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The light gets brighter as he slowly opens his eyes - just a little bit at a time.
Actually, he thought, it’s too bright.
Maybe just one eye, just a little bit at a time.
Nope.
Eyes didn’t want to do that.
He tried using his eyelashes as a shade, but that didn’t work either.
Nothing else for it. Just have to open them and deal with it.
Even with his eyes only open just a little bit he could tell he was in a bed.
The room was white, and a machine beeped near him.
Right.
Hospital.
Good. At least he knew where he was.
His head hurt, and he could feel bandages.
Less good.
Though hospital seemed like exactly the right place for a sore head and bandages, so he wasn’t too worried about that.
The more concerning thing was the leg he could see vaguely through his not-quite-open eyes.
He was almost certain it was his leg, and it appeared to be encased in plaster and attached to some kind of metal contraption.
Also, it hurt.
Definitely less good.
Still, if there was a place to wake up with a bandaged head and a plastered leg, hospital was probably it.
The real problem was that he couldn’t remember why he was there.
Well.
He closed his eyes.
That seemed like something someone would eventually tell him.
With that reassuring thought, Ilya went back to sleep.
—— ——
The next time he woke up, his eyes seemed much happier to cooperate.
Before committing to opening them, he stilled his thoughts and listened.
Voices. Hushed whispers.
At least two people. Maybe three.
Yes, definitely three.
Two male voices and one female. None of them sounded familiar.
Then someone took his hand.
And a soft kiss landed on his forehead.
One of the male voices, close enough to tickle his ear, whispered, “It’s okay, Ilyusha. I’m here now.”
His brain jolted, though he didn’t think the rest of him moved.
Right.
Ilya.
He knew his own name.
Good news, very good news.
The problem was that he still didn’t know who was here.
Or, for that matter, where here actually was.
Well, he told himself, I’ll just have to open my eyes and find out.
It took more effort than he thought it should, but eventually his eyes obeyed.
Slowly.
A very handsome man was leaning over him, tucking the blanket around Ilya’s far side. It took him a moment to notice that Ilya was awake.
“Hello,” the man said softly, barely above a whisper. “Welcome back, Ilyusha.”
Despite the bandages, the headache, and what he strongly suspected was a very broken leg, Ilya smiled.
Actually, smiled might be understating it.
He gave the man what was intended to be his most seductive smile.
He had absolutely no idea who this person was.
But he was very nice to look at.
Maybe a doctor? No. No white coat.
A nurse? Nope. No scrubs either.
Which left the rather important question of why this extremely handsome stranger was holding his hand.
Ilya took a moment to assess the situation.
This was difficult, mostly because his brain felt full of marshmallow and he suspected the painkillers weren’t helping.
Still.
Yes.
Mr Handsome was definitely holding his hand.
His smile - which he now suspected looked more dopey than seductive - lingered.
—— ——
It took a considerable amount of effort, but eventually Ilya dragged his gaze away from Mr Handsome and towards the other person in the room.
A woman. White coat.
Doctor.
Excellent, he thought. I think I need one of those.
He raised an eyebrow at her.
Nice.
The eyebrows worked.
The doctor smiled and lowered the chart in her hands. “Hello,” she said. “It’s good to see you awake.”
“I have a few questions for you, if that’s okay.”
Ilya nodded.
His head immediately regretted it.
The doctor winced sympathetically.
“Let’s start with an easy one. Can you tell me your name?”
Ilya glanced automatically back towards Mr Handsome. At least he knew that answer.
“Ilya,” he whispered. “Rozanov. Ilyusha.”
The doctor nodded.
“Good. Now, do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
This answer was confident. Ilya absolutely knew where he was.
The doctor’s mouth twitched.
“And what city are you in, Mr Rozanov?”
That was more difficult.
Ilya was certain he had a sore head. He was reasonably certain his leg was broken. He was entirely certain an extremely handsome man was holding his hand.
The city, however, was a mystery.
His eyes found the doctor’s name tag while he thought.
Doctor Kincaid.
Useful.
Unfortunately, it didn’t answer the question.
“No,” he admitted after a moment. “I don’t know what city.”
“That’s okay,” she said easily. “Next question. Do you know who is in the room with you?”
This time Ilya took his time.
He looked at Doctor Kincaid.
Then he looked at Mr Handsome.
He engaged his brain as hard as he could.
Nothing.
He looked again. Allowed his eyes to travel slowly over the man’s face.
Black hair, long enough to be brushing his collar.
Dark eyes.
Freckles. Beautiful freckles.
Very nice lips.
Exceptionally nice lips, actually.
Ilya stared at them for a second before remembering he was supposed to be identifying the man attached to them.
He glanced down at their joined hands.
Then back up again.
Still nothing.
With growing disappointment, he turned back to Doctor Kincaid.
“Me,” he said. “You.”
His eyes drifted back to Mr Handsome.
“And this man.”
A pause.
“I don’t know who he is.”
Doctor Kincaid’s face remained calm as she asked,
“Do you recognise him at all?”
Ilya considered this carefully. He looked at the man again,
“No.”
Mr Handsome’s face fell.
“But I would like to.”
—— ——
An amused snort from behind the beeping machine made Ilya look further and realised that there was another man, probably the third voice he heard before. This man was also handsome, and his face was openly amused, he looked like he was trying not to laugh out loud,
“Trust Roz to not know who his own husband is, but to still flirt with him.”
Husband.
Ilya blinked. And then slowly blinked again.
His eyes snapped back to Mr Handsome.
Husband?
Well.
That certainly explained the hand-holding.
And the forehead kiss.
And, thinking back, the way Doctor Kincaid had asked whether he recognised him.
Ilya studied the man with renewed interest.
His husband was extremely attractive.
Apparently he had excellent taste.
“You’re my husband?” he asked.
The words came out in an almost embarrassingly breathy voice.
Across the room, the other man made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Mr Handsome - his husband, apparently - looked like he was trying very hard not to cry.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Ilya frowned.
“And I don’t remember you?”
“No.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
The strangled noise got louder.
“For me,” his husband agreed, subdued.
“No,” Ilya said.
His husband looked surprised.
“For me.”
He squeezed the hand he was already holding.
“Imagine waking up and finding out I already married the most beautiful man in the room.”
The laughter this time was completely undisguised.
—— ——
Mr Handsome’s head snapped up and glared at the other man.
“Troy,” he whispered, not quite angrily but definitely fed up. “You are not helping. Go and tell everyone he’s awake. Give them an update. Send them home for now. He’s awake and they can come back later when he can have visitors and we know what’s happening.”
He rubbed a hand over his handsome face.
“You’ve all been here too long. We appreciate it, but the hospital would probably like its waiting room back instead of overflowing with hockey players.”
Hockey, Ilya thought.
That sounds like me.
He was pretty sure he played hockey.
Yes.
Definitely.
For Boston.
“Ooooh.”
The word escaped before he could stop it.
“Boston,” he said loudly, immediately wincing at the volume of his own voice. “Am I in Boston? I play for Boston, right?”
His husband and Doctor Kincaid exchanged a glance.
The doctor nodded at his husband. He really needed to learn this man’s name. Calling him “his husband” was inconvenient.
“You used to play for Boston,” the man said carefully. “Now you play for Ottawa.”
“What?”
Ilya stared at him. He was fairly certain his nose wrinkled in disdain.
“Ottawa? In Canada?”
And suddenly, as he said the word, his eyes snapped back to the man sitting beside him.
Canada.
Something shifted.
Not a memory exactly. But a feeling.
A fragment of a feeling.
A fragment of a memory.
Dark eyes.
A locker-room shower.
A hotel room.
Another hotel room.
A hand on the back of his neck.
Laughter.
Feelings.
The images flashed through the fog in his head too quickly to catch properly.
His eyes narrowed.
And then.
“Oh.”
Another flash.
A name.
A face.
A secret.
Years of looking.
Years of wanting.
Years of—
“Oh, fuck.”
The man’s expression changed instantly.
Hope. Fear. Something that looked a bit like panic.
Ilya stared at him.
Then said, with absolute conviction,
“Fuck me.”
A heartbeat he can feel.
“I married Shane Hollander.”
Silence.
Troy was bent double laughing.
—— ——
After almost manhandling Troy - he still didn’t know who Troy was - out of the room, Shane returned to his bedside.
Shane fucking Hollander.
Ilya didn’t know where to look.
He looked at Shane.
He looked at Doctor Kincaid.
He looked back at Shane.
His husband.
“Ottawa,” he said.
Doctor Kincaid nodded.
“And Shane Hollander is my husband.”
The doctor nodded.
Shane nodded.
After a moment, Ilya nodded too.
His hand moved almost automatically to the cross hanging around his neck.
It wasn’t alone.
A ring rested beside it on the chain.
He looked down and stared at it.
Then looked at Shane.
Noticing, Shane reached beneath the collar of his hoodie and pulled out his own chain.
A matching ring hung from it.
Ilya blinked.
Then blinked again.
Interesting.
He shook his head.
Immediately regretted doing that.
The memories didn’t come rushing back the way he’d hoped.
Not the way Shane had.
Young Shane.
Not-allowed-to-like Shane.
Apparently now very-much-allowed-to-like Shane.
Actually, taking the matching wedding rings into consideration, encouraged-to-like-Shane.
Wow.
Doctor Kincaid cleared her throat.
“This is promising,” she said. “But don’t try too hard to remember. Your head took a significant hit, and it needs time to recover.”
Ilya nodded.
Then immediately continued trying to remember.
Ottawa. Shane. Hockey.
Somewhere in there were all the memories of how he’d ended up here.
He just couldn’t find them.
Vaguely, he became aware that Doctor Kincaid and Shane were discussing his leg.
That was probably important.
He thought perhaps he should pay attention.
But actually, his head hurt and everything felt fuzzy. And apparently he had a husband.
A real husband.
An actual, in true life, emergency contact.
Surely that was what husbands were for.
Shane could handle the medical details.
Ilya would focus on remembering the important things.
The really important things.
Like how exactly he’d managed to convince Shane Hollander to marry him.
—— ——
The next time he wakes - Ilya’s not exactly sure how much time has passed - he sees Shane still sitting next to him and Troy back on the other side.
They break off their murmured conversation when they notice he is awake.
“Hello again” Shane whispers, leaning over and once again giving - no, blessing - Ilya’s forehead with a light kiss.
“Hey, Roz” Troy says quietly as he briefly clasps Ilya’s hand.
Ilya smiles at both of them.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, moving his eyes between them.
“Shane was telling me I have to behave if I want to visit,” Troy says with a grin “No laughing at your amnesia.”
“Seems fair,” Ilya says “But I won’t be offended if you laugh, I don’t even remember you.”
Troy snorts.
“Good. Because some of this is objectively funny.”
“Troy.” Shane looks over reprovingly.
“I’m behaving,” Troy says, holding his hands up.
“You don’t look like you’re behaving.”
“I never look like I’m behaving.”
“Fair.”
Troy grins.
Shane sighs like this is a conversation they’ve had before.
Which, Ilya thinks, they probably have.
“How do we know each other?” Ilya asks.
Troy blinks.
“Seriously? That bad?”
“Yup, that bad - or maybe that good. Do I even like you, you seem to annoy my husband.”
“Wow. Mean.”
Shane interjects “True, though.”
Troy leans back in his chair.
“We’ve played together for the last couple of years. With the Centaurs”
Ilya looks at him.
“The hockey team?”
Troy stares.
Shane coughs not-at-all surreptitiously into his fist.
“The hockey team,” Troy confirms.
“Oh.”
A pause.
“Am I good?”
Troy blinks.
Shane closes his eyes.
“What?” Ilya asks.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
Troy looks at Shane.
Shane gestures for him to go ahead.
“Roz, you are one of the most annoying people I have ever met.”
“Thank you.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“Sorry.”
“You are talented, infuriating, stubborn, occasionally unbearable, and somehow people still adore you.”
Ilya considers this.
“That sounds plausible.”
“It really does,” Shane agrees.
Troy points at him.
“See? That’s exactly the sort of thing he’d say.”
“I just said it.”
“Yeah, but usually with more swearing.”
Ilya brightens.
“I swear?”
The look Troy and Shane exchange makes him grin.
“Oh. I swear a lot.”
Ilya sits with this new - to him - information.
“Are we good?” he asks next, “The team, are we good?”
Troy glances at Shane, who waves permission.
“Yeah, we’re good.”
“How many Cups have we won?”
Troy looks at Shane again.
“Can I tell him?”
Shane shrugs.
Troy names the number.
Ilya frowns.
“That seems excessive.”
“Excessive?”
“Greedy, even.”
Troy makes a strangled noise.
Shane presses his lips together.
“Greedy?” Troy repeats.
“Leave some championships for everyone else.”
Troy stands up.
“I need a minute.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently amnesia made you funnier.”
—— ——
He isn’t sure how it happened - he thinks, probably while he was sleeping - but his husband has been replaced by another man. And older man. Handsome, to be sure, but definitely not Shane Hollander. Nope, Ilya is positive that the man currently sitting next to his hospital bed is not his husband.
The man is looking down at the photo album in his lap, but seems to feel Ilya’s eyes on him and looks up,
“Hello, son” the man says “how are you feeling?”
“Woozy, and tired, and my leg hurts a bit,” Ilya replies, because he seems to be a polite person, “Where is Shane? And who are you?”
The man nods, “I’ll call a nurse for more painkillers, you’re overdue’ and presses the call button above Ilya’s head. He continues,
“I’m David, David Hollander. Shane’s dad. His mom is here too, she’s just gone to get some tea.”
He looks at Ilya with caring eyes, and continues,
“We finally sent Shane home this morning. He’s been here since the game ended. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he’s tired. He needs some sleep in a proper bed. And a shower. We promised to stay here while he was gone’
Ilya nods.
David continues,
“Troy and Harris have collected Anya, you know she will be fine” he stops here, and corrects himself, “I know you maybe don’t remember Anya, and you won’t know she is fine - but in case you woke up worried, remembering” he struggles to straighten his thoughts “well, she’s fine with the boys’.
Ilya nods again. He has no idea what David, Mr Hollander - what does he call him - is talking about. But can tell from his tone and the way he is patting Ilya’s arm that it’s something he might be worried about, when he remembers.
“Oke” he says. He thinks, and adds “Who is Anya?”
David smiles.
“Your dog” he replies.
Ilya’s head snaps up.
“A dog? I, no WE, have a DOG?”
David smile grows bigger.
“Yes, a dog. Anya. Do you want to see a picture. We brought in the album. Doctor’s orders - no screens.”
If Ilya could’ve moved out of the bed, he would’ve leapt onto David’s lap to see the album.
“Yes, yes I want to see pictures!”
David leans closer and holds the album up, Ilya can see what he is straightaway convinced is the cutest dog in the world sitting proudly in the middle of a kayak. His heart melts.
“Anya. Anyanka,” he murmurs, because he knows with absolute certainty that’s what he calls her.
He motions for David to flip the page, and as he does Ilya sees another photo of Anya, with Shane. His Shane.
They are sitting at the end of a dock, Shane’s legs dangling into the water, he’s smiling and looks so happy. Anya is leaning into him as he ruffles her fur.
They look so happy.
If his heart wasn’t already a puddle, it would melt again - it is the best picture he has seen in his whole life.
He continues to stare at the picture, until the door opening makes him look up. He smiles delightedly at the woman entering the room,
“Mama Yuna,” he exclaims. “Do you know I have a husband and a dog? My life must be wonderful.”
Yuna Hollander pauses at the door, exchanges a quick glance with David, and asks bluntly, as is her way,
“Ilya,” Yuna says carefully. “Do you remember me?”
The question catches him off guard.
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
“No,” he admits.
Yuna’s expression doesn’t change, but David looks down.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why did you call me that?”
Ilya frowns.
“I don’t know.”
The answer feels wrong the second he says it.
He does know. Just not in a way he can really explain.
He looks at her again. At the paper cups in her hands. At the familiar way she kicks the door shut with her foot. At the fond, exasperated expression on her face.
His chest aches.
“I don’t remember you,” he says slowly. “And nobody told me your name.”
David and Yuna exchange a look.
“But when I saw you,” He shrugs helplessly. “My brain just said Mama Yuna.”
The room goes very quiet.
“Do other people call you that?” he asks.
Yuna laughs, sudden and watery.
“No.”
David smiles.
“Just you.”
Ilya nods again.
Looks at both of them.
He feels safe.
He promptly falls asleep - his smile still floating at the corners of his mouth.
—— ——
Ilya awakes to find Shane back by his bedside. Ilya thinks it is the best way to wake up.
“I met your parents last night.”
He pauses.
“Again.”
Shane looks up from the same album that Ilya saw Anya in last night.
Shane smiles at him. Ilya knows he would literally die to see that smile.
But he’d rather not.
“They told me that you spoke to them, and then fell asleep.”
“I called her Mama Yuna. I don’t remember why I know that.”
“I know.”
Shane’s smile softens.
“She cried after she left.”
“She did?”
“Just a little.”
“Oh.” Ilya considered, and then continued,
“I still don’t remember her.”
“I know.”
“But I knew her.”
“Yeah.” Shane replies.
He pauses.
“You love her.”
Ilya nodded. Something inside him told him that was true.
“Show me more pictures” he gestures to the album.
“Sit with me and tell me stories about our dog, your parents, my team, our life.”
“Our team” Shane corrects.
“What?” Ilya looks at Shane, confused. “You play for Montreal.”
Shane looks at Ilya, his lips twisted somewhere between a smile and a grimace - Ilya doesn’t understand that face.
“No, we both play for the Centaurs. Have done for a while now. Since we got married. Wait. You remember I played for Montreal?”
Once again, Ilya considers what he said.
“I guess so. I don’t know why I know that. But it’s there. Maybe caught up in my older memories. From before or whatever.”
Shane nods.
“Probably. Maybe things will come back like that. A bit now, another bit later.”
He glances at Ilya and smiles,
“We’ll be fine. We’ve done harder things.”
Ilya studies him for a long moment.
He doesn’t remember falling in love, or their wedding.
He doesn’t remember playing together on the same team or building a life outside of hockey together.
“I trust you, Shane.”
Shane goes very still.
“I know in my soul that I trust you.”
“If you tell me we are teammates, I know it is true. If you tell me we are married, I know it is true. If you tell me that you love me, I know it is true.”
Shane’s smile trembles.
“Good,” he says softly.
“Why?”
Shane reaches across the bed and takes his hand. Ilya sees the glint of Shane’s wedding ring now firmly back where it belongs.
“Because all of those things are true.”