Chapter Text
1 in 3. 33%. Those are the chances of a person in status epilepticus needing endotracheal intubation.
The whole thing is a horror show, Shane watched it happen. Watched as they shoved the tube down his throat. Watched as they paralyzed him. He made a noise when they chipped a tooth and then a nurse was at his side to take him to the hallway.
The issue is 1 in 3 is an astronomically large fraction. Shane can’t help but shade in one piece of an imaginary pie every time he thinks of it. Those are Ilya’s chances. He’s got a 33% chance of breathing. The rest is a cherry on top.
It makes Shane sick to think about, but he can’t stop. Like if he keeps it at the forefront of his mind the medication will work and Ilya will stay seizure free and everything will be fine.
It’s been three months since Ilya’s last seizure–the coma–which is enough time to call the epilepsy controlled. But good news smells like complacency, like Ilya refusing to try keto because “I eat carbs, Hollander” as if Shane didn’t watch his husband almost die in a trauma bay of Queensway Carleton during the off season.
“I need you to take this seriously.” He snaps at random intervals, to which Ilya responds with his eyes downcast. It dawns on Shane (too late) that all the ordering is distinctly reminiscent of Ilya’s father.
He hates himself.
Anyways, he starts trying to be cool about it. He stands by as Ilya has one beer, then two, and nothing happens. It makes him the happiest he’s ever been and also a little frustrated. God forbid anything interferes with Ilya Rozanov’s invincibility complex.
They let him back on the ice just last week, after months of being relegated to supervised runs and the exercise bike, so now every morning Shane drives his husband to the rink and goes to practice with him and drives him back at night. It’s nice they both stay late. And that they like each other.
It also means Shane gets a front-row seat to every weird little thing Ilya does.
Usually it's harmless. Forgetting where he put his gloves. Staring into space while unlacing his skates. Answering a question three beats too late because he's drifted off into whatever bizarre corner of his own brain he lives in.
Today they’re the last two in the locker room and seem like they will be for the next several minutes. That is if Ilya can tear himself away from whatever part of Clash Royale Shane doesn’t understand to get his clothes on.
“Can you finish that in the car?” He asks.
“No.”
“No?”
“I am old man now, Hollander. Like Scott Hunter. I cannot multitask.” Neither of them says the other thing, which is that the monster doses of Lamotrigine and Topirimate Ilya’s on have been making him a little less sharp around the edges.
“You’re 30,” Shane says instead.
“Ancient.”
He grins as a muscle jumps briefly in Ilya’s jaw.
Fuck.
It could mean nothing. It actually could. Ilya hasn’t had a seizure in three months. Ilya takes his medication. Ilya and Shane both follow a meal plan and sleep 9 hours and hydrate more properly than anyone they know. Still, Shane can’t stop himself.
“You okay?”
“What?” Ilya seems genuinely confused. Maybe it was nothing.
Then he twitches again. It’s small and quick, just beside his mouth.
“Your mouth is twitching.” Shane is up walking across the room before his sentence finishes. Something in him is telling him this is real. It's the way Ilya’s eyes look. Or maybe the way his voice sounds so far away. The whole thing fills him with indescribable sadness. Ilya will be devastated.
“No–” before he can argue, another jerk rips through his face. This time Shane sees it in his hand too, fingers jerking once against his thigh.
"Ilya."
"Hm?"
"When was the last time you ate?"
"I ate."
"What did you eat?"
Ilya opens his mouth, brow furrowing. Nothing comes out. What was real before is vivid now. Ilya is about to have a seizure with only them two in the locker room. Fuck.
"What did you eat?" Shane repeats.
The fingers on his right hand twitch again, a rhythmic little jerk.
“Ilya.”
“Hm? Da. Yes, I’m listening.”
“You’re gonna have a seizure. We’re going to the training room, okay?” This has happened enough times that Shane can go through the motions, but not enough times that it’s stopped being scary. He’s walking a fine line.
Ilya just sinks further into his stall, giving a noncommittal shrug. This is the only time Shane will admit Ilya’s fucking bigger than him. He could carry him–over his shoulder–but that feels dramatic. Many a neurologist has counseled them on the nonemergence of a breakthrough seizure.
“Ilya, hey. I’m talking to you.” He squeezes his trap hard. “Get up, it’s time to go.” They’ll never get anywhere if he’s not firm like this. And, honestly, Ilya’s never had a seizure at the rink before. Shane doesn’t know how to deal with it here. He needs trainers. He needs Terry.
“Hmm?” Ilya’s eyes are completely unfocused.
“Stand up, Ilya. I’ll help you,” Shane gets a good hold under his arms and just fucking lifts. It’s harder than it should be. Ilya’s always dead weight when he gets close.
Ilya sways the second his feet hit the floor.
"Easy," Shane mutters, tightening his grip.
For one terrifying second, he thinks he's going down right there. But Ilya manages a few unsteady steps, leaning heavily against him.
The walk to the training room isn't far. They've made it a thousand times for tape jobs, treatment, routine evaluations. Today it feels impossibly long.
"Stay with me."
"Mm."
"That's not staying with me. Say something."
Ilya blinks.
“Okay.”
"Okay. Good. Keep talking."
Ilya doesn't.
His head has started to dip forward. Every few steps his legs seem to forget what they're supposed to be doing. Shane ends up bearing more and more of his weight until they're practically stumbling down the hallway together.
A couple of staff members glance their way.
Shane doesn't stop.
The muscle in Ilya's jaw jumps again. Then his hand. Then his shoulder gives a sharp little jerk that nearly knocks them off balance.
Fuck.
"Almost there."
Ilya doesn't answer.
The training room doors come into view and Shane pushes through them hard enough that they bang against the wall.
"Hey, um, he's gonna have a seizure."
Shane kind of hopes they'll take it from here. This has never happened at the rink before.
Terry is in the middle of what he assumes is very delicate dry needling, given that's usually a trainer's job, but if he doesn't drop it right now Shane is happy to rip it out of his fucking hands.
He doesn’t have to, though, Terry nodding at a trainer to take the needle in some rookie’s calf and beelining for them both in the doorway.
“Hey, how long?” He looks only at Shane. Apparently it’s very obvious Ilya is out of it.
“Three minutes. It’s an aura, I think. He walked here.”
“Ilya,” Terry taps his cheek, which actually does get his attention. Shane will have to try that. “We’re gonna help you lay down, okay?”
“Hmm,” he hums.
“Just work with me here.”
Shane helps Terry get Ilya down to the floor, speckled linoleum that looks perpetually dirty. He’s always hated having to put Ilya on the ground for this stuff. It feels demeaning.
“There you go, bud. Stay down for us, okay?”
Ilya halfheartedly tries to fight, pushing himself up with arms like jelly and giving a confused whimper that Shane will erase from his brain forever.
“It’s okay.” Terry tries to soothe him, “You can go, Rozy. Don’t fight it.” To Shane it sounds like someone talking an elementary schooler through throwing up, but it’s not like he has anything better to offer. Stroking Ilya’s hair, he says nothing. It feels awkwardly intimate to be talking him through this at the rink. They aren’t husbands here. They don’t talk like this.
It doesn’t turn tonic clonic all at once, which is surprising. Ilya is always one for dramatics. Instead the focal seizures–the auras–are drawn out, Ilya tapping and grunting involuntarily with fearful eyes, looking more tired by the second. Shane isn’t sure if this goes into the five minutes. The so-called “free five” Ilya gets before rescue meds and a 911 call. He hopes it doesn’t. They’re coming up on it quick.
“Shane and I are right here, Ilya” Terry assures him.
Ilya blinks hard, trying to focus on the sound of Terry's voice. His fingers continue their uneven tapping against his thigh, the movement becoming less purposeful each time. He looks exhausted, the deep, helpless fatigue that always seems to settle in before a seizure takes him completely.
His eyes drift toward Shane for a moment. Fear flashes there, quick and naked. Shane squeezes his shoulder.
“You're okay,” he says quietly.
Ilya makes a small frustrated sound, as though he's trying to answer and can't quite get the words where they need to go.
Terry keeps his movements slow and predictable.
“Hey, Ilya, you're doing great, okay? Just keep listening to my voice. Can you follow my finger with your head?” His voice is soft as he moves his finger across Ilya's field of vision. “Good, good, that was great.” And that was great, he was still partially in control of his muscles and could see, understand, and follow directions.
“I–” Ilya makes a sound like he’s trying to say something.
“Hey it’s okay, don’t try to talk right now. We’re gonna get you through this. If it doesn’t end on its own we’ll help it along.” Terry motions at a trainer for Ilya’s Valtoco they keep in some back cabinet. Shane feels like he has his own automatisms going on. All he can do is sit and stroke his husband’s hair. Back and forth. Again and again. Part of him wishes Ilya could just lose consciousness. At least that would make him less terrified.
“How long do his auras usually last?” Terry asks, voice almost monotone.
“They’re, uh, shorter. Than this. He’s usually gone by now.”
“Hmm. Okay. This might be focal status.” Terry takes a second to consider, looking at Shane before directing his words to a spasming Ilya on the ground. “Ilya, we’re gonna give you your meds, okay? We’ll take care of you. All you need to do is keep breathing.”
Ilya does not nod. Ilya does not do anything as Terry rips the packaging off the diazepam nasal applicator.
“This is gonna feel weird, okay?” he says as he sticks the blunt tip in one nostril, “It’s only gonna burn for a second.”
Then he pushes it and Ilya uses the little voluntary muscle control he’s retained to buck back hard and Shane thinks he’s going to be sick.
“I know, I’m sorry. All done, Ilya. You’re good.”
“It’ll help,” Shane whispers, “everything’s okay.”
—
The next few minutes are as uneventful as they can be. Ilya’s still on the ground, awake and occasionally twitching. It’s weird. Whenever Shane’s given him Valtoco he’s been out before he can count to ten. He seems to be gaining more awareness, though, which is good.
“It’s okay,” Shane keeps saying, “We’re in the training room right now. You had a seizure.”
He’s not sure how long is spent like that, both of them on the floor with useless platitudes between them. It must be a while, though. Enough time to be concerning.
“Is this typical?” Terry asks.
“What?”
“This postictal stage. Is he usually like this?”
“Uh, no. The diazepam usually knocks him out.”
“Okay.” Terry’s voice is so carefully neutral Shane is sure something is really wrong. He wishes his husband didn’t just have a seizure so he could look all of this up online.
Terry watches Ilya for another thirty seconds.
The twitching has mostly stopped. The frantic little jerks in his hand are gone. His eyes are open now, tracking movement around the room in a slow, delayed way that reassures Shane but seems to be making Terry’s expression spring-loaded and tighter.
He crouches lower beside Ilya, shining a penlight briefly into each eye.
"Ilya, look at me."
Eventually, Ilya does.
"Good. Can you tell me your name?"
"...Ilya." The word is slurred, dragged through mud. Terry does not look relieved. Turning towards Shane, his expression softens.
“I think it’s a good idea to get him checked out.” he says, already reaching for the phone in his pocket.
Shane feels like a bomb dropped.
“Ok, um, yeah, okay. Why?”
"He's more awake, which is good. But he's still having periods where he can't respond appropriately, he's still not back to baseline, and the Valtoco should've done more than this by now."
“Fuck.” fuck fuck fuck.
Terry keeps his voice even, “I’m worried about something called nonconvulsive status epilepticus.”
The phrase hits Shane like a punch. Status. Not again. Not after Queensway. Not after watching Ilya sedated in the ICU with a tube down his throat. He can’t do that again.
Terry must see something on his face.
"I'm not saying that's definitely what's happening. I'm saying I can't rule it out without an EEG, and that's not something we can do here."
Terry hands his phone off to a trainer, Bri, and again busies himself with Ilya. Shane cringes as he presses all four of his knuckles against his husband’s sternum and rubs, earning a loud groan and a feeble attempt at turning. This is promising, Shane knows that. But he can’t shake the feeling that someone is hurting Ilya. It makes him feel hot.
“Ilya,” Terry says, loud and commanding, “Can you open your eyes for us, bud?”
And he does. Terry asks Ilya to open his eyes and he does it. Thank god.
“Good job, Rozy. How you feeling?”
Ilya opens his mouth to speak and relief crashes through Shane so hard it almost hurts.
"Wha’?" he slurs. His voice is rough and sleepy, but undeniably clearer than before.
"Hey."
Ilya blinks at him.
"Hey," Shane says again, immediately scooting closer.
His eyes move between Shane and Terry, confused. He looks like a little kid when he’s like this. It makes Shane want to cry.
“You had a seizure, Roz.” Terry uses his same booming voice, “We’re gonna get you checked out at the hospital, alright?”
“Mmh”
“Yeah, just take a rest, okay? Help is gonna be here real soon.”
And that’s how they wait, Shane and Terry on the ground with Ilya waiting for the medics to get there. Because this is their life now. And nothing can ever be simple.