Work Text:
June 2016
The air inside the club feels suffocating but it’s a familiar discomfort. Svetlana hooks her arm through his and shouts something he doesn’t catch over the music.
“I said don’t look so miserable!” Svetlana repeats, her lips brushing against his ear as she repeats herself. “You’re home, try to enjoy it.”
“I am enjoying it,” Ilya lies, flashing her a grin. He tilts his head back and downs the rest of his drink, “See? Enjoying it.”
“You’re annoying,” Svetlana snorts and shakes her head. Her smile falters a little as she adds, “By the way, I invited Sasha.”
“Sasha?”
“Relax,” She says. “He’s in town for the summer as well and I thought it might be fun, for old time’s sake.”
They find Sasha near the back of the bar, in the VIP section. Ilya wants to roll his eyes and Sasha immediately grins when he spots him.
“Ilya,” Sasha says, grinning as he pulls him into a quick hug. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up tonight.”
“I didn’t think you’d still be this loud,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes and pulling away from the hug.
They begin drinking, one round turns into another. The music gets better or maybe he just stops carrying after his 3rd drink. Svetlaan dances and drags them with her, laughing when Ilya stumbles and nearly takes Sasha down with him.
Through it all, uninvited and relentless, Shane is there. No matter how much he tries to forget him, Shane is always there. So he drinks more.
Sasha leans close to say something over the music, “You okay?”
“Fuck off,” Ilya says, nudging Sasha away.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Sasha says, swaying slightly on his feet. “My place is only ten minutes away.”
Ilya looks at Sasha for a long moment before nodding, “Fine.”
November 2016
The nausea creeps up on him slowly and it oddly enough begins a couple days after Shane walked out.
It’s mostly in the mornings, when he first gets out of bed. He tells himself it’s jet lag that never quite goes away because of the season. Then he tells himself it’s probably the fact that he hasn’t been sleeping well.
It’s easier to not think too much when he’s on the ice. Hockey has been the one place where his body makes sense, where it feels like he’s there with a purpose. And the pain is always clean and understandable. You hurt because you push and your body aches because you work. There’s a clear logic behind it.
But lately, his body feels like it’s working against him.
He’s slower in warm-ups, feeling out of breath faster than usual. He misses a pass he would normally catch without thinking.
“Jesus, Rozy,” Cliff says later, skating up beside him. “You look like shit.”
“Fuck you,” Ilya replies automatically.
Cliff raises an eyebrow, “I mean it affectionately.”
“I’m fucking fine.”
He isn’t, though. By the time practice ends, he’s sweating more than usual and his head is pounding. When he bends to untie his skates, the room spins and he has to pause midway through.
The nausea comes and goes over the next few weeks. Some days are better than others. Some days he can through a full practice feeling like he’s on top of the world. And some days he feels like he can’t get through practice without feeling like he’s going to pass out.
He stops eating breakfast entirely and tells himself he’ll grab something later. The later never comes.
“You’ve lost weight,” Connors comments offhandedly one afternoon.
Ilya just shrugs.
Sleep itself also becomes a problem. Some nights, he lies awake staring at the ceilings, imagining how things could have been different if he hadn’t said Shane’s name. Other days, he feels so tired that he can’t get up.
Sometimes, he dreams of Russia. He dreams of the summer air, cigarette smoke, and hands that aren’t Shane’s. He wakes up with a sour taste in his mouth and nausea so intense he barely makes it to the bathroom in time.
He doesn't tell anyone but by late November, it’s getting harder to hide.
Coach LeClaire watches him closely during drills, eyes sharp. Cliff actually pulls him aside practice one day, concern evident on his face.
“You sure you’re okay?” Cliff asks quietly. “You’re not skating like yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Ilya repeats, because it’s easier than explaining something he doesn’t understand himself.
“You look pale.”
“Lighting sucks here.”
Cliff snorts, unconvinced, “Okay, if you say so.”
Ilya hates that everyone seems to be watching him now. He hates that his body is betraying him in ways he can’t control. Hates that Shane is still on his mind.
He keeps telling himself it’s the stress. That’s all it is. It’s the stress and over-training and not sleeping enough. He’s been through worse.
Then, one morning, his body finally calls his bluff.
Practice starts like any other. He goes through warms-up on autopilot, the routine familiar and comforting. Halfway through a drill, though, he begins to feel dizzy.
He blinks rapidly, skating slower, trying to ground himself and hoping it passes. But it doesn't pass. Instead, the sensation intensifies, a sharp pain shooting up from his spine.
He misses a turn, nearly colliding with Connors.
“Whoa, what’s going on?” Connors says, coming to a stop.
Ilya tries to respond but his mouth feels dry. The sounds of the skates on ice feels too loud, like it’s drilling straight into his skull. His heart starts to race and his ears feel hot.
He makes it to the boards before his legs give out, his vision tunneling. He knows that if he tries to keep standing, he’s going to fall so he sits down.
Right there on the ice, he drops down hard, one hand braced against the surface. The rink goes quiet.
“Rozanov?” Coach LeClaire’s voice cuts through the noise. “What the hell–”
“I’m okay,” Ilya says, even as the world continues to spin. “Just give me a second.”
But LeClaire is already walking toward him, followed closely by Cliff, “You’re done,” LeClaire says. “Get off the ice.”
“I can finish,” Ilya insists.
He pushes himself up onto his knees, the movement sending another wave of dizziness through him and he sways a little.
Cliff grabs his arm, steadying him, “Easy, don’t be stupid.”
The two men help Ilya to the bench, taking his helmet and gloves off. The cold air against his skin makes him shiver and someone hands him a water bottle.
“You need to see the physician,” LeClaire says, signaling toward the tunnel. “Now.”
Ilya shakes his head, “I just didn’t eat. That is it. I’m fine.”
LeClaire narrows his eyes, “You’re telling me you almost passed out because you skipped breakfast?”
“I have done it before,” Ilya snaps, defensive. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m not sick,” Ilya insists. “Just tired.”
“Then you shouldn’t be on the ice,” LeClaire replies. “And you still need to get checked.”
Ilya clenches his jaw, the thought of doctors and questions that he doesn’t have the answers to. He doesn’t want to deal with it and he doesn’t have the energy.
“If I feel worse,” He says. “I will go. I promise.”
LeClaire looks like he wants to argue but eventually he exhales through his nose.
“This isn’t optional,” He says quietly. “You hear me? You don’t get points for playing through something stupid. You’re the Captain of this team, okay? They need you.”
“I hear you,” Ilya replies.
LeClaire nods once, “Go home and rest. If anything happens again, you’re going straight to the physician whether you like it or not.”
Cliff squeezes Ilya’s shoulder as he passes, “Text me when you’re home,” He mumbles. “So I know you didn’t fall over in the parking lot.”
Ilya manages a weak smirk, “I will try not to.”
He tells himself it’s nothing, it has to be nothing. This is just stress, over-training, and heartbreak. That’s all.
And if he keeps telling himself that, maybe it’ll be the truth.
It's a home game in Boston, the last one before Thanksgiving. Ilya tells him it’s just another game, and soon it’ll be over and he’ll be fine.
He’s chasing the puck into the corner, shoulder-to-shoulder with an opposing player. His back hits the glass with a solid thud before another body slams into them a second later. Then another.
It’s a messy but routine collision that happens a dozen times a game. But then someone’s skate slips and the pile collapses.
Ilya is pulled forward, the momentum dragging him down before he can catch himself. He hits the ice face-first, his helmet knocking hard against the ice. The other players follow, crashing into his back and shoulders.
The pain is sharp and immediate, stemming from his lower stomach. He curses under his breath, trying to catch his breath.
The pile clears quickly, players scrambling to their skates. Ilya stays down a second longer than he should.
He presses a gloved hand instinctively against his stomach, breathing uneven. He forces himself onto his knees and then slowly onto his skates.
Ilya pushes himself forward, legs suddenly feeling heavy and half a second behind his actual thoughts. He only makes a few more feet forward before his knees feel like they’re going to give out.
Cliff is suddenly there, close enough that Ilya can see the concern on his face, “Hey–”
Ilya reaches out without thinking, dropping his glove to hold onto the front of Cliff’s jersey. It’s instinctive and his body reacts before his brain can catch up.
“Whoa, whoa,” Cliff says, grabbing his arm. “Roz?”
“I’m–” Ilya tries to say before another wave of dizziness hits him.
His grip on Cliff’s jersey tightens as his legs give out completely. Cliff tries to steady him but Ilya’s dead weight and he falls to the ice.
“Hey! Hey! Fuck, Roz, stay with me!” Cliff shouts. “Look at me–”
But Ilya can’t. He blinks rapidly but it’s no use, his vision darkening. Someone is shouting now, he can’t tell if it’s his name or someone else’s.
Then the world goes dark.
Ilya wakes up slowly. There’s a faint beeping somewhere nearby, and the ceiling is too white. He blinks rapidly, trying to focus on where he is and how he got there.
The first thing that comes to mind is the game. His heart drops when he remembers how he passed out, trying to hold onto Cliff’s jersey.
That’s when he realizes something is wrong. He can’t feel anything below his ribs. He can’t feel pain, pressure, or even the vague awareness that his lower body is there.
“Hey,” He says, voice barely above a whisper. He coughs before speaking louder, “Hello?”
A few moments later, a nurse walks into the door. She’s an older nurse, wearing light pink scrubs. She smiles softly when she sees he’s awake.
“Good afternoon, honey,” She says gently. “How are you feeling?”
“What… what happened?” Ilya asks, swallowing.
“You took a pretty hard hit during the game,” Sh says, checking the monitor beside him. “You lost consciousness on the ice.”
“I can’t– why can’t I feel my legs?” He asks, voice cracking.
“That’s normal,” She assures him immediately. “You’re still under the effects of anesthesia. The numbness will wear off gradually.”
“Why… why would I–” He stops himself, frustration building up. “I didn’t need surgery.”
The nurse freezes for half a second, but it’s enough for Ilya to notice.
“I’m going to grab the doctor, honey,” She says carefully. “He’ll explain everything, okay?”
As she leaves, Ilya stares at the heart monitor next to him. He glances down at his arm, an IV taped to the back of his hand. Ilya’s gaze drifts from the IV in his hand toward his wrist. The hospital band says “LABOR & DELIVERY" in bold letters under his name.
For a moment, his brain refuses to process it. This doesn’t make sense, it can’t make sense. His heart drops and his ears get hot.
He lifts his arm a little higher, tilting it to make sure he’s reading it right. But the words don’t change, they stay exactly where they are.
“No,” He whispers.
Labor and delivery isn’t for him. It doesn't make sense. He hasn’t had sex that way for months, not since Sasha and that drunk night in Russia.
The door opens again and a woman wearing a white coat walks in, carrying a tablet.
“Hi, Mr. Rozanov,” She says gently, offering him a soft smile. “I’m Dr. Nguyen. How are you feeling right now?”
“Fine,” Ilya mumbles, making eye contact with her. “Why am I here? I–I don’t understand.”
She pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits, putting herself at eye level with him, “That’s completely fair. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m in labor and delivery,” Ilya blurts out, lifting his wrist slightly. “Doesn’t make sense.”
Dr. Nguyen’s expression softens, “I know. And I’m really sorry that this is how you’re finding out.”
“I’m confused,” Ilya says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what happened to me.”
She nods, “Okay, I’m going to explain and you can stop me at any point if you need a break. Does that sound alright?"
He nods once.
Dr. Nguyen glances at her tablet, then back at him, “You were brought in after collapsing during your game. Imaging showed significant internal bleeding caused by blunt abdominal trauma.”
She takes a deep breath before continuing, “When you arrived at the hospital. Your blood pressure was dangerously low and you’d lost a significant amount of blood internally. The trauma from the hit caused severe complications, and both your life and the fetus’s life were at immediate risk.”
“Stop,” Ilya says, head snapping up. “No. There is not… I’m not… I can’t be.”
Dr. Nguyen doesn’t interrupt him, just sympathetically nods.
“I haven’t–” His voice cracks and he forces himself to steady his voice. “I haven't even thought about this. I don’t… this can’t happen to me.”
“I hear you,” She says gently. “And I believe you when you say you’re confused. That’s a very normal reaction.”
“No,” Ilya insists, his voice rising. “You’re wrong. You have wrong stuff, wrong person. I’m an athlete, I would have known.”
Dy. Nguyen nods slowly, “I’m sorry but you were approximately twenty-three weeks pregnant.”
Ilya scoffs, “That’s– no. No. This isn’t fucking possible. I didn’t feel anything. There was nothing.”
“Some people don’t,” She says quietly. “Especially in male pregnancies. You’re still very young, physically active and under a lot of stress. Pregnancy doesn't always look the same.”
“That’s bullshit,” He snaps. “I would have noticed. I would’ve looked…”
“You were still within a range where outward changes can be subtle,” She says. “And your physical conditioning may have masked symptoms that someone else might notice sooner.”
Ilya closes his eyes for a long moment, unsure of what to say.
“We had to act quickly,” Dr. Nguyen says after a moment. “Your injuries were life threatening. We performed an emergency c-section to save your life.”
Ilya takes a deep breath before whispering, “And the…?”
Dr. Nguyen lowers her gaze, “We were unable to save the fetus.”
“Fuck.”
“I know this is overwhelming,” She says softly. “And I’m so sorry that you’re hearing all of this at once.”
“This can’t be happening,” He mumbles.
Dr. Nguyen lets the silence settle over them again, giving him space to breathe and process everything.
“When something like this happens,” She says. “We usually offer the parents the opportunity to spend a moment with the baby, if they’d like.”
“No,” Ilya says immediately. “I can’t.”
She nods, not surprised, “That’s completely okay. And your partner–”
“Don’t have one,” Ilya says, cutting her off. “I just need this to stop. I need to get better, get out of here.”
“Of course,” Dr. Nguyen says, nodding. She looks down at her tablet before speaking, “Physically, you’re going to need time. You’ve had major abdominal surgery and significant blood loss. Realistically, you’re looking at four to six weeks of recovery.”
“What?”
“You’ll need to rest,” She continues. “No contact sports and no intense physical activity.”
“I can’t, I’m the captain and the season–”
“I know,” She says gently. “But returning too soon will put you at serious risk.”
He curses under his breath, in Russian, his hands clenching into fists.
“I understand how frustrating this is,” She says. “But your health has to come first.”
Ilya scoffs again, shaking his head, “My health,” He repeats.
“Given everything you’ve just learned,” She says gently. “And how overwhelmed you are right now, I don’t want to push you through any more decisions today than absolutely necessary.”
Ilya keeps his eyes on the ceiling, it feels safer than looking at her.
“I’m going to step out for now,” She says, standing. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours with a social worker. She’ll help walk you through the remaining procedural things when you’ve had a little more time to process. Does that sound okay?”
“Okay,” He mumbles.
“In the meantime, a nurse will check on you regularly. If your pain increases, or if you start feeling numbness wearing off unevenly, let them know right away,” Dr. Nguyen says. She pauses at the door, “I am very sorry, Ilya.”
The room begins to feel too big without her and the beep of the monitor suddenly feels too intrusive.
Ilya stares at the ceiling until his vision gets blurry. He doesn’t even know when he starts to cry. He turns his head to the side, pressing his face into the pillow, biting down on his lip so hard that it draws blood.
He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want to feel. He doesn’t want to accept that this is reality.
He doesn’t even know what he’s crying for.
He’s definitely not crying for a baby that he never planned, not for a life he didn’t choose, not for something he never even knew existed until it was already gone.
This child was never his, it was never meant to be. It should’ve never even happened.
And yet, he still cries. He cries for the shock of it, for the loss of control. He cries for the fact that his body did something without his permission and then took it away just as suddenly. He cries because something has been taken from him, even if he can’t quite name what it is.
Dr. Nguyen comes back three hours later, followed by another woman.
“Hi, Ilya,” The woman says. “My name is Karen. I’m one of the hospital’s social workers.”
Ilya’s propped up against the raised back of the bed, hands folded in his lap, “Hi.”
Karen pulls a chair closer to the bed, “Before we get into anything else, I want to check in with you. How are you doing mentally right now?”
“Fine,” Ilya replies, staring past her.
Karen nods, “It’s completely normal to feel overwhelmed, confused, angry, or numb. All of it is normal. We have counseling services available, both here in the hospital and for ongoing support after you’re discharged. There are also support groups for pregnancy loss, some specifically for–”
“No, I’m fine,” Ilya cuts her off.
“It can be incredibly helpful to speak with someone who understands this specific kind of grief,” She says, tone gentle.
“I don’t need to speak,” He says. “I need to go home.”
Karen exchanges a glance with Dr. Nguyen before speaking, “I understand that feeling. The desire to just be in your own space is very strong. But Dr. Nguyen has explained the physical recovery needed from the surgery. We also want to make sure you’re mentally and emotionally stable before discharge. You’ve been through a profound trauma.”
“I am stable,” Ilya insists. “I am fine. Let me go home and I will be more fine.”
Karen sighs, “Ilya, you don’t have to go through this alone. Even if it’s not with a professional, is there a friend, a family member you’d like us to call? Someone who can be with you?”
“I am not alone,” Ilya lies. “I just need to leave.”
“Soon,” Dr. Nguyen says, tone firm. “But not tonight.”
“Ilya,” Karen says, voice dropping into a softer register. “I’m so sorry but there are some things we need to discuss. I know it’s the last thing you want to do right now, but it’s important we handle this while you’re here.”
He just nods once.
“The first is regarding the fetal death certificate," She says. “It’s a legal document. We need to fill it out as completely as we can. Some of it is medical information we already have. But some of it involves your choices.”
“Okay.”
“We have the sex of the baby noted from the delivery," Karen says. “Would you like to know what it was?”
For hours, Ilya has convinced himself that he wants to know nothing. Knowing makes it real and this can’t be real. But the word “baby” presses down on him. Not “fetus.” Baby. His baby.
“Yes,” He whispers.
“It was a boy,” Karen answers.
A boy.
Fuck.
For twenty-three weeks, he carried a son and never knew. The nausea, the dizziness, the exhaustion… it had all been him. A boy who would never slap a puck, never speak Russian, never have his smile.
Ilya forces his expression to stay neutral.
“Would you like to name him?” Karen asks. “For the certificate. Some parents find it brings a sense of closure. It’s okay if you don’t, too. We can simply put ‘Baby Boy Rozanov.’”
He shakes his head once. He can’t name him because to name him would be to claim him, to love him, and that is a door he can’t afford to open.
Karen makes a note, “And the other parent? Is there someone you’d like us to contact, or would you like their information included?”
Ilya shakes his head again.
“Okay,” Karen says, making another note. She takes a deep breath, “The next thing is the most difficult. We need to know how you would like to proceed with the… with your son’s remains. You have options. You can arrange for a private burial. You can arrange for a private cremation. Or, the hospital can facilitate a communal cremation. That is a dignified procedure where several losses are handled together, and the ashes are interred in a dedicated memorial garden.”
“I don’t want a part in any of this,” Ilya says. “I just need to get better. To forget this.”
Karen nods, “I understand that feeling, Ilya. Truly. The communal cremation is a way for the hospital to handle matters respectfully, with no ongoing obligation on your part. Is that what you would prefer?”
Ilya nods again, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“So, to confirm, you are choosing the hospital’s communal cremation service?” She asks, pen hovering over the paper.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” She says softly. She closes the clipboard, "That's everything from my side.”
Karen reaches into her bag and pulls out a small stack of brooches, setting them on his bedside table, “These are resources: grief counseling, support lines, information about postpartum recovery. You don’t have to look at them now but I want you to have them.”
“Okay,” He mumbles.
“Support is really important right,” Karen says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
“We’ll let you rest,” Dr. Nguyen says. “The nurse will be in to check on you soon. We’ll talk about a recovery timeline tomorrow.”
The two women leave and he’s alone once again.
He was a boy. He is gone.
Ilya closes his eyes, letting silent tears stream down his face.
He hears footsteps outside his room, a knock following.
“Ilya?” It’s LeClaire.
“Come in,” Ilya calls out.
The door slowly opens, LeClaire stepping inside first, still in his gameday outfit, the tie loosened. Cliff follows close behind him, hesitating before stepping inside.
For a moment, no one speaks, unsure of what to say.
LeClaire closes the door behind them before glancing around the room. He swallows before speaking, “Hey, kid.”
“Hey, Coach,” Ilya replies, trying to seem as normal as he could.
“Hey, Rozy,” Cliff says, offering Ilya a soft smile.
“How’re you feeling?” LeClaire asks, stepping closer to the bed.
“Like shit,” Ilya breathes out.
LeClaire huffs, “That tracks.”
There’s an awkward pause, the kind that happens because no one wants to be the first to say the wrong thing.
LeClaire clears his throat, “I want to start by telling you something very clearly. No one else on the team knows. Just me and Cliff.”
“What?” Ilya says.
“The doctors needed someone to talk to,” LeClaire continues. “You don’t have family here in the States, and they needed consent, information, someone to be there. That’s how we found out.”
“Everyone else–?”
“Doesn’t know,” LeClaire says firmly. “And they won’t, unless you decide otherwise. This is your business. Yours alone.”
Cliff nods, “I swear, man. Nobody else knows. Not the guys, not the media, no one else.”
Ilya exhales slowly, “Okay.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” LeClaire says. “Your only job right now is to heal.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya blurts out suddenly.
“For what?” LeClaire asks, genuinely confused.
“For missing games,” He says. He quietly adds, “For being a problem.”
LeClaire stares at him like he’s lost his mind. Then he lets out a sharp laugh, “Jesus Christ, Rozanov.” He takes a deep breath, “You’re crazy if you think you have anything to apologize for.”
Ilya shakes his head, “The team–”
“Stop,” LeClaire says, cutting him off. “You almost fucking died, that’s the part that matteres.”
Ilya looks away.
“The team will be fine,” LeClaire continues. “We’ll adjust, just like we always do. And when you’re ready, you’ll come back and we’ll be right there.”
The older man reaches out and pats Ilya’s hair gently, “If you need anything at all, you come to me. You hear me?”
Ilya nods, “Yeah.”
LeClaire nods, “Okay, I’ve got to go handle the media statement shit. I’ll be back to check in on you, okay?”
“Got it,” Ilya replies.
LeClaire gives Ilya one last look before turning and leaving, the door shutting behind him.
Cliff drags a chair close to Ilya’s bed and sits down. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stares at Ilya.
“Stop staring,” Ilya mumbles, looking away.
“I called Svetlana,” Cliff says. “Your friend.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” Cliff says. “She’s on her way. She was really worried.”
Ilya nods slowly, “Thank you.”
Cliff smiles, “Of course.”
They sit in silence for a while. Ilya leans back against the pillow and stares at the ceiling again, trying to distract himself.
“This doesn't change anything,” Cliff says suddenly.
Ilya doesn’t respond.
“Seriously,” Cliff continues. “I don’t care who you fuck. You’re still the same Roz to me. You don’t gotta worry about shit being different.”
“Thanks,” Ilya whispers.
“I’m really sorry this happened to you,” Cliff says. “No one deserves this.”
“You should go home,” Ilya says, ignoring Cliff. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“So?”
“Go home. Be with family. Eat turkey.”
Cliff scoffs, “Are you kidding me?” He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“I’m serious. Go home.”
“Nope.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I want to stay.”
“You’ll miss dinner.”
“My mom will survive.”
Ilya turns his head slightly, finally looking at him, “You’re crazy.”
Cliff shrugs, “So?”
Ilya exhales before shaking his head. They sit together in silence. And a little bit, it’s enough.
By the time he wakes up the next morning, it’s already bright outside. When he glances to his side, that’s when he sees her.
“Svet,” He says, voice barely there.
Her head snaps up instantly. The first thing Ilya notes is how awful she looks. She looks exhausted, eyes red and swollen and hair pulled back into a messy bun.
“Oh, Ilya,” She breathes out, eyes instantly filling with tears again. “You’re awake.”
“Hey,” He mumbles, “Don’t cry.”
That does it and she lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. She presses the heel of her hand against her mouth, turning her head away for a second.
“How are you feeling?” She asks, wiping away a stray tear. “Does it hurt? Do you need anything? I can get the nurse–”
“No,” He says, shaking his head. He quietly adds, “Come here.”
He lifts his hand from the bed and reaches for her, grabbing her hand. Without saying a word, he gently tugs her closer and presses her hand flat against his chest, right over his heart.
He holds her there, fingers curling around hers and grounding himself. His heart is still beating. He’s still here, he’s still himself.
“I’m better now,” He says quietly. “Now that you’re here.”
“Fuck,” She whispers.
Tears fill Svetlana’s eyes again and this time she doesn’t try to stop them. She leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering them for a moment.
“I’m so sorry,” She whispers against his skin. “I’m so, so sorry this is happening to you.”
He closes his eyes. His heart races at the way she says “you,” like this thing is something that happened to him and not something he caused.
“There’s nothing to do now,” He says, shaking his head. “It already happened.”
She pulls back to look at him, “That doesn't mean that it doesn’t matter.”
“I know,” He says. “I just don’t know what else to say.”
Svetlana nods, like she understands that completely. She takes a deep breath before resting her head against his chest, just above where her hand is.
She sighs softly, “The next time you’re here,” She says. “It’ll be on your own terms.”
He blinks back tears, “Promise?” He asks, half-joking.
She lifts her head just enough to look at him, “I promise,” She says.
He smiles softly before nodding, “Thank you.”
She settles back against him and he lets his eyes close again. His hand tightens slightly around hers.
He knows Svetlana is going to stay and for now, that’s everything.