Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

But it feels like an eternity,
Since I had you here with me.
- Alex Warren

It's the third period in a home game against New York, and Ilya Rozanov feels like he's dying.

This most recent check into the boards—courtesy of Scott fucking Hunter, who, to add insult to injury, steals the puck—is enough to bring him to his knees, stomach rolling and head pounding. It feels like thousands of ants are crawling beneath his skin, and the distressing feeling that something is missing feels like it's suffocating him, clawing at his throat to choke him, no longer content at being brushed off to the back of his mind as he's been doing for the last month. Droplets of sweat roll down the side of his face below his visor as his body overheats, and he has a moment of delirium where he wonders if he would melt through the ice. The cold feels amazing, even through the layers of equipment, and he'd give anything to stay kneeling, to not move—

Instead, impatiently gloved hands grip under his arms and pull him back to his feet unsteadily.

"C'mon, Roz," Marly says. "The fuck's with you tonight, man?"

The friendly punch to his shoulder almost sends him crashing back to the ice, but he keeps his balance, remaining upright but shaky as if it were his first day on blades. The roar of the fans, the sounds of steel scratching ice, the crashing of bodies against plexiglass… they're all too loud in his ears, and he feels the threat of nausea coming around again, forcing him to bend as play continues around him. Ilya thinks he hears his coach shouting something from the bench, but all the noise reaches a crescendo and the only thing he can hear is a constant ringing. The constant and overly persistent feeling of something missing…

In reality, tonight is not the first he's felt like this—it's just the worst; he can't push it aside, play through it. He can't remember exactly when it started, but he's been back from Sochi for two months and he'd say half of that time has been spent… like this, starting with that relentless ache (missing, missing, missing) as his mind reached for something that wasn't there.

(Why wasn't it there?)

Ilya had pushed it away, buried it deep within himself, explaining the feeling as nothing more than the aftereffects of having returned to Russia; of bringing shame to his country with how quick the team was to fall out of contention; of having to stand by his father and listen as he preached about poor leadership—Ilya's poor leadership. He reasoned with himself that he just needed to resettle back in Boston, and the feeling would go away. The Raiders were posed to make the playoffs, he told himself. They would win the cup and that would show his father and the feeling would go away, he continued to lie.

Then the headaches started.

But they didn't interfere with his performance on the ice, and that was all that matted as they went into the last push toward the playoffs. He scored, he chirped, he got into fights, everything was fine.

(Even as he woke with his arm stretched in bed, searching for something.

Even as he would blink back to the present, the message application on his phone open and his thumb hovering over "Jane" (and he hasn't talked to Hollander, not since the other found him in Sochi and Ilya made quick work shutting down any conversation, no matter how much he—terrifyingly—wanted the other to stay—not there, they couldn't be anything there) with no memory of him grabbing his phone.

Even as he chased sleep that wouldn't come, his body aching and sore and tired during practice, during games.

Even as he hid how worn down he was getting and his play started getting sloppy, blaming it on the grueling schedule and the push for the playoffs.

Even as the feeling of utter and complete loneliness suddenly paralyzed him in the middle of the night.

Everything was fine.)

Someone is grabbing at his arm, pulling him toward the bench. His skates glade along the frozen surface, but he can't… he can't see. There are dark spots dancing in front of his eyes as his vision narrows and blurs. Someone is trying to talk to him, but the voice sounds so far away. Ilya is so tired, and his head feels like it's being split in two. He heaves, his mouth flooding with spit and nothing else.

"Roz." It's Marly again. Ilya can recognize that now, but his teammate still sounds so far away. He tries to focus. He can't fucking see, vision swimming with blurry figures. "Roz! Fuck! C'mon, man, we gotta get you off the ice. Medical…"

The voice fades again as the ringing increases in tone. His body pitches forward without his permission, and Ilya is falling. Hands try to grab at him too late, and he sees the brightness at the end of the tunnel rushing to meet him, feels the cold meet his overheated body. His vision darkens, the sounds are gone, and the touch of others is a distant memory.

Then there are… freckles.

"And that's Shane Hollander going down hard on the ice!"

"Did he get hit? I didn't see anyone around him, Jeff. It looked like he just went down on his own."

"Not sure, Bob. Hayden Pike is heading to check on him… And now, he's waving over the Metros medical staff."

"I can't tell if Hollander is responsive… Looks like medical is calling for the EMTs and a gurney. The arena here in New Jersey is silent."

"No one wants to see an injured player, Bob. I don't care what team they play for or what fan base they're apart of."

"And… and this is a particularly strange coincidence, but we're getting reports in that Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Raiders, is also being removed from his game against the Admirals in Boston tonight after he collapsed, similar to Hollander here. Rozanov is not currently responsive, according to the commentators of that game."

"They're wheeling Hollander off the ice now… and it looks like he's awake! I can see movement on the monitor here as they pass some of his teammates."

"Thank God for that!"

"We'll provide any updates we can as the Metros release them, and we're wishing a speedy recovery for Rozanov, as well."

Chapter Text

Las Vegas - MLH Awards 2011

Staring out at this desert city, Ilya thinks he might miss Boston.

He hasn't even lived there a full year, but he thinks that, as far as first-time American cities go, it's one of the better ones to get acquainted with. It's small, compared to some of the others, less people but still crowded, quieter than most people think. The media market there isn't the same as it would be in places like New York or Los Angeles, but sports, especially hockey, are huge and the fans take pride in their teams. They love him.

It helps that he found pockets of Russian culture in the surrounding neighborhoods, areas like Brookline and Newton with grocery stories selling Russian ingredients or produced food; a few restaurants if he wasn't interested in cooking but was missing meals from childhood; and some immigrants who still spoke the language that he could converse with when he wasn't able to with Svetlana and English was too hard. It's not home—not yet maybe, but it's familiar enough that he's grown used to it, looks forward to going back when the team is away. He'd prefer to be there in his apartment than here.

(Home is a complicated word, describing a relationship with a country and a family that seem only interested in taking and breaking him down, having given up on making him what they want.

He's set to fly there in three days.

Blyat.)

Ilya takes another drag of his cigarette, enjoying the hit of nicotine as it floods his system and calms him. The music from the after party is still playing, just barely able to be heard over the cars and sounds of people on the streets below. He should be down there, showing his face and conversing with players and league officials; his public smile has been perfected for years. Instead, he's on the roof looking out at the bright lights from the casinos and trying not to think of the horrible timing of it all.

He hears the footsteps as they approach, but doesn't turn.

(If he pretends not to notice them, maybe they'll leave him alone.)

Holds himself still from flinching when the words "I don't know if it's worth jumping over" are spoken from a mouth that haunts his thoughts and in a voice he's come to know better than his own. He'll never admit it out-loud, but there's something terrifyingly soothing about it, soft even when it is yelling or cursing him.

Hollander is always pretty, his freckles the first thing Ilya notices, eyes immediately drawn to them like he's making sure they're still there. He's sure there are other English words—several better ones in Russian—he could use, words he has whispered in the ears of others as he led them away, but they all feel clunky on his tongue and in his accent when describing Shane Hollander. Plus, the snappish irritation that comes over the other is amusing, keeps that faint red blush that makes those freckles stand out more.

"Party all done?" Ilya asks, eyes drifting across Hollander's body in his neat tuxedo and pretending not to notice the stretch across the shoulders as the other leans against the glass. He feels conflicted suddenly, torn between being happy to see Hollander all dressed up and pretty, and cautious, given the state of his thoughts. He feels a slow and syrupy warm buzz beneath his skin and in the back of his mind, like thick molasses being pour from a jar, that's familiar and warm. Ilya wants to poke at it, examine—

"No, I just needed some air," Hollander comes back with, words with just a hint of a slur and flipping the inspection from his mind to Hollander as he looks closer at the man, observes the slight glassiness of his pretty brown eyes and the slow reaction time.

"You are drunk," Ilya says, amused despite everything and slightly curious at seeing a new side of Hollander. He doesn't hide it, letting the emotions gentle his features from the solemn look he knows he had before.

"I'm not drunk," Hollander denies, looking back at him, but his movement is slow, eyes a little too unfocused when they glance away. No eye contact.

"Good for you. Big night for you."

And he is happy for Hollander. Despite the true rivalry on the ice and the snarky comments during interviews and whatever the fuck they're doing in those hotel rooms, there is a part of Ilya that's happy for him that he doesn't want to inspect too closely. But that's not to say he isn't disappointed that he lost because he's that, too.

He goes home in three days.

His father might not give a fuck about the American League, but he'll find something to criticize, something to strip down and pick at; his lack of awards only setting into motion a conversation of harsh words, judgment, and scolding.

"It could have gone to either of us," Hollander says.

The words bite at his nerves, even though he knows that Hollander is being polite, but he feels that annoyance start to build anyway as the amusement slides away—Hollander just has unfortunate timing. He takes another drag from the cigarette that does nothing to help the mix of emotions that have been slowly simmering all night. He shouldn't have even come knowing how shitty he would be for company.

"It went to you," Ilya finally says, and that itch in the back of his mind twists with hints of hurt, disappointment (can never escape the fucking disappointment), and a tiny flame of anger that he is quick to push away.

Ilya can feel Hollander's eyes staring, and against every instinct screaming against it, he looks back as Hollander gains momentum, "So you're just up here sulking because, what? You couldn't take another victory lap around me?"

And he hates that he can pick up the hurt there; hates that Hollander's visible anger is feeding his own; hates that this is all just such fucking bad timing. Ilya looks away, jaw clenching and shaking his head as Hollander continues his complaints, mumbling out, "Gospodi."

"What was that?" Hollander fires back.

The building anger finally explodes, pushing out of him and immediately grasping at the hurt feeling in the back of his mind, smothering it as it morphs into shock and confusion. He feels only his own anger remain—that, and the buzzing under his skin, like his body has been asleep too long—as the emotional countdown between the end of the season and his returning home have finally hit zero.

"Not everything is about you, Hollander!" Ilya shouts, whirling on the other man and watching his irritatingly pretty brown eyes grow wide with confusion and surprise. He sees Hollander getting ready to respond, cutting him off instead, "What the fuck do you want?"

From me.

"Nothing," Hollander says, taking a step back—moving away from him, him and his shitty mood, "I just wanted to see the view. Get some—get some air."

"Here is fucking view, Hollander," Ilya says, turning back to the city stretched in front of them and throwing his arms out. "Check it out."

Such bad fucking timing.

"Fuck," he continues, bringing the cigarette back and inhaling. It does nothing, it feels like nothing, and he angrily flicks it away, shaking his head. This is not the kind of mood he ever wants to be in around Hollander. Not alone like this, and he wants to explain, wants to tell him why he's in such a foul fucking mood to begin with. Ilya clenches his jaw.

Hollander wouldn't understand. Ilya has seen enough of his parents—knows that at this very moment, they're downstairs still celebrating their son's rookie of the year win while his own family is noticeably absent—to know that he wouldn't understand what it means to be picked apart over and over again by family, to be ridiculed and judged no matter how much he gives and stand there and take it. Because of duty to family, to these people who hate him when he returns home and do little to hide it.

"I go home in three days," he says anyway into the silence, his voice tight. He doesn't dare look over, the false hope curling around his chest that maybe, just maybe, Hollander will understand what Ilya's trying to say between the lines.

But the hope is misplaced. He can feel the confusion radiating from the other man, feels it in the buzz under his skin like it's a fucking satellite. He has a half a mind to dig his nails into his skin, pull the sensation out.

"Okay," Hollander responds, his tone betraying his bewilderment at the statement, "That must be nice."

And Ilya just can't stop the look that he shoots the other man, the "are you fucking serious" look that hides his real feelings about returning home. But really, he's more angry in himself, sharing that small little insecurity with Hollander, of all people, and then expecting the man to understand when he knew he wouldn't. It's Ilya's own fault. He turns away again, smoothing his features back into the mask he knows he'll have to wear for the summer. It's good practice, not that he needs it anymore.

He half expects Hollander to leave right then and there, but the other lingers. Ilya feels his presence even through the space between them, warm and bright against his shuttered and cold one; is acutely aware of where Hollander seems to be at all times. He wouldn't blame him for leaving. Hollander is fidgeting, shuffling in place in movements that Ilya keeps catching out of the corner of his eye, mouth open and eyes still slightly glossy. They shine in the city lights, even from up here.

"And I guess I thought maybe we…" Hollander starts hesitantly, eyes flicking from Ilya's face to the view and back like he's waiting for him to say something, waiting for Ilya to do more than just stand there.

But Ilya doesn't, keeps his gaze resolutely forward before he does or says something he might regret; before he gives in to the need to just gather him in his arms and hold him, this unexpected and infuriating bright spot in his life that he sees a few times a year but has taken over his thoughts. He shakes his head slightly, whether denying whatever Hollander was going to say or at the situation and how quickly everything spiraled out of control. He barely feels the moment, but Hollander must see it, already starting to back away.

"Never mind," he continues, already pulling away and Ilya feels a part of him clench because some twisted part of him wants nothing more than for Hollander to stay.

"I'm gonna…" Hollander trails off, turning and walking down the steps.

He doesn't follow, even though everything in him just wants to run to the other, press against him and never let go. He pushes those feelings down deep.

"I guess I'll, um, see you next season?" Hollander asks, and this time he can't stop himself because Hollander should have left, should have taken Ilya's silence as a hint that he wasn't being sociable. Hollander seems to be doing whatever he can to linger, and there's a hesitant touch that stretches at the back of his mind, the buzz still thick and slow but persistent.

Hollander is standing there with his hand out, the same gesture he made when they first met, and Ilya stares at him, eyes moving between the tight look on his face to the hand he's stretched out. He knows he's going to give in the second he looked at Hollander's face, knows that when he touches him, he's not going to want to stop because he's selfish. There's a part of him that wants something good before he goes home; something that he can think about while he's gone. And he can't leave things this way with Hollander, can't stand the thought of the other being hurt or disappointed because of him.

There's a tension stretching between them as he crosses the space.

There's heat when Ilya takes the outstretched hand in his; when he walks Hollander backward to push him against the wall to pin him there.

Ilya has never really understood the English idiom about fireworks, but fuck, if something doesn't explode the second he crashes his lips into Hollander's. The buzzing is silent, and instead there's warmth spreading across his mind, chasing away every cold and distant thought of home until he can think of nothing but this moment. He drops the hand that got them to this point, and instead brings it to Hollander's jaw, gripping it possessively even if he has no real claim as he deepens the kiss, tongue diving in to swipe across Hollander's as the other's lips push back greedily. Ilya can't stop touching him, dropping his hand from the jaw to wind underneath the jacket and grip at Hollander's waist, pulling him closer as hands come up to push through his curls and cup his face.

It's hungry and claiming and so, so fucking perfect.

It's the kind of kiss that Ilya is sure his mind will be drifting back to over and over in the months they're away, and wasn't that exactly what he wanted?

He presses a kiss to Hollander's open mouth before pulling away to take a breath, fully intending to adjust the angle and return his lips to where they're meant to be, except that Hollander pulls back, hands falling away from Ilya's face and making him feel cold. The buzzing is back, feels like it's been kick-started under his skin as the pins and needles feeling races across his body. Confused, he leans in again, but Hollander jerks back, hands coming up to stop him as the warmth retreats and his the coldness of his earlier thoughts push back to the forefront.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Hollander's eyes are wide, blown with a mix of what Ilya can read as pleasure and fear and tinged with anger. "We're out in public. In tuxedos."

Ilya's not sure what exactly their clothing has to do with anything, but he smiles, incredulously. "No one is looking," he says because he knows that's Hollander's main worry.

"You don't know that."

And he can't stand Hollander just standing there, so close but so far away. He leans again and Hollander stops him harder, manhandling him and switching their positions so Ilya's the one leaning against the concrete. For a second, Hollander is still close and he thinks he might get another kiss—is hoping for it, actually—but instead, Hollander pulls back completely, leaving Ilya with what he knows is a stunned expression because that's how he feels and he's done a horrible job of hiding his emotions tonight.

"See you next season," he says to Hollander's retreating back, and then it's just him, alone once more with his old thoughts but a newer and brighter memory helps drive away the coldness. The buzzing stops.

He goes home in three days.

"—not talk about this now, please," are the first words he hears, eyes closed and lying on the most uncomfortable bed. It's a voice he could recognize anywhere. He feels a little slow, both in body and mind, and his senses dull from what must have been a deep sleep. But when they start to catch up, he smells the mix of some kind of strong cleaning detergent and deodorant. His tongue feels heavy, while his mouth feels like it's been stuffed full of cloth, sucking away the spit and leaving it dry and sticky.

If this is a dream, Ilya's not sure he wants to wake up yet.

Instead, he keeps his eyes closed and assesses the situation he's somehow found himself in. His body and face feel sore, but he's a hockey player, there's always some part of him feeling a little pain. The insect-crawling sensation he's been feeling—that endless energy that makes him just want to move—is still there, settling under his skin like it was natural, and, he notices, so does a warm presence that he feels nudging against his mind where he had been feeling nothing but pain earlier. He feels torn; half sleepy and slow, while the other feels seconds away from a panic attack. He presses against the presence with his own, poking at it like a child pokes at something new.

(Curious, was the word Hollander had used.)

Immediately, he's being grabbed. Not by hands but by the warmth, as it swirls around him and grips tight, and Ilya is too shocked to really do anything more than let it. It's not a stranger to him, he knows, he's felt it many times before, maybe just not as strongly—

"We'll have to soon," another voice says, not unkindly, and Ilya recognizes this one, too. More in passing, since they had only ever exchanged a few words quickly years ago.

"I know," his favorite voice says, misery and panic in the tone that he can feel coursing through him like they're his own emotions (but they're not?) and he opens his eyes without really thinking about it, only to quickly close them against the harsh bright light.

Ilya groans, curling more into the uncomfortable mattress to shield his eyes. A thick silence covers the room, and he squeezes them tighter. Maybe… maybe no one noticed and he can get away with pretending to be asleep a little longer. There's a curious poke at his mind at the same time an amused scoff sounds through the room.

"You're not fooling anyone, Roz. This is your little party, ya know."

Ilya grunts because this certainly does not feel like a party, or at least, not an enjoyable one. His accent is thick from sleep and dry mouth when he mumbles, "Shut up, Marly," and he slowly opens his eyes to see a sweatpants covered thigh that's incredibly familiar, the material dark and well-worn. His arm is outstretched like he was reaching toward it, like even unconscious, he needed to touch. But there's a logo up by the waist, one he distinctly recognizes, and blinks, confusion blanketing him as he starts at the Montreal Metros brand. The warmth pokes at him again, and he bats at it, irritated and sleepy.

He rolls his head up against the pillow, and his eyes immediately zone in on Hollander's freckles, the same ones he briefly remembers thinking about before everything went black. His hand twitches with the urge to reach up and touch, but he forces himself to keep it where it is.

Hollander looks comfortable, or as comfortable as one could be on a hospital bed. The hospital staff must have pushed two beds together, and he's sitting up against the pillows, dressed in a hoodie that matches the sweatpants. He's chewing on the tattered end of the drawstring, and for a moment, Ilya is jealous as he watches the mouth work around the fabric, feels the flash of heat that floods his body at the thought of replacing it with his cock instead because this is what Shane Hollander has reduced him to.

(Why is he here?)

The warmth stills, and the brown eyes that had been looking off to the corner, snap to his face, wide and confused and just shy of making eye contact. A flush highlights the little dots across Hollander's nose, and Ilya has the crazy idea to lean up and lick them, fuck whoever is in the room with them. This is the closest he's been to Hollander since he saw the man in Sochi, and Ilya had sent him away; had known that no matter what he wanted, they couldn't be anything while in his home country.

He feels a little like he's drunk.

The buzz is working itself into a frenzy.

There's a ping that echoes across the room, and it snaps him from his staring. He clears his throat. "Hollander," he says slowly, voice still scratchy with disuse, "what are you doing here?"

Hollander opens his mouth, pink tongue coming to swipe across his lower lip, "I—"

"Wait until you hear this one, Roz," Marly cuts in, snorting in amusement as Hollander stiffens beside him. Ilya glances over at his right winger, who is smirking from a chair in the corner by the window. There's a bag at his feet, and Ilya wonders if that's his from the locker room, full of comfortable clothes that would be an improvement over this gown.

There's a small shift on the bed, and Ilya's attention turns back to the man beside him, who's glaring a little at Marly with his arms now crossed, spine stiff. It looks uncomfortable.

"Why is he here?" Hollander asks him, expression shifting to match his posture.

Marly's grin widens. He can't remember there being any bad blood between the two of them; he was pretty sure that outside of the ice, they'd never even interacted.

"Is back up contact," Ilya answers, shrugging casually, "for, ah, emergencies when Svetlana is away." It's a pretty obvious reason, he thinks, but still he adds, "It is convenient, him being teammate and all." He flips his hand in Marly's general direction at that.

"Where did you learn that word?" Hollander asks, and Ilya's lips twitch at the private joke.

"Marly got me a word of the day calendar for the holiday," he says, flashing his teeth as he hears Marly chuckling in his little corner. "Do not worry; I got him Hockey For Dummies book in return. Was very much needed."

Hollander smiles a little, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he looks between the two of them.

"Oh, fuck you, Rozy!" Marly chirps in the background, and then suddenly stops, a sheepish expression crossing his face. "Ah, sorry for the language, Mrs. Hollander."

And Ilya freezes because he had forgotten about the third voice; the one he recognized only in passing. He twists a little to look over Hollander's shoulder, and sure enough, Yuna Hollander is standing in the far corner by her son's bed, phone in hand and a neutral expression on her face. Or at least, he thinks it's a neutral; there's a tightness around her lips that makes him question it. She's been quiet during their interaction, but now that she's been acknowledged, she steps forward, moving closer to Hollander's side.

She looks like she's preparing to comment when there's a knock on the door, and a young woman in nursing scrubs enters, wide friendly smile across her face.

"How are we all doing in here?" She asks, moving to Ilya's side of the bed and beginning to check the monitor as the room murmurs their responses. She's unfazed by the lack of enthusiastic responses, and instead starts checking his vitals. "My name is Emma. I've been helping to take care of you and Mr. Hollander, here," she explains to him. "It's good to see you awake, Mr. Rozanov."

"Yes," Ilya agrees, watching as she wraps the band around his arm to take his blood pressure. "How long was I…"

"How long were you out?" She finishes for him when he realizes he's not sure what the exact English word or phrasing would describe what happened to him. Was he asleep? Unconscious? Were those actually the same thing? "We're almost approaching eighteen hours now. Do you remember what happened?"

Ilya blinks. Does he remember? He remembers feeling like shit, his head pounding and body hot all over; remembers that whatever illness he'd been suffering with for the last few weeks had been at it's worst yesterday. He remembers the ice against his skin, and how good it had felt because the rest of him felt like he was burning from the inside out.

"We had game," he starts, pieces coming back slowly and he snaps his attention to Marly, eyes narrowing. "New York better not have fucking won."

Marly has the decency to wince a little, telling him all he needs to know.

"Fuck," Ilya groans, leaning back against the bed. "You let that dinosaur, Hunter, beat us?"

He feels a flash of amusement at the back of his mind; sees Hollander's lips twitch out of the corner of his eye.

"I was a little preoccupied, Roz," Marly huffs defensively. "You just—you just went down, bro. No one knew what was going on. Even medical was fucking confused."

Ilya goes to ask what exactly was wrong with him—and why Hollander was here, laying next to him—when the door opens again, and another woman comes through. She's dressed professionally rather than in the white coat that screams doctor, black dress pants and a dark purple turtleneck. She's perhaps a little older than Emma the Nurse, but there's a wide smile on her face, an almost bubbly kind of bounce to her lips. There's an excitement that is rolling off her in waves. She seems to zero in on him.

"Mr. Rozanov, I heard you were awake," she says smoothly, and Ilya shifts closer to Hollander, brushing their shoulders. Hollander doesn't move, but he's tense again in the shoulder, his mouth tight. He's already met this woman. "Are we still okay to continue discussing your medical diagnoses in front of your emergency contacts? I know I've spoken separately with the groups involved, but now that Mr. Rozanov is awake, we can go over it again together."

Ilya nods. Hollander must also nod because the doctor looks pleased and ready to begin.

"My name is Doctor Watson, Mr. Rozanov," she introduces, "I'm a soul bond specialist here at MassGen."

Ilya blinks. He blinks again, his mind translating the words over and over, and he quickly glances over at Hollander, who is finding his lap very interesting. He glances back at the doctor. "What the fuck?"

"Tried to tell ya," Marly chimes in and Ilya immediately flips him off, eyes never leaving the doctor.

Soul bond.

And suddenly, Hollander's presence makes so much sense.

"Hollander," Ilya says, his voice cracking like he's going through fucking puberty again and he turns to look at the other man. "Hollander, why are you here?"

But Hollander purses his lips, and keeps his head down, picking at the cuticles of his nails. Ilya can see that they're red and raw. Ilya scratches at his arm; the pins pressing in deep.

Nurse Emma finishes recording the last of her findings on the separate clipboard, and she excuses herself, saying she'll be back later to check on them when they've finished with the doctor. With the nurse gone, Doctor Watson clears her throat, and Ilya turns his focus to her, seeing as he's not getting a response from Hollander, even if he already knows what the answer is.

He had hoped Hollander would tell him, confirm the pieces that were coming together in his head in a voice he was familiar with, who knew him in a way that made sense for them to be—to be bonded. He tries to ignore that little flicker of hope that flares in his heart. This is not the time for hope.

He was familiar with it; of course he was, everyone who had ever watched any kind of American Hollywood romance film—and he would one hundred percent blame Sveta on that one—knew what a soul bond was. The fated pair who found each other against all odds and loved each other no matter what.

Soul bonds did exist in Russia, but they weren't generally spoken of. He personally had never met anyone during his childhood who had one—or while living in America, for that matter. They were the kind of connection that were exclusive to couples—man and woman, of course. A same-sex soul bond would have been broken almost immediately upon discovery, and he knew the horror stories of how to break a bond, had listened to his brother and father share them. Perhaps that was why they weren't included in public conversation. They were seen as a distraction, a fantasy.

But his mother had once believed in them.

"Soul bond?" Ilya asks, and the doctor nods. "You are saying, what? We are destined or some bullshit like that?"

Hollander made a choking noise next to him, while the doctor clicks her tongue like he had personally offended her.

"That's more the Hollywood version, I'm afraid," she answers. "They tend to get a lot wrong about the actual science of the subject."

Ilya nods because that at least made sense to him; he had seen enough poorly acted evil Russians in blockbusters to know that Hollywood did the bare minimum.

"Soul bonds are more about compatibility rather than destiny," she continues. "It all comes down to the chemistry between two people." She sits in the unoccupied chair closest to the door, and Ilya has a feeling that translating this explanation is going to be as bad as the long winded questions reporters sometimes still like to ask him.

"A person can be compatible with multiple people," she says, her hands waving a little as she speaks. "In fact, we often create bonds with many people in our lives—friends, family members, certain romantic interests. These are the people that we get along best with, and there's a pull to keep them in our lives; sometimes not always for the better.

"What you two share is beyond that," she continues. "Your compatibility levels are so high that you've actually formed a soul bond, not just a close or regular bond that most of us experience. A soul bond is a literal telepathic bridge between your minds. These are generally created through an emotional event, and your minds latch on to each other during this shared experience. You can feel each other's emotions; your body may instinctively know where the other is within a certain proximity; and you may even feel overly protective of the other."

Ilya pushes a hand through his hair, tugging lightly on the curls as he tries to wrap his mind around what this all meant. A literal telepathic bridge, that was how the doctor described it. He pushes back against that warm presence that has lingered in the back of his mind on and off for years now, and he knows it's Hollander, can finally put a name to it. Hollander is inside his head, can feel his emotions.

Blyat.

Ilya pities him. After all, who would want to be stuck with him as a bonded? He pushes those thoughts away roughly.

"Is that why we ended up…" He waves a hand to the hospital room they're in.

"No, not necessarily," the doctor corrects quickly. "You, Mr. Rozanov, were brought in with soul bond sickness. Mr. Hollander likely experienced the symptoms, as well, but his collapse was more an effect of your own."

Ilya glances over at Hollander again, and reaches out to him, covering his abused fingers with his own. "Did you pass out, too?" He asks, voice patient. Hollander lifts his head, but his gaze is fixed over Ilya's shoulder as he shakes his head, no. His mother's hand is resting on his shoulder, gripping it tight.

"Why did only I pass out?" He asks, more demanding as he turns back to the doctor.

Doctor Watson shifts in her chair.

"Those of us who study these bonds have a working theory," she says carefully. "You must understand that much about these bonds is still undocumented, even with all the science. We're always learning more."

Ilya wants to snap at her to get to the fucking point. He keeps his mouth shut instead.

"Soul bond sickness is a tricky subject, and there are various factors as to what could cause it. It usually stems from ignoring, or even rejecting, the bond. If the bond feels like it's not being nurtured correctly, it will act out.

"We have started to noticed a pattern in how those who become inflicted experience symptoms," Doctor Watson continues. "We believe that those that may be more… sensitive in their emotions tend to experience the more blunt and harder symptoms. In this case, the end result was you falling unconscious, Mr. Rozanov."

And what the fuck did that mean? More sensitive in his emotions. His mind is racing, thoughts pulling this way and that as he tries to figure out what the doctor is talking about, and he doesn't want to ask; doesn't want the truth laid bare.

"For the record," the doctor says, "like I mentioned before, soul bonds, even one with your compatibility, doesn't necessarily have to be anything romantic. Platonic bonds—"

"It is platonic," Hollander blurts out quickly. So fast that four pairs of eyes are immediately drawn to him, and he's not sure if anyone believes it. It's the first thing he's said since the nurse arrived, and these are the words he speaks, eyes wide and nervous. The flicker in Ilya's heart dies a little at the lie, but he doesn't argue, if that's how Hollander wants to continue. Still, he can see Marly in the corner, eyes squinting as he looks between the two of them like he's finding the final missing piece to a puzzle.

Hollander's mother is whispering something in his ear.

The silences stretches on a little too long; no one quite knowing how to continue the conversation after the outburst. Ilya stews in his thoughts, examining the Hollander-shaped presence in the back of his mind. He twists around it, feels the panic and exhaustion that aren't his, and he tries to sooth it as best he can.

Ilya clears his throat. "Is there—is there way to control it?" He asks brokenly, his English starting to slip the deeper he falls into his thoughts. He worries about what happened on the ice yesterday; worries that they might be so overwhelmed with each other they might drive one another mad. "Not break, just… what is word? Limit, maybe?"

The doctor smiles. "Of course," she says, "I can recommend several good teachers. They can help you learn to manage the bond, create kind of mental barriers that can help maintain some level of privacy, if that's what you wish. Others prefer to keep the bond open at all times; it's really just your preference, but I do recommend opening the bond fully and connecting from time to time. The more closed off the two of you remain, the higher the chance of the sickness returning."

She pauses, her smile slipping as her voice takes a more commanding tone. "I highly recommend against breaking the bond entirely. The procedures have been known to be incredibly painful, and not all of them are considered safe."

"Yes, I know," Ilya responds, and he wonders if she's placed his accent yet. If she's aware of what Russia does with soul bonds that don't meet their standards. He wonders how much Hollander actually knows, but the other man doesn't argue against not breaking it.

The doctor shows herself out when it's apparent that they have a lot to talk about on their own. She provides them with her business card, and informs them that if they have any questions that come, they can contact her there, or ask the nurse before they're discharged.

In the corner, Marly stands, stretching his arms above his head and shaking out his legs. He grabs the bag at his feet, and places it by Ilya's feet on the bed. "Yours," he says gruffly. "Just grabbed what I could from your stall."

Ilya nods at him gratefully, already imagining changing into his own clothes.

"Not a word, Marly," he says, eyeing the man who somehow bullied his way into becoming his best friend.

"Not a word, Cap," he repeats in their own little language of trust, clapping Ilya on the shoulder, but shooting a glance between him and Hollander that Ilya knows means he wants the details eventually. "Text if you need anything, Roz."

He turns to the Hollanders. "Mrs. Hollander, it was great to meet you," Marly says all polite.

"You too, Mr. Marleau."

He nods with a smile and a quick, "See you on the ice, Hollander," before he takes his leave.

Ilya realizes his mistake too late when Yuna Hollander moves to stand at the end of the beds, eyes moving between the two of them. Hollander drops his head into his hands.

"So," she says carefully, "who wants to start?"