Chapter Text
Ilya feels the blow before he sees it coming. One minute he’s practically flying, gliding along the ice awaiting his teammate to give him the puck and the next, he finds himself colliding with the solid expanse of someone’s chest.
He’s not sure if time slows down or if it speeds up, maybe he’s caught in an awful mix of them both. The hit happens fast, but the fall feels like it takes an eternity to hit the ice. And maybe he should’ve savored the time while he had it.
He doesn’t land right, Ilya knows that as soon as he slams to the ground. He’s no doctor but the way his head reverberates against the ice can’t be good. Neither is the bloom of pain that explodes behind his eyes, white hot and searing, ironic considering the location.
The force of the fall knocks the wind out of Ilya and he gasps, not of his own volition, more like the air forcing itself out of his lungs and mouth. Fuck. Oh fuck, it hurts. Everything hurts, from the follicles of his hair all the way down to his toenails.
He vaguely hears the sound of the ref’s whistle in the air, stopping everyone in their tracks. People rush over to him, his coach, the team medics.
“Ilya!” That’s Shane’s voice, Ilya recognizes it instantly. “Ilya, can you hear me?”
“Hollander, you need to back up.”
Shane’s face appears above Ilya’s moments later, clearly disobeying the command from the ref. Ilya’s eyes water and his vision blurs, but he could make out Shane’s handsome features anywhere.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Shane shakes his head. “Hey, don’t say anything, okay? You don’t need to do anything right now, just sit still.”
Ilya doesn’t listen, tries to speak. He thinks he manages to croak out a feeble, “It hurts,” but when the words come out, they sound foreign and garbled even to his own ears. Okay. One point for Shane, he was right. No talking.
Ilya feels his head get jostled around as a c-collar is wrapped around his neck and a backboard is slid underneath him. He winces as more pain blooms, not as intense as whatever’s going on with his head, but not a walk in the park either. Someone counts to three and then Ilya is lifted up as if he weighs nothing, and they’re off.
There’s more movement, more hushed voices as they work to get him off the ice, but none of them stick out until he hears Shane. “Where are you taking him?”
“Hollander, get back on the ice and go stand with your team.” Ilya recognizes that as his coach’s voice.
“No!” Shane argues. “Where he goes, I go.”
And as nice as that sounds, Ilya wants to argue against it. One of them should still be playing. And besides, they cannot afford to look so…together. While most of the league acknowledged them as friends and business partners, they still had a long road ahead of them with their relationship timeline before they could start acting like a couple.
“We’re looking at a pretty severe concussion,” someone says, maybe the team medic, maybe an EMT. Ilya’s vision is really blurry now, the bright lights of the arena feel like they were put there just to destroy him. As they flash a light in his pupils, Ilya wants to do nothing more than curl into a ball. He wants to be at home, in the cottage, with Shane. He wants to be in a pitch black room while Shane strokes his hair. He wants to…
Whatever he wants to do is cut off by the urge to vomit. He gags, unable to move with the neck brace on. But Shane notices, before any of the medics do, rushing to Ilya’s side and turning him over just in time for him to empty his stomach.
“Grade 2, possibly grade 3,” the medic adds. “We need to get him to the hospital.”
“I’m coming,” Shane says. He takes off his helmet and tosses it away. Ilya can’t see where it lands but he hears the way it rattles as it hits the ground, the noise making him wince.
“Sorry, Mr. Hollander, but—”
Ilya wants to tell Shane that he’s okay, that he should still play. Wants to tell him that this is entirely too much attention on him, and not the kind that he likes. Wants to tell him that this is dangerous territory and the optics of Shane’s very obvious concern aren’t doing them any favors.
But he can’t talk. Everything hurts and he wants to do nothing more than close his eyes and go to sleep. He’s about to do just that when he feels a slap to the cheek, not hard, but just firm enough to keep him conscious.
“Hey! Hey, keep your eyes open, Ilya.” It’s Shane again. Ilya can tell by the frantic pitch of his voice that he’s scared. “You know the drill with concussions, baby.”
Oh, it must be bad. Shane called him ‘baby’ in public, within earshot of so many people. His guard is completely down now.
“Tired.”
“I know. But you can’t go to sleep right now.” Ilya feels Shane’s ungloved hand flit through his hair and he tries his absolute hardest to not close his eyes and lean into the touch. “What hospital are we going to?”
“Shane,” this voice belongs to Coach Theriault. “I understand that you’re concerned for your friend but a game still needs to be played and Rozanov has to get—”
“I’m his husband!” Shane explodes. “I wouldn’t be playing regardless because the hospital will be calling me the moment he lands there because I am his next of kin, so with all due respect Coach, get out of my way because I’m going with him.”
Things get dead silent and Ilya wishes he could find out what else is going on, but that’s the moment his concussion decides to win the battle because everything fades away and goes black.
-
The suite of their Huntington Beach hotel room is mostly silent, the only sounds that can be heard are the gentle waves of the ocean below them and the occasional rustling of the wind. Despite the warm summer day, there’s a nice breeze that sweeps into the room from the open balcony door, the air smelling fresh and salty.
Shane collapses onto his back, Ilya following shortly behind him. They’re both sweaty and sated, panting heavily as they fall into the mountain of soft down pillows and covers.
“We should take a shower,” Shane says.
“No, not yet,” Ilya argues, wrapping his arm around Shane’s midsection, pulling him in closer. “I am not done making love to my husband.”
Shane’s cheeks warm at his new title. Husband.
“Say that again,” he demands, turning to fully face Ilya.
“Husband.”
“Again.”
“Husband. Husband. Husband. Muzh—”
Shane cuts him off, grabbing Ilya by the back of the head and hauling him in for a kiss. It barely qualifies as a teeth, more smiles and giggles and teeth than anything else, both of them too giddy to be serious about it. It’s absolutely perfect.
Ilya pulls away first and presses a kiss to the crown of Shane’s head, and Shane nearly purrs in contentment. He still can’t believe they did this, they actually managed to get married. Ilya is his, and he is Ilya’s, and they even have the legal paperwork to prove it now.
“I love you,” he says softly. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” Ilya replies.
And Shane knows that for a fact. But he wonders if Ilya also feels like his heart is trying to claw its way out of his body every time they touch or is he suffering from this affliction by himself. “I love you so much, I think it makes my heart hurt.”
“Perhaps you need to find heart doctor, yes?”
Shane rolls his eyes, “I’m being serious, you asshole.”
“Asshole? That is no way to talk to your new hus—hmmp!” Ilya is shut up with another kiss, a real one this time.
“Since you’re keeping me in bed,” Shane starts, peppering kisses along Ilya’s jaw and neck, “the least you can do is fuck me again. Husband.”
A grin spreads across Ilya’s face. “I can do that.”
-
The hospital Shane’s gone to since he was a baby, the hospital he was born in, the hospital where he got his tonsils removed as a kid is now housing the love of his life. He's not sure if the thought is supposed to comfort him or scare him, but it's hard to get a handle on any of his emotions right now. Now it feels like he's in full gear attempting to move through quicksand that threatens to pull him under with every breath he takes.
“Shane!” Shane’s head snaps up and he sees his parents in front of him. Before he’s even cognizant of any movement, he’s up on his feet and moving, crashing into Yuna’s open arms. “Shane, baby, what happened? What’s going on?”
“Gilbert hit Ilya during the game. He hit him really hard and Ilya slammed against the boards and then he hit his head on the ice. I think it was worse than my concussion.”
“Okay. Was he conscious?”
“He was immediately after the hit, and then he was in and out for the entire ambulance ride.” Shane closes his eyes and he can see Ilya again, holding his hand in the back of that ambulance like a lifeline until he slipped into unconsciousness once more, grip growing limp.
“Have the doctors said anything to you?” David asks.
“No and it’s been an hour now.” An hour and thirteen minutes, to be precise. “No one’s come out to say anything to me.” A nurse was kind enough to usher Shane to his own private waiting area, separated from the rest of the anxious friends and family members waiting on updates for their own loved ones. It’s a tiny and quaint little room with a television, a row of chairs and a telephone. The blinds are drawn and for that, Shane is grateful, he’s not really in the mood to be gawked at by everyone milling around.
David thrusts a bag in Shane’s direction. “We stopped in the locker first and grabbed you a change of clothes, a few toiletries and your phone.”
And this is when Shane realizes that he’s still in his uniform. He must look insane. And considering he left mid-game, he must smell even worse. “Thank you.”
“Of course. And I’m going to see if I can flag down a nurse or doctor, hopefully we can get an update.”
Shane nods and watches as his dad walks out of the private waiting area. He makes no move to follow and split off, find a bathroom or some sort of closet to change in. He feels frozen where he stands.
Yuna notices of course, the ever attentive mother, and she gently pushes Shane to sit back down. He complies and he digs into the small bag his dad handed him until he finds his cell phone. The home screen is flooded with notifications, missed calls, text messages, and Google alerts.
Yahoo Sports: “OTTAWA CENTAURS STAR RUSHED TO HOSPITAL!”
Sports Center: “ILYA ROZANOV TAKEN OUT OF GAME, SUSPECTED CONCUSSION.”
ESPN: “Centaurs-Metros game suspended after captain Shane Hollander leaves with Ilya Rozanov, marriage rumors circulate.”
TMZ Sports: “Are Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander married? Sources say Hollander referred to his rival as his “husband” during the game. Read more at…”
Shane’s eyes briefly skim the various headlines that flood the Google homepage on his cellphone but he doesn’t click any of the articles to read further. There’s no point. He was there, he saw everything, he lived it, and knows more than any of these sports reporters and bloggers. Besides, he’s too nauseous to read anything else, and he doesn’t believe he’d retain any information.
There’s a warm hand on his knee and that snaps Shane out of his head. Yuna’s crouched down in front of him, her eyes big and expressive as she stares at him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You called Ilya your husband on the ice. Was that just a ploy to get permission to leave the game and be here with him?”
Shane inhales deeply. He knew this day was coming sooner rather than later, that he and Ilya wouldn’t be able to hide things forever, especially from his parents. He just didn’t think it would all come to a head in such a spectacular shit show.
“Did you know in California they have these things called confidential marriage licenses?” Shane asks.
Yuna shakes her head. “No, I did not know that.”
“Apparently it’s really popular out there because of all the celebrities and politicians who want to remain private. You don’t need witnesses to get married and no one has access to your marriage certificate.”
“Remember when Ilya and I were in Los Angeles a few months back for the ESPYs? And we stayed for a week because you set up that meeting Dick’s Sporting Goods for me?” Yuna nods, prompting her son to continue. “We snuck into a courthouse in Orange County—it’s much quieter than Los Angeles County—and we got married.”
“You guys have been married since July? Darling, it’s January, how long were you planning on keeping this a secret? And why did you feel like you had to keep it from me?”
Shane attempts to swallow the knot working its way up his throat. He coughs. “We weren’t trying to hide it, we weren’t ashamed of anything. We just…Every other aspect of our lives is highly publicized and controlled. So much of our relationship is shrouded in secrecy, and underhanded maneuvers to justify being seen in the same space together, and it is…exhausting. I’m so tired, mom. We just needed something for ourselves, a way we could express just how much we love each other.”
“I’m sorry we kept it from you, I don’t want you to think this is an indictment against you and dad,” Shane continues. “You guys have been amazing since the day you found out about us.”
Yuna wipes a tear away from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Are you guys happy?”
It wasn’t the question Shane was expecting to hear and it manages to startle a laugh out of him. “Yes. Yes, we’re happy.”
“Then that’s all that matters to me.”
Shane exhales, his chest partially loosening up at his mom’s swift and emphatic support. He didn’t realize just how much he needed it until it was received. He falls into her arms once more, this hug even more desperate than the last one they shared.
The moment is interrupted by David re-entering the waiting area, this time with a doctor in tow. She’s a petite woman, and she wears a no-nonsense expression on her face. “Mr. Hollander? Hi, I’m one of the attending neurologists working with Ilya, Dr. Sang.”
Shane immediately untangles himself from Yuna and stands, extending his hand. “Hi. Is Ilya okay? What’s going on?”
“We did an MRI and confirmed he does have a grade 3 concussion and cerebral edema—brain swelling. Swelling is to be expected with a concussion, but due to the extent of his, we are monitoring it closely. We provided Mr. Rozanov with blood thinners as well as corticosteroids to see if they relieve the swelling.”
“And if they don’t?” Yuna asks.
“Then we’ll look into doing surgery to relieve the pressure and remove any fluid buildup. But we will continue to monitor the situation over the next 24 to 48 hours before we bring in a neurosurgeon.”
“Is he awake?"
Dr. Sang shakes her head. “Mr. Rozanov has not yet regained consciousness. As of now, his vitals are relatively stable, his blood pressure is a bit elevated but that’s to be expected, we’re just…waiting for him to wake up. He also appeared to have sprained his back, but we plan on doing another MRI to get more clear imaging.”
“Can I see him?”
“Of course. He’s in the intensive care unit right now, so only two people at a time.”
“You go alone,” Yuna insists, nudging her son towards the doctor. “I’ll come up in a minute.”
Shane squeezes his mom’s hand once before dropping it to follow the doctor. While they’re in the hallways for no more than a minute, for Shane, the walk to the ICU feels like an eternity.
Realistically, Shane knew what to expect walking into Ilya’s room. He was told mere minutes ago that his husband isn’t conscious. He knows Ilya is battling a pretty severe head and a potential back injury.
It still feels like a punch to the gut when Shane actually lays eyes on him. The room is eerily silent, save for the monitors beeping every few seconds. His usually larger than life husband, the man who commands every room he enters, almost looks small to him in this hospital bed.
“Okay,” Shane says, quietly and to himself. “Okay, this is where we are. We’re really in the hospital right now. Okay, okay, okay.”
He sits in the empty chair next to Ilya’s bed and grabs Ilya’s hand. Ilya looks serene like this, and so much younger than his actual 29 years. “Hi, my love. I’m not sure if you can hear or feel me, but I’m here.”
Shane is met with silence, and of course, logically he knows that was to be expected. But it doesn’t make it any less jarring when Ilya says nothing in return. “You know, all those years ago when you and I sat in the cottage and mapped out our 10 year plan, you getting a TBI wasn’t in there. To be fair, neither was a surprise elopement. And neither was me outing our relationship and marital status because of your injury.” He sighs. “Okay, so we’ve deviated from the plan quite a bit, but I think this should be the last time. I mean, what else do we have to hide, I’m sure TMZ is already turning every record’s office in Canada upside down to verify if we’re married or not.”
“I need you to wake up, okay? The doctors are talking about doing surgery if you don’t start healing.”
“I don’t want to be in charge of your medical affairs,” Shane tells him, uncaring that he sounds whiny and petulant. “I mean, I do, but I don’t. I want you to wake up, so we can go home, together. I want to do dumb concussion protocol with you at home, and make sure you aren’t watching too much tv or spending too much time on your phone. I want to pester you to take your meds on time and to get enough sleep. I want to sit on the back deck with you and eat ramen because you know my mom is going to make enough ramen to feed us for the next month.” He raises Ilya’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss onto his palm before placing it on his own face. If Shane closes his eyes, he can for a brief moment pretend Ilya is doing it on his own volition.
“Most of all, I just want you to open your eyes again for me. Can you do that for me, please?”
And Shane’s heart cracks a little more when he’s met with more silence.
36 hours later, Ilya is in no better position than he was upon admittance to the hospital. His vitals remain stable, he’s not getting any worse, which Shane supposes he should be grateful for the small miracle, but he isn’t really in the mood for gratitude.
He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s left Ilya’s side, once to take a shower and change his clothes, and once to get out of the nurse’s path as they wheeled him out of the room and into radiology for updated scans. He’s barely slept and exhaustion left the building hours ago, but sleep evades him. He can sleep later, when Ilya wakes up and the doctors give him the go ahead to be discharged. They can sleep for a week in the comfort of their bedroom.
Yuna pulls Shane from his thoughts. “I really think we should draft a statement,” she says. “I cannot tell you how many calls I’ve had to field from different publications, foaming at the mouth for confirmation or denial about you calling yourself Ilya’s husband. And don’t even get me started on the teams.”
“I’m not saying anything,” Shane responds. He’s already done enough, said enough, without Ilya there to add anything. They can all get a statement when Ilya wakes up.
“I understand not wanting to talk to the media,” Yuna tells him. “But don’t you think you owe it to your coaches and your teammates? I know the Voyageurs PR manager and I could come up with—”
“Mom!” Shane doesn’t mean to snap, he really doesn’t, but Yuna Hollander is nothing if not persistent when she wants to get her point across, and he needs to drive home the point that he really is not in the mood. “This isn’t up for debate, I said no. Ilya comes first, before anything else, and as long as he’s here, he gets all of my attention.”
And he must have a very serious look on his face because Yuna acquiesces, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Okay. Okay, I’ll drop it.”
“Thank you.”
They fall into a tense silence, but it doesn’t last long as Dr. Sang appears moments later, another Doctor with her. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hollander. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” Shane responds.
“That’s fair. My colleague and I wanted to give you an update on Mr. Rozanov’s condition. We got the results back from his latest MRI and it doesn’t look like the swelling has gone down, so I am referring the case over to neurosurgery. Dr. Thomas here is one of the best in the hospital.”
“What would this surgery entail?”
“The procedure is called a ventriculostomy,” Dr. Thomas explains. “It’s a pretty fast and routine procedure, but I would go in and place a small catheter into your husband’s skull to relieve some of the pressure and drain the excess fluid that’s built up due to the injury. It’s not incredibly invasive and people are usually discharged within 2 days, barring any complications. As you know, his vitals are stable, relative to the circumstances and your husband has perfect health outside of this, so I do not foresee any major complications.”
“And will he wake up after this surgery?”
“I don’t want to speak out of turn and make any promises,” Dr. Thomas says carefully. “But in my professional opinion, the surgery is the best course of action. If you don’t do the surgery, we can continue with medication to see if that yields any positive results.”
Anxiety creeps at the back of Shane’s neck as the doctor continues to drone on about treatment options and success rates and tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but they don’t fall. They just pool up annoyingly, obstructing his vision. The doctor’s voice fades out and Shane tries, he really tries his hardest to stop the sound of static between his ears. He wishes Ilya was awake, he would know what to do, what precise combination of soothing words and touches would bring him down from the ledge.
Shane looks to his mom, hoping and praying they could switch places, that she can be the boss in charge of calling the shots. Instead Yuna simply stares back at him and offers him a soft but sad smile, silently reinforcing the fact that only Shane can be the one to make these decisions.
“I…” Shane inhales deeply, holds his breath for a moment before speaking, “I c-can’t, I don’t know.”
“Shane, baby,” Yuna starts. She takes a step closer and Shane retreats backwards, “I need you to breathe.”
He shakes his head. He wishes he could, but taking a breath seems impossible right now, not with the weight of everything pressing down on his shoulders and the back of his neck.
Dr. Sang takes a moment to survey the situation before turning to Yuna, “You know what? I get it, we just dropped a lot of information on you two, and it’s a lot to think about. How about we take a beat and circle back to this in about an hour? Ilya is currently stable so we don’t need an answer immediately. And in the meantime, can I have one of the hospital service coordinators or social workers come in here and discuss the options in further detail with you guys, or to just do a quick temperature check?”
Yuna nods, grateful for the lifeline they were just thrown. “That sounds wonderful, Doctor, thank you.”
“Of course. I think the social worker on-call today is—”
There’s a knock at the door that stops the conversation in its tracks. A young man pokes his head in the door and waves. “Hi, I’m so sorry for interrupting.”
“Oh this is perfect timing,” Dr. Sang says. “I was actually just talking about you! This is Nick, he’s one of the social workers for this unit. Nick, I was wondering if you could—”
“We have a situation. There’s a Mr. Alexei Rozanov in the waiting area, demanding to speak with someone. He says he’s Ilya’s brother.”
And all the eyes in the room turn to Shane, who would rather turn into a pile of dust than endure one more second of this living nightmare. “What the fuck.”