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It happens in the blink of an eye.
One moment, Ilya is watching Shane skate in front of him, committing his beautiful smile to memory, knowing that it’s aimed at him. Even here, even now.
The next, a sickening crunch reverberates across the rink, and it penetrates Ilya’s ears even though the noise in the arena is overwhelmingly loud. What his brain struggles to comprehend in that second is that the crunch came from Shane’s body. From Shane colliding with Cliff and tumbling to the ice.
It shouldn’t be possible for things to change so quickly.
For a few moments, Ilya is ready to laugh it off with Shane as soon as he gets up and dusts himself off. Maybe even give him a hand, because no one would question the touch in these circumstances. He’s ready for his heart to resume its normal rhythm as soon as Shane smiles at him again, bruised but not too worse for wear.
But even he knows that it won’t happen, no matter what his heart hopes for.
Instead, he watches as Shane lies in a pitiful pile on the ice, completely unresponsive. In his periphery, he sees Pike attacking Cliff, and his first thought is good. Good, since he can’t. Both because that’s his teammate and because he’s not sure he can even move at this point.
All Ilya can focus on is Shane’s pale hand lying limply on the ice.
The next breath he tries to draw in is a wheeze, his vision blurring as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. His mind conjures up image after image that he can’t even focus on, but he gets the gist of it.
Another pale hand, years ago.
Another limp frame lying in a heap, never to move again.
Him, unable to do anything. Again.
“Is he alright? Fucking tell me.” He spits it out, trying to push the referee standing in front of him away and come closer.
He isn’t moving. Why isn’t Shane moving?
“Get to your bench, Rozanov. Now. I'm not gonna tell you again.” The ref is firm and his hold on Ilya’s arm is iron-tight. Ilya lets himself be pushed away, purely because he can’t believe the sight before his eyes.
Because Shane is supposed to move. To yell in pain. To groan.
But he isn’t. He isn’t he isn’t he isn’t he isn’t.
From across the ice, he sees Shane being hauled onto a stretcher, his neck immobilized, several medics surrounding him.
It can’t be good, Ilya knows. And it has nothing to do with the bone-chilling fear he feels. It’s just logic. He’s a hockey player. That kind of hit can be career-ending.
Life-threatening.
Ilya feels bile filling his mouth, and the ref in front of him pushes him back again. He hadn’t even realized he’d moved.
“Back to your position, Rozanov.” The ref says, and Ilya is momentarily confused. His position?
But then he sees the two teams slowly returning to the ice, lines getting formed, fans cheering again.
As if something horrific hasn’t just occurred. As if the best player in the league wasn’t just hauled off, without indication of whether he’s dead or alive.
As if the most important person in Ilya’s life wasn’t possibly—
“Roaznov, GO.” He’s being pushed, and he obeys, only because he’s too out of it to stop his legs from gliding over the ice.
He takes his position, ready for a face off, but he can’t feel his hands. The ice seems to be swirling in front of him, moving in ways that shouldn’t be possible. There is still bile in his mouth, and it’s the only thing he can focus on to keep himself afloat.
He loses to face off.
He doesn’t remember the rest of the game, and he won’t, for a long time to come.
The only things that stay with him are glimpses and flashes. His coach yelling at him. Marlow apologizing to him. The puck sliding away from him every time he so much as touches it. The persistent taste of vomit in his mouth. The ringing in his ears. That sickening crunch, replayed in his mind over and over and over.
He doesn’t even register the score. Whether they win or lose. It’s never mattered to him less.
Ilya stumbles to the locker room and grabs his phone from his locker. But instead of a cheeky message about a dark alley, nothing awaits him. He Googles Shane's name immediately, and almost drops the phone as the results load.
His hands are shaking so much he can barely read the headlines, but as far as he can tell, nothing beyond Shane getting hauled off the ice has been released. Is that good? Does it mean he’s alive, and they are still checking him?
Or is this silence an indicator of an organization unsure of how to break the news of their star player dying on the ice?
Ilya drops his phone. It clatters on the tiles beneath him, and Marlow gives him a worried look.
“You okay, Roz?” No one else pays him any mind, and by the overall jubilant mood in the room, Ilya assumes they have won the game.
“Shut the fuck up, Marlow,” He seethes before he starts yanking his equipment off, not giving a damn about the logical sequence it should be removed in.
Ilya knows Marlow didn’t mean to hit Shane. Not like that, anyway. Even the biggest jerks in the sport would never even attempt that, no matter how big of a game they were in. Those kinds of hits happen rarely, and there is a reason for that.
No, despite his poisonous words, Ilya knows Marlow isn’t to blame.
He is.
Ilya was the one distracting Shane. Shane was looking at him. That’s why he missed Marlow. Why the hit was so devastatingly harmful.
Ilya had done what he’d sworn he’d never do. He’d let this...this thing between them become so big, so important, that it clouded their judgement on the ice. He’d put Shane in mortal danger because he was selfish and couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Because he has to ruin everything he touches.
He has ruined Shane.
Ilya feels the tears as they start pouring down his cheeks, and he hurries to the showers, now completely naked. He stumbles on the already wet tiles, feet slipping, and barely manages to catch himself before he sprawls on the floor. He tries to take a deep breath, then another, but he barely feels the air as it burns through his lungs.
It’s not enough.
He lets the water cascade over his shaking body anyway, and its coldness brings him out of the haze that has enveloped his mind. Ilya doesn't bother changing the temperature. The icy water is exactly what he needs. What he deserves.
What if Shane is gravely injured? What if he can’t recover? What if he can never play hockey again? Run? Walk? What if he had a concussion and it causes irreparable damage?
What if he recognizes the role Ilya played in it and hates him forever?
Just a few short days ago, Ilya told him that he had no one anymore save for Svetlana. But the truth that he couldn’t say, not even in Russian, was that he did have Shane. He was the most important person in Ilya’s life, even if all he’d ever get were stolen afternoons, one night a year, and a dozen flirty messages. It was still the best part of his life. The purest.
What if he loses that as well?
It’s funny, and inexplicably sad, but Ilya thinks that would be what actually breaks him. Not his father’s death, not the fact that he’d cut the rest of his family off, not any of it. He can take it all, but he is not sure he can take living in a world without Shane.
Ilya’s tears are hot against his freezing skin, and he tries to breathe and get himself together before the showers get crowded and he has to explain why he’s crying after a huge win. He squeezes his eyes tight and grits his teeth, willing his mask back on.
Finish the shower, get dressed, act as normal as possible, get out, and get to the hotel. That’s all he needs to do. It’s easy, it’s logical, he can do it on auto-pilot. Once he’s in his room, he can let go and break down. Even he knows that he won’t be able to stop it.
But until then, he has a part to play.
And he does. He saunters over to his locker and lets the towel he doesn’t even remember wrapping around his hips fall. He reaches for his boxers and tugs them on, cursing as the fabric snags on his still damp skin.
Once he’s decent, he grabs his phone again and refreshes the search for Hollander’s name. He sets the phone back on his bench, though, and puts on his suit pants, socks, and shoes. It should give him enough time to calm down and look at his screen in a dignified manner, but his vision is still blurred by unshed tears when he does.
No news.
He lets the phone fall to the bench and closes his eyes, trying (and mostly failing) to take deep breaths. It’s fine. The game has just finished. It’s not unusual for teams to wait to give updates until a few hours later.
It still kills him.
Ilya buttons up his shirt next, not caring that it’s wrinkled and that his collar is slightly askew. The press will likely laugh it off and see it as one of his eccentricities. Maybe say a girl had messed it up, because Ilya was such a player he couldn’t wait to be with her until he was out of the stadium.
It is fine by him, as long as they don’t look at him too closely.
“Damn, man, you’re in a hurry. She must be worth it,” Ilya hears one of his teammates holler from behind him. He’s not even aware who it is, and he doesn’t care. He just pulls on his suit jacket, pockets his phone after ordering a ride, and throws everything else into his go-bag.
He barely gets it to close, but once it does, he is leaving the locker room with long strides, ignoring every instance of people saying his name and trying to get his attention. He hopes to God that his face looks normal, because he hadn’t thought to look into a mirror before rushing off.
The car he has ordered waits for him in the private garage, and he doesn’t even care that he’ll be expected to return via bus with all his teammates. Ilya just gets in and rattles the name of his hotel.
Another Google search yields no results, and he swallows the anguish he feels. Drumming his fingers on his restless knees, he watches as the streets of Montreal blur by through the car window.
Has Shane ever walked down this street? Does he like that little cafe, tucked away in a corner so small you can barely notice it? What does he order? Probably something boring and healthy, like green tea. No pastries, of course.
Why doesn’t Ilya know what Shane’s preferences are? If he likes coffee, if he has allergies? Suddenly, Ilya feels like the biggest idiot on the planet. He has tried so hard to keep Shane at arm’s length, to ensure what they had never affected him, and he failed.
But he hasn’t just failed. Now, he has to grapple with the fact that he’d deprived himself of so much for stupid reasons, and Shane might be gone. It hurts to admit it, but Ilya barely knows the man he l—
“We’re here, sir.” The driver’s voice is gruff, and Ilya realizes, with no little embarrassment, that the car is off, meaning that they had been parked for at least a couple of minutes.
“Right. Good night.” He manages, and then he’s shutting the car door behind himself and rushing into the hotel. No one sees him, barely anyone pays him any mind, but he tries to be quick about it anyway.
Ilya struggles to open his door when he finally gets to it, his hands shaking so much he can barely hold onto the keycard. He gets in on his fourth try and drops to the floor against the door the moment it clicks shut behind him.
The silence in the room is overwhelming. The space is completely dark, the only light coming from the pale moonlight sneaking in through the window. Ilya stares at the darkness with wide, unseeing eyes. The only thing he can actually see is Shane, crumpled on the ice.
That beautiful, pale hand. Motionless.
Ilya digs his palms into his eyes and presses hard, both to stop his tears from falling and to ground himself. He feels as if his chest has been carved open, and someone is slowly scraping up his insides, piece by bloody piece.
He doesn’t know how long he sits like that. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, and he has trouble catching any single one of them for long enough to make sense of it. The only thing that makes him move is the need to check whether there is any news.
Ilya waits, holding his breath, and curses. Still nothing.
He gets up, legs shaking, and manages to get to his bed. He attempts to sit, but staying in one place suddenly seems impossible.
So he paces. Up and down, up and down, again and again. His legs get stronger with every stride, and he no longer fears he’ll fall as he wears down the soft carpet beneath his shoes.
Ilya is vaguely aware that he should take them off, but it feels like too much trouble. Instead, he just focuses on his steps and only stops once every few minutes to search Shane’s name again.
He tries to focus on happy memories to chase away the image of Shane’s limp form on the ice.
Ilay imagines Shane’s smile. The way his pretty eyes actually shine after Ilya kisses him. The way he admitted that he likes Ilya too much. The way he looked, so gorgeous and mesmerizing, on that beach in Tampa. The way he winked at Ilya only hours prior, when they were facing off against each other. The way his arms felt around Ilya's body when Shane rocked him back and forth as he comforted him.
It is enough to calm his breathing, at least, even if it does make Ilya’s eyes well up.
The next time he checks for updates on Shane’s condition, Ilya’s heart almost stops. He stumbles as he sees a slew of new articles load, and he barely manages to click on the first one.
He sees only glimpses, at first, as his chest seizes up and breathing becomes extra difficult.
Broken collarbone.
Out for the remainder of the season.
The doctors are optimistic...
Full recovery...
Lucky.
Ilya sobs so loudly it echoes in the empty room. His legs give out and he crumbles next to the bed, sobbing and wheezing so hard his entire body shakes. He is fine. He will recover. He is okay. He will play again. He is alive.
Ilya covers his mouth with his hand, trying to keep the pathetic, wet sounds of his tears inside, but it is to no avail. He just breaks down even further as adrenaline leaves his body and he is left with all the exhaustion, fear, and anxiety that the night has caused.
All he can think of is Shane lying in a hospital bed somewhere, hurt and bruised but undeniably alive. Breathing. He’d probably smile at Ilya if he walked in right now. Look at him with those disarming eyes that make Ilya feel unmoored.
Unless he is angry and hates him. Ilya wouldn’t blame him.
Knowing that there is no one there to see him, Ilya lets his tears fall without even attempting to stop them anymore. He doesn’t try to keep the sounds in, either, like he had learned to do as a boy after his mom’s death so his father and Alexie wouldn't hear him at night.
No. This time, he lets it all out. It is not a natural thing to do, not to him, anyway. But he imagines that Shane is there, holding him, soothing him, and it becomes easier bit by bit.
Ilya cries because of the turn the night has taken. He weeps from relief at reading that Shane is alright. But that's not all. He knows, in this moment, that he has to put an end to whatever he and Shane are doing.
To him, the entire night feels like a warning. From God, from the universe, from whoever the fuck is in charge. The message is clear either way.
Shane deserves better. A boyfriend who'd rush to the hospital behind him and stay by his bedside while he recovers. Who'd gently brush his fingers over Shane's cheek and watch as his eyes flutter closed. Who wouldn't have to hide and Google his name to get an update..
It's always been clear to Ilya, but never as plainly and painfully as right now. He has to let Shane go.
Just the thought fills his eyes with fresh tears, and Ilya hastily wipes them away. This is something that he doesn't deserve to cry over. It is right, it is what needs to be done.
And Ilya will do it. He swears it to himself, then and there. He will not be with Shane again. He will give him a chance at a normal life. At a love that he won't have to keep in the shadows.
His resolve is strong. He nods to himself over and over, as if to confirm that he's making the right choice. That he'll go through with it.
Ilya rises from the floor and strips to just his boxers. He picks his phone up from the floor and gets into bed, curling into a ball beneath the comforter.
He reads the article detailing Shane's condition over and over again. Then the next one. And the one after. He skips the video replaying the injury every time.
He reads until the words blur, and he knows them by memory. Until his eyes close and sleep takes him, his phone still alight on the pillow by his head.
×××
Ilya wakes some time later with a gasp on his lips, the remnants of his dream still fresh in his mind.
They fade quickly, but not before he can catch horrifyingly realistic glimpses.
Instead of his mother lying dead for Ilya to find, it's Shane.
Shane, refusing to move when Ilya calls to him. Shane’s skin, unnaturally cold to the touch. Shane’s eyes, once lively and warm and so sparkly for him, staring lifelessly at something Ilya can't see.
Ilya swallows thickly and gets out of the bed, as if removing himself will make the mental images go away. It doesn't, but he finds it slightly easier to breathe.
Soft morning light filters through the window of his hotel room, unobstructed by the curtains that Ilya had forgotten to draw. He sighs and runs his hand through his tangled hair.
He needs to see Shane.
He knows it like he knows his own name. Yes, he will end their little charade, but he needs to see him first. As soon as possible. Just to make sure he's truly alive and breathing and whole (or as whole as he can be). To hear his voice and see his eyes and hold his hand, if only for a moment.
Otherwise, these dreams will persist and Ilya will actually go insane. He'd always had vivid nightmares, and each one featured his mom in one way or another. And him, being inadequate and not managing to save her or reach her in time.
Now his mom has turned into Shane. Ilya does not want to examine that too closely. But hey, at least his role hasn't changed at all. It never does.
Sighing, Ilya decides to visit Shane in the hospital before his flight. It wouldn't be unprecedented for a captain of a team to visit a player injured by one of his teammates. Especially in this situation, when it's him and Hollander.
Ilya will take it. Any excuse is a good one when he so desperately needs to see Shane in person.
He wastes little time after making his decision. After a hasty shower, Ilya dresses simply and comfortably in all black, hoping to blend in with everyone else roaming the hospital halls as much as possible. He packs and leaves his suitcase in the room, knowing that he'd be cutting it short to return in time for checkout before the flight but not caring enough to worry about it.
Hollander comes first this time.
The car ride to the hospital mentioned in all of the articles he had read so diligently last night is short, and Ilya can barely remember it. He worries that he's making a mistake, in all the ways that matter. But it's still not enough to make him turn back. His need to see Shane is stronger than any doubt, and he can't fight it. He has no strength to.
Walking into the hospital, he realizes that he has no idea where to go. Asking around is the most logical solution, and he cringes at the thought of revealing why he's here, of being recognized. Of Shane hating him if word gets out.
But he asks anyway. He can tell the receptionist knows who he is, and he's grateful she makes no fuss about it. She just gives him a room number and sends him on his way.
For a few moments, Ilya has to fight a hysterical laugh that bubbles in his throat. Here he is, with a room number, taking the stairs two at a time to reach Hollander faster. Likely place for him to be.
Except that when he reaches the door, he doesn't knock. There is no Shane waiting for him impatiently, rocking back and forth on his heels. Ilya sighs and lets himself in.
“Ilyaaaaa,” is the first thing he hears once he closes the door, and he almost chokes with the relief and fondness and amusement that it wakes in him.
Shane is awake. Shane is looking at him like he hung the fucking moon. Shane is, hilariously and undoubtedly, high on pain medication.
Ilya takes a deep breath. Tries to speak. The words die on his lips, and all he manages is a pathetic stutter in the wake of Shane’s gaze on him.
“I, um, I just wanted to,” He begins, and he has to stop and swallow so he doesn’t burst into tears in front of Shane. “Are you okay?”
“Concussion and a fractured collarbone. Out for the playoffs, but...” Shane grins, and Ilya bits his lip.
“Could have been worse.” He rattles on, and Shane repeats it, the same dopey smile on his beautiful mouth. Ilya needs a distraction from it.
“Marlow feels terrible. He did not mean to hurt you.” He says, although he hasn’t seen Cliff since last night. He better be feeling terrible.
“I know, part of the game,” Shane waves it off, and Ilya almost laughs at his tone. It’s so unlike Shane. So light and unbothered and unriddled with anxiety. Ilya just wishes he got to hear it under different circumstances. “We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”
“Right.” Ilya says, swallowing another hard lump. It lodges in his throat along all the other ones.
“Hey.” Shane says suddenly, eyes widening. “Heeeeey,” he sings, and Ilya winces at how his voice echoes in the room. He tells himself he’s only coming closer to prevent Shane from alerting anyone and betraying their secret. That’s also the only reason why he takes Shane’s hand and feels like sobbing at the contact.
“Okay, okay, shh, shh,” Ilya croons, and he feels his heart jackhammering in his chest as soon as Shane’s hand is in his. It’s warm, the grip is firm. Ilya extends his index finger to Shane’s pulse point and feels it against his skin. It finally puts out the fire raging inside of him.
“Yes! Better!” Shane says, and Ilya narrows his eyes. Is he mimicking Ilya’s accent?
He needs to get Hollander high, Ilya decides. Just to witness this in an entirely different setting.
Except he won’t, because this will be the last time he sees him. The realization is so painful Ilya has to grit his teeth.
“You scared me,” he breathes out, and every word feels like lead coming out of his mouth. It’s the understatement of the century, but it’s something.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night.” Shane babbles, oblivious to Ilya’s torment. As if Ilya cares about him missing a hookup. As if that’s why he’s upset.
“No. It’s okay.” Ilya assures him, and he can’t help it. He brings his hand up and traces Shane’s freckles, his touch featherlight. It’s something he’d always wanted to do but never allowed himself to.
The skin under his fingertips is warm, and he almost chokes trying to fight the tears welling in his eyes.
“I was excited about last night,” Shane adds, eyes closed. “I’m mostly mad at Marlow for fucking that up.”
Ilya almost laughs, then. He wishes he could have a recording of this to show Shane when he is himself again. He knows Shane would blush prettily and hide his face in his hands.
“He feels really bad.” Ilya says. They need to stop talking about Marlow, because he is getting angry again.
“You know, I had a whole plan to ask you something,” Shane begins, and Ilya feels his insides drop.
“Maybe it’s better if you just rest now.” He says hastily, terrified that Shane would say something they would both regret. Especially Shane.
“I was gonna ask you—”
Shane on pain meds is a force of nature, it seems.
“Hollander–”
“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” He rushes out, and Ilya is momentarily speechless. What?
“Don’t go to Russia, Come to my house.” Shane’s face is so earnest, so adoring, so open, that Ilya can barely breathe. “We’ll have so much fun. It’s so private, no one will know—”
“Hollander, you know I can’t do that.”
But he wants to. God, he wants to.
“We could have a week or even two. We’d be completely alone.” Shane opens his eyes and winks at him before whispering “Together.”
Ilya wants to cry. He wants to say yes. He wants to wrap Shane up in his arms and protect him for the rest of his life. None of which he can do.
But he can’t say no, either. Not when Shane is looking at him with such hope in his beautiful doe eyes. So he takes the coward’s way out.
“Maybe. Maybe.” Ilya says, trying to offer Shane a smile. Shane returns it, and he is about to speak when Ilya hears the door opening. He drops Shane’s hand so abruptly he wants to whine at the loss of contact. But all he does is take a quick step back.
“Uh-oh. You’re not gonna...smother him with a pillow, are you, Mr Rozanov?” The nurse asks, and Ilya lets his practiced smile slip onto his face. It is almost seamless.
“Ah, no. No, no, no. But good thinking.” He grins, and chances another look at Shane, drinking him in. Alive. Breathing. Smiling.
“I was just leaving.” Ilya says, swallowing thickly.
“Okay. Bye bye,” Shane says softly, and Ilya wants to die at the look on his face.
“Goodbye,” He whispers back, and for once, he doesn’t give a damn that it’s too soft for their circumstances. That he’s supposed to be boisterous and loud and mocking. He feels cut open and raw, and sincerity is all he can manage.
“See you next season,” Shane says, so overly serious he sounds ridiculous. Ilya is so fond of him he can barely breathe.
“Get well soon, Hollander.”
He makes a hasty exit toward the door, nodding and smiling to the nurse before turning and shooting Shane a significant look. Whether he gets the warning to behave is beyond him, as he can’t wait around to find out.
Although every step feels like torture, his legs heavy and unwilling, Ilya presses on. Instead of staying where he wants to be, next to the person he cares about the most, he leaves.
He takes the stairs again, opting to avoid the crowd waiting for the elevator. It gets harder, the more distance he puts between himself and the room. But he presses on.
He exits the hospital and gets in the waiting car and bites his lip so hard he draws blood. But he leaves, and by God, he’ll make sure he stays away this time.