Chapter Text
Ilya
Back when Ilya was a young teenager, he would often lie in the snow beside the tracks and listen as the train passed. In general, there is not much he remembers from the years immediately following his mother’s death. Scratchy suits, the clack of pucks hitting the tape, vodka. But he remembers feeling the rumble of a passing train under his back, the freeze of the earth, the scream of the wheels. He remembers that sometimes Sveta, sharp and sarcastic even then, would lay her jacket over the snow and sit cross-legged next to him. She was usually silent, waiting for him to get up and walk himself home or to practice or school when he bothered to go. He remembers that once, after he had stayed still in the snow long after the tracks were empty, she knelt beside him and grabbed his hand. “Get up, Ilyushka. It’s time to go.”
Ilya’s eyes are open, and he feels the freeze of ice under his back. There is shouting somewhere. His head is screaming, and something is ringing loudly. A voice is speaking to him. Rough, not like Sveta. “Get up, Roz. It’s time to get up. Hollander is going to climb over the boards in about three seconds if you don’t.” Distantly, he senses this is important. But he is calm, with the rumble of the train, the bite of the cold, the edge of a high-pitched noise in his ears. He is thirteen again, in the snow.
Shane
“He’s not getting up. Fuck, he’s not getting up.” Shane mutters to himself. It’s taking every ounce of willpower Shane has not to clamor over the boards to where his husband just got laid out on the other side of the rink. But hockey players get knocked over all the time, and the media has enough of a field day over the “first husbands of hockey” without Shane calling in the cavalry at the smallest sign of injury. Shane himself hit the ice a couple of times this period, and it seems to him that some kids who ride their edges spend more time getting back on their feet than actually playing. So he settles for staring daggers into the number on the back of Bood’s jersey where he’s talking to Ilya, still flat on his back. Bood glances back at the bench, blink and you miss it, and Shane knows. He’s over the boards and skidding to a stop on his knees next to Ilya in seconds.
Ilya’s eyes are open, but he is perfectly still on the ice. He’s not looking at Shane, or Bood, or the nearly sold-out crowd rising above the rink. Shane swallows his panic and leans over Ilya so he’s in his eyeline. In his peripheral vision, he sees the medical team stepping on the ice.
“Hi, love,” Shane says quietly. “You hear me, Ilyushka?”
It seems like Ilya looks right through him, but then he blinks long and slow, and his brow starts to furrow.
Shane exhales his relief, “Hey, there you are. It’s okay, take your time. Really got your-”
Ilya’s head snaps back, his back arching up and away from the ice. He’s convulsing, a choking sound escaping his throat. Strong arms are pulling Shane away as the medical team descends.
He fights the hands on him. “Stop it,” Shane demands. He identifies Bood as his captor. “Bood, let me go. I mean it, let me go. I’ll stay out of the way.”
“No, you won’t.” Bood tightens his grip. “Just give them a second to work. Roz needs them working on them more than he needs you blocking their way. You can see fine from here.”
But Bood doesn’t understand. If Ilya is aware, if he can hear and feel and see everything happening around him, there is nothing and no one truly familiar. Terry, the team doctor, is here along with a couple of trainers. But Ilya has never had much reason to get to know Terry beyond occasional emails about best practices in sports medicine for athletes, and he rarely is in the training room. Ilya is surrounded by professionals doing damage control, but to Shane, he may as well be alone. Shane doesn’t know how to stop a seizure, but it doesn’t seem like the medics know either. They are just holding Ilya on his side, watching him convulse. One of them has a terribly noisy little machine with a straw that she’s using to keep Ilya’s mouth clear as blood and spit and then, horribly, vomit, foam from his husband’s lips.
And then it’s over. Almost as fast as it began, Ilya stills. The medics roll him onto a backboard, and Bood releases his hold on Shane when they start to transport him off the ice. Shane follows hot on their heels, making eye contact with his coach on the way. I’m leaving with him, his eyes say. Try and stop me.
Shane steps into the tunnel behind the parade of athletic trainers, Team Doctor Terry, event paramedics, and Ilya. Shane pauses for a moment to fumble with his skates, ripping them off his feet and dropping his helmet and gloves beside them. He leaves his things in the tunnel and jogs to catch up with the group, following them into the Toronto parking lot in his stocking feet and climbing into the standby ambulance behind Ilya.
Shane finds a seat on the bench of the ambulance on Ilya’s left side. He reaches out and runs his fingers gently along Ilya’s hairline near his temple. Ilya’s hair is sticky with sweat, and his mouth has dried blood next to it, and his face is slack, and still he is beautiful. Half his face is obscured by an oxygen mask, and he is the most incredible thing Shane has ever seen because he is breathing, which means he’s alive.
The paramedic who was wielding the suction device while Ilya seized is now fiddling with an IV in his right hand.
“Excuse me,” Shane says. The paramedic looks up at him. Her stethoscope swings on her neck, and he can read that her name tag is embroidered with S. Khatri. “There’s blood. Near his mouth.”
She answers the question he didn’t quite ask. “Oh, he just bit his lip or tongue when he was seizing. Here.” She produces a wipe from somewhere and lifts the edge of the oxygen mask, cleaning the corners of Ilya’s mouth.
“Thanks.”
She smiles gently at him. “Of course.”
As the ambulance pulls away from the rink, Ilya’s head turns against Shane’s hand. His eyelids flutter, then open. Ilya’s eyes move between Shane and the paramedic.
“Hi there,” Nametag: S. Khatri says, leaning in towards Ilya. “Can you tell me your name, please?”
Ilya’s eyes slide away from her back to Shane. “Shane. U menya bolit golova.” His words are slurred, but Shane knows the phrase.
“He says his head hurts.”
“I’m sure it does. He speaks English, doesn’t he?” S. Khatri asks.
“Yes, very well,” Shane says defensively. He continues to hold his hand on Ilya’s cheek and hopes Ilya is comforted by his presence, that he doesn’t feel as alone as he seemed to Shane as he shook apart on the ice.
“Okay,” She places her hand gently on Ilya’s shoulder. “Can you tell me your name, please?”
Ilya’s eyes meet hers for a moment before closing, and Ilya makes a low, pained noise. It is definitely not the kind of thing Ilya would do if he knew he was in front of a stranger.
“That’s okay,” she says. She looks at Shane. “He’s postictal. It’s very normal after a seizure to be confused or seem out of it. He’s probably going to get very popular when we get to the emergency room, so it might seem a little chaotic to you for a bit.”
Shane nods at her, lacing one hand with Ilya’s while the other gently brushes his hair back off his forehead. Ilya stays like that, awake but unaware, occasionally saying Shane’s name or something about his head or making a small sound that breaks Shane’s heart until they pull into the ambulance bay. S. Khatri and her partner pull the stretcher out of the back and start saying a lot of words to the people that converge on them in the emergency room. Shane follows, still clutching Ilya’s hand, until a voice tells him he can’t follow Ilya to the CT scan. He tries to argue, but there’s hand on his chest stopping him and then Ilya is gone, wheeled through a set of doors where Shane can’t follow.
Someone in scrubs with a yellow stethoscope and a pink claw clip is talking to him. He lets her guide him to a small waiting room and sits where she gestures. She leaves and comes back holding a folded pile of hospital scrub pants and a crewneck that says University Health Network. She tells him this is a private waiting area, so no one should bother him, and that he can change in the bathroom if he’ll be more comfortable than in what he’s wearing.
Shane finally takes stock of how ridiculous he must look in his pads and jersey with no shoes. His helmet and skates were dropped in the Toronto team’s tunnel, and he vaguely hopes that an equipment manager thought to hunt them down. His neck guard, which Ilya laughs at him relentlessly for wearing, is still on, disgusting and sweaty. Shane has a several-step plan to force Ilya also to wear a neck guard, which mostly involves guilt-tripping him shamelessly. Arguing that rookies are required to wear one has proved ineffective, because Ilya is “not a rookie and also Russians have very strong necks, Hollander.” They have some version of this argument regularly, and it is one of seldom few disagreements they have that truly upsets Shane.
Shane takes everything into a family washroom and changes, shedding gear the same way he has for three decades of his life. He folds the sweaty layers into a transparent trash bag and stashes it in the corner of the private waiting area. Shane discovers the scrub pants are too big even with the waist tie and the hoodie is just this side of small, but at least he’s in clean clothes.
Shane sits down in the same chair the nurse ushered him into and thinks about how he has nothing with him. His phone and wallet, and Ilya’s, are in the visitors' locker room at the rink. Ilya’s medical information and a copy of his insurance card were handed off to the paramedics from the Centaur medical team, but Shane doesn’t even have his shoes. He can’t call the team because he doesn’t know anyone’s number by heart except his parents' cell phones and his childhood landline, which has been disconnected for years.
Oh god, his parents. They hadn’t made the several hour drive to Toronto, but Shane is sure they were watching from home. He needs to call them. Are there even pay phones anymore?
Shane sticks his head out into the hallway and spots the nurses' station. The same young woman with the yellow stethoscope is standing at a computer, typing. Shane makes his way over.
“Sorry,” He says. She looks up. “Um, thanks for the clothes. Is there a phone I can use? I don’t have anything with me.”
“Oh, sure. You can borrow mine. Just bring it back to the nurses' station when you’re done. If I’m not here, just leave it with whoever is. They’ll get it back to me.” She unlocks an iPhone and hands it to him.
He composes a new text to his mom’s number. This is Shane. Using a nurse's phone. Please pick up. He hits call after the text sends.
“Mom, I don’t know. I don’t know. No one has told me anything. He was so confused, Mom. I think he was scared. What if he’s scared now, and alone? They wouldn’t let me go with him. I tried. I really tried.” Shane feels the panic in his throat like a vice, and the more he thinks about everything that’s transpired the worse it becomes.
“Shane, honey, take a breath.” His mom instructs. Shane tries to comply, but he’s breathing through a broken straw. “He’s not alone. They’re taking care of him. They’ll come talk to you soon, okay? It’s going to be okay.”
His mom spends a long time talking him down, then promises to contact the team and arrange for someone to bring over his stuff. She also promises to handle a ton of other logistics Shane has not even considered yet. She asks if he wants herself and David to come to the hospital, but Shane assures her they don’t need to make the five-hour trek out when he doesn’t even have an update yet. Shane promises to keep her and David updated once his phone is back, and then they’re hanging up, and Shane has no idea what to do. He feels marooned, wearing pity clothes that yellow stethoscope scrounged up for him, without even his own phone or the update on Ilya he desperately needs.
He returns the phone to a different nurse, also wearing a claw clip, who says she’ll make sure it gets back to Marina after he describes what the phone’s owner was wearing. Shane finds the decency to apologize for not knowing the name of the nurse whose phone he commandeered, only the color of her stethoscope and hair accessory. The second nurse, Ashley, whose name is noted, assures him it’s okay.
Finally, a doctor speaks with Shane to let him know Ilya is being settled in the room, and that they’re waiting on some test results. Then Shane is allowed to see Ilya, just after his belongings are delivered by Harris and Troy, who must have gotten out of the rink in record time after the third period.
Ilya lies asleep in a sterile-looking bed, surrounded by noises and machines. A young man in a different scrub color than the nurses is sitting in the corner with a highlighter in hand, one eye on Ilya, one eye on what looks like a medical textbook. Apparently, he is a sitter to make sure Ilya doesn’t try to get up and hurt himself. He leaves after Shane provides satisfactory answers regarding his ability to supervise his own husband’s safety.
Another nurse, Sam, no claw clip, many braids, who actually works on the floor they moved Ilya to, explains that Ilya was confused and combative during the CT, so the doctor needed to give him a sedative. “But he should be waking up soon. I’ll be around, but don’t be afraid to ring the call bell if you need anything.”
As promised, Shane texts Yuna and David. Then he texts the Centaur group chat and the chat with Hayden and Jackie, which has 16 missed messages since Ilya hit the ice.
Shane tucks his phone into his pocket and sandwiches one of Ilya’s hands between both of his. He rests his forehead on their hands and tries to do a breathing exercise a sports psychology student forced his team to learn when he was still in juniors. The 4-7-8 breathing is supposed to calm his nervous system or something, but his counting is constantly interrupted by his racing thoughts. Shane gives up and just watches Ilya sleep, counting the rise and fall of his chest rather than the breathing technique.
Shane notices Ilya’s breathing shift and he grabs the call bell, ready to press it at the first sign of convulsing. Instead, Ilya just exhales loudly and swallows, his face scrunching up.
Ilya’s eyes open, squinted against the dim light. “Mmph. Shane?” He says Shane’s name clearly, unlike in the ambulance, and actually seems to make eye contact.
Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand. “Hey. Hi, love. You’re okay. You got hit in the game. We’re in the hospital.” Shane takes a slow inhale, not sure if he wants the answer to the next question. “Do you remember at all? What happened, coming here?”
Ilya stays quiet for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think. Was cold. Something was very loud. Then I am here.”
Shane racks his brain. “Loud? What was loud?” To Shane, the rink was dead quiet. But maybe Shane is misremembering, his mind fantasizing the events and extrapolating on his single-minded focus on Ilya’s still body.
“I don’t know. It was like when your tea kettle is done. Ringing. I hit my head?’
“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, you hit your head.” Shane removes one hand from Ilya’s and presses the call button. Sam’s head pops in the door almost immediately.
“Oh, you’re awake. That’s great. Everything okay?”
“Um, yeah. I guess. Just thought you should know he’s awake.” Shane says. Everything isn’t really okay, but nothing to report to the nurse, either.
“Yeah, totally. That’s the right thing to do. I’ll let the doctor know.” Sam reassures him, then disappears out of the doorway.
Ilya looks up at Shane. “What did you say? The year you broke your collarbone? We all get our bell rung eventually? So it is.”
“I wish it wasn’t.” Shane presses a kiss on Ilya’s knuckles.
The door opens again and Shane expects Sam, but instead a woman in a white coat walks in. She smiles at Ilya. “Hi there. Glad to see you're awake. I’m Dr. Stell, and I’ll be a neurologist taking care of you. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure,” Ilya says, voice even.
Dr. Stell clicks something on a computer on a cart in the corner of the room and rolls it over so she can stand nearer to Ilya. The computer beeps as she scans her badge. “Can you tell me your name, please?”
“Ilya Rozanov.”
“Okay, and who’s this here with you?”
“Shane Hollander. My husband.”
“And where are we?” She clicks a few things on the computer as she asks.
“The hospital in Toronto.”
“Great. Do you feel any pain or headache? Rated out of ten, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt?”
“Not much. Three, maybe. Small headache. Is nothing.”
“Alright. Can you tell me why we are here, Mr. Rozanov?”
“I got hit, playing hockey. Hit my head.” Ilya glances at Shane as he answers. Shane squeezes his hand.
“Do you know anything else about what happened between you getting hit and now?”
Ilya pauses. “No.”
“You had a seizure very soon after the impact to your head. You were still in the rink. You regained consciousness in the ambulance and were in what we call a postictal state. That means you were confused, not acting like yourself. It’s very typical after a seizure. We ran a lot of tests, including a CT scan of your head. The good news is that your head CT was normal, no bleeding, and your EEG looked good as well. There is no reason to think it will happen again, based on what we know right now. I think we’re looking at a concussion that happened to have a single early seizure.”
Ilya seems to process this. “And bad news?”
“You absolutely have a concussion. I know that word probably has little weight to you in your line of work, but you have to remember it is a traumatic brain injury and needs to be treated as such. You’re staying at least overnight for monitoring, possibly longer. Head injuries are challenging, and your timeline of recovery is difficult to project so soon.”
Shane feels the need to interrupt, but waits until she finishes speaking. “Only overnight? He seized, that seems pretty serious. He told me he heard a loud noise before it happened, like ringing.” Ilya shoots Shane a familiar look that says relax, Hollander.
“Sometimes tinnitus can occur before a seizure event, and I suspect that is what you heard, Ilya. As I said, there is no reason to believe this is related to a seizure disorder. Sometimes they just happen after head injuries, but it doesn’t necessarily mean the injury to the brain was severe in terms of the way we rate TBIs. I feel confident that Ilya can go home soon with careful monitoring as long as we don’t observe any changes. That doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods for concussion protocol, but I’m not especially concerned about the seizure in particular. You’ll have some limitations, like driving, for a period of time. But as long as that passes seizure-free, they are not permanent constraints. Can I answer any other questions?”
“No,” Ilya says. “Shane?”
Shane shakes his head. “Not right now.”
“Alright. The nurse will bring in some printed instructions, but definitely no screens, lots of sleep, and let us know if your headache worsens or you experience any other changes. We can plan on a discharge tomorrow morning, for now. Sound good?” She clicks a few more times on her computer before redirecting her focus to Shane and Ilya.
Shane nods, “Yes, thank you.”
After the door clicks closed behind Dr. Stell, Ilya turns his head to Shane. “See, all good. They keep me overnight, see everything is okay, and we will be home by tomorrow night. Russians have very hard heads. Resilient. Is science.” He speaks confidently, but Shane can see the way the exhaustion is lingering in his eyes.
“Sure, Ilya. Why don’t you take a nap? Pass the time until tomorrow comes.”
Ilya huffs at him a little, but Shane lays his hand gently on Ilya’s forehead and swipes his thumb slowly back and forth, and Ilya is out nearly immediately.
Shane pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends another update to the Centaurs and Pike group chats, then calls his mom.
Yuna picks up immediately. “Hi, sweetie. You’re on speaker with your dad.”
“Hi,” Shane says quietly, mindful that Ilya is asleep but not wanting to step out of the room. “He’s okay. I mean, the doctor said mild TBI, but they’re probably discharging him tomorrow. I guess the seizure doesn’t really mean anything unless it happens again.”
“That’s great news, everything considered. I talked to the Centaurs; they aren’t expecting you at practice for a few days, and the medical team is getting all the info they’ll need for Ilya from the hospital. It’ll be a bit before they want to start his return to play, though, I’m sure. How are you boys getting home after Ilya is discharged?”
Shane hadn’t thought that far. The Centaurs will be heading to Ottawa on the team bus first thing tomorrow morning, leaving Shane and Ilya here in Toronto. “Oh, I don’t-“
Yuna interrupts him. “I can book you a rental to drive back. The drive might be tough for him, with his head. Maybe go for a couple of hours, stop in Kingston, and do the rest the next day?
“Yeah, Mom. That’s a good plan. Thank you.”
“Of course, Shane. We love you both.” Yuna says, and David echoes her sentiment. His voice on the phone sounds muffled and far away compared to Yuna’s, like he’s sitting somewhere across the room.
Ilya’s follow-up scans later that night are clear, with his headache peaking at a 5/10. Ilya denies prescribed painkillers, but the acetaminophen Sam coerced him into accepting seems to take enough of the edge off that he is able to chirp Shane when he realizes he’s wearing a hospital crewneck and ill-fitting scrub pants.
“Where did you get that?” Ilya asks, gesturing to Shane’s outfit.
Shane looks up from his phone, where he’s reading about how the remainder of the Toronto game went on The Athletic. “I was still wearing most of my gear when I got here. Just in my socks, too. A nurse gave me this to change into. Troy brought me my phone and shoes later with Harris. I didn’t have time to change, obviously, when it all happened. I left my skates and stuff in the tunnel on the way out, Harris says he gave them to the equipment manager.” Shane explains
“Really, you just left your skates? No guards? No forty-seven step rust prevention routine? Are you now Mr. Impulsivity?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I don’t know if choosing to follow my unconscious husband to the hospital instead of putting away my equipment is really impulsive.”
“Kind of is. Impulsive. Leaving your job in the middle of shift without warning. Very bad look.”
“I think Wiebe understands,” Shane swallows thickly. “You really scared me, Ilya. I wasn’t even thinking. I was just terrified. There was nothing else to do but follow.”
Ilya’s face becomes serious. “I know. I’m sorry, my chekhly dlya kon'kov.” Ilya has not given up his bit of calling Shane ridiculous Russian words as pet names, especially when he is trying to break the tension.
“Your…skate guard? Really, Ilya? I’m being serious.”
“You are always serious, Shane.”
Shane
The next morning Ilya is groggy and irritable but mostly himself. Shane presses a kiss to his hairline before he leaves to pick up the rental car, promising to be back soon.
Shane makes a stop on his way back to the hospital to buy a few things. Toothbrushes, their normal toothpaste brand, a few changes of clothes for each of them, and an egg McMuffin for Ilya because he hates hospital food. He buys himself a smoothie Ilya would wrinkle his nose at, and a black coffee. All their travel stuff from the team hotel had gone home with the Centaurs on the bus because they didn’t really need it, and Shane didn’t like either possible option: leaving Ilya last night to pick it up or making someone deliver it to them.
Shane parks the rental his mom picked out, a practical mid-range SUV, in the hospital lot and finds his way back to Ilya’s room.
Ilya’s room is dimly lit, as it has been since he was admitted. There’s a bag on the foot of the bed containing the few belongings they have with them, ready to be brought out to the car. Ilya is lying on his back with his arm draped over his eyes, but from his breathing Shane knows he’s awake.
“Okay, just need to sign the last couple of things and get changed, and we can get you out of here,” Shane says as he sets the McDonald’s bag and the change of clothing he brought on the rolling table next to the bed.
Ilya removes his arm from his eyes and squints at Shane before making a noise of agreement. He winces as he pushes himself into a sitting position, causing a spark of anxiety to run through Shane.
Shane puts his hand on Ilya’s shoulder and crouches so they’re eye level. “Hey, you okay? Need me to get the nurse?”
“No, just headache. Started after you left. Doctor came, said discharge is still okay. Nurse brought more Tylenol.” Ilya says, his voice rough and quiet.
“Out of ten?”
“Six, maybe.”
Shane helps Ilya get dressed and sign the final discharge paperwork, then leaves Ilya with a hospital staff member while he goes to bring the rental around.
Ilya sits in the passenger seat as Shane reaches over him to secure his seatbelt, recline his seat, and adjust the heat vents so they aren’t blowing directly on him.
“You are like mother hen,” Ilya mumbles at him.
“Yeah, and you just denied a McMuffin because you ‘aren’t hungry’ for possibly the first time in your life. You are lucky I’m not readmitting you for it.” Shane leans down to press a kiss on Ilya’s brow before he closes the door and gets in the driver’s seat.
“Okay, my plan is drive to Kingston, but let me know if we need to stop,” Shane says.
Ilya makes a noise of agreement, and Shane reaches into the back to grab a hoodie, which he drapes over Ilya’s eyes.
“Better?” Shane asks.
“Mmhm.”
Shane rests his hand on Ilya’s knee and drives.
Ilya
When Ilya was young, he would often outrage his father by accident. Sometimes, if they happened to be near the faucet, his father would grab him by the curls and force his head under the running tap while Ilya fought and spluttered. This was meant to teach him respect, but Ilya could rarely pinpoint what exact behavior was perceived as disrespectful. At least after practice or games, he understood. He played poorly, he was an embarrassment. Disrespectful to his family, to play like that. If Ilya played well, he was left alone.
Ilya jerks into awareness with a hand in his hair and water on his face. He rears back, away from the water and the offending hand. Ilya’s feet stagger under him, and the hand leaves his hair. Someone steadies him by the shoulders. Someone is saying his name.
“Ilya, do you need to sit down? Are you feeling dizzy?” Shane. Shane’s voice is speaking to him. His husband’s face comes into focus, crinkled with concern.
“Is okay. Just dozed off.” Ilya tries to make his voice steady and reassuring, but he’s not sure how he got in the shower or why he’s in an unfamiliar bathroom. Ilya has a feeling that asking these sorts of questions will panic Shane, so he simply attempts to steady his legs and hopes the missing pieces are on their way back to him.
Shane
Shane is warm and comfortable under the spray of the hotel shower. Ilya had demanded to wash the hospital off of his skin, and Shane carefully scrubbed shampoo and conditioner through his hair. Now, Ilya stands against Shane’s chest, eyes closed and relaxed. Shane cards his fingers through his husband’s hair before letting his hand rest on the crown of his head, curls between his fingers.
It feels normal, like they could just be showering off a tough game in this Kingston hotel. Like they could be at home, about to go to bed. Until Ilya jerks back, eyes wide and searching. He slips on the ceramic of the shower, and Shane grabs him by the shoulders, terrified of the possibility of Ilya falling and what hitting his head again so soon could mean.
“Ilya, do you need to sit down? Are you feeling dizzy?” Shane is ready to spin Ilya and sit him on the edge of the tub, ready to catch him if the spell doesn’t pass.
Ilya’s eyes find Shane. “Is okay. Just dozed off.” Ilya’s English is thick, reminiscent of the way he spoke when they were 22 and still dancing around each other. These days, Ilya’s accent is somewhat lighter, but his grammar and vocabulary really is leaps and bounds from where it once was. Words like the, an, and it’s have found their way solidly into Ilya’s syntax unless he’s tired or angry or especially unguarded. They also, apparently, fade from Ilya’s usage when concussed and in pain.
“Well, we’re done anyway. Let’s get out.” Shane keeps one hand firmly on Ilya while he turns off the water, and then manhandles him out of the shower. He wraps Ilya in a towel and sits him on the toilet lid while Shane finds a towel of his own.
Shane holds Ilya’s boxers out to him. Ilya grabs them, looking at them a second too long before he starts to put them on.
“Ilya, are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Shane asks, standing in front of where Ilya is seated.
“Mm, yeah. Headache. Little one.” Ilya leans forward so his head presses against Shane’s abs. “Is bright in here.” Shane exhales in relief. A headache is normal after a concussion. The doctors know they’ve been happening, and it’s something Shane can help with. A dark room and some Tylenol, and Ilya should feel better soon.
Shane cups the back of Ilya’s head with his hand and uses the other one to reach over and turn off the light. “I’m sorry. Let’s get dried off and our teeth brushed, and then we can go lie down. I have Tylenol in the bag for you, too.”
“Okay.”
Shane helps Ilya get dried off, stands behind him while they brush their teeth, and guides Ilya over to their hotel bed. He offers Ilya the Tylenol, then climbs into bed beside him. Shane lies on his back with Ilya’s head buried in his side, tracing mindless circles between Ilya’s shoulder blades while he plays the crossword on his phone. Shane’s dad still does the full crossword on paper every day, and he and Shane have picked up the habit of sharing their thoughts on the mini over text.
“Sorry,” Ilya mumbles into his side.
Shane huffs. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, Ilyushka. Go to sleep. I love you.”
Ilya shifts against him and mumbles I love you back in Russian. For once, he doesn’t include a stupid Russian noun as a pet name.
After he finishes the crossword, Shane texts his parents. NYT mini was easy. In Kingston. We’re okay. Be home by dinnertime tomorrow.