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Ilya takes a slow, measured breath as he enters the hospital. His coach had reached out to the Voyageurs' management and found out where Hollander had been located after Marleau barreled into him last night, so Ilya was paying him a visit to ensure he was alright. He's never been happier to be the captain of the Bears, as it's not uncommon for captains to visit injured players of opposing teams. And even if he weren't captain, he might've found a way to be here anyway because it was Hollander.
Ilya can still vividly picture his unmoving body on the ice. At the time, his vision had tunneled to the lifeless lump of blue and red. He hasn't seen the footage back yet, but he's sure he looked much more worried than a normal rival would be. He couldn't help it.
He's long past denying his feelings for Hollander. There's no way he could play dumb about them when it's been over six years since he'd almost made a move on him, and had chickened out at the last second because he'd been in too deep. He'd felt way too much — more than he was allowed to. Back then, he'd tried to force those feelings away, but Hollander is magnetic. Ilya's eyes and heart were always drawn to him, even though they were nothing but rivals.
Now, Ilya lets these feelings for Hollander live in his heart, like overgrown weeds he'd given up on pulling because they inevitably returned. They are just a part of him, and he's accepted that. Most of the time, they simmer at a low temperature, easy to be put on a back burner in his mind.
Not last night.
Last night, they boiled over in an instant, and he hasn't figured out how to get them back under control. He's hoping the visual assurance that Hollander is okay will at least tame them to some degree.
The man at the front desk gives Ilya a Visitor sticker with his name on it, and directs him to Hollander's room. He tries to calm down, reminding himself that no one is going to find it odd that he's here. As he approaches Hollander's room, there's a doctor and two more people standing just outside the door, deep in discussion. Ilya almost thinks nothing of it until his eyes connect with the woman the doctor is speaking to — he recognizes her immediately as Hollander's mother. And it's apparent she recognizes him as well.
"Excuse me," she says to the doctor and to the man beside her, who Ilya is assuming is Hollander's father, before she steps away. "Rozanov?"
Ilya stupidly hadn't even considered facing Hollander's parents. He desperately racks his brain for her name, but he doesn't know it. Up close, he sees some of Hollander's features in her face.
"Hi, Mrs. Hollander," he says. "I just, um, wanted to check on Hollander. Make sure he is okay, yes?"
She looks at him like he's grown a second head. Maybe it does seem a little odd that Ilya showed up here, given that the media loves to claim he hates Hollander. They couldn't possibly know how far from the truth that is.
"Well, that's… very nice of you," she says slowly. "He's a little hopped up on meds right now, but you can go in. Unless…"
She glances at her husband and the doctor, still waiting for her. "Well, I'm in the middle of discussing Shane's recovery, but you could wait for me if you'd rather not go in alone. Or I can have the doctor come back."
"No, no, I do not mind being alone with him," Ilya says, trying not to make it sound like he would greatly prefer going in by himself. "Will only take a few minutes, you do not have to worry."
She looks unsure, but she nods once. "Okay, well. We'll be right here if you need us, okay."
"Okay," Ilya says, making a move to step around her.
"And, uh," she adds quickly, causing Ilya to pause, "thank you. For checking in. That's very… sportsmanlike."
Ilya smiles tightly. It's much more than a show of good sportsmanship, but he can't tell her that. He nods once, and then turns the doorknob to Hollander's room. It's mostly silent, save for the quiet beeps and whirs of the machines he's hooked up. At the sound of the door, Hollander's eyes flutter open, and then they go wide at the sight of Ilya.
Ilya stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense.
"Rozanov?" Hollander asks, clearly unsure of what to make of his presence. His head tilts to the side in confusion, but the movement is so loose and unrestrained, it more so flops to the side. Ilya almost smiles.
"Hi," Ilya says softly. He takes a few more steps into the room. "I just wanted to, um, check on you. After that hit."
"Oh," Hollander says, relaxing slightly. "M'okay."
Ilya moves a few steps closer, near the foot of his bed now. "What are your injuries?" he asks. Then he backtracks a little, because he knows it's not really his business. "If you want to say. Is okay if you do not."
Hollander regards him for a second before his exhaustion outweighs his skepticism. "Factured collarbone, bruised lungs, concussion," he lists, each one a jab into Ilya's heart. "Maybe you'll have a shot in the playoffs this year, since I'll be out."
A smile pulls at Ilya's lips. "Will not be as fun without you," he says honestly. Hollander huffs a weak laugh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. Ilya takes the time to look over his face. There's some light bruising around his eyes and nose, the skin pink from the impact. His freckles still stand out, clear as day, and Ilya wishes he could get closer to see them. He wishes he could soothe a gentle thumb over the curve of his cheeks. Hollander has never looked anything close to fragile before, and Ilya feels like he shouldn't even be allowed to witness this.
Though he supposes it's not the first time they've been in a vulnerable situation together.
"Marleau is sorry," Ilya says, not wanting to leave yet. "He did not mean to hurt you."
Hollander's eyes open again, warm and focused on Ilya. "It's okay," he says, smiling a little. "Part of the game."
Ilya knows this, of course. And he knows Cliff truly hadn't meant to lay Hollander out like that, and he genuinely feels bad about it. But here, seeing Hollander all bruised and broken, Ilya is admittedly thinking about beating the shit out of Cliff anyway. At least Pike got a good hit or two in on him last night, right after the hit happened.
"Yes, but still. He is sorry," Ilya says. And then, just a little softer, "I am sorry."
Hollander stares for a minute, and Ilya can practically see the wheels turning in his head. He's looking at Ilya like he's trying to crack a code. Trying to figure something out.
"Rozanov," he starts softly, "can I ask—"
The door behind Ilya opens, and Hollander's mouth snaps shut. Ilya tries not to react, but he's secretly devastated at the interruption. Both of Hollander's parents come into view as they walk up to his bedside, and his mom gently drops her hand to Hollander's hair, smoothing it down. It's clear that it's time for Ilya to go.
"Get well soon, Hollander," he says, taking a step back.
"Okay. Thank you," he responds, his head bobbing a bit. "See you next season."
Ilya nods at both of Hollander's parents, takes one final look at the man in the hospital bed, whose dark eyes are intent on him, before leaving the room. Tension bleeds out of him slowly the further he gets from Hollander. It had settled something inside of Ilya, seeing him awake and moving again. However, his brain hasn't stopped echoing those few words Hollander had begun to say before the door opened.
Can I ask—
Ilya is fucking dying to know how that sentence ended. It could've been any innocent question, but given their brief history, Ilya imagines it was something much deeper.
Whatever Hollander had wanted to ask, Ilya would've answered. He would've told him anything, just because he was here to do so. He'd known, realistically, that the chances of Hollander dying from that hit were low, but seeing him on the ice like that… unmoving, barely breathing. It certainly got Ilya thinking of worst case scenarios.
If he ever got the chance to make a move on Hollander again, he'd take it, consequences be damned.