Chapter Text
“Cocaine,” Terry says, a declarative sentence. “You need to not do it.”
“Da,”
“I’m serious.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is deliberately elusive, because he’s a dick and has fun leading people on, but Ilya hasn’t messed with coke in years. He’s had fun with it–a job perk, practically–but the whole thing will never not remind him of being 15 in the back of a club. Of Russia.
“No one does,” Terry sounds exasperated, “But this isn’t league bullshit, okay? A bump at a party is too much for you. Leftovers on your gums are too much.”
“Da, da,” He waves his hand, “I will remember when I talk to rookies next season.”
Terry glares.
“No one's on your ass about drinking or weed or any of that shit, but the hard stuff is gonna fuck with your head. I can give you figures–”
“Nyet,” he smiles, bringing his hands back up in mock surrender. “Pinky promise, Doc. Scouts honor.” He half remembers Marly teaching him those phrases. He thinks he might have been high.
“Good.” They both sit in silence for a minute, Ilya a bit unsure if they’re done or not. Ilya knows Terry has fun messing with people too, because he waits just too long before telling him he’s free to go, eyes not leaving his computer. “And Roz?”
Ilya takes his hand off the door handle, because he’s respectful and loves discussing drug habits he doesn’t even have.
“Da?”
“We’re glad to have you back.”
—
So that’s it. Ilya will be back for preseason. Ilya has a new training plan and a new meal plan and is still the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs. The only remnant of his episode is the medical ID whose chain hangs uncomfortably off his wrist. It matches the Cartier bracelet Shane got him for their anniversary last year, which he doesn’t take off but wants to just to sulk about it.
Truthfully, the bracelet offers a layer of protection he’s thankful for. Even though his time alone in public is pretty much nonexistent. He finds himself running his fingers over it sometimes. It’s soothing.
What the ID doesn’t cover is time alone in the shower. Or the locker room. Or extra ice time (though there have been discussions about having a trainer sit in). But the fear can go fuck itself, because his options are live his life scared or never spend time by himself again.
His hair lags a second behind as he shakes his head to get the thoughts out. This is Ilya fucking Rozanov he’s talking about. He can walk down the hallway by himself.
He misses peace. He misses his car, Shane’s boring SUV which he actually sees a lot of but never from the driver's seat. The team hired someone to cart him around months ago, which he knows he should be grateful for. It’s occurred to him there are people of various levels of affluence who don’t have hire-a-driver money. The driving is a physical weight on his chest, though. Something he can feel in the pit of his stomach. It makes him feel sick, somewhere on the cusp of disabled (he can’t tell if everyone thinks he’s disabled and won’t say it, or if they would be very upset he’s even thinking about claiming that title). Whatever, Galina would be very proud he’s labeling feelings in his body.
He gets in the back seat and says enough hellos to not be a dick. He tells off his teammates for being awful to service workers. He tips well. He’s not sure if it’s rude to put his headphones in but does so anyway. Fuck all of this.
—
Ilya walks in and Shane can’t tell if he looks seizurey or tired or if he himself is just crazy. He says nothing. Because he’s hands off and normal about the whole thing–a husband first, nurse second and all that. But he honestly can’t help it. He’s bracing.
Always.
Anya is unbothered by everything but Ilya. She’s making her weird whining sounds that Shane’s always hated while Ilya scratches behind her ears and just fucking slaps her torso. She seems to really enjoy it.
Shane thinks they should get a cat.
What’s more important is Ilya’s probably fine if he’s playing with Anya like this. Everything is good. Shane can take a breath.
“How’d it go?” he asks, casual.
“Fine,” Ilya shrugs. “They tell me no cocaine. Is good I am not 20.”
Shane bristles at that. He’s never done that stuff. Well, no one ever does. But it scares him, honestly. Ilya came to him high once and he kicked him out.
“Good thing,” he steps over a calmed down Anya to give Ilya a peck. “I love you. I’m glad it went well.”
“Da. I have some things for Yuna to read over. Very boring. You would love them.”
“Fuck off,” He makes a point of checking his watch, “You need to go get ready,” It’s a double date with Scott and Kip at Harmon’s. They’re playing the Admirals tomorrow. “And take a shower,” he adds, “You stink.”
—
They end up showering together, because he’s a coward. It’s very utilitarian. Ilya’s cold whenever he’s not under the spray. They don’t really touch. Still, it’s better than nothing. His other option is maybe possibly hitting his head on the tile and dying. So he’ll take the goosebumps. It’s fine.
He gets dressed normally and pretends to not notice Shane watching in his weird clinical way. He’d be angrier about it if he wasn’t starting to feel a little spacy. Not, like, seizure spacy.
Maybe seizure spacy.
He can’t tell if it’s obvious his hands aren’t quite cooperating with his body. Shane doesn’t say anything, so maybe it’s not. Maybe he’s so afraid of having a seizure that he’s creating psychosomatic symptoms and if he’s firm with himself all of this will go away. He’s certainly not going to say anything. He’s not ruining their night for something that might be pretend.
The drive to Harmon’s is uneventful, soul crushing in the way that is typical every time he sits in a car. He longs for driving in a way he’s longed for few things in his life. Something about freedom. Galina has a field day with it. He feels…fine. Hyperaware, which is probably why there are pins and needles in his right hand’s fingers and his whole field of vision is slightly dazed.
He wishes he could stop being so anxious about this stuff. It’s a bad look. Dramatic.
—
Shane spends the entire ride not saying something. It turns into not saying anything, because he’s worried if he opens his mouth the only words to come out will be ‘Are you okay?’
Ilya’s gait is fine, though. He’s not tapping. Shane probably just needs to get a grip. He’s always more on edge after a hospital trip.
Harmon's itself is beautiful. On paper it’s the nicest steakhouse in the city. Shane, being honest, has other favorites. But it’s a nice place to take company to. They make a whole production out of stuff. Good sides too.
He needs to let himself enjoy this. He’s with his husband, not a disease. If something happens, which it won’t even, they’ll handle it.
—
There’s a din in the restaurant: scraping silverware and ice being poured into glasses and the low drone of conversation that’s making it hard for Ilya to focus. It’s like someone put a thick blanket of white noise over the whole place. He can’t tell if Shane hears it too.
He contributes at the right moments. Kip talks about grad school in a way that shows he’s used to hockey players not caring about grad school. He asks some follow up question about a dissertation. Turns out that’s for a PhD.
Scott is mentoring a rookie with a high hockey IQ and a low everything else. Shane talks about the fresh meat for training camp (though he doesn’t like when Ilya uses that phrase.) Ilya gets a steak. Shane gets salmon. All the vegetables are slathered in honey or butter or swimming in cream. The night is so nice. Caffeine from his coke takes some of the edge off the buzzing.
“--nice to see you guys.” Ilya catches the end of Scott’s sentence.
“Ah, yes. Could be the last time, Hunter.” His delivery is clearly off center, words getting caught on his tongue in some weird tumbling heap. He should tell Shane something is happening.
He doesn’t want to.
—
Ilya looks fucked up. Or maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he really does and Shane needs to be neutral about it.
He’s working on that in therapy. Imagining a day where everything goes wrong. Ilya doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t hydrate. One where his closest meds are the ones in the glove compartment and no one can get to the car because it’s parked far away and the keys are in Shane’s bag (He and Erica get into the weeds a bit).
They go through everything–calling 911, checking Ilya’s breathing, picking out bystanders specifically by the color of their shirts so no one can freeze up. They imagine a scenario where Ilya is alone, where the people around him read his medical ID and help him that way. They think up lots of things. They’re good at that.
Shane knows the exercise is meant to put him at ease, remind him that he doesn’t need to get fucked up because there’s always a next step, an extra layer of support. But at a certain point it just freaks him out. He wants to stop thinking of worst case scenarios. He wishes he could.
“You good?” he whispers while Scott and Kip are busy talking about some $1200 wine they had on their honeymoon, arguing whether a regular season game warrants the celebration.
Ilya grips Shane’s thigh like it was the wrong question to ask, nails just short of digging into his suit pants.
“Ah–yes. We will have good Italian wine and bad Canadian Kaviar. It is–ah–” his voice falters in a way Shane is sure other people will notice. “--Kip’s long weekend. Much to celebrate.”
The table laughs politely and Scott says something about how the caviar here is excellent. Shane doesn’t hear the rest.
“Ilya?” Shane says again, quieter this time.
Ilya blinks hard. His mouth opens like he's trying to answer, but whatever he means to say never quite arrives.
Something is happening. Shane does not feel neutral about it.
His chair scrapes against the floor.
“Ilya,” he says sharply, “Hey, Ilya.”
Nothing. Not nothing exactly. His eyes are open. He's breathing normally. But whatever part of him is supposed to be processing the world is somewhere else. Gone.
He always hates how this happens so suddenly. One second Ilya is off, but fine, then the next he’s unresponsive, eyes glazed over in an $8000 suit jacket.
“Is he good?” Scott asks, so well meaning it hurts.
“He’s having a seizure. He’s, uh, fine.”
“Oh, fuck.” Kip replies for the both of them, “Do you need help? Is there anything we can do?”
“You’re good. It just happens sometimes. I have his meds if we need to break it.”
“Okay, fuck.” Shane wants to tell Scott to make a joke and be normal, “I’m so sorry, man.”
Ilya’s still off in dreamland (is that offensive?) and at this point the three of them are just sitting and staring. Shane is a second short of snapping in front of his husband’s face, which has never worked ever, so he presses his finger into Ilya’s nailbed instead. He hates to, but it’s actually important to see how alert he is. They’ll write it down in the journal.
“Hey,” he’s gonna tell Erica to fuck herself next week, “You’re having a seizure.”
Ilya responds by lightly tapping his thigh, which is described on the internet as rhythmic but to Shane is chaos encapsulated.
“Just ride it out, okay? You’re all good.”
—
The tapping finally slows. Not all at once. It’s just at one point Shane’s trying to count it and eventually he can’t anymore. Scott and Kip look straight down at their plates, too polite to eat and too ashamed to look up.
Ilya blinks in a way that seems semiconscious. Which is reassuring. It’s been 43 seconds. Respectable.
If he follows his usual pattern he’ll come out of it sometime in the next little bit. Shane will watch the confusion settle over his face in layers. He’ll repeat the name Ilya Rozanov in his head because it feels respectful to remember who he’s talking to.
By 47 Ilya is tracking. Ish. The seizure left him somewhere in between places. Shane doesn’t know where that is. Or how to get him back.
"You're okay," is what he can offer. "You're good."
A frown pulls at Ilya's mouth.
The worst part of these seizures is always the reboot. Shane can practically watch the machinery trying to come back online. Recognition arrives first. Then language. Then the unpleasant realization that something happened.
Ilya looks down at his own hand like he's surprised to find it attached to him.
"Hey," Shane says again, softer this time. "Take your time."
It crosses his mind that he shouldn’t be doing this in public. He’s being very privately tender in a very public space and he knows the stupid shit people write articles about. On the other hand he’s on a gay double date and Kip’s wearing nail polish and Ilya’s having a seizure. So maybe fuck the world. Just for a little bit.
Ilya swallows.
His gaze finds Shane again, steadier now, though still fogged around the edges.
His lips part.
“--voda?”
“You want water? I can get you some.” Ilya hasn’t needed a word from Shane in years. It should make him feel bad. Beat down, maybe. Instead he’s eighteen again, pronouncing racoon by syllable before sneaking off to a condo children should never have access to.
The whole thing’s different now. He’s happier. And sadder. His problems are bigger but also more manageable. He doesn’t know what to make of it.
“Just wait a sec,” he says, Ilya done with the reminiscing and halfheartedly groping for Shane’s glass. “You had a seizure. I’ll get you water in a second.”
“Ugh–” Ilya whines.
“You’re okay,” He coos, “We’re at Harmon’s. Scott’s here, Kip’s here–”
“Hi Ilya,” they offer in unison, low and calm in a way Shane is infinitely thankful for.
“Just relax, eh? We’ll go home when you’re feeling better.”
Ilya doesn’t respond, letting his chin dip to his chest in a motion that’s a little too uncontrolled.
“I have—“
“You had a seizure, yeah. It happens sometimes. You’re good.”
“Just, ah, a second,” he says, suddenly aware of Scott and Kip’s existence. Ilya’s aware enough to be sheepish but not embarrassed. Shane is thankful for that.
“You’re all good, man. Don’t worry about it.”
Kip says nothing, busying himself asking for the check from a waiter who’s not theirs. He shares the sentiment, probably.
—
He eventually gets Ilya in the car. It’s not that hard, actually. He’s so pliant after his focals, which in some fucked up way is much much sadder.
“Can you put your seatbelt on?” He asks. Because the car beeps. He’s not boring.
“Hmm?”
“Your seatbelt. Can you put it on?” He’s presuming competence, which is another thing he and Erica talked about.
“Da,” Ilya says, making no move do it.
“Do you want help?”
“Mmm.”
“Here,” he does the whole thing for him. Shane honestly doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal. Bigger fish to fry and whatnot. If Ilya was lucid he’d just want to go home.
They drive in silence for a while, Ilya’s head lolling on the window and Shane’s pointed straight at the road.
About ten minutes in, Ilya makes a small sound. A whimper? Shane’s usually the one doing that.
He can see the fog lifting in uneven patches: awareness filtering back in, piece by piece. The restaurant. The drive. The fact that they’re in the car at all.
“Home?” he asks.
“Yeah. We’re going home.”
A pause.
“Just, ah, one second. I had seizure. I need one minute.”
“That’s fine, yeah. Take as long as you need.” Shane doesn’t need him to reckon with the fact that everyone saw, that Scott and Kip were fish out of water but also really good with it. He always goes along when Ilya is like this. He’ll have plenty of time to contemplate the implications.
“Who saw?”
“Scott and Kip, maybe a few waiters.” Shane considers this a form of respect. Ilya deserves to know.
“Ah. And they were good?”
“Great. They’re not gonna bring it up.”
“Mmm.” He’s very in control about the whole thing. Shane assumes they’ll go to bed and things will be fine in the morning. “I—I—”
And then Ilya just sits down on the floor and cries, big heaving sobs that definitely hurt his stomach and raise his heartrate. It’s immediate and startling, how fast it begins. There’s no lead up of silent tears. There’s nothing, then suddenly he’s on the ground and there’s nothing Shane can do.
“Hey, shh,” he says gently, “You’re good. You’re doing so good. We can talk to Patel about more options, okay? She’ll have something for us.” Shane has a feeling that whatever she offers will be out of some malevolent genie’s playbook. Seizure freedom at an extensive hidden cost. But it doesn’t matter. Right now Ilya needs something to hang on to.
“No!” Ilya gets out, short of a yell. He’s pushing Anya off of him in a way Shane’s never seen before. “She will not fix it!”
Shane can’t tell how much of this is Ilya and how much is what the doctors call “inappropriate emotions.” He’s not sure if those even exist for Ilya. He’s always felt things so deeply. The seizures take a layer off the exterior, but everything he’s saying is heartbreakingly true.
“I know, I know, but there are things we can do, okay? Maybe there are better meds. There are service dogs,” Shane’s pretty sure those are only for uncontrolled seizures, but Ilya’s seem to be hurtling into that territory. “You’ll be okay,” he moves from where he’s sitting next to Ilya and full on holds him, “There are so many people to help with this. We got it,” he breathes, “We got it.”