Chapter Text
The first wave of turbulence hadn’t phased anyone.
Being a professional hockey player meant being an experienced flyer, and for the Ottawa Centaurs, they — more than most — understood the difference between regular turbulence and an actual emergency. And that’s all it was at first; just regular turbulence. The seatbelt sign was barely on for forty minutes, and no one even thought twice about it.
But when the second wave hit — twice as long and twice as violent — that raised some eyebrows. It was only meant to be a short flight, a four hour hop to play the Western conference, but the longer the light stayed on, the longer the journey felt. By the end of it, everyone on the flight was nervously watching the seatbelt sign, Ilya included.
Shane, sensing his distress from the next seat over, reached out and interlocked their fingers. Ilya glanced back at him gratefully, the memory they both were haunted by reflected in each other’s eyes. They still sighed with relief when the turbulence finally passed.
Ilya squeezed Shane’s hand reflexively before getting up, the shaking and the building tension in his body sending too many signals urging him to move. It was a small plane, and the only place to go to the bathroom at the back so begrudgingly, Ilya squeezed himself down the tight aisle.
As he went, he instinctively checked on all of the players spread out through the cabin as he went, doing a mental tally of the whole roster.
Wiebe and the assistant coach were in the same row as Ilya and Shane, sat at the very front, already discussing strategy for the upcoming game. They passed a tablet back and forth, quietly discussing plays. Shane, still in his seat on the other side of the aisle, resumed reading the hockey book about the 1987 NHL season he’d brought with him that Ilya had bought him last Christmas.
Troy and Harris sat just behind Wiebe, both of them engrossed in the same screen watching some kind of historical drama with a pair of headphones shared between the two of them. A couple rows behind Shane, sat Wyatt — occupied with a book — and Bood patiently watching a movie in the aisle another row back. Nick was asleep in a row all to himself, and Luca was engrossed in a handheld gaming system in the emergency exit row. The rookies were spaced out behind them on both sides of the aisle, with Holmberg matched up with Dale the equipment manager.
One by one, Ilya accounted for all 22 players and the five additional staff. Other passengers were sprinkled between everyone, but the team still made up a solid chunk of the manifest. Unfortunately, the exercise didn’t help the wave of anxiety brought on by the turbulence, and tapped his jeans’ pocket to make sure he had his phone in his pocket as he squeezed into the small cubical, only to groan in frustration as the seatbelt sign came back on before he had even unzipped his pants to relieve himself.
Ilya went about his business despite feeling the plane start to shake, stumbling to brace himself as a particularly violent wave knocked him off balance. He waited and hoped it would pass, but something in his gut roiled and Ilya couldn’t ignore it any longer. Busting out of the bathroom, Ilya immediately made eye contact with a flight attendant, who was frantically securing items in the galley. “Sir, please get back to your seat.” She instructed firmly, her face not giving anything away, but her rapid movements and urgent body language told him all he needed to know. Holding the headrest of every row just to stay upright, Ilya worked his way back to the front despite the violent shaking rocking the plane doing everything to waylay him.
But he wasn’t fast enough.
The plane jolted midair, and the gravity disappeared. Ilya’s back collided with the roof of the cabin, and pain flared down his spine causing him to cry out. But just as suddenly as the forces of nature disappeared, they reappeared and Ilya hit the ground of the aisle hard, his head colliding with something as all of the cabin lights switched off.
Worried shouts and cries arose from the passengers as the reality of the situation started to hit them. Dazed and desperate to return to his seat, Ilya dizzily forcing himself back to his feet, moving faster as the oxygen masks dropped.
Something warm slipped down the back of his neck.
“Sir!” The same flight attendant yelled. “Get in a seat, now!” Ilya looked back at her, realizing with a start that she too was now strapped down, secured at the back of the plane. He turned, straining to look over the seats in an attempt to locate Shane but he couldn’t see anything through the dark emergency lighting, so without a choice, Ilya hauled himself down into the closest empty seat and clicked the belt tight over his lap. He had only just slipped the mask over his face in time for the announcement that echoed through the cabin.
“This is a message for all passengers and flight crew. Secure the cabin, and brace for impact.”
The passengers barely had the chance to react to the haunting words coming from the pilot over the PA system, when all of the flight crew started yelling in unison.
“Brace, Brace, Brace. Heads down, stay down! Brace, Brace, Brace.”
Ilya gripped the armrests of his new seat, squeezing his eyes shut. The plane was now violently shaking, and people screamed as the pressure in the cabin changed rapidly, causing ears to pop.
The emergency lights flickered.
Ilya’s head ached, and he absent-mindedly remembered that he’d hit it. He’d have to remember to tell someone about that later. He thought about Shane, wanting nothing more than to get back to him and hold his hand once more. He hoped he’d still have the chance when this was all over. “I love you, my heart,” He whispered, hoping somehow that the message would reach Shane. “In this life and long after.”
And then came the impact.
A terrifying screech of metal roared through the cabin, accompanied by the sound of pure wreckage. Panels popped off the sides of the cabin, luggage containers buckling in half as the plane crunched. Glass shattered, and bags rained down from overhead, spilling into the aisle and rows. The top of the plane ripped off, like a lid coming off a tin of sardines, sending sparks and debris down onto the passengers, all the while smoke and dust filled the cabin.
The people who were still awake screamed. Some were knocked out by the impact, and other flopped lifelessly in their seats, going terrifyingly still.
At some point, the wreckage came to a stop.
Ilya didn’t remember passing out, but he came to nonetheless at the sensation of someone aggressively shaking him by the shoulder. Each movement hurt, sending flashes of pain up his spine into his head. Disgruntled, Ilya shook the hand off, mumbling into his mask as he blinked rapidly. The headache he’d had before had now manifested tenfold, and with a trembling start, Ilya realized dark, wet blood was coating the back of his head.
“Wha-happen’d?” He slurred, glancing up at Nick Chouinard, who was standing in the aisle over him.
“I think…” The defenseman glanced around, his eyes still wide with shock. “I think the plane crashed?”
Ilya tried to say something, but he lost the words as he looked around for himself and realized just how much damage had been done to the plane. The line between wreckage and luggage was totally blurred, with a mix of both strewn everywhere. The dim emergency lighting gave the cabin an eerie feeling as dust and smoke wafted around the air, permeated by the alarming smell of fuel. Above them, sheets of metal lay crumpled, warped and torn until it wasn’t even recognizably the roof anymore.
“What the fuck?” A new voice muttered, and Ilya twisted around to see Luca wandering around on unsteady feet. “What the fuck, what the fuck, whatthefuck…?”
“Haas, you okay?” Ilya slurred, ripping off his oxygen mask, finally getting the presence of mind to speak.
“The plane crashed.” Luca swallowed, looking very young in Ilya’s eyes all of a sudden, panic writ all over his face. “The plane crashed!”
“Yes,” Ilya tried his best to sound calm, but honestly, his internal monologue was not that different from Luca’s external monologue. The plane had hit some turbulence, the lights had gone off, he’d gotten thrown trying to get back to his seat and…
A new flash of nausea overwhelmed Ilya’s body. Shane. He twisted abruptly, looking towards the front of the plane, trying to figure out how to get there over all of the debris and damage. One of the overhead compartment containers had fallen slanted over the aisle, blocking him from seeing anything or anyone.
“Shane!” Ilya shouted, panic ripping through his voice. He got into the aisle, ignoring the way his body protested. People started stirring as he shouted again, but Ilya pressed on. Somewhere at the back, someone — a child, Ilya would realize later — started crying, and shouts started echoing through the wrecked cabin. The smell of fuel and burnt material still hung the air, but Ilya continued his passage forward, desperate to reach his husband.
But he only made it a couple rows forward before tripping again. “Fuck!” Ilya swore in Russian, glancing down to see what he’d tripped on, only to startle with alarm as he realized it was a body. A woman, draped between the aisle and the gap of the seats. Her eyes were open and empty, her skull distorted with a large indent that had blood marring her entire face. She must’ve died on impact, Ilya realized passively, noticing that her seatbelt had been ripped clean off the seat, still wrapped partially around her waist. The sight of the corpse only made him panic more, especially as the other passengers noticed. He could recognize some of the shouts coming from his teammates, but the voice of the flight attendant trumped them all. “All passengers, if you can, please proceed to the nearest emergency exit and evacuate the plane. Those of you seated in the emergency rows, prepare to assist. If a passenger next to you is unable to evacuate, please leave them in their seats for the emergency responders.”
Ilya ignored her, determined to get back to the front of the plane, but before he could take another step, someone grabbed him by the arm. “Roz…!” Ilya flinched, turned around, struggling to recognize him under all of the dust and blood marring the man’s face. It took him way too long to realize it was Evan Dykstra. “Roz, c’mon. We have to go.”
“No, hav’to ge’ tuh Sh-shane.” Ilya protested, but Evan just shook his head and tightened his grip.
“No can do, Cap. Emergency responses have to get to the front, and you’d only be in the way. You’ll be waiting for him outside, yeah? You don’t wanna scare him with that goose egg.”
Ilya frowned trying to make sense of what Evan was even saying. Translating was hard enough sometimes when he hadn’t hit his head or been in a plane crash. “Buh…”
“Roz, c’mon. You need to get that looked at, you’re still bleeding pretty bad.” Evan wasn’t taking no for an answer, and started dragging Ilya backwards, back over the body and the luggage. Lights started flashing — red and blue ones from outside of the plane — indicating the presence of emergency services. Ilya started cooperating, hoping it wouldn’t be long before he was reunited with his husband, but as more hands started tugging on Ilya’s clothes, he fought, trying to get himself loose. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Voices overwhelmed his ears, speaking a language he was struggling more and more to comprehend until the only word he could recognize was his own name.
And then he was outside.
The sun was starting to set but there was a buzz of activity as EMTs, police, and firefighters scrambled around, setting up emergency supplies. More hands tugged on Ilya’s clothes pulling him further and further away from the plane, much to his distress. “Shane, you have to get to Shane!” He shouted, trying to point in the direction of his husband.
“Who’s Shane?” Someone who’s voice Ilya didn’t recognize asked, but they sounded far away in his ears and he didn’t have the energy left to explain. Hands continued to touch him, probing the back of his head and parts of his body. His vision was getting blurrier and darker with each passing moment, and he stopped being able to understand what they were saying, as it got blissfully quiet.
Ilya awoke with a start at the sensation of something being pressed against the back of his head, a roar ripping out of his throat at the sharp pain. “Okay, there you are, Mr. Rozanov! It’s okay, we’re just trying to get this compress on the back of your head.” A woman was speaking, but Ilya couldn’t see her. He twisted around, trying to find who it was, only to be stopped short by the restraints on his wrists and ankles.
“Wha— happn’d?” He tried to say, realizing he didn’t know where he was.
“You were in a plane crash. You’re still at the crash site, you just got pulled out of the wreckage a little while ago.” The woman said, and Ilya remembered. He remembered being in the bathroom, getting thrown in the aisle…
“SHANE!” He shouted, jerking against the restraints. “WHERE IS…”
“Is Shane one of your teammates?” The woman asked, still invisible to Ilya’s eyes.
“His husband. He was sat at the front of the plane.” Another voice cut through the air, and Ilya tried to identify who was speaking, until his eyes finally landed on Evan, who was looking a lot cleaner than the last time Ilya had seen him. A bandage was secured to his forehead, covering most of his hairline, but for the most part, he looked okay.
“Okay, so he’s probably still waiting on EMS to get him out.” The woman said calmly, but the expression on Dykstra’s face twitched, suggesting otherwise. There was something they weren’t telling him.
“Why am I…” Ilya pulled against the restraints.
“Because you got confused, Roz. Started yelling, slurring, and you got combative. Pushed over poor Haas, nearly knocked yourself out.” Evan explained. “You gonna do that again?”
“No.” Ilya frowned. “Is Haas okay?”
“He’s fine. A little shell-shocked but I think we all are. Can we…” He gestured to the restraints, and the paramedic treating Ilya finally came into view. She was tall, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her uniform creased, stained, and covered in dust. She deftly removed the restraints, and flashed a light in Ilya’s face. He flinched, letting out a mild string of expletives.
“What was that for?”
“I’m checking you for a concussion.”
“Safe to assume yes.” Ilya groused, dizzy from the abrupt source of light. “Feels like one.”
“Have you had a concussion before?”
“Plenty.” Ilya deadpanned. “Hockey player.”
“I think you’ll find half the plane has had at least one concussion before.” Evan remarked, and the EMT helped Ilya sit up properly.
“Okay. Mr. Rozanov, I’ve got a couple questions to ask you…”
“Ilya Grigoryvch Rozanov, am thirty-one years of age, is Tuesday unless past midnight, and I do not care who is Prime Minister.” Ilya rattled off, causing Evan to chuckle. The EMT smirked, rolling her eyes.
“You watch too many movies, Mr. Rozanov. Are you feeling pain anywhere besides your head?”
“Back, neck. Hit ceiling of plane spine-first.” Ilya answered honestly, and she nodded.
“I saw the bruising. Nothing seems to be broken though, based on the exam I gave you. I do recommend you see a doctor though, as soon as one becomes available. Make sure to stay in close contact with people so that we can monitor your condition. Anywhere else?”
Ilya tried to sense out his body, identifying any stray aches. “Ankle? I think I tripped over someone.”
The EMT nodded professionally, moving down to the end of the stretcher, working her hands around Ilya’s clothes to examine the leg Ilya was gesturing to. She was thorough, pressing against the skin, testing his mobility in the joint. “It doesn’t seem broken or strained. You probably just rolled it. I can wrap it, and give you some ice.”
“Thank you. When will I see Shane?”
“I don’t know.” She answered, and backed away from the stretcher, looking around for another patient. “If I see him, I’ll send him your way.”
“Thanks.” Evan called out to her, before turning back to Ilya. “How are you feeling?”
“Dizzy. Worried. Pissed. Don’t want to fly ever again.” Ilya rattled off, rubbing his face. “Who is off the plane?”
“Most of us. 22 so far, including the team staff. No major injuries, just a few bumps on the head, a couple cuts, some whiplash maybe? You’re the worst so far with a concussion, but uh…we’re still expecting the worst. They’ve already brought out a couple bodies, other passengers who died on impact, they think, and they’re still working on the last few front rows, so Troy, Harris, Wiebe, the AC, and Shane are all still unaccounted for.”
“What is taking so long?” The pit in Ilya’s stomach returned at the mention of bodies, the memory of the woman he’d tripped over flashing in his mind’s eye.
“People are trapped in their seats. When the plane hit the ground, it bent, and a lot of debris landed on the front few rows. Uh…they already know the pilots didn’t make it. One of the bodies pulled out already was a member of the flight crew.”
Ilya was quiet after that, worry mounting even more. He inched down to the bottom of the stretcher, only to gasp as the plane came into view, previously concealed behind a privacy screen. The main body of the plane was a mess, with massive scrapes and gouges ripped into it while smears of dirt and ash covered the rest of the damage from the tail to the front. The sleek straight lines of the vehicle had all been bent and the thick windows on either side had been smashed. The wings were both missing, along with the tail fin. And the front of the plane…
The front of the plane had been caved in.
Ilya’s hand snapped to his mouth, making an audible smack against the skin. It didn’t even look real. If he couldn’t feel the pain in his own body, he wouldn’t believe he’d walked out of the wreckage.
The wreckage that his husband was still in.
A loud sob erupted from Ilya’s throat, the pit in his stomach now cavernous. And the urge to vomit became all of a sudden too strong. He tipped off the stretcher, falling to his hands and knees as the contents of his stomach ejected itself.
“Fuck, ROZ!” Dykstra yelled, startled by the sudden bile projecting from Ilya’s throat. A series of footsteps echoed nearby, and a hand rubbed circles on Ilya’s back.
“Let it out, Cap. We got you.” Bood comforted, and Ilya looked up to see his entire team surrounding him.
“Shane, Shane is still…”
“We know. We’ve been looking out for him, they’ve got to be getting him out real soon.” Bood nodded, his eyebrows pinched together. “You need that medic back?”
“No.” Ilya shook his head, despite still feeling nauseous. “I need Shane to be okay! And Troy, and Harris, and the coaches.”
“We all do.” Bood assured him.
As if on cue, one of the backup centers pointed at the plane. “I see Troy!”
The team parted, everyone turning to look at the plane, where two medics were pushing a gurney out, Troy obviously on top. But the sight of him was not reassuring, because not only was he covered in blood…
He was screaming.
Ilya didn’t even hesitate. He was off his own gurney and racing over there, Bood and Wyatt not far behind. "TROY!” Ilya shouted, trying to get the other man’s attention.
“Sir, you need to stay back.”
“I need to support my teammate.” Ilya retorted, at least respectfully keeping his distance. “Troy, we’re here!”
“They can’t get him out!” Troy screamed, seemingly not even registering Ilya’s presence. “They can’t get him out, they can’t get him out!” The constant repetition and the strain in Troy’s voice did nothing to make anyone feel better.
“Who? Harris?” Ilya demanded
“The guy next to him.” One of the EMTs answered, having clearly recognized they weren’t getting rid of Ilya. “Might be this Harris?”
“They can’t get him OUT!” Troy continued to scream.
“Is he trapped?” Ilya asked.
“We couldn’t tell.” The EMT answered. “We practically had to pry the seats apart just to move him.” The EMT gestured to Troy. “I can’t tell you anything more.”
“No, answer me! What is wrong with Troy?” Ilya asked, realizing they were headed directly for an ambulance rather than the triage center where the rest of the team had been sent.
“Knee!” Troy spat out, suddenly looking more alert. “Knee’s broken, pretty sure. Ribs too. And my stomach really hurts.”
“We can’t tell you anything more.” The EMT snapped, climbing into the back of the ambulance.
“His emergency contact is still on plane.” Ilya yelled. “I am team captain, tell me!”
“Not how it works. Sorry. Up on three.” The EMT was unsympathetic, and the gurney jolted, causing Troy to groan. They loaded the gurney onto the ambulance, securing it in place, and slammed the doors, driving off at breakneck speed, leaving the rest of the team behind in the dust.
“A broken knee is bad.” Someone muttered.
“A broken knee is fatal for a hockey player.”
“Not always,” Ilya snapped. “And no one use the word fatal. People have died. Not the day for metaphor or euphemism or whatever this stupid language calls it.”
“Sorry.” “Sorry Cap.” “Sorry Roz.”
“Does anyone have contact with family yet?” Ilya asked, all of a sudden remembering his cell phone in his pocket.
“Yeah, we’ve been passing phones around, getting in contact with people. The WAG chat was mobilized.” Bood explained, which reassured Ilya slightly as he looked down to open the phone. The screen was cracked slightly, but the device still worked. Notifications were blowing up his screen, but before he could read any of them, the phone buzzed, bringing up a picture of Yuna.
“I need to take this,” His voice cracked and Bood patted him on the shoulder.
“We’ll keep an eye out for Shane. We’ll tell you straight away.”
“Tell me straight away for everyone.” Ilya emphasized, and the AC nodded, stepping back to give Ilya a bit of distance. Taking a deep breath, he answered the call.
“Yuna…?”
“Ilya, thank god! I’ve been trying to get ahold of you and Shane. The plane…”
“It crashed.” Ilya said, feeling hollow as he cut her off. “The plane crashed.”
“Are you alright? Are you both alright?”
“I have concussion. Shane is still on plane.”
“Oh good, a concussion is, well it’s not nothing but…wait, what do you mean Shane is still on the plane?” Her voice betrayed the abrupt rise in panic, which made Ilya’s heart race and his head throb.
“He…I…they pulled me out. But Shane is…he’s still on the plane. Yuna, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I left him! They made me leave him! He…Troy has a broken leg, Harris is trapped, and no one will tell me anything about Shane!” Ilya sobbed, feeling his panic overwhelm here. “They can’t tell me anything!”
“Ilya, baby, I need you to calm down.” Yuna said, her voice cracking. “David and I are trying to figure out how to get to you, but it might take us a little bit because they’re cancelling flights. Do you want to call us when you know more?”
“I will call.” Ilya resolved, tears filling his eyes, guilt flooding his system. He couldn’t even tell her if her son was dead. What USE was he as a husband, as a partner, as a son-in-law if he couldn’t even do that? He hadn’t even been there with Shane when they crashed!
“ROZ!” Bood’s voice reverberated, scaring Ilya.
“I must go.” Ilya said, immediately hanging up the phone, mentally apologizing to Yuna for the sudden severing of the connection and ran, immediately spotting the team assembled in a semi-circle. “Who is it?”
“They just sent in more gurneys. I think they’re bringing the rest of them out.” Bood explained. As if on cue, that’s when they emerged: A small unit of EMTs, pushing out four gurneys, all of them busy attending to the patients on the stretchers.
The first was easily recognizable.
“There’s Coach!” Ilya pointed, quashing the returning wave of nausea at the sight of a bone visible protruding from Wiebe’s arm and the massive bloodstain on his ruined clothes. Behind him, EMTs were performing chest compressions on the assistant coach, who’s face was covered with a mask and bandages.
Harris was mostly covered by a blanket, but it was hard to miss the significant amount of blood that had already seeped through the white fabric around his legs. But Ilya couldn’t focus on that as he was abruptly distracted by the sight of the last gurney.
“Shane, моя любовь...” Ilya cried.
“Sir, you need to step…”
“Is my husband! I am not going anywhere but to hospital with him.” Ilya’s tone left no room for argument, as he couldn’t lift his eyes from Shane’s body to glare.
Shane was a mess. The EMTs had already cut some of his clothes off, revealing a litany of injuries that numbered too many for Ilya to stand to count. Large cuts had been carved into Shane’s upper body and face, with more barely concealed behind the blood residue and the medical mask on his face. Shane’s nose had clearly been broken, and the side of his head was swollen.
Bandages had already been pressed over his neck and shoulders, held in place by a c-collar, but the damage beneath them was still obvious. One of Shane’s shoulders was at an unnatural angle, having been pushed out of the socket backwards with material wadded underneath Shane’s spine just to support it. Bruises littered what dirt and blood couldn’t, covering Shane’s ribs, but the skin protruded awkwardly in a way that Ilya just knew meant broken bones lay beneath.
And then of course, there was the red lesion covering Shane’s entire stomach. It was almost obvious that it had been caused by the seatbelt, but the rapid bruising being that extensive that quickly was horrifying. He stepped back just enough to let them load Shane into the ambulance, but refused to remain far from Shane’s side, climbing in last while the driver shut the doors behind him.
“Did he say anything?” Ilya asked, watching as the medic continued to stabilize Shane’s injuries. “When they pulled him out?”
“We couldn’t move him for a bit.” The medic admitted. “The dividing wall between the front galley and the cabin was forced backwards and jammed, pinning the entire front row in their seats. We tried to keep them talking, but the firefighters had to cut through it, and the vibration of the saws just got transferred directly into them. Honestly, we were worried everyone outside would hear them screaming.”
Ilya flinched, the ache in his head flaring up into something sharp and violent. He HATED the idea of Shane being in pain, being stuck — trapped and alone — when Ilya had been out, walking around and fine. Alone because Ilya had left him. Because Ilya had gotten nervous.
“Sorry,” the paramedic actually turned around, looking ashamed. “I…that was unprofessional. I just…this is one of the worst calls I’ve ever seen.”
“How long have you being doing this job?” Ilya asked, not even really caring about the answer, his eyes still locked on Shane’s broken form, strapped down on the gurney.
“11 years. How long have you two been married?”
“Nearly five years, in July.” Ilya glanced down at Shane’s hands, wincing at the sight of the bruised, purpling fingers, and the skin swelling around the digits. Shane’s wedding ring was still on his finger, scuffed and damaged like everything else, the black inlay jutting out from the metal casing.
The paramedic driving the ambulance smacked the wall dividing the cab from the back of the truck, and the paramedic treating Shane grimaced. “Okay, a lot of things are about to happen very quickly and Shane here is about to get very popular. Do what the doctors tell you, stay out of the way, be patient and have faith okay?”
Ilya didn’t even have time to ask what that meant as the back doors of the ambulance were ripped open, a line of people waiting to receive the gurney there on the other side. The paramedic pushed the cot carrying Shane, the people wearing scrubs catching the other end, guiding it to the floor. Ilya leaped out behind it, never staying far behind. One of the doctors, while still walking, spread Shane’s eyelids open, flashing a light into them. “Okay, who do we have here?”
“Shane Hollander, age 34.” the EMT reported, snapping into action. “This is his husband, they were on the flight together.”
“Injuries?”
“Severe blunt force trauma to the chest, lower abdomen and legs, with minor trauma to everywhere else. Major lacerations to the upper body and his head, suspected internal bleeding. He’s already lost 2 units for sure, pulse is tachycardic, and he’s been unconscious for nearly 15 minutes.
“Sedated?”
“No, the extraction was painful. He passed out naturally while we were trying to stabilize. Still responding to pain stimulus though.”
Shane’s gurney was moved into a bay, and Ilya tried not to gag at the sight of a custodian by the entrance, mopping up blood from the linoleum floor. He looked around, stunned by the chaos around him. The emergency department was full, with gurneys lining the walls and stuffed in every inch of space. Noise overwhelmed the air, and people in scrubs buzzed around like wasps protecting a disturbed hive. The smell of blood and disinfectant flooded Ilya’s nose, and if there had been anything left in his stomach, he might’ve vomited again. The doctors made quick work of cutting off the rest of Shane’s clothes, passing the scraps off to a nurse to stuff into a bag.
Ilya watched with despair as the clippers cut through the precious metal of Shane’s wedding ring, which fell into pieces on an awaiting gloved hand, now damaged beyond repair. Ilya could only hope that the same couldn't be said for his husband, as terms that Ilya didn’t understand got thrown around between the doctors and nurses as they attached equipment to various parts of Shane’s body.
“Is he…going to make it?” Ilya asked, finally saying something for the first time since arriving.
“We’re going to do everything we can for him, Mr. Hollander.” The nearest doctor to Ilya said. Ilya didn’t bother to correct them on his last name, it didn't seem like the time. “In the meantime, we need you to start filling out some consent forms. Jane can you…”
Ilya’s eyes snapped to the passing nurse the doctor had flagged. Jane. The name only made Ilya feel even more distressed, but the nurse pulled Ilya aside gently, her sharp brown eyes immediately clocking the bandage on Ilya’s head.
“Okay, sir, do you also need to see a doctor? Get that head wound looked at?”
“No, I need to stay with my husband.” Ilya shook her off. “I need…forms?”
“Your husband is going to need surgery,” She explained. “As his husband, you're his medical proxy, we need you to give us permission to operate.”
Alarms blared, interrupting them, and Ilya whipped around to see the machines around Shane flashing. The doctors treating him were also moving much faster, shouting over each other to handle Shane’s rapidly declining condition. Someone stuck two colorful pads on Shane’s chest, one next to his sternum and one next to his ribs. “Okay, everybody, clear.”
Ilya couldn’t process what he was seeing. A loud whine filled the air and then electricity coursed through Shane’s body, and all Ilya could do was watch in raptured horror. Nurse Jane, stood next to Ilya, gripping his arm supportively as they watched them try to resuscitate Shane. It wasn’t lost on Ilya that she was also holding him back. “No change. Upping to 200.” Ilya’s knees went weak, and he collapsed against the nurse. She shouted something, but everything felt so far away as Ilya watched the doctors continue to try and save the love of his life.
Please Shane, Ilya begged silently. Please don’t leave, come back. He couldn’t hear them say anything else, but panicked all the same as they started moving the gurney.
“No, where are you going? What is happening?”
“Sir, they’re taking him to surgery.” The nurse, Jane, stepped between Ilya and the doctors, who were getting further away. “They got his pulse back, but they have to stabilize his wounds. Now, take this, and fill it out for me, okay.”
“He is…back? Heart is still beating?” Ilya clarified, trying to understand. She nodded, shoving a tablet into his hands, and pushed him into a chair. Ilya looked down at the screen, seeing a medical form already displayed on the glass.
“Yes. Can I take a look at your head wound while you fill it out? It looks like your bandage might need replacing.”
Ilya relented, focusing on the form in front of him. He couldn’t understand everything, but Jane was patient, explaining everything plainly and slowly. And then the forms were done, and the tablet was taken away. Jane pulled Ilya to the side, calling over a doctor to check the wound on the back of his head, but Ilya didn’t really respond of interact with either as a fresh new bandage was stuck on. And then they left him alone, sat in an empty medical bay staring at the floor.
A floor covered in his husband’s blood.