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Ilya is not thinking about hockey when he walks through the doors of the hospital.
He is not thinking about if there are cameras, or what his coach had been yelling at him as he’d left without a word after the game.
He is trying not to think about the way that Shane’s body had crumpled to the ice like a house of cards, and how what he’s about to do may very well keep him from being able to rebuild them in the exact same, vigorously precise arrangement they’d been in before. He’s trying not to think about how unfair it is that they’ve only just managed to find a balance; soft, secret, theirs.
He is trying not to think about the fact that Shane’s phone has most likely been taken from him somewhere in the chaos, or maybe it’s even still back at the rink—somewhere out of reach from the only person who would need to call him right now, when Shane can’t. Trying not to think of how scared she must be, how much she’d seen, how much none of this would be an issue if only the world weren’t so insistent on being the way that it is.
Ilya is trying not to be so exhausted. If not for him or Shane, then for her.
He doesn’t like hospitals. Not the buzzing lights above his head, not the smell of chemicals, not the dizzying monotony of floor tiles and painted walls that all look exactly the same. But his feet carry him through anyway, fists shoved into his jacket pockets, visitor bracelet on his wrist scratching the skin above his pulse as if to mock him. I belong here, Ilya thinks viscerally, resisting the urge to rip it to shreds. This is where I am supposed to be.
The elevator takes too long. There are too many eyes in the lobbies and waiting rooms. Everything is too quiet when the inside of Ilya’s head is so, so loud, the contrast making him feel unsteady on his feet. He hasn’t breathed, he doesn’t think, since the moment Shane had gone down.
It might not be this bad if it were only them. They have each taken bad hits before. Clean, dirty, some of them with Ilya throwing the first fist. Somewhere, floating deep enough to be just out of reach at the moment, Ilya knows Shane will be okay. But the weight in his chest is the same one he’s been feeling since that night in Florida, since before that when he’d known without really knowing anything at all: the unignorable fact that there is something more important, now.
The doors slide open and Ilya steps out into the corridor, heart in his throat. He has no way of knowing who is here, if it will ruin everything or not. There is only that voice that keeps repeating this is more important. You are supposed to be here.
He quickens his pace, room numbers flying quickly past in his peripherals as he gets closer to the one the nurses had told him was Shane’s.
He can feel her, he thinks, before he’s even rounded the corner into the hallway. One of his limbs apart from his body.
“Papochka,” Emi wails, the sound echoing off the blank, identical walls.
Ilya drops to his knees in the middle of the hospital floor, opening his arms just quick enough to catch her inside of them and bring her to his chest. She is still clumsy on her feet, especially when she is having big feelings. Ilya closes his eyes and presses his nose to the top of her small head, his palm rubbing her back as she clings to him.
“Moy Emilochka,” he says thickly. He pulls back only enough to look down at her face, a thumb pressed to her plush pink cheek to wipe away the tears. “You are okay? You are not hurt?”
“Papa—papa—” she tries to explain, shaking her head, frantic. She blinks her wide, brown eyes up at him, focused somewhere near his cheek, flicked with specks of Ilya’s blue when she cries. Ilya pulls her back into his chest, rocking slightly back and forth.
“I know, malyshka. It will be okay. We are going to breathe. I am here.”
Only once she settles slightly does Ilya risk looking up at their surroundings, at the only other two people in this blank, empty hallway. Yuna and David stare back at him, their faces slack with shock and what Ilya thinks—hopes, maybe—might be a bit of understanding.
He will have to deal with them soon, but they are not the worst that could have been waiting for him here. And, right now, they will have to wait.
Ilya tilts his head down until his face is buried in Emi’s hair, and then he allows himself the privilege of his own tears too.
+
His back begins to ache quickly in the stiff chairs lined along the corridor outside Shane’s room, but with Emi finally asleep in his lap, he would not dare move.
They aren’t allowed inside of Shane’s room yet, which is yet another thing Ilya is deliberately choosing not to focus on at the moment. Yuna and David have not spoken much to him since he arrived, but they’d informed him that the doctors say Shane is stable after his surgery and that his concussion does not seem like it will leave lasting damage. That has to be enough, for now.
They have not tried to take Emi from him, which is probably a good thing. Ilya isn’t sure that he would not bare his teeth and resist if he had to. He is feeling terribly protective.
It’s something else Shane and her have taught him about what it means to have a family. The worst thing that had ever happened to Ilya happened to the one person he would have run to for support. Those wounds have scabbed even when he’s picked at them relentlessly, and Ilya is no longer angry with his mother. But he thinks a piece of him had healed today, when Emi had said Papochka and Ilya had called back Emilochka. When she had needed him, and he had been there.
Emi is typically very quiet. She does not like loud noises or odd sounds. Ilya has learned even what volume and tone to speak in around her, learned all of the ways that Shane crafts an environment where things are as gentle as he perhaps had wanted for himself in the past. It had jarred Ilya today, hearing her cry out for him, like one of her little fists had gripped his heart and squeezed.
The same fist rests just below his collarbone now, curled tight in sleep, her lips parted with quick but even breaths, her eyes moving behind the closed lids. Ilya watches quietly, the long, dark curve of her lashes on top of her cheeks, her freckles nearly an identical pattern to Shane’s dotted all across her nose.
He had talked with her just last night on Shane’s phone before bed. She has been learning small things from him over the last several months, her tiny fingertips touching his mouth as Ilya breaks ya-tebya-lyublyu down into all of its rolling consonants and syllables, watching her determinedly mouth the words back to him. She is so smart to be so small, his lapochka. She gets that mostly from Shane, but Ilya will teach her a few important things, things that she must never forget.
Ilya doesn’t think he can contain this anymore—this feeling in his chest. Shane will be okay this time, but he is not willing to take the risk again. At least if Shane’s parents know, someone else will be able to call him if needed. Someone other than just the three of them will see and understand, and Ilya won’t have to hold so much of it anymore, the love he has to give that he so often has to keep to himself.
Eventually, after a quiet conversation with David, Yuna gets up from her own chair across the hallway with a sigh and closes a little of the distance.
“I’m going to go get us all some food. She’ll be hungry when she wakes up. We couldn’t get her to eat anything earlier,” she says.
Ilya wraps an arm around Emi and sits up slightly in his chair. He does not like that she hasn’t eaten, but she’s as picky with her food as Shane is, and about twice as sensitive to it when she’s upset about something. Ilya rubs her back and opens his mouth.
“I can pay for delivery,” he offers, his voice a low rasp from his tears earlier. He hopes she can’t hear how hesitant he is, only just now realizing that he hadn’t even thought of food and feeling a little embarrassed by it. Among other things. “I have my card. You do not have to leave.”
At the sound of his voice Emi shifts, one bent arm curving further around his neck, her cheek rubbing against the dull vibrations of it in his throat. Yuna glances between them for a moment, and then back to Ilya’s face.
“It’s alright. David and I have been here for hours and we’re going a little stir crazy. We’re just going to the café right nextdoor to the hospital, so we shouldn’t be long. We’ll bring something back for the two of you.”
Ilya’s eyes burn again, already relieved that he doesn’t have to move or let go of Emi. “Thank you,” he tells her.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
He has no idea what she thinks of him. No idea if there’s been a trail of clues that he’s confirmed, or if it had been a complete surprise. He doesn’t know if Shane will be relieved or frustrated with him. His throat closes up at the thought of having to answer their questions without him, but Ilya does not offer anything yet, and Yuna doesn’t ask, even if the twist of her mouth promises later.
Ilya can handle later. Once Shane is awake and Emi has eaten and the world does not feel so much again.
She collects her purse and jacket, then glances back briefly at Ilya.
“He was asking for both of you when he came off the ice,” she adds gently. “I’ll let the nurses know that if he wakes up while we’re gone, you two are welcome to go in first.”
Ilya blinks heavily, doing little to clear the blur of his eyes. He dips his chin in a nod, something he hopes is respectful, untrusting of his voice and worried that Emi will wake up if he lets himself cry again.
Yuna offers him a half-smile, her and David disappearing down the corridor toward the elevators. When they’re no longer in sight, Ilya lets his head fall back against the wall behind him and tries to even his breathing.
That certainly had not gone as badly as it could’ve. He’ll take the victory right now, no matter the size.
Emi shifts against him again, sniffling. Ilya presses a palm to the back of her head and rocks her gently until she settles. He hums a lullaby his mother used to sing, low enough for her only to hear, and the words come back to him like no time has passed at all.
Sleep, baby, my dearest,
Hushabye, a-bye.
I will start telling a story,
Sing a song;
You dream a dream, closing the eyes,
Hushabye, a-bye.
Over the rocky bed flows the Terek River,
And splashes the dark waves;
But your father is an experienced warrior
Trained in battles:
Sleep, my little one, be peaceful,
Lullaby, a-bye.
+
Emi cries when David attempts to hold her so that Ilya can eat his food, so he eats with her in his lap, trying not to get crumbs in her hair or clothes.
Yuna brings back wrapped sandwiches and muffins for them. Emi’s is much simpler than his, two plain slices of white bread with a single slice of cheese and a thin cut of turkey, unoffensive enough that it might be appetizing to her. But it is seeming like a tough food day, and when Ilya tries to get her to eat it, she refuses until he rips it into small bites and squeezes them between his fingers, making them flat and easy to chew. She finishes most of the sandwich that way, eating from his hand. It is very gross and impractical, and Ilya would do it for the rest of her life if she wanted him to.
They split a chocolate muffin between them afterward, Ilya pinching off a bite for himself and then one for her. Shane would fuss at it for not being the most nutritious, but, Ilya thinks, he would also be happy with them for managing to eat at all.
The doctors come by briefly again and tell them they should be able to see Shane soon. Ilya does not like this word and the way it seems to have far too many meanings to mean much of anything at all. Soon could be in a few minutes. It could be hours. Time moves regardless.
Neither he nor Emi are as tired after the food, Emi spreading out his hand in her lap and tracing the faint lines all across his palm, transfixed by the way the tendons twitch when she accidentally tickles him. She is so gentle with him. Ilya loves her more than anything in the whole world.
Though Shane is very, very close to the margin.
Ilya thinks about him while he waits out this soon, thinks about different blank walls in a different hospital he had not been in, thinks about whether or not Emi had cried at first or if she had been quiet. He thinks about Shane having to lie even if he hadn’t called it that. He wonders if Shane had wished he were there in that moment, or if maybe Ilya would have made everything worse.
These are not questions he will find the answers to. He has only the now, and what he chooses to do from there.
“Thank you,” he tells Yuna when she comes over to collect their trash. “For being there for him when I could not.”
For all they know, Ilya had simply known about Emi and chosen not to be there during those times. It isn’t the case, but until now, there has been no one to disprove it. And still, Yuna’s face softens.
“You’re here now,” she says.
And yes, Ilya thinks. His palm closes around Emi’s. This is true.
+
Shane wakes up asking for them again, as if she and Ilya are woven so deeply into his bones that the pain couldn’t reach them even briefly, couldn’t take them away.
Ilya kneels in front of her in the hallway before they see him, her face swallowed up by his hands.
“You know that papa is hurt right now, yes?” he asks carefully.
Emi nods, solemn and slow. “I know.”
“We must be very gentle with him until he is feeling better,” Ilya says.
“Ask first,” she recites quietly. It’s a rule that Shane has with her that goes both ways; a precaution before touching that prevents Shane from accidentally flinching away if he’s already overwhelmed, and that keeps Emi from having a meltdown if she’s tired or if the world is too loud.
“Yes. We ask first.” Ilya smiles, tapping his thumb twice against her mouth. “You have been very brave today, lapochka. It has been hard and scary. I am very proud of you.”
Out of words for the moment, Emi wriggles out of his hands and pushes in toward his chest instead, fists pulling at his shirt for a final hug. Ilya does not know what Shane will look like right now, but he can’t bear to go in without her. He hopes his warning had been enough.
He lifts her from the ground onto his hip and walks to the door, unwilling to wait any longer to ease his worries. The handle clicks when he presses on it and then they’re stepping inside, closing it back afterward so that the hallway lights don’t shine in too brightly from behind.
“Papa?” Emi asks, voice wavering.
Shane’s eyes flutter open at the sound, moving and stubbornly trying to focus on them despite the lingering pain and pressure in his head. His face is watercolored, lips red and cheeks flush, one of his temples swollen with bruising all the way back to his hairline. He’s okay, Ilya tells himself. The doctor had told them so. He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay.
As if determined to prove it to them, his mouth slants into a crooked smile, one hand rising from the bed in invitation.
“Come here,” he beckons with a rasp.
Ilya’s feet move before his brain, walking them up to the side until they’re within reach. Emi’s lip quivers, reaching out to wrap her hand around the fingers Shane offers her.
“Papa,” she says again, “can I—?”
Shane’s arm extends—the only one not tucked inside of a sling, Ilya notices—and Ilya lowers her carefully down onto his good side until she can burrow underneath the weight of it, safe and quiet. He tugs his fingers through her soft, dark hair a few times, and then his head leans back on the pillow, his gaze slipping up to Ilya.
“You’re here.”
“I am here,” Ilya confirms around the knot in his throat. “Sorry. I couldn’t—I needed to—”
“Don’t be sorry,” Shane croaks, cutting him off. His hand slides off of Emi’s head and over to Ilya’s, gripping his fingers. “I’m glad. I’m glad you’re here.”
Squeezing Shane’s palm where he’s allowed, Ilya forces his eyes shut against a new wave of tears and leans forward instead, pressing the lightest kiss he can manage against Shane’s head.
“Your parents know,” Ilya whispers. Guilt he can’t hold in.
“I don’t care who knows right now,” Shane admits, and Ilya isn’t sure if it’s the exhaustion or the medication making him so earnest. He tugs on Ilya’s hand. “Just—come here. Please.”
He shakes his head. “I will hurt you.”
“Ilya.”
The sound of his name undoes him. He helps Shane shift slightly on the bed, seals himself into the space leftover, two parentheses with Emi in between. For the first time all day, something in Ilya’s chest begins to unwind.
Another confession pushes behind his teeth, fragile and thin. “I was so worried.”
Shane makes a wounded noise in his throat at that, and Emi mimics it back to him thrice over, muffled against Shane’s side. His hand drops down to pet at the back of her head again.
“I’m okay,” he says to them both. “I promise.”
With the lights dim and the noise soft, Ilya finds the tiredness beginning to catch up with him again. He very carefully lifts a hand to touch the small cut at the corner of Shane’s mouth, and even if it stings, Shane turns slightly, just enough to kiss the pad of his thumb.
He feels Shane’s earlier sentiment wholeheartedly; the privacy has been nice so far, and sometimes crucial. Putting Emi anywhere near the spotlight would be something all of them would struggle to handle, and Shane still has lingering eyes on him as it is. Ilya wonders if he’ll ever get rid of them.
But also—something has to change. Ilya can’t be so separate from it all anymore, can’t get by on hotel room visits and brief phone calls when they’re in different time zones. It isn’t enough. Not anymore. Not when every iteration of the future they could have waiting for them one day had collapsed in on itself when Shane hit the ice.
Ty moya zhizn', his mother used to tell him. But it isn’t quite enough in this sense, Ilya decides. He looks at Shane, at Emi, and he thinks instead: Ty moya prodolzhenie.
Not just you are my life, but you are my future.
“I have to take time off for this. Mandatory IR,” Shane says eventually. “Emi and I will be at my place a couple hours outside of Ottawa.” His knuckles graze the back of Ilya’s hand. “We’ll be there during off-season. You should come. Spend the break there. With us.”
“Yeah?” Ilya asks, breathlessly hopeful.
Shane smiles. “Yeah. It’ll be the longest time we’ve all spent together. I think it’ll be good. And my parents aren’t far, and if they know now, there’s no reason we can’t have them over for dinner or something. I want—I want them to know you. Like we do.”
Gingerly, Ilya lifts his hand to press his lips to the back of it, then lowers them both down to rest on Emi’s side again.
“I will be there.”
Shane shifts in the bed, nudging his head closer and tipping his chin, and when Ilya doesn’t move fast enough, he makes an impatient sound until their mouths are touching, careful and slow enough not to hurt. Emi echoes the noise, and Ilya bends to kiss the top of her head as well.
He stays there until Shane begins to wilt, tiredness creeping up on him. Ilya squeezes his hand again and sits up.
“I should go and get your parents. They will want to see you before you fall asleep again.”
“Okay,” Shane sighs, letting him go. “I do want to see them. But you should—don’t go, while they’re here. Stay.”
The hand around his heart is back, an ache so deep Ilya feels it in his ribs. A part of him. A continuation. He grazes his knuckles to Shane’s bruised cheek before he goes.
“Whatever you want, solnyshko.”
Ilya slips quietly back out of the door, the thought confirmation instead of pleading this time: this is where I’m supposed to be.