Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mom: have you seen Ilya’s new post? 😳

Shane was still half-asleep and the morning light stretched pale across his sheets. He rubbed his eyes, scrolled, and tapped open the link.

The said post was Ilya in a car. Sunglasses on, driving somewhere, grinning into the camera with that deliberate mix of charm and mockery that was somewhere between funny and disarming. The song playing was WHERE IS MY HUSBAND! by RAYE, that viral one looping all over social media.

“Baby (woo-hoo), where the hell is my husband?” Ilya sang along, while laughing silently at himself. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and, at the lyric about wanting a ring, tapped his left ring finger and smirked, just long enough for the gesture to burn itself into Shane’s mind.

The video ended there. He stared at his phone for a moment too long before typing back.

Shane: yea what’s it about?
Mom: I don’t know, darling. I thought maybe you would? 😏
Shane: mom
Mom: Well, it’s cute!

Shane exhaled through his nose, set the phone down beside him, and tried to convince himself that this, like everything else Ilya posts, was just for fun. Just noise. But he couldn't quite shake the unease unfurling in his chest.

He opened the comments. The internet always has opinions, he knew that. It didn't stop him from reading though.

ilya rozanov out here manifesting a husband???

is he looking for one or ready to BE one 😭😭

somebody tell him i’ll volunteer

Shane was used to the way fans read into everything Ilya does. He was built for this kind of scrutiny, practiced at filtering noises. But this time, the line blurred because somewhere between the jokes and the edits, he found himself wondering if maybe it wasn’t just a joke.

They’ve talked about the future before and it was always something later: after retirement, after the spotlight, after all the noise quiets down. Because it was one thing for Ilya to joke like that when they’re alone, when it was quiet and private and no one else exists, but it was different when the audience is everyone. When millions of strangers were allowed to see the joke, too.

Deep down, beneath all of the teasing, Shane felt like there’s always a hint of truth. A flicker of something real wrapped in laughter. Maybe Ilya was trying to say something. Something like, I’m tired of waiting and I’m ready to be seen. Shane pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, trying to still the restlessness there.

He wanted to believe Ilya did not mean anything by it. But there was a sharp, unmistakable ache, a mix of guilt and longing that he can’t quite name. And what if Shane can’t yet give that to him?

When Ilya texted him later that night, Shane had already gone through every possible interpretation.

Lily: you see my vid?
Shane: yeah
Lily: good song, da?

The words sat there like they meant nothing to both of them.

Shane: yeah. good song.

He locked his phone and left it on the nightstand. Shane wasn't sure whether he should laugh it off or start listening.

Rose’s voice had been steady and reasonable on the phone. “If it’s eating at you, ask him. You’ll just spiral otherwise.”

So Shane stood by the doorway, trying to look casual while his heart feels like it’s being squeezed. Ilya's here. He’d driven all the way from Ottawa after an early practice. The rain outside hammered steadily against the windows, and the air smelled faintly of tea and the storm. Ilya looked unfairly good. His hair still damp from the shower they took, a soft hoodie hanging off his frame, eyes half-focused on the Russian movie playing on the TV.

Shane wanted nothing more than to cross the room, crawl beside him on the couch, and let the quiet swallow them. But instead, he forced himself to start the conversation that’s been clawing at his thoughts for a day and a half.

He leaned against the doorway, “Ilya, your post yesterday…”

“Da?” Ilya answered with his eyes still on the screen. He sounded casual but Shane saw the subtle shift, the slight tension in his shoulders before the reply.

“You didn’t think maybe it would come off a certain way?” Shane asked. He tried to sound neutral, but even he can hear the undercurrent of hesitation in his voice. The question was not precise enough. What he really wanted to ask was, did you mean it? Were you talking about us?

Ilya finally turned his head with a steady gaze and unreadable expression. “Come off like what?”

“Come off like you’re searching for something I’m not giving you.” Shane crossed his arms while trying to sound casual, though his shoulders were drawn tight. He added a faint shrug. Kind of downplaying what he was really feeling.

Ilya huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Come off like I have feelings?”

Shane wasn’t expecting that. “You think it’s funny that I worry about you, about us, wanting something I can’t give yet?”

The teasing disappeared from Ilya’s face in an instant. He turned off the TV, the click too abrupt, and tossed the remote sideways onto the couch with a little too much force. 

“You make it sound like I am asking for wedding now.” His accent sharpened the edges of his words, and it landed between them heavier than he probably meant.

“You might not be,” Shane said carefully, voice low. “But you’re not saying you’re not.”

Ilya folded his arms and mirrored Shane’s stance. “It’s just a song, Hollander. I cannot post song now?”

“You can post whatever you want,” Shane said, trying to keep his tone even. “But you know people talk—”

“So let them talk.”

“Ilya.”

“I am tired of this,” Ilya snapped, his voice rising a fraction. “Tired of acting like I am invisible so your perfect little image stays clean.”

“That’s not fair!” Shane fired back. “It’s not about that. It’s about—”

“Timing? Yes, yes. Always timing with you.”

“Because timing matters. Because some of us still have contracts, sponsorships—”

“Oh, yeah, like I forget,” Ilya muttered.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“But you think it,” Ilya said, his accent thickening the way it does when he’s angry. “Every time you ask me not to walk too close, or not to post photos, or to ‘wait’. Oh, no, you mean, hide.”

“You know damn well why we have to be careful.” Shane’s voice cracked. 

“I know you like being careful.”

“I like protecting what we have!”

“From who, Shane?”

Shane felt like he needed to sit down. He took a breath and tried again. “You think I want to hide? You think this is fun for me? Waking up next to you and pretending we’re not—” He gestured vaguely, words running out. “Whatever we are.”

“You love me when it is quiet,” Ilya said. “In bed, at home, when no one sees. But outside? You love the idea of later. You love the version where it’s safe.”

Shane swallowed hard. “I love you. That’s what matters.”

“Then why do I feel like a dirty secret?”

“Because the world isn’t ready.”

Ilya’s eyes flashed. “Maybe I am tired of waiting for world to be ready. Maybe I am ready now.”

Shane stepped forward desperately. “And I’m not.” That sounded like a confession neither wanted to hear out loud.

Ilya looked at him with something breaking behind his calm. “Then maybe we are not same page.”

“You knew what this was. You knew the plan—”

“I thought plan would end someday,” Ilya said. “But it’s always later, later, later. Always your rules, your comfort, you in control.”

“That’s not true!”

“It feels true,” Ilya said, and it was the quiet honesty that hurts most.

For a long moment, neither moved. The room felt too small for both of them, filled with everything unsaid.

Finally, Ilya grabbed his phone from the table and shoved it into his pocket. “I go for a ride.”

“Ilya—”

But the rest of the sentence died in Shane’s throat as the door slammed shut. He was left standing there, the echo of it ringing through the house. A beat later, he heard the roar of Ilya’s motorcycle splitting through the storm. The reckless sound fading into the rain-soaked night.

And for a moment, the only thing left in the room was the scent of him, sharp and clean, and the ache of everything Shane couldn’t say in time.

The rain did not stop that night, and not for a long time after.

Chapter Text

The phone rang just as Shane thought he was about to drift into sleep, if sleep was even possible tonight. He didn’t know whether he was truly slipping into unconsciousness or simply imagining the thousand ways this night could have gone differently. What he could’ve said, what he could’ve done, what he could’ve not done.

All he knew was that he and Ilya were not okay. The bed was too big without him and the sheets on Ilya’s side still smelled faintly of him. Shane had spent hours crying until all he could manage was to curl on Ilya’s pillow and breathe him in like that might undo the fight and everything that happened tonight.

When his phone rang at the nightstand and the sound made him flinch, he squinted at the screen through puffy eyes. He was expecting maybe a call from Ilya, “please open the door, or I’m still mad but I’m coming home.”

Instead, it was an unknown number. He answered anyway. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mr. Shane Hollander?”

“Yes.” His hand tightened around the sheet, trying to ground himself and stop it from shaking. “Yes, this is him.”

“This is the Ottawa Hospital,” the voice continued. “You were listed as Mr. Ilya Rozanov’s emergency contact. May I please confirm your full name and relationship to him?”

Shane stated his full name, then, he hesitated. What did Ilya wrote him as? “I’m his friend.” His voice cracked. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hollander,” the caller said. “Mr. Rozanov was brought in earlier tonight following a road accident. He’s currently in surgery. We’ll need you to come to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Shane gripped the phone tighter. “Is he— is he okay?”

He couldn’t remember much after that. The next few minutes blurred into flashes. He tried calling his mother, but halfway through the ring he remembered that Mom and Dad were in France. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t even stand up without his knees buckling.

He must have called Hayden. The details came back in fragments. Hayden’s voice over the phone. The sound of the intercom buzzing. Hands guiding him out the door. The car ride that felt both endless and far too short. He cried the entire way to Ottawa with his chest aching with every breath. Hayden didn’t say much, just kept one hand on the wheel and the other hovering in silent comfort while the wipers cut through sheets of rain.

When they arrived, Shane barely remembered getting out of the car. The hospital lights were too bright. Hayden guided him toward the reception desk. He told the nurse something about Ilya Rozanov and an accident.

The nurse looked up. “And your relationship to the patient?”

Before Shane could open his mouth, Hayden answered. “We’re friends.”

Friends. That word made him angry. He knew Hayden was just protecting them, but it still made him cry harder.

The nurse continued, “Do you know if we can reach any of his family?”

Hayden briefly looked to Shane and shook his head slightly before turning back. “We’re trying to contact them, but they’re in Russia.”

That was when Shane stepped forward, his voice cracking somewhere between a plea and a sob. “I’m his family,” he said. “Please, I need to see him. Is he okay? Where is he?”

The nurse hesitated. “Are either of you listed as his emergency contact?”

Shane stepped forward after wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I am,” he said, voice trembling. “Shane Hollander. I received the call. I’m his—” he stopped. “I’m his emergency contact.”

The nurse nodded gently. “Thank you, Mr. Hollander. Could I see a piece of identification, please?”

He fumbled with his wallet, his hands still shaking, and handed her his license. She checked the name against her screen, then nodded.

“Mr. Rozanov is in surgery right now. He sustained several fractures. Both wrists, his left thigh, and a head injury. The doctors are still working.”

Shane stared at her. “Head injury?” His voice trembled. “What kind of head injury? Is he—? Was he conscious?”

“He was unconscious when he arrived. The trauma team is doing everything they can. The surgery could take hours.”

“Hours?” Shane echoed. “How long has it been? How long has he been in there?”

“About two hours,” she said. “They’ll update you as soon as they can.”

“Can I see him? Just for a second—”

“I’m sorry, not yet. He’s still in the OR.”

Not yet. Not yet. Like how Shane kept on telling their relationship, not yet. Shane swayed slightly where he stood, eyes darting between the nurse and the corridor that led to the surgical wing, as if he could will himself through it. 

“Mr. Hollander,” the nurse said gently, “please, you need to sit down. I’ll let you know as soon as we have any news.”

Hayden was already there, guiding him toward one of the plastic chairs along the wall. Shane sank down hard. “Shane, you need to breathe,” Hayden said quietly. “Come on, man. Just breathe.”

“I can’t—” Shane’s voice cracked. “I can’t, Hayd. It’s my fault.” His breath came in uneven gasps. “We fought and he left and I didn’t—”

“Hey, no.” Hayden dropped to a crouch in front of him and put a firm hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Don’t do that to yourself. You didn’t make him go. You couldn’t have known.”

“But what if—” Shane’s words broke into hiccups. “What if that was it? What if—” He choked on the sentence, pressing his fist against his mouth to muffle the sound.

After a long while, Hayden’s phone rang so he stepped away to answer. Shane caught fragments of Hayden’s low voice, the words “Ottawa,” “hospital,” “accident.”

He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head. He just kept staring at the floor. When Hayden came back, he said, “Coach was asking about us. I told him we’re in Ottawa for Ilya.”

Shane nodded, still staring at the floor. “You should go.” His sounded empty. The accident had probably made the news already. Coach was probably wondering why Hayden and Shane weren’t showing up, why they were here instead.

“Yeah, right,” Hayden said softly. “Like I’m leaving you here.”

Shane didn’t argue. He just pressed a trembling hand against his face, because that was all he could manage right now.

A nurse brought them water. Time passed in strange intervals. Hayden made a few more phone calls. “Your parents are booking the next flight,” Hayden said after hanging up. “They’ll be here tonight. Yuna’s gonna call you in a bit.”

When the call came through, Shane almost didn’t answer. His throat felt too raw, his chest too heavy, and he knew he was just going to cry. 

“Shane, sweetheart, are you alright? Is Ilya okay?” Mom asked.

He tried to respond, but all that came out was a sob. “Mom. I’m sorry,” he managed eventually. “We fought. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t—”

“Hey,” Mom said. “None of that. Just be there for him now, okay? We’ll be there soon.”

Shane nodded even though she couldn’t see it. When the call ended, Hayden gently pulled him closer to let Shane lean into his shoulder. “Try to rest,” Hayden murmured. “He’s in good hands. He’ll make it.”

But rest wasn’t possible. Shane’s mind kept on replaying the fight again and again. Every word, every silence, every time he could’ve just let it go. He thought about Ilya’s last look before he left. He thought about the sound of the door slamming. He thought about how the rain had started even before they fought.  Shane pressed a shaking hand to his chest, whispering into the stillness, “I’m so sorry, Ilya. I’m so sorry, I’m so—” Shane had never prayed much in his life, but now he found himself bargaining with whoever could hear him.

When the doors finally swung open, Shane’s head snapped up so fast it made his neck ache. A doctor stepped out with surgical cap in hand and exhaustion lining every inch of his face. “Mr. Hollander?”

Shane stood immediately, too quickly that he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Yes. Yes, that’s me. How is he? Please, just. Tell me he’s okay. Is he okay?”

“Mr. Rozanov sustained multiple fractures. Both wrists, his left femur, some rib injuries, and a head trauma. He suffered a severe cerebral contusion. We were able to stabilize him and stop the bleeding, but he’s still unconscious.”

Shane replayed the words in his mind. “Contusion,” he repeated faintly, as if saying it would make it less terrifying. “That’s… that’s like a bruise, right?”

“A bruise on the brain, yes. We can’t determine the extent of the damage until he wakes up. We’re monitoring him closely,” the doctor said gently. “But with this kind of injury, it’s hard to predict outcomes. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.”

Shane’s knees gave out. He would’ve hit the floor if Hayden hadn’t caught him and pulled him back into a seat. 

“I can’t—” he gasped. “Hayd, I can’t—”

“Breathe,” Hayden said while his hand was steady on Shane’s back. “In and out. Just breathe.”

His hands were clenched together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. “Can I see him?” he asked finally, his voice like a child’s.

The doctor hesitated. “Only for a few minutes. He’s in the ICU now.”

The hallway to the ICU smelled like antiseptic. Shane hated it. When the nurse opened the door to Ilya’s room, Shane’s body went rigid. Ilya lay on the bed, surrounded by machines. His skin was too pale, his lips slightly parted. His head was wrapped in thick white bandages, one side shaved down to the skin where they had operated. Tubes ran from his arms, his leg was suspended in traction, and the beeping of the monitor was the only proof that he was still here.

Shane’s first thought was that Ilya would hate this. He’d hate the quiet, the stillness, the helplessness. He’d hate the way his hair looked. He reached for Ilya’s uninjured hand, feeling cold and limp in his grasp. His thumb brushed over the rough skin of Ilya’s knuckles, and he could feel the faint trace of calluses from years of hockey.

“Hey,” Shane whispered with trembling voice. “Ilya, it’s me.”

Nothing. Only the hum of the ventilator.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered. His tears blurred everything. “You hear me? You’re gonna be okay. You’re the most stubborn person I know. You’d never let something like this stop you.”

His voice cracked as he laughed weakly through his sobs. “You’d yell at me right now if you could. Tell me to stop crying and to stop being dramatic. God, I wish you would.”

He pressed his forehead against Ilya’s hand and wept until his chest ached. “Please wake up,” he whispered. “Please. I don’t care if you’re mad at me forever. I just need you to wake up.”

The monitor beeped steadily, as if indifferent to what Shane was feeling right now. He looked up at Ilya’s face and traced the air just above his cheek. “You can’t leave me like this, Ilya. I’m not ready to live in a world that doesn’t have you.”

Outside, the storm raged on.

Chapter Text

Shane woke up with someone was shaking his shoulder gently. For a moment, Shane couldn’t tell where he was or how much time had passed. He remembered seeing Ilya in the ICU before the nurses asked him to go home and rest. He insisted on staying at the waiting area so he’d be there when Ilya wakes up.

“Shane.” He turned, slow and disoriented, and found Mom seated beside him. Her face looked years older than it had been a week ago. Her hands came up to frame his face, thumbs brushing against the hollow under his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, and pulled him into her arms. She smelled like the same soft perfume she always wore, something faintly floral. It made everything feel temporary and fixable. He didn’t say anything. 

Behind her, Dad stood and gave Shane a small nod.

Hayden looked as if he hadn’t slept either with his eyes bloodshot. Mom reached out and took his arm. “Thank you, Hayden. You’ve done more than enough,” she said gently.

“I’ll stay,” Hayden replied, his voice hoarse.

But Mom only shook her head. “Go home, dear. Get some rest. We’ll take it from here.” There was no arguing with her tone. Hayden hesitated, glanced once at Shane, then left without another word. Shane watched him go. 

Then Mom led them near reception desk with a clipboard balanced on her knee, answering the questions Shane couldn’t bring himself to hear.

“Are you Mr. Rozanov’s family?” the nurse asked.

Mom paused. “Not by blood,” she said quietly. “But yes, he’s our family.”

The nurse nodded, her pen scratching against paper as she filled out the forms.

There were more questions. Where were Ilya’s parents? Could they be reached? Who would handle the insurance? Mom explained that Ilya’s family was in Russia, that she were listed as emergency guardians due to travel logistics, that Shane, Mom hesitated only briefly, was Ilya’s partner, though not legally recognized.

Shane sat in the corner, staring at the floor tiles again. He could hear the the nurse asking his Mom to sign the papers. He wished he could sign his name anywhere, too, just to prove that he belonged with Ilya.

“ICU access will reopen in the morning, at 11 AM to 6 PM.”

Shane looked up. “I’ll wait here,” he said immediately. “I don’t care. I’ll wait ‘til 11.”

The nurse started to reply, but Mom was already by his side. “You won’t help him by breaking yourself. You need to rest.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“We’ll see him first thing tomorrow,” Mom said. “I promise. But for tonight, you need to go home with us. Sleep and eat.”

Dad stepped forward then, “We’ll come back together in the morning, okay?”

He couldn’t. The thought of leaving this building, of walking out while Ilya was lying somewhere inside, stitched up and unconscious, felt impossible. But his body was already betraying him. He was trembling from exhaustion, his eyes gritty, his chest tight. Finally, he nodded once. Mom brushed his hair back from his forehead and took his hand.

They walked him out together. The automatic doors opened into the night, and the air outside was cold and wet. Rain still came down in thin sheets, and Shane lifted his face toward it for a moment, just to feel something.

In the morning, Mom made sandwiches while Dad sat across from her, his laptop open to half a dozen tabs that Shane did not want to read. Possibly reading about head injuries. Shane hadn’t moved from his seat by the table.

When Mom’s phone buzzed, she answered before the first ring had ended. “Farah,” she said. The call lasted ten minutes. Shane didn’t hear all of it, just fragments like police statement, speculation, press release.

When Mom hung up, she said finally, “They know.”

Dad glanced up. “How much?”

“Enough,” Mom replied. “Someone recognized him at the scene. The police had to block the street, and some photos already made it online.”

“And the press?”

“They’re calling him in critical condition. No confirmation from the hospital, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Someone leaked the location.”

“And they know you’re here, Shane.” Mom added.

He blinked. “How?”

“Fans, possibly,” Dad said grimly. “They noticed you weren’t at morning skate. You and Hayden.”

“Farah says Harris is handling things. He’s fielding messages, calming their fanbase, posting that Ilya’s receiving the best care and that updates will come through official channels.” Mom said.

Shane tried to listen, but the words felt far away.

Farah’s name flashed on the screen again. Mom put it on speaker this time. “Hi,” came Farah’s voice, brisk and exhausted. “Sorry, it’s chaos here. I just got off the phone with Harris. Ottawa’s holding statements until we align. Montreal’s PR is panicking. They’re getting hammered by fans asking why you’re not on the ice, Shane. I told them you’re with family. That’s true enough.”

Shane’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “What are they saying?”

“That you abandoned your team.” A pause. “Look, the league wants something official. We need to control the narrative before someone decides to dig deeper. I’m drafting a statement now. It’ll say that Ilya Rozanov is in stable condition and that he’s surrounded by close friends and family, with the Hollander family assisting during recovery. Everyone knows you guys are friends.”

“Will it hold?” Dad asked.

“For a few days,” Farah said. “But it’ll only buy us time. People will want pictures, updates, anything. Harris will coordinate with me on Ottawa’s posts. No unnecessary details, no photos.” The line crackled for a moment before she added quietly, “You should also think about your availability, Shane. The league’s going to ask when you’re coming back.”

Shane shook his head. “I’m not. Not until Ilya’s okay.”

“I figured,” Farah said gently. “I’ll handle it. We’ll call it personal leave.”

“We’ll say you’re staying here indefinitely,” Mom added. 

Farah’s tone was quiet. “Shane, I know you don’t care about optics right now, but I need you to know how it looks. The captain of Montreal suddenly gone. Their rival’s star hospitalized. It’s… messy.”

He let out a hollow breath. “It already was messy.”

“Let us handle the noise,” Mom said. “You stay focused on Ilya.”

He sat there a long time after they’d moved on to the next practical questions. Their voices blurred together and the world outside the window looked washed out and colorless.

Later that morning, Shane walked in with his parents at Ilya’s room and he looked… smaller.

Mom was the first to move. She stepped closer to the bed, one hand trembling before she reached for Ilya’s face. “Oh, my dear boy,” she whispered. Her thumb brushed lightly over his cheekbone. “You’re so strong. You’re going to be okay.”

Her hand stayed there for a moment. She covered her mouth with the same hand and stepped back, shoulders shaking. “I—I can’t,” she said as she left the room. Dad went out and Shane could see him wrapped an arm around her, holding her close as she sobbed quietly in the hallway. From the other side of the glass, Shane watched them. They were all breaking in their own ways.

He turned back to the bed. “I’m here, Ilya.” he said quietly. “Mom and Dad are here, too.” He wanted to climb into that bed, to hold him, to shake him awake and tell him that he was sorry. Instead, he sat down and folded his hands together like a prayer.

The next three days blurred together. Shane arrived fifteen minutes before eleven, and left on the dot, only because the nurses made him. He would’ve stayed the night if they’d let him.

He learned the rhythm of the place: the beep of the monitor, the soft hiss of oxygen, the shuffle of nurses changing shifts. He memorized every scar on Ilya’s skin, every bruise that bloomed under the bandages. He sat by Ilya’s bedside and talked about everything and nothing. About the weather, about how the Centaurs were already asking Shane about him, about the stupid table that Shane stubbed his toe on. He spoke as if his words could anchor Ilya to the world.

Sometimes he read aloud from whatever he could find. A magazine, a player report, the back of a lotion, anything that filled the silence. And when he ran out of words, he apologized. Over and over, until his throat ached. “I’m sorry,” he would whisper. “I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve—”

On the fourth morning, something changed. It was almost noon when Ilya’s fingers twitched. Then, slowly, Ilya’s eyelids fluttered. For one fleeting moment, his eyes opened, dazed and unfocused.

“Hey, hey,” Shane said quickly, leaning forward. “You’re okay, you’re safe. I’m right here, Ilya.”

Shane went out to get someone. The nurse appeared within seconds, pressing the call button for the attending doctor. “Mr. Rozanov, can you hear me?” she said gently.

Ilya blinked once, then his eyes slipped closed again.

“Keep talking to him,” she said to Shane. “It helps with orientation. Just… keep your voice steady.”

So Shane did. He told him about the cottage, and how he missed eating tuna melts that Ilya made. He told him about how the Centaurs were complaining to him about how they couldn’t visit Ilya because they were busy winning games for their captain on the other side of the continent and that the locker room was very quiet without him. It was half-sob, half-laugh when he said it.

The doctor came in and checked the monitors, writing something down before glancing at Shane. “He’s stable,” he said. “That’s good. Let’s give him time.” That day, Ilya didn’t wake again, which made Shane very sad. He can’t wait to retell Ilya everything and hear Ilya laugh and complain and tease.

The next morning, few minutes before eleven, Shane was already standing outside Ilya’s room. The rain had started again. Mom and Dad had gone to Ilya’s house to pick up some of his things.

“Mr. Hollander. Can we talk for a moment?” He recognized the doctor from yesterday.

Shane looked up, smiled faintly, and nodded. Shane did not know why, but he was positive Ilya will wake up around noon again today. And Shane was hopeful he’d remain awake while Shane yapped about stuff.

"I'd like to talk to you in my office." As soon as Shane heard that, he felt all hope left him. He dragged himself to follow the doctor.

Once inside, the doctor asked him to take a seat. Shane did.

Then, the doctor hesitated, but asked, “Mr. Hollander, have you ever heard of retrograde amnesia?”

Shane can only stare at him. The sound of the rain filled the silence that followed.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Hollander, have you ever heard of retrograde amnesia?”

Shane’s mind ran off in a panic. He thought he’d heard of it in a movie, but he certainly never imagined he’d be in that situation. His mind raced through all the sad movies he and Ilya watched and how terribly some of them ended. Surely, Shane must’ve mistaken. The doctor didn’t actually say amnesia, did he? Ilya had convinced him he was the most boring person in the world, and there was no way something like this was happening to them. He silently prayed the doctor had asked randomly, just to test his general knowledge. Maybe if he didn’t answer, the doctor wouldn’t continue what Shane thought he was about to say?

He didn’t know how long had passed, but all Shane could do was nod his head.

“Ilya woke up twice after visiting hours,” the doctor began, adjusting the folder in his lap. “The first time, last night, was brief, only a few seconds. This morning he was more responsive, lucid enough for us to speak with him.”

Shane’s throat tightened. “And?”

“He’s very confused,” the doctor said carefully. “He believes he’s nineteen years old.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. Shane blinked as if waiting for some kind of clarification that didn’t come.

“Nineteen,” the doctor repeated softly. “He’s lost approximately ten years of memory. From his perspective, it’s 2010. He thinks he’s been drafted first overall by the Boston Bears and had just moved to Boston.”

Shane felt his chest cave in. He gripped the arms of his chair to stop his hands from shaking. “You’re sure?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. We ran orientation questions: date, location, his professional status, personal history. His answers are entirely consistent with that timeline. It’s a pattern we see with retrograde amnesia, particularly with cerebral contusions like his.”

Shane could feel tears pooling in his eyes. It was such a familiar feeling these days. His voice cracked before he could stop it. “Will it come back?”

“It’s impossible to predict,” the doctor said gently. “Memory recovery varies. Sometimes days. Sometimes months or years. But, truthfully, sometimes not at all.”

Shane pressed his palms over his eyes, shaking his head. “He doesn’t— He doesn’t know who I am? How about his current team?”

The doctor shook his head. “He thought he was still with Boston.”

Shane was full-on crying now. Shane used to pray the universe would skip forward ten years so they could retire and he could finally love Ilya openly. He never wished for ten years backward.

“We asked him about his family. When questioned, he only remembered a brother and a father back in Russia. He doesn't have any memory of his adult life contacts. When we asked about you and your family, he could only recognize you in the context of international tournaments. Nothing beyond.”

Shane tried to breathe, but the sound came out jagged. His thoughts were racing: the draft stage, the smug handshake, the awkward moment at the hotel gym. The summer after, the CCM shoot in July, Ilya calling him very pretty, Shane’s hotel room in Toronto. Shane winning their first face-off in the NHL. He wondered if those were also gone. They were nineteen then.

“There’s something else you should be prepared for. Because Ilya believes he’s nineteen, his emotional state will reflect that. His coping mechanisms, his maturity, even his temperament. He may seem… younger. And because of the contusion in his left temporal lobe, he’ll have difficulty speaking clearly for a while like aphasia, possibly dysarthria. It’s temporary, but it’ll make communication harder.”

Shane struggled to keep up. “So he might not be able to talk?”

“He’ll talk,” the doctor assured him. “But slowly, and possibly mostly in Russian when he’s tired or upset. When that happens, keep things simple. Don’t overwhelm him with emotion or history. Stick to facts, and avoid sharing your personal opinions or strong feelings when speaking to him. It might agitate him or make him even more confused.”

Shane nodded numbly. He can feel his fingers digging into his palms. “Right.”

“Mr. Hollander,” the doctor said, his voice softening, “I know this is a lot. But you should remember that while he may not remember you, his body still recognizes comfort. Your voice, your presence, those things matter.”

Shane wiped his cheeks quickly and stood up. He didn’t want to listen anymore. “Can I… can I see him?”

“Of course,” the doctor said. “You can stay as long as visiting hours allow.”

When Shane stepped back into the ICU, Ilya was still asleep. Shane stood at the foot of the bed, hands shaking at his sides. He didn’t know if he was allowed to touch him anymore. He didn’t know if Ilya would even want him there.

He reached out anyway, brushed his fingers against the edge of the blanket. “Ilya, even if you don’t know me, I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

He stayed like that, staring at Ilya's face, until he heard footsteps behind him. “Shane?” Dad’s voice.

He turned, swallowing hard. “Can we—” His voice cracked. “Can we talk outside?” Mom stood behind Dad, and Shane sometimes felt like it physically hurt her to see Ilya stripped of his teasing smirk and sharp wit.

They stepped into a corner and made sure no one was around. The moment he started explaining, his voice broke completely.

“He doesn’t know us,” Shane said, words spilling out between shallow breaths. “He thinks he’s nineteen. He thinks he’s playing for Boston. He doesn’t remember—he doesn’t remember anything. Not you, not me, not like that.”

Mom can only stare at him while her eyes fill with tears. Dad pulled her close, resting his chin on her head, and for a long moment no one said anything. 

“He doesn’t know you two yet,” Shane said quietly, staring at the floor. 

Mom’s sob was small and helpless. She turned into Dad’s chest, and he held her tighter. Shane hugged them, too, while he listened to the sound of his parents crying, knowing that the man they all loved most in the world had slipped ten years away from them.

When Shane went back inside, he took his usual seat beside the bed. He hold Ilya’s hand, half-hoping for a twitch, a sign. Then Ilya moved. It was small. His lashes fluttered once, then again, and his eyes opened. Shane’s heart lurched. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning forward. “Hey, Ilya.”

Ilya’s gaze shifted slowly, unfocused at first. His eyes tracked the room, then settled on Shane. There was no recognition in them. Just confusion.

Shane tried to smile. “Ilya, do you… need something?” he said carefully. Like he was speaking to something fragile. He was afraid Ilya would go back to sleep again before he could even talk to him.

Ilya blinked slowly, his lips parting. His voice came out hoarse and low. “Voda,” he murmured. Water.

He turned to his Mom to relay, and his Dad went out to get the nurse. When he looked back, Ilya pulled his hand away. Shane froze. “It’s okay,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s okay, you don’t—”

Ilya’s eyes moved between Shane, then past him, to where Mom stood just inside the doorway like she was about to cry again. Ilya didn’t say anything. He looked at them like they’re strangers. 

The nurse came in with a small cup and a straw. “Just a sip for now,” she said. She supported Ilya’s head gently while he drank, slow and tentative. When he sank back against the pillow, his eyelids were already heavy again. The nurse adjusted the drip. “The body remembers care, even when the mind doesn’t,” she told Shane quietly. 

Shane nodded, eyes fixed on Ilya. “Yeah,” he said, voice breaking. “I hope so.”

Ilya drifted back to sleep, while Shane just sat there, watching, holding the space between them as if sheer will could bridge ten years of lost time.

Hospitals didn’t care for heartache; they ran on schedules and forms, and heartache had to find a place between them. Ilya needed to be moved. The ICU was too loud and too bright. They were also worried about privacy. Shane followed the gurney down the long corridor. 

The new room was tucked into a quieter wing, behind double doors and restricted signs. It wasn’t much larger, but it was dimmer, with the curtains drawn half-closed. The machines beeped more softly here, like they’d been told to whisper. The walls were the color of ash.

He sat in the corner while the nurses adjusted IV lines and ran checks. That was when Farah arrived, moving like a storm of her own. With her black coat, heels clicking, her expression set with the kind of calm that terrified people who didn’t know her. She hugged Shane tightly. 

Mom called them outside Ilya’s room. He stayed seated as they spoke to the head nurse, because he knew there was nothing for him to add. He just watched the exchange unfold, like a theater performance.

“I need to know exactly who’s cleared to enter that room, effective immediately upon transfer,” Farah said. Her tone was the kind of people used when they’d run out of softer options.

The nurse, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a name tag that read Nora, nodded carefully. “Of course. But we’ll need formal authorization. Mr. Rozanov’s listed next of kin are overseas, so legally—”

“I’m his designated Medical Power of Attorney and legal proxy,” Mom cut in firmly. “That was filed years ago through his agent and the team. I have the authority to make medical and privacy decisions in the absence of his immediate family.”

Nora hesitated, then consulted the folder in her hand. “I see that here, yes. The proxy is valid.”

“We’ll issue a written directive. Authorized personnel only. Anyone not listed will need Mrs. Hollander’s explicit approval.” Farah replied.

“And no media leaks. No casual mentions. If any unauthorized information, no matter how small, leaves this floor, we will pursue this hospital for breach of patient privacy and gross negligence. My lawyer will contact the board immediately. We have zero tolerance for leaks.” Mom added, her voice dropping but hardening.

Nora didn’t flinch. “You don’t have to worry about that, ma’am. We all know who Mr. Rozanov is. Everyone here’s rooting for him.”

Something in Mom’s face softened. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It’s just—he’s been through enough.”

Farah exhaled slowly. “We need the official access list finalized tonight. It is myself, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, and Shane. No exceptions.”

Nora nodded, pulling a fresh form from the clipboard. “I’ll have this signed by my department head. We’ll restrict his attending physicians and nursing staff to a fixed rotation, all reminded of confidentiality.”

When Nora finished writing, she looked at Shane. “Mr. Hollander, I promise you, he’s safe in the new suite. The private wing is quieter and better for his light sensitivity,” she said. “We all know what he means to this city. We’ll take care of him.”

He nodded mutely. “Thank you.” Shane felt a flicker of relief. It felt like the world was trying, however clumsily, to protect the man he loved.

That evening, Ilya went into surgery to fix his broken bones, but only after his neurologist confirmed his brain activity was stable enough. The doctors explained it all in careful detail. “The fractures are severe,” one of them said, “but manageable. The primary concern remains neurological recovery.”

Shane nodded because he didn’t know what else to do. He waited in a small lounge outside the OR with his parents. He counted every minute of the four-hour operation by the flicker of the clock’s red digits. Every time a nurse passed, he looked up like a drowning man spotting a rescue boat. When they finally wheeled Ilya back to his room, Shane sat beside the bed with his hands trembling. He tried to find words, but all that came out was, “You did so good, Ilya. I love you.”

The days blurred together after that. Shane stopped counting hours. Ilya woke sometimes, never for long. A few minutes, sometimes up to fifteen minutes. The doctors kept their questions simple, Where does it hurt? Do you know your name? Can you hear me? He’d answer in fragments, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in English, sometimes not at all. Then he would fade again, leaving Shane with the hum of the machines and the faint trace of his voice.

Shane stayed through all of it. Now that Ilya's not in the ICU, Shane can stay with him all the time. He learned to recognize the different sounds of Ilya’s breathing. He slept on the couch. Every time Ilya woke, Shane was there. Every time, Ilya looked at him the same way, confused, cautious, like he was trying to place a face from a half-remembered dream.

Once, a doctor came in while Ilya was awake and asked a series of quiet questions. Shane stood back, afraid to interrupt. Ilya answered, eyes darting toward Shane every so often, uncertain, like trying to understand why the stranger beside his bed looked like he might break.

He never asked who Shane was. 

By the end of the week, Shane felt like he had lived a lifetime in the chair near Ilya’s bed. He barely ate. Mom brought food he didn’t touch. Dad kept trying to pull him into the hall for air, but Shane couldn’t leave.

On the seventh evening, just after Shane dimmed the lights even more, Ilya stirred again. His eyelids fluttered open, slower and more alert. He turned his head toward Shane and watched him for a long while. Shane can only stare at him back, cataloguing Ilya’s scar like he always does every day.

Then, in an unsteady voice, heavy with his accent, Ilya asked, “Why are you always here?” He sounded genuinely curious and honest, but tired.

Shane can feel tears in his cheeks. He tried to smile, but it hurt too much. He wanted to say, Because I’m yours. But what came out instead was silence as he remembered the doctor’s warnings.