Chapter Text
“The leaves of memory seemed to make
a mournful rustling in the dark.”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Darkness.
That is all Ilya knows.
He realises he is in darkness but… but he cannot open his eyes for the light. He cannot hear anything above a distant roar. He cannot feel anything other than cold. Cold, and the fiery pain that is crawling up every inch of his skin. He tries to scream. He tries to whisper. He fails at both. He falls back into the darkness.
Now, he feels like he is floating, the pain that has consumed every inch of his skin barely there. It fades slowly, leaving just a numbness behind. Except his arm? He thinks it is his arm. His arm is still on fire. His head feels like there is someone pressing against it, pushing him down. His fingers and toes are cold now. He tries to move them. He does not know if it works.
There is chaos all around him, many different voices stacking on top of the other. He cannot hear anything they are saying - they sound like they come from far away, hollow and echoing. He thinks he is being moved, his face no longer pressed against something hard and cold. Though he feels the cold trickle slowly from his nose and forehead… Is it raining now? Cold and raining now? Ilya tries to frown. The cold falls to his lips, and it tastes like metal.
Then.
“Ilya, baby. Hang on. You’ll be fine.” That voice carries over the others, Ilya honing in on it like a beacon. The words of his native tongue a calming balm in the chaos of words rushed over each other.
“Ilya, please, open your eyes. Open your eyes, moy lyubimyy.” Ilya thinks he knows this voice – somewhat familiar, but different too. Like putting on a pair of well-worn shoes that no longer truly fit. Who…?
“Ilya… please.” There is so much sadness in that voice. He knows that voice, he knows that voice. Ilya tries, tries his best to reach out to him or even just open his eyes. But the darkness is powerful, and it calls him down.
“Ilya.” There is no mistaking the tears there now, the beautiful voice wrecked and sobbing. Then he thinks - Shane. That’s Shane’s voice. Shane, crying.
Everything gets darker and colder and Ilya wants to soothe his Shane, because his Shane should not be crying. But oh, he is tired. So tired. It hurts. Everything hurts. The darkness calls out to him again, promising a painless slumber. It reaches out for him.
“Ilya.” Shane. His wonderful Shane. The darkness grabs at him, pulling him down. Ilya loses his grip.
Sorry, Shane.
Ilya lets himself fall.
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Ilya kneels as he watches Anya running towards him, grinning at Shane who stands further back, video taping it all. Ilya blows a kiss and waves at him, and Shane starts to wave back before he freezes - arm mid-wave, eyes open and happy, smile wide. Ilya blinks.
A gust of wind blows, and Shane scatters into pieces.
A sound of anguish rips from him, but then Shane appears before him again. Ilya blinks, confused. What was that before? There was… what? He remembers just a vague sense of despair, his cheek wet from a phantom lick.
So he shrugs it off, and the Shane before him smiles shyly, beautiful in his tuxedo. Ilya smiles back, turning and grinning at all their loved ones scattered around, hollering and blowing kisses to them. Ilya laughs. Shane does too.
Ilya closes his eyes and leans in for a kiss - but all he meets is empty air. Ilya frowns, rubbing his head as he feels a headache brewing. He opens his eyes and finds himself staring out of the lake of their… no, wait, not their's, Shane’s… cottage. He could have sworn there was someone standing in front of him just a moment ago.
The view is beautiful, even more so in person than on the screen. What is even more beautiful though is Shane standing right there, just a few steps away, telling him about the features of his cottage and smiling at him.
Ilya grins, walking towards him. Shane flickers out of sight for a moment. Ilya pauses. Tilts his head. Shane flickers again. Ilya rubs his eyes.
When he opens them, Shane is lying on the ice, completely still. Ilya’s heart stops, and he does not pay any mind to the lingering sense of unease in the back of his mind. Not when all he can think of right now is getting Shane to move, to do anything. Hollander, he calls out, Hollander.
The ice melts around Shane, and Ilya cannot reach out to him as he sinks. He sucks in a breath as the ice cracks beneath his skates as well. He falls through it…
…and has a soft landing on a king-sized bed, Shane climbing into his lap and squeezing him into a hug he has always yearned for. Ilya’s face is wet. Shane comes closer, and Ilya waits for the kiss.
But it never comes, and when he opens his eyes, he is in a bar, where Sha-no, wait, he shouldn’t make the same mistake again. Where Hollander tells him that he is incompatible with Rose Landry.
Right, Rose Landry, Ilya remembers her. Remembers articles and articles of the world gushing over their love. Remembers happy smiles and borrowed jerseys and hands held and a bright nightclub.
He clutches at his head, fingers tugging on his curls. His head hurts. It hurts so much. He feels nauseous. His head spins.
When he opens his eyes, he is staring at himself in the mirror. For just a second, his heart jolts a little at the pain and anger in his expression - almost like it feels out of place on his face. But no, Ilya remembers, this is how he is. Who he is.
He thinks of Rose Landry and Hollander and Rose Landry and Hollander and Rose Landry and Hollander. He thinks of “I can’t do this” and “I’m sorry” and the pit in his stomach that gnaws at him and the voice in his head that says “See? They all leave. You are not worth staying for, Ilya.”
He thinks of his brother - who is there, but Ilya is not in his heart.
He thinks of his father - who is there, but Ilya is not in his mind.
He thinks of his mother - who is… who is not there.
He thinks of Sha-... Hollander. He thinks of Hollander - who, for a few wonderful hours, had been there, but is not anymore. Ilya is no longer in his heart, no longer in his mind.
His head pounds and Ilya knows he is crying. He closes his eyes against the bright light that beams above him, yet he still reaches out for it. There has to be something there that can stop this pain.
Please.
He reaches out, then he hears,
“Ilya.”
The voice does not make the pain stop. It makes his heart hurt worse.
It feels like a dream.
He thinks he opens his eyes. The lights are too bright and all he can see - all that he hones into - is one face. Hollander. He knows Hollander. He does not know why Hollander is here. His face is close to him - too close - and blurred, and he thinks this Hollander here is crying. Ilya does not know why, but he keeps waiting for Hollander to disappear. He does not. He stays until Ilya feels himself fall back into the darkness.
It happens again, and this time Hollander is not crying. He is speaking to him, but he still looks blurred to him and through the cotton he seems to hear things through now Ilya can only make out a few words that he says - “stay”, “strong”, “love”, “Rose”, “Centaurs”. He hears “love” again and again and again. Ilya closes his eyes against the words. He did not know Hollander could be so cruel.
No, that’s not true. He did. He just wishes he didn’t.
The next time he opens his eyes, the world is still a blur. Hollander is not there. But someone else is. Someone else with dark hair and dark eyes too, with a soothing voice, a soothing touch. Familiarity burns within him, but he cannot remember who she is. Her words are soft, her touch just a whisper in his hair and on his cheeks. He closes his eyes. Mama. That must have been Mama.
He falls again.
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Everything hurts.
But for the first time, Ilya feels like himself again. He has pushed back against the darkness. He wants to smile, but the pounding in his head has unfairly followed him from his dreams into reality, and he grimaces instead.
He recognises where he is by smell alone - the unnaturally clean scent of a hospital room is identifiable enough. The foreign weight in his nose and wrapped around his arm tells him that too, as well as the way he feels his body is trapped under soft sheets. His arm presses heavily into the bed - too heavily - and Ilya curses in his mind, knowing that a broken arm means he is out of the rest of the season at least.
How long was that supposed to be…? The last game was… against Montreal, yes, that’s right. He supposes it makes sense, he had known the moment he had stepped out onto the ice he was not going to playing in his right mind.
Not when Hollander was right there.
He wonders what happened, but he supposes Marly will tell him soon enough.
For now, he should probably open his eyes. The Raiders, at least, would probably want him to even if he could not be helping them win any games for a little while.
Sighing, Ilya opens his eyes… and instantly closes them again with a sharp groan, the bright light making his headache, that had been beating steadily in the background, come pounding back with sharp clarity.
“Ilya.”
Ilya stills. What the fuck? Hollander?
“Oh, Ilya.”
Hollander sounds like he is crying. What the fuck?
“Slowly, open your eyes slowly.” There is a soft touch on his face, cupping it. Ilya feels as Hollander’s thumb shakes as he rubs Ilya’s cheeks, as though coaxing him to open his eyes. “Come on baby, open your eyes for me again, please.”
Ilya’s heart lurches.
He opens his eyes.
His first thought is Still too bright.
His second is Hollander really is crying.
Ilya blinks blankly as Hollander seems to cry even harder when their eyes meet. Before he can say anything, Hollander has wrapped his arms gently around his head, and he is dropping kisses to the top of his head, nuzzling into his curls. He hears as Hollander whispers, “Thank you, thank you. You’re so strong, Ilya, so amazing. Thank you.”
He tries to say something, but his voice comes out as a weak croak instead. Hollander is immediately off of him, but before Ilya can decide if he is glad or upset about it, he is back with a cup of ice chips.
“No water yet, sorry, but the nurse said some ice chips would be okay. I’ll call the doctor right now, okay? Then we can check. They want to know you’re awake too.” He says this all in a rush, frantic, but his touch is gentle as he presses an ice chip slowly past Ilya’s lips into his mouth.
His finger lingers there, the gentlest of touches on Ilya’s cupid bow. A small smile plays on Hollander’s face as he looks at Ilya again. Ilya stares back, the ice melting on his tongue and soothing his throat.
Hollander presses a button on Ilya’s bed, and then he leans down and presses his lips against Ilya’s.
Ilya’s eyes widen in horror, especially as the doors push open right at the moment. His one good arm is still trapped beneath the blanket, and he has no energy to slam his head into Hollander’s to push him away.
All he can do is turn his head away, disconnecting their lips.
He sees Hollander start to frown at the same time his parents - because they have to be his parents, he thinks he recognises them from the few events they have attended together - walk into the room.
Their expressions morph into one of surprise.
In his panic, Ilya cannot decipher how their eyes light with joy instead of disgust.
“Hollander,” he whispers, throat scratching, but he persists, “what are you doing?”
Hollander, who had stilled at hearing his name, looks perplexed.
Ilya does not know why, but he wants to cry. This is all wrong. He wants so desperately for all this to have been a dream, but the pain that radiates throughout his body assures him that he is awake.
Hollander’s parents saw them kiss. If there was any hope that Ilya could beg enough for forgiveness one day, it is gone now. Hollander is going to hate him more than he already does.
“Hollander, leave.”
“Ilya, what are you…?”
He hears Hollander’s mother gasp. His father lets out a quiet, “Oh no”.
He steels himself, looks Hollander in the eyes, and despite his heart screaming at him, tells him, “Hollander, leave.”
Hollander looks crestfallen, confused, betrayed. Then he straightens out, frowns right back at Ilya, and tells him, “No, Ilya. I’m not leaving you.”
His parents come up to him, placing gentle hands on Hollander’s back and shoulder. They murmur quietly to him, but Hollander does not break his gaze on Ilya. He says again, “I’m not leaving you, Ilya. Never again.”
His gaze is too much. Ilya breaks it, turning his head, and praying that none of them see the stray tear falling from his eye, as the doctors rush in.