Chapter Text
NHL AWARDS, VEGAS, SUMMER 2014. SHANE.
Shane had made it back to his hotel room, out of his stupid tux, and into the shower before he'd changed his mind.
He had felt so stupid the entire ride down in the elevator, the walk back to his room. Stupid for going to Ilya's room in the first place, stupid for wanting more, stupid for feeling upset he didn't get more. What had he been expecting after six months of nothing, belittling, and more nothing? He should have gotten the message when Ilya hadn't texted him back after they'd gone all the way for the first time. Should have gotten the message when Ilya had literally said it in Russia; we are nothing. He hadn't, and he hadn't, and he'd gone on to send more unanswered texts during the season, not a lot, and not often, but still. He had kept reaching out, ignoring the obvious, because, what? Because he thought maybe there was something else there? That Ilya might want him for more than what he'd already gotten from Shane? Yes. Actually.
That was what Shane changed his mind about, washing his face in the shower for what felt like the sixth time, skin feeling raw from dragging the facecloth over and over it like he could just wipe off his fucking shame from the whole night.
He had been stupid, yes. He had wanted too much, okay. But Ilya had been the one to kiss him in the bathroom after they'd had their presentation. Ilya had been the one to start this up again after Shane had given up. Ilya had followed him. So they were both stupid, which was easier to bear than having it just be him who was stupid. And if Ilya could just come crashing back into Shane's life, following him into bathrooms and reaching right into Shane's fucking rib cage, taking what he wanted, then Shane could do that to.
He got out of the shower with renewed energy, leaving the weird curdled feelings of grief to drip down the drain with the shower water and soap suds. Dried off, redressed in sweats and a hoodie, his comfiest sneakers. It was his plane outfit for tomorrow, but he was only going to wear it for half an hour max. He wasn't as much of an asshole as Ilya was, he knew Ilya needed to sleep to catch his flight. All Shane wanted was a fucking kiss, and he didn't think that was actually too much to ask.
BOSTON, WINTER 2014. ILYA.
The week Ilya arrived back to Boston from Sochi was the week he made his first real plan. He had a fresh pack of painkillers prescribed by the med team in the Russian Olympic village, he'd gone in for a headache and they'd chucked the whole packet at him. Probably they had been hoping he would just take the whole pack then, deliver Russia from the embarrassment of a captain who had let his team lose to Latvia.
He had still been pretending he had it together, then. Putting on a show of the firm jawed, strong will he always wore for his father and the galas he got dragged to.
He'd made the mistake of seeking out Shane, while he had been doing his best to pretend. He had just wanted to be in Shane's proximity, to see him, as if somehow seeing Shane would be enough to remind him that not everything was awful. It might not have been a mistake, because it had been working a little, except that Shane ended up seeing him, and coming over with a face too full of concern like he was allowed to feel anything but mild contempt for Ilya. Despite the fact that Shane could read a single twitch on ice and understand an opposing play, he had always - in Ilya's experience - been truly awful at reading a room without subtitles. Refused to pick up on the fact that Ilya wasn't just being an asshole the way he usually was, but that he needed Shane to stop speaking to him, to go away, refused to pick up on it until Ilya spat out harsher words that couldn't be undercut with a shake of his head, or a roll of his eyes to show that he didn't mean it, not really.
Despite this, he had held it together because that was what he always did, and never more so than while he was in Russia. Maybe it was mostly spite and habit, that did it. He always got through, and then got out. That was what he did.
He got through the Olympics. He got out. He arrived back in Boston. He unpacked his bag. He stared at the box of pills that fell out with his sweatpants. And he thought; who would it even matter to?
It had been a simple, inelegant plan. Barely a plan at all. He would write a quick note, housekeeping really, so there would be no confusion about who his cars went to, an apology to Bears' management for leaving them short handed. He would take all of the pills. He could go lie in his bathtub for an easier clean up. Should he leave another note on the door for his cleaner? A sorry, don't come in, call 911 kind of thing.
He'd made it halfway through writing the first note before it felt suddenly far too pathetic. Was this seriously the legacy he wanted to leave behind? No one would talk about any of his wins if he killed himself now. He would be the failed Russian team captain of the 2014 Olympics who couldn't handle the job and offed himself about it. His father would probably follow him in death just to yell at him for embarrassing the family, and Russia, and everyone who had ever rooted for him.
And when he had been made captain in Boston, he had promised his Bears he would get them a cup. He couldn't just leave without doing that. Didn't want to leave and let people think he was a liar, or that he just gave up when things got hard, lazy, useless, stupid boy.
He tore up the note he'd begun, and began his second plan instead.
-
The second plan was a lot more open ended than the first. For one, the last step wasn't necessarily to die, it was only one of the options. He had given himself this season to carry the plan out, didn't think he'd have the wherewithal to try it in a longer time frame.
Step one was to redirect attention away from the Olympics, and towards the Bears.
Step two was to make the Bears worth the redirection. He had ideas on new plays, new workouts, new conditioning. He would work with the coaches to get their team into the best shape they had ever been in.
Step three was to not only get into the play offs, but to go all the way. Win the Stanley Cup.
Step four relied on step three succeeding, and was still only the assumed outcome, but he was pretty sure of it still. Win MVP.
Step five was the clincher. The first option here was reliant on Ilya feeling like he had more to give and do. If he got to step five and had some excitement for the next season, some peace with his failures, then step five was simply to enjoy the win.
The outcome Ilya was, perhaps, leaning closer to, was the second option, in which Ilya fulfilled all the previous steps and still arrived at step five with the same lead feeling in his gut. Step five, die.
It wasn't the most thorough of lists, he knew that. If he was actually writing it down instead of holding it in his head it would be full of little notes, training plans, suicide options, drafts for the letter he should leave. It would probably be very confusing. Safer to keep it in his head, where no one else could stumble over it and get any weird ideas about it.
-
By the time he had wrapped up step three, Ilya was pretty sure he knew which step five option he would be taking. He had had a moment of relief, holding the cup up to the camera, screaming out to the world, enjoying the excitement of his team and the crowd. Had thought maybe he could grab onto that relief and stretch it into something bigger. Managed to hold onto it through the night of partying, the first time since Sochi he had let himself fully loose, drinking and dancing. Svetlana in his arms, random women in his arms, Marlow and Connors at his side, cheersing and carousing, laughing.
His father had called the next morning, Ilya hung over, relief and joy still sparking in his blood stream. Svetlana was a snoring lump on one side of him, the Stanley cup a ridiculous lump on the other side. He had thought, fleetingly, that the call would be one of congratulations. Grigori did not make a habit of offering praise, and certainly not lightly, but he did when Ilya had earned it. And surely he had earned it now? The youngest NHL captain to lead his team to a Stanley cup win. The turn around season he had headed. The last game they had played, where the team had moved so well together, oiled machinery.
"Papa," he greeted, speaking low so as not to wake either the lurking headache wrapped around his head, or Svetlana.
"I watched the game," his father said, gruff. "So you can win for your stupid Americans, but not for your home?"
"I am sorry," Ilya said, immediate. The pain in his head tightened, throbbing, woken despite his quiet. "My team here-"
His father didn't wait for Ilya's excuses, he never did. Always said excuses were worthless when an apology would be quicker. "I heard what you said at the end of the game," he said next. "Your mama is not the reason you are a name in America. She did not get you where you are now. She would have raised you to be weak, weaker than you already are. As weak as she was."
Ilya didn't reply. Svetlana stirred against him, not awake, but not fully asleep anymore. He turned his face away from her in case she woke and saw him. Kept his phone pressed to his ear even as he didn't know what he could say here. He wanted to yell, to be so angry at his father for speaking about his mama like this, for bringing her up at all when he never spoke of her. He wanted to say he had come to America in spite of Grigori, not because of him. If his father had had his full way, Ilya would have stayed in the KHL, stayed in Russia, stayed more firmly under his thumb.
"When are you arriving home?" His father asked, then, still stern.
This, at least, Ilya could answer, even if he was surer than ever now that it would be a lie. "After the awards ceremony. For the summer, as always."
"What?" his father snapped, "you should have been home already, it is past your curfew."
Oh. The confusion had been getting worse all season. Ilya only seeing and hearing it in small bursts, usually brushed aside quickly. Alexei was still refusing to fully acknowledge it. Ilya would need to convince him to take their father to the doctors, to get him treatment. He could put money aside for it. He needed to meet with his lawyer anyway, now he was at step five. He had some things he needed to redo in his will.
"Sorry sir," he said, "I am on my way home now."
Svetlana groaned when he hung up the phone, waiting a few seconds after hearing his father end the call, and she batted at his leg.
"Lie back down," she instructed, "It is too early for Stanley cup champion to be awake."
-
There was a new kind of relief now that he knew which option he would be taking. Like he'd finally grasped a new play, knew he'd be able to get the puck in the net. He could work on the real plan now, it gave him something to get up in the morning for, setting everything right before he left. He wanted to be able to know he wouldn't be leaving too much of an embarrassment behind. There would of course, be some embarrassment, but he was sure his family would be able to call it in accident to avoid most of the shame of it. It would be easy for the world to swallow it as an accident; he was known for partying, it would be as simple as calling it a tragic mistake. A stupid mistake. Who would kill themselves after winning MVP and the Stanley cup? It was a good disguise.
He reworked his will with his lawyer, who didn't even question why. His cars he left to Svetlana, except for the black and gold sporty that Marly really liked, left to him. Clothing to be donated. House and furniture sold. Personal effects to be cleared by Svetlana to give out at her discretion. She would be so mad about him asking for more favours, but he had to hope she'd forgive him for it, that at least the cars would buy him a little goodwill.
There was a part of him that wanted to leave something for Shane, but he thought that would probably be cruel more than anything. And what did he have that Shane would want?
He arranged for a medical trust for his father to be set up, to be paid out as needed, after Ilya's death.
His lawyer had raised his eyebrows at that, saying he doubted that would be necessary, and Ilya had shrugged and said he wanted to be prepared.
He set up another trust for his niece. Two parts, one which would be accessible to her mother for childcare costs, the other which would only be payable to Raisa when she turned eighteen.
All the rest of the money he assigned to a handful of charities, and called it a day.
-
To add to the probable eventual story of a young athlete who partied too hard and paid a fatal price for it, Ilya went out with his team to several parties. Wanted to give them a few more memories of him while he wasn't holding their noses to the grinder to get them to the cup. Selfish, maybe, but he wanted his team to be among the few who would maybe miss him for a while. He wouldn't kid himself that they would continue to hold space in their hearts and minds for too long after he left. There would be a new captain, a new team mate, a new Russian even. Probably no one as talented as him, but maybe close.
He and Marly spent an entire weekend in New York, trying new clubs, drinking only top shelf, spending a ridiculous amount of money.
He accompanied Svetlana to two fundraising events, let her dress him up exactly how she wanted, and then stood like nice furnishing at her arm for the event. Smiled nicely for photos, made sure to be seen laughing. She praised and chirped him evenly for his good behaviour. He ate her out afterwards for so long he was sure his chin would be pruney, but also that she would remember it as the best fucking oral she had ever received.
Honestly, if Marly had shown a bit more interest, he'd probably have gone down on him too, leave him another lasting memory to think fondly back on.
-
It had taken several phone calls too many to get Alexei into gear enough to get their father seen properly, and then a lot of money and persuading to get him to work with Ilya to arrange the medical treatment and care, but it had been done. He could rest easy knowing he was only abandoning their expectations for him, not his duties.
If he was closer to Raisa - if he saw her more often than just the Summers - maybe he would re-think his decision. It was one thing to leave grown adults who didn't even like him very much, but another to leave a child. He didn't think she would really even notice, though, let alone care. She liked him well enough when he was there, but he didn't think she thought about it him at when he wasn't there. No one was going to tell her what had happened, he was sure. Their family didn't talk about things like that. He just wouldn't turn up this Summer, and it wouldn't be mentioned, and she would forget about him until his money was released to her. And then it wouldn't matter if she had been a little sad about not seeing her uncle, because she would have so much money she wouldn't have any need for sadness.
He wondered what his mama had thought about leaving her children. If she had thought it wouldn't effect them, or that they would get over it quick enough. If she just felt so bad that she had no space left in her brain to think about them. Whether having enough money of her own would have been enough to change her mind, maybe she would have left only her husband, moved away with her children. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered about any of the details being changed, more money, less money, children, no children, maybe it was a fixed point in time. An event as inevitable as the eventual death of the sun. If maybe it was the same for him.
NHL AWARDS, VEGAS, SUMMER 2014.
Ilya had agreed to present the award and do the silly little skit with Hollander at the NHL awards only because he thought it would add to the public story of his accidental death in a useful way. Something for people to point at and say, see, not suicidal behaviour, this was clearly a mis-calculation.
Also perhaps because he still, so selfishly, wanted to be near Shane again. Not on ice. Out of their gear, so he could see Shane properly. He'd had a few more texts from Shane since Sochi. They had petered off over the season, stopping fully after he'd ignored Shane on the ice during a Boston/Montreal match up. But then he'd texted his congratulations for the cup win, and Ilya had almost broken his resolve and texted him back.
He had to hope that in the future, Shane would be able to look back on Ilya's silence and see it like a gift, almost. Cutting himself off before any real attachment could form, so it wouldn't hurt him when Ilya left for real. And this was the ideal time to do it, for Shane, if it did still hurt him somehow, because he would have the summer to recoup. His hockey would be fine. Ilya was sure.
-
His plan to soak in Shane's presence while keeping his distance was a failed attempt immediately. His father had been right that he was weak, that he folded easily. All it took was Shane's eyes flashing with anger that barely disguised the hurt underneath, and Ilya's body was itching to get closer to Shane's, like just through touch maybe they could both be soothed.
He thought if he could keep himself to a script, aloof, flirtatious, shallow, it would be okay. That he could follow Shane into the bathroom because he could see Shane's own facade collapsing, and pretend he wasn't effected by it. He was effected by it. Didn't know what he was doing except that he so badly wanted to get to be with Shane one more time. Wanted to leave Shane with a better memory than crying in the bathroom. It was only fair. He had made sure to do the same with Svetlana, Marly, his team. Shane meant more to him than half the players on his team, and as self absorbed as it was, Ilya wanted Shane not to hate him. Maybe Shane would hate him afterwards, just for leaving and making the game too easy. He wouldn't like that.
-
He had had to revise his plan to get to have Shane in it. His first thought was he needed to be sure Shane wouldn't be the last one to see him, so Shane wouldn't be a…suspect, or need to explain too much what he had been doing in Ilya's room, if the cameras were checked. He wouldn't let Shane stay too late, would hold back from touching him too much, in case he couldn't make himself let go. Would fuck him so good. Send him off, satisfied. Reparations for Ilya treating him so shittily the last few months, years, whatever. Call room service for more vodka. Ask them to bring it in to him so they can make face to face contact. He had been surreptitiously researching pills all season, and had brought the ones he judged to be the best. Most likely to let him take them and drink himself unconscious and then just not wake up afterwards. Least likely to have him vomit them up and lose their effectiveness. He'd leave his note on the table in the front half of the penthouse, hopefully easily seen and noticed. He'd already left his real letter, for Svetlana, on his kitchen bench at home. He was sure she would find it sooner rather than later. The hotel note was more of a warning for housekeeping that they shouldn't go around into the bedroom, and should just go ahead and call the mortuary.
He'd decided he would prefer to do it on the bed, comfier than the bath for sure, and he would like to just go to sleep. Would like to lie down and drink the good vodka this hotel somehow had, swallow down his pills. He'd already pre-popped them from the blister-pack, stored them in a pill bottle so he could just pour them out and swallow them without having to work for it, or give himself time to chicken out halfway through.
NHL AWARDS, VEGAS, SUMMER 2014. SHANE.
There was no reply to Shane's first knock on Ilya's penthouse room door, and Shane spent a good thirty seconds arguing with himself over knocking again. On one hand, Ilya could literally be asleep already, might not hear Shane knocking even if Shane knocked loudly. And if Shane knocked loudly, he might draw unwanted attention, and then there might be questions, and they might be found out, and then kicked out of the NHL.
On the other hand, Shane had screwed his courage up to the sticking point for this. He didn't think he was on whole a cowardly man, but he found it hard to be brave about this, where he never felt like he was on fully even footing. He wanted to get steadied. He could do this. He didn't give up on things, he didn't back down once he committed. He had come up here to get a proper goodnight like he was a real person, and not just…
He knocked again, a sharper rap.
"Rozanov," he called lowly, "open up."
He heard a muffled, crunching thud from beyond the door, and then very distinctive Russian cursing, rolled his eyes. Knocked again.
"I'm not fucking going away until you open the door and talk to me," he threatened, "so hurry the fuck up."
One of the good things about Ilya having the penthouse was that there was a good gap between room doors, he was unlikely to be directly annoying to anyone except for Ilya, unless of course he had to stay for hours knocking, and then everyone including him would be pissed off.
More swearing, silence, and then heavy footsteps, Ilya opening the door. Shane didn't wait for it to open all the way, had already been standing out in the hallway much longer than his nerves enjoyed, and he slipped in through the gap the moment he could.
Ilya stepped away from the door as Shane stepped in, swaying slightly, Shane noted as he closed the door. The thud from earlier appeared to have been a bottle of vodka being dropped, because there was a still spreading acrid smelling puddle growing from a collection of smashed glass.
He looked from the mess to Ilya, who looked also kind of like a mess. Much more so than he had just over an hour ago directly after they'd fucked.
"Fuck," Shane said, "you okay?"
Ilya blinked at him, forehead pinched. "What is it you come back for?" he asked, his voice oddly tense.
"Uh," Shane glanced back at the smashed bottle. "Do you want me to help you clean this up?"
Ilya also looked back at the bottle, his face doing something unreadable before dropping into familiar frustration.
"Hollander," Ilya said, stepped towards Shane, hands up like he might take Shane by the shoulders. "What is - you forget things?"
How much more had Ilya drank since Shane had left? Just this evening Shane had been impressed by how much Ilya's English had improved in the last six months since they'd talked, and now he sounded like every word was a chore to drag up. The whole room smelled like vodka, and it made Shane want to make Ilya wait for his answer, just clean the fucking mess up now, because if Ilya was drunk he might step in it and shred his feet.
Ilya's hands landed on his shoulders, hot even through the thicker fabric of Shane's hoodie, and one of his thumbs bumped against Shane's neck, wet, like he was sweating. Maybe it was vodka. His hands were shaking, even gripping Shane like he was. Shane dragged his gaze back from the floor vodka to Ilya's face. Up close he looked even more of a mess, eyes reddened and glassy, pupils odd, lips trembling.
"I just -" Shane began, felt so outrageously pathetic all of a sudden, all his certainty of righteousness fading away in the face of Ilya's actual presence. The way just being this close to Ilya was both already calming some upset piece of his brain, but also setting him on high alert. He blinked hard, avoided Ilya's gaze, staring at Ilya's mouth instead. "I just wanted to say, well, that we didn't kiss. And I don't - it feels fucking shit when you don't kiss me at all before you send me away."
That hadn't been quite what he had wanted to say. Okay, maybe it had been what he had been wanting to say, just not what he had planned to say.
Ilya exhaled hard, then he leaned in and kissed Shane, hands still gripping Shane's shoulders. Didn't linger, closed mouth, drew back, and shook Shane's shoulders just slightly so Shane would look up and meet his eyes.
"Okay?" Ilya asked, "kissed. Not much time now so you have to go, yes?"
It would probably have been kinder if Ilya had just slapped him instead of this, treating Shane like a whining child refusing to go to bed without a goodnight kiss. So what that that was basically what was happening. He pulled out of Ilya's grip, Ilya stumbling slightly without Shane's shoulders to brace himself against. He looked confused.
"If kissing me is such a fucking chore you didn't have to do it," Shane snapped, "you could have just said something. Not much time before what, anyway? You have another hook up on their way? Someone you'd prefer to fucking kiss?"
Ilya's forehead was creased again, and he shook his head once, then again, less like he was saying no, more like he was a dog trying to shake water out of his ears.
"No, no," he said eventually, one hand up, like he was looking for something to grab on to, and Shane gave in to the fear that Ilya would fall over, and stepped close again. Ilya's hand landing on his upper arm and squeezing. "Shane," Ilya said, slow and calm like he said it often and like it wasn't shocking Shane like paddles to the chest. "Is just, I need way to make clear you were not murdering me, yes? Would look bad."
"What?" Shane asked, was not following whatever drunken joke Ilya had stumbled on.
"Room service already came," Ilya explained, like he was saying something very obvious, "saw me alive still after you. Now I need - I am so very tired, Shane, I have to do calling more of room servings fast, with you gone, yes? Making sense?"
Making zero sense until Shane's brain clamped down hard on alive, and put together puzzle pieces he hadn't realised he had been collecting. He hated the picture it made. Reached for Ilya with both hands, one going to his waist to help keep him steady, the other to his neck, searching for his pulse. He wasn't fully sure why, he knew Ilya still had one. What was he looking for? A message in morse code?
"You took something?" Shane asked.
"Calling me thief?" Ilya frowned at him, close enough now he was nearly cross eyed with the effort of keeping his eyes on Shane's voice.
"Pills?" Shane asked, "And alcohol. You took too much of them?"
"Ah," Ilya said. "Yes. This I took." his pulse was, well, a pulse. Shane couldn't tell if it was weak or if he was holding his fingers wrong, or what. Could feel his own pulse speeding along much too fast, so he wasn't a good baseline.
"On purpose?" Shane asked, dropping his hand from Ilya's neck to reach into his sweats' pocket for his phone.
"Da," Ilya said, smiled just slightly. "But is okay, hm? People will be saying is accident."
"Fuck," Shane said, hand shaking as he unlocked his phone one handed, pulling up the call screen.
"Fuck," Ilya agreed, and then in a much more distressed tone, "ah, blyat, Shane, you have to go. This is not good looks for you. Will be - be talk when you are seen on movie. film. video."
"Jesus, Ilya," Shane said, lifting the phone to his ear, listening to it ring, "do you seriously think I'm leaving right now and just - just letting you - fuck -"
He kept his eyes on Ilya's face, trying hard to translate what was going on. Couldn't tell how much of this was general drunkenness and how much was the effect of whatever pills Ilya had taken. He was still upright-ish, and talking, and putting thoughts together.
"For plan, yes," Ilya said, like this should make sense to Shane. "Careful plan, no one hurt."
Someone answered the phone, smooth voice asking for his emergency.
STEP FIVE.2, NIGHT, SLEEP. ILYA.
It was nice that Shane was there. The back of Ilya's brain kept trying to come forwards to say Shane shouldn't be there, that it wasn't the plan, but the rest of him liked it. Shane had his arm around him. His clothes were so soft.
After he had done his best to explain the plan to Shane, and why it would be best for him to go, Shane had not gone, had made a phone call instead. Was still on the phone, voice low and steady. Had steered Ilya into the bathroom and sat him down on the cool floor, sat down next to him, put his arm around Ilya's waist and held him against his side.
It made sense that if Shane was still here after knowing the plan, he was going to fix it. Make sure it went smoothly. Ilya had ruined it by opening the door, but it was going to be okay anyway.
He wanted to put his head on Shane's shoulder and close his eyes, but when he tried to, Shane had lifted him back up, and asked him questions instead. What were the pills he had taken? How many had he ingested? What did ingest mean? That one was a question Ilya's brain was asking him, not Shane asking him. His mouth didn't want to keep doing English now. It was tired like the rest of him. Spoke in his mother's tongue. Had her tongue felt like this? Had she spoken? Told Shane the name of the pills. Heard Shane repeat the word, clumsy with his mouth unused to making the correct shapes. Watched Shane's mouth try. Shane asking more questions. How many, Ilya, how many did you take? Swallow?
All of them. Yes he swallowed. Say Ilya again. He knew Shane couldn't understand him, but there wasn't much he could do about that. Shane said Ilya again, his mouth still not the right shape, but still a nice shape. He hoped they would not arrest Shane for this. He didn't think the league would survive without them. Total collapse. People mourning in the street for Shane Hollander. Shane Hollander's hand on his face, their faces close together, eyes on eyes.
He was here to be kissed. Ilya forgot. He tried to press in to kiss him, but Shane moved back, his hand still on Ilya's face. He didn't want to be kissed? Ilya's stomach hurt.
Shane's phone was on the floor, another voice speaking out of it. English. So much English. Calm even voice. Shane responding. Flat but not calm. His hand was still on Ilya's face, holding the weight of Ilya's head for him now. Nice. His other hand still on Ilya's hip, arm around his waist. Ilya wanted to twist around and see the arm around him. He wished he was in bed like he had planned, so he could be lying down, but maybe then Shane wouldn't be holding him. Had he left his note? He thought he had. He had. He asked Shane. Shane rubbed his thumb over Ilya's cheek. Ilya had forgotten they couldn't speak to each other. That was sad. He forgot again so he could tell Shane it was sad. Shane looked like he agreed. His face was sad. It did that a lot. In small bursts. This was not a small burst of sad. Ilya wanted to touch it. Persuaded his hand to move from his lap to Shane's face, fingers on skin feeling sticky. He could feel Shane's breath on his hand. That was good. It meant Shane was breathing. Shane had wanted a kiss. Ilya should have left him all his kisses in his new will. He could call his lawyer now, maybe. Put it in. Please give Shane Hollander all my kisses. He could give him one now, but he was too tired to make it work. Mouth. Movement. Eyes fixed on Shane's mouth. Saying Ilya again.
Was there a step six? Maybe he was doing it. His stomach hurt.
-
There was a moment in which he called himself Irina in his head. Or maybe he was speaking to her like he had parcelled her up and kept her in a crevice in his brain. He was in her bed. So was she. They were in her bed. He had climbed into it with her. Too old to do that but no one else would be home for hours. Who would know. She wouldn't tell on him. Her body hadn't been stiff yet, so he could worm in under her arm. It meant he got vomit on himself, but there was still a small pocket of warmth left, her heat. He was looking at himself through her eyes, the child she had made, trapped under her unmoving arm. He had his eyes closed, hers had been half open. She could see him. He could see himself through her. He remembered how it felt when her body convulsed when she thought she was already more than half dead, to throw up, pain, more pain when she had thought she was free of it. A hand on his back. On his forehead. Not her child. His hair was being held back.
When the room grew close with bodies and smell of vodka and vomit, he shook his head and felt it dislodge. Watched himself fall out.
HOSPITAL, VEGAS, AFTER. SHANE.
There had been a moment of lucidity in the ambulance that Shane clung to. Was grateful for. Ilya's eyes opening again, skipping over the faces of the EMT's and catching on Shane's. His hand, the one without the port in it, reaching out. The EMT closest to Shane had nodded at him, so he'd slid closer and taken Ilya's hand in his. Ilya had said his name, his first name again, and then asked, very clearly, for Shane to not try and get in touch with his family. That his mama already knew, anyway. Maybe not fully lucid. Hopefully not, if he could have told his mother his plans and still been left to follow them through.
That moment meant that Shane was allowed to follow Ilya in, and then in further into the hospital. That, and probably also that he was Shane Hollander, (and there was a poster just outside the hospital that had him posing in a pair of speedos he had hated wearing.) meant that not only did they let him in, they found him a room to wait in, away from other people who might think it appropriate to take a photo. He didn't know what story would be spun of a photo of just him, sitting in a waiting room, sweats and a hoodie, vomit still drying on his pant leg. A tiny splash of blood that probably only he would be able to point out on his sleeve. It would be a different story if there was a photo of him at the hotel, following the EMT team and the stretcher that held Ilya. There might be photos of that. It had been a reasonably quiet extraction, he thought. Not many people had been around. He could hope it went un-photographed. More people here to see when they had come in. He could still hope. Did still hope.
Sat in his tiny waiting room with the pack of wet wipes a nurse with heavy stubble and a tired smile had handed him. There was a paper cup of water next to him. They said Ilya would be okay. That they had gotten to him quickly enough. That it was good Shane had kept him conscious for so long, had been there to keep his airways clear. Best possible situation. He didn't think that last statement had been well thought out. Best possible situation. It was pressed into him. Best possible.
He had grabbed Ilya's phone while they were leaving. It sat in the opposite pocket to his own, useless because Shane didn't know his code to get in, and didn't want to try and guess and prove even more firmly that he didn't know Ilya. Had thought he'd known part of him. Had. He just didn't know how much that part was still there, because it had been a part that wanted Shane. Best possible situation. Had that been how Ilya had seen this? And here Shane was, feeling sorry for himself because the man he had hoped wanted him with even a flicker of the same desire Shane had for him, didn't. Feeling sorry for himself because if he hadn't been pathetic in the first place, he wouldn't have gone back to the hotel room, and he wouldn't have been there to call 911, or to hold Ilya's hair back, to turn Ilya's body to keep him from choking. Wouldn't be the best possible situation without his hurt feelings.
Even if he could have gotten into Ilya's phone, he wouldn't know what to do with it. Ilya had said not to contact his family. Would he consider it better or worse if Shane tried to contact one of his friends? Marlow? Connors? The Bears' head coach? The beautiful woman he had been photographed with constantly over the last couple of weeks, Svetlana Vetrova. Daughter of Sergei Vetrov. Rich, beautiful, hockey family, half Russian, perfect. Was she Ilya's girlfriend? If he called her would she be able to tell he had slept with her boyfriend?
Did it matter if Ilya got angry at him for calling Svetlana, or Marlow, or even trying to find the number for one of his parents? Ilya would be angry at him already. Either for stopping him, or being there to see it. Shane was living on borrowed time right now, borrowed good will. Drugged up, delirious good will. Which he would cling to for as long as he could if it meant he could stay here with Ilya, to see he was okay. To help if he could.
He startled when there was a noise at the door, and then someone opened it. An orderly, or a nurse. He wasn't sure.
"Just bringing him in now," they said, voice quiet but cheerful. "He's still sleeping, so we're moving him in his bed. It'll probably be easier if you move to the back end of the room?"
"Okay," Shane said, standing, his body immediately feeling awkward as if anyone was looking at him right now.
Crossed the room briskly, stood probably too stiffly against the wall as the door opened further, and the first person backed in, pulling one of the wheeled hospital beds, a second person helping on the other end. Ilya in the bed. Shane didn't want to look. It felt oddly private, like he'd walked in on Ilya using the toilet, or crying on the phone. Stupid. Shane had been literally holding Ilya's hand when he'd thrown up violently enough that he'd pissed himself. If there was a point Shane should have looked away, it should have been then. Still couldn't make himself look. Stared anywhere but the figure on the bed as the two orderlies (nurses? Attendings? Doctors? Shane should know this), arranged the bed in the middle of the room, head against the wall Shane had been sitting next to. Put the bed brakes on, fiddled with the fence like sides on the bed, hung up a couple of bags, plugged things in. There was a lot to do. He'd never been awake in a room while this sort of thing was happening before, and he pretended he was following the whole routine out of interest rather than avoidance.
"Alright," it was the first person again. "He'll probably be waking up slowly within the next ten or so minutes. A nurse will be in in ten minutes to check on him. If he's awake before that and you're worried, you can press the call button."
Shane nodded. "Thank you," he said, a little belated.
They smiled at him, and then, paused, grabbed a small bag from the foot of the bed, and handed it over to Shane. "His necklace," they said, "probably safer for you to hold onto it then leave it on the bed."
Shane took the bag, felt like his fingers were numb around it. "Thanks," he said.
They left him to it. He looked into the bag at the gold chain and cross. Was pleased to see it looked clean. Folded the bag back up and put it in his hoodies' front pocket.
They'd cleaned Ilya up, which was nice. Although Shane doubted Ilya would appreciate being in the skimpy hospital gown. At least it was piss , vomit, and sweat free? Shane had done his best with the wet wipes on his sweatpants, but there was still a stain. It didn't smell, though, so it was fine. It was fine.
The chair he had been sitting on was now right next to the head of the bed. His cup of water still on the table just beside it. He was allowed to sit back down. No one was waiting to leap into the room and catch him in the act of sitting down next to his rival who obviously he had been having sex with, and had feelings for. It took him several long moments to push away from the wall and actually sit down again. He drank his water. He looked at Ilya's hand on the bed. The one without the tube in it. It had been the one with the tube in on the ambulance, but it was bare now, besides a dark bruise. Had it been knocked? Or put in incorrectly?
People who worked at the hospital weren't allowed to talk about their patients. He was pretty sure that was a rule. If he took Ilya's hand in his, and someone walked in, they wouldn't be allowed to tell anyone. Ilya had wanted to hold his hand in the ambulance, and while he was throwing up. And Shane wanted to hold his hand now. He slid his hand under Ilya's, placed his thumb carefully over Ilya's knuckles so he wouldn't brush against the bruise.
Ilya did not stir at all. His hand was warm and dry. Better.
Best possible situation.
When he fetched his phone out of his pocket, having accidentally pulled Ilya's out first, and then just holding it to look at the lock screen image - a photo of the Bears with the cup -, he saw it wasn't even one in the morning yet. He'd felt like he'd been here for hours, in the bathroom with Ilya for hours, in the ambulance for hours. He didn't remember what time it had been when he'd knocked on Ilya's door. Hadn't looked when he'd called 911.
He called his mum. She always woke for a phone call. His dad slept like a log, had once slept through a fire alarm in a hotel, hadn't realised until the firemen were in the hotel room with him to evacuate him.
The call rang thrice. It was almost three in the morning in Ottawa.
"Shane?" She sounded sleep confused, cleared her throat, spoke sharper. "Is something wrong?"
Yes. He wouldn't be calling this early, even if he was in the same time zone, if nothing was wrong. Probably. He was calling now, and he wasn't sure what to say was wrong. The first emergency was over. Best possible situation.
"Shane? Honey?" His mum tried again. He heard a rustle, and then a little quieter like she was speaking away from the phone; "Davey, wake up, it's Shane."
"I'm not hurt," Shane said, because that felt like the easiest thing to start with. Reassurance. Truth.
"You're not - okay, good, good. What happened? Did something happen to the hotel?"
"No," Shane said. Wished he'd saved some of the water to drink now. Looked at Ilya's hand lying in his. His grip on Ilya too proprietary. He didn't let go. "The hotel is fine."
A pause. He could hear his father making low questioning noises. "Okay," his mum said slowly. "That's good. Tell me what happened, baby?"
"They said it was the best possible situation," Shane said, voice flat. "That I was there."
"Who said?"
"The EMTs," Shane said, shook his head. "It makes me want to - to file a complaint for saying something so stupid."
"The EMTs," his mum repeated, voice tight. "What? Why were there - that you were where?"
"His room," Shane said.
There was something going wrong with his throat. Like he'd swallowed a bite of protein bar without chewing first, and it had lodged itself half way down. Choking, painful. He could still suck breath in around it, but it hurt.
He'd curled over his lap, pressed his face in against the arm of the hand holding Ilya's. Could hear his own breathing loud against the skin of his inner elbow.
More rustling over the phone, low tones and hurried words, and then his dad's voice coming clear over the phone.
"Shaney," he said, voice all gravel still. Shane's mum used to say he went to sleep with a mouthful of rocks every night, and that's why he sounded like that in the mornings. "Where are you?"
"Hospital," Shane wheezed.
"Okay," his dad said. "Are you with someone?"
"Yes."
"Who are you with?"
"Ilya," Shane said. Was sure he'd said Ilya's first name more today than he ever had before.
A very short pause. "Rozanov?" His dad asked.
"Yes."
"Okay. Is he hurt?"
"He was. He is. I don't - he's still asleep," Shane mumbled.
Had no idea how hurt Ilya was. The nurse, when she came in, would probably be able to tell him some of the physical hurt, if there was some, but that wasn't what had brought them here.
"Okay," his dad said, his voice warm, like maybe it really was okay. "You called 911?"
"Yes."
"What did you call them for?"
Shane hadn't been able to say it outright on the 911 call. He'd said it was an overdose, and then he said it had been purposeful. She had been the one to ask about suicide. Depression. History.
"He took a whole bottle of pills," Shane said, lifted his head enough that he could peer over his arm at Ilya. Eyes still closed, face slack. "And I don't know how much vodka. A lot. On purpose."
Unlike the 911 lady, his dad didn't immediately say it. Instead he said; "Oh. I see." and then; "but you got the ambulance to him in time?"
"I guess," Shane said. "Feels too late."
"Too late?"
"If I'd - if I'd pushed in Sochi," Shane mumbled, "or, fuck, at our last game, even. If I didn't just leave before, before he did it, he wouldn't have - there wouldn't have - he wouldn't have needed an ambulance."
"Shaney," his dad said, heavy, confused. "This isn't something that - this kind of thing doesn't work like that."
Shane thought that actually this was exactly how this kind of thing worked. He had read it somewhere. Maybe in one of the hockey biographies he'd read that veered a little more into post retirement self help literature rather than hockey. The best way to beat depression was to get in early. Build the support at the first sign of it.
"I don't know what to do," Shane said instead of talking about it. "He said not to call his family. I don't know - I don't know how to help."
He heard his dad inhale and the knock on the door at the same time. Spoke before his dad could.
"I have to go," he said, "the nurse is here. Bye." Hung up. Spoke to the door. "Come in."
The woman who came in was very short, smiling cautiously. She had a clipboard in her hand, that she attached to the end of the bed first thing.
"I'm Miranda," she said to Shane, her eyes flicking from Shane, to Shane and Ilya's hands, to Ilya. "I'm Ilya's nurse for this shift, so you'll be mostly seeing me. Has he woken at all?"
"Um," Shane said, "no. I'm Shane. Is he - is it okay he's not woken?"
"Hi Shane," Miranda said, already moving around the bed, hands moving in fluid automatic looking movements, checking the fluids hanging over his bed, pressing two gloved fingers in against his wrist. "It's perfectly fine that he's still sleeping," she said as she leaned further over Ilya, checking for Shane didn't know what. "His body's had a rough go of it, and it's still the small hours, it'd make perfect sense if he tried to sleep through. Have you slept at all?"
"Uh," Shane said. "No. I've - no. He might sleep all morning?"
"Maybe," Miranda shrugged. "He probably won't, but I can't say for sure. His breathing looks and sounds fine, his pulse is steady, his colour is good. I'm not worried."
"When would you be worried?" Shane asked, worried.
"Well," Miranda stood up straight, "I would be worried if his breathing became laboured, or his colour changed , or if he appeared in pain. But I'll be coming in to check him regularly, and will come in if you are worried as well. Most likely what will happen, though, is that he will wake up soon, probably a little disoriented and thirsty, and we'll have a check, and then he'll want to go to sleep again."
"Okay," Shane nodded. "What if he wants to kill himself again?"
Miranda didn't wince. Shane was impressed slightly by this, because he had flinched saying it, hadn't realised he was asking until he had asked. Maybe this was all par for the course in this kind of situation. Even when it was the best possible.
"He has no access to any medication in here," Miranda said calmly. "There are no sharps kept in here, either. The windows don't open enough to fit even a hand out, which makes it tough for our sneaky smokers. And we have our on ward counsellors if he needs to talk to someone."
Shane nodded.
"Is it just the two of you?" Miranda asked, then. "Any family?"
"Uh," Shane said. Didn't know how to say it wasn't even the two of them. "His family lives in Russia."
"Oh, that's tough," she grimaced at him. "Do you need anything? I could grab you a blanket if you want to try and catch some zees on the chair. I know it's tiny for you, but it's doable, I've seen it."
"No, I'm good. Not good. I'm. Yeah," Shane stuttered, closed his eyes briefly. "Can I have some water?"
"I'll bring in a jug," she said, kindly ignoring his verbal glitch out. "If I'm not back before Ilya wakes up, after, say, half an hour, press the call button. I should be, but there's always the chance of an accidental side quest."
He thanked her. Eyed the call button up to double check it was literally as easy as it should be. A button to press. Good. Nothing he couldn't handle. It would have been embarrassing to have to ask how to do it now, after it had been mentioned multiple times. She left.
His phone had been buzzing in his hand on and off this entire time. Texts from his mum. Asking him to call back when he could. Asking what they could do to help. One text just saying Ilya Rozanov from the Boston Bears? like there was somehow another Ilya Rozanov that Shane could end up at a hospital with. Maybe that would have made more sense to most people. A text asking what Ilya needed, did he need someone to call people for him, did he need someone to talk to the hospital for him, did he need someone to call his agent, his coach, his parents.
Shane had no idea where to even start in answering any of the questions. Not even the one clarifying the Ilya.
He looked from his phone to Ilya, halfheartedly considering taking a photo to just send to his mum as proof, knowing he was not doing that, because that wasn't the part that was hard to explain. Ilya was looking back at him, lids half open, fluttering like he was working hard to keep them open, or open them fully.
Miranda had said he might be disoriented. How far could that go? Did he know who Shane was?
"Hi," Shane tried, awkward. Should he introduce himself?
Ilya grimaced slightly, the corners of his mouth stretching. He blinked. Swallowed. Lifted the hand not in Shane's, offered a small wave.
"Sore throat?" Shane asked. He was pretty sure they'd put a tube down it. For something. Stomach pump? Was that how that worked?
Ilya nodded.
"Um," Shane said. "Miranda - uh, your nurse - is gonna be back soon with a jug of water. And if she's not, in like, half an hour, I'm supposed to press the call button for her."
Ilya blinked at him again, nodded very slightly.
"I can also press it now," Shane added, "if you want me to. Or like, um, if something feels wrong?" He winced as he said that bit. He was sure everything felt wrong right now.
Ilya was rolling his eyes at him. Fair. A little hurtful but very fair. Shane blinked rapidly, trying to clear the stinging in his eyes that this tiny and fair action had pulled out of him. Wanted to tell Ilya to look away, because Shane wasn't trying to make this about himself. Remembered their first awards when he'd found Ilya on the roof, and Ilya had snapped at him that it wasn't always about him. On the roof. Had that also been? Was it Vegas? Was it awards? Was it the end of the season and the beginning of a summer in Russia?
Ilya's hand moved in his, and he let go quickly so Ilya could pull away, began to pull away himself, but then Ilya's hand was just shifting and retaking Shane's hand, his wrist crossing over Shane's, fingers pushing between his.
"S'time?"
His voice was raspy, but it was a relief to hear it, especially speaking English. There had been a few panic filled moments in which Shane was sure he was going to hear Ilya's fucking last words and he wouldn't know what they were. He had tried to remember the sound of them, commit everything to memory so if he needed to he could write them down phonetically or something and try to get someone to translate it.
He looked at his phone again, sniffing hard, cleared his throat. "Ten to one," he said, "Still early."
Ilya made a noise that might have been a laugh in another life.
"Early," he repeated, eyes closing again, not resting lax behind his lids like earlier, though. Shane could see them twitching side to side, his brows furrowing. "Fuck."
Shane agreed with that sentiment wholeheartedly. "Yeah," he said.
There was a light knock on the door, and then Miranda was opening it and coming in, a jug of water in one hand, a couple of plastic cups in the other. She smiled when she saw Shane, and then smiled a little wider when Ilya opened his eyes again to look at her.
"Morning," she said to him, and then to Shane. "I did not get very delayed," she held the jug up as if in proof, before circling the bed to put it down on the table beside Shane. "How long have you been awake for?" She asked, directing this back to Ilya.
Ilya looked to Shane.
"A couple of minutes," Shane offered, then, "um, his throat hurts. Is he okay to drink out of a cup? Or does he need, like, I don't know. A straw?"
"I am not statue," Ilya rasped, "I have hands."
They all three of them looked at Ilya's hand in Shane's, like a knee jerk response, and then away again.
"So long as you're feeling up to it," Miranda said to Ilya, "absolutely you can drink out of a cup. How about Shane pours you a glass while I just check your vitals?"
Shane nodded. Ilya made a vague nod-esque gesture. Miranda also nodded. She came up alongside the not-Shane's side of the bed, moving her hand to Ilya's wrist like she had before.
"I'm Miranda," she told him, "I'm your nurse for this shift. How is your head feeling?"
Shane half turned away to pour the water, a little difficult to do one handed, but he would not be the one letting go first.
"Little sore," Ilya said after a long pause.
"A bit like a hangover?" Miranda asked, sounded sympathetic.
"Little."
"Makes sense," Miranda said. Shane saw she was nodding, when he turned back to the bed, water in hand. She was writing something down on the clipboard she'd at some point nabbed from the end of the bed. "And how are you feeling in general, emotionally?"
Shane cut his gaze to their hands.
"Ah," Ilya said, paused, "probably not good."
"Also makes sense," Miranda offered. "Have some water, yeah? I'll prop the bed upright for you."
She fiddled with something on the side of the bed, and it began to sit up very slowly, Ilya wincing once, and then staying expressionless. She only brought it into a half upright position, Ilya still lying back, but probably not in danger of choking on his water.
Shane handed the cup over, keeping hold of it until he was sure Ilya had it. Ilya didn't even glare at him for his caution, just took the cup and brought it slowly to his mouth. Took a couple of sips.
"No one's going to grill you right now," Miranda told him while he continued to sip slowly at the water. "But if you did want to talk to someone, we can get one of our counsellors over here quick snap, okay?"
Ilya nodded. Drank some more.
"Your vitals are good," she added, "and all your notes indicate that, physically, you should be completely fine. You were brought in quick enough to make all the difference."
This felt so much like best possible situation it made Shane's stomach roil. Ilya's eyes darted to Shane, and then away again.
"I'm going to be coming in pretty regularly to check your vitals," Miranda continued, when no one said anything else. "If you feel like you can, I'd advise getting some more sleep. If you need anything, press the call button anytime. Can I get you anything right now?"
Ilya shook his head.
"Shane?" Miranda asked. "That blanket is still on offer."
Shane shook his head. "I'm okay."
She nodded. "Okay. Buzz if you need me. I'll see you both soon."
They stayed silent until she had left the room again. Ilya finished his cup of water, and then frowned, the cup resting against his chest. He moved it a little, frowned harder, and then held the cup out to Shane. Shane took it. Watched as Ilya's hand moved immediately back to his chest, to his throat, and realised what he was looking for.
"I have it," Shane said quickly, put the cup down on the table, and dug into his pocket for the small bag. Retrieved it, and then the necklace from inside it, and handed it over. "Sorry, I forgot they gave it to me to hold on to."
Ilya's eyes closed, his head falling back against the pillow. Shane put it into his hand, and Ilya's hand closed tight around it, brought it to his mouth first, and then pressed his fist to his heaving chest.
"It's important?" Shane asked.
"Was my mama's," Ilya replied, eyes still closed. Shane hadn't really expected an answer. "Gave to me when she died."
"Oh," Shane said, something in his brain twinging. "Sorry. It's beautiful."
"Mm," Ilya opened his eyes again, then flexed his fingers against Shane's, "Need two hands for putting on."
"Oh," Shane said again, wiggled his hand out of Ilya's grip, and then held his hand out. "I'll do it for you, if you want."
Ilya hesitated, and then seemed to consider how annoying it might be to fiddle with the clasp right now, because he handed the necklace back over. Leaned forwards a little to give Shane room to put it around his neck. Shane did so, pulling the chain around carefully, watching as Ilya's hand moved almost as if he didn't realise, to press the crucifix against his neck as Shane worked the clasp. He finished, pulled back, and then quickly turned to pour himself a cup of water because his mouth was dry as fuck.
"Do you want more water?" He asked.
"No," Ilya replied.
Shane nodded, drank his entire cup in one go, poured another, and drank half before turning back to Ilya to see Ilya watching him, expression inscrutable.
"I am tired," Ilya said.
"Okay," Shane replied. "Want me to put your bed back down?"
"Yes."
It turned out there was a little remote thing attached to the side of the bed, and it only took a couple of tries for Shane to figure it out. Put the bed back to rights. Put the remote back on its little clip. Put himself back in his chair. Firm.
"You are tired?" Ilya asked.
Shane shrugged. "Yeah. Are you going to try to sleep?"
Ilya stared at him for a long moment, like he was waiting for Shane to say something else, to offer to leave, maybe. Then he nodded. Waited. Spoke.
"You do not have to stay. You can go sleep in hotel."
"No," Shane said. "I can leave the room if you want, but I'm - I'm not leaving you here alone."
Ilya looked away from him. "Whole hospital full of other people," he said.
"I'm not leaving you here without a person here specifically for you, that is not a medical professional," Shane revised, trying to cover any loopholes Ilya might come up with. "If you want to call someone else, or for me to call someone for you, I will, but I - fuck, Ilya. Please don't make me go."
He'd been watching Ilya watch him, and look away from him, but now he needed to look away as well. Squeezed his eyes shut, ran his hands over his face.
"No one to call," Ilya said eventually, voice tight. "You should sleep."
Shane managed to look back at him, dropping his hands to his lap. Ilya was still looking away from Shane, face turned so much he was basically hiding in his own shoulder. Shane had never been good with knowing what to say when people were upset. He knew he often said things too bluntly, or missed something. He'd already tried using his words with Ilya tonight, not tonight now, last night. Asking him about Russia, about going home for the Summer. And now they were here.
He reached out, hesitant, pressed his fingertips to Ilya's wrist. Waited. Ilya lifted his hand and Shane wrapped his own around it again.
STILL HERE, STILL EARLY, TOO LATE. ILYA.
Ilya had not really expected to go to sleep even though he was tired. Couldn't imagine closing his eyes and drifting off instead of lying there in the pit of his mind cataloguing his mistakes. Waiting for Shane to fall asleep. Waiting for the nurse to come back and prod at him. He couldn't believe he hadn't realised right away that he had been missing his necklace, his mama hung heavy around his neck now.
-
He woke up to Miranda's fingers on his wrist. The room was still dim. Shane's hand was sweaty and lax in his. He blinked at Miranda, hazy, and she smiled at him. She looked tired, still cheerful.
"Time?" He asked, his voice croaky again, throat dry.
She didn't even need to check. "Just gone half past seven," she whispered, then jerked her head slightly at Shane. "He's been asleep for about three hours now."
Ilya nodded. His head didn't hurt so much anymore, not physically. Hotel check out wasn't technically until ten, but if not for his other plans, he would have already been at the airport now. His plane began boarding at eight. He wondered if anyone was trying to get in touch with him. If his phone was still at the hotel, or if Shane had it. Didn't matter.
"What now?" Ilya asked.
"Some breakfast will be brought around at eight," Miranda told him, scribbling something down on a board with paper clipped to it. "Shift change at eight thirty, I'll be going home, but your new nurse will come introduce themselves to you, and will be able to give you a firmer timeline on when the psych team will come in and see you."
"Do I have to?"
"See the psych team?" he nodded, and Miranda continued. "Yes."
Great and awesome, cool, even. He nodded again. Closed his eyes. She asked him a few more questions, which he replied with only nods or shakes of his head, and eventually she left again.
He opened his eyes when he heard the door close. Turned his head on the pillow to look at Shane. His head was dropped forwards, chin to his chest. He would be sore when he woke up, Ilya was sure. He was already sleeping with a line between his eyebrows, frowning like he was in pain, or having a bad dream. What time was Shane's flight out? Shane said he was staying, wasn't leaving without someone taking his place by Ilya's side. How long would he stick to that? Until he realised Ilya wasn't going to ask anyone else to come? He wouldn't have asked it of Shane, either. He wasn't that much of an asshole.
Except for when he was.
He didn't know what was worse; that Shane had seen him, his attempt, all of it, or that it had now only been an attempt, a failed attempt. Another instance of Ilya failing at something he should have been able to pull off. This wasn't even like failing in Sochi, because he didn't have an entire team that failed with him. Just him. Didn't have time to ponder that for long, because the stifled hum of hospital quiet was interrupted by a shrill ring of a phone, and then Shane jolting in his seat, his hand clenching around Ilya's.
"Fuck," Shane said blearily, free hand digging in his hoodie for a moment before retrieving his phone, glancing at it, and answering the call with a swipe of his thumb and his face creased further into a frown. "Mum?"
Ilya watched Shane look back at him, his eyes darting over Ilya's face, like he was checking all of it was still there, blinking heavily. To wake his eyes up, or in response to what his mama was saying to him. Ilya thought her name was Yuna. Or Muna, maybe. Definitely not Luna.
"You're where?" Shane asked, hoarse, eyes scrunching closed for a moment before opening and staring at Ilya with wide eyes. "Why? No - uh - I don't know. Yes. Fuck, I - yes. Sorry. I'll ask. I'll call you back. Bye."
He ended the call, pulling the phone from his ear and continuing to frown down at it for long seconds after the screen had gone dark again.
"Comfy sleep?" Ilya asked.
Shane grimaced, "sure," he said. "You?"
"Sure," Ilya echoed. "You swear at your mama?"
Shane groaned a little, finally looked up from his phone and back to Ilya. "I said sorry," he said, "I was just. Listen, I - she and my dad flew to Vegas, and then drove to the hospital. They're outside."
Ilya waited for whatever punchline this strange joke could be, and then frowned back at Shane. "Outside this hospital?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I - I panicked and called them a few hours ago," Shane shrugged. "Said I didn't know what to do, because, well, fuck. I don't know what to do. Do you?"
Ilya hadn't bothered to plan for this possibility. He shook his head.
"Right," Shane said, like there had been a point made somewhere. "I didn't ask them to come, I texted them when you were asleep again and just. Said things were, uh, kind of stable and I was going to get some sleep, and I only just woke up and they're here-"
"Why?" Ilya repeated, "for picking you up?"
Shane paused, and then squinted at Ilya like he had just realised something. "No," he said. "To like, help you. If you want."
That didn't make much sense. "If I want?"
Shane shrugged. "I don't know. With - with hospital talk, maybe? To make sure you're being treated right, and the media is kept out? She's, uh, my mum, Yuna. She's good at managing things."
He was right. Yuna.
"She asked me to ask you," Shane continued, when Ilya didn't say anything, "if she can come up and see you."
Ilya was supposed to be comfortably dead right now, not being asked to make decisions about meeting the mother of the man he was in - the man whose life he had made much harder just with his presence. He shrugged. Whatever. Sure. Nodded.
"Yes?" Shane asked. Ilya nodded again. "Okay," Shane said, slow, "I'll call her back?"
Ilya nodded again. Watched as Shane fiddled with his phone for a moment, and then called Yuna back. Listened to Shane speaking without bothering to really translate anything, just listening to the cadence, the familiar flatness. Only blinked back into the front of his brain when Shane put the phone back down on his lap.
"Visiting hours aren't until nine," he said, "so they're going to get breakfast first - well, morning tea for them, I guess - and then come up. I've sent them your room number and stuff."
"Your papa too?"
"Um," one corner of Shane's mouth quirked to the side. "He's with mum, yeah. He won't come in here unless you're okay with it. Uh, his name's David."
"Hm," Ilya said. David was a boring name. He had seen photos of Shane with his parents before, seen them in person a few times, always from a distance. Always thought David and Shane stood the same way. Solid. Kind of awkward. "He is, mm. Good?"
Shane looked confused, his head tilting to one side. "Yes? He's a good dad, if that's what you're asking?"
Basically what Ilya had been asking. He shrugged one shoulder. "He can come in if he wants. Why he would want is bigger question."
Shane's mouth quirked in the opposite direction this time, and he fiddled with his phone, turning it restlessly in one hand. His other hand also restless, thumb moving against Ilya's knuckles, running back and forward over them. Ilya didn't think he was aware he was doing it.
"Probably the same reason as my mum," Shane said, "he's worried."
-
Breakfast was brought in not long after that. Food for Shane too, though it was obvious Shane found it as appetising as Ilya did. They both ate their fruit cups, and their pieces of dry toast. Ilya drank the little cup of fruit juice. Shane had one sip of the milk, and then frowned, and put it back down.
"Get your parents to bring you real food," Ilya said, giving up on any thought of eating the congealed looking scrambled egg. "So you do not waste away."
"What do you want?" Shane asked, already slipping his phone out of his pocket, looking up at Ilya.
Ilya frowned at him. The table his tray of food was on was one of the ones that could be swung over a bed. He liked them. Pushed it away from himself.
"I said for you."
"Yeah," Shane raised his eyebrows, "you're not eating this either, I'm not going to eat something nicer in front of you. What do you want."
Stupid. "I do not care."
"Okay," Shane's eyebrows stayed raised, "I hope you enjoy green smoothies, then," he added, fingers tapping out a text message.
Ilya did not enjoy green smoothies. He didn't bother saying this.
-
Miranda came in before the shift change, introduced them to Ilya's new nurse, Jorge, and said her goodbyes. Jorge had a nice smile but also an incredulous expression, like he knew who Ilya and Shane were and was doing a bad job of pretending he didn't. He told them he would let them know when psych could see them, and if they needed anything, to press the call button. Ilya needed a fucking piss. This was where he was informed he would be accompanied to the bathroom, just to keep him safe, and yes, for now he did need to keep the cannula in his hand in, but Jorge would unhook it from the bags and tubing for now because he shouldn't need anything else, it was just in case.
Shane offered to be his bathroom companion, and Ilya watched as Jorge's eyes darted from where he was focused on unhooking Ilya's cannula from the tubes, to where Shane's sweaty hand was still in Ilya's also sweaty hand. It was so fucking rude that this was something Ilya needed to worry about again. Had to be here, thinking about reputation, and about secrets, and all this stupid shit he had wanted to leave behind. It made him so angry, a wave of rage cresting in his chest and stinging bitter on the back of his tongue. It tasted like grief. Always hand in hand.
There was a very small en suite attached to the room they were in. Ilya had had no idea it was there. All hospital bathrooms looked like they could double in horror films, just add blood and grime. At least his body was working. At least if he had to be here right now he wasn't fully at the mercy of someone else. Could walk himself to the bathroom even if he had to leave the door open, Shane standing awkward in the gap. Ilya was pretty sure there wasn't really anything in here he could kill himself with. What did they think he would do? Try and drown himself by sticking his head in the toilet bowl and flushing it? He had tried to kill himself with pills and vodka in a plush hotel room, and if he'd had his way, he would have been in the comfortable bed that still smelled like Shane and sex. He didn't want to die uncomfortable, it wasn't meant as a punishment.
"Ilya?" Shane said, while Ilya was still contemplating the absurdity of finding a way to die in this box of a room.
Shane wasn't looking into the bathroom, his back very stiff.
"What?"
He watched as Shane's shoulders dropped a little, his back un-spooling. "Nothing," Shane said, shaking his head. "Just. Panicked."
"I can not hang myself with toilet paper," Ilya offered. "Is very thin. Cheapest."
Shane flinched. Ilya flushed the toilet. Washed his hands as Shane turned around to face him, his face pinched. He waited for Shane to say something sort of stiff, tell him off, but no scolding came.
"I need to pee too," Shane said instead, when Ilya turned the tap off and dried his hands on a paper towel.
"Be my guest," Ilya said, waved his still damp hand at the toilet. "I will be pervert in door, hm? Fair?"
Again he waited for the glare, the fuck off. Instead, Shane sort of winced, and then nodded.
"Fair," he agreed. "But you have to turn around as well."
"Is not like I have not seen all before," Ilya pointed out, but did turn his back on the room as they swapped positions.
"Not like this," Shane replied.
He started to pee, and Ilya was struck with the irritating thought that this was probably a weird thing to be relieved by. This, being Shane wanting to keep Ilya in eyesight even if it meant giving up his own privacy as well as Ilya's.
He chose not to think about it. Shane finished, flushed, washed his hands. They returned to the bed. Ilya considered sitting in a chair, but they did not look comfortable, and he still felt so bone tired. Besides, he was wearing some paper thin robe that had half his back and ass sticking out, and it would probably feel gross against the chair.
"Oh," Shane said, once he'd sat back down in his too small chair, a phone in hand. Ilya's phone. "You've got a couple of missed calls."
"Oh," Ilya said.
"Um," Shane added, "and the same number is calling again. It's an unknown."
Probably it was the airport people. Or maybe reporters? Probably if he was already in the news, Shane would be looking more freaked out.
"Okay."
"Do you want to answer it?" Shane asked, "Or me to answer it?"
"You can if you want," Ilya said. Didn't care very much. "Probably is about missing flight." He closed his eyes.
His phone vibrated a few more times, dull, and then Shane was answering it. Short, clipped responses like he was answering questions from an annoying interviewer but was too well media trained to let slip anything real. He said goodbye. Cleared his throat. Ilya opened one eye, and then the other.
"I said you had an emergency," Shane said, as if Ilya hadn't been right here when Shane had said it. "They said you aren't likely to be able to get a refund."
"Okay," Ilya shrugged.
"Yeah, that's what I said," Shane nodded. "Um, do you want me to call the hotel for you? Your stuff is still there. I know checkout isn't until ten, so there's a little bit of time, but it might be a good idea to call sooner rather than later?"
"I do not care if they throw away everything there," Ilya said, truthful. "I had nothing important with me."
Well. He had the pills, but they were gone now.
Shane pulled an expression, something tight and painful. "Might be nice," he said, "to have some real clothes to wear?"
Yeah, the hospital smock wasn't comfortable, but it didn't exactly matter. He shrugged. Shane looked a little lost. It was weird how far away his chair seemed when they weren't holding hands.
"I have to call anyway," Shane said, "I might as well get your room sorted out, too."
"Fuck, whatever, Hollander," Ilya sighed, "I do not care." He looked away from Shane, wanted to not care if Shane's face was doing some tragic thing, if his eyes were wet.
"I care," Shane said, voice very small. "I'll care for you. Until you care again."
That fucking wave of rage was back. Grief this time. Both burned and bit at him in the same way.
He reached out blind and Shane took his hand in his again.