Archive of Our Own ^beta

They were just finishing breakfast and listening to the record console, though it wasn’t actually spinning a record this time. Just using the speakers, even though Shane always says that doesn’t really make a difference, Ilya feels it does. Somehow the Bluetooth from his phone to the speakers in the Wrensilvia sound different than any other speaker in the house. They have it on shuffle, this playlist they share, which means absolutely anything written between, say, about 1920 to 2020 could play at any moment. And Ilya did think really and truly, anything. Any genre, across a half dozen languages. It was always a surprise. It’s half of why they did it this way. Shane, if left to his own devices when it came to music, would stick in the same grooves he's been in every since he could remember actually listening to music. A great deal of his Mama’s taste,(80s new wave, 90’s cafe songs, lonely murmurings in smoky French, slow ballads made to twirl your hips to with a glass of wine), but some his own(covers he’d found over the years that fit them and their relationship a bit better. Harder rock. Smoother, older jazz, r&b that made it hard to stay quiet or be still. Still usually moving achingly slow). The same songs over and over again. And Ilya would hit skip until he found the exact mood he didn’t know he needed, usually set to the beat of a racing heart. They were all songs of devotion, obsession, longing and yearning, sometimes hurt (sometimes the hurt fit, sometimes it didn’t, but either way they didn’t feel the sting anymore. No need to punish a good song) and overall, overarchingly, incredibly mushy. Whether you’d dance to it in refrigerator light or in a club, a drive to the city in a sports car or over to the cottage in the Land Rover, they somehow all fit. The way the two of them fit together. If you looked it didn't make any sense. If you listened, it did.

The weather alert screeched over both their phones, furrowing Shane’s brow almost instantly. He grumbled as he dismissed the alarm. “Fuck. Storm’s coming.”

Ilya’s heart sank. Confirmation of what they’d been afraid of this week. “Okay, sweetheart, I’ll take Anya out. Can you call?” He said in Russian. He might not get to hear Shane speak it for a few days. Or it might be the only thing he spoke. There really was no telling.

Shane nodded, then winced. “Fuck. Shouldn’t have done that.” In Russian. Good, usually. His accent hadn’t slipped, no slurred words. “Better get on that while everything still makes sense.” He switched back to English, reached for Ilya as he stood up.

“Need anything?” Ilya asked, fighting the concern in his voice.

“No, baby, not really.” Shane pulled him closer, resting his head against his stomach. “I just want to hold on for a second.” He pressed his head in a little more, and Ilya without hesitation or a word slipped his hand on the back of Shane’s neck, minding his hair, pressing at the tension already there. A small whimper escaped from Shane’s mouth. One that always pierced Ilya’s heart. He was already hurting.

“Come here, then. I’ve got you.” He lifted him up in his arms (Ilya would never admit it, but this was harder than it used to be. Not impossible, not painful, just a little harder. They were getting older) and tucking him up by his chest to shield from the light. “Bed or chair?”

“Chair, please.” Shane mumbled in Russian, against his neck. “I can actually walk, you know.”

For right now, Ilya thought to himself. “Let me hold on for a second.”

******

He carried him into the living room, setting him down in his wide chair. Shane would know the name of it, it looked like a nest or maybe a shell, with an ottoman and a throw blanket, a pillow stolen from the couch to prop him up so he didn’t lean too hard on his bad shoulder. There was a little table nearby so he could keep his phone on him, keep it charged. Also room for a bottle of water or something to nibble, and a flask of whatever hot beverage was working this go around. Shane settled in, holding onto Ilya’s hand for a moment before letting go and calling.

“Hey, yeah. Yeah we saw it blowing in. Or, well, the weather alert did. Yeah, I’ll keep you updated, or you know Ilya will. Well, hopefully not too long, eh, only supposed to last till…what, tomorrow? Day after next? Yeah, yeah, no. You both, I swear. You both worry too much. I’m gonna be fine. Yep. Alright. Alright, will do. Okay. Bye.” He hung up and looked into Ilya’s eyes. They were so tired already, watery and dark like rain on fallen leaves. “I hate doing this shit.”

“I know. But it’s not like you do it on purpose. Is out of your control. Which I know you love, when things are out of your control.” Ilya smiled small and so did Shane, before shaking his head slightly and rolling his eyes.

“Since you scooped me up so needlessly” he teased, “can you get my medicine?”

“No, I intentionally left you stranded. No medicine.” Ilya smiled. “No water, no ginger ale, no nothing.”

Shane sucked his teeth and scrunched his face, an imitation of Ilya when he was angry. “So I’m stuck here till…”

“Oh, till.”

Shane laughed, patted at Ilya as he walked away.

******

They had a pretty good system with it now. Shane could tell when it was going to happen, usually within a few minutes of waking up. His head would throb in a sickening, dull way, like a punch landing on a cushion. A harbinger of what to come, a pale imitation. His right eye would go dry and prickly, then heavy and watery. His vision would shatter into halos and kaleidoscopes. It was usually at this point he’d become increasingly aware of his own hair, how it touched him, pulling at his scalp and sitting heavy on his neck and shoulders, smothering him in a way it never did any other time. He could just about feel every strand, all the way down to the ends, and simply brushing it or moving it aside scraped at him like a wire brush on a fresh sunburn. More than once he thought of shaving it all off in the middle of an attack, just to be able to get away from it, but he never did. For one thing, he knew he’d personally regret it the second the clipper cut through the first pass. And for another, the idea of Ilya never being able to twirl it around his fingers again, or him brushing it aside to kiss his neck, or gripping a handful of it and tugging it to get Shane to look in his eyes…that wasn’t something he was willing to lose.

He loved his hair, and most of the time it was easy enough to care for. Long enough now to braid or pile up on the top of his head, it could get out of its own way now. A simple swipe of a brush would return it to the unbroken sheet that fell to the middle of his back. Pin straight, with only the gentlest of waves in the wisps by his ears and forehead, it had the tendency to resist being up. It slipped from scrunchies and elastics, unless he tied them very, very tightly. Which, with what was coming, would be impossible to bear. The tension alone would feel like ripping the nerves out of his scalp one by one.

So, while his husband would gather supplies for the next however long he was going to be moored here in this chair, Shane would flip his hair over and gently suggest it into the shape of a bun, taking out a small clip from the side table drawer and letting the teeth just snag enough of the strands to keep the damned thing in his hair— and to keep it from all falling down again. There was a bit of science to it—a bit of finesse—and it usually took more than one go of it. The aesthetics of this particular hairstyle were very rarely any of Shane’s concern. The goal was to get the weight off the middle of his head and somewhere else, anywhere else, and where that worked best was at the top. Once he was satisfied that it wasn’t pulling at the front or sides or slipping down by his ears, he would gingerly lean his head over the back of the chair and sigh as his neck decompressed. For a blissful and entirely too short moment, nothing would fucking hurt. He’d take what he could get while he could get it, because eventually even this would be excruciating. Everything would be.

******

The first time it happened, it was in the middle of a home game, his first season with the Centaurs, and there had been nothing to suggest that that day would be any different. Of course now, looking back, there were big flashing neon signs of what had been coming, but at the time it all seemed so normal.

He’d woken up with a bit of a headache. Nothing more. He got them from time to time. And yeah, they had felt different ever since his concussion, but it was fine. He was tender for a day or two, a little more sensitive to lights and loud noises than he usually was, bit more tired, but fine. He’d pop a couple ibuprofen and be fine. This game damaged the people who played it, and that was half the fun of playing it. Being a little sore sometimes from an old injury was just part of it. Cost of doing business.

There were a few things in the moment that had caught his attention as weird, but nothing actually worrying. Some flashes of color, but that could be explained by him rubbing his eyes. Which he’d been doing a lot that day, a little too hard. Maybe there was some new cleaner in the locker rooms that bothered him? Or maybe there was some dust or smoke or something in the air.

What had really bothered him that day was his hair. He kept bunching it up and tearing the bun back out, trying to find a way to tuck it under his helmet without it pressing weirdly against the back of his head, but he figured he was just overstimulated that day, oversensitive to something that didn’t matter because he hadn’t felt very good. He’d barely eaten; everything had smelled off and felt weird in his mouth. But that wasn’t really that unusual either. He’d always been like that. Bothered by the minutiae no one else seemed to take notice of. It was just that usually he could make himself do what he needed to do anyway. He sighed and took down his hair and put it back up again. Maybe once he started playing it’d get his mind off it and he could just push through.

He barely made it through the first period, and that was really pushing it. The lights, the sounds, the smells, everything was making him dizzy and sick to his stomach, not to mention his head. All down the right side of his face, into his neck, and shooting clear through to his shoulder, the pain kept coming in waves, each one worse than the last. It took everything in him to keep going, to just do enough not to get slammed against the boards. One foot in front of the other. Just a few more minutes, he told himself, and then you can sit down, get some water, and you’ll be fine.

It hadn’t been fine. The buzzer sounding drilled through the front of his head jack hammer strong, and he physically couldn’t stop himself from whining in pain. He ripped off his helmet and clutched his head, cursing as he sank to the bench. And it just kept getting worse. The room was spinning, every single noise in the stadium was chipping into his skull. His ears were ringing. He was gritting his teeth so hard, he was sure he would shatter them. What was stronger, muscle or bone?

“Shane!”

He hissed.

“Did you get hit or not?” The team doctor yelled, and Shane found it suddenly very difficult to select a word, make his mouth move correctly, and then say it. He shook his head, the pain sloshing and shredding his brain, and he yelped.

“J…nn. Mmmm. Fuck! It just hurts. Nothing happened. Just hurts.”

“Shane I need to look in your eyes, bud. Okay?”

“No.” He whined, like a child but it couldn’t be helped. “Too damn bright, I can’t—”

“Okay, okay. Let’s get you back there then. Think you can walk back to the lockers?”

“Sure.” Long as no one expected him to see anything. He started to stand, but his feet felt wobbly. He hadn’t felt wobbly in skates since he was a kid. God if everything could stop being so goddamn loud and bright….

“Shane? Shane what’s wrong? What happened? Is he okay?”

Ilya. Shane sighed, some tension melting from his eyebrows. He reached in the general direction of his husband. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of that. His husband. On the same team now, finally. His hand found Ilya’s somewhere in the dark. He smiled, small, even through the slicing sharp pain. “I’m okay, baby.” He murmured. “Didn’t get hit, my head just hurts.”

“We need to do an exam, and we need to do it quickly.” The team doc said. “Shane can you get up if we give you a hand?”

Shane barely had the chance to answer before Ilya’s arms were wrapped around him, holding him upright and guiding him towards the lockers.

Even down the quieter hallways, the ringing in his ears showed absolutely no sign of quieting down any time soon. Everything was muffled, cutting in and out, the pealing piercing screeching not letting up. He literally couldn’t hear himself think. He did what the doc told him, stripping off his gear somewhere in between. He was pretty sure Ilya helped. Mercifully, they were in the coach’s office, the lights turned low. Mercilessly, they had to shine a light in his pupils. Shane would rather have plucked them out and held them up for examination. The light, dear Christ, the light. Even when his eyelids were safely screwed shut, the light bounced through the blank spaces in his head. He couldn’t escape it. It morphed into blinding neons, doubling and tripling, brighter than camera flashes, brighter than the sun. Hell could not be, and never again could Shane ever imagine it to be, a pit of darkness. Given half a chance and a shovel, Shane would’ve dug his own pit and tunneled as far down as he could, just to get away from the light. No, Hell was bright, echoing in the loudest silence he’d ever heard. Every single mundane sound, the hum of the heater, swishing of fabric, breathing(his or anyone else’s) blasted through like a beginner brass band, out of key and tempo, and cruelly too quiet to drown out the ringing. The ringing, the highest sound he’d ever heard, he’d heard it once before. He remembered now. After his concussion.

And now he was scared.

In the ambulance, they gave him a pillow, and instead of laying on it he pressed it into his eyes. The doctor and the medics were talking, slamming things around, snapping gloves and doing God only knows what else, and they were doing it as loudly as possible. Shane briefly considered telling them off, only his last shred of common sense kept him from it. They were doing their jobs, or whatever. He just wished they could do it without him having to be there to hear them. Or smell them. He could smell someone’s dinner mixed with the cologne he used to use when he was pretending to be straight in high school—before he even met Ilya—and even if he wasn’t sick to his stomach the combo would’ve made him dry heave. Raw onions and Dior sauvage. Two brand new features of Hell. He reached for Ilya’s hand to bury his nose into his wrist. “I…I. Mmm. I want to go home.” He whispered in Russian, even though trying to grasp the words was like trying to eat gelatin with a fork. He needed Ilya to know. He needed him to know he was still in there. “Ya lyublyu tebya, Ilyusha.” He murmured against his skin, and he felt Ilya’s thumb swiping circles against his cheek. Ilya must've murmured something back, but what he didn't know. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to hear the individual words. Shane felt it all the same, through the small touches and the shakiness of Ilya’s hand.

“You guys be careful driving in this mess. It’s supposed to get bad.” Bood’s voice cut through the cacophony of the scene.

“Yeah, you too. Came outta nowhere. Hear it’s s’posed to get down into the -30s, 35 centimetres of snow.” One of the medics responded.

And that gave Shane something else to worry about. How good could ambulances drive in the snow?

******

They kept asking the same boring questions, and Shane couldn’t seem to keep up, so once they got to the hospital Ilya answered for him. A privilege he never thought about, being able to be in the hospital with his husband. They couldn’t kick him out. Legally, he had every right to be here, to answer questions about Shane and his medical history, to discuss details of their home life that were relevant to what was happening. Questions like how long had he been complaining about the headache, was he fine before the game, had anything happened like this before. And not a single person looked at them oddly. They recognized them, sure, but even with that they were being treated respectfully. As respectfully as any other couple in the hospital that night, Ilya would assume. All of it, all of who they were, was immaterial to what was happening. Shane was a patient, Ilya was his family. That’s all the nurses seemed to care about.

Later, Ilya would focus on the novelty of it all, the novelty of being treated normally. Currently, he was far too preoccupied. Between translating the long, horrifying sounding words people kept saying in his head and staying right by Shane… it didn’t leave much time to wax poetic on the wonders of marriage equality. He’d never seen him like this, this curled into himself. This in pain. Even the time he fell on the ice…no, don’t go there. Except everyone kept asking about it. Are you sure just one concussion? Are you sure he didn’t get hit? No loss of consciousness? How long ago?

The times Shane did answer, he only said one thing. “It just hurts.” It was in the smallest voice Ilya had ever heard Shane talk in, a miserable whimper that cut him to the core. He felt useless, absolutely powerless to do anything, which made him angry enough. It was the fact the nurses didn’t seem to be doing anything fast enough either that took him from angry to incensed. “Can’t you do something? He is hurting!” The quietest he’d ever screamed, barely above a whisper.

“Mr Rozanov-Hollander, believe me, we're doing the best we can for your husband.”

“Bullshit, he is in tears!”

The nurse stifled a sigh. “We have to know what this is before we give him anything, or we could make it worse. Right now we need to get his vitals and send him up for testing.”

Ilya hated the sound of all of that. “Testing, testing for what?”

“Stroke, brain bleed, aneurysm, anything life threatening.”

Ilya never wanted to hear those words again. Waves of dread soaked him, pulling his heart, his skin crackling with the static electricity of anxiety. He felt sick. He felt cheated. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Any of it. Shane was young. Healthy! He didn't smoke, he barely fucking drank! A stroke? Old people had strokes. Who the fuck has a stroke in their thirties?

More people came in the room and kicked the brakes off the bed. “I want to go with him.”

“You can’t, Mr Rozanov-Hollander, but he'll be back soon.”

Shane reached for his hand again, squeezing tight. “I’ll be okay. Just gonna get some pictures taken. Hey, it’s okay. I’m okay.” He murmured in Russian.

He didn’t look okay. His face was ashen. He was stuttering, slurring. Tired. He sounded so very tired. Like all the fire and spark he had, that he always had, had dimmed down to embers. Ilya didn’t let go.

“C’mere.” Shane switched to English, because this phrase always was in English. They used it often, almost more often than I love you. It meant the same thing.

Ilya blinked, his eyes burning. “No, you c’mere.” The next piece of it. Like the next line of a song.

A ghost of a smile crossed Shane's lips. His eyes were still screwed shut, but he moved his face from behind the pillows. “No, you c’mere. Gimme kiss.”

Ilya leaned over the hospital bed and kissed him as deeply as he could get away with, and as gently as he could. When he pulled back, there was an ease to Shane’s face he hadn’t gotten to see in a while, just for a moment. Then his brows knitted back up and his jaw clenched again. “Thank you, baby. I’ll be right back.”

That word again. Shane didn’t call him that very often. Baby. English pet names felt strange, usually. Simple, too. And baby was the most common, the most generic. He’d heard it when he was hooking up with one night stands. He’d said it to a few of them too. But Shane always said it differently. This wasn’t just a place holder because someone at a club had forgotten Ilya’s name. Shane said it reverently, sweetly. Like he’d waited his whole life to get to say it to someone, which Ilya didn’t understand until he heard David call Yuna that once. That same soft tone, the same unending devotion seeping through. The Hollanders said it like it was the ultimate honor to be called it. Ilya was certain that Shane had never called anyone else baby, and probably never would. That was just for him, and just for moments like this. Even now, when he was hurting so much, so badly, Shane was trying to soothe Ilya’s fears.

The tears fell when they pulled the bed away. When they took Shane to someplace he couldn’t see and left him in a room that was somehow too small and too big. Two chairs, a white board with Shane’s name scrawled on it that had been beat to hell, and a monitor that wasn’t connected to anything. This was what hospital rooms looked like when they were empty. Obviously. Except the only thing worse than being in a hospital room with someone you loved was standing in an empty hospital room. He’d be back before Shane came back, but first he needed out of this room. The scuffed checkered linoleum, the bright lights, the smell of antiseptic and alcohol that burned his nose. All of it. And he had to make calls, get the car back from the stadium, call David and Yuna. And tell them what? That they didn’t know anything? That it could be anything that could possibly happen to your head? Anya, he needed to call someone to get Anya. He’d need to get home at some point, but how could he possibly leave here without Shane? He scrubbed at his face and picked a direction to walk, to get outside. He needed a cigarette. Shane would hate it, he knew he would. But what else did they build hospital parking lots for?

He walked up through a parking garage, getting high up enough and far away enough from anyone that could see him. He wasn’t sure what kind of vulture would ask someone for an autograph at a fucking hospital, but being a celebrity was weird, and Ilya had learned long ago never to underestimate the general public. Taking out the crushed, old pack from his coat pocket and pulling a stale cigarette out, he mentally ran through his list of what to do next. Taking a few seconds to just breathe in smoke, he stared in the middle distance at the snow falling all around. How muffled the sounds of everything were, how cottony. How bright the sky still was, purple and grey. How relentless the flakes falling down were, how howling the wind. He couldn’t help but remember before, under the snow again, pouring his heart out in a language Shane didn’t speak yet but had begged to hear anyway. How much those types of things didn’t come easily for either of them, but how hard Shane worked to hear him anyway. He sighed, feeling so utterly alone. And what if….no. Don’t. He pulled out his phone to find about a million text messages from Yuna and David, and just as he was about to call—

“Ilya, how is he? How are you?” Yuna asked and Ilya nearly jumped out of his skin.

He threw the cigarette away and ran to hug her. “Sorry. I was just about to call.” He held up his phone sheepishly.

“No, it’s okay, I figured you hadn’t had a chance.” She squeezed him surprisingly tightly.

Ilya smiled weakly. He’d promised the government before God and everyone to protect her son and here he was smoking in a parking lot and moping. He hadn’t done any of the things you’re supposed to do in a medical crisis. He was supposed to be an old pro at this by now. Probably would’ve been better at this if you’d taken care of Papa, he thought to himself. He cleared his throat. “They don't know. I don’t know. They are taking him for imaging now. They will not tell me anything just yet.”

He could see Yuna biting the inside of her cheek, looking up in his eyes (so much like Shane’s eyes, the same deep, rich brown. Like leaves in a forest pond) and then them falling down. “What happened?”

“Nothing. He keeps saying nothing. He says it just hurts. That is almost only thing he can say. It just hurts.”

They were both quiet for a moment. “He should be back from imaging soon.” Ilya continued, hoping he sounded sufficiently guilty for straying from his post. “We should be there when he gets back. I will take you back. Where is David?”

“Oh.” Yuna said, like it just occurred to her that he wasn’t standing right next to her. “He's at the house. Your house, getting both of you guys some clothes. Anya can visit the neighbors, right? That’s the contingency plan?”

Ilya had to translate that. All these big English words were getting harder and harder to decipher, and it all made him feel even more useless. He didn't have moments like this often anymore. Where everyone is moving fast and he is falling behind. Where thinking in two languages feels like everyone else is speaking in code and they’re all sitting back and waiting for him to fuck up so they can laugh in his face. He knew why. He was tired, and this was stressful. That didn't make him feel any better. “Yes. Is contingency.”

“He’s going to bring the car back, so you’re not stranded here.” Yuna said.

Like Ilya would be able to drive away.

******

Shane hated MRIs. They were loud and small and he always worried he wasn’t being still enough and that they'd have to redo them again and again for the rest of eternity. These headphones they had on to protect his hearing were tinny and pitchy, pressing into his ears in a strange way. They asked what he wanted to listen to, and he couldn’t think of anything at first. “Nothing with words.” He expected classical, maybe jazz. They picked spa music. Some of which did have words, but it was alright. This wasn’t exactly the type of music you sang along to.

So there he was, body tensed and drawn up so he wouldn’t flinch, listening to Enya trying to drown out the loudest banging he’d ever heard. He’d kill for someone to turn up the music. He was trapped in this metal tube that sounded like some serial killer was trying to pry it apart with a crowbar, except the killer was getting too impatient and kept slamming the bar against the tube at random intervals. At least if the music was louder he could focus on that, instead of his body being convinced someone or something was going to hit him, hard. He was pressing his back into this tiny bed weirdly, and his left foot was cold. The blanket had fallen off. And every new bang shot a new wave of pain through his skull and down his hand. He was getting used to it, the jolts now. At some point his body had accepted that his head was just going to hurt for now, however long now would be, and instead decided to focus on more acute things. Like his cold foot and his back. And now his feet were falling asleep. Fan–fucking–tastic.

Since he was stuck here, he tried to make sense of the banging, but parsing out a pattern without any real measure of time was useless, and anyway it was both too rhythmic and random to be one set pattern. A washing machine with an unbalanced load. It would bang on then stop, bang on then stop, and Shane could never tell which part of the cycle he was in. And this was only the first round of it. They’d be injecting dye next. He took as deep of a breath as he felt he could get away with, and tried very hard to think. Not to panic, to think. Where could Ilya and he go on vacation this summer? They usually stuck to the cottage but it might be fun to go somewhere else, somewhere abroad. Somewhere hot, where Ilya would wear short shorts and not button his shirt all the way. Some beach resort, by the ocean, sipping very strong and fruity cocktails and sunbathing. Rubbing sunscreen on each other's backs. Washing each other's hair to make sure there wasn’t any sand in it. Alright, maybe he shouldn’t think about that part of things right now, right here, literally under a giant camera with technicians staring at him. Where could they go? Croatia, maybe? He’d seen an episode of House Hunters International there. It looked beautiful. He’d have to cross reference where they’d be safe to go, but he was pretty sure Croatia was safe. America used to be, but now every time he had to go for games he felt strange. Spain would be. Or Mexico. Really interesting architecture in both places, that could be fun. The second he could get to his phone he’d plan a few trips and see which ones Ilya would like to go to. Maybe he’d have a good idea of somewhere too, know a little more about some places. Almost certainly about Europe. Mm. Time to change the subject, he was getting too tightly focused on this. He went back to listening to the music. They already played this Enya song before.

They pulled him out, and while there was a mask over his eyes, little beams of light still needled through, bright as staring at the sun. He bit his cheek to keep from whining pathetically, to keep the tears from falling. If he started crying, now, he wouldn’t be still enough for the rest of the imaging. They still needed to do a CT, on top of finishing this whole thing. Shane couldn’t remember having one last time. He hadn’t remembered the MRI from last time either. He only knew he hated them from the one time he tweaked his back in high school, which had turned out to be nothing. He wondered if he’d remember this? He certainly had been aware the whole time, but maybe some or all of this would blur the second he got some sleep. No way of telling.

“Alright, Shane, we're sending you back in. This one will be quick, only about fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes. Anywhere between three to five Enya songs. He could do this. And then he’d be back with Ilya.

Ilya had beaten Shane back after all. And his mom had come. There they both were, sitting in ugly chairs, Ilya barely fitting in his. Shane peeked behind his hand, catching small details, whatever he could between the shapes and lights swirling around them. He wondered, briefly, if this is what LSD was like. He couldn’t ever imagine this being enjoyable to anyone. Tracers, hallucinations, the afterburn of lights. It was terrifying, yes, but mostly just boring, as it turned out. Boring and aggravating. “Hi.” He said, since everyone seemed to be waiting for him to talk. He heard them both breathe, then felt Ilya rush over to the front of him to hold his hand. His mom went right behind him, gingerly petting his back. “Told you I’d come back.” He whispered into Ilya’s wrist. He wanted Ilya to pull him into his lap, bury them both in their fabulous duvet at home, and sleep in his chest for a thousand years.

“Shane, sweetie, what happened?” His mom asked, in a frail voice Shane hadn’t heard often.

He sighed. He was tired of being asked this question, and even more tired of trying to explain what was happening. “My head is just absolutely killing me. ‘Sometimes it feels like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull, and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my skull.’” Doctors might not be able to diagnose based on Springsteen lyrics, but he knew his mother could understand. They’d always spoken in references, in song lyrics, in quotes from TV shows. In hockey lingo. It was a language that even his dad struggled to follow. Mm. Speaking of. “Where's Dad?”

“He is at home. Our home. Getting things.” Ilya said. “Clothes. Something better than hospital gown.”

The hospital gown was horrible. Itchy, ratty, washed too many times but still somehow managed to feel grimy (he was pretty sure, though, that might be him imagining things. He didn’t like the idea of anything that needed to be washed as often as communal gowns and sheets. Or, rather, something that was supposed to be washed that often but might not actually be). However, it did have its benefits. If his mother weren’t here right now…actually. He could do that. He was an adult. “Mom?”

“Yes sweetie.”

“Can you please ask one of the nurses if I can have something to drink?”

“Oh, I can get.” Ilya started to pull away.

“No, that’s okay.” Shane gripped his hand closer. Stay here.

“I don’t mind.” Ilya said, and Shane squeezed his hand again. Please understand what I’m trying to say and please stay right here.

“No, baby. It’s okay. I want my mom to ask.”

“Okay.” His mom said. He felt a squeeze on his shoulder and heard her footsteps retreat, the door closing as softly as possible.

“I don’t understand? Why didn’t you want me to ask?” Ilya sounded like he was trying very hard to not be angry. “I want to help, I want–mmmm.” Shane leaned forward and mashed his face in the general direction of his husband, going by touch alone to find his lips.

“Because I want you to come here and hold me, damn it. I feel bad. I need my husband.” How was it not more obvious?

He heard some rustling of paper and felt the weight of Ilya settle down on the bed, crowding him against the edges and accidentally moving them down a little. Ilya cursed in Russian under his breath and righted them as Shane smiled to himself. “Is this…I don’t want to…”

“Shh.” Shane wriggled himself into Ilya’s chest and buried his face deep in the space between his neck and shoulder, minding his IV in his arm. He wrinkled his nose as Ilya pulled the blanket over them. “You smoked.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll live.” It wasn’t a fight worth having, and he had cut back so much. This had to be his first in months, and if Ilya was in the hospital, well. A chance to go outside and be away from it all for a few moments, to self soothe. He could see the appeal. He heaved a sigh and pressed his head in closer. Pressure. The pressure felt so good. Everything still hurt, but being in Ilya’s arms made it at least a little further away.

******

I’ll live. That phrase clanged around in Ilya’s head. He hadn’t really considered the alternative, just that something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Hours or days, he couldn’t tell how long they’d been in this room, back here while doctors and nurses went and helped everyone else and left them without answers. Ilya felt like screaming. Where the fuck was a doctor? What if Shane died, right here, without the doctor having ever even looked at him? And then, the door opened and someone with a white coat came in. He looked back up to the roof and smiled.

******

Migraine. It was just a migraine. No bleeding, no cancer, no stroke. “Although” Dr…Powell, Shane was pretty sure was his name. Dr Powell said, “migraine comes with a risk of stroke.”

He felt Ilya tighten around him. Dr Powell had the decency to turn off the damn lights when he’d come in so Shane could actually look around. Seeing was still a generous description; there was no logic to the images he was seeing. Trapped still in a kaleidoscope/acid trip/Alice in Wonderland hellscape. “I won’t do that.” He murmured in Russian. “I won’t do that to you.” He hadn’t allowed Ilya to get off the bed, not when the doctor came and not even when his mother came back with a plastic cup of ginger ale, which he’d had all of one sip of. One of the nurses had given him some anti nausea meds, which he'd remembered from the concussion. They were fantastic but they made him so unbelievably sleepy. That, plus some Toradol and slowly, he was feeling a bit closer to life. The waves were slowing down, he could breathe a little better, and he could hold his eyes open. Wow. He hadn’t expected it to work that quickly. “So, the…the…” it was still hard to pick words. “Um. I’m seeing colors. When does that get to stop?”

“Aura. Common in migraines. Also the nausea, sometimes allodynia, muscle tension in your neck and shoulders.”

“Allo-what?”

“Touch that registers as pain that shouldn’t. Most patients will say their hair hurts. That it’s too heavy on their scalp and neck.”

Shane hummed, experimentally running a hand down his hair to see if it’d stopped hurting yet. No it definitely still did. “Could that also be why it feels like I’m covered in eyelashes?”

Dr Powell laughed. “The texture of the blanket and gown, probably. Don’t worry. We won’t keep you. You can get dressed and go home as soon as you finish the fluids in your IV.”

“So…” Ilya began slowly, tracing patterns on the blanket, near Shane’s thigh. “How do we fix it?”

Dr Powell sighed. “If you figure it out, let me know. We still aren’t sure what really causes migraines, but we're getting better at treating them. Right now, we watch for triggers. I’ll give you another medication, it’s called Sumatriptan. It’s always the first thing we try. It might not work, and that’s okay. There’s plenty others. Even some preventatives. We just have to wait and see what works.”

“So, you expect these to happen again?” Shane asked. He didn't know if he had it in him to do this again. Yuna bit at her nails and looked away from the doctor back to Shane, then back to the doctor again.

“Usually, most people are not so lucky to only ever have one.” Dr Powell said a little grimly. “But, with medication, and understanding triggers, people live full lives.”

“He will not die from this?” Ilya asked, less like clarifying and more like he was interrogating.

“No. He will not die from migraines. I’ll send home the signs of stroke, just in case, but Shane is very healthy. It’s something to watch for but not something to lose sleep over.”

Shane bit his lip. “Triggers. You keep saying that, so. What…what triggered this?”

“Triggers are individual, but some common ones are stress, sleep deprivation, seasonal allergies, certain foods like chocolate or wine, and weather conditions. If I were to bet money on it, this snowstorm that came out of nowhere was what did it. The low pressure raises inflammation, which triggers the migraine. You said it hurts into your right shoulder, that’s the side you broke your collarbone?”

“Yes.”

“It could be that triggering it too. Cold makes everything stiff and act up.”

Well, he knew that. Everyone did. Shane couldn’t think of a hockey player alive that couldn’t tell you a storm was coming due to some old injury gnawing at them. But they didn’t lose vision or hearing. Or feel like an atom bomb went off in their head. “Do I need to retire?”

“No. You can still play. Same precautions as always though, and please try your best not to get another concussion. Especially as one as bad as last time.”

“No worries there, I’m already forbidden from doing anything like that ever again.” Shane smiled and leaned back against Ilya.

“That you are. I forbid.”

Dr Powell smiled back. “Alright. That’s good to hear. I’d say take it easy, but it looks like your husband isn’t going to give you much choice in the matter.”

Shane’s heart glowed, and he felt the small hum Ilya give reveberate through his ribs. He loved it when people said that, and he knew Ilya never got sick of it either. He hoped they never would. He hoped when they were grumpy old men that they still loved being referred to as each other's husbands.

“No.” Ilya said. “I promise, he will not lift finger until I am sure he is feeling better.” He punctuated it with a kiss to Shane’s cheek. He tilted his head up slightly and smiled, blinking slowly.

Everyone laughed softly. “Well, on that note, I’ll leave you alone so you can get some rest, alright Shane? And I’ll send in that medication in just a few minutes. Try your best to sleep.” And he left, shaking hands and saying goodbye.

“Wow, what a relief.” His mom said. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Yeah, Shane thought. Yeah it’ll be okay. But it won’t be something they can fix. He hadn’t known what to expect. But he had expected that at some point it would be over. They’d find whatever was wrong, he’d be a little sore and tired, and then it would all be over and he’d file this whole thing with the weeks he lost with his concussion. A blip, a setback, that no one would remember. Not something that he would have to worry about and carry forever. What if it happened in a game again? What if the lights shattered again and he couldn’t get to the bench, and he died because he was in too much pain to notice what was going on? What if he had a stroke in a few years, and didn’t get to the hospital in time because he thought this was a regular migraine? What if winters were always like this, waiting for the winds to change? He curled in closer to Ilya, nuzzling his smoky, sweaty compression shirt. Please, he thought to whoever listened out there, if there was Someone who listened out there. Please don't make me leave him.

******

Shane had fallen asleep almost the second the doctor left. They could wake him to take the medicine(brought by a different nurse, a man this time) only a bit, and then he went right back out. Ilya could finally breathe a little easier, feeling Shane heavy and calm against his chest. They sat there in the low light of monitors, Ilya gently stroking his hair and back, Yuna on watch for David.

“He just texted, he’s in the parking lot.” She whispered. “Do you need anything? Are you hungry, thirsty? I can get you a Coke?”

Ilya thought about saying no, but having an errand sometimes was a blessing. “Okay.” He said. “Thank you. I would like that. If it's no trouble.”

She quietly walked over to their side and kissed Ilya’s cheek. “No trouble at all. You just relax. It’s late.”

It was, it had to be around midnight. Maybe even later. And it had been a very long day. “Okay. We’ll be right here.”

Yuna smiled. “I'll hold you to that. Don’t go running off, either one of you.”

“We won’t.” Ilya smiled back, his smile widening as Shane hummed in his sleep, his brow and breath evening back out. He flicked his eyes to the monitor. Pulse was slowing, blood pressure dropping back down too. He wasn’t hurting nearly as much anymore. He kissed the top of Shane's head. There we go, my love. There we go. That's it, just relax. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.

A few minutes later, Yuna came back with a couple bags of chips and a Coke, and another full can of ginger ale, just in case Shane wanted it when he woke up. She also came back with David, who was carrying one of their spare duffle bags, covered in snow. “Hey, Ilya.” He whispered. “How’s he doing?”

“Good, good. Fast asleep. He has not even moved.” He whispered back. “Thank you so much for going to the house.”

“Well, of course, of course. Don’t even mention it. Of course I did. The neighbors weren’t answering so I brought Anya, she’s guarding the car. I left it running. Honestly I’m glad she’s there. I was scared to turn it off, it’s frigid out there. We might never get it started again otherwise…. I brought you both some clothes, and probably way overpacked, but I was already in the car when Yuna texted and said we were going to get to go home tonight. How much longer does he have to stay?” As casual as David was trying to sound, the nerves were seeping through. He was talking too fast, too much. Just like how Yuna wasn’t talking enough, how she kept looking around, looking for the next thing to do.

Ilya looked over at the IV bag; almost down to its last dregs. “Shouldn’t be too much longer, they said once he finished fluids we could go.” He rubbed Shane’s back. “Shane, Lyubimyy moy, time to wake up.”

Shane grumbled, like the angriest kitten Ilya had ever seen.

Ilya smiled, chuckling softly. “I know, sweetheart, I know. Just for little bit, I promise. It’s so we can go home, go to bed. Sleep in our own bed instead of hospital that smells like bleach. Come on.” He patted high on his hip. He didn’t want to scandalize David and Yuna any more than they already had been. He scarecely could believe he was getting away with this, holding Shane in the hospital, in his bed. Laying down with him, with the blankets up no less. But they hadn’t seemed to mind. No one had asked him to get up. Not only had no one asked, no one seemed to expect that he would. It was expected that Ilya had crawled into a too small hospital bed. It was expected that he was holding Shane, stroking his back, giving him forehead kisses, holding him while he slept. He think he even heard one of the nurses call it cute. And that was so absolutely shocking. And lovely. It was so lovely to be expected to care for Shane.

Shane groaned again but slowly opened his eyes, looking up at Ilya like he’d hung the moon just for him. There he was. Tired, but his color was so much better. His eyes looked clearer too. And softer. So much softer. Not sharpened with pain or worry. Shane sat up, looked around and smiled, still open, but less unguarded. Ilya wondered if he’d forgotten his parents were here. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad, when did you get here?”

“Well good morning, kiddo. Just got in. How are you feeling?”

“Mmm. Sore. Bad. I’ll know more later.” He smiled. “But better.”

“Good.” David smiled warmly, looking over at them both. He looked…proud. Proud of Ilya for taking care of his son when he wasn’t there to do it himself. He looked like he really trusted him, and that thought settled into Ilya’s chest like sunlight.

“I was just telling Ilya, but I got you some clothes, so you both can change. I didn’t go through anything in your room, just got you the basics, you know. Pajamas, toothbrush, hairbrush, that kind of thing. When I packed I didn't know how long we were staying.” He sat the bag near them on the chair. David never acted exactly uncomfortable around them like this, not really. But he seemed a little out of place, like he’d expected to have to do something and now found himself with it crossed off his list already. Maybe he was still surprised that Ilya could—and would—take care of Shane the same way he used to. The same way he still took care of Yuna. “Well, we’re gonna go tell the nurses you’re awake and let you get dressed, alright?” He patted Yuna’s arm to get her attention. She’d been staring at the beat up white board. Shane Hollander-Rozanov. Seen today for migraine. Under the care of Dr Powell. Your nurse today is —. The nurse assignment had been wiped blank.

Shane nodded. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. Sorry I made everyone do all this.”

“Hush, son, of course we would.” David reached over and patted his hand gently, like he was scared of breaking him. Ilya had never seen a father be that gentle with their son. It was fascinating, almost, but mostly he couldn’t help but think how lucky Shane was. How lucky they both were. This is how families were supposed to be when someone wasn’t well. Not screaming or fighting. Just everyone doing their best to make sure everyone was cared for.

Yuna and David gave them both a kiss on the forehead and left to give them privacy. As soon as the door closed Ilya slipped his hand under Shane’s gown, just to rub his back, right between his shoulder blades. Just to ease some of the tension there. Hard as concrete, and not because Shane’s back looked like it had been personally sculpted by the gods. “You want any help or are you okay?”

He hummed luxuriantly, sighing as he arched into Ilya’s touch, letting his head fall back. His neck popped and he hummed louder, sighing even deeper, his eyes falling shut. “Just keep doing that for just a little longer. Oh my god, that feels so much better.”

“I can do that.” Ilya smiled, turning slightly so he could use both hands, and was instantly rewarded with more soft, sweet noises.

“You know, I don’t think you’ve ever helped me into clothes before. Out of them, several times. Never into them.” Shane opened one eye and grinned, sort of a reverse wink. “Feels sort of backwards.”

“I’ll do it right way around once we get home.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Hold me any way you want.” He kissed him so softly, gently tucking his hair back behind his ear. “Do you want this up? Or I could braid?”

“No, no, it’s alright. It’s sore, I don’t want anything pulling on it. I’ll just keep it down for now.”

******

Shane had just gotten his pajama shirt buttoned when the nurse came in. “Knock knock. Hey, look at you! You look like you feel a little better.”

The false cheeriness pissed Shane off but he smiled anyway. “Yeah, little bit.”

“Good, good. I’ve got your discharge papers, a referral to a neurologist, all that fun stuff. Dr Powell also sent over some more phenergen and some sumatriptan, that’s the nausea and migraine medicine, along with some muscle relaxers for your shoulder. If you're still hurting or it gets worse, come on back and we’ll take a look. Now, don’t take the sumatriptan unless you get a new migraine. It’s not like Tylenol, if it doesn’t work the first time, it won’t later on. Okay?”

Shane nodded but he was really counting on all of that being in the absolute book of a packet in the nurse’s hands.

The nurse smiled, patted Shane’s hand. He was older, probably in his 40’s, and Shane was very glad that he'd replaced the nurse from earlier. This one at least wasn’t yelling at his husband. Though, honestly, he was sick of everyone in this building he wasn’t blood or married to. It had been a long day, and his patience for social niceties had long since worn off. He wanted his bed and his husband. Everything else could hang.

“Let’s get this thing outta your arm and get you outta here.” The nurse hummed softly, eased the IV straight out and bandaged it. “There we go. Alright. You need any help standing or you think you got it?”

Shane took it back, he hated this man. Talking to him like a little kid instead of a grown adult. But he bit his tongue, literally, like maybe there was a rule if you’re a bitch to the nurse that does your discharge they just get to keep you there for however long. “I think I’ve got it.” He stretched and stood, a little wobbly, but Ilya caught him before the nurse did.

“You got him?”

Ilya’s face hardened and Shane had to bite his cheek to keep from smirking. Okay, so he wasn’t just being bitchy, this nurse was just condescending as hell. “Yes. I can help my husband. You do not have to worry.” It was the most menacing Shane had ever seen Ilya in Adidas track pants and a hoodie.

A strange look crossed the nurse’s face. “Alright. Well, I’ll give this to you and you can get on home. Drive safe, I hear it’s bad out there.”

“Thank you.” Ilya said it like he wanted to say something else. Shane had to bite his cheek again.

******

That first one had been the scariest, but it hadn’t been the worst one. It seemed like each one kept getting worse, almost always whenever a storm struck. It had to be a particularly bad storm, which always made Shane feel like an animal in a very small cage, watching snow pile up around their house. It hadn’t happened yet, but Shane was terrified of the possibility of the power cutting out and needing help, and not being able to get it. He’d joked before that they needed to teach Anya how to pull a sled.

They’d tried several different medications. Some would work for a while. Most of the preventative ones were unbearable from the side effects. The one he had now could take the edge off, but it didn’t seem to kick it, and almost nothing helped the shoulder and neck pain, so even if it soothed his head, his muscles would tense back up and everything would start right back up. So he saved them, for the times it wouldn’t be as bad, so he could still play and do yoga and wash dishes and be a person. Days like today, however, were already a wash. Nothing would help. Nothing could make it better, not good enough to do anything other than lay down and try very hard not to wail in misery.

A phenergan, a muscle relaxer, and a handful of ibuprofen. That’s it. That’s what worked on days like this. That and every other home remedy they’d come up with. Heating pads on his face and neck. The hottest bath he could stand with so much epsom salt in it that the water was white. Caffeine, in the form of unsweetened green tea. Russian pickles. Chips, if he could stand them, preferably All Dressed but plain would work in a pinch. About a case of ginger ale, usually diet these days (the regular made him nauseous from the sugar). And notably, Ilya’s recipe for Solyanka. Hangover soup, he always called it. Sour and briny and slightly spicy, it was strong enough of a flavor that it pulled focus from his aching head. It wasn’t comforting, not in the traditional sense, not like Canadian soups or even Japanese soups. It was not a light broth with soft noodles. It was hearty, filled with pickles and smoked meat and cabbage and potatoes. It was tough love in a bowl. It was a promise. ‘I’ll get you through this, if you buck up and fight back too. ’ Shane absolutely loved it. Sometimes it was the only thing he could eat for days, which was a good thing, because Ilya only knew how to make enough for a whole hockey team. He could hear Ilya in the kitchen now, prepping the broth for later today. He hoped he would stay. He didn’t always; Shane didn’t always want him to. Not because he didn’t want him around, but because he didn’t want Ilya to have to miss a game too. Especially when there wasn’t much either one of them could do here.

A dull clink, two sharp clinks on the coasters on the side table, and a soft kiss on his forehead. That’s how Ilya told him he was back. “Got you your tea and water. And medicine. I’m going to take Anya for big run, wear her out so she is not so clingy later. I have my phone. Call me if you need me?”

Shane nodded. “I will, baby. I will. Thank you. Are you gonna play today? I’ll watch.”

“No, I think they might even cancel. Looks like a blizzard is coming. Anyway, I would rather stay here. With you.”

Shane smiled. “Okay. Have a good run. Stay warm.”

“Gimme kiss, and I will stay warm.” Ilya looked at him with that look that made Shane melt into nothing. Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered was he. Always. He reached up, no matter the twinge in his shoulder, and kissed him hard enough that he would want to come back soon.