tutor and stuff.”
– Потом на инглише тоже будешь с секси акцентом разговаривать, – well, Shane recognized one word of that.
“Are you saying I’ll sound sexy,” Shane narrowed his eyes and Ilya motioned his open palm from side to side, meaning sort of. “I know what the word sexy sounds like.”
– Еще бы. Самое важное слово, – Ilya said with a grin.
“I just… God, what if this doesn’t go away, Ilya? What then?” Shane dropped their hands on the bed and felt almost on the verge of tears again.
– Ох, любовь моя, дай Бог не узнать, конечно, – Ilya reached with his newly freed hand to cup Shane’s face. He ran soothing circles on Shane’s cheek with his thumb, and for a moment Shane felt profoundly calmer. He was well-versed in Ilya’s touch. – Придется учиться быстрее, – Ilya softly smiled, and that eased Shane’s anxiety momentarily. Ilya possibly was calmer because he was flying high off his meds, so the gravity of it all hasn’t hit him. But Shane felt like Ilya really did know what he was talking about. He should cling to his husband’s faith right now. Ilya’s the one going through it all, not Shane. And actually…
“Are you in pain? I can’t believe I haven’t even asked that, I’m sorry, I–”
– Болит, да, – Ilya nodded. – Ребра, голова… шея, – he pointed to his ribs, head, craned his neck. – Если кашляю, то в груди еще отдается, – Ilya lightly patted his chest. – Пиздец противно.
“Okay. I’m sorry,” Shane said and sniffled. Ilya grabbed his hand and squeezed.
– Да не переживай. Эй, – Ilya swiped a pointer finger under Shane’s chin, and Shane looked up from under his brows. – Я тебя люблю, окей? Все обойдется. Я тебя так люблю, зайчонок. Все будет. Не переживай.
Shane knew some of those words, too. “I love you, too. So, so much.”
– Вот видишь, все ты понимаешь, что надо. Остальное Светлана подхватит, если что.
“Svetlana?” Ilya nodded. “Holy shit, you’re right. I’ll… I’ll text her, okay? She could, I don’t know, translate some stuff, just right now, maybe.”
– Не надо, – Ilya scrunched up his face and shook his head a bit, – она, блин, переживать еще будет.
“She’ll worry if we tell her later. You’ll get in trouble,” Shane said, phone in hand already.
Ilya rolled eyes and huffed. Shane looked at him, expectantly, with challenge. Ilya shrugged and gave him a tight-lipped look.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Shane said in a smug tone. He unlocked his phone, now with a huge crack across the screen – embarrassing, really, that he’d dropped it from the overhead shelf in the locker room the other day – and navigated to his messages. His mom had texted, J.J. and Hayden, too, because they’d been watching the game and saw Ilya go down, and so did a couple of guys from their team. Shane shot a quick text of Ilya’s awake, concussion and fracture to his mom and best friends. The Cents would get their update from Harris via Troy.
They didn’t text often, Svetlana and him, but she’d visited for Christmas and New Years a couple months ago, so the chat wasn’t too far down.
Shane saw the message immediately delivered and read. Svetlana started typing.
“Hey, um,” Shane looked up at Ilya who’d nearly dozed off but perked up at his voice. “Svetlana’s asking if you could maybe type?”
Ilya took Shane’s phone while Shane figured out how to raise the bed a little, to make Ilya sit up. Ilya winced and motioned to his ribs. Shane lifted the blanket and saw the bandages around his middle. He winced in sympathy.
– А вот читаю без проблем, – Ilya said and sent Shane a thumbs-up, meaning probably that he could read what they’d written. Okay, that was a good sign, perhaps. – Охуительный аттракцион просто.
Shane sat and watched Ilya typing away, which meant, probably, that he could type in Russian. Also a good sign. Even though they couldn’t do voice-to-text right now because of Shane’s stupid mic and because Shane had no idea where Ilya’s phone even was, having Ilya at least typing things into a translator app could help down the road. Shane watched as Ilya typed away, paused, typed again. He drummed fingers on the bed. He watched Ilya’s profile intently. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Ilya could start learning English from scratch, and Shane would start taking Russian more seriously. They’d be on equal footing, and it could be fun. Shane would definitely have all the motivation in the world. Hell, with the right mindset he could make it his second hockey – Ilya was already more important than that, and Russian would just be an extension of it. It should’ve been this whole time, Shane thought and bit down on his teeth in frustration.
Ilya’s loud chuckle sent Shane back to Earth.
– Держи, – Ilya said and passed Shane the phone. – Дарю.
Shane scrolled down, past the few messages in Russian which he sadly could not read, and landed on the familiar-looking script.
“Wow,” Shane drawled, a bit of heat rising on his cheeks, and Ilya started quietly laughing, “you are a poet, Ilya.”
– Да, это правда, я такой.
“I was thinking the same thing. About Russian. I think I could really get on with it. I won’t read, like, fuckin’, Dostoevsky or anything in a year, but I could at least hold some basic conversation, you know.”
– Ты в сто раз лучше Достоевского, – Ilya nodded. – Мой муж.
“Right,” Shane said, “whatever you say,” and ran his thumb over Ilya’s knuckles where they still held hands. He mulled Ilya’s words over in his mind, because the last one sounded familiar. Short, sweet, with a quaint zh at the end…
“Moozh…” Shane said, watching Ilya, who bit his lip and nodded. God, he really should put in as much effort as possible – the way Ilya’s face lit up every time Shane attempted Russian, no matter how pathetic, it seemed to bring Ilya joy. Why did he possibly think procrastinating it was an option. “Moozh-moozh-moozh… oh,” Shane perked up and beamed, “husband? Moozh is husband, right?”
– Все так, – Ilya beamed in response. – Бля-ять, – he drawled, and Shane’s eyes dropped to his Adam’s apple, went back up to his face, and Ilya was just devouring Shane with his eyes, no better way to put it. – Муж. Мой муж, блин. Шейн Холландер – мой муж. Охуеть.
“What, you’re spiraling or something,” Shane asked with a chuckle as he recognized his own full name in the string of some also recognizable profanity.
– Просто пиздец, – Ilya squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and sniffled, and when he looked back at Shane they glistened a little bit. – Spiraling, ага, типа того. Жесть. И это все по-настоящему. Ты настоящий. У нас же семья с тобой будет. Мы уже семья. У нас собака уже есть, господи, мы женаты. Мы замужем. Пиздец. Хорошо-то как... Надо тебя почаще мужем звать. Мне нравится, очень. Муж.
Shane listened, and gradually relaxed, leaning further on his elbows on the raised bed, keeping Ilya’s hand in his own. It sounded like Ilya was rambling sweet nothings, but also like it was something very, very important for him that he could only ever say in Russian. Not because he wouldn’t be able to articulate it otherwise, necessarily. It just meant something special to Ilya. It meant the world to Shane. He watched his husband with full attention, listened to the few words out of context that he understood. He thought, when Ilya was done, that he heard something too familiar, though.
“Hey, uh. You said something that sounded a lot like ‘spiraling.’ What was that?”
Ilya thought on it for a moment.
– Спайралинг… Spiraling, yes. – Shane’s eyes grew wide and he squeezed Ilya’s hand as Ilya beamed in realization. – That is what I said.
“Oh my god,” Shane said on exhale, “Ilya, you’re… it’s back!”
– Хм-м, не совсем… – Ilya frowned, as if fishing for the words out of reach. Shane watched him intently, could not stop smiling. – But is… some progress there, I think.
“Oh my god. Oh, my god, I’m so happy,” Shane buried his head in the raised part of the bed, next to Ilya’s head, Ilya’s hand pressed to his lips. He inhaled the smell of the hospital sheets deep into his lungs and felt Ilya run his fingers through Shane’s hair. “OhmygodI’msofuckingglad.”
“You are stressed, Hollander,” he heard Ilya from the side, “is no good. No stress. Your husband is here, hm?”
Shane looked up, his chin squished by the mattress. “Yeah. Uh-huh.” Ilya looked so tired, and his hand on Shane’s head was heavy. “God, I fucking love you so much.”
Ilya’s smile was tired, too. It’s like reaching for the bits of English took all of the strength that the injuries had not. He hummed in contentment. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’ll sleep a little bit now. You’ll be okay, my love?”
Shane huffed, partly in relief that slowly washed over him in a wave, and partly because of how ridiculous it was – Ilya in a hospital bed, minutes ahead of a possibility of permanent language loss, or whatever, but still he was the one taking care of Shane. “Yeah,” he said and sat up a bit, and let Ilya’s hand fall from his head. “Yes, I’ll be okay, moozh.”
– Господи, какой же ты невероятно красивый.
Ilya gave Shane’s hand a gentle squeeze and let his eyes gently close. Shane put the bed back down, so that Ilya would be comfortable, and dimmed the lights in the room. He only felt a goofy smile on his own lips a bit later, when he thought to release Ilya’s hand and let him rest. Shane recognized the last word in Ilya’s sentence before he fell asleep. It was simple, but it never failed to make him blush just a little bit. He whispered it, over and over, under his breath, to feel it in the mouth. He whispered a few other words he knew or recognized but couldn’t quite recall the meaning of. Really, he just needed a little bit of a push.
How hard could a language be, if it were a language of love?