Work Text:
It all happens in a blur. Ilya skates towards the goal, confident on Boston's home ice. Then, suddenly, one of the Metros checks him, and he falls to the ground. The other players are going too fast to react to the sudden obstacle, and someone tries to jump over his body. Shane is behind the main pack of players, waiting for Montreal to regain possession of the puck and send it towards him to score with.
Like always, his heart stops when Ilya is hit. It happens often; Ilya is a defensive player who isn't shy about getting into other people's space. He's skilled at it, too. Shane has watched clips of him getting slammed into the boards and bouncing back in under a second. He claims that he watches Ilya's clips so that he's better prepared to play against him, but in reality, he just likes looking at Ilya.
This time, however, it's different. Ilya doesn't stand up and push off. He just lays on his back on the ice, crumpled in a way that Shane's never seen before. He's seen Ilya upset about his family, and he knows what his bad days look like, but this is novel to him.
The players continue fighting over the puck. Boston has it for a few seconds, and then Montreal steals it back. However, several hang back, floating around near Ilya's body. Shane decides to join them. This isn't normal.
The crowd is silent, and Shane hears a whistle blow. Slowly but surely, the players fighting over the puck stop and look around, trying to figure out what's happened.
A feeling of dread blooms in Shane's stomach. He skates over to Ilya while the others stay back.
The dread turns into nausea when he gets closer. Ilya's eyes open and close slowly, blinking as if he's not quite sure where he is. His right arm is crooked at an unnatural angle, and part of his jersey is darker as if with sweat. Then Shane sees it: wine red spreading into the white band near the bottom of his jersey.
His heart almost stops, or maybe it speeds up. Shane can't tell; he can't focus on anything other than the fact that Ilya is injured badly and that they're out here on the ice in front of everyone.
He suddenly feels useless, standing there and watching Ilya bleed. Shane quickly drops down onto his knees, remembering something from a first aid course about putting pressure on wounds to stop the bleeding. There's some stupid acronym, RICE or PASS or something. Shit, does the order of the acronym matter at all, or is it just things to do whenever you could?
The order probably doesn't matter. Doing something is probably better than nothing, Shane thinks, so he moves his hands around until he finds the source of the bleeding. There is a tear in Ilya's jersey and the athletic shirt he wore under it, exposing a nasty gash with pink and red inside it. In a normal situation, Shane wouldn't have touched someone's blood with bare hands, but he didn't think twice about it.
From his new view of Ilya, he notices he was lying in a pool of blood already. The medics are rushing over, carrying a bright, neon orange stretcher and red first aid bags. Ilya tries to say something.
"What? Ilya, what is it?" Shane chokes out. Fuck, he hadn't even realized he was crying until he spoke. What if these were his last words? No, Shane doesn't need to think about that.
Ilya says something again, and Shane's heart feels like it shrivels up and dies inside his chest. Ilya is speaking in Russian, and Shane can only figure out cognates and curse words his Russian teammates use. There aren't any of those in what Ilya's saying. He's repeating the same thing over and over again, and the letters sound soft instead of harsh.
"Get back!" One of the medics pushes Shane away from Ilya, leaving him sitting on his ass and watching helplessly as Ilya is strapped onto the stretcher.
Shane struggles to his feet. "Please, let me come with him!" He's usually confident on skates, but he can't seem to find his balance and wobbles every other glide.
The medics are all busy carrying Ilya, so nobody can hold Shane back. The other players and referees are standing still, frozen in horror at Ilya's crooked arm and the massive puddle of blood on the ice.
They step off the rink and have to adjust the stretcher, which gives Shane time to take off one skate. Before he can remove the other one, they're moving again and he has to continue, hopping along awkwardly behind them. His legs feel like jello, and he doesn't know how they're still supporting him.
They reach the parking lot and the ambulance, which is pulled up in front of the stadium. Ilya is loaded carefully, and Shane grabs onto the door before the EMTs close it.
"Please! I need to come with him!" He begs, holding onto the door like it's the one thing tethering him to this life.
One of the EMTs nods, and Shane quickly steps up into the ambulance, closing the door behind him.
He stands pressed against the door, trying to stay out of everyone's way and process what just happened. It's hard: the lights are flashing red and white outside, the sirens are blaring, the EMTs are shouting random numbers and Shane is trying to figure out what they mean.
Eventually the ambulance comes to a stop, and an EMT drags him away from the door as it opens, and Ilya is carried off into the depths of a hospital. Shane is left sitting on the back of the ambulance, trying to figure out what to do when the EMT who let him come with Ilya shows back up.
"Hi," She says. Her voice is calm, and she has dark circles under her eyes. "You're Shane Hollander, right?"
He nods, unable to find any words to reply with.
"I'm Cate." She sits down next to him, dangling her legs off the edge.
A beat of silence passes.
"Do you know him well? Ilya Rozanov, I mean." She asks.
Shane shrugs. He knows the most intimate details about Ilya: the way his tongue tastes when they're entangled, how his muscles tense, the way his voice becomes more accented when he's around Shane. He knows Ilya's statistics: how he relies on chirping to get under his opponent's skin, the way he always angles his body before taking a shot, how his current season compares to his past ones. And yet, he doesn't know the most basic information about Ilya: who his family is, how he likes his coffee, what his favorite color is.
"I'll be honest with you," Cate continues, "I'm not a huge sports fan, so I don't know much about hockey or who's who, so all I know about is how you supposedly hate each other. Sorry if this is too much, but is the rivalry real?"
Shane shrugs again. "I don't know. It's mostly publicity. We don't really hate each other. We're just competitive." He can't seem to make his sentences combine at all; it's hard enough saying words with more than one syllable. "I'm going to be sick." He suddenly vomits, and it splatters the pavement with a disgusting sound.
"It's okay." Cate rubs a comforting hand on his back. "You're in shock."
"What?" Shane asks, swallowing back another wave of nausea.
"Shock. It's a medical condition that you can get from extreme distress."
"I'm not hurt." The poor woman looks tired already; Shane would never forgive himself if he made her work harder.
"It doesn't have to be physical. Seeing Rozanov injured like that, in a high stress situation, could definitely lead to shock. You'll be okay, you just need to rest."
Shane takes in a shaky breath and tries not to cry.
"Hey, I've got to go soon, but I wanted to tell you something." Cate says. "Rozanov only has one emergency contact, and she's coming as soon as she can, but she's in France for an event, so it'll be a while until her plane gets here. I don't know you well, but you seem to care about him, and since you came with us in the ambulance, I've talked with the hospital and they're okay giving you access to him until she gets here."
Shane feels relief wash over him. "That's. . . Thank you."
"Of course." Cate smiles. "Here, I'll take you to the waiting room. He's in surgery right now, but the staff will let you know when he's out. I'll also grab some clothes for you."
Shane nods and follows her into the hospital. It is brightly lit with fluorescent lights and smells like hand sanitizer. He gets a bundle of clothes: sweatpants with a hoodie that has the hospital's logo on it. He's grateful to change out of his jersey and stand out less.
The bathroom is, like the hallway, brightly lit. There's multiple stalls, and he chooses to go in the farthest one from the door. Not the handicapped one, of course; it's a hospital and Shane doesn't want to be rude.
First, he takes off his remaining skate and throws it in the trash can. The blade is chewed up from all the gravel, its partner is at the rink somewhere, and he never wants to wear these skates anymore anyways. With his salary, buying a replacement pair will be easy.
Then, he pulls his jersey and hockey gear off, wadding it all up and tossing it in the corner. If he's lucky, the janitors will overlook it and he'll come grab it before he leaves the hospital.
Fuck, his hands. Shane had forgotten that his hands were covered in Ilya's blood. It's starting to dry on his skin, crusty and dark red. A wave of nausea washes over him as he quickly tries to clean them off. The water in the sink is orange, red, dark red, and then back to orange and clear once more.
With nothing better to do, he goes ahead and gets changed into the clothes Cate brought him. They're much more comfortable than his gear, and will hopefully let him blend in better.
He goes back to the waiting room. Cate hugs him, and then he is left alone in the waiting room with its other inhabitants. A young mother is holding a baby who occasionally starts screaming until she shushes it back to sleep, an old man is asleep, and a woman is reading a magazine. Shane sits in the corner and waits. He can't sleep; what if he misses when Ilya's brought out? He ends up flipping through some home decor magazine, which is only filled with garden decor his mom would probably buy.
Shit, his mom.
Shane feels his pocket for his phone, and realizes it's still in the locker room. He should call his parents; tell them where he is. He should probably call his coach, too; apologize for leaving the game. The thought of being irresponsible like this would normally drive him insane, but he's so emotionally ruined right now that it doesn't even matter.
Time passes. The magazine woman leaves at some point, but the other residents remain. He wonders who they're waiting on: a lover, a friend, maybe a child. Then he starts to think about who he's waiting for. What would he say if someone asked him? He doesn't think he'd call Ilya his lover. That word's gross, and he also hasn't ever talked to Ilya about what exactly their relationship is. Sure, they've been hooking up for longer than many people date each other before marrying, but it's nothing more than hooking up, right? It's a different situation altogether, Shane tells himself. If someone asks, he'll just explain that he's waiting until Ilya's—wait, no, Rozanov's—emergency contact shows up.
"Rozanov?" A nurse calls out, and Shane snaps to attention.
"Yeah?" He says.
"He's out of surgery, could we talk to you. . . Mr. Hollander?"
"Yeah." Shane stands dumbly and follows the nurse. They travel down sterile hallways painted in seafoam and white with stainless steel carts parked outside doors. Finally, they reach Ilya's.
"His surgeon is in there right now, I think he'd like to talk to you." She rubs a hand on his bicep, and Shane prepares himself.
The door opens, revealing the surgeon standing next to the bed with Ilya in it. He's asleep, and his arm is in a sling. The bedsheets cover his torso, and Shane can't see how bad it is.
"Hello, I'm Dr. Caryson." He's a tall, older man with soft eyes and some stubble. He looks like a surgeon.
"I'm Shane Hollander." Shane says.
"Nice to meet you, Shane." Dr. Caryson makes a sad smile. "I've been told you're acting in place of his emergency contact, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, well, his arm should be fine. It's broken, obviously, but if he rests it, it should heal back to normal."
Shane relaxes. That's not too bad. At least they didn't have to amputate it.
"His abdomen, however, is a different story."
Fuck.
"The blade that cut him sliced through some internal organs, and he had a lot of blood loss. We're. . ." He takes a deep breath. "We're not sure if he'll make it to the morning."
"Okay." Is all Shane manages to say.
Shane wants to react more. He wants to scream, to cry, to punch a hole through the fucking wall. He wants to grab his broken skate from the trash can in the bathroom and use it to slit Dr. Caryson's neck. He wants to soak the hospital in gasoline and toss a match on it.
But that's not what he does. He just stays still, listening to Dr. Caryson go on and on about how they did all they could, it's so sad when a promising young athlete is injured, the team will try their best but there's no guarantees, survival is statistically unlikely due to this amount of blood loss.
At some point, Shane stops listening, Dr. Caryson pats him awkwardly on the shoulder, and then he is alone in the room. Ilya is sleeping on the bed and Shane starts to sob.
Ilya Rozanov shouldn't be on a hospital bed. He shouldn't look this vulnerable. Ilya is the one person Shane would expect to never die, but just get up and walk it off. His body looks unnaturally still, and the heart monitor is beeping slowly but steadily.
Shane sits down in the chair by Ilya's bed.
_____
"Shane. Shane."
He startles awake, taking a moment to remember where he is. Shane realizes his hand is holding Ilya's, and that Hayden is standing in the doorway.
"It's three in the morning." He says. "It took the team forever to figure out where you went. We tried to figure out what hospital Rozanov was at, but nobody would tell us."
"I. . . Yeah, sorry." Shane can't think of what he should say. His mind is cloudy with stress and sleep, and his main focus right now is trying to subtly remove his hand from Ilya's without causing Hayden to notice.
"Pretty bad accident, I'm guessing?" Hayden says awkwardly. "They're trying to keep it quiet, I think, but there's some stuff going around. Blood loss or something."
"Yeah," Shane's throat closes up a bit. "They. . . They say he's not going to make it till morning." He sobs. Speaking the words makes them seem real.
"Shit. . . That's awful. He didn't really seem like a nice guy, but I guess everyone has something good about them. I'll go, I guess. Need to get some sleep." Hayden turns around to leave and close the door. "Oh, also, here's the stuff from your locker. Call me if you need anything, okay?"
Shane nods silently, watching Hayden set his backpack down. As soon as the door is shut once more, his head drops down onto the bed and he fully cries.
Afterwards, he can't sleep. He's awake now, and he wants Ilya to be awake too.
His mind wanders. If the accident hadn't happened, Ilya would be in Shane's hotel room right now. Instead, Shane is in Ilya's hospital room.
He wonders if the hospital has given up on Ilya. In all of his mom's hospital dramas she watches, the doctors frequently come in to check on their patients and make sure they're doing okay. As far as he's aware of, nobody's been in to see Ilya.
"Ilya?" He asks.
No response. It was worth a try.
It's now around five in the morning. Time goes fast when you're crying, Shane supposes. He hasn't moved from his position by Ilya's bed at all. He knows he should text his parents and explain the situation to them, but he doesn't want to let go of Ilya's hand.
Suddenly, Shane gets an idea.
"Ilya, I know you can't hear me, but I need to tell you something."
Ilya is silent.
"The doctor said you probably won't make it to the morning. It's morning right now, so you've beaten part of that, I guess. You just need to keep living and not die, okay?
"I. . . There's so much stuff I haven't told you. I always thought that maybe there'd be a better chance, like I could've told you last night if everything went as it should've.
"Ilya, I love you." Saying the words make Shane's throat burn dangerously. "I think that part of me always has. But losing you, or hopefully almost losing you, like this made me realize how much I loved you.
"I guess, what I'm trying to say is that I don't want to live without you, Ilya. My life will be boring, hockey will be boring, and there'll be nothing interesting. I love you, Ilya." Shane starts crying again.
Ilya groans, and Shane freezes.
"Shane?" He whispers.
"Ilya!" Shane can't help it: a grin spreads across his face. "Ilya, you're awake!"
"No fucking shit." He coughs. "Fuck, that hurt. What happened?"
"You were at a game and got hurt really bad. Arm and torso."
"I feel like fucking shit."
Shane gently brushes a few stray hairs back from Ilya's forehead. "But you're awake, and you're gonna live, right?"
"Why the fuck are you asking me? I'm not a doctor!" Ilya pauses, seeing the upset look on Shane's face. "Sorry, I mean yes. I will live."
"Thank you." Shane sighs. It's hard to be mad at someone you thought you were about to lose only moments ago. Without thinking, he pulls Ilya's good arm up and kisses his hand.
Ilya giggles despite his condition. "You said you loved me?"
Shane drops his arm. "What? You heard that?"
Ilya nods. "Yes. But I said it first."
"What?"