Work Text:
“Oh, yeah, I'll tell you somethin'
I think you'll understand
When I say that somethin'
I want to hold your hand…”
Ottawa, 2022
Ilya is three bites into a Big Mac, drowning in extra Mac sauce, when Shane scowls at him from across the console of his boring car. Shane drives with one hand hooked over the steering wheel and the other resting near the gearshift, like babushka.
“You know you’re supposed to be on a cardiac diet, right?”
Ilya rolls his eyes and takes another enormous bite on purpose. The extra sauce immediately squishes out the back of the burger, coating his fingers. He licks his thumb without shame before washing the mouthful down with a long drink of Coke. The bubbles burn pleasantly all the way down into his belly. “Heart is eighteen this year, Shanya, is very old for transplanted heart.” He says around the fizz. “Few bad meals will not turn back time, no? Speed it up? Heart will get bad when heart gets bad. Quit worrying about this, you cannot control it, moy zashchitnik.” He leans across the console, stretching awkwardly to kiss Shane's cheek, loud and sucking and annoying; the best. When he pulls away, he leaves behind a perfect smear of orange Mac sauce. He expects Shane to wipe it away with a hiss, but he doesn’t move to. Instead Shane tightens his hold on the wheel, until Ilya is so sure that he has heard the plastic creak. But Ilya has never possessed the instinct that tells most people to stop talking and let shit go. Galina has spent many years trying to cultivate it in him. She has failed. “Medicine for depression is bad for heart too, you know?” He fishes for another fry. “Makes heart beat funny with transplant medicines. Has happened a few times, before the Lexapro.”
Shane hits the brake so hard that Ilya yelps and his weight hurls him forward. His Coke flies halfway out of the cupholder and his bag of food launches toward the dashboard. He catches them somehow, cradling his burger while cola splashes over the lid and onto his jeans. “Shane!” He barks. “What the fuck?!”
The truck behind them blares its horn, loud and pissed off.
But Shane barely seems to hear it. He jerks the car onto a narrow residential side street so sharply the tires bump against the curb before he slams the transmission into park.
“You didn’t tell me about that! When was your heart playing up?!” Shane turns in his seat so sharply that Ilya worries about his sore back. He looks terrified, his face flushed deep red beneath his freckles and the tendons in his neck standing at attention like soldiers. While Ilya just stares at him, completely bewildered, what? “Ilya, how bad was it? You said you would tell me! You promised!” Shane’s chest is hitching a little when he breathes, too fast and too forceful. Oh. Oh, no. No, no. Without another thought, Ilya throws the greasy McDonald's bag out the open window. It lands somewhere in bush with pathetic flop. He doesn't care, he catches Shane's face between both hands before another word can come out.
His husband is so warm, but his nose is chilly — the damned air conditioner is blasting directly into his face again. Shane always insists on arctic temperatures inside car, then wonders why his nose turns into ice cube. Oh, Shane. “My love, my Shane, look at me. I am fine, yes? You are fine. We are in car in Ottawa. Heart was not hurt, I am not hurt. Heart is okay as heart can be. Shush, shush, my Shane — here, feel.” He gently tugs Shane’s hand away from how tightly it’s fisted in his sweatpants and moves it to lay against Ilya’s chest. His heart must be pounding from all this, it must be hard enough for Shane to feel through the cotton of his undershirt. He unzips the stupid puffy vest that Shane insisted on him wearing this morning — if you don’t want to wear a jacket, fine, but at least put on something that will keep your chest warm — and manages to wiggle Shane’s claw of a hand into the gap. Shane’s eyes are welling up and he’s still shaking his head.
“It’s my fault.” The words come out sounding snotty, thick.
Ilya sighs, “Shane.”
“No, it is! If I could just stop being a fucking baby about it, I could come to your cardiology team appointments. I would have known about all this already, instead I have to read about everything from the online portal because I freak out every time you’re on that exam table and I —” Shane is actually crying now and the sight of it is enough to turn Ilya’s stomach. It’s wrong and it hurts. Hurts so much worse than the rounds of a-fib and few episodes of orthostatic hypotension that Shane is panicking about. He’s gotten dizzy and had some heart flutters. It is not worth these tears.
“Have panic attacks.” Ilya corrects, squeezing Shane’s hand through the still zipped portion of his vest. “You have panic attacks when you see the equipment on me — Shanya, this is expected, you have seen many things I wish you would not have seen. I am okay now, you are strong and I am strong. I know if my heart gets bad again, to tell you and you will come and I will hold your hand.” Ilya braces against the memories, but not of that day on the ice — he should never have been stupid enough to play with a high fever and stomach flu. He was incredibly dehydrated, too dehydrated to be anywhere but in Emergency with fluids dripping into his arm. He does not remember going down hard on ice after win. He does not remember Shane screaming from the penalty box and flinging himself out of it, ripping off a skate blade from hitting the edge too hard and having to bodily throw himself across the ice to Ilya’s prone body. He does not remember Wiebe doing CPR on him or the AED paddles on his chest. He does remember the aftermath though and is not something he wants to repeat. He has watched video of that day many many many times and he does not think he will ever forget the look on his Shane’s face or his screams.
Shane sniffles, blinking too fast in a way that Ilya knows will only make matters worse. “I’ll hold your hand.” He corrects, sounding soggy and wet, like little cat.
“Da, moy zashchitnik, you will hold my hand.”
Shane keeps his hand over Ilya's chest in the stupid vest, feeling each heartbeat arrive beneath his fingertips. Ilya lets him, rubbing lazy circles across his Shane’s wrist until his shaking begins to fade.
“Oh, please, say to me
You'll let me be your man
And please, say to me
You'll let me hold your hand
You'll let me hold your hand
I want to hold your hand…”