Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ilya stood on the arena balcony, his hands bolted to the railing. He was in Sochi, or somewhere very like Sochi. He knew he had seen this arena before, with the heavy steel rafters and restless audience in the bleachers.

There was a dark-haired man on the ice below him, skating in time to a vaguely familiar piece of classical music–a song that Ilya couldn’t place, even as it echoed of some half-remembered fondness, of his mother’s fingers against a yellowed page of sheet music and the scent of honeyed medovik. 

The ice skater danced with an impossible precision. The dark length of his legs seemed to shift with the tempo, as though his height were not quite fixed. The song was growing faster, its familiarity fading as Ilya’s eyes struggled to continue tracking the skater. His blades left markings on the ice, a message that Ilya couldn’t decode before the rising water caught his attention, seeping through the rink, matching the pace of Ilya’s familiar, slow-moving dread. 

Ilya looked for someone to intervene, some Olympic Committee representative, but the skater continued the routine. He opened his mouth to shout, looking to give a warning, but he was too far away, too high above the crowd to expect to be heard.

“Hey.” 

The voice that broke Ilya from his stupor was laced with an ignorant sort of danger. Shane Hollander stood somewhere to his left. Ilya could see him in his periphery, wearing white and red, Team Canada with his soft voice and maple leaf motifs.

Ilya couldn’t turn his neck to look at him. He tried, but there was a steel rod against his back, digging into his spine with a bruising force. He couldn’t do more than watch the sinking ice skater, passively consuming this public execution. The skater was crying now. Ilya still couldn’t see his face, but the fear was an airborne contagion, a palpable scent. He couldn’t breathe against that fear.

“Not here.” Ilya’s words were pre-written, but he wouldn’t question them. Hollander wasn’t safe here. There was a danger hurtling towards Ilya. Why wouldn’t Hollander get out of the way?

“No, I’m not… I saw you up here. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

Ilya could see what Hollander was trying for, offering him gentleness. He couldn’t accept it here. They would drown him like they drowned the figure skater. This wasn’t Hollander’s bedroom, or even some Canadian hotel. Here, that tenderness was a threat. A vice.

“Fine. Go sit down.” With a wrenching effort, Ilya managed to turn his head, watching Hollander stand only a few feet away. Snow fell from the arena rafters and dusted the Canadian’s shoulders, coating his dark hair with a powdery white finish. Even so, Hollander looked warm, and Ilya found a relief in that. Frost crawled along his own veins, a bone deep chill that Ilya would never be able to thaw. But Shane Hollander was warm. That counted for something.

“We had-”

“We are not anything.” Ilya interrupted the sentence, unable to allow Hollander to finish it. There wasn’t a bearable ending, not one that Ilya could imagine.  “Go away, Hollander.”

“Are you okay?”

“Please. Go.”

“You didn’t answer my text.”

A stray cat that Ilya had taken to feeding, it was Ilya’s fault that Hollander thought he could linger at this door. Now, it was Ilya’s responsibility to drive Hollander away. 

“No, I did not answer your boring text. Now, will you go?” 

“Fine… Fuck.”

Hollander fell away. Maybe he fell over the balcony. Ilya wouldn’t know. He lay in bed, now, watching as Alexei stood over him. His brother’s face kept changing, like his mouth and his nose couldn’t align.

A woman cried in the next room. Ilya recognized her. He wanted to help her, but he knew she was beyond his protection. Something bad was going to happen.

Something bad had already happened.

Ilya’s lungs burned with the mingled scent of blood and disinfectant, as his shoulders seized with a raw sob of fear. The room was white, like it was waiting for Ilya to mar its sterility. He couldn’t focus his eyes, dizzy as he tried to track the movement of too many medical professionals, tried to catalogue the hands that were staunching the bleeding.

“Ilya? Ilya?” Hollander was talking to him in this place, too. Ilya couldn’t find him, though, too distracted by the sharp twinge of pain across his ribs.

“С балкона,” he murmured, mostly to himself, remembering where Hollander had gone. Over the balcony. Into the water.

When Ilya woke the second time, the room was quiet. There was only a single nurse now, a young woman dressed in blue scrubs, red hair pinned back. “Mr. Rozanov?” She asked.

“Yes,”  Ilya answered. The word ghosted over his lips, voice hoarse against the quiet room. “Where am I?” 

“I’m going to call the doctor.” 

Ilya watched her step outside, still blinking against the harsh lights. His eyes were heavy, but he was afraid to close them, afraid of returning to Sochi. He tried to take stock of his surroundings, recognizing that this must be a hospital, that he was hooked up to machines that beeped and clicked. There was nothing unusual about it. A window with drawn curtains. A few chairs. A sink. 

He struggled to move his limbs, finding they were slow to respond to his commands. He was plagued with the strange certainty that he should be hurting, but he couldn’t quite register it. His muscles housed an echo of pain, dulled in the quiet hospital room.

Ilya couldn’t have said how long he lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how he came to be laying in a hospital bed, but at some point, another woman entered. She wore a white coat, and her dark hair was twisted away from her face. There was something austere in her expression, in the wrinkles around her lips and the deep set of her brows, but when she spoke, her voice was gentle. 

“Hi, Mr. Rozanov. My name is Dr. Alina Gombert. I’m sure you feel afraid right now, but you’re going to be alright.” She pulled a stool close to Ilya’s bed, taking a seat. “Do you remember what happened before you came here?”

Ilya’s throat felt too tight and dry to give an immediate answer. He shook his head, swallowing as he scrabbled to find his English words. “No. I don’t.” 

Dr. Gombert nodded. “That’s normal. Yesterday, you were in a car crash. You have some injuries to your body, but nothing is broken. You do have a concussion, though, and we need to assess how it may be impacting you. I need to ask you some questions. Are you okay to talk with me for a bit?”

Ilya nodded once, struggling with the wave of dizziness that reverberated through his body when he moved his head. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe through his nose. “Can I have water first?” 

His request was fulfilled, and Ilya sipped on the water as Dr. Gombert questioned him. He struggled to stay focused, at one point wishing it were possible to ask for a Russian speaking doctor. He knew the request was likely difficult to fulfill in Boston, so he didn’t bother to voice it. 

The questions Dr. Gombert asked should have been simple, but Ilya struggled to answer them. He wasn’t sure if it was 2014 or 2015, and the name of the Boston Raiders wouldn’t come to him immediately. A few of the questions felt almost invasive, asking Ilya for details of his childhood. He didn’t have the energy to argue the practice, though, simply digging through his brain to turn over the information the doctor requested.

Eventually, the questioning stopped, and Ilya let out a breath. 

“Thank you, Mr. Rozanov,” Dr. Gombert said, still gentle with him. “I know that there were a lot of questions, and you did very well.” She was quiet for a moment. “Memory after accidents like yours can be a really complicated thing-” 

“I am missing memory, yes?” Ilya interrupted her, too fatigued to tolerate her cautious bedside manner. He could read it in her face. The pain medication couldn’t dull his perception that far. “How much?” 

Dr. Gombert hesitated. “I think you’re missing about seven years of memory.” 

The beeping of the machines dropped to a low roar, nausea rising in Ilya’s throat. “Seven years?” He repeated, ensuring he had understood.

“Yes,” Dr. Gombert answered, giving a single precise nod. “You can imagine your life has had a lot of changes in that time. The memories might come back, but we can’t say for sure.” 

Ilya nodded, trying to count his breaths, closing his eyes to collect himself. “Has anyone called my family?” Ilya couldn’t say what he expected his brother to do, all the way in Russia. The very thought of Alexei offering assistance made him feel hysterical, panicked laughter bubbling up against the underside of his throat. But he couldn’t find another question to ask, unsure of how he would go about reconstructing seven years of time when he could barely string a sentence together.

“Yes,” Dr. Gombert answered, nodding again. “Um, so last year, you were married to a man named Shane Hollander.”  

And at that, Ilya actually did laugh.

Chapter Text

Ilya couldn’t swallow around the fear in his throat. 

Shane Hollander lingered in the doorway, hospital lights at the back of his strong frame. Ilya drank in the sight of him until he was drowning. Gripping the itchy hospital blankets, he tried to ground himself, setting his jaw against the sight of this man that he knew so well and not at all.

Hollander wore dark jeans, a grey sweatshirt, and a weighty sadness that Ilya didn’t recognize. His eyes were dark, hair in disarray, lips chapped and half bitten. Seven years and he hadn’t kicked that anxious habit. In Ilya’s chest flared the brief, sudden urge to kiss him. He moved quickly to quiet it. 

Hollander was visibly older, but not in a way that Ilya could define. It was something in his bone structure, or perhaps in the way he stood. This was not the Shane Hollander that Ilya remembered.

“Hi, Ilya,” Hollander said, finally stepping fully into the room. His voice, at least, hadn’t changed, still soft against Ilya’s ears. 

Ilya closed his eyes, needing a moment to breathe. He didn’t want to be afraid of Hollander, but he struggled to quell the surge of fear. He didn’t know what it meant to be married to this man; this was a battle he was running into blind. 

“Hollander,” he acknowledged, refocusing his gaze. Ilya didn’t gesture for him to come closer, but Hollander moved towards Ilya anyways, gingerly sitting down in the chair closest to his bed. Ilya let his head fall to the mattress, lolling to the side so he could watch Hollander without having to hold himself upright. 

“The doctor told me you don’t remember getting married.” Hollander’s face was guarded, the way it was before a face off on the ice.

“I do not.”

Hollander nodded. “We have been married for a little under a year. We have been public for about a year and a half. We were boyfriends for about three years before that.” 

It was infuriating, watching Hollander carefully lay out these facts for Ilya. He spoke slowly, eyes searching Ilya’s face as he relayed the information. Like he could neatly describe this universe to Ilya, like this accounting was simple, like every word wasn’t dripping in consequences.

“We are public?” Ilya knew this should be obvious. Dr. Gombert had told him they were married. They couldn’t be married in secret. 

His brain was still moving slowly, though, even when it came to piecing together this basic idea. It made Hollander’s willingness to earnestly explain the world to him more infuriating, somehow, like he saw through Ilya, like he had reached into his chest and pulled this weakness from him, had brought a light to how slowly Ilya was moving. Ilya had the sense it had been a while since he had successfully hidden himself from Hollander’s view.

“Yes.” 

“And my father knows about it?” Shame welled in Ilya’s chest, a heavy weight that settled against his spine, displacing his lungs. He could imagine how the remains of his family spoke about him, could imagine what was being said in Russia. Ilya didn’t worry over his own sexuality, over what he did behind closed doors, but his father’s judgement still felt suffocating.

Hollander took a breath, weighing his words. “Your father passed away several years ago, before we were together.”

“The shame would have killed him.” Ilya’s voice cracked as he dug his fingers into his blankets.

“He never knew, Ilya.”

Ilya forced himself to inhale, hoping Hollander wouldn’t note the way his breath shook. The news of Grigori Rozanov’s death didn’t shock him; Ilya didn’t currently have the emotional bandwidth to process grief. He knew his father was sick, knew it had only been a matter of time. Given the circumstances, given the husband sitting across from him, his father’s death felt like a mercy, like a crisis he had avoided. 

“Good. That is relief. He would be disgusted by you. By us.” 

A flash of hurt flickered through Hollander. Even now, his thoughts were still so loud. Hollander wore them on his face, in his eyes, open and easy to read. 

Ilya only continued. “He would hate me for this. I was supposed to leave. You were supposed to just be sex.”

Ilya remembered Hollander in lamplit bedrooms and screamingly-loud hockey stadiums. Hollander was something Ilya was supposed to want. Ilya would be a fool not to want him; Hollander, with his doe eyes and restrained strength, with his wanting mouth and careful way of moving. The desire was supposed to eat at Ilya. It was supposed to keep him up at night, supposed to ache. 

Hollander was something Ilya was supposed to want; he was not something Ilya was supposed to have.

His father’s words echoed through the room, a rising shame that tightened Ilya’s throat, that made Ilya want to hide his face. Hollander didn’t argue with him, even as the hurt lingered. Ilya longed to reach out for him, to soothe that pain. Even in this, he ached for Hollander. There was a weakness in Ilya, one he couldn’t conquer.

“You should rest, okay? I have this for you.” Hollander reached into his pocket, pulling out something gold, glinting under the cold hospital lighting. Holding his fist out, Hollander unfurled his hand, and the bottom fell out of Ilya’s heart, cratering through his stomach and spilling onto the floor.

Shane Hollander stood before him, palm outstretched, cradling Irina Rozanova’s golden crucifix.

Ilya flinched back, like he had been burned. Hollander’s warmth had moved too close, too fast, morphing into a threat and a violation. Hollander should not have that cross. He should not know of the pain that Ilya harbored. Those old wounds were not for Hollander to consume. 

“They had to take it off for the scans, but I-”

“Do you know who that belonged to?”

Hollander pressed his lips into a thin line, nodding once. “It was your mother’s.”

Ilya opened and closed his mouth, struggling for words. Hollander shouldn’t know that. Ilya’s memories held a boy that was kept at arm’s length. He felt like he had fallen asleep and woken up to find Hollander had traipsed across every carefully constructed boundary. “So, why do you have it?”

“You can’t go through the MRI machines with metal-”

“I know that, Hollander,” Ilya interrupted, suddenly desperate to retrieve the crucifix. He reached out, swiping for it, shifting his legs in an attempt to stand. 

Hollander was too quick, rising from the chair and stepping to the bed, pressing the cross to Ilya’s palm, helping him close his fingers around it. Ilya squeezed his fist, forcing the metal to dig into his skin, closing his eyes against the welling tears, the rush of fear. He took a breath, forcing himself to look at the chain, trying to unclasp it so he could put it back on. His hands were trembling too badly, thumb slipping off of the clasp under Hollander’s watchful eyes.

“Here.” Hollander’s hands closed over his, gentle and sure. “Let me put it on you.” 

Ilya didn’t have the energy to fight him, allowing Hollander to unclasp the chain and hook it around his neck. Hollander leaned over him as he did, fingers grazing Ilya’s throat. He carried an echo of warmth, a familiar scent that made Ilya long to crush Hollander against his chest and bury his face in his hair. 

“Okay?” Hollander asked, checking on him as he pulled away, taking the warmth with him. “You should rest. We can talk more later. I will be here when you wake up.”

Ilya shook his head. Hollander’s possession of the crucifix was already a violation; he couldn’t watch over Ilya’s sleep, too. “No. I don’t want you here. Leave.”

Ilya couldn’t bear the weight of those eyes. They burned him.

Hollander’s throat bobbed, but he otherwise contained himself. “Okay. Then I will sit outside your room.” There was a resolve that Ilya didn’t feel up to challenging. 

Chapter Text

With Hollander exiled to the hallway, there was nothing for Ilya to do other than sleep. Supported by the overly firm mattress, thoughts still hazy, he tried to give himself over to the drowsiness. He tried to envision sleep as a warm bath, as rising water that would slowly overtake him, something he could sink into. 

But every time he closed his eyes, he was drowning. If you fall asleep now, you won’t ever wake up. The thought appeared suddenly, without provocation or evidence. The machines surrounding his bed beeped steadily; that meant his vitals were stable, right? He wasn’t in pain. He wasn’t cold.

But Ilya was certain he wouldn’t survive to see sunlight again. 

Hollander’s name sat between his lips, a heavy weight on his tongue, pressing against the roof of his mouth. Ilya could call for him. Hollander said he would be sitting outside. If Ilya called for him, Hollander would come back. Ilya was sure he would. Hollander would come back, and he would curl up in the chair next to Ilya’s bed, and Ilya wouldn’t be alone. And maybe then Ilya would still be breathing come sunrise.

Self-indulgent weakness. Hollander is not the miracle worker you want him to be.

Ilya suppressed the urge. Instead, he counted the speckled ceiling tiles in an attempt to keep himself awake. He never came up with a total, continuously losing count until he eventually dozed off. 

Morning came quickly, but sunlight proved elusive. The curtain still covered the window, and no rays managed to peek around the heavy green fabric. A foggy Boston morning, no doubt.

A nurse that Ilya didn’t recognize helped him to the bathroom, and he stilled when he caught sight of his face in the mirror. The right side of his face was mottled with bruises, painting him with blues and purples. Asymmetrical, the swelling made him feel misshapen. It arced across his cheekbone, narrowly missing his eye. The nurse didn't give him time to gawk and instead hurried him back to the bed. There, Ilya kept reaching up to trace the marks. He was always prone to pressing on bruises.

Breakfast was unexciting, but Ilya met with another doctor. This doctor was a young man who kept fiddling with his glasses and didn’t quite fill out his white coat. He spoke around Ilya, using overwhelming medical terms. It was tempting to blame his confusion on the English words but, in his current state, Ilya wasn’t sure he would have understood them in Russian either. The doctor just kept assuring him that everything had been explained to his husband. The casual use of the term left Ilya to twist his fingers into the blankets, unsure of where to put his worry. 

He didn’t want to ask Hollander to explain the injuries to him, and he knew the technical names ultimately didn’t matter. Trying to keep track of them only fed his headache. Healing was Ilya’s main concern, but the doctor was hesitant to offer a recovery timeline, brow furrowing as he continued to toss jargon at Ilya, dancing around the question.

Annoyed, Ilya had to bite back the urge to say something spiteful. 

An hour later, a welcome surprise poked her head into his hospital room. Svetlana Vetrova wore a guarded smile, and she quietly called to him. “Ilya?” Slowly, she closed the door, taking care to keep it from slamming, eyes searching Ilya’s face. “Hello?”

“Sveta!” Ilya called, fighting a wave of dizziness as he scrambled to sit upright in the bed. The sight of her sent a jolt of relief through his chest, the first person he had seen that he knew he trusted.

The caution on her face split when he called her by the usual nickname, grin widening. Her curls shifted as she settled into the chair closest to Ilya, tucking one foot beneath her, almost lounging. His old friend still moved with a familiar grace. It was a dance that Ilya had learned in childhood. “How are you feeling?” Svetlana asked the question in Russian.

Like a salve, the ability to respond in his native language eased the ache behind Ilya’s eyes.

“Like I got into a car crash and woke up to find myself married to a boring, Canadian puppy dog?” 

“Ilya,” Svetlana scolded him, though her lingering grin undercut any harshness. “Be nice. Shane is a good man.”

“So, it is true? I am married to him?” Ilya knew Hollander was a poor liar. The question was a joke, more than anything, but he wanted to see how Svetlana would respond, sensitive to any shifts in her mood.

“Yes, and you love him. I would not lie to you about that. Are you in pain? They have been giving you drugs?” Svetlana reached out for Ilya as she brushed past the question, rubbing the back of his hand.

Rising, she drew nearer, smoothing out his hair without further comment. Ilya hadn't noticed the state of it in the mirror, not when the bruises were so jarring. He was grateful for her anyways, for the gentle brush of familiar fingers against his scalp. There was no risk in accepting comfort from Svetlana, no resulting social censure.

“I am in a little pain,” he admitted. “But not as much as I could be. They told me I have fractured ribs, and then… something wrong with my brain.” 

Svetlana nodded and returned to her seat. The conversation shifted to his health. She seemed more informed than Ilya was, and he realized she must have spoken to Hollander—or Shane, as she had so easily called him. The thought of Hollander, of the version of Hollander that Ilya was married to, telling Svetlana about his health prognoses sent Ilya's skin prickling. He decided not to ask her about it.

Instead, he let a few minutes pass before warily broaching the subject that hung between them. “So… Russia?” Seven years was a long time, but it wasn't long enough for Ilya to ask his question with any sense of hope. “Is it safe now? For men who…?”

“If anything, I think it is worse.”

Ilya nodded, chest growing tight. “I don’t go home anymore, then?”

“No, you haven’t returned since your father passed. You set up a trust for your nieces and let Alexei take your apartment, but you have not been in regular contact with him for years now.”

“But Alexei knows?”

Svetlana pursed her lips briefly, but she was still quick to answer. "He must, but I do not speak with him. You did not take his calls after the announcement. The Russian media didn't report your engagement, but it was on social media, so…"

So Ilya couldn't go home. The confirmation made it difficult to breathe.

Ilya felt stranded. He liked living in Boston, but he wasn't an American. Had he married Hollander for the citizenship? Would Svetlana know if he had? Ilya had woken up to find he had left home and lost his keys, stuck sitting on a doorstep and hoping some nice Canadian would take pity on him and pull him out of the cold.

The dull throb of his headache was beginning to again break through the haze of pain medication. Overwhelmed and desperate to change the topic, Ilya asked the first question that came to mind. “What about Sasha? How is he?”

“Great. He got married in Paris. French citizenship. His husband is horribly boring.”

“Like Hollander?” The quip was almost automatic; Ilya didn't have to think about it.

Svetlana laughed. “Way worse. Your husband is sweet. When I visit you, he drives to pick me up from the airport and worries over carrying my bag.” Ilya nodded, keeping his face neutral, but he hated how easy it was to imagine Hollander being sweet to Svetlana.

Svetlana crinkled her nose, continuing. “However, Sasha's husband is a pretentious film critic who has a lot to say about my choice in shoes and cannot stomach the taste of vodka.”

Ilya laughed, and the movement sent pain flaring through his ribs. “He sounds insufferable, so he must be Sasha’s type.” He hesitated only a moment before adding, “Is Sasha happy with him?”

“Oh yes, very, and that makes me happy, so I tolerate him for that.”

“Good, good. I want Sasha to be happy. He deserves that.”

The knowledge that Sasha had found someone to love him comforted Ilya, evidence that some things, at least, had worked out. As teenage boys with cruel fathers, Ilya and Sasha had gravitated to each other. He remembered Sasha lying face down on his bed, deep bruises on his back that reflected green in the shadowed lighting. Ilya's father had never been above getting physical with his sons, and as a hockey player, Ilya had been accustomed to bruises. Even so, they seemed so out of place on Sasha's narrow shoulders.

Ilya had worried for Sasha, even if they had never really spoken about it. Their friendship had always been built on that mutual understanding. They were both running from the same thing; both found a release in the other's arms.

Ilya remembered the naivete of his teenage years, of thinking he could replicate such an arrangement with Shane Hollander.

“Are you happy?” He asked Svetlana. "In this life?"

“Yes, I am happy." The lack of hesitation was encouraging. "I am single, but… I am happy.”

Ilya returned her grin and let the conversation turn to other things, not probing for more information. Svetlana told him of her business dealings, and she let him laugh at a couple of embarrassing anecdotes from recent first dates. Ilya suspected she knew he couldn't handle any more updates in the moment because she kept the conversation light, avoiding Hollander's name and any information on his life now. Ilya was grateful for it. His head had begun to throb, and he hoped the nurses would give him more pain medication soon.

After a little while, Svetlana stood to leave.

“Sveta?” He called. 

“Yes?”

Ilya let out a breath, leaning his head against the pillow. “I am glad we are still friends.”

“We will always be friends.” Svetlana swooped, gently squeezing his shoulder and landing a kiss on his cheek. Svetlana was all Ilya had left of home. Her easy affection was an assurance, a promise he wasn't entirely alone.

Svetlana was less cautious of the door as she left, and Ilya caught a glimpse of Hollander leaning against the wall in the hallway. He was speaking to a slim woman, who Ilya quickly placed as Mrs. Hollander. Her first name eluded him. He didn't really know her, but he had seen her at events. Even if he didn't recognize her, she bore too strong a resemblance to Hollander to be unrelated to him.

Svetlana went straight to them, reaching up to rub Hollander's shoulder, the soft rumble of her voice not quite intelligible to Ilya at this distance.

“Hollander!” An impulsive decision, Ilya cursed himself as soon as the word left his mouth, suddenly hoping to be ignored.

But the door had only just clicked shut when Hollander was pushing it back open. "Hello?" He offered, lingering at the threshold, just halfway in the room. He was wearing the same clothes from the night before, but someone had done something about his hair.

Again, Ilya couldn't keep from comparing this man to the one he remembered, searching his face. "You have more freckles. It is summer now?" After speaking Russian with Svetlana, the return to English only felt more awkward, unwieldy on his tongue.

The corner of Hollander's mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling in an approximation of a smile, even as he kept his lips mostly straight. The attempt at a poker-face was ineffective; Ilya knew what Hollander looked like when he was suppressing a smile. Ilya didn't offer one of his own, though, still too wary of him.

"Yes," Hollander said. "Today is July 16th."

Suddenly eager to regain some semblance of control, Ilya gestured to the chair. "Sit." He tried to seem authoritative, unafraid.

Hollander was still for a moment, tilting his head as he considered him. Ilya was reminded of their first few hook-ups, of issuing orders just to see how far Hollander would let him push. It had been fun, then, mapping out the boundaries of their connection. He had come to know Hollander in the manner of an explorer becoming acquainted with a tract of forest.

But this wasn't a sex game. Those orders had never been particularly serious. Ilya would have let Hollander take control, if he really wanted that. Here, in the hospital, things were different. Here, Ilya felt like he was spinning, like he had lost the upper hand and had no way of grappling with Hollander to win it back.

It was a relief when Hollander crossed the room, settling himself into the chair Svetlana had only just vacated. He didn't lounge like Svetlana had. Instead, he held himself stiffly, almost painfully so. His feet were flat against the ground, spine straight, eyes searching Ilya.

Even now, tired and dressed in crumpled clothing, Hollander was beautiful. Not that Ilya could be distracted by it. He was still too cognizant that he had given up his home for this man.

Ilya didn't love Russia. Maybe there was a universe where he did. But in this universe, Russia was a place of obligation. Ilya went there to care for his sick father. It was a place where he was forced to tolerate his brother's name-calling, a place where he spent his summer trying to forget about Canadian hockey players.

But Russia was still home. Now, he was stuck in North America, where every interaction was woven with his obvious foreignness, where his residency status was impermanent. Ilya only watched Hollander, unable to come up with words for him. Were you worth it? The question died on his tongue.

Hollander opened his mouth, then closed it. The silence stretched, the air thick with hesitation. When Hollander spoke, his mouth moved slowly, each syllable pronounced with care, struggling slightly to wrap his mouth around them. "Vy by predpochli govorit' po-russki?" Would you prefer to speak Russian?

Ilya's eye widened, and he flinched away from the offer, muscles recoiling. He fought a surge of anger. Hollander had to know he was the reason Ilya could never go back home—how could he dare to use his native language against him?

The anger wasn't rational. Ilya knew that. Hollander wasn't even good at chirping on the ice. It was impossible to imagine him intentionally taunting Ilya now. But, like his mother's crucifix, this felt like a line being crossed, an intimacy Ilya didn't remember consenting to, something he hadn't agreed to share with his hockey rival.

Worse, Ilya longed to hear more of it. There was something so painfully comforting about Hollander’s softly accented Russian in his ear. It was a comfort Ilya could not accept.

“I speak English."

Hollander took a moment to respond, nodding, still sitting stiffly in the chair. When he did speak, he returned to English. “Of course… I know that. But, Sveta said you were having an easier time in Russian?”

Sveta. Russians practically always shortened her name, but Hollander wasn't Russian. Ilya knew the practice had a different connotation among North Americans. He couldn't think through it, still agitated, defensively seeking to create some distance between his world and Hollander's.

“Svetlana does not know as much as she thinks."

Hollander did not seem to miss the cold correction, eyes dropping from Ilya's face. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

“How typical.”

Hollander bit his lower lip, falling quiet.

"Do not speak to me in Russian," Ilya continued. "I do not-I do not know you like this. "

Ilya wasn't even sure what he meant by that. Russian was his native language; he had used it in practically every context. He spoke Russian in his home, in school, at the grocery store, and on the rink. He spoke to friends, acquaintances, and strangers in Russian. Ilya had lived his life in Russian; he had wished for a Russian doctor the day before.

Still, Russian felt too intimate to use with Hollander. He only knew Hollander in English, in a language that wasn't his own, where he could use translation as a delay, as a barrier that might numb his affection. Even in English, Ilya struggled to hold the man at arm's length.

He watched Hollander’s face go blank, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. At least Ilya didn't have to suffer that hurt expression from the night before.

"You should go. I need sleep."

Chapter Text

"They told me they need to keep the hallways clear."

Hollander stood awkwardly, shoulders a little high, jaw tight. Waiting in the threshold, he used his broad shoulder to prop the heavy wooden door open, like he was unprepared to fully enclose himself in the same room as Ilya.

Hollander hadn't spoken to him in nearly twenty-four hours, not since the prior afternoon when Ilya had banished him from the hospital room. In that time, Hollander had changed clothes. He looked like a dream, even wearing his joggers and a dark hoodie, clothes that were suited for sleeping in uncomfortable hospital chairs, no doubt.

Despite Hollander's absence, Ilya had thought about him constantly, even when Svetlana had returned to sit with him for a few hours. It was like the man haunted the back of his mind. He appeared in Ilya's drug-induced nightmares, this ghostly figure that slipped through his fingers despite refusing to leave him alone.

Ilya knew what Hollander wanted, the question he was indirectly asking. But, Ilya still wasn't sure he wanted Hollander in the hospital room. The doctors were already weaning him off the pain medication, and Ilya's headache pangs left him openly wincing. His body was also slow to respond to his commands; whatever injury had stolen his memories had also weakened his coordination. Paired with his fractured ribs, the injuries were severe enough that even walking to the bathroom proved difficult. Ilya couldn't stomach the idea of Hollander watching him struggle.

He figured he probably shouldn't tell Hollander no, but an urge to be difficult reared up in his chest. He kept his voice even, unemotional. "Thank you for the update. I will not go into the hallways."

Hollander huffed, showing an ounce of frustration for the first time since Ilya had woken up in the hospital room. Clearly, he didn't buy the feigned ignorance. "They don't want me to stay in the hallway, either."

Ilya wasn't ready to invite him to stay, even as a part of him longed for Hollander's presence. It felt too needy, almost pathetic. He looked down at the blanket over his lap, making a show of nonchalance as he picked at the rough fabric. "Then do not stay there. Go back home." Wherever your home is.

"I can't do that, Ilya. I won't leave you alone when you're hurt. Something could happen, or…" The words were heavy, but Ilya refused to read the emotions behind them, still avoiding Hollander's eye.

Looking up, Ilya took great pains to roll his eyes, even as the movement sent his head spinning. "You are such a…" He couldn't think of the English idiom he wanted. A wart that worried? That couldn't be right. He dropped the sentence, instead reverting to a lie, "I am fine."

"You're not fine." Hollander shook his head, still tense, and finally closed the door behind him, as though committing to the idea of staying. "And I need to be here to help if something happens."

"Ah, yes, Doctor Hollander. Remind me where you did your medical training?"

"It's kind of comforting to know you're not too injured to be an asshole."

"No, never."

Hollander crossed the room, returning not to the upholstered, wood-framed chair closest to Ilya's bed, but to the more substantial, plastic and grayish-green reclining chair in the corner. This time, Hollander plopped down, no careful, ginger movements. Ilya interpreted this as evidence that he had gotten under Hollander's skin, and he fought to hide his amusement. This territory felt familiar.

"Look," Hollander leaned forward slightly, though he stayed seated, and rested his elbows against his knees. He kept his eyes lowered, avoiding looking at Ilya, and splayed his hands in a show of reasoning, drawing his words out in a slow, measured rhythm. "I won't make you talk to me or deal with me or anything. I can just sit here quietly." Hollander finally brought his eyes from the floor to Ilya. "But I do have to be here."

Ilya forced himself to heave a sigh. "O-kay."

But Hollander's presence made Ilya feel just a little sleepier. Watching him in the chair eased the ball of tension that had taken up residence in his throat. The realization bothered Ilya, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it.

Instead, they sat in silence. Hollander slipped his tennis shoes off and settled back against the chair, tucking one leg beneath himself, almost curling up. He pulled his phone out, scrolling through something that Ilya couldn't see.

It couldn't be comfortable, Ilya thought, trying to squeeze a relatively large man into the relatively small chair. He decided not to worry about it; Ilya hadn't asked Hollander to stay, so it wasn't his job to keep him comfortable.

"Can I at least have a cigarette?" Ilya couldn't resist the urge to rile Hollander up again, to slip back into a dynamic that felt familiar.

"What do you think?" Hollander glanced up from his phone, words flat and even, taking the bait.

Ilya grinned in spite of himself. He liked this version of Hollander better than the version who worried over him. He knew this version of Hollander.

"Was worth a try."

Leaning back against the pillow, Ilya let himself doze off.

The next morning, Ilya picked at his hospital breakfast. Hollander sat in the corner, still busying himself with something on his phone. Ilya assumed Hollander had slept in the chair, though he hadn't seen it, still fairly drowsy. Ilya was surprised that Hollander had managed to uphold his promise, but the man hadn't tried to engage him in conversation. Instead, he had let Ilya spend the previous afternoon in silence.

Ilya, for his part, had alternated between sleeping and pretending to sleep. He tried not to stare at Hollander, but it was difficult to avoid. He was by far the most interesting thing in the hospital room. Hollander either didn't notice Ilya's lingering eyes or was at least tactful enough not to comment on them.

Ilya took a bite of his eggs, chewing carefully and swallowing them down. He had taken to eating his meals slowly. They were a relief from the boredom of recovery.

He wanted to ask if Hollander was eating. The man had come in after lunch the day before, so he had been there for Ilya's dinner and now breakfast, but Ilya hadn't seen him eat. He supposed it didn't matter. Hollander probably ate when Ilya slept, and Ilya knew it probably wasn't his business anyways.

Besides, he had a different question in mind, one he had been mulling over all morning. He was feeling brave enough to ask it.

"So… This car crash? It was my fault, yes?"

Hollander looked up sharply, eyes narrowing as he searched Ilya. "No. No, not at all. Did someone tell you it was?" There was an edge of protection in Hollander's question. Knowing Hollander, that probably meant he was prepared to have a very stern conversation on Ilya's behalf.

"No one told me anything. I only know there was a crash because Dr. Gombert told me when I first woke up."

Hollander nodded slowly, face still tight. "You were driving alone, and you were hit by a drunk driver."

Ilya pressed forward, needing to be certain, needing to understand what he had done wrong. "But I was not watching?"

"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have stopped it. It was bad luck."

Ilya waited to see if Hollander would continue. When he didn't, Ilya decided to believe him. "Is the other driver…?"

"As far as I know, he's alive. Or, he was alive when you guys made it to the hospital. They won't tell me about his injuries or anything, though." Hollander fell quiet, but he didn't go back to his phone. Instead, he picked at his joggers, fidgety eyes shifting between Ilya and his own lap.

His gaze was still heavy, the movement unsettling. Ilya would have found it less disturbing if Hollander literally gnawed on him. Irritated again, Ilya asked, "What is it?"

"What?" Hollander's eyes widened, hand going still, eyes finally resting on Ilya.

"What do you want to say?"

"Oh." Hollander shrugged, shaking the question off and doing a poor imitation of an unbothered man. "Nothing, nothing."

"No, I can see it on your face. You want to say something. What is it?"

Hollander was quiet, and Ilya let the silence hang over him, waiting him out. "I just… I wanted to ask how much you remember. About the crash, but mostly about before the crash… but I said I wouldn't make you talk to me, and I won't. You don't have to tell me."

Ilya released a breath, glad it was a question and not some horrible piece of information. "I can tell you. I thought Dr. Gombert already did."

"She gave me an estimate of 2015, but," Hollander shrugged, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. "I don't know."

Ilya sighed. "It is confusing." He pursed his lips, thinking for a moment. "I don't remember anything about the crash. It is overwhelming to try and tell you all the memories of my whole life." Ilya also didn't know what he might have told Hollander in the years he had lost, what he had shared and what he had managed to keep private. "I can tell you what I remember about you?"

Hollander nodded, energy shifting as he pulled one leg up to rest his foot on the chair, knee to his chest. "Will you?"

Ilya closed his eyes, trying to convince his headache to settle to something duller as he reached for his memories of Hollander. "We met in, um, at the Junior Championships. You were Canadian about it. That was in, I think, 2008. I won, which you did not like."

"I did not, no."

Ilya looked at him, reading Hollander's tentative, closed-mouth smile before continuing. "And then the next time I saw you was at the draft. I was picked first, which you also did not like."

"I'm a hockey player, yeah." He twisted his hoodie strings between his fingers, hands still fidgeting. Ilya wanted to reach out and still them. "Do you remember what happened in the hotel?"

"Nothing happened in the hotel." Ilya frowned, doubting himself. He was fairly sure they hadn't hooked up at the draft. His father had been with him. Still, the idea of forgetting it made Ilya feel off-balance. "You flirted with me in the gym, but nothing happened."

"Yes, yes, sorry, I was referring to the gym." Hollander finally released the hoodie strings, shifting to sit straighter. "Also, you flirted with me as much as anything."

Ilya felt too warm at the memory, at how utterly intriguing his teenage self had found this freckled Canadian. He tried to shrug it off. "Well, sharing the water bottle is an old trick. Works hundred percent of the time. "

Hollander smiled at that, an open, full smile this time. Ilya thought that smile should come with a warning label. It was certainly more potent than whatever drug was being pumped into his IV line.

"But, after that, we played in the next World Junior Championship. Then, we did not see each other again until the summer, when we shot a commercial together because I suggested it to my agent. There was a thing in the showers, and… and then we hooked up in your hotel room? It was your first time with a man, so you did not really know what you were doing." But I liked you anyways. Ilya had to bite back the rest of the sentence, not ready to offer Hollander any praise.

Hollander nodded, prompting him to continue. "That's right."

"We played hockey a couple of times. We were both really good. Then I saw you again at the All-Stars Game. You met me in my hotel room. I wanted to have anal sex, but Scott Hunter ruined it for me."

"Yeah, I was worried about him hearing us."

"But we exchanged phone numbers and then texted about it for… I don't even know. A year and a half?"

They continued to talk for a while, as Ilya pieced together his memories. Hollander didn't argue with him, occasionally prompting him with a location or other detail when Ilya struggled to place a memory. He felt like he was putting a puzzle together, slotting pieces into place.

He confused the order of a few events, mistakenly telling Hollander that the Metros had won the Stanley Cup before the Raiders. Hollander gently corrected him, and the events felt more concrete once Ilya had the correct timeline. He made it to somewhere in 2015 before he couldn't continue, grasping for memories that weren't there.

The recounting only stirred up that same old ache that never really left Ilya. He could close his eyes and still see the version of Shane Hollander that he knew, teary-eyed in the dim Vegas bathroom. He could still remember avoiding his lips in the penthouse, how he had tried to avoid digging a hole he wouldn't be able to climb out of.

It all felt pretty futile now. “So I was weak for you? In the end?” Ilya asked.

Hollander shook his head. The serious expression he had worn that morning had faded to a sort of relaxed, doe-eyed affection that Ilya didn't know what to do with. “No, Ilya, you were very, very brave. Even when I wasn’t.”

Ilya hesitated, rolling the next question around on his tongue. He had been afraid to ask it, one of the answers he really couldn't predict. Hollander felt like the right person to ask, though. Ilya figured hockey was about the most natural topic of conversation between them.

"How did the Raiders take it? When we got married?"

Hollander's face drew tight, and he pulled his shoulders in slightly. "Um, I don't really know what their management said. A lot of the players were pretty good about it, and a few reached out to you to be supportive."

He was delaying something. The wait made Ilya nauseous, suddenly tense enough to send new pain prickling across his ribs. "But?"

"But, you weren't playing for the Raiders when we got married. You moved to the Ottawa Centaurs in 2018. We're in Ottawa right now."

Ottawa, right. Not Boston. At the explanation, Ilya was struck with a vague memory of the doctor telling him they were in Ottawa when he first woke. It hadn’t penetrated the fog of confusion.  

"Ottawa?" Ilya drew the word out, biting on his tongue. "They are one of the worst teams in the league. Were they good in 2018? Why did I move to Ottawa?" Ilya was sinking, already certain he knew the answer.

Hollander delivered it miserably. "Because you wanted to be closer to me in Montreal."

Ilya's ears rang. He couldn't look away from Hollander. "So, I threw away my career? For you?"

"No, you're still a world class player." Hollander was back to fidgeting with his hoodie strings.

"Oh, so, Ottawa wins Stanley Cups now." The words were delivered dryly, and Ilya couldn't keep from growing sarcastic. Ilya had never loved hockey, but he had been good at it. Very good at it. Hockey was about the only thing anyone had ever been proud of him for, the single constant.

Hollander seemed guilty, flushed red and shrugging his shoulders. "I mean, the first couple of years were rough, but for the past two years you guys have been in the playoffs."

"So I left a Cup-winning team to go lose in Ottawa?" Ilya scoffed, laying back and watching the ceiling. “I was very weak for you, then. This is worse than losing a hockey game, Hollander. This is like- like we faced off on the ice, and you took my whole life from me when you could have just taken the puck."

When Hollander didn't answer, Ilya continued, still speaking bitterly, "First you take Russia, then you take Boston… Always the overachiever.”

Hollander looked small, now, struggling with his words from the recliner. "I didn't ask you to leave Boston. I know you don't remember, but it was your choice."

"Oh, I am sure." Ilya thought about asking Hollander to leave again. He couldn't bring himself to follow through. The idea of being alone made his chest too tight.

They didn't speak for the rest of the day. Hollander hid in his phone, occasionally stepping into the hallway to take calls. Ilya pretended to sleep. Even the nurses who came to check on him seemed to sense the miserable tension, less chatty than they had been the day before.

Chapter Text

By the next morning, Ilya swore the atmosphere had turned acidic. The silence loomed over them, this smog that drove Ilya to tug at his blankets, pulling them higher like he could protect his skin from being eaten by the acrid haze.

His hands stilled as his fingertips caught against an unfamiliar texture, drawing his eyes to his lap. Ilya didn't recognize the new, tawny brown blanket that covered him. Lifting the new blanket, he found the standard cotton he recognized from the previous days.

Ilya let it fall back to his lap. He felt heavy with the vague sense of disorientation, dizzied by the implications of the blanket's appearance. What if he was forgetting things? What if there were some deeper issue with his memory that Hollander and the doctors were conspiring to hide from him?

Ilya steadied himself by pressing his palm over the fabric, noting the new texture again, feeling more certain it wasn't there before. He looked up at Hollander, who was still curled up in the recliner, turned sideways to lean his cheek against the chair back. Knees drawn up, one hand curved against his stomach while the other fiddled with the hem of his white socks. He was not using his phone now, staring absently at the mass-produced, vaguely beige abstract art on the wall.

Ilya swallowed, searching him. "There is a new blanket."

"Yes," Hollander answered, voice even with disinterest, not bothering to lift his head or seek out eye contact. "I asked the nurse for an extra last night. You were shivering in your sleep. I didn't want you to be cold."

Ilya's jaw grew tight, trying to force himself to be rational. A blanket in a cold hospital room was neither weapon nor humiliation. He still couldn't quiet the shame.

Around noon, Ilya watched intently as Hollander put his shoes back on and laced them tightly. His keys jingled as he shoved them in his pocket before taking a minute to find where his wallet had fallen off the side table. Ilya struggled with his vow of silence now, wanting to ask where Hollander was going, when he was coming back.

Hollander didn't force him to voice the request, though he still avoided Ilya's eye, pulling his cell phone out. "I'll be back in two hours max. I'm going home to shower and change clothes, but Svetlana is coming up. She'll stay until I get back, okay?"

Ilya nodded. "Okay."

Hollander turned to leave and paused by the door, hand on the knob, finally looking back at Ilya. "I'm going to bring you clothes for when you're discharged. I'll bring a few options."

Ilya bit back his reflexive gratitude, dismissing Hollander with a silent nod.

Hollander stepped outside, closing the door. Ilya was alone for a few minutes before Svetlana slipped into the room, flashing him a warm greeting. She folded herself into the wooden chair closest to Ilya's bed, the same one she had occupied the last time they spoke.

Ilya greeted her, giving her time to settle into the chair before broaching the subject in Russian, taking an almost chiding tone. "You didn't tell me I play for Ottawa now."

Svetlana shrugged a slim shoulder, reaching up to rub her scalp, taking care not to disturb her soft curls. "You didn't ask about hockey, and I didn't want to overwhelm you." There wasn't an ounce of guilt in the answer.

Ilya conceded the point. "That's fair, I suppose."

"I saw Shane in the hallway. He said he told you about it?"

Ilya pursed his lips, picking again at the new blanket that stupid, loyal Hollander had retrieved for him. The silence had given him far too much time to replay the previous day's accusations. "Yes, we talked. Now he is all pissy. Like a child."

Ilya didn't want to tell Svetlana the truth of the matter, that he had accused Hollander of ruining his life only for the other man to stay and continue to worry if he was too cold. It was easier to pretend that Hollander was overreacting.

"Really?" Svetlana perked up, lips tugged downwards. "What has he been doing?"

Ilya's commitment to lying dissipated as quickly as it formed. "Mostly just sitting there quietly, but..." Ilya plucked a loose thread from the blanket. "I don't like it when he's upset. He is like a little storm cloud."

"Yes, he seemed upset in the hallway." Svetlana settled back into the chair, but she continued to watch Ilya, gaze piercing in the manner of an old friend. "What did you say to him? You argued about Ottawa?"

Ilya shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

"You were mean then. Are you going to apologize?"

"Sveta," Ilya groaned, laying his head back on the pillows, looking at her. "I am your oldest friend. You are supposed to be on my side."

"I am on your side, Ilya." Svetlana arched her eyebrows, eyes widened for emphasis. "Which is why I am telling you to be nice to Shane."

Ilya scoffed, and that same, harsh silence settled over them. So Hollander had taken Svetlana from Ilya, too. No doubt he had won over her decades-old loyalties with his soft mouth and excellent stick-handling. The jealousy was unfamiliar; Ilya had never felt possessive over Svetlana before.

Unlike Hollander, Svetlana didn't allow Ilya to stew. Quick to prod him again, she asked a question about how the nurses were treating him. Ilya latched onto it, if only because he couldn't tolerate any other bouts of stony silence. They spoke about nothing for a while, voices filling the room with companionable Russian conversation.

After some time, Ilya forced the conversation to shift to more serious matters, to questions he didn't want to ask Hollander. "Do I not send money to Alexei anymore? If we haven't been speaking?"

Svetlana took the shift in stride, filling him in as though she were providing a hockey game recap for a team neither of them supported. "No, you haven't sent money since your father died."

Ilya wasn't sure how to feel about the confirmation. Abandoning his brother was embarrassing, surely, when Ilya had as much money as he did. Still, the idea of not having to field his brother's drunken calls made Ilya feel a little lighter. "Is he okay?"

"I haven't heard otherwise."

"Valeria is eating?" Ilya's niece was just five years old in his memories, but she was the only bright spot east of the Atlantic. It wasn't her fault she had been born to Ilya's dog of a brother. "She is how old now? Twelve?"

"Oh, yes, she is fine. You remember Renata Sokolova?"

"Yes, yes. Intimately."

Svetlana refused to acknowledge the innuendo with anything more than a smirk. "Renata teaches English at Valeria's school and has said that she seems fine. Apparently she is very dedicated to her English classes because she has some scheme to attend a university in Canada."

Ilya smiled at this, pleased to think his niece might have found some initiative in the dreary streets of Moscow. "Am I a, uh, key player in this scheme?"

"Not that we know of, but I'm sure you will be. She is still only twelve. I doubt she understands the intricacies of a student visa or funding a life abroad."

"I would help her, if she needed it."

"I know you would."

The conversation shifted, then, to a friendly back and forth about the hospital's quirks. Svetlana told Ilya she would have to go back to Boston that evening, but promised to call and check on him. Ilya hid his disappointment, understanding that she still needed to work, even if he couldn't help feeling like he was being abandoned to the care of Shane Hollander.

By the time Hollander returned, Ilya was exhausted, beginning to struggle with the long conversation. Hollander had changed clothes, and he deposited a duffel bag in the corner. "Sorry, Sveta, the traffic was horrible coming back."

"Don't be sorry. It's not even two o'clock yet. If I leave now, I'll make it to the airport with plenty of time."

"Why don't I walk you to your car?"

Ilya suspected this was a ruse to whisper about him in the hallway. Normally, he would have called them on it, but a part of Ilya was relieved that he wouldn't be forced to watch Hollander and Svetlana interact in his hospital room. He didn't need to see how those conversations played out, feeling confident it would be a jarring experience.

Or worse, perhaps it wouldn't be jarring at all. Perhaps he would watch Svetlana and Hollander interact like it was the most normal thing in the world and not evidence of some timeline altering collision.

The next morning marked Ilya's fifth day in the hospital. The silence had thawed, though Hollander was still quiet, not forcing Ilya to speak. Nervous to truly start a conversation with Hollander, Ilya stuck to disrupting the silence with the occasional, off-hand comment. He shared his opinions on the hospital food, on the curtains, even the stupid beige wall art.

Ilya was never particularly uncomfortable with silence, but the tension was torturous. He was willing to talk about any number of mundanities if it meant he didn't have to suffer Hollander avoiding his eye. Hollander, for his part, seemed willing to engage. He responded seriously, not brushing Ilya off, even offering the rare smile. He refused to deepen the conversation, though, not like he had the day before, with his questions about what Ilya remembered.

Ilya supposed Hollander had learned his lesson, then. He had always been clever. Highest hockey IQ in the league, right? Hollander was smart enough to limit his contact when men like Ilya lashed out at him.

And the ache in Ilya's chest was the result of his broken ribs. Nothing more.

Ilya was buzzing when the doctor told him he could be discharged. He didn't know where he was being discharged to, but it had to be better than the hospital, with its uncomfortable bed and too bright lights and deafening boredom.

He changed into a pair of loose sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, which Hollander produced from the duffel bag. He was excited to be free of the vulnerability of the hospital gown, to have something substantial. Still struggling with his coordination, Ilya had to focus on steadying his hands as he pulled on his clothes, worrying some nurse would see him off-balance and cancel his discharge.

Ilya didn't ask him to, but Hollander respectfully turned away when Ilya changed. A ridiculous gesture. Once Hollander stepped outside to speak with a nurse, Ilya tackled his shoes, which required slightly more bending and sent pain flaring through his ribs. He didn't want anyone to see how the movement made him gasp for air.

The rest of his discharge was routine. A nurse walked Ilya outside while Hollander went to retrieve the car, pulling up to the front so that Ilya wouldn't have to walk through the parking lot. Outside, Ilya struggled with the sunlight, squinting to try and shield himself as he climbed into the passenger seat of a dark SUV. Blinded by it, he focused on breathing through the dull throb in his temples.

"Here," Hollander said, reaching into the middle compartment to fish out a pair of dark sunglasses. "Sunglasses."

Ilya accepted them wordlessly, slipping them onto his face, relieved to ease the bright pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

Hollander pulled down the driver's seat sun visor before shifting the car into drive and beginning to pull out. Ilya noticed the man was squinting against the glare.

"Am I wearing your sunglasses?"

"Uh, no," Hollander answered, hands tight around the steering wheel as he navigated the parking lot. "Those are yours."

"You are still a bad liar."

Hollander's eyes flickered to Ilya for only a moment, not answering immediately. Finally, he said, "I should have remembered to bring sunglasses with your clothes. I don't need them to drive, though."

If Ilya were in less pain, he would have forced Hollander to take his sunglasses back, still embarrassed by his body's new frailty. As it was, he turned his eyes to the window, letting the argument die.

Hollander drove cautiously, which Ilya expected. He wanted to look at the city as they traveled, still hoping to get a better sense of his surroundings. Ilya could hardly claim to be familiar with Ottawa; he only remembered coming to the city a few nights a year to play hockey. But, he couldn't watch the fast-moving scenery without growing dizzy, without lapsing into the increasingly familiar sense of nausea.

Reluctantly, Ilya closed his eyes, sacrificing the opportunity to gather more information in order to quiet his pounding head.

Some time later, Ilya felt the car slow, listening as Hollander muttered something under his breath. Opening his eyes, Ilya took in the sight of a large, two-story house, the exterior covered in gray stone. Hollander pulled into the semi-circle drive, coming to park in the shade of a pair of oak trees.

Ilya wanted to take a moment, to sit in the air-conditioned car and simply take in this home that he didn't recognize. Hollander, however, was quick to push the door open and exit the vehicle, already beginning to walk around to the passenger side. Ilya spurred himself into action at that, not willing to give Hollander the satisfaction of helping him out of the car.

Ilya set off towards the front door, ignoring how his legs quivered.

"Oh, wait," Hollander interrupted, one hand wrapping around Ilya's bicep. Just as quickly, Hollander pulled away, as though remembering their earlier iciness. "Um, Anya will need to pee, but I don't want her to hurt you."

Ilya didn't recognize the name, horrified for a moment that he had somehow acquired a child Hollander neglected to mention.

His fear must have been visible because Hollander scrambled to explain himself. "Anya is a dog. Um, you adopted her a couple years ago. She's sweet, but I don't want her to jump on you with your ribs."

Ilya nodded, worry fading into irritation, still staring at Hollander as he waited for the man to come up with a solution. "Okay."

Hollander nodded, growing awkward. "Yeah." He looked towards the door. "Let's just go inside then."

Inside, Ilya busied himself with observing the home's interior while Hollander wrestled a squirming, multi-colored dog into the backyard. Ilya suspected she wanted to greet him, based on how she whined. He didn't advocate for her, though, too overwhelmed by the framed photos that formed a rectangular array in the foyer. They all showed some version of himself and Hollander, documenting their life together.

In one, he stood facing Hollander, both dressed in dark suits, chests adorned with floral boutonnieres. He held one of Hollander's hands in his, sliding a ring on the man's finger. Ilya didn't recognize the full-eyed, adoring smile he wore, but it was not the expression of a coerced man.

Hollander distracted him then, returning at his elbow. Ilya watched Hollander's eyes fall on the photo, the way his brow furrowed. "You framed that one for me the week before last."

"An anniversary present?" Ilya guessed.

Hollander hesitated, and Ilya got the sense he was still withholding something. "Of sorts."

Frustration flared in his chest, but Ilya wrestled it down, forcing himself to turn away from the photos, fighting to keep his face blank. "Where is the bedroom?"

Hollander flicked his hand towards the staircase. "I'll show you."

Ilya walked to the stairs, noting that Hollander lagged behind him. He didn't think much of it, too focused on making it up the stairs. He was wobbling slightly, struggling to judge the distance between the steps. Still, Ilya had taken on harder challenges than a household staircase. He wouldn't need to ask for help.

He made it to the second step before hearing the slight creak of a weight against the wood. Startled, he turned his head to see Hollander had quietly braced his arm against the railing behind Ilya. Pretending to just be leaning against it, he was conveniently in the perfect position to catch Ilya if he stumbled backwards, muscles coiled in preparation to move.

"I am not going to fall."

Hollander looked away from him, gazing over the living room and refusing to fully engage. "I never said you were."

"You- you-" Ilya struggled for words before forcing a deep breath. He couldn't fight the stairs and Hollander at the same time. He had the energy to take on one of the two, and he was forced to choose the stairs.

Turning back, Ilya focused on gaining elevation, one step at a time. He could hear Hollander close behind him, but the man didn't speak, even when Ilya paused on the landing to regain his bearings. Once Ilya made it safely to the top, Hollander stepped in front of him, now willing to lead as they passed through a well-lit hallway, lined with tall windows.

Hollander opened the door for Ilya, revealing a large bedroom that was filled with dark, wooden furniture. It was classier than the furniture Ilya remembered from his home in Boston, but it was still modern in style. Exhausted from the stairs, Ilya plopped down on one side of the bed, wincing as the motion jostled his ribs.

Hollander followed Ilya, pausing in front of him. The earlier awkwardness was back, with Hollander hovering over him, chewing at his lip.

Annoyed, Ilya snapped at him. "What? Am I in your way? I'm on the wrong side of the bed or something?"

"No, I was going to offer to help with your shoes. Bending like that will hurt you."

Ilya couldn't muster a response, too worn out from navigating the stairs to reject the help, offering only a nod of assent.

Hollander knelt down in front of him, fingers going to tug at the laces of Ilya's shoes.

Watching him kneel, Ilya softened, reminded of the younger Hollander, of his eager mouth and wide eyes. His posture now was different, hunched to handle Ilya's shoes, and his mouth was busy speaking. But his eyes hadn't changed.

"You can let me help you with stuff like this, you know," Hollander said as he worked, painfully careful, as though Ilya were made of blown sugar, fragile. "I'm not going to like, make fun of you for it or think less of you."

Hollander didn't force Ilya to answer, only continuing on. "You can stay here to rest. I'll bring up dinner and your medication and anything else you need, okay?"

Hollander worked one shoe off before turning to the other. When Ilya didn't answer, he asked, cautious, "What are you thinking?"

He was waiting for cruelty. Ilya was certain of it, noting the set of his eyes, the tension of his mouth. Ilya didn't have any to offer, instead reaching out to ruffle Hollander's hair. "I am thinking you make a very sexy nurse."

Hollander rewarded him by scrunching his face, feigning annoyance, even as his huff of laughter betrayed him. "Yeah, and I run a tight ship around here, so you have to listen to me."

He rose from the floor as Ilya answered. "Oh, I believe it."

Hollander wore a reserved smile, laced with a sort of sadness. As he left, he paused at the door, turning back to Ilya. "For the record, that is your side of the bed. You didn't pick wrong. I usually sleep on the left."

"Ah, okay. I will leave your side alone then."

"It doesn't matter. You can take either side or spread out or whatever… I moved my stuff to the guest room, so you won't need to worry about having your own space and privacy and stuff. I'm just down the hall." He didn't wait to hear Ilya's opinion on the solution, instead ducking out of the bedroom and disappearing into the hallway.

At least Ilya didn't need to hide his frown, looking over the king-sized bed. He wouldn't ask Hollander to stay with him, but he couldn't quite swallow the welling disappointment that his departure left.

It reminded Ilya of years spent meeting Hollander in hotel rooms, of fucking Hollander into the mattress and then watching him slip out into the night, leaving Ilya to fall asleep alone. The regret of these departures hadn't grown cold, like Hollander was an ache Ilya couldn't bury. How many nights had he spent silently wishing Hollander would stay a little longer?

Maybe the present was not so different from the past. It bothered Ilya to think that he could not remember what it was like to fall asleep next to Hollander. Some version of him had found the courage to stay, only to fail to capture the memory.

Ilya tried not to dwell on it, instead devoting himself to exploring the bedroom. He didn't recognize the art on the wall, unsure of if it had been his choice or a result of hiring some interior designer. The walk-in closet and the dresser didn't hold anything interesting, unless one considered Ottawa gear to be interesting, which Ilya didn't.

The nightstands were only slightly more informative. The drawers on Hollander's side held a few sex toys, run-of-the-mill, vanilla stuff. Two library books were stacked on top, out of harm's way.

On Ilya's side, there was a framed picture of Hollander, legs dangling over the edge of a dock, taken at sunset on a lake's edge. Hollander grinned at the camera, all freckles, eyes bright with joy. His shirt was unbuttoned and his hair was windblown. It was an unwinding that Ilya had only ever caught glimpses of, in his memories, in the moments after Ilya finished taking him apart, when Hollander's cheek lingered on his, before he remembered who Ilya was to him.

Ilya shoved the photo into the top drawer of his nightstand, face down over a loose assortment of condoms.