Chapter Text
A faint, rhythmic beeping slowly dragged him back to consciousness. It was sharp, sterile, and entirely annoying.
Certainly, this couldn't be the afterlife.
Could it?
Everything felt cold and heavy. He was alone. He wasn’t supposed to be alone. The realization settled over him like lead. Had he failed?
"Mr. Rozanov?" A voice filtered through the persistent hum of the monitors. It was clinical, detached, and unfamiliar.
That wasn't Mama. Where was she?
His eyelashes fluttered, his vision hazy and unfocused. The harsh, blinding bite of fluorescent lights sent a spike of pain through his skull, forcing him to slam his eyes shut again.
A broken, ragged sob tore from his chest, his whole body trembling as the agonizing reality of survival set in.
"Ya provalilsya, mama," he wept into the quiet room, his native Russian thick and desperate. I failed, Mom.
He squeezed his eyes tight, curling inward as the tears spilled over. "Mne zhal'... Mne tak zhal'..." I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
The drive to Massachusetts General was a blur of taillights and static. Honestly, he shouldn't have been behind the wheel—his hands were shaking too hard, his focus completely shattered—but the alternative was sitting still, and sitting still was a death sentence.
When he finally pulled into the hospital lot, he didn't care about a proper space. He threw the car into park haphazardly, half-mounting the curb, and sprinted toward the sliding glass doors of the emergency entrance.
The moment the sterile, fluorescent heat of the lobby hit him, Shane froze. The momentum that had carried him across the city evaporated, leaving him stranded on the slick linoleum.
The questions he’d been outrunning finally caught up, slamming into him with suffocating weight.
What if they don't let me see him? He wasn't family. On paper, he was just a rival captain.
What if he doesn't want to see me? What if the pressure of everything—of them—was part of the reason Ilya had done this?
What if he's already gone?
Shane shook his head violently, trying to physically reject the thought before it could take root. No. Alex said he was stable. He would know if Ilya was gone. He’d feel it in his chest, wouldn't he? The world couldn't just keep spinning if Ilya wasn't in it.
Steeling his spine, Shane swallowed the bitter taste of panic, forced his legs to move, and walked toward the reception desk.
The nurse behind the desk looks up as Shane approaches, a kind smile pulling at her lips.
"Can I help you?" She asks.
Shane hesitates, realizing how bad of an idea this was. They were still a secret, and they were both very well known. Sure it was in a particular circle, but they were still pro athletes. Hockey was big in Boston.
He shook his head again. He needed to focus. For Ilya.
"I was looking for," he swallows. "Ilya Rozanov?"
The nurse’s smile faltered slightly, her professional composure shifting into a look of quiet assessment. The name carried weight, especially in a Boston hospital, and Shane could see the immediate flash of recognition in her eyes.
"Are you family?" she asked softly.
The question hit like a physical blow. No, he wanted to scream. I'm the person who loves him. I'm the person he belongs to. But on paper, he was nothing.
"I'm Shane Hollander," he said, keeping his voice low, desperately hoping his own name wouldn't trigger an alarm that would get him thrown out. "I'm a friend. His team... Alex Wolfe told me he was here."
The nurse looked down at her computer, her fingers hovering over the keyboard for a long, agonizing moment before she began to type. The rhythmic click of the keys sounded like a countdown in the quiet lobby. Shane gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, praying she wouldn't see the desperation bleeding through his suit.
The nurse stared at her screen for what felt like an eternity, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed softly and looked back up at Shane. The skepticism in her eyes had melted into a profound, heavy pity. She clearly recognized him now, or at least recognized the agony radiating off him.
"He’s on the fourth floor," she said, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. "But strictly immediate family and designated individuals are allowed back. I shouldn't even be telling you this, Mr. Hollander, but... room 412. If security stops you, I didn't give you that."
"Thank you," Shane choked out, the words scraping against his throat.
He didn't wait for her to change her mind. He bolted toward the elevators, hitting the up arrow repeatedly until the doors groaned open. The ride to the fourth floor was agonizingly slow, the mechanical hum of the elevator drowning out the frantic pounding of his heart.
When the doors finally slid open, the air on the fourth floor felt heavier, thick with the smell of antiseptic and the quiet, rhythmic beeping of monitors. Shane stepped out, his eyes darting frantically down the corridor, searching for the numbers on the wall.
408... 410...
And then he saw them. Sitting in the vinyl chairs outside room 412 were Alex Wolfe and Cliff Marleau, their heads buried in their hands. They must have left the arena right after Shane.
As his dress shoes squeaked on the linoleum, Alex looked up. There was no anger left in the older player's face—only an exhausting, hollow defeat. He stood up slowly and gestured toward the heavy wooden door of the room.
"His friend, Svetlana, is flying in from Russia, but she won't be here until tomorrow morning," Alex said quietly, his voice raspy. "He's awake, Shane. Go on.”
Shane’s hand hovered over the heavy silver handle, his throat tight. Before he could turn it, a firm weight landed on his shoulder. He glanced back to find Alex holding his gaze, a silent, grim nod of reassurance passing between them.
The door felt like a barrier between two entirely different lives. Shane had no idea what was waiting for him on the other side.
Will he look normal?
Will he look sick?
The horrifying realization hit him that he didn’t even know how Ilya had tried to do it. But as the thought formed, a wave of nausea rolled through his stomach, and he forcefully shut it down. He couldn't stomach the details. Not now. Maybe never.
Steeling himself, Shane squeezed his eyes shut, took one long, stabilizing breath, and pushed the door open.
The room was bathed in the dim, sterile glow of medical monitors. Ilya was sitting up in the hospital bed, his frame looking uncharacteristically small under the white linens. His face was completely hollow, stripped of its usual color as he stared blankly at the far wall.
He didn't even turn his head when the door clicked open.
"Ilya." Shane breathed the name like a prayer.
He was right there. In front of him. Alive.
Alex had said he was stable, but physically seeing the slow rise and fall of Ilya's chest was the only thing that allowed Shane to pull in his first full breath since the third period.
Ilya blinked, pulled from whatever dissociative fog had consumed him, and slowly turned his head. He stared for a long, quiet moment, his eyes bleary and hollow, before a flicker of recognition finally cut through the blankness.
"Shane," he whispered, his voice incredibly hoarse. "What are you doing here?"
Shane’s heart plummeted. In his frantic sprint across the city, he had never once considered the possibility that Ilya might not want him there.
He looked down at his dress shoes, suddenly feeling entirely out of place standing in a Boston hospital room in his post-game suit. The contrast of the hockey world against this sterile reality felt jarring and stupid.
He took a jagged breath to steady his racing thoughts before looking back up.
An IV line ran into the back of Ilya's bruised hand, and a heart monitor beeped every few seconds, tracking his rhythm. It was a steady, mechanical reminder that Ilya was still here.
He almost wasn't, his mind whispered, a terrifying echo. Shane forcefully shoved the thought away.
"Cliff told me what happened," Shane said quietly.
Ilya didn't flinch. He just stared blankly at Shane for another heartbeat, gave a single, microscopic nod, and turned his gaze back to the empty wall.
Shane's heart sank even deeper at the hollow look on Ilya's face. He felt entirely unmoored, standing in the quiet of the hospital room with no idea how to bridge the distance between them—or if Ilya would even let him try.
When Shane didn't move, Ilya’s gaze drifted back to him.
"Why are you here, Shane?" His voice was entirely flat, stripped of its usual warmth and rhythm.
Shane took a tentative step forward, stopping just at the foot of the bed. "I had to see you," he said softly, the words coming out like a confession he shouldn't be making in a room that felt so exposed. "I had to know you were okay."
Ilya let out a low, humorless laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Do I look okay, Shane?"
Shane flinched, instinctively taking a half-step back.
"I am not okay," Ilya continued, his voice rising just enough to strain against his hoarseness. "Is that what you want to hear? Or should I lie and tell you I am fine? That seems to be what everybody wants."
The venom in Ilya's tone was sharp, making it almost impossible for Shane not to take the blow personally. He felt the sting of it straight in his chest.
"I—" Shane paused, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He was entirely out of his depth. What was the right thing to say to someone who had just tried to leave the world? What could he possibly offer that wouldn't make things worse?
"You what?" Ilya deadpanned, waving a weak, dismissive hand for him to continue.
Shane shook his head, the defense mechanisms he usually relied on entirely failing him. "I was terrified, Ilya," he said, his voice wobbling dangerously. "You weren't on the ice. No one would tell me anything. And then Cliff said..."
Ilya froze, his cynical posture instantly evaporating. An unreadable, guarded expression crossed his pale features.
"Why, Ilya?" Shane choked out, the burning in his eyes finally spilling over. "Why did you do it?”
Ilya looked away, his jaw tightening as he mumbled a string of low, hurried Russian under his breath.
"What was that?" Shane stepped closer, desperation overriding his hesitation.
Ilya’s head snapped back around, a raw, furious fire lighting up his hazel eyes. "What does it matter?" he spat, his voice cracking. "You will just leave. Like everyone else I love."
The words hit Shane like a physical blow, stealing the air straight from his lungs. He sucked in a sharp, burning breath, the tears he’d been fighting finally spilling over his lashes.
"Ilya, I wouldn't leave you," he whispered.
Slowly, carefully, he moved to the edge of the mattress. He hesitated, his hand hovering in the small space between them. He was terrified to touch him—afraid that even the slightest pressure might cause the fragile, glass-thin reality they were standing on to completely shatter.
"You will find out how broken I am," Ilya choked out, his anger dissolving into something agonizingly hollow. "Just like Mother. She left me. And you will, too.”
Tears spilled down Ilya's cheeks as he twisted away again, completely refusing to meet Shane’s eyes.
Shane didn't think anymore. He moved in and gently cupped Ilya’s cheek, his fingers warm against the cold, pale skin, slowly guiding his head back around.
He scrambled for the words to convince Ilya that he was here for the long haul, that he wasn't going anywhere. But as he looked into those shattered hazel eyes, the pieces suddenly started clicking together in his mind. The timeline. The sudden, dark descent.
A horrific realization dawned on him.
It’s the anniversary.
Ilya had tried to end his life on the exact same day, and likely in the exact same way, as his mother.
"Why was I not enough?" Ilya whispered, a broken, agonizing sob ripping from his chest. "Why did she not think I was enough to stay for?"
"Oh, Ilya."
Shane’s heart broke entirely. He leaned forward and pulled the heavy frame of the Russian close to his chest, minding the IV lines and the tangle of wires. He wrapped his arms tightly around him, anchoring him to the room, and pressed a long, fierce kiss against his forehead.
Ilya sobbed heavily into Shane's chest. Shane rubbed steady, grounding circles into his back, murmuring soft, quiet reassurances he was almost certain Ilya couldn't fully process through the grief.
"Why didn't she fight harder?" Ilya choked out, his fingers knotting into the fabric of Shane’s suit jacket. He clung to him like a drowning man, terrified that if his grip slipped even a fraction, Shane would vanish. "I needed her. Why didn't she let me help?"
"It wasn't your fault, Ilya," Shane said softly, his voice thick. "It was never your fault."
The words only seemed to break Ilya further, his shoulders shaking with violent, ragged cries. "I just wanted to see her again," he wept.
If Shane's heart could shatter any more than it already had, it would be in pieces on the linoleum floor. He tightened his embrace, squeezing Ilya tighter as if physical force alone could hold the pieces of his boyfriend together.
Ilya began to babble, a fractured mix of rapid Russian and breathless English, the words bleeding together until they were entirely unintelligible. Shane felt a desperate urge to scream, to cry, to beg the universe to give Ilya a break from the crushing weight in his head. But he couldn't break down. Not right now. Ilya needed him to be the anchor.
Hot tears gathered along Shane's lashes, heavy and burning, but he refused to blink. If they don't fall, he told himself stubbornly, I'm not crying. I'm staying strong.
"I'm sorry, Shane," Ilya sobbed, the words muffled against his shoulder. "I did not want to leave you. I never want to leave you."
"Shhh." Shane smoothed the damp curls back from Ilya’s forehead, his voice cracking on the quiet sound. "It's okay."
It's not.
"You're still here," he whispered.
Thank God.
"You're safe."
I'll make sure of it. I'll make sure the whole world stays away.
Ilya hiccuped, taking a sharp, shuddering breath that rattled through his entire chest. He tightened his desperate grip on Shane's jacket. "Please don't leave me."
"I'm not going anywhere. I promise." Shane said, his voice fracturing entirely as the tears he’d been fighting finally spilled over, hot and unchecked, down his cheeks.
Shane would protect Ilya with everything he had. That much he could promise the universe, and himself. He just wished he could reach into Ilya’s chest and tear out the heartbreak rotting him from the inside out.
"I love you, Ilya," Shane murmured, pressing his forehead against Ilya's.
Ilya sniffed, his deep sobs finally tapering off into jagged, choked hiccups as he pulled back just enough to look into Shane’s eyes.
"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya whispered back, the Russian words heavy with exhaustion and fierce, desperate devotion.
Shane reached up, cupping Ilya’s cheek once more, and gently swept away the fresh tracks of tears with his thumb.
"Will you stay?" Ilya asked. His voice was completely shot, raw and hoarse from crying, making him sound younger than he ever had on the ice.
Shane smiled softly, his thumb continuing its soothing, repetitive stroke against Ilya's cheek.
"Always," Shane promised. "I'm right here.”
Ilya studied him for a long, quiet moment, searching the lines of his face for even a fraction of a lie. Finding none, he finally relaxed, settling back against the thin pillows of the hospital bed. He didn't let go of Shane's jacket, tugging firmly until Shane stumbled slightly into the narrow pocket of space Ilya had made beside him.
"Ilya, we're way too big to share a twin hospital bed," Shane protested, a weak, breathless chuckle escaping him.
"Nooo," Ilya pouted. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, completely stripped of his usual confident luster. "I need you, moy pomidor."
Shane paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face as his brain scrambled to translate the Russian words. "Tomato?"
A small, genuine fraction of a grin touched Ilya’s lips, and he nodded.
"Strange," Shane murmured with a soft laugh, finally giving in and climbing onto the mattress. He moved carefully, minding the IV lines and wires, until he was tucked against Ilya’s side.
Shane pressed close, resting his head directly over Ilya’s chest. He focused entirely on the steady, rhythmic thump, thump, thump beneath his cheek, anchoring himself to the sound.
Ilya was here.
He was alive.
"I am sorry I scared you," Ilya whispered into the quiet room as he wrapped an arm around Shane.
Shane tilted his head up to look at him. "I was terrified," he admitted honestly.
Ilya’s brow furrowed, a heavy shadow falling over his face as if he were on the verge of tears all over again. "I am broken, Shane. Maybe I always have been. Just like my mother."
Shane shifted, propping himself up slightly to get a better look at his boyfriend. "You're not broken, Ilya," he said firmly, reaching up to catch a stray tear before it could fall. "You're just hurting, and you need a little help. That's all."
Ilya met his gaze, his hazel eyes wide and agonizingly vulnerable. "Will you help me?"
A soft smile broke through Shane’s exhaustion. He could do this for Ilya. He could be exactly what he needed—and not just in the shadows of hotel rooms or behind closed doors. Looking at Ilya now, the terrifying reality of how close he’d come to losing him settled in. Life was too fragile. He didn't want to love Ilya in the dark anymore.
"I thought you'd never ask," Shane whispered.
They fell asleep like that, pressed close together in the narrow hospital bed. It wasn't ideal, and it was far from comfortable, but it was them.
Ilya still had a long way to go and a lifetime of healing ahead of him, but Shane vowed right then and there to be by his boyfriend's side for every single step of the way. No more hiding, no more distance. Whatever came next, they would face it in the light.