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Shane Hollander hates hospitals.
It’s not exactly a hot take. Pretty on par with saying you hate funerals, or nursing homes, or getting shots. The incredible thing about hospitals, though, is they can basically be all of those things at once, just a great cesspool of grief and misery and stress. But sometimes you can kind of plan to be a patient in the hospital, can mentally prepare yourself for the physical and mental pain you’re about to withstand.
Other times, shit just happens. Life happens, and one minute you’re on the ice, stupidly smiling like a dork at the hottest man you’ve ever seen. And the next you’re being strapped down to a stretcher, carried away, barely able to keep your eyes open while your collarbone feels like it’s about to cut through your skin.
The only thing worse than hospitals is being a patient in the hospital. It feels like a nightmare; Shane honestly still kind of can’t believe that instead of being tenderly dicked down and taken apart by Ilya Rozanov, he’s spending the night alone in the hospital, woken near hourly by nurses to make sure his fucking brain isn’t bleeding.
It’s been a disappointing night. Shane has decided he’s allowed to have a mental pity party.
In defense of his friends and family, they hadn’t wanted to leave Shane alone. Hayden had shown up after the game, a hastily packed bag of Shane’s things and his phone in tow. Shane doesn't remember most of the visit, but he knows Hayden sat with him until visiting hours were officially over. He’d said Shane’s parents were on their way, and in a rare moment of clarity, Shane had the wherewithal to feel exceedingly guilty, because that doesn't mean his parents are driving up from Ottawa, it means they're flying back early from their long-awaited trip to Mexico.
Hayden had also informed Shane that “Lily” was completely spamming Shane’s phone with worried messages, and did Shane want Hayden to give her a call for him?
“I’ll do it,” Shane had mumbled to his friend. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll do it.”
“Shane--,”
“It’s fine. It’s fine, I’ll do it.”
But it isn’t fine, because after Hayden left Shane completely forgot to call or even text. He doesn't fall asleep, not really, but he isn’t exactly awake, either. He’s spent the night in this kind of awful haze, eyes closed, shoulder throbbing, wishing he was literally anywhere else but Montreal General.
(Preferably being tenderly dicked down by Ilya Rozanov in his own bed, but again, the universe has decided to hate Shane Hollander tonight.)
His season is over. His parents aren’t here. His head hurts like a motherfucker.
He misses Ilya. He really fucking misses Ilya.
The sun is beginning to rise outside the hospital window by the time Shane has calmed down enough to actually sleep.
***
Shane wakes not long after to a slight pressure under his eye. He leans into the gentle caress, then opens his eyes to see Ilya Rozanov framed by the early morning sunlight streaming through the window, looking like some kind of god.
Shane’s always been pretty agnostic, but he thinks he could make a good life out of worshipping Ilya’s temple.
“Hey,” Shane says hoarsely, meeting Ilya’s eyes. Ilya’s face is stone, like he can’t decide between breaking something in half or breaking in half himself. His hair is smoothed straight back like he’s been running his hands through it all night.
The hand still on Shane’s face is gentle though, so, so gentle. Ilya swallows thickly. “I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you. How are you?”
“Tired,” Shane sighs reflexively. Then Ilya begins to move his hand away.
“Am sorry, I will go--,”
“No,” Shane says immediately, reaching the hand not trapped by the sling to grab Ilya’s wrist. “No, stay, Ilya. Please stay.”
Ilya stays. Shane grabs his hand and holds it lightly.
“Are you okay?” Ilya asks quietly.
“Concussion and a fractured collarbone. I’m out for the playoffs, but…”
“Could have been worse,” Ilya finishes solemnly.
“Coulda been worse,” Shane agrees. It could have been worse. The universe wasn’t exactly kind to Shane last night, but he’s also not dead or permanently damaged, so it must not hate him too much.
“Marleau feels terrible. He did not mean to hurt you.” Ilya squeezes his hand.
Shane sighs. “Wasn’t his fault. It was a clean hit; I should have been more focused.”
Ilya doesn’t agree or disagree. Instead, he looks slowly back at the door, before picking up Shane’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist. He rubs his thumb along the place his lips have just left, as though trying to get Shane’s body to hasten absorbing his affection.
“You scared me,” Ilya whispers, the words muffled by Shane’s hand covering half his lips. Ilya kisses his wrist again, then puts his hand down on the bed, still holding it gently within his own.
“I’m sorry,” Shane says softly. He kind of wants to cry. “I should have texted you last night--,
“No, no, it’s okay,” Ilya’s replies quickly. “It’s okay.”
Shane closes his eyes for a minute. Sometimes looking at Ilya feels like looking at the sun.
“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” Shane asks when he opens his eyes. Ilya’s thumb has begun tracing along his freckles again.
The thumb stops in its tracks. “Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house. We’ll have so much fun, and it’s so private. No one will know.”
Ilya is silent for a beat too long. Shane turns his head and kisses the palm still cupping his cheek. “We could have a week, or even two. Completely alone. Together. I wanted to ask you last night, but that didn’t exactly…”
“You know I can’t, Shane,” Ilya says delicately. Shane nods his head slightly and bites his bottom lip to keep it from doing something ridiculous like quivering.
That can’t stop the tears from flooding his eyes though. “Yeah, I know. I know.” He sniffs and tries futilely to look away. Shane’s not trying to guilt-trip Ilya into coming to his fucking cottage, it’s supposed to be happy and light and fun, and if Ilya can’t, he can’t, and there’s a million reasons why he can’t, why they can’t, why this is—
“Maybe.” Ilya’s familiar hand grasps under Shane’s chin and gently turns Shane’s head to meet his gaze. Ilya’s blue eyes are bright. He grins softly, just for Shane. “Maybe. Okay?”
“Okay,” Shane breathes. He blinks quickly, and Ilya runs his hand lightly through Shane’s hair.
“You should sleep. You look like shit, Hollander.”
Shane finally smiles. “Fuck off. You’re the one who looks like he never slept last night.”
Ilya smiles grimly. “I did not.”
Shane Hollander hates hospitals. He hates being hurt and he hates that his parents are gone. He hates lying to his best friend. He hates ambulances and nursing homes and funerals and shots. He hates that the universe seems to hate him right now. But, Shane thinks idly as Ilya kisses his forehead and exits the room, the hate is nothing, the hate means nothing, the hate can’t touch him so long as Shane gets to love Ilya Rozanov.
***