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Ilya’s whole body feels like an exposed raw nerve on the way to hospital, asking for Shane’s room at the desk, when the nurse points him in the right direction. But he’s allowed to visit, so that’s a good sign, right? And it’s a normal room, not one of the scarier wards.
His heart is still hammering through his chest as he gently pushes open the door.
Shane’s propped up on some pillows, arm in a sling, bruises blooming on his face, squinting against the daylight, but alive. Alive, and conscious, and - not alone.
Ilya swallows, eyes flickering between Shane, two people he recognises as Shane’s parents, and Hayden fucking Pike.
They all look at him with surprise, and a little hostility. Pike actually starts to rise from his chair, poised to, what, defend Shane? As though Ilya would track down an injured player to a hospital bed to cause more trouble?
He’s ready to just turn around and leave, but Shane’s managed to focus his eyes on the door.
“Ilyaaaa!” Shane’s beaming. Ilya’s stomach - the part that isn’t still a giant ball of tension - gives a happy little flutter that his arrival is enough to cause this reaction.
This is promptly followed by a new wash of anxiety, because Shane has clearly been given some strong painkillers and is perhaps not thinking through his actions. And what happens if he gives them away, and it gets out, and suddenly they’re facing their teams and the league and the public with no time to plan anything, and the stress of it rips them apart? Or what if it doesn’t go beyond this room, but Shane - once he’s not high any more - still freaks out, and leaves Ilya anyway?
There’s marked confusion on the faces of their three observers now, looking between Shane (huge, dopey grin) and Ilya (ready to throw up).
Quick, say something. You’re just being a good sportsman, checking on an opposing player who got hurt.
“I, um… I just wanted to -” Ilya’s voice catches slightly. Fuck, get it together, captain. “Are you ok?”
“Concussion and a fractured collarbone, out for the playoffs, but…”
“Could have been worse?” Which is a huge understatement given the many, many possible outcomes that ran through his head all night.
“Could have been worse.”
“Marleau feels terrible, he did not mean to hurt you.”
Ilya’s not looking at the other people in the room but he senses them shift, can almost hear Pike’s jaw tighten. He gets it - he knows it was a clean hit and bad luck, but he still had to take several deep breaths in the locker room to stop himself following Pike’s example and punching Marleau.
Yuna Hollander inhales, ready to say something, but Shane gets there first.
“I know, part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?” he says, easily.
Ilya fights back a sudden urge to scream not your bell, to tell Shane a hundred times that he’s not allowed to get hurt again, that he’s the most precious person in the world and he needs to never, never scare Ilya like this again.
He clenches and unclenches his fist silently.
“Hey. Heeyyyyyy.”
Shane, sweet beautiful drugged-up Shane, is reaching out towards him, and Ilya’s feet are moving before he has time to think this through. He takes Shane’s hand and it’s so fucking good to touch him, warm and solid. A bit more of the tension in his body ebbs away.
“Yess, better,” Shane mumbles happily, closing his eyes. Ilya’s other hand itches to touch Shane’s cheek, but he can feel three pairs of eyes burning into his back and tries to cling to whatever shreds of deniability they have left.
This isn’t helped by Shane continuing, “I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night.”
“No, it’s ok.”
“I was excited about last night. I’m mostly mad at Marleau for fucking that up.”
Oh god, Ilya needs to shut this down before Shane starts sharing any details of what last night could have entailed. He puts his hand on Shane’s good shoulder and says, “Maybe you should just rest now, huh? We can talk another time.”
Shane dips his head to rest his cheek on Ilya’s hand, and Ilya allows his thumb to make one tiny brush across the spray of freckles.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Shane opens his eyes, those gorgeous rich brown eyes that make Ilya’s knees weak, and looks at Ilya so fucking softly that Ilya nearly kisses him anyway, witnesses be damned. But those beautiful eyes are a little glassy, so instead, Ilya tells him, “Get well soon, Hollander.”
“Ok. Bye bye,” Shane says sleepily, and Ilya gently extracts himself as Shane’s eyes drift closed again.
There’s dead silence in the room. Ilya needs to leave, right now. He’s not sure what he mutters as he nods to Shane’s parents or passes Pike, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. His pulse is roaring in his ears as he hurries through the door. Just go back to the hotel, and get your flight, and -
He doesn’t manage to make it to the elevators before there’s a sharp “Rozanov!” behind him.
Ilya stops and slowly turns to face Hayden Pike, who’s striding down the hallway after him. Pike’s eyes are wide, face flushed.
“What - what the fuck was that about?”
“I was visiting a player injured by my team. Is a nice thing to do.”
“Don’t you fucking - that wasn’t just - what the hell is going on between you two?” Pike snaps.
And Ilya’s just so tired.
He had barely slept last night, scouring the news for any updates about Shane and trying, unsuccessfully, to contain all the panicked thoughts whirling through his mind.
He had even, for a few wild minutes at around 3am, considered going to Shane’s house, using the code Shane had muttered to him during warm-up. If he was going to have to wait, he at least wanted to be among Shane’s things. The neatly folded clothes smelling of Shane’s laundry detergent. The pair of glasses sitting on a boring hockey book.
But it had felt like too much of an overstep, to go into Shane’s space without Shane being there, or even knowing. Things have been… different, lately, since Tampa, and Moscow. But he’s not sure what their new state is, or if it’s too fragile for that kind of intrusion. So he waited out the grey dawn in his hotel room. And anyway, if he’d gone to the house he might have had an awkward encounter with Shane’s parents.
(Not that he’s managed to avoid that, in the end.)
It’s been a long night of worry, after a difficult few weeks dealing with his father’s death and his family in Moscow, after too many years of hiding his feelings about Shane from the world and from Shane and from himself, and Ilya’s so, bone-deep exhausted.
He looks flatly at Pike.
“You must have an idea, or you would not be so worked up right now.”
“Yeah, but… that can’t be what it actually… Rozanov, tell me what’s going on. Please.”
Ilya notices for the first time that Pike has bags under his eyes and a shadow of stubble; recognises the signs of somebody else who lost sleep to worry. Pike’s flare of anger is giving way, and underneath is raw concern for his friend.
He may not like Hayden Pike, but caring about Shane is something they have in common. He leads Pike to a more secluded corner, out of the way of foot traffic, and takes a deep breath.
“Shane and I are… important… to each other. It is… not something we can be public about.”
“Like, friends?”
Ilya just stares at Pike.
Pike blows out a breath. “Right. Not just friends. Jesus.”
Ilya fixes Pike with his best terrifying-Russian-hockey-player glare. “If you tell anyone about this, Hayden Pike, I will hurt you. It will make what Marleau did to Shane look like -”
“Whoa, come on, I’m not going to tell anyone. Seriously. Shane’s my best friend. And even if he wasn’t, I would never - not something like this.”
Pike holds his gaze, eyes wide and earnest. He’s annoying and a mediocre hockey player and needs to stop having children, but he’s never done anything to make Ilya think he’s the kind of shitty person who would out somebody else against their will.
Ilya nods, grudgingly. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, suppressing a shiver. Normally when he’s feeling the effects of an adrenaline crash, he has a hot shower and a rowdy locker room to carry him through.
Pike is clearly still turning things over in his mind, trying to get the pieces to fit. “But aren’t you - haven’t you slept with a lot of women?”
“You have never heard of bisexuals?”
Pike blinks. “Yeah. Ok, fair enough. But, like… Is Shane just one of many?” He’s obviously uncomfortable with this whole conversation, but there’s a challenge in his face too.
“Ah. You are worried man whore will break good boy’s heart.”
“Maybe I am!”
They glare at each other. Ilya grits his teeth. He doesn’t have to defend himself to this man. But he almost - almost - admires him for standing up for his friend.
“I will not… it is…” He swallows, tries again. “I care very much for Shane.” Which feels like a colossal understatement, but he’s damn sure not going to tell Hayden Pike he loves Shane before he tells Shane himself.
But maybe it’s still enough, for now. “Yeah.” Pike coughs. “Yeah, I think I saw that. Back there.”
Maybe Ilya gave them away just as much as Shane did.
Another wave of exhaustion hits Ilya and he leans against the wall, eyes closed.
There’s a beat of silence.
“How does it even work?”
Ilya’s eyes snap open. “What, you want diagram? You want list of positions we - “
“NO! Fuck, man. I mean, when do you even see each other?”
“Not as often as we would like. When we play in Montreal, or you play in Boston. Rest of time, we text mostly, or call.”
Pike frowns. “But, when we’re in…” Then he makes a strangled noise. “Holy shit, Rozanov. You’re Boston Lily?!”
Ilya snorts. “Ah, you know about my secret name?”
“Well, yeah, I mean, I know Shane has something going on with - but he’s been texting her for years.” And now Pike’s looking at him with - is that sympathy? “That’s a long time to keep a secret this big,” he says softly.
“Yes,” Ilya whispers back around the sudden lump in his throat.
“And you’re just gonna… keep hiding?”
“What else can we do?”
Pike leans against the wall next to Ilya. “That’s… Fuck.”
“Da.”
“You’re still an asshole.”
“So are you.”
“But you seem to make Shane happy.”
“I try.”
“So. I dunno. I guess I’m… Here? For you both?”
Pike’s audibly cringing at his own words, and Ilya can already think of three - no, four - very cutting things he could say back.
But, for all that this is not how he would have chosen someone else to find out, and he would definitely not have chosen that person to be Hayden god damn Pike, it’s almost a relief to talk to someone else.
Somehow, over several years, Ilya’s centre of gravity has shifted to Shane Hollander, the structure of his life rearranging around one boring Canadian, without anybody else in the world having any idea. Maybe it’s nice for at least one other person to know.
Even Pike.
So Ilya swallows back his five (he thought of another really good one) chirps and just gently knocks his elbow into Pike.
“You are… not the worst person Shane could be friends with.”
“I’m pretty sure you are the worst person he could be sleeping with.” But there’s no real heat behind Pike’s words.
Ilya clears his throat and straightens. “I have to -” He gestures vaguely towards the elevators. “I have flight.”
“Right, sure. We’ll keep a close eye on him. Don’t worry.” Which, obviously, Ilya will. He’s not sure how to stop worrying, or replaying the hit over and over in his mind. “And… I don’t know when they’re gonna let him have his phone back. With the concussion and all. So, I could…” Pike shifts awkwardly. “I could text you? With any updates?”
Ilya cocks his head. “You would do that?”
“Yeah. Not for you, to be clear. But, like. For Shane. And Lily.” There’s a tiny glimmer of humour in Pike’s eyes.
“Of course. She is much better person than me.”
“I guess I know now why he was always so cagey about her.”
And Ilya must really need sleep, because he gives a small smile and says, “My team tease me about my Montreal girl."
“Yeah?”
“Mmmm. Jane.”
Pike grins. “Wow.”
“I really should go.” Ilya hesitates for a moment, then holds out his hand. Pike shakes it. “Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
As he starts to walk away, Ilya says, “I’d say good luck in playoffs, but without Shane to carry you there…”
“Yeah, alright, fuck off Rozanov.”