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Everything is sort of grey, like the heavy clouds that settle over Moscow in the winter. Ilya realizes after a few moments that there might be more light if he opened his eyes, but the act takes more effort than he would have expected. It requires some concentrated focus on his part, like when he’s added new weight to his lifting routine. Finally, he manages to lift his lids, glancing around an unfamiliar room hosting beeping machines and plain curtains creating a barrier along one side.
He’s in a hospital.
There’s a man sitting beside Ilya’s bed, looking at something on his phone, and oh. Even in profile, he’s gorgeous. Mid-length dark hair styled in soft waves, beautiful brown eyes, freckles dusting ruddy cheeks. There are bags under the man’s eyes, and Ilya wants to tell him to get more rest, but he figures probably nurses are always tired. Still, maybe they have time to go out for drinks?
Ilya tries to sit up and groans when he finds his limbs are heavy and awkward and refuse to move, which immediately alerts the man who sets his phone aside and smiles down at Ilya.
“Hey! Welcome back to the land of the living. How are you feeling?”
Ilya takes a moment to assess his body and groans. “Stomach hurts,” he grumbles, pawing weakly at the blanket covering his abdomen only for the handsome man to take his wrists and pin them to the bed. Hot.
“I’ll get them to give you a little something for the pain,” the man says, pressing a button on the wall that will probably summon another nurse.
“What happened to me?” Ilya asks, panic starting to build up unbidden. Tears well in his eyes, spilling over, but he can’t find it in him to care. Maybe it will be a kink of the sexy nurse, if he’s lucky. “I am dying? I will be dead soon?”
“No, sweetheart,” the man soothes, pushing hair off Ilya’s brow and wiping tears from his cheeks. “You were at practice and your stomach started hurting. We took you to the ER and it turns out you had appendicitis. You just got out of surgery.”
A part of Ilya feels like he should know that word — appendicitis — the Russian version is close. But his mind is soupy and he can’t seem to grasp the definition right now. “Appen… surgery? They cut me open? I will have sexy scars?”
The man laughs, bright and warm, like he can fill the room with sunshine by using only sound. “Yes, you’ll have three very sexy scars, baby.” He points to the place where Ilya’s belly button is hiding under the blankets and gown, and to either side. “One here, here, and here. But they took care of it. You’ll be all better in a week or two.”
Ilya nods slowly, turning over the concept in his mind, trying to process it through the fog. “I have question,” he says.
“Anything you need, sweetheart.”
“Do you always do this?” he asks, trying to smile coyly up at the handsome man. “Call your patients sweetheart and baby and sexy? This is part of surgery uh… aftercare?”
The man stares at him blankly for a few moments before a frown pulls down the corners of his mouth. “You think I’m your nurse?”
“Very handsome, pretty nurse,” Ilya allows. “You can keep calling me baby, I do not mind.”
Another nurse arrives then, and she looks much more professional, Ilya has to admit. She’s actually wearing scrubs. “How are you feeling, Mr. Rozanov?” she asks, inspecting some of the equipment he is connected to.
“Tired,” Ilya says. “Hurts.”
“He doesn’t recognize me,” the man says, sounding distressed. “Did something go wrong?”
“A little confusion is normal post-op,” the female nurse says as she presses a few buttons. “It should pass within the hour. I’ll get you another dose of pain meds, Mr. Rozanov.”
“He’ll get his memory back?” the man demands, suddenly clutching Ilya’s hand. Ilya’s not sure why, but the act is thrilling. “You’re sure.”
“The surgeons weren’t operating anywhere near his head. He’ll be fine, I promise.”
The woman disappears shortly after, leaving Ilya alone with this gorgeous stranger who seems to finally be calming down.
“So… you are not a nurse?” Ilya says slowly.
“No, sorry,” the man says, shaking his head as he sits down again, still holding Ilya’s hand. “I’m Shane. I’m your husband.”
Ilya blinks slowly, partly because that’s just what his body is doing right now, and partly to clear his vision. “You? You are my husband? I am married to you? Are you fucking shitting me?”
Shane’s face pinkens and Ilya wants to lick the skin to feel how hot it is. “Yeah. We got married two years ago. Right before we started playing for the Centaurs together.”
Ilya’s eyes must be bugging out of his head, wider than saucers, wider than planets. “Let me get this right: I am married to sexiest man I have ever seen and we play hockey together? In the MLH?”
That laugh is back, and Shane finally smiles, nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
For a second, Ilya just processes this information, lying back on his pillow and letting reality wash over him. “Is there catch?” he asks in a whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“There must be something wrong. Is sex terrible?”
Another little giggle that makes Ilya want to fly. “No, sorry. The sex is actually really fucking good.”
The truth settles on Ilya like a physical weight. “Ah. Then that is the problem. I have died and gone to heaven.”
Shane starts running his fingers through Ilya’s sweaty curls, and it seems even more obvious that this is death or a dream. “No, baby. It’s real. We’re really married. We really play hockey together. We really…” His flush deepens. “Well, we don’t struggle in the bedroom.”
“I don’t understand,” Ilya murmurs, his brow furrowing. The pain meds are working, but they’re making him sleepy again. “Why would you pick someone like me?”
“Oh, Ilya,” Shane murmurs, leaning up to kiss Ilya’s forehead right as his eyes flutter closed and sleep begins to overtake him again. “Because I’m just as lucky as you are.”