Chapter Text
The first thing Ilya registers is Hollander’s moving. He can see Hollander’s— Shane's— skates move as he goes to get himself up from his prone position on the ice. Harsh breathing fills his ears and Ilya can barely register that it belongs to him. Ilya’s moving towards the tangle of limbs where Marlow’s larger body covers Shane.
The crowd is loud the way hockey crowds always are after a big hit. Especially a hit on Shane Hollander, the golden boy of Canadian hockey and the bane of every home audience outside of Montreal. Ilya landed plenty of these hits himself in their long storied history. He can see Pike coming in hot from the other side of the rink and he suppresses an eye roll at his presence.
Marlow has pulled his body off Shane by the time Ilya gets to them. Something deep in his chest loosens when he’s able to see Shane’s eyes; they’re squinted against the bright rink lights and the roar of the fans.
He hears Pike yelling something incoherent as he drops to his knee to help Shane to his feet when Marlow is mostly stable. Ilya ignores the scrutinizing feel of his teammate’s eyes when he goes to haul Shane up without taking his eyes off him.
And he knows he should be keeping a better hold on his face. The emotions he’s only just begun to acknowledge are surely shining through the cracks in his mask but he can’t bring himself to shut down the raw relief flooding his body at Shane grasping his offered arm.
“Seems like a bad place for a nap, Hollander.” Ilya forces his voice light as he studies the angles of Shane’s face. He looks good, even dazed and panting trying to catch his breath.
“Oh fuck right off Roz—,” Shane’s voice cuts off in the middle of Ilya’s name so suddenly it feels violent. Ilya can’t figure out what’s wrong, his brow furrows as his smirk drops.
The pause stretches a second, maybe two, before an awful choking sound hits Ilya in the chest. He can’t— his face is wet.
He can’t think, Shane has a look of confused horror on his face.
Why is his face dripping in warm wetness?
Shane’s right hand is clenching so hard on Ilya’s arm he can feel his skin indent under the pressure. And Ilya still can’t pull a thought together, all the sensory input assailing his brain frying his processing power, flashing error messages like an overworked laptop.
His face is wet.
Something has splashed across his visor. He can see Shane reaching out his other hand but it stops before it reaches Ilya. A shudder is wracking Shane’s frame and Ilya can’t hear anything, can’t see anything beyond the fear blown pupils of his brown eyes partially obscured behind dripping red.
There’s blood in Ilya’s mouth. Did he bite his tongue? Ilya doesn’t think so.
His ears are ringing and his face is wet.
“Hollander?” Someone says— he says. “What?”
There’s a hand on his shoulder, Ilya doesn’t know who it belongs to but he shakes it off repeating with more urgency, “Hollander!”
Shane isn’t answering him. His body is jerking with ugly coughs and Ilya can’t—
There’s blood in Ilya’s mouth and his visor is dripping in red. Ilya realizes that the quiet is not just his brain unable to process information, the crowd has gone silent. Someone breaks the silence yelling, screaming for the medics. There are hands on his shoulders again, more of them than last time, digging in and pulling. He’s grasping desperately at the arm in his hand, his eyes going wide in terror.
Awful, terrible sounds are filtering into Ilya’s ears. He can’t see Shane clearly, there’s too much red sticking to the plastic in front of his eyes. Ilya claws at his chin strap. Pulls desperately at the sticky plastic preventing him from seeing Shane clearly. The harsh sound of the helmet hitting the ice by his skates snaps Ilya into clarity.
Shane is choking on his own blood, the only thing keeping his body from collapsing back onto the unforgiving ice is the grip he has on Ilya’s arm. Ilya can hear the thud of feet heading toward the group of players and refs yelling over each other. He still can’t tell whose hands are on him trying to wrench him away from Shane. He doesn’t care. A gun could be pressed to his temple and Ilya would not move, would not pull away from the wild, terrified look in Shane’s eyes.
There’s blood on the ice now.
A medic slams down next to Ilya, his eyes refuse to budge from Shane. He blinks and they’re surrounded by the medical team.
“Roz! Rozanov! You have to move,” one of the medics is pushing at him, trying to get him to move away from Shane. “You’re in the way.”
“I—but,” Ilya starts but can’t finish. Shane’s grip is loosening.
“Move.” Another voice cuts in. Marlow and one of the refs finally get a better hold on his jersey and bodily pull him back.
Shane’s hand slips. Their gloves graze but are too clumsy to grasp onto each other. His lungs seize in his chest in the instant he loses contact. Marlow is talking to him.
Ilya waves him off, eyes not straying from Shane’s body. The ice medics are crowded around Shane. He blinks and they have Shane on the backboard, strapping him down and lifting him.
The taste of blood is sickly in his mouth.
Fuck. Ilya can’t leave the ice. Shane is being carted out of the arena and into the winding halls leading to the standby ambluances and Ilya can’t fucking leave the ice. Shane is in pain and alone— and there’s nothing Ilya can do without endangering a secret that could ruin both of them. He chains the whine crawling up his throat viciously before it can be heard.
“Roz, Rozy man you have to breathe,” Marlow is talking to him. “Hollander will be okay man. Don’t sweat it.”
Ilya knows he should say something, that he’s doing a piss poor job of keeping a lid on his emotions but he can’t think past the ice slithering into his heart. His blood is rushing in his ears and all he wants to do is say fuck this stupid game, tear off his skates. He wants to follow Shane to Montreal General. He wants to put Marlow’s teeth through the back of his skull for saying things he can’t promise.
He can’t do either, he knows this— knows the hospital staff wouldn’t even let him past the waiting room.
Helplessly, Ilya watches the ice medics disappear with Shane down the cold concrete tunnel and lets the ref push him towards the edge of ice. He knows someone is talking to him, maybe more than one person but he can’t hear anything past the echo of Shane’s gagging coughs.
The sweet metallic taste of blood is sticking to his tongue as he steps off the rink. His footfalls clunk heavily while he makes his way to the locker room. There are hands holding Ilya up on either side of his body. Somehow his lungs continue to expand and contract in his chest beyond the clench of his jaw. Time is passing— Ilya is sure of it but he couldn’t tell anyone how much had passed since Shane hit the ice.
“Ilya, c’mon man you have to get this off,” Marlow tugs ineffectually at Ilya’s bloodied jersey.
The blood is drying now, sticky and thick where it has soaked through the white fabric. Shane would have a conniption at the feeling.
Connors is crouched at his side. He’s sitting on the bench in front of the locker he’d shoved his gear in that morning and Ilya thinks he’s lost time since losing sight of Shane.
The velcro holding his gloves tight to his wrists makes sounds too loud in the near silent locker room. Ilya knows on a conscious level that his team is confused by his behavior. He can’t tell what his face is doing but the look on Marlow’s says it probably is revealing more than it should be.
“Fuck.” There really isn’t a better word in Ilya’s head to encapsulate the magnitude of feeling overwhelming his nervous system.
“Fuck,” he repeats a second time.
He rips at the jersey with his freed hands. Ilya needs it off, he needs to burn it or push it into his chest where Shane’s blood can mingle with his heart’s.
And god he can still taste it.
It smears on his face when he finally manages to separate the cloth from his body.
Swaying when he stands too quickly, Ilya stumbles more than he walks to the sinks parallel to the showers. The sound of the water hitting the porcelain launches him back into the present. Damage control is the only option he has right now. He can’t lose it.
Ilya has no right to lose himself to these people. Years he’s spent in locker rooms like this one, with this team. None of them have any idea that his rotten heart is devoted to the man whose blood is sticking to his face. He lets the water heat before he ducks his head down to wash the red down the drain.
He tries not to be angry. (Fails.)
Pumps hand soap into his hand and tries (fails again) not to imagine the face Shane and his five step morning and night skin routine would pull at him.
Maybe a minute passes as he scrubs at the skin of his face, his neck, his hands. He can hear, in the background, the coach talking in low tones to the team. Ilya grits his teeth together and pats his face dry. It won’t do him or Shane any favors to let his team fester in speculation.
He can do this, if not for himself he can do it for Shane.
With a sharp exhale, Ilya pushes himself away from the safety of the sink and turns to look at his team.
“Okay. I am sorry for that—,” Ilya paused, considering. “Outbrust.”
Marlow heads him off, “Cap, it’s okay. You just got back from your dad’s funeral like two days ago. You’re allowed to be a little off when you see a guy you’ve known for that long go down like that.”
There’s something in Marlow’s eyes that makes it obvious to Ilya that he knows that he’s pulling focus from his reaction to Shane particularly. He swallows around the knowledge choking him up and nods in thanks.
“It was not a pleasant experience, yes.” Ilya takes a discrete gulp of air. “Right now it does not matter. We have a game to finish.”
“Come on guys. I know it’s never easy to see a guy get carted off the ice like that, especially one like Hollander, but Roz is right. Get your heads on straight.” Couch LeClaire claps his hands together, startling half the team. “Take the next five before we get back on the ice to focus. Rozanov, you come here.”
Dread pools in Ilya’s chest. He nods despite his misgivings, grabbing his spare jersey and following LeClaire to the far side of the locker room.
“Look, I’m not going to pretend I know what’s happening with you right now. I’m also not going to ask anything except, are you good to finish this game? If you say no, I’m not going to ask why. That’ll be that. You’ll stay in here or on the bench. No questions.”
Ilya, at this point in his career, has a solid grasp on the English language most of the time. Despite that he blinks in incomprehension at his coach for several seconds before the words are able to sink into his brain. No questions?
He shakes his head tightly, “No, No. I am fine. Without Hollander the game will be— boring but we will win anyway.”
Ilya breaks eye contact with LeClaire to look at his hands. Red still sticks to the uneven surface of his cuticles and he swallows down the bile that crawls up his throat. Filling his lungs several times in quick succession, Ilya takes his fresh jersey and pulls it over his head. When the material is settled comfortably over his shoulders, Ilya nods at LeClaire once and walks back to his bag. He lets himself stare at the spray of blood that spreads from the neckline down across the Boston logo for a beat too long then carefully folds it. (Doesn’t think about calloused hands doing the same thing in a hundred beds across the continent.)
He knows he’s being a shitty captain.
The team is off center and shifty as they get ready to head back to the ice and he does nothing to help. A tremor in his hands makes getting his gloves back on harder than it should be. He avoids making eye contact with anyone who tries, especially Marlow. Logically, he knows Marlow made a clean hit— had no intention of hurting Shane in any substantial way— but Ilya can’t stand looking at him while choking on his misplaced anger.
Getting back on the ice feels like a death sentence. Ilya does his best to shove every emotion he’s experiencing behind a mask. He’s good at that.
Eyes darting to the dispirited team already on the rink, Ilya watches Pike stiff with anger. The muscles of his chest convulse between relief that Shane is not dead and knowing that doesn’t mean the hit didn’t do something permanent.
The phantom taste of blood fills his mouth when he steps on the ice.
———————————
Boston wins.
Ilya isn’t sure how to be honest but he also doesn’t remember anything after getting back on the ice. He knows neither team had played well, off kilter after watching a player go down and not get back up. The borrowed locker room is subdued when Ilya retreats from the steam of the showers.
Any other game Ilya would be giving a post game talk or getting ready to answer inane questions from the sports reporters that haunt him after every time he goes head to head with Shane. He clenches his jaw at the prospect of having to do so today. The only thing that matters is finding out where the ambulance carted Hollander. He didn’t care what he had to do to get in the room. If he wasn’t convinced Shane would kill him if when he woke up, Ilya would spill his guts to anyone listening— put up a billboard in Times Square baring his soul if he had to— to be in that room when he opens his eyes.
He shoves his shit into his bag and considers his options. If this had been Boston, Ilya probably could waltz into the room on charm but Montreal hates him. Visiting hours are likely over or ending soon either way.
The phone is cold in his hand when he pulls it from the shelf above where his gear was stored. The text thread with Shane stares back at him after he unlocks it.
Jane: I missed you.
A lump forms in Ilya’s throat making it hard to breathe. The message came through after Ilya had put his phone up before the game.
Lily: tell me you are okay
Lily: fuck please
Lily: i know you can not answer but please Shane
Lily: be okay
Rationally Ilya is aware that he is texting a phone that at best is in the hands of Pike or some other useless Voyager player. Sending the messages don’t even make him feel better and he chokes down the sick that tries to crawl up his esophagus.
“Roz, man are you okay?” Marlow says, nervous energy radiating off him.
“No,” there’s no point in pretending. Marlow knows him to well.
“I— fuck. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” He looks miserable and it takes the wind out of Ilya’s anger so completely he feels like a puppet collapsing with its strings cut.
“I know.”
His shoulders hunch in on themselves and Ilya feels helpless in this room. He needs to get out of here, preferably without drawing more attention to his unearned fear. Eyes flicking up and down Marlow’s dejected form; Ilya makes a judgement call. One Shane may very well crucify him for when he wakes up.
“I need your help,” Ilya’s accent blunts the words as he shoves his feet into his shoes. “But first I have to get out of here.”
He avoids the questions in Marlow’s eyes and makes a beeline for his coach.
In a tone that brokers no room for questions Ilya says, “No press.”
Marlow is just behind him, his presence looming, as he pushes through the door to the locker room and past the gathered reporters swarming like vultures. An irrational tidal wave of hot rage crashes over Ilya with so much force he almost stumbles. His face hardens while the gathered press shouts questions.
Getting to the car Ilya rented for the two extra days he’d planned to stay in Montreal before he had to fly back to Boston for a string of home games is easier said than done. Ilya thinks he may develop a twitch from how tightly wound his muscles are by the time he yanks the passenger door to the SUV open.
He tosses the key to Marlow once he settles into the car.
“Hotel.” Ilya is aware that he’s being an asshole, not giving Marlow anything. “I will tell you there.”
“Alright,” and bless the man, he doesn’t ask Ilya anything.
The overcast sky feels fitting, Ilya thinks when they pull out of the parking structure. There are no stars in the sky to remind Ilya of Shane’s freckles. This does nothing to stop Ilya from thinking of them. He wishes he could pull out his phone and scroll through any of the dozens of pictures Shane sent Ilya over the years.
He can’t. Every one of them deleted in the hours after they were sent and Ilya feels sick with the knowledge. He has nothing to keep if he’s seen Shane for the last time. Nothing that wasn’t posted for public consumption.
And he hates it. Hates hockey so much he wants to burn down every NHL arena in the country. Hates the country he was born of and every commentator that pitted two seventeen year old boys against each other to the point their love had to be hidden behind hotel doors and deleted off every device they’d owned since the moment they were drafted.
A scream catches in his chest the unfairness of it all. Ilya can’t believe he thought he would be able to end this. He knows deep in his chest that he would live on whatever scraps Shane tossed him for the rest of his life if he could still touch him. God. Ilya could live on just the knowledge that Shane is healthy and happy even if he never touched him again.
The street lights periodically filter light over Ilya and he presses his knuckles to his sternum doing his best to distract from the growing empty feeling in his chest. He presses so hard he feels the give of his ribs bending against the force.
He hopes it bruises.
The garage for the hotel is lit with the bright white fluorescents that Shane says make his teeth hurt. Ilya does his best to keep his thoughts from settling on the many idiosyncrasies of Shane Hollander lest he breaks down before the privacy of his room. Marlow’s gaze has the heft of a small boulder on the side of his face.
Ilya studiously ignores him as they walk into the lobby. He continues to do so in the elevator and on the short walk across the thickly carpeted hall to Ilya’s room.
A soft click and Ilya is pushing open the door with Marlow tight on his heels. He waits until he hears the clunk of the heavy door being pressed shut and sits heavily on the plush comforter.
He studies his blunt nails, still ringed in blood, as he waits for his teammate to sit on the plush chair he’s pulled from the corner of the room.
“What’s happening Roz? You’re scaring me, man,” Marlow shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Sh-Hollander,” he forces out. “I— we, fuck he is going to kill me for this.”
This, what he’s about to do, breaks the cardinal rule of whatever the fuck him and Shane have between them. He can almost hear the young voice of Hollander shaking as he asked, begged really, for assurance from Ilya that he would tell no one.
“Look, I don’t understand but let me help.” And Marlow sounds so terribly earnest, gazing at him with wide, concerned eyes.
“I am bisexual.”
“Um, okay?” Marlow sounds completely baffled. Like he can’t possibly comprehend the connection between Ilya Rozanov saying he is bisexual and that he is on the verge of losing his mind for not knowing Shane’s condition. “Wait, fuck I mean thank you for telling me. I just don’t understand how this is connected to whatever’s going on right now.”
“Jane. My Montreal girl, yes?” He doesn’t want to say it. Clinging just barely to plausible deniability.
“No, yeah I remember,” his eyebrows draw together.
“Sounds very close to Shane. Does it not?” Ilya is begging for Marlow to not make him say it. He fears that even if he does Marlow may not truly understand him.
“I guess? Look, Rozy—Ilya, I just need you to really spell this out for me. Jen is always saying I need very clear instructions,” he says, sounding a bit pathetic and a bit baffled at the direction of the conversation.
Christ, I need friends who have fewer head injuries. Ilya thinks uncharitably.
“Shane is Jane.”
“What.” Marlow’s head cocks to the side in even more confusion.
“My Montreal girl is Hollander,” every syllable carefully enunciated through Ilya’s thickening accent.
“I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
“Hollander, Shane Hollander. He is Jane.” And god forgive him he’s considering taking Marlow by the shoulders and shaking him.
“But Shane is a guy.”
“Yes.” Ilya can not believe that he is having this conversation on the worst day of his life. He can’t even enjoy the opportunity to make fun of Marlow. “Again, I am bisexual.”
“I— you mean,” stutters Marlow. His brows scrunching so tightly they almost touch.
“Yes, Shane Hollander is on my phone as Jane. I am in his as Lily. Do you understand?” He’s not sure how much clearer he can make this.
“But you’ve been seeing Jane for years?” Understanding finally dawns on Marlow’s face. A hand comes to rub at his jaw.
“Since 2009, yes,” Ilya states flatly.
“I’m sorry what?”
“Summer before rookie year,” he clarifies.
“Jesus Christ.” Marlow looks like someone just broke the news to him that the moon landing was faked. “Fuck. Okay.”
“Very big revelation, I know. Best hockey player in the league,” Ilya gestures at himself. “And second best have horrible mushy feelings.”
“How the hell did you manage that?” He says gaping. “Like, you’re objectively hot but Shane Hollander is well Shane Hollander.”
Ilya has the vague notion that he should be offended. Maybe he’ll manage some indignation later.
He waves his hand, “Not the point. Do you have the phone of anyone on Montreal?”
“Oh. Oh.” He slid his phone from his pocket. “Uh, I think. Maybe.”
A siren sounds in the distance.
Ilya measures his breathing to control the wild, ugly thoughts ricocheting in his skull.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
Eyes flick between the rough skin of his cuticles and the light of Marlow’s phone casting shadows across the man’s face as he debates the merits of a cigarette. He’d have to leave the room or be yelled at by Couch for racking up a smoking fine for the second time this season.
The passage of time feels like sandpaper on his skin and Ilya feels more raw with every passing second.
“I got it! I knew I had Boiziau’s number in here from Allstars,” Cliff’s head popped up from where his hunched position. Ilya squinted at the bright screen.
Okay, he can work with this.
Shaking fingers type the number into his own phone.
Ilya: this is lily. Shane gave this number in case of emergency
JJ: Lily????
JJ: like Boston Lily???
Ilya: yes
Ilya: saw him go down.
Ilya: is he okay?
Ilya doesn’t actually know what he would do if Boiziau decides not to answer. If he thinks this is a nosey reporter or insane fan. Or if god forbid the answer he gives is—.
No best not to even think such a thing even in the sanctity of his mind.
Three bubbles appear and disappear in rapid succession for thirty seconds that feel like decades. He tries in vain to not think about funeral flowers. Lilies smell of death and rot to Ilya. Since the day he walked to his mother’s coffin and laid eyes on her for the last time, the cool waxy way her made up corpse felt against his lips pressing to the skin of her face, the rotted smell of the flower rolled in his stomach and pushed up his throat.
Ironic really that he chose Lily of all names to type into that phone.
JJ: sorry, I was asking Hayden for the update.
JJ: Cap is still in surgery
JJ: prognosis is looking good but they wont or can’t confirm anything else… they have him under for a punctured lung but its the concussion they’re worried about.
JJ: repeated head trauma or whatever
JJ: sorry that wasn’t helpful, the captiane will be okay. always is.
Ilya: thank you
Ilya: keep me in the circle please
Ilya: Or give this number to pike, not picky
His hands shook around the phone. Desperately Ilya wants this moment to be one of full body relief but Shane is still under a knife. Somewhere in the sterile halls of a hospital Ilya isn’t in a doctor has Shane’s blood on their hands.
A high whine builds in his throat before he can stop it. Marlow is watching and Ilya can seeing his rising levels of concern in the whites of his eyes.
“He is alright. In surgery but he is breathing,” the words feel like ash in Ilya’s mouth.
Marlow’s shoulders drop from his ears where they took residence while Ilya tapped out messages. “Okay. Okay.”
Eyebrows lifting towards his hairline, Ilya flicks his eyes over. On some level he is aware that nothing good comes from Marlow making that face. His planning one. But really he is too grateful that he isn’t alone to think about Marley’s past shit plans.
“Does anyone know about,” he stops and waves his hand in a vague gesture. “About you and Hollander?”
“No, you are part of a very exclusive club now. Just me, you and Hollander,” Ilya defaults to joking and hopes his nervous system will be tricked into not releasing more adrenaline.
Nose scrunching, Marlow groans, "Christ, tell you don’t call him that in bed.”
“Okay. I will not tell you.” And he can’t help the shit eating grin that spreads across his face.
“Right yeah I brought that mental image on myself.” He rubs at his forehead. “Not that like I have a problem with the gay thing. It’s just— well. I honestly wasn’t positive Hollander was not made in a Canadian government lab to dominate hockey and be the league's sleep paralysis demon.”
Poor, poor Marlow leaving Ilya the perfect opportunity to open his mouth and continue to be a menace.
“Ah, made in a lab no, an incubus perhaps.”
“Please stop talking. I am trying very hard to not think about the marks your Montreal ‘girl’ likes to leave and I would like to be able to look Hollander in the eyes without blushing. Thank you very much.” Shaking his head to clear the image like his skull contains an etch- a-sketch instead of grey matter, Marlow says, “Moving on. Let’s make a game plan to get you into that Hospital when your boy is out of surgery.”
The moment of levity abruptly drops. Shane may never speak to him again for what he’s done but fuck is he grateful to have Marlow with him.
There’s maybe fifty hours until Ilya has to be on a plane with his team heading to the opposite side of the continent. Every second that Ilya is in this generic hotel room and not watching the steady rise and fall of Shane’s chest, not touching his skin to feel the warmth of his blood in his veins, chaffs at his core.
He wants— more than anything— to be sitting in the waiting room secure in knowing he won’t have to wait for information passed through two people that don’t even know that the person on the other end of the text chain is Ilya Rozanov. Instead, he’s sitting on a hotel bed trying not to put his fist through the drywall out of frustration bubbling into useless anger.
Ilya can hear Marlow brainstorming aloud; the words slipping like oil over water. Unbidden he thinks bless his heart, a favorite phrase of a rookie from a southern state. Alabama Ilya thinks.
An hour, maybe an hour and a half, passes with Ilya periodically shooting down increasingly absurd plans. The crash from the adrenaline high leaves him with a burgeoning migraine that makes his teeth hurt.
Buzz. Buzz.
The vibration startles Ilya so badly the phone slips and hits the carpeted floor with a soft thunk.
Unknown number: Hi this is hayden pike.
Pike: They just brought him out of surgery a couple minutes ago. They’ve got him in a private room. he’s still under rn but the docs say they’ll bring him out of it sometime tonight.
Ilya: thank you.