Chapter Text
Montreal, April 2017
Ilya strode into the hospital and walked up to the check-in-desk so quickly that he startled the woman sitting there behind her glass barrier. She looked up at him, shocked. He wasn’t sure what he looked like, but it probably wasn’t an encouraging start, since he would definitely need to talk his way into Shane Hollander’s hospital room.
"Hello, how can I help you?"
Ideally she could knock him out with the stapler on her desk so he wouldn’t have to experience Shane Hollander screaming his pain and fear directly into Ilya’s head. It should be impossible to broadcast across distances that far, but Hollander had always been an overachiever. Usually that was annoying, but at the current moment, it was agonizing.
"Here to visit,” he said through clenched teeth that he hoped looked like a smile.
"Visiting hours are over for today, I'm sorry.”
Ilya winced. He had wanted to rush right out of the arena, but of course that would be suspicious, so he’d endured questions from the media, and showered, and gotten dressed with his team while trying very hard not to throw up all over his stall. Starbursts of intensified pain struck at random moments, and he’d thrown his gear into his stall even more haphazardly than usual so he didn’t drop it on the ground. If his team had noticed that he was quiet, hopefully they had chalked it up to captainly anger at Marlow over the hit.
So it was late by the time he got to the hospital. It didn’t matter. He would wait here all night if he had to, but somebody would definitely be cleaning up the waiting room. He was either going to vomit or explode if he had to sit through much longer, which, incidentally, matched the kind of full-body panic that Hollander projected into the bond far too frequently. Ilya almost missed Hollander’s usual brand of anxiety. He would take anything over incendiary pain that nearly blotted out his vision at the worst moments.
“Is.... special case,” he tried, steadying himself on the desk.
"What kind of special case? Next-of-kin, patient in critical condition?"
Shit. He had spent the drive over trying to figure out how to explain this, and hadn’t come up with anything other than telling the truth. "No, is... is bond."
"If that's the case, then I'll need to see your paperwork."
"Paperwork?"
"From the relevant international bond authorities."
"Don't have with me,” Ilya said, which wasn’t technically a lie. He couldn’t have papers with him if the papers didn’t exist.
"Then I can't give you any patient information."
"Look. I can feel that something is very wrong. I need to be there."
She sighed and squinted at him. He couldn’t tell if she recognized him or not. He hoped not.
"I can tell that you mean that,” she said. “But I can't lose my job by giving out privileged patient information to people without the proper paperwork, no matter how convincing they are."
Well, fuck it. Ilya dropped what little composure he had been able to gather and decided to beg. "Please. Please. I need to go in, I need to help. If he doesn’t want, or doesn’t need, then I will go. I promise. No problem, no fuss."
She looked genuinely sympathetic at this point. Ilya could feel that he was sweating. His hair was still wet from his shower after the game. He probably looked desperate.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “It’s hospital policy.”
Ilya sighed. This was taking too long. "Fine. Fine. I go. Where is bathroom?"
She looked at him, clearly realizing what he was trying to do, but it was late and the hospital was nearly empty. The other nurse in the check-in area was occupied with something on his phone, and the security guard in the corner seemed to be dozing.
He plastered on the best charming smile he could muster with the pounding in his head. “Just need to pee,” he said.
She sighed, then pointed down the hallway past her desk. “I can’t give you any room numbers,” she warned. “And if the nurses see you on the floor without a visitor badge, I’m not responsible. Don’t make me regret this.”
Ilya walked down the hallway to the bathroom, then quickly turned left into an exit stairway and started walking. He didn’t need her directions to find Shane Hollander.
***
Yuna Hollander considered herself a pretty unflappable person. She was a daughter of immigrants and a hockey mom, and both of those traits had instilled in her a calm resiliency in almost any situation. She could translate, and bargain, and negotiate, and fight if she needed to fight for her family, for the things she believed in.
Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her son laid out unmoving on the ice after a brutal hit. He’d gotten hurt before, but never like this. She’d stood with a hand over her mouth, watching as the medics lifted her baby boy onto the spinal board and carried him off the ice, and felt frozen. David, bless him, had gotten them moving, taking the initiative to hustle them back into the team areas, showing access passes and trying to see if they could follow behind the ambulance in their car. He also pushed steady reassurance through their bond, which she mirrored back to him as best she could.
It had been one of the worst things she had ever seen in her life. Still, the hit itself wasn’t particularly surprising. Ever since she strapped Shane’s first pair of skates onto his tiny feet, she had been worried about the possibility of a devastating injury like this. Now all her worst nightmares were coming true, as she sat by Shane’s bed, holding his hand and hoping that it would give him some comfort.
She was shaken. She was also deeply afraid. Shane seemed to get worse the further they got from the rink. The trainers told them he had been semi-lucid by the time he was loaded into the ambulance, but he had a seizure in the ambulance just before they pulled into the hospital. Now he was asleep, but restless. His temperature was rising, his heartbeat fast, and the doctors were warning them to brace for a severe concussion, perhaps a career-ending one. They didn’t have any explanation for the sudden turn for the worse, saying things about monitoring and risk factors and head injuries being difficult to predict.
It was shocking. It was her worst nightmare. But it wasn’t surprising, despite it all.
What was surprising was the sight of Ilya Rozanov, the captain of the team that had just badly injured her son, barging through the door of Shane’s hospital room as if he had any right to be there. From the second he walked through the door, he didn’t have eyes on anyone but her son. She felt a flare of anger. She knew they were rivals, but at this hour of the night, he must be here to… what, gloat? Confirm that his greatest rival was out for the season? Finish the fucking job?
She stood up, placing herself between her son and Rozanov, despite the absurdity of their height difference. She said something cutting about his nerve coming here, and visiting hours starting tomorrow. He didn’t seem to see her. As if in a trance, he walked past her, gently moving her to the side with the full conviction of a hockey captain, not to be denied. She let herself be moved because the gentleness of the motion surprised her, more than anything else.
“Hey!” David said, standing up from his chair at the foot of the bed as Rozanov stepped closer to their son. But Rozanov simply reached out a hand and placed it on the side of Shane’s face with more tender care than Yuna would have ever thought possible from such a large and obnoxious man.
As soon as Rozanov’s hand made contact with his face, Shane stilled in his restless sleep. David and Yuna both watched, with dropped jaws, as their son’s heartrate monitor dropped back down into a more acceptable resting range for a professional athlete. His body fully relaxed into the hospital bed below him, and even in his sleep, he let out a little sigh, pressing even further into Rozanov’s touch.
“What…”
Rozanov turned to look at her with guilt in his hazel eyes. His face was startlingly open and gentle. She was used to his cocky grin from tv interviews and the ice, so it was strange to see him so openly stricken. It made him look far younger, and she remembered all of a sudden from her investigation of Rozanov during the leadup to the draft that he was a few months younger yet than Shane.
“I’m sorry,” Rozanov said, and that was another kick in the teeth. “Sorry I come here like this.”
He turned towards Shane. His large hand was resting on Shane’s pale, sweaty cheek, and his thumb was tenderly stroking along Shane’s brow bone, seemingly without realizing. It was the kind of instinctive gesture that only came with years of intimate affection. Yuna felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. They knew Shane so well, or so she had thought. How on earth had they missed something as important as this?
“I can feel that he need,” Rozanov continued.
“What do you mean, you could feel?” David asked. “What did he need?”
Yuna already knew, but she had to ask anyway. “Are you saying…”
Rozanov nodded. “We are bonded.”
Taking a stumbling step backwards, Yuna sank down into her chair. David reached out to steady her, both with a hand on her leg and through their own bond.
“Sorry,” Rozanov said again. “Sorry you find out like this. I-”
Yuna was at a loss for words, still staring at Rozanov’s gentle hand. He hadn’t stopped stroking Shane’s brow. Worse, Rozanov looked like he was about to cry, struggling for words. Despite herself, she felt a flare of protective maternal instinct. Whatever this was, and whoever had the idea to keep it hidden, it was clear that Rozanov shared her own emotions about seeing Shane in a hospital bed. Maybe that was enough, for now.
“Well,” David said into the moment of silence as Rozanov tried to gather himself, and Yuna could feel her husband mustering every ounce of diplomacy in his deeply Canadian body. “Thank you for being here to help our son. It seems like we have a lot of catching up to do.”
***
Yuna Hollander was shorter than Ilya remembered, and he was trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was officially meeting Shane’s parents for the first time as he stepped into the hospital room.
Ilya didn't know how to explain his presence, especially with the neon flares of pain stabbing at his skull through the bond. It felt like miniature fireworks exploding in random patterns across his head. If this was what he was getting through the bond, he couldn't imagine what Shane would be feeling if he was fully conscious.
"Ilya Rozanov,” Yuna said, stepping in front of him to block his way to Shane. “After the stunt that your teammate pulled, you have a lot of nerve barging in here like this. Visiting hours start tomorrow at 9 am if you want to pay your respects.” There was a vicious bite to the way she articulated pay your respects, and Ilya wished he could find the right words. This was probably not a particularly great first impression.
Ilya didn’t know how to explain, but he knew in his bones that Shane needed him, that his presence and his touch would help. He stepped forward into the room and pushed past Shane’s mother as gently as he could, given the difference in their heights, trying his best to telegraph his movements. She blessedly let him move her to the side, probably still caught by surprise. Small mercies. He didn’t think that Shane would ever forgive him for fighting his mother, even if it was to get closer to him.
He heard a sharp objection from Shane’s father, but as terrified as he was of the impression he was making on Shane’s parents, they didn’t matter right now. Shane was right there, and there wasn’t anything he could do other than reach up and put a hand to Shane’s pale, sweaty face.
The relief was instantaneous. He hadn’t realized how badly his head had been throbbing, how his stomach had been cramping, until suddenly the sensation was gone. Shane shifted under his touch, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face, and seemed to fully relax into the bed for the first time since Ilya had stepped into the room. Fuck, Ilya was so screwed. How had they ever thought that they could keep this casual?
Remembering their audience, Ilya looked up nervously at Shane’s parents, who were watching him with a mix of incredulity and suspicion.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry I come here like this.”
He would have to explain. Shane would hate it, but there was no other way around it; Hollander’s parents deserved to know why a strange man was holding their son’s face in his hospital bed, and, worse, why it seemed to be helping. He stroked a finger across Shane’s brow, hopefully comforting both of them even if Shane remained unconscious. He steeled himself like he was about to take a face-off and tried to find the words to explain.
He told them about the bond, and watched the news hit them like a physical blow. He apologized again for barging into the room. Tried to think of what else to say and the English words with which to say it, but there was a lump rising in his throat and his mind was blurring. He turned his head back towards Shane, trying to ignore the heavy gazes of Shane’s parents on the back of his neck. But of course Shane’s parents were as polite and Canadian as he was, so when Shane’s dad – David, Ilya couldn’t pretend that he didn’t know his name – when David offered a sentence that sounded like permission to explain later, Ilya nodded and let the conversation rest.
They lapsed into a tense silence, and Ilya occupied himself with stroking Shane’s face, pushing reassurance through the bond and trying to swallow down relief and gratitude and an endless well of worry.
***
Shane blinked. His eyelids felt very heavy and his body felt floaty. He blinked again. That was the ceiling. It was blurry. Maybe he needed his glasses? But that didn’t make sense, he only needed his glasses when he was reading. He wasn’t trying to read the ceiling. That was funny. He giggled a little bit to himself, which hurt.
He blinked again with eyelids that still felt lead-lined. His bond was open. He didn’t remember how to turn it off, couldn’t find the light switch in the dark. But there was something coming through it, a blur of emotions that felt yellow and pink and green. Maybe like worry, but also like other stuff. That didn’t make sense. He wasn’t worried about anything, really, for once in his life. Unless… that wasn’t his worry.
He turned his head to the left, which felt weird even though it didn’t hurt at all. Ilya was sitting right there. Oh, good. That was good. Shane was so happy to see him. “Heyyyy,” he said.
Ilya had been staring down at their joined hands – their joined hands!! They were holding hands!! – but with a word from Shane, his head snapped up and their eyes met. Shane smiled at him. He looked very tired and very handsome. His hair was very curly, like it had air dried after a shower. It was cute.
“Hi,” Ilya said back, and in the bond, the green thing was blooming like verdant ferns on a forest floor.
“Hey, kiddo,” came his dad’s voice. Shane frowned. That didn’t make any sense.
Shane turned his head to look at his parents, then blinked hard when the movement made him see double. Oh, nope. He had two parents, not four. There they were. He turned his head to look back at Ilya, and felt that the bond had gone pink with worry. He was worried too, now. This was bad. This was… not good. Bad. Ouch.
“Oh, fuck,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, and there was more worry in the bond, sharp like a… sharp thing. Shane felt an ache in the base of his stomach. Also in his chest. Also in his head. Also everywhere else. He squeezed Ilya’s hand, which hurt, but also made him feel better.
“Oh, fuuuck,” he said again. It seemed like the only thing that really made sense to say in this situation.
“Shane, honey,” came his mom’s voice, a little shaky. “Something you want to tell us?”
Shane shook his head. Nope. He didn’t want to tell anybody anything. Maybe his parents hadn’t noticed that they were holding hands. Or that Ilya was here. He tried to pull his hand away from Ilya’s grasp, but Ilya held fast. That was probably for the best. Shane didn’t really want to let go of his hand anyway, not now, and probably not ever. It would make playing hockey difficult, but they could make it work, because they were the best.
“Shh,” Ilya said, and now his thumb was running over the back of Shane’s hand. That was nice. Ilya was nice. Shane was glad he had stopped pretending otherwise. “You are, what is the phrase? High as kite. We are okay for now. You can sleep.”
Shane nodded, and pushed everything he was feeling through the bond at Ilya, which made the other man gasp at the rush of information. What was Shane feeling? He didn’t know. Ilya could probably sort it out. Shane had never been very good at that anyway.
He distantly noted the nurse coming in to check on him, but Shane went back to sleep, which was probably rude. He couldn’t help it, so maybe no one would be mad at him.
***
They all slept in fits and starts. Ilya thought it was a little unusual that they were allowed to stay overnight, but it did sound like Shane had been in fairly critical condition when he first arrived in the hospital. Plus, Yuna and David were helpful and polite with the nurses whenever they came in to check on Shane and briefly wake him. Each nurse shot curious glances in Ilya’s direction, but it was clear that he had Yuna and David’s permission to be here, so no one objected to his presence. Ilya mostly tried to stay out of the way, while also staying as close to Shane as possible. Even stepping to the other side of the room made his head start to ache.
Ilya woke up bleary-eyed in the early-morning sunlight coming through the hospital window and the scent of black tea filling the hospital room. He sat up, stretched, and winced at the feeling of hospital sheets creased into his face. He ran his hands through his hair, which had been mostly flattened on the side that was pressed against the mattress, and surreptitiously wiped a line of drool off on his chin. Fuck, did his neck and shoulders hurt.
Without comment, David reached out to set a cup of black tea on the small side table next to Ilya, which Ilya immediately grabbed and clutched in his hands, letting the steam rise in his face to wake him up a little. Shane was still asleep, which was good: sleep was the most important thing, now that the medical staff seemed less concerned about the severity of his concussion and he was resting easily.
Hollander’s parents let him sip his tea and wake up a little, which was very nice of them, although he could still feel their eyes on the side of his head. The tea was nicer than he’d expected for a hospital, and even sweetened with a little bit of honey. He wondered how long Shane’s parents had been awake.
“Feel a little more alive?” David asked gently, once he was about three-quarters of the way through his tea. He supposed he did, although his teeth felt gross and his face was greasy. He really was making the worst first impression possible with Shane’s parents.
“Never slept better,” he said, “This is very expensive hotel room. Or maybe not, is Canada, not America, yes?” The joke, weak as it was, got a slight chuckle from David.
Shane made an indistinct noise in his sleep, and Ilya reached out to put a hand on his leg. Ilya, Yuna, and David all studied Shane for a moment, watching the easy rise and fall of his chest with a shared sense of quiet relief.
“How long has it been?” came Yuna’s voice. “I was trying to remember when you first met. It would have been World Juniors 2008, is that right?”
“Right.”
“So did it happen then, or…?”
Ilya shook his head. This was not his to share. “I should give him the chance to explain.”
David smiled. “With the painkillers, I’m not sure he’ll feel up to explaining anytime soon. You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to, of course.”
Ilya did want to. If he was honest, he had been dying to talk to someone about this situation for a very long time. But Ilya had already taken choices away from Shane that evening, even though he couldn’t regret it. Shane deserved to have the support of his parents on his own terms. Ilya should probably call Svetlana, now that he was thinking about it. She would yell at him and tell him he was being stupid, but she might also know what to do.
“Is complicated,” he said, briefly meeting their eyes and then deciding that watching Shane’s chest rise and fall was much easier and less intimidating. He took Shane’s hand again, more for his own comfort than for Shane’s.
“I can imagine,” David said, still gentle.
Ilya shook his head, feeling fresh tears gathering in his eyes and desperately trying to choke them down. God, he was pathetic. “We decide right away not to tell anyone. It makes things complicated for me with family, with Russia. You know. But also with playing, for both of us,” he said. “Probably was stupid to think we can get away with it. And then we don’t stay away from each other. Can’t, maybe. Like, uh… like planets, you know? Circling. There is… pull.”
Yuna nodded. Of course they knew. They had been bonded for a very long time.
Ilya shook his head, wishing he could remember the word for orbiting in English. He thought he had been clear enough. “Sorry,” he said. “Is hard to explain. He will do it better.”
“No, that made sense,” Yuna said. “So you’ve been seeing each other. Are you… boyfriends, then?”
The million-dollar question, as the Americans would say. Ilya thought of the sheer wave of love, need, gratitude, longing, desire, love, love, love, that Shane had pushed towards him earlier, when the painkillers had lowered his inhibitions. In that moment, he could have laid down to sleep for a thousand years, even in the stiff, uncomfortable hospital bed, as long as Shane would keep feeling like that while he held his hand.
“I don’t know,” he said, although he hated not to give her a better answer. “Maybe, yes. I think we both want, but, you know. Situation is difficult.”
“Okay,” she said. Fuck, they were being kinder to him than he deserved.
He turned away from Shane, looked towards Yuna, and forced himself to make eye contact with her. He couldn’t tell her anything about how he felt, about how Shane felt, but he could tell her this. “I promise that I will not leave him, as long as he needs me.”
Yuna looked a little taken aback by the intensity of his expression, but recovered quickly, and offered him a small smile and a tired nod. “Well,” she said. “We can’t ask for more than that.”
Ilya smiled back, and allowed himself to hope against hope.
***
Later in the morning, the doctor who came around to explain things to them was a young and polished-looking woman who introduced herself as Dr. Khan. Given the circumstances, Ilya had claimed the place by Shane’s bed and was trying to keep a hand on him at all times. Holding hands felt uncomfortably possessive, especially in front of a random doctor, but he kept a hand resting on the bed next to Shane’s leg through the white hospital bedspread and hoped that the proximity would still help.
Shane was a little more lucid in the morning, even though he was still a little loopy with painkillers. He was also pushing emotions constantly through the wide-open bond in a way that he never had before, and Ilya did his best to sort through what Shane was feeling. He felt a little guilty, because he wasn’t sure if Shane knew he was doing it, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity.
Beyond the surface level pain and drugged-up giddiness, there was something that felt like a vast, electric ocean of feeling, both soothing and invigorating, and all of it directed towards him. With every pulse through the bond, Ilya felt closer and closer to drowning in that love and affection and longing. He wondered how long Shane had been feeling this way—he certainly had kept the bond locked down right, far tighter than Ilya had even realized. It was overwhelming, and a little heady. Part of Ilya wanted the openness to never go away, while the other half of him hoped that it was a side effect of the concussion, because if he had to deal with this much feeling from Shane for the rest of his life, he would drown.
They all turned their attention to the doctor as she walked into the room and came to stand on the other side of Shane’s hospital bed opposite Ilya. As she introduced himself, eyes flicking between the two of them, Ilya felt uncomfortably like someone’s spouse for the first time.
“We were worried about you for a little while there, Mr. Hollander,” Dr. Khan said.
“Sorry,” Shane answered.
“Oh, don’t be. That’s our job.”
Ilya let a smile ghost across his face. So Canadian.
The doctor poked at something on her tablet, and continued, “You seem to be feeling significantly better in the presence of Mr. Rozanov. Your heartrate and oxygen stats look better, no more seizures.”
Ilya felt his heart clench. He’d been able to feel that something was wrong, but that sounded much worse than he had imagined.
“I see in your paperwork that we don’t have a bondmate on file, but am I correct in assuming that you two are bonded?” Dr. Khan asked, leveling them a steady look over the top of her tablet.
“Yes,” Shane confirmed, his cheeks flaring red.
“Well, first of all, I want to say that PIPEDA privacy protections extend to bond reporting. Unless there are very specific circumstances in place, like concerns around abuse or coercion, I’m under no obligation to report your bond to the authorities. However, I would strongly encourage you to register your bond in the future. If we’d known that this was a factor, we would have been less concerned about the severity of the concussion and more concerned about getting Mr. Rozanov here as soon as possible.”
“So this is directly related to the bond?” Yuna asked.
“Correct,” she responded. “I won’t pretend this isn’t unusual, but it’s certainly not unheard of. The current theory is that it’s an evolutionary response to injury, especially head injuries. Your brain is registering that something is wrong and sending out constant emergency signals through the bond.”
“Like brain is screaming,” Ilya said.
“Oh, man, is that what it feels like for you?” Shane asked. Ilya ignored him, despite the adorable sing-songy quality that his voice took on when he was loopy with painkillers.
Dr. Khan nodded. “Right. Under normal circumstances, or with a different kind of injury, you might send out a single strong pulse to ask for help, one that would transmit over further distances than normal. But with a concussion, your brain signals are scrambled enough to register a constant state of emergency.”
“So what does that mean?” Yuna asked.
“It means that it will be very difficult for you two to be separated until the concussion heals enough that Mr. Hollander’s brain feels that it can stop sending those emergency signals.”
“Oh, wow,” Shane said. Through the bond, Ilya could feel him start to panic. The bond was open enough that he could even catch a glimpse of his thoughts if he tugged a little. Shane was calculating playoff matchups with the current standings and worrying about how both of their teams would fare without either of them. Typical.
Ilya pulled himself out of Shane’s head and nodded at Dr. Khan, unsurprised. Proximity seemed to be helping Shane so much, and he could already tell that separating would make them sicker than normal. It only made sense. “So we have to stay together. How long?”
She sighed. “It’s hard to give a definitive timeline. The ability to tolerate distance should improve as the concussion heals, and the brain realizes that the constant emergency signals aren’t necessary. But I would strongly advise against separating for at least a week, ideally more. Head injuries are unpredictable enough without soulbond complications in the mix.”
“Ohh, nope,” Shane said. “Ilya will be in the playoffs. And I can’t be in the playoffs. Because I have a concussion.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Yes, Hollander, we can tell you have concussion.”
Shane turned to glare at him, but with the bruising on his face and his sleepy, blinking eyes, he looked even more than an angry kitten than usual. The bond went to annoyed static as Shane pouted.
“Is okay,” Ilya said. “I have to stay, so I will stay.”
He’d expected that to make Shane happy, but instead he tried to cross his arms over his chest and realized halfway through the gesture that he couldn’t, and it hurt, and looked even grumpier. When he realized he couldn’t cross his arms, Shane tugged on the bond, sharp and clumsy, and Ilya winced.
“It’s the playoffs,” Shane said.
“…yes?” Ilya said.
“Rozanov.”
“Hollander.”
"I keep telling you I am not asshole. You think I leave you here to fry your brain?"
Shane shook his head, then winced. Ilya blinked spots out of his own vision as the pain prickled across the bond. Ilya was going to have to wrap him in bubble wrap, and also probably tie him to the bed. Not even for sex reasons, just so he would stop moving and hurting them both.
"You can't just stay here,” Shane said.
Ilya grimaced. "Probably... Bears are not so happy with me after this anyway."
“Why?”
“Because I will tell them about bond.”
“What?”
Ilya was getting annoyed. It wasn’t like he liked this situation much either, even if there was a strange sense of relief at being able to stay and make sure that Hollander was all right. If he didn’t want him there, Shane needed to say that directly, rather than projecting longing, fear, love into the bond between them and lying to his face.
“What the fuck else am I going to do, Hollander? I am going to have to miss some games while you recover. I cannot lie and say that I am sick when I was not injured in the game, and I have not seen team doctor. We are probably going to have to register bond anyway after this, you heard, is dangerous if they do not know. So, yes. I have to tell. What the fuck else do you want?”
At that, Shane started projecting shame, fear, worry, and fuck, Ilya was doing this wrong. But he despite it all, Shane still had that stubborn look on his face.
“Rozanov. No,” he said.
“Hollander. Yes,” Ilya countered. It sounded childish, but Shane was being childish about this whole situation.
“Ilya, stop it.”
“Shane. No.”
“Boys,” Yuna said, and both of them looked over at her a little shamefaced. David looked amused, for some reason.
Dr. Khan looked between them as if she were watching a particularly entertaining table tennis match. “Look, I can’t pretend that I understand exactly what’s going on here. But from a medical perspective, once again, I would highly recommend against separating. I understand that it may be inconvenient with your careers, but the risk to both of your health in the long run is simply too great.”
“Yes, we understand,” Ilya said sweetly. “Thank you, doctor.”
“This isn’t over,” Shane vowed. But his blinks were becoming longer and heavier once again, his annoyance in the bond going fuzzy with exhaustion. Plus, Ilya had a sneaking suspicion that Shane’s parents were on his side, which gave him a pretty significant advantage.
“Anything else we should know?” David asked.
Dr. Khan shook her head. “No, I think that should be it,” she said. “Normal concussion protocol, with the addition of bondmate proximity. No screens for a little while and get lots of rest. Obviously no activities that will put strain on the collarbone, and Shane should heal up in a matter of weeks.”
“Thank you,” Yuna said. “We’ll make sure to follow the instructions very carefully.”
Ilya tried not to let his smugness radiate too strongly through the bond, but he had never been as good at controlling their connection as Hollander. Checkmate. Yuna was definitely on his side, so that was that.