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“Holy shit,” J.J.’s voice rang out over the ruckus that was the Metro's locker room. It wasn’t as chaotic as it could be; morning skate was optional with the game set for the next day, but it was busy enough that Shane struggled to hear his shock over everyone else.
“What? Some chick sent you another ass pic?” Drapeau asks, voice crass and unapologetic. Shane can’t help his internal recoil, grossed out at his attitude.
“No! Boston's plane just declared an emergency! Engine failure or some crap,” J.J. was glued to his phone, fingers flying as he tried to get more information.
The plane that was currently supposed to be on the way to Montreal for their game the next day, the first time Ilya and he would be able to be together since Tampa, since Ilya’s father died, and the phone call Ilya had broken down during, even though Shane couldn’t even hope to start understanding what exactly he had said during the call.
Shane knew that he heard J.J., that his words were the cause of the panicked fog that rolled over his mind, but emotionally, Shane only heard a high-pitched whine that only grew in volume as his carefully controlled breathing slipped from his grasp.
“What?” A voice asks, strangled, and Shane barely has the mental capacity to connect to the fact that it was his voice, sounding nothing like the controlled tenor he used whenever he was with the team.
“Engine fire, maybe a bird strike? No one fucking knows, and the weather’s shit, isn’t making it any easier for the pilots,”
Shane felt the floor drop out from under him, his ears ringing. It felt like an iron band was cinched tight around his chest, and he could feel his lungs rattling as they worked overtime to compensate for all of the air rushing out of the room. Distantly, he could feel a pair of hands gripping him, feel his body weight being lowered to the floor, which shouldn’t be possible as the floor no longer existed. Shane wasn’t sure anything else existed, except the terror and fear that gripped him.
“Shane, Shane! Fuck! Shane, you need to breathe, buddy. In and out, yeah? Slow it down,”
Oh, there was Hayden. When did he get there? He looked worried. Why was he worried? Shane knew why he was terrified. Ilya, alone, 30,000 feet in the air on a plane without at least one engine, maybe more. Ilya, whom he had only just confessed to, whom he had only just started to accept that he might just be in love with. Ilya, whom he could just start to imagine a future with, was being ripped away. Shane doubted Hayden was afraid for the same reasons Shane was. He didn’t know how Hayden would know Ilya, and he was faintly aware that he was spiraling.
“Hayd, Hayd, Ilya, Ilya’s there,” The words tumble from his mouth, tripping and running into each other. Shane didn’t know if he was asking Hayden for help or explaining why he needed help.
“Fuck, I know, okay, Shane? But you are here, and you need to breathe. You’re going to pass out if you don’t slow down,” Hayden’s voice is the one he uses when one of the girls is panicking, panicked in its own way but trying to retain some control, because Hayden knew that it wouldn’t do anyone any good if everyone was panicking at the same time.
Shane knew he was right. He knew that he was hyperventilating, in some corner of his brain. His old therapist had given him exercises to do when he felt the panic, like the whole world was going to crash down on his head. Why did he quit seeing her? He knew there was a reason, but couldn’t remember it. He also couldn’t remember anything she had attempted to teach him, either. Desperately, he looked at Hayden, begging him without his words to fix this. To fix him enough so he could force himself off the floor.
“Breathe in for four, count with me,” Hayden takes over, taking Shane’s hand and pressing it to his own chest. Shane struggles to follow along, letting Hayden control the inhale, hold, and exhale he needs to force. Shane doesn’t know how many times Hayden repeats his instructions, doesn’t allow himself to imagine what the rest of his teammates must think, and only tries to get himself the oxygen he needs to avoid passing out. He ignores the voice in his head that tells him he’s doing something as useless as breathing exercises while Ilya might be dying, might already be dead.
Faintly, Shane could hear the noise of the locker room lowering, emptying of people as Hayden shouted at them to get out, J.J. ignoring him and hovering anxiously. Shane couldn’t see much else; the edges of his vision were stained black, and that was slowly closing in.
“J-J.J., where’s the plane? What’s happening?” Shane forced himself to ask because he knew Ilya was there, with his team, and Shane wasn’t. J.J. had the information he needed; only faintly in the back of his mind could he register Hayden still holding him, holding him together because he was fairly sure he would fly apart if Hayden loosened his grip a fraction of an inch.
“Shane-”
“Fucking tell me!” Shane exploded, voice echoing off the walls and sounding louder than a gunshot in the near-empty locker room.
“Still trying to land, there isn’t a lot of information,” J.J. mutters, looking more than a little concerned.
“Where?” Shane asks, trying to force his mind to grasp the information he was demanding.
“Boston, they were taking off when it happened,” Hayden is the one to reply, somehow having gotten his phone out and the information pulled up while teaching Shane how to relearn how to breathe.
Boston. Shane could do Boston. Four hours and forty-seven minutes away by car, if you followed the speed limit, less if you didn’t. It was a number he had memorized for no particular reason, at least that was what he had told himself in the past. Four, nearly five hours, and a border crossing sat between him and Ilya. He thought about what he had in his locker, his game day bag, that also contained what he would take if it was an away game, what he carried with him every day because it was easier to only have one packing list and one configuration of bag he would need whenever he had a game. The bag contained extra clothes, toiletries, and, more importantly, his passport and travel visa.
“Shane, buddy, I really don’t like that look in your eye. I’m going to call your mom, kay?” Hayden asks, and Shane is shaking his head before he can finish his sentence.
“Don’t, I’m fine now,” And he was, at least partially. He now had a location and a plan. Shane was okay if there was a plan, a set list of actions to follow. Bag. Car. Boston. There, very simple, very difficult to fuck up.
Shane forces Hayden's hands away and stacks his legs under him, forcing himself to rise off the ground, ignoring the way it tilted, and his vision turned fuzzy before fully righting himself. Hayden hovers, hands moving around as if prepared to catch him again, and some part of Shane appreciates it; the larger, louder part of Shane has to tamp down his annoyance at one more thing slowing him down.
“I think you should sit out practice, you look really pale,” Hayden tries again, and Shane shoots him a confused, incredulous look.
“Sit out? You think I’m still going to practice?” Shane asks, baffled by how badly he and Hayden miscommunicated.
“Well, now I don’t. Shane, what the hell is going on? I know you and Rozanov played great together during the All-Star game. Still, you couldn’t have started liking him enough to have a full-blown panic attack over his plane having mechanical issues,” J.J. asks. Shane tenses as he forces himself to ignore the information on the plane, knowing that he would sink back into his panic if he thought about it long enough.
“J.J., shut up,” It was Hayden, who spoke up, looking thoughtful.
Shane was grateful for Hayden’s interjection; he wasn’t sure what he was going to say to J.J., but given how frayed his nerves were, it wasn’t going to be anything polite. Hayden either knows who Ilya was to Shane or trusts Shane enough that he doesn’t have to. Hayden does, however, look concerned as he watches Shane gather his belongings and start shoving his coat and toque on as he runs over everything he still needs to do.
“I’ll call, okay? Tell coach, fuck, I dunno, family emergency or something,” Shane rushes out, gathering the last of his belongings and charging for the doors.
“Shane!” J.J. yells after him, sounding the most confused Shane has ever heard him
“I’ll call!” And with that, Shane rushes out, already knowing he’ll have half a dozen people either calling him or that he needs to call.
*****************************
Shane was quickly discovering a stark difference between how easy he thought getting to Boston would be and how difficult it actually was. The actual physical drive was easy; Shane knew how to follow directions from coaches, listening to a lady telling him to turn left or right or merge was the easy part. No, the hardest part was trying to get any further information on the bear’s plane while also trying to avoid getting pulled over for using his phone while driving. The safety of it was his last thought, but he knew getting pulled over would only slow him down.
He was halfway there, desperately looking for any information, and only the knowledge that the plane landed on the ground intact and there were so far no fatalities kept Shane going. The news of injuries and emergency transports to massechusetts general kept the fear in Shane alive. The lack of response from Ilya spurs him on. He felt like an idiot, ten minutes on the road, and only then remembered that he had a phone with the ability to call the man he was desperate to get to. Remembering that, and then being faced with the reality of his phone calls going straight to voicemail and his texts being undelivered, made the panic start to creep in again.
The fifth phone call from his mother broke the tense silence in the car, and Shane was forced to admit that he needed her help, not as his mother, but for the connections she had in the hockey world.
“Shane, where the hell are you?” Are Yuna Hollander’s first words, edged with panic and confusion.
“Mom, what do you know? Boston, are they okay? And um, somewhere in Vermont?” Shane guesses, peering around for any specific signs before deciding that his mother might not be intending for the question to be so literal.
“Shane, what are you doing? Hayden called and said you had a panic attack before running out of the arena. I went to your apartment looking for you, but you aren’t here. And now you’re in Vermont?” Yuna asks, beyond perplexed that her son, who had a contingency plan upon contingency plan for going to the grocery store, had stormed out of practice and was somewhere in Vermont, of all places.
“God, this is not how I wanted you to find out, but I love him. I love him, Mom, and I’m terrified of losing him. I’ll explain everything later, okay, but I need you to tell me what you know, what you’ve heard about Boston’s players,” Shane all but demands, and has to force his foot to relax from where he had been slowly accelerating past acceptable speeds. He hears his mother's sigh easily from the other end of the phone and braces himself for the news, good or bad, and briefly wonders if he needs to pull over.
“Everyone is alive, we know that. Boston’s PR team released a statement that all players and staff are alive and being treated. There were some injuries, a fire broke out once they landed, or it spread, it's unclear about that, but everyone involved has been taken to Massachusetts General and is being treated,” Yuna recites the facts, knowing Shane thrives on the facts. Yuna also knows how unlike Shane it is to take off to another country at the drop of a hat.
“Oh, thank god. Any life-threatening injuries? Who’s injured?” Shane asks rapid fire and has to force himself to decelerate once again as he watches the speedometer creep higher and higher.
Alive didn’t mean safe, didn’t mean that Ilya was going to be okay when he finally got there, but it did mean he wouldn’t be a charred corpse. Alive allowed okay, allowed ‘nothing serious’. Allowed hope. It also opened the chance of career-ending injuries, of being stuck in a chair, or brace, or anything else that would slowly kill Ilya, even if he didn’t die that day.
Shane was struck with the horrible thought that Ilya might not know him, might not know who he was, who they were to each other. That was a thing that happened in movies, right? Someone getting hurt and forgetting who they were, who anyone was to them. Shane wasn’t sure if he would survive that, if he could ever stand in front of Ilya and pretend that they were nothing, that Shane’s heart now lived outside of his body, and he could no longer protect it.
“They didn’t release specifics, just that everyone was alive and being treated,” Yuna knew her son, knew what his panic was like, knew that he would never be satisfied with the small amount of information she had been able to gather between finding his apartment empty and him finally answering the phone.
“Can-can you make some calls? Find out anything more? Anything about Ilya-Rozanov, I mean,” Shane begs, unashamed of the desperation in his voice. This was his mom, the one person who, along with his dad, was always in his corner.
“Okay, I’ll make some calls. You’re driving to Boston, aren’t you?” Yuna asks, and Shane is barely able to answer, voice cracking and the fear he had been shoving down for the last two hours breaking free.
“I’m going to be there for him,” Shane affirms once, not specifying who he’s going to. If his mom didn’t know at that point who Shane was running to, she had to be blind, deaf, and dumb, and Shane had enough respect for his mother to not even entertain the idea that she hadn’t figured it out already.
“Okay, be safe, drive carefully! You can’t be there for him if you wrap your car around a tree, or get pulled over,” Yuna preemptively scolds, as if she knows without Shane telling her that he has to force himself not to drive like a madman every other second.
“I will, I promise I will. I’ll be there for him. Call me, when-if you hear anything,” Shane demands, and hears an affirmative from Yuna.
“I will. Love you,”
“Love you too,” Shane manages, before hanging up the phone.
The silence hangs in the car, louder than anything Shane had heard before; His phone won’t stop pinging and buzzing, notifications hurtling in. The metros group chat continues to explode as they no doubt hurl question after question at Shane. Shane, who ran out of practice, Shane, who was now missing practice right before a game, something he had never done voluntarily before. He was known by the medical staff as the idiot who tried to play with a 102 fever. The fact that he would run off right before a game was unheard of, and the rest of the team didn’t know what to do with that. From what Shane had glimpsed before deciding it would only make his already not insignificant anxiety worse, Hayden and J.J. weren’t telling them anything, which only caused more questions.
Shane had no less than 100 missed texts and at least 5 missed calls from Coach Theriault, and he couldn’t give less of a damn. The only contacts he was paying attention to were his mom and Lily. In the hours of driving, Shane hadn’t heard back one thing from Ilya, and he prayed it was because his phone was lost, or damaged, or Ilya’s doctors were being really strict on concussion protocol.
The highway stretched forward like a grey, featureless ribbon, and time bent and warped around Shane. Yuna couldn’t find out much more. The Boston team and family members had closed ranks, the team releasing one more statement of thanks for the support but kindly asking the public to leave them alone for now. Yuna had reported pretty much the same, although with a heavy dose of de-escalating Shane, who had decided that no news meant Ilya was dead and they were just afraid to announce it.
By the time the Boston skyline came into view, Shane was talking himself down from another hyperventilation session. By the time he hit Boston proper, he was fighting the tears that threatened to cloud his vision and cause his own personal crash. Shane now knew to listen to the lady on his phone, her robotic voice grounding him in his panic. He doesn’t have to think; all he has to do is move his car where the directions tell him to. He does have to make the decision to drive his car into a parking ramp, and he does have to make the decision as to what to do then. Obviously, he has to get to Ilya, no doubt about it. However, how he goes about it is what trips him up.
They never show this part in movies, jumping from the mad rush of the car to them bursting into a hospital room, flustered and flushed, and happy to see their loved one. Shane doesn’t even know where Ilya was, what condition he was in. Would he still be in the ER? Moved upstairs? Released to go home? Or the terrible thought, was Ilya downstairs, waiting for a funeral home to pick him up and take him away to a place Shane couldn’t follow.
Shane decides not to imagine that, because if he does, if he has to picture the funeral, the suit they might dress him in, the way they might style his hair, he’s going to break. And Shane still has a task to do: get to Ilya. Then he can break, once he knows one way or another. It doesn’t do anyone any good for Shane to become useless now, not after driving all the way here, not after bargaining and begging to any god or deity that would listen.
Shane thinks back to the crucifix Ilya wore, and wonders if Ilya believed in a higher power, if he had prayed to some god as the plane that carried him had plummeted towards the ground. Shane didn’t know what was more heartbreaking: powerful, strong, and independent Ilya, praying to a faceless god to save him, or knowing that nothing he did would be able to change the predetermined outcome of his fate.
Shane doesn’t know how, but he’s walking through the emergency room doors, travel bag in one hand, set of car keys in the other. He doesn’t know where he’s parked, doesn’t know if he’s locked his door, all he knows is that his feet have taken him up to the reception desk and to the concerned-looking nurse who sits behind it. She obviously recognizes him, the metro's branded bag destroying what little hope of anonymity he somehow carries in the back of his mind. The nurse is young and looks overwhelmed at being faced with Shane and the restless energy he carries.
“Ilya Rozanov, is he here?” Shane asks, preemptively cutting off any of her possible questions.
“We um, we can’t give out any information on who may or may not be here. I’m sorry, Mr. Hollander. Perhaps if you can contact his family, they would be able to tell you any information,” The nurse suggests, and a wave of anger rushes through Shane, unprompted and unexpected.
“His shitty family is in Russia! What the hell are they supposed to do, huh? Who does he have? Who did he have listed as an emergency contact?” Shane demands unfairly and tries to remind himself, and promptly feels like throwing up.
Who does Ilya have, really? Shane knows that he has his team, knows how tightly bound teammates can be, but does he have anyone else? Should Shane know anyone else? He remembers, faintly, Ilya mentioning Svetlana, the closest thing he had to family, in the states, or overall, Shane couldn’t tell you, and wonders if she’s with him now. If she gets to be the one making decisions if Ilya can’t. It tears him up inside, knowing that Ilya’s support system was his best friend, and Shane, whatever Shane was to Ilya.
“We haven’t been able to get in contact with her. And that's privileged information I can’t tell you, no matter how good at hockey you are,” The nurse's voice was regretful, as if she actually wanted to tell Shane, but firm, and Shane knew she wouldn’t.
“Svetlana isn’t here? Why wouldn’t she answer?” Shane’s voice asks and carefully watches the nurse. He was bad at reading people, but he knew that confusion flashed over her face at the mention of Svetlana, as if that wasn’t who the ‘she’ they were trying to contact was.
“We can’t release any information on any patients or their visitors. Mr. Hollander, I will have to ask you to leave if you aren’t listed under visitor information and have no personal connection to Mr. Rozanov outside of your very public rivalry,” The nurse says, and Shane starts to panic. ‘
“Please, we have known each other for years now. I might have a way of contacting his emergency contact. At least tell me who it is, and I might be able to connect her with you,” Shane resorts to begging and lying his ass off. Shane had no one's contact, no one that Ilya would have chosen as his emergency contact. Shane didn’t have any idea of who he would have chosen besides Svetlan, a person who apparently wasn’t his emergency contact, if he was understanding the nurse correctly.
The nurse, who was looking as if she was debating with herself, was wondering how much she could give Shane without it threatening her job. She looked torn, and for the first time, Shane wished someone knew how much he loved Ilya, wished he had told the world before it was maybe too late. Shane couldn’t imagine a world where he was able to contain the love he felt for Ilya, the love he admitted existed, the love that the grief of would tear him apart.
“Jane, no last name. One phone number, nothing else,” The nurse finally admitted, and Shane felt as if he had been punched.
He thought back to the phone calls he had received on his mad drive across country. The calls he had ignored, imagining them to be from his teammates, his coach, his mother, and Hayden and J.J. He had ignored most of them, hadn’t even considered that someone was trying to get a hold of him for Ilya’s sake, not because he had chosen to run out of practice without warning.
He feels like crying, his eyes burning, and a lump forming in his throat. He had ignored the calls, had ignored the calls of the hospital that had made to him, for the sake of Ilya. He could have known, he could have been there quicker, could have been there for Ilya if he had only managed to answer his damn phone. His anger at himself overwhelms him for a moment before he has to remind himself that Ilya never told him. That he would have no reason to think that the hospital was trying to get a hold of him, of all the people, in Ilya’s life.
“Call her,” Shane demands, holding eye contact willingly for maybe the first time in his life, staring the poor girl down as she flounders.
Instead of arguing, of any of the comments she could make, she simply reaches for the phone and punches in the number, the number Shane prayed would lead to his own phone, that Ilya didn’t have another Jane, that Jane was just for Shane and no one else. Belatedly, blessedly, his phone rings, and he answers it in what feels like slow motion, bringing it up to his own ear.
“No one else knows,” Shane gives as an answer, his voice echoing between them and over the phone, a millisecond after his voice naturally carries to behind the front desk.
The professional demeanor of the nurse cracks for a moment, allowing her shock at the revelation to briefly slip out before her mask settles back into place. Shane briefly wonders how many traumatic situations she had seen, how much she had to hide previously, that allowed her to settle her face back into a kind and understanding-looking mask, as the realization that two of the best players in the MLH and famous rivals were somehow involved with each other. Close enough for one to be the other's emergency contact under a fake name.
“Okay, that's okay. No one else needs to know; we take HIPAA seriously here. Let me get someone out here, and I’ll take you back, okay?” She was using the word okay a lot, as if she needed to reassure herself as much as Shane. Shane easily agrees; if he managed to drive himself nearly five hours to Boston, he could wait five minutes for another nurse to come out and cover the front desk. He was grateful she was taking him back; he wasn’t prepared to explain the situation to someone else, not when all he wanted to do was to get to Ilya.
“Come, follow me. Mr. Rozanov was moved to a private room,” The nurse bids, once an older woman emerges from a back door Shane had failed to notice before. She badges into the main ER doors, and Shane follows behind her diligently as she leads him through the chaotic ER that he did his best to block out. He ignored the players he vaguely recognized, the Boston staff he knew well from games, and even the head coach was there. Thankfully, they seemed to be too distracted by their own situation to take note of Shane Hollander walking through an ER in a country he shouldn’t even be in.
“Before you worry any more, he’s okay. Some broken ribs, a concussion, some cuts and bruises, but nothing life-threatening. He’s a bit drugged up at the moment, but he’s just loopy, nothing dangerous.” They stop at a closed door, and Shane struggles to keep his voice even along with his breathing.
“Thank you, really. Is he-can I?” Shane manages to ask, waving with a floppy hand at the closed door.
“Of course. He’s just inside resting. A doctor will be around soon to explain his condition in more detail. He should have a call light if either of you needs anything. Feel free to use it as you need,” The nurse offers, and Shane swallows thickly.
He distantly feels his heart under his ribcage, fast and erratic, as if he had just spent an entire period out on the ice, at odds with how syrup-filled his head feels. The entire way here, he hadn’t thought as to what he would do once he arrived; all that had mattered was getting there in one piece. Now he was here, the door felt impossible to open, as if it were the door to a fallout shelter, and not the only thing standing between him and Ilya.
“He’s alive, right? He’s okay?” Shane finds himself asking, unable to get the thought of Ilya dead out of his head. Maybe the nurse brought him back here to break the news gently, maybe she didn’t want him to cause a scene, maybe she just wanted to give him a few more minutes of peace before telling him the man he loves is dead.
“Yes. He’s alive. He might be asleep, but he’s alive,”
“Shouldn’t he be awake? Because of the concussion?” That was a thing, right? You weren’t supposed to fall asleep with a concussion.
“He is perfectly fine. He has a whole medical team to keep him that way. After the day he’s had, he needed the sleep,” The nurse says gently, and even though Shane isn’t sure if he believes her, he nods.
“Okay, thank you, again,” Shane says, even if he wasn’t sure if he thanked her in the first place.
She must leave, because Shane is alone then. Shane was terrified. He knew Ilya was alive. He had been told as much, but the reality of what he had done was crashing down on him now. He had abandoned his team, had fled his own country, driven across another country, stormed a hospital, given up the secret he and Ilya had spent eight years closely guarding, and was now about to explain all of that to a concussed, drugged-up Ilya Rozanov in his second language. He was afraid that this would be the thing that broke them. That this would be the event that made Ilya decide that the entire situation wasn’t worth it, that Shane wasn’t worth it.
Shane physically shakes himself and nearly rips the door open, knowing that he would have to get it over with sooner rather than later. If he had hesitated for a moment more, he wasn’t sure if he would have ever been able to force himself to enter the room. The room is dimmed, most likely to help the headache Ilya must have, and empty of visitors. Shane wants to make note of how small the room seems, cramped with the bed and medical equipment that it houses. But all of that fades from his mind when he sees Ilya.
He’s on the bed, dressed in a hospital gown and propped up with pillows. He’s pale, underneath his naturally tan skin; there’s an IV in his arm, a bag of fluids slowly dripping down. His eyes are closed, not squeezed tight in pain, but relaxed in sleep or unconsciousness. They must still have him hooked up to the heart rate monitor as Shane can hear it faintly beeping, and his eyes immediately go to the monitor, watching the slow, even pulses that announce the fact that Ilya was still alive, still breathing. He didn’t understand all of the numbers and lines, but he could see Ilya’s heart rate, could see him still breathing.
Shane must have disturbed Ilya, because his brows scrunch, eyes flickering as he fights whatever medication he must have been given, trying to focus on the room, on the person now invading said room. Shane can tell the moment Ilya’s eyes focus on him, recognizes him. His eyes sharpen, his body tightens, and his heart rate picks up. Shane almost wants to laugh at how quickly it picks up, how obvious it was.
“Shane?”
Ilya’s voice was rough, his accent thicker than Shane had ever heard outside of him actually speaking Russian, and it was one of the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard. Ilya knew who he was; Ilya was enough of himself to know why it was weird that Shane was there. Ilya was still there, alive and confused, but there.
“You scared me, you idiot,” Shane manages to say around the lump in his throat, voice choked and strangled as he attempts to fight the emotions clawing at him.
“If I knew almost dying would get you running to me, I would have done it while you were with Landry,” Ilya jokes, and Shane can’t stop the bark of laughter that bursts out of him.
“Don’t. You can’t joke about that. Can’t joke about dying when you nearly commit to the bit for real,” Shane scolds, his voice still sounding wrecked even when he knows Ilya is okay, back to making jokes.
“No? But maybe you should be in bed, yes? You look terrible. I mean, I am happy to take you to bed now, but I know how you need to have your skin care and shower first, right?” Ilya teases, although Shane can see a real level of concern on his face.
“I did not come here for sex, you idiot! I couldn’t-you wouldn’t, I didn’t know if you were okay, alright? You scared me! And here you are, joking about fucking me after I drove across an international border for you,” Shane’s voice is scolding, but so relieved that Ilya is joking, is able to see that this is what Shane needs right now, to see that Ilya was okay, that he was still joking and lightening the situation.
“You come all this way to yell at me? I am touched! You do care,” Ilya’s voice trails off into a soft tone Shane rarely heard from him, the one where it became obvious Rozanov fell away and left Ilya in his place, soft and vulnerable.
“Of course I care, Ilya,” And Shane knew he was talking too much now, knew that the stress and anxiety of the entire day was catching up, but he couldn’t force himself to shut up “how couldn’t I? You-you wormed your way into my life, you made me care about you, love you,” The words spill out before Shane can stop them.
They had talked in Tampa about how this was more than fucking between the two of them, how they each had feelings for the other, but love was never brought into it, even when Shane knew that's what it was, at least for himself.
“Holy shit,” Is Ilya’s eloquent response, his heart rate picking up again, obvious in the rapidly increasing beeps of the monitor.
“I mean, you don’t have to, if it's not the same-”
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya looks frustrated at this, as if his words didn’t come out the way he had intended, in English at least, “I love you. Shane, I love you so much. I told you that day on the phone. I was terrified you would understand, but I couldn’t stop myself. I tell myself it was okay to say, you would never know, I wouldn’t push you away. But you now need to hear it in English, need to know how much I love you, how long I have loved you,” Ilya’s voice is soft, gentle, and Shane feels his chest cracking in two, cleaved by the emotions welling in him: love, relief, and pure joy.
“Ilya…” Shane trails off, unsure of what he could possibly say in response to that. It felt like he was out of words, unable to formulate anything that could come close to expressing the sheer emotions that were crashing over him.
“Come, come to bed. You look as if you were in a plane crash. Is not fair. I should be getting all of the attention,” Ilya pats the bed, scooching over with an obvious wince of pain. Right, broken ribs, concussion.
“What? No, I’m not getting in bed with you, no sex, remember?” Shane tries to keep his tone light, but even he can tell he isn’t doing well. His legs feel like jelly, and his hands haven’t stopped shaking since he parked. Shane was used to playing through exhaustion, through his body failing, and this wasn’t going to be the thing that caused him to break. For fucks sake, he had mainly been sitting in a car for the majority of the day. He tactfully ignores the full-blown panic attack he had that morning.
“No, no sex, but you need to sit down, or you will fall. Come, there is plenty of room,” Ilya lies, like a liar. They were both hockey players in their prime, both much larger than the average guy, both in muscle mass and height. There was no way they were both fitting on Ilya’s narrow hospital bed, not with his broken ribs.
“Come on, Ilya, there’s no way that’ll be comfortable for you,” Shane objects again, and Ilya pouts.
“But I nearly died! That means you have to do what I want. Please, Shane, come to bed with me?” Ilya begs, and Shane can already feel himself crumbling under the intense pout and whiny voice that was no doubt the result of the drugs Ilya is currently on.
*******************
Five minutes later, Ilya had managed to bully and cajole Shane into bed, curling around him protectively as they both were careful of the wires and tubes connected to Ilya. Shane had all but collapsed once he reached the bed, knees giving out and hands shaking violently as he helped Ilya adjust both of them around the medical equipment. Now that he was closer, Shane could see that the bruising was worse, that Ilya had the occasional cut and scrape thrown into the mix. Ilya must be in pain, Shane knew this, but couldn’t find it in him to object to the way Ilya held him in his arms, pressing his lips to the crown of Shane’s head.
“There, solnyshko, you can relax now, hm? You did so well, getting yourself here, finding me. You can breathe now. I am fine, you are fine, yes?” Ilya asks, and Shane feels the low rumbling of Ilya, more than he hears it.
“They’re going to come in soon, tell us just how much you broke,” Shane mumbles, heart not in it. He didn’t want to think about recovery timelines, about broken bones, possible brain injuries, and everything else that Shane should be thinking about.
“Then we will listen when they come, but they are not here yet, right? You need to sleep, you are so tired, how did you even get here?” Ilya asks, fingers carding through Shane’s hair.
“Drove here, right before morning skate started,”
“You drove all the way from Montreal? And on the day before a game? You would leave your team to come here, to come to me?” Ilya asks, and Shane doesn’t miss the note of wonder in his voice.
“Of course I would. I didn’t even think about not coming here, not when I didn’t know anything,” Shane confesses, and while he can’t see Ilya, he can practically feel him smile.
“Well, thank you, solnyshko. I’m sorry I couldn’t call you, I lost my phone on the plane.”
“I didn’t answer the phone when the hospital called. I didn’t recognize the number. I had so many people calling me, I didn’t think to answer.” Shane confesses feeling shame flare in his chest.
“You did not know. I did not tell you, and the hospital would not be saved in your phone,” Ilya tries to soothe, fingers carding through Shane’s hair.
“And since when did you have me as your emergency contact? As Jane! What would they have thought if I had answered, and instead of some girl, Shane fucking Hollander answered,” Shane complains, without being serious.
“I am sorry, lyubimyy. I would have told you if I knew how. But I think you would have run, if I told you that you were my emergency contact, right?” Ilya asks, and while Shane wants to object, to defend himself, he knows he can’t. Shane had run the first time Ilya said his first name, had run off and gotten himself a girlfriend in a desperate attempt at avoiding real feelings. If Ilya had told him Shane had somehow become his emergency contact, well, Shane wasn’t sure what he would have done, but it would have been even more impulsive and stupid.
“I’m not saying you are wrong, but when?” Shane asks, genuinely curious as to when Ilya thought it was a good idea to put his ‘name’ and phone number down as the person to call when shit went down.
“2014, after Sochi. Boston requires updated contact forms every five years; it seemed like a good time. It was first time I realized that I never wanted my brother or father to be the one on the other end of that call. My father, the Alzheimer's, was already getting bad. My brother would have found the best way to get everything out of me sooner than he would have helped me. I do not have many others who would do what is best for me. Is why you are, ah power of law for me? Is that right?” Ilya asks, unsure if he used the correct English words. Given how much Shane tenses, he guesses he used at least close enough terms for him to understand.
“What the fuck? What about Svetlana? How the hell did I end up being your power of attorney? Why wasn’t I told? Is that even allowed?” Shane asks, wanting to get up and face Ilya, but lacking the motivation to move.
“Yes, it is allowed. I ask lawyers same thing. You do not need to be told to be power of attorney. You could refuse, but I know you too well; I know you would not. As for Svetlana, she loves me, maybe too much. If I was injured badly, if I wasn’t going to be me, or life wasn’t worth living with injuries, she would hold on, too tight. I do not want to live like that, hooked up to machines or relying on others for all of my needs. I will not become what my father has become. I think you feel the same way, and would not let me stay like that,” Ilya’s voice is soft, as if he weren’t describing how he had chosen Shane because he knew Shane would be willing to unplug him if it came to that. Shane wasn’t sure he was right; he couldn’t imagine a world in which he would willingly give Ilya up.
“You’re right, I would have run,” Is the response he’s able to give back, pointedly ignoring the heavier topic.
“See, I am always right. You should always listen to me, starting now. You should sleep, you had a long drive, and a lot of stress.”
Shane wants to object, wants to tell Ilya he was fine, that Ilya should focus on himself. But Shane could also admit he had nothing besides his smoothie that morning, and it felt as if his blood had been replaced by concrete, weighing his body down. And he hadn’t stopped shaking since the locker room that morning, his whole body aching with the tension he held in it. His body was tired, physically and emotionally. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could force himself to keep going. So, instead of fighting it, he allowed Ilya to soothe him, to allow the tension, the stress, and the anxiety of the day drain out of him. He could still smell the antiseptic smell of the hospital, could feel how itchy the sheets were, but the heart rate monitor was still there, still announcing to the world that Ilya Rozanov was alive, and would be staying that way for the foreseeable future. Shane, later, wouldn’t be able to tell you when he slipped off to sleep, only that Ilya was pressed close and he could hear Ilya’s heart beating right next to his ear, matching the soft beeps coming from the machine off to the side.
********************************
“Shane, Shane, you should get up now. Your phone wants your attention. It seems a bit lonely,” Ilya’s voice rouses Shane from the troubled sleep he had slipped into.
Ilya was correct. His phone had been buzzing nonstop for the past five minutes, a stark change from the silence it had fallen into once he put on his do-not-disturb. Not many contacts have the ability to break through his do-not-disturb settings; in fact, they include Jackie, Hayden, and his parents. For one of them attempting to contact him this badly, some serious shit had to have happened, and Shane had the sneaking suspicion it was his emergency impromptu car trip from hell. Fumbling his phone out of his pocket, he can see the near-endless stream of texts and phone call notifications from his mother, with the occasional one from Jackie, of all people.
“I think I was spotted,” Shane mumbles, sinking closer to Ilya as he scrolls.
Yuna had shot off dozens of rapid-fire texts, with missed calls peppered in for good measure. Screenshots of tweets, news article headlines, and damning evidence of photos of Shane Hollander, star center of the Montreal Metros, practically running into Boston General Hospital, looking more like he was in need of the ER instead of visiting someone there.
There was no spinning the story, no look-alikes; it was Shane, clear as day. There was no reason that Shane should be in Boston, or even be in the States in the first place. Speculation was running wild, everything from Shane having a secret afair baby to hiding a critical injury and utilizing the specialists at the hospital to avoid getting benched. Then there were the theories about Shane visiting the Boston team as team captain and checking in on his competition in a show of sportsmanship. That was terrifyingly close to the truth. Even Shane couldn’t deny how terrified and wrecked he looked in the photos. Someone was going to figure it out; no one who looked that terrified was going to see a rival, a rival team for sportsmanship.
“Oh, that is not good. Your mother, Yuna, she seems worried and confused,” Ilya comments, reading the texts over Shane’s shoulder.
“I told her. I’m sorry, Ilya. I know it was your secret as well, but Hayden called her, and she was freaking out, and I was freaking out. It spiraled, and I told her I was coming here, to Boston, to you. I didn’t tell her it was you, not explicitly, but she isn’t dumb. She doesn’t know everything, no details, but she knows I love you.” Shane’s voice is panicking now, rising higher and higher with each sentence he speaks.
“Hey, hey, relax, okay? Is okay, she is not mad, right?” Ilya asks and Shane shakes his head enthusiastically.
“No, not mad. Confused, for sure, but not mad,” It was the one thing he did know, the one thing his mother had made abundantly clear with her texts.
“Then it is okay. Not the best, but she is on your side. You know, I am afraid of her, much better than my agent,” Ilya lightens the situation, nudging Shane and then immediately wincing at the pain in his ribs.
“Ilya,”
“Shane,” Is Ilya’s response, grinning at Shane with a dopey smile.
The relief nearly bowls Shane over. Ilya was still here, still alive to tease him about his mother. Still willingly being with Shane even when Shane most likely outed them to the world in his panic. Ilya was staying, wasn’t freaking out, wasn’t pulling away. It was a good thing, Shane had enough anxiety for the both of them, he didn’t need Ilya joining him in the spiral his mind was currently trying to take him.
The moment is broken, however, when a knock sounds at the door. Shane goes to pull himself away from Ilya, to stand and create a respectful distance. Something more appropriate for rivals and not lovers. But when he sits up, the room tilts dangerously, and his vision goes spotty, the ringing returning to his ears. Ilya must notice his distress, as he makes shushing noises and pulls Shane back down into bed, holding him close as he calls for whoever is knocking to enter.
A woman enters, dressed in blue scrubs and the white coat of a doctor. She clearly looks frazzled, with her dark hair pulled up in a loose bun with pieces slowly escaping. She takes in their positions, Ilya protectively holding Shane, and Shane’s head swaying dangerously as he attempts to focus his failing vision on the possible threat he had just detected. If she knows who they are, if she has opinions on how close they appear, she keeps them to herself, face settling into a professional mask.
“Mr. Rozanov, I am Dr. Kang. I assessed you earlier, but you were fairly confused at the time. I have medical information regarding your condition. Would you like to discuss this now, or after your visitor has left?” Shes professional, but Shane bristles at the implication he would be leaving Ilya any time soon.
“He is my medical proxy and power of attorney; he can know everything you know.” Ilya’s grip on the English language had slipped slightly, and his accent had thickened, but Shane wasn’t about to correct him.
“Very well. The trauma scans we performed on you came back reassuring. No internal bleeding or intracranial bleeding. Your symptoms are consistent with a mild concussion, unpleasant but not life-threatening. You broke three ribs, all of which are non-displaced and have a low chance of causing complications if you allow them to heal. We feel comfortable moving you upstairs for observation with repeat scans and neuro exams periodically to ensure nothing has changed,” Dr. Kang assures, and Shane breathes out a sigh of relief. He didn’t like Ilya being injured at all, but the fact that Ilya wasn’t injured beyond what he might get in a rough game.
“How long does he have to stay? How serious are his injuries?” Shane butts in, and Dr. Kang looks to Ilya for permission before responding.
“Mr. Rozanov is young and in peak physical condition. His scans are clean, and his vitals and neuro exams are what we would expect given the events of the day. I can’t give you an absolute timeline, but I would expect him to be able to leave within a few days if no complications arise. At the very least, I would strongly recommend twenty-four hours to monitor his concussion, ideally we would have you here forty-eight hours minimum to make sure you don’t experience any complications from your ribs or any delayed bleeding and to work on pain management.” Dr. Kang is quick and clear, staying to the facts. Shane doesn’t know for sure, but he would guess she had experience with hockey players, or mules; there wasn’t much difference in stubbornness as far as he could tell.
For the briefest moment, Ilya looks like he might object, but the stern look Shane must be wearing shuts that down before Ilya could say a word. Shane himself was stubborn, but he knew to listen to doctors, as it would only make it harder to return to the ice if you ignored orders and made injuries worse.
“Okay, thank you, doctor. I like you, very direct. I will get you tickets to the next home game,” Ilya declares with a smile, and for the first time since entering, Dr. Kang’s professional mask cracks with a small smile.
“I appreciate that, Mr. Rozanov, but you should focus on healing up first. I’ll speak with the charge nurse about getting you moved upstairs and into a more comfortable room.” With that, Dr. Kang excuses herself and leaves Shane and Ilya alone once again.
“I’m guessing you are not happy about that,” Shane comments, looking up to Ilya and expecting a pouting expression, Ilya complaining that he was just fine.
“No, but you want me to stay. I think maybe I should, no? You have worried enough for the day. I can be good and listen to the nice doctor and nurses. You should stay at my place, no need to get a hotel when I have a perfectly good bed,” Ilya offers, and Shane blinks, stunned at both the easy acquiescence and offer of Ilya’s bed.
“Ilya, if you think I’m leaving you any time soon, you’ve got a worse concussion than they think. Security will quite literally have to escort me out before I leave you alone,” Shane makes his objection very clear, regarding Ilya with a look of disbelief.
“Oh, but it will not be any fun. You already said no sex, and I don’t think you will be changing your mind, no?” Ilya taunts and Shane snorts.
“No, I don’t think it’s going to be fun. I’m still not leaving you alone in a hospital room after the day you’ve had. I did not drive five hours and across an international border to leave you to sleep in your penthouse. If you need anything from home, I’m pretty sure someone from team services can go get it for you.”
Ilya’s response is a slow, syrupy smile that quickly infects Shane as well. Now that the chaos was over, and he had been assured that Ilya was going to be fine by a medical professional and seeing it with his own eyes, Shane was flagging. He hadn’t had a good breakfast, hadn’t had anything other than shitty gas station coffee he had grabbed somewhere in butt fuck nowhere Vermont, and hadn’t rested since he had his very public panic attack in the locker room. With no more tasks for his body to complete, Shane was shutting down. He wasn’t sure he would be able stay awake to note how uncomfortable whatever recliner or couch he ended up on that night was.
“Svetlana will bring anything if I need it, she answered her phone when the hospital called.” Shane glared at the way Ilya ribbed him for not answering his phone.
“Too soon,”
“Sorry, solnyshko”
********************
Shane will admit one thing: the care team at Boston General was efficient if nothing else. Within an hour of Dr. Kang’s visit, Shane and Ilya had both been moved up to the seventh floor, Shane because he refused to leave Ilya’s side, and Ilya because he was listening to medical professionals for once in his life. Shane idly wondered how long that would last.
They had gotten strange looks from the transport team, both of whom clearly knew who Ilya and Shane were and that it was beyond weird to see them in the same room without verbal punches flying around carelessly. Shane hoped that HIPAA extended to them and they would be discreet enough not to comment on the fact that Shane had still been in Ilya’s bed when they came to fetch Ilya.
“Can I use your phone, please? I have a list for Svetlana and don’t want to bother the nurses,” Ilya asks, once he was situated back into the new bed, dressed in a new, still highly unflattering hospital gown. Shane had quickly followed him into said bed, this time with no objections.
Shane easily passes his phone over, dutifully ignoring the texts and pouring in. At some point, he would have to plug it in with how quickly the nonstop notifications kept on popping up. Vaguely, Shane wondered if he should be giving in as easily as he should. Ilya still had a concussion; he shouldn’t be on screens. However, he really had no desire to leave Ilya and had no way of knowing Svetlana’s phone number.
“Maybe I should help. No screens, remember?” Shane reaches back for the phone, and Ilya tutts and keeps it away from him, looking as if he was about to scold Shane of all people.
“Relax, Hollander, it's only a few text messages. I will be fine,” Ilya goes back to tapping Shane’s phone and Shane smiles, exhausted.
“If your brain starts leaking from your ears, don’t blame me,” Shane's sentence is punctuated by an exhausted yawn, jaw cracking with the force of it as he fights the urge to go back to sleep.
“Go to sleep, solnyshko. I will still be here when you wake up. I will have Svetlana bring us something to eat. The nurses said I could.” Ilya quickly cuts off any objections Shane might have about food, and he’s too tired to argue further.
“Okay, but wake me before Svetlana gets here. I’ve never met her before and don’t want her first impression of me to be crammed into your bed,” Shane demands, although he has the sneaking suspicion that Ilya will not wake him.
“Sleep, Shane. Sveta will bring food, and everything will be okay,” Ilya assures, and it's all the permission Shane needs, almost instantly out once his head hits the pillow again.
***********************
“Shane, sweetheart, you should really get up now. Sveta is here and brought pelmeni. It is really good,” Ilya’s voice filters through the foggy haze of Shane’s mind, and Shane grumbles, trying to burrow his way deeper into the uncomfortable bed linens he knew he would never pick out for himself.
“No, sweetheart, you did that when I tried to wake you earlier. You said to wake you before Sveta got here, she is here now and brought a new friend! I am getting all of your dirty secrets,” Ilya’s voice comes again, and this time pulls back the blanket Shane had buried himself in.
“What? What friend?” Shane is awake enough to realize that anyone else being aware of their relationship was a bad thing.
“Just me. You wouldn’t answer your phone,”
Oh, oh no. Shane bolts straight up to come face to face with Svetlana, whom he recognized from the photos he internet-stalked of Ilya, and his mother. His mother who lived in Ottawa, who should be having meetings with brands, and not in Ilya’s hospital room, in Boston. She at least looks put together, rolling a suitcase sitting beside her and dressed in a set of comfortable clothes. Shane can’t quite reconcile the image in his head, his mother, standing in Ilya Rozanov’s hospital room.
“Now I see where you get your crazy from. You won’t answer your phone, so your mother goes to another country, at least she is smart enough to fly,” Is Ilya’s helpful commentary.
“That’s my mom!” Shane hisses, smacking Ilya’s thigh.
“Yes, good job, should I tell nurses you too passed the neuro test? They will be very happy, I think.” Ilya taunts and Shane hastily extracts himself from Ilya’s arms. He might have already confessed to his mother, which was an entirely different set of chaos, she didn’t need to see him tangled up in bed with whatever Ilya was to him.
“He’s had a rough day, Ilya, cut the baby some slack,” Svetlana helpfully chimes in and Shane would glare at her if this wasn’t his literal first time meeting her.
“Everyone, calm down before Shane runs away,” Yuna butts in and Shane does glare at her.
“Mom!”
“What? You know I’m right. There was that time you were seven when-”
“And thats enough! Svetlana, nice to meet you. Um, this is my mom, but you probably already know that. Why are you here?” Shane directs this question at his mom, still confused at her presence.
“Well, news about you and Ilya broke. There were the photos of you arriving at the hospital, of course, but ‘close sources’ claim that you had a panic attack in Montreal and drove straight here, which is true but that means that someone on the voyageurs spoke to the press. People are starting to question the true relationship between you two. I thought I might be more useful here, helping manage the media and future questions,” Yuna confesses, although neglects to tell the rest of the room how useless she felt sitting home alone with nothing to do.
“Eh, one more thing. Someone took a photo once you moved up here. It is pretty obvious,” Svetlana offers up, already turning her phone around to show Shane when he inevitably asked to see it.
This photo was the most damning piece of evidence. Shane was curled up in bed beside Ilya, fast asleep. He had managed to practically glue himself to Ilya’s side, not a free inch between them. Ilya also appeared to be asleep, arms encircling and holding Shane tight to him. There was no spinning this as ‘just friends’. Just friends didn’t crawl into each other's hospital beds, just friends didn’t drive across an international border without hesitation. Just friends was the furthest thing from what Ilya and Shane were; it was almost comical.
Shane knew he should be freaking out, at the very least pissed to have his privacy violated first by a voyageur and then Ilya’s by whoever took the damn photo, but he only felt relief. Oh it was a nightmare in and of itself to have his mental breakdown plastered across the internet, to have Ilya and his injuries shown off, but a relief that he, that they, didn’t have to hide any more. No more fake names in phones, no more secret hotel room hookups, no more whispered exchanges on the ice, no more hiding just how much he loved Ilya; it was like a weight was lifted off his chest. Sure, he would probably properly freak out about everything once it sunk it, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret his actions.
“Oh,” Is all he actually manages to say out loud, eyes still fixed to the small screen of Svetlana’s phone.
“Oh? Is that all you have to say, oh? What happened to my Shane? What have you done with him?” Ilya asks, not understanding why Shane wasn’t panicking more. On the same hand, Ilya couldn’t stop wondering why he himself wasn’t freaking out more. With the news breaking, he would never be able to return to Russia. Shouldn’t he be more panicked about that? There wasn’t much left for him in Russia; he had given Alexei his apartment and everything in it, had shipped anything he wanted to keep from his life in Russia back to Boston before he left. He had his niece, but she had her mother, and Alexei had never let them be close; he barely knew her, given the fact that he had been playing in the NHL since before she was born. He somehow knew that when he buried his father, it would be his last time back to Russia. He couldn’t have imagined that this would be why, though. That a near-fatal plane crash would be the thing that outed his and Shane’s near decade long situationship turned relationship.
“I’m tired, Ilya, aren’t you? I’m tired of the secret texts, hotel hookups, and stolen moments. I want to be able to stand next to you and not wonder if we’re too close. I want to be able to touch you and hold you in public. Is this the exact way I imagined us coming out? Definitely not, but maybe this happened for a reason. I almost lost you today, for a while I thought I did. I can’t imagine mourning you in private, and when I picture what would happen if you left me alone in my grief, if I had to try and pretend that you were my rival and nothing else, it would break me completely. I would walk away from it all, hockey doesn’t mean anything if I don’t have a life I can share with you. If hockey is the price I pay for loving you, publicly and without restraint, then it's not even a question. I would choose you, every single time.” Shane's words are sincere, jumbled, and tripping over each other without the usual careful planning of each word and sentence.
If you asked Ilya if he thought he could love Shane any more five minutes ago, he would have thought it impossible. But Shane, the overachiever, had defied that, and Ilya felt himself fall in love all over again. Publicity, being known, was perhaps one of Shane’s biggest fears. The fact that he was ready to stop hiding what they had become, to allow others to know and perceive him and Ilya, what they had together, was a declaration of love in and of itself.
“Yes, lyubimyy, I am with you. I am tired of hiding. If you are ready, so am I. There is nothing I have that I wouldn’t give up for you, for us,” Ilya’s voice was coated in honey and sugar, all restraint and postering stripped away.
Words fail Shane yet again, and he resorts to physically showing Ilya just how much he agrees, how much he wants them. Shane falls back to the bed, Ilya’s arms immediately coming up to hold him even closer. The kiss they share is stained with tears and relief, having found their way back to each other once again. Shane didn’t think he would ever separate from Ilya again if it wasn’t completely impractical, always wanted to be in contact with him, the warmth of his skin, his pulse thrumming beneath his fingers. If Shane had Ilya, he didn’t think he needed anything else in the world.