words, sayings, sorrows & smut

The arena is loud.

The sharp scrape of skates and the clatter of sticks fill the space.

The goal horn wails, cheers from the crowd echoing off the domed walls.

The opposing team celebrates; loud whoops ring out across the ice. The Centaurs' bench is quiet.

Quiet in the subdued, defeated way of a team that's playing objectively bad hockey.

Quiet because they’re nervous and trying not to say the wrong thing.

Quiet because Shane fucking Hollander is sitting on the bench, staring straight ahead, stiff and unblinking.

His expression was deadpan in that robotic, scary way he gets when they’re losing.

And they’re losing bad.

To fucking Buffalo.

There are quiet murmurs and the odd frustrated huff of breath, but the only consistent sound is the steady tapping of Shane’s stick against the floor.

Tap, tap, tap.

A beat only he can hear blaring in his head, drowning out the background noise and static buzz that fills his brain when things start to go wrong.

And things are going very fucking wrong.

Tap, tap, tap.

He just came off a shift, still sweating, legs burning. He'd played like a man possessed, tearing down the ice so fast it had Buffalo's defence actually stumbling back.

Tap, tap, tap.

His teammates were left flailing behind him, unable to keep up pace, let alone receive a pass.

He'd given them a goal, desperately trying to bridge the gap they were chasing, and within minutes they’d fucked that up, getting scored on almost immediately after Shane came off the ice.

The result: Shane looking something very close to the hockey version of the Terminator.

Everyone has the same thought: fuck, he's scary.

Tap, tap, tap.

Get it together, Shane thinks amidst the noise in his head.

There are so many openings.

I gave them a goal; I gave them a fucking goal, and they’re playing so bad, and Buffalo's goalie is wide open right now.

There are so many openings right now.

You're leaning too far back, Young. You're going to overshoot.

And now Buffalo has the puck.

Goddammit.

You guys are better than this. I've seen it.

I can't be out there every shift, and Ilya can't be out there every shift and—

Buffalo's right winger was aiming for the top right corner of the net. Shane can see Hayes is too low to block the shot.

The winger shoots, but the puck doesn’t make it to the net; it's stopped dead by Lapointe, who puts himself in front of it.

The puck hits him in the side, and there's an audible “ooof” amongst the crowd when he doubles over; the wind is knocked out of him.

Gritting his teeth, it takes him a few seconds to breathe.

With a gasp, he sucks in air, and only then does he make eye contact with Shane, who's still on the bench.

Lapointe nods then, confident, and Shane knows exactly what he's trying to convey because Shane had said it to the team back in the locker room before the second period started.

"Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to win. Do it.”

Tap, tap, tap.

Everyone knows that the Centaurs had a reputation for being a notoriously bad team.

Underwhelming and overlooked, they weren't known to give up much of a fight when it came to winning.

But in the years since Ilya (and later Shane) joined, they’d made leaps and bounds to change that reputation.

They sat the team down; they took the time to learn about each of the players, their strengths, and their weaknesses. Everybody’s skills were analyzed and critiqued.

They went back to the basics. Drills they’d learned as kids were revisited and reworked.

They practiced and practiced some more.

They ran through their plays meticulously until each and every one of them felt like they could do them in their sleep.

Tap, tap, tap.

There were endless long days of training and longer nights of recovery in ice baths and hot showers. But each day they all went home with a reignited sense of passion for this sport.

They got better, faster, organized.

And with the two best players of their time leading the horde, soon the whole team slotted together like cogs of a well-oiled machine.

The change of how they were received in the arenas was almost instant.

The Centaurs' turnaround was quickly becoming one of the greatest comebacks in sports history.

Their plays were clean and precise. Their defence was solid.

But not right now.

Right now they were back to where they were when Ilya first joined them.

Tap, tap, tap.

As frustrating as it was, Shane understood why.

They were tired.

While their progress as a team had been wildly celebrated, it also invited some unsportsmanlike responses from opposing teams and players that felt the need to make a point.

Harder hits, illegal checks. Fights breaking out over nothing.

The escalating violence had racked up so much power play time; Shane distantly wondered if it could set some kind of record.

And while they responded with equal force, holding up as best they could, it was starting to take its toll.

Shane and Ilya had played their fair share of very competitive, rough hockey over the years.

Being the best had earned them plenty of attention and praise, which led to countless fights and chirps and dirty plays from eager players wanting to prove otherwise.

And when they were outed as a couple, it wasn't just the physical responses they got on the ice that were brutal; it came from everywhere, from players to coaches, officials to fans.

The whole ordeal had been so vicious and hateful, bordering on cruel. It made what the centaurs were facing now seem like a walk in the park to Shane and Ilya.

They could handle it, but the rest of the team wasn't used to that kind of hockey.

Most of their careers hadn’t been so intense; they’d never been under the kind of pressure and heat the two former rivals had.

It left their team sore, injured, and tired. Constantly on edge, waiting for the next hit, the next slash. It made them clumsier, slower, and less focused.

Experienced and talented as Shane and Ilya were, it wasn’t enough to make up for the whole team.

I can't do it all. I can't be on every shift. Ilya can’t be on every shift.

Shane's ears are ringing.

Their team needed to adapt. Quickly.

Tap, tap, tap.

The timing of it all was poor; the playoffs were approaching, and they were going to make it to the playoffs.

Even if they squeaked by and got a wildcard spot, Shane couldn’t care less. He would make sure they earned their place.

Because he wants another cup.

And Ilya wants another cup.

And their team, rundown and ragged as they were, also wanted a cup, and they were more than willing to let Shane and Ilya lead them to an early grave if that’s what it took to win one.

But that was looking very, very far away right now.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying, but fuck, they need to get it together.

We need to get it together.

Shane's thoughts are racing.

Make your passes. Make your plays. Why the fuck is this happening on home ice? And why the fuck is our mascot a beaver? The period is almost up, and we’re still down, and my mouth is so dry—

"Shane."

The sound of Ilya's voice cuts through the hum of the arena and the static and the rhythmic pounding in Shane's head.

"Open your mouth.”

In any other instant, those words would’ve had Shane blushing, a twist of heat thrumming low in his stomach.

But not now; he didn’t move, didn't even flinch at the too-familiar command, just opened his mouth, and then Ilya was squirting water into it from his bottle.

Because Shane had barely drank any water or stretched or done anything else other than keep his single-minded focus on the clusterfuck that was this game.

Tap, tap, tap.

Ilya is watching his husband, his expression tense as he sees Shane's near-vacant gaze fixed on the ice.

He knows what state Shane is in and can only hope for his and their teams sake things turn around before the period is over.

Dillon misses another pass; Buffalo takes the puck. Everyone on the bench cringes, eyes flickering to Shane.

Tap, tap, tap.

Ilya is looking up now, watching as the puck careens across the ice with rapid speed towards the net, but Hayes stops it with his glove.

The quick move most definitely aggravated the nearly torn muscle in his right bicep that the trainers had been working tirelessly to rehab , but Hayes didn't seem to care, only biting back a wince as he caught the puck.

“Fuck yeah, Hayes, that’s it!” Bood's voice booms from where he’s sat on the bench.

Lapointe skates by and taps Hayes on the head, who smiles and nods in appreciation.

"Whatever it takes, boys!” Dysktra yells from his place beside Young.

Tap, tap, tap.

Ilya lets out a relieved sigh, and then he's being called up.

Placing the water bottle down beside Shane, he grabs his stick and vaults over the boards and onto the ice.

Face-off. Puck drop.

It's a flurry of chaos, and then Ilya's flying, chasing the puck down the ice. Troy at his side.

Tap, tap, tap.

Move, move, close the gap, Shane thinks.

Troy passes the puck. Ilya scores, and the bench is shouting.

They're back at it, and the Buffalo defenseman that's chasing Ilya stumbles, but not so off balance that he can’t slash Ilya across the backs of his knees as he goes down.

“Сука, Блять!" Ilya growls out in pain.

Penalty. Power play.

Another goal, this one’s Bood's.

Tap, tap, tap.

Shifts change and change again.

Tap, tap, tap.

Haas passes, Shane scores.

Tap, tap, tap.

He's back on the bench, eyes locked on the puck Troy is pushing down the ice.

We're closing the gap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Everyone on the bench is hyper-aware. Watching the game, watching Shane. Watching Shane watch the game.

Another shift change, a different line this time. Something they’ve been playing around with during practice.

Shane goes over the boards.

Centre ice. Ilya on his left, Haas on his right.

Puck drop, scuffle, Shane wins the face-off.

They're speeding down the ice, controlled, in perfect time. The puck goes to Haas, Haas to Ilya, Ilya back to Shane.

Shane shoots. Scores.

The Centaurs' bench isn’t so quiet now.

Fuck yes.

Post-game in the locker room is a riot. Music is blasting from someone’s speaker. No one cares anymore that the team they beat was 'only Buffalo.'

Everyone is cheering for the hard-earned win.

Ilya is smiling, and Shane is smiling back; long gone is that empty stare and terrifying stillness from before.

From behind him, there are hushed whispers from some of their teammates.

"We almost let them have us.”

“Yeah, I really need to up my game…”

"Me too, I don't wanna see that look on Hollzy's face ever again..."

I know… scary… I don't know how Cap does it… He doesn’t even flinch when Hollander gets…like that…”

"We've got to get our shit together for playoffs..."

“You think he’ll be even worse during playoffs!?"

A collective shudder passes over them all at that question because of course he'll be worse during playoffs.

The harsh lighting of the waiting room was grating on Shane's already pounding headache.

He was sitting on one of the hard plastic chairs along the back wall. Ilya was beside him, holding their feverish baby.

The ER on a Friday night was busy enough, and like most underfunded Canadian hospitals, there were only a handful of doctors and nurses available at what was nearing 2 o’clock in the morning.

Shane pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to relieve the incessant pressure building behind them. The quiet ding of alarm bells and murmurs coming from the triage station droned on in the background.

Despite being marked as high priority due to their daughter being a six-week-old with a fever, they’d been waiting for hours.

The estimated wait time on the wall-mounted screen in front of them had barely budged since they’d walked in.

It was a testament to just how busy the floor was tonight.

Shane had barely slept and was running on nothing more than coffee. The anxious knot in his stomach robbed him of all appetite.

Ilya's condition wasn’t any better; he looked exhausted, his face was tense, leg bouncing nervously.

Shane's eyes fell to the ID bracelet the triage nurse had put on Ilya's arm because it was too big for their daughter.

It read, “Hollander-Rozanova, Nadia.”

He felt a little twist in his chest at seeing all three of their names. It was triggering some sort of tender and probably exhaustion-induced emotion.

After all, this had been one of the hardest nights their little family had gone through so far.

The days leading up to this moment had been nothing short of hellish. Nadia had been uncharacteristically fussy and restless.

She wouldn’t sleep; she wouldn’t stop crying. They'd tried nearly everything they had in their arsenal to settle her.

Rocking, walking, swaddling, using different blankets and different pacifiers, driving in Ilya's Jaguar (because they’d learned early on that the hum of the V8 had been particularly soothing to her), sitting outside, sitting inside, standing in the shower, using a noise machine, or using nothing at all.

It hadn't mattered—she'd screamed the entire time.

They'd called Shane's parents; fuck, they'd even called Jackie and Hayden, tried everything both pairs had suggested, and still, there was no relief.

The only breaks they had were the brief respites between screams when she’d take her bottle or pacifier for a few minutes and then she was right back to it.

On the second morning, Shane called the pediatrician, who'd walked him through a checklist of things to do, all of which they had already tried and tried again.

Yes, they'd checked her temperature (each time it read normal).

Yes, she’s going through the same number of diapers.

Yes, they massaged her belly in case it was gas.

Yes, they tried different sleeping positions.

Yes, they made sure she wasn’t too hot or too cold.

Yes, they checked her fingers and toes for string or hair tourniquets.

Yes, they’d adjusted the formula temperature.

Yes, they tried oat baths and zinc cream in case her skin was irritated.

Nothing. Worked.

"Well, sometimes babies cry," the pediatrician had finally said.

His dry, sympathetic tone made Shane want to chew the man out in every language he knew.

Her tiny rage continued through the day and into the night and into the next day again. It left them feeling run ragged, teeth set on edge, and nerves frayed from her piercing sobs.

Even Anya seemed to be distressed by it; she'd taken up to whining and pacing nervously just outside of wherever Nadia was screaming.

By Friday evening, when the thermometer beeped with a sudden spike in her temperature (they had been diligently monitoring it), it nearly sent the pair into hysterics.

They'd dropped everything and drove straight to the ER.

"Shane." Ilya's voice had barely registered from where he stood by the door.

He was watching Shane pace back and forth across the floor of their bedroom, rocking Nadia, who was red-faced and screaming.

"Shane," Ilya repeated, his voice sounding hollow even to his ears. Shane looked up at the sound of his name, eyes landing on Ilya.

Out of the two of them, Shane had always been the one with the poker face—good at keeping up a neutral mask, whereas Ilya's face was an open book.

And right now, his husband looked about ready to cry.

“Ilya, baby,” Shane began, keeping his eyes on him as he continued to rock her.

“I feel fucking useless right now,” Ilya snapped, running a hand through his hair.

Shane sighed; he knew Ilya was frustrated with himself and the situation.

This was a hurdle they had not experienced before.

As first-time parents, they’d prided themselves on having gotten Nadia’s schedule down in just the first few weeks.

She’d been a typical newborn, of course. She cried and fussed when she needed something like any baby would, but they’d learned quickly what each cry and cue meant, and she’d always been easy to soothe.

Sometimes, just picking her up was enough to get her settled; even getting her to sleep had been a smooth process most nights.

This was different; they didn’t know these cries, and admittedly, the longer it dragged on, the more Shane and Ilya were beginning to doubt that they'd ever really nailed down this baby stuff to begin with.

"I know, but you’re not useless, Ilya. You've tried everything,” Shane said, earnestly, taking another lap around the room.

Ilya didn't say anything; instead, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. His eyes were red-rimmed as he watched Shane try and rock her to no avail. In his hand was her favourite pacifier.

He had been at it for nearly an hour before this until they switched off and Shane sent him outside to have a smoke and calm down.

And for Shane to encourage smoking, well, that was telling of just how desperate the situation was becoming.

Ilya finished his smoke, lingering outside for a few minutes after to let Anya run around and give her sensitive ears a break.

Afterwards, they went back inside, and he thoroughly washed his hands and rinsed out his mouth, even changing his shirt to ensure no smell of smoke lingered on him.

Shane walked over, repositioning Nadia from his shoulder to the crook of his arm so Ilya could offer her the pacifier.

They both watched intently to see if it would take. Her tiny wails stuttered into a barely audible whimper once she latched onto it.

Her little chest heaved as she tried to soothe herself; seeing her puffy eyes and tear-streaked face was torture for Shane, but it was unravelling Ilya.

Both of them had spent the last two days trying tirelessly with equal efforts to soothe her.

For Shane, the longer it dragged on, the more it drove him to try harder to fix it; even riddled with anxiety, the analytical and logical factions in his brain were switched on to 110%.

But for Ilya, their baby’s distress was starting to make him spiral.

Suddenly words he’d heard growing up, things he’d nearly forgotten, were beginning to echo in his mind again.

Lazy, neglectful, useless.

With that, thoughts of inadequacy and crippling doubt now clung to him like a burdock.

It was blatantly clear that parenting was an entirely different experience for both of them.

For Shane, he saw parenting as a challenge, something you worked at. Something that requires skills you learn and hone over time.

Do the work, do the research. Practice, practice, practice. Identify your strengths and weaknesses.

If something isn't working, find out what does.

Ever the pragmatic one, that approach gave him the same confidence he had on the ice; he'd simply swapped playbooks for parenting ones.

It allowed Shane (who was so often teased for his love for routine and predictability) to fall into being a dad with an ease and sureness that surprised everyone, even himself.

That wasn’t to say it was always easy, but even in the worst moments, even when he felt sick with stress, Shane could keep his head.

Ilya, on the other hand, was a little more fragile.

They both had known for a long time that fatherhood was a particularly sore spot for him, and they had spent many sleepless nights talking about it whenever the anxieties came bubbling up.

When the time came that they began to seriously consider becoming parents, Ilya threw himself into preparing.

He wanted to be a good father. Better than the one he’d had.

His sessions with Galina became more frequent; he and Shane checked in with each other and with themselves. Their communication was better than it’d ever been.

They consulted their teammates who already had children; they took classes and attended all the appointments with their wonderful surrogate. There was lots of researching and asking questions.

After all the work he'd put in the months leading up to her birth, Ilya had found his rhythm.

Their daughter, their baby, brought out the light, playful side of him with renewed force. The effortless air and certainty.

The doubts and the insecurities faded away, and that same competence and ease he exuded in both personal and professional capacities bled into this new chapter of life; only now it was for real.

Not a show or front he put up for others, but a real genuine sense of

"I got this."

Despite it all, this newfound stability still rested on an old foundation, with cracks and wear and patchwork that needed constant tending.

Ilya had prepared as best he could; no one could say he hadn’t, but parenting was all about the unexpected, and he quickly learned that sometimes it confronts and drags things out of your psyche you’d thought were already buried and dead.

This was one of those moments, and despite his best efforts, Ilya internalized it and withdrew into himself.

And Shane saw it happening, saw it take its hold on his husband.

And Shane would keep it together for the both of them as long as he had to.

He reached out with his free hand and put it on Ilya's cheek.

“Ilya, we’re doing all we can do, and we’ll keep trying. I know she's upset and it hurts to hear, but she’s not alone. She's with us. She's safe,” he said gently.

Ilya sighed, a deep and heavy sound, before wiping at his eyes a little and nodding.

Just then, the ringer on Shane's phone went off with a quiet jingle. He looked over to where it sat on the nightstand.

"Ah, have to check her temperature again,” he murmured, more to himself than anything.

Ilya was already moving, silencing the alarm. He picked up the thermometer and brought it over.

Shane knew the moment he set Nadia down the cries would start, and he took a fortifying breath in preparation before placing her onto the bed as gently as possible.

As he expected, she started whining immediately, and they made quick work of checking her temperature so he could pick her back up before whines turned to wails.

The thermometer beeped softly, and Ilya made a discontented hum as he looked down at the reading.

"Hmm…" he hummed again, moving towards the lamp on the nightstand to get a better look.

"What's up?” Shane asked, not looking up as he redid what felt like the 100th button on her onesie (they really needed to stick to zippers).

“Блять!” Ilya suddenly hissed, prompting Shane’s head to snap up.

“What??” Shane asked, a little startled.

Ilya crossed the room to where Shane stood and held the thermometer up.

“Shane, this is fever."

Sure enough, the thermometer (that Shane somewhat distantly noted was measuring Fahrenheit) read 100.4 degrees.

(Or 38 degrees Celsius for Canadians and Russians).

What happened next was a whirlwind of panic and swift packing.

Shane passed Nadia off to Ilya, who immediately got her dressed and into the car seat, while he grabbed a small bag with a change of clothes, wipes, diapers, bottles, and anything else they might need.

Shrugging on a sweater, he slipped her health card and their wallets into his pocket before following Ilya out to the car.

They drove straight to Ottawa General.

Upon arrival, the nurse that had briefly examined Nadia explained her behaviour was very typical for a baby who was sick.

"Fevers can spike very rapidly in young children, with little or no warning, especially in babies. I'm not surprised the only indication something was off was the crying," she said after they’d explained all the things they’d been monitoring.

It was a bittersweet relief that her unresolved cries weren’t because of something they did wrong.

It had nothing to do with what they were or weren’t doing; it was not an ignored cue or oversight or a lack of effort.

It was because she was coming down with a fever.

A fucking fever.

When the hell does a baby get a fever?

She'd barely left the house or either of her father's arms in the six weeks since she’d been home, and they’d had next to no visitors unless they were absolutely sure they weren’t sick or around someone who'd been sick.

They'd spent a good hour of their time in the waiting room racking their brains about how she could’ve gotten sick.

"She is so young and small…does not even have all her shots yet. She is so…unsafe to these things…” Ilya muttered, clearly struggling to get out the words, his voice sounding more than a little strained.

Shane's mind had already been racing with the pages and pages of medical reports he’d read about babies getting sick with RSV and meningitis and about a dozen other illnesses, and he quickly had to tamp down those thoughts.

He had to try to stay calm.

"It's okay. We're in the right place. They'll be able to help her,” he said, squeezing Ilya's knee.

Nadia had been quietly, blessedly asleep since they got to the hospital; after two days of almost no rest, the fever was finally tiring her out.

Every once and awhile, Ilya made a point to shift her. Not to wake, just enough to rouse her, making sure she wasn’t getting too lethargic.

The nurse was also periodically checking to make sure her temperature wasn't getting worse while they waited.

The rest of the room was quite full, most of the chairs taken up by people waiting; others stood or paced up and down the hall. Some were obviously sick, some injured, waiting for x-rays or stitches, maybe.

It was mostly silent; only heavy sighs and hushed whispers filled the room. The overarching feeling of frustration from the wait was palpable. Everyone had the same exhausted and worn-out expression.

A tiny whine escaped Nadia then, and she shifted in Ilya's arms, which had both of them sitting upright, attentive.

"Всё хорошо, малыш. Папа здесь," Ilya whispered softly to her, his hand coming up to stroke her cheek.

Her little chin jutted out as her whimpers began to turn into tiny warbles. Shane rifled through the bag and got out her pacifier.

"Ah, look at what Daddy has for you; what a lucky girl,” Ilya cooed, making Shane huff in amusement.

Thankfully, Nadia took the pacifier without much fuss. Ilya stood and began gently bouncing her in his arms.

He walked up and down the stretch along the back wall where he and Shane had been sitting, trying to lull her back to sleep.

After a short time her eyes slipped closed, her whimpers going quiet. Both Ilya and Shane let out tandem sighs of relief now that they weren’t about to deal with another meltdown.

There was an older woman sitting close to them who had been watching Ilya rock Nadia out of the corner of her eye.

Ilya made eye contact with her, and she smiled.

“She’s precious,” she said, looking between him and Shane.

Ilya beamed, and Shane felt a little swell of pride in his own chest in response.

“Yes. Thank you,” Ilya said, pausing only briefly to smile back before turning away and continuing his steady rhythm.

"How old is she?" The lady continued, looking over at Shane now.

"She's six weeks," Shane said, sitting back in his chair and watching as Ilya made his way to the far end of the room.

"Oh wow, still so young! Enjoy it; they grow so quick. You know, with my kids, it seemed they were changing every day at this age." She said, her tone fond.

"Yes, one day she is barely opening her eyes, and now she can win any staring contest." Ilya said, grinning as he came back around, pausing in front of Shane and the woman now and rocking in place.

"I'm sure she could! Is she your first? How are the two of you handling being new dads? It's a big transition."

Shane perked up a bit at that question, and he found himself glancing up at Ilya, whose mouth twitched into a smirk.

It seemed they both had the same thought.

It was nice to hear someone talk so naturally about them being two dads, instead of suggesting that they were friends or brothers-in-law or some other unlikely tenuous connection.

Shane found himself turning towards the lady now, instantly feeling more at ease.

"It's been great, like, really great. Tiring, of course—there's so much to learn, but she's such a sweet baby. I know some of our friends who have a few kids, and they struggled a lot getting them into a routine; she's been so easygoing," Shane said enthusiastically.

"That's really lucky; some babies—whew. I mean, they really put you to work; my second son was one of them. I don't think my husband and I slept at all the first year!" she laughed lightly, making the two of them laugh in unison.

It was then that the voices at the triage desk became distinctly louder; Shane and Ilya, as well as most of the other waiting patients, looked up towards the desk.

"How am I supposed to wait four fucking hours?" A man's voice snapped aggressively.

"Sir, we've had some very sick patients coming through tonight—" the nurse at the desk was swiftly cut off by more of his yelling.

Footsteps could be heard then, and a man who was presumably the one causing the scene trudged into the waiting area, shouting and ranting as he paced back and forth erratically.

Shane was on his feet, stepping in front to block Ilya and Nadia from his view. Ilya moved back towards the far wall, covering Nadia's ear so she didn't startle.

The man was close to the exit; the only other door was a one-way door into the treatment bay, which was locked.

Everyone in the room was tense, eyes cast down and away from the man, trying desperately not to earn his attention. Shane found himself sizing the guy up.

Shane easily had 60 pounds of muscle on him, and while he had no interest in fighting, much preferring to deescalate a situation, his husband and baby were here, and he would not hesitate to knock this guy out if he had to.

A security guard and two nurses entered the room then. The man turned and began to argue with them, shouting nonsense about wait times and priority and the taxes he pays. He was starting to go red in the face.

"What? I'm causing a disturbance? Why? Does someone in here have a fucking problem? The man yelled suddenly, whirling around to look at the other patients.

When his glare landed on Shane, who was still standing, looking braced for a fight, Ilya moved right away.

Wordlessly, he passed off Nadia to the lady he and Shane had been talking to earlier; she took her without hesitation, and then Ilya was standing shoulder to shoulder with Shane, looking ready to murder.

"Back the fuck up," Ilya said, his voice low, and before the man could even reply, another two security guards and an officer were entering the room.

There was a brief exchange of words; the man continued to try and yell, though he was much more subdued now that a cop was there.

After another minute or so more officers came, and then the man was being escorted out.

One of the charge nurses came in and addressed the room shortly after, ensuring that the man was going to be removed and apologizing for the disturbance before quickly resuming her post at the desk where one of the security guards was now sitting as well.

"Sorry, sorry—thank you," Ilya said earnestly, quickly moving to take Nadia back from the woman.

"It's okay, really; that was tense," she said, gently placing her back in his arms.

Shane only shook his head, sitting back down in the seat. Ilya took the seat beside him.

"That was fucked," Shane muttered, looking even more drained than before. Ilya smirked.

"Yes, it was. But was also very hot the way you stand up to protect us," he murmured quietly, making Shane smile almost bashfully.

"Nadia?" A nurse poked her head in through the door to the treatment bay.

Shane and Ilya quickly stood, gathering their things. The lady wished them luck, and they thanked her quickly before following the nurse.

The treatment bay was a large room; a nurses' station sat in the centre of it. They were brought to one of the few empty beds; Shane sat on it holding Nadia, while Ilya took the chair next to it. The nurse closed the curtain around the bed for some privacy.

They waited only a few minutes before the same nurse was back to take vitals and ask a few questions, and then another came to do bloodwork.

"Хуй," Ilya muttered, watching as Shane held Nadia's foot in his hand, and the nurse swabbed her heel with an alcohol pad.

She poked the needle in, and immediately Nadia began to cry. Her little chin trembling, the pacifier falling away from her mouth.

Ilya felt his chest crack open at the sight. He reached out to take it before it fell to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry…" the nurse cooed, looking genuinely upset.

Shane felt a lump rise in his throat; his poor baby was having the worst night of her life, and he had to bite back the urge to sob himself because he knew if he started crying, Ilya would actually lose it.

Instead, he shushed her softly, pressing kisses to her face and whispering to her as the nurse finished up.

"Okay, sweetie, all done," the nurse said softly, gathering up the samples onto the cart.

She gave Shane a piece of cotton to press to Nadia's heel for a few minutes before placing a band-aid over top of it and then wheeling the cart out.

Ilya stood up and crouched over Nadia, wiping her tear-stained cheeks as Shane laid her down on the bed and worked on putting her foot back in the onesie.

Ilya offered her the pacifier again, murmuring to her in Russian and she took it.

When Shane was done, he picked her back up, sitting down on the bed and cradling her in his arm.

"You okay?" he asked softly, reaching out with his free hand to squeeze the back of Ilya's neck.

Ilya huffed out a humourless laugh, running a hand over his face.

"I cannot see her in pain like that," he sighed, sitting down on the bed beside Shane, who nodded in agreement.

"I know, I know. It kills me," Shane agreed, sniffing a little.

He thumbed Nadia's cheek; she was quiet again, sucking on her pacifier with her eyes closed.

The doctor came in shortly after; she was a middle-aged woman wearing standard blue scrubs and crocs decked out in charms. Hanging off her stethoscope was a tiny pink sloth.

"Good evening. I'm Dr. Riddell. I'm one of the pediatric ER doctors. So tell me a bit about what's been going on," she said, leaning against the wall with her hands folded in front of her.

Ilya nudged at Shane, who then went over everything that'd happened the last two days.

He tried to keep it succinct, but by the end of it, after sparing no details, he felt like he was rambling. Dr. Riddell didn't bat an eye, only nodding attentively as he spoke.

She then examined Nadia, listening to her heart and breathing, checking her nose and ears, all the while continuing to ask questions.

"And the pediatrician saw her, you said, this week?"

"Yes, she had checkup on Monday," Ilya confirmed.

"And so far it's just been a fever? No wheezing or runny nose?" She asked. Both men shook their heads.

"Okay, I'd like to send her for a chest x-ray; she sounds very slightly congested, but her blood work looks okay. She's not dehydrated but definitely has a fever. I am suspecting it's viral, probably respiratory. I'm going to do a swab to be sure. I'll be back once we get those results. A nurse will take you for the x-rays in a few minutes," she said before quickly leaving the room.

Ilya took Nadia for the x-rays, while Shane went to find a vending machine. They needed some sugar, stat.

They met back up not long after; both sat on the bed. Shane drank his ginger ale, and Ilya had a coke while they waited for Dr. Riddell to return.

When she did, she confirmed her suspicions of a respiratory virus; though her lungs looked okay, she recommended they be admitted for the night for monitoring.

"We see this kind of flu a lot in babies, especially if they have siblings who go to school and bring back all kinds of germs; even just going to the pediatrician, she could've gotten exposed. I don't feel we need to do any fever management yet; I'd like to observe her and offer supportive care, lots of fluids, and monitoring for the next few hours. We will move you to the pediatric unit."

The rest of the night and next day were spent in a room of the peds department; Shane and Ilya took turns sleeping, trying to stave off total exhaustion and the crankiness that would inevitably follow if they didn't get some rest.

The last thing they wanted was to get snippy with one another in an already tough situation.

They drank more coffee and had a few snacks from the vending machine because they couldn't be bothered with any real food.

They called Yuna and David to update them and ask if they could go stop in at the house to feed and let out Anya.

Nurses came at regular intervals to check Nadia's vitals and fever.

It was close to six pm. when a different pediatric doctor, this time a man named Dr. Samuels who was wearing black scrubs with a shark scrub cap on, came to speak with them.

"So her temperature has not increased, fluid levels, and breathing are good. We're going to send you home and keep focus on supportive care. Offer her formula as usual, and be wary of signs of dehydration. If you have a humidifier, I recommend setting that up near her crib to help her with any congestion, as well as using a nasal bulb to help clear away any mucus. If anything changes or her fever worsens, bring her back in. Do you have any questions for me?"

Shane and Ilya, in fact, had many questions, all of which the doctor answered with all the patience of a saint who'd done this with first-time parents a hundred times before.

By the time they were home, all three of them were in desperate need of a very long, uninterrupted sleep.

"Shane I am starving. Baby is starving. Order pizza," Ilya all but whined from his spot on the couch.

Nadia was squirming impatiently in his arms; Shane was in the kitchen, preparing her bottle.

"What do you want on it?" he asked, coming around the couch to pass Ilya the bottle.

Ilya sat up, cradling Nadia in his lap, and he offered her the bottle, which she took instantly.

"Hmm…" he hummed thoughtfully, watching her drink. "Sausage and mushroom and pepperoni and bacon," he said, almost dreamily.

"So, meat lovers then," Shane laughed, pulling out his phone, "pizza-pizza, okay?"

Ilya hummed in agreement, and Shane put the order in on the app before sitting down on the couch; he let out a tired sigh.

"I feel gross," he muttered.

"Go take a shower; I will finish feeding her and wait for pizza," Ilya instructed, nodding towards the stairs.

"Okay, thank you," Shane said, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Ilya's cheek before heading upstairs.

By the time he was showered and changed, Ilya was laid up on the couch with Nadia against his chest, a slice of pizza in hand, the box propped open on the coffee table. Anya was lying on the carpet, eyes fixed on the box.

"Here, give her to me; go wash up," Shane said, reaching for Nadia and sitting down with her in his arms.

Ilya didn't protest; slice in hand, he headed upstairs.

Once they were both clean and fed, they put away the leftovers and headed straight upstairs.

Ilya gave Nadia her bath while Shane did a load of laundry, let Anya out and prepped the bottles for the night.

By the time he was done and back upstairs, Ilya was already in the bedroom, standing there in just a pair of sweats, his curls still a bit damp from earlier.

Nadia was in his arms, wrapped up in her little yellow towel and cooing softly as Ilya spoke to her.

Shane was so overwhelmed with love in that moment it felt like his heart was squeezing in his chest. Ilya looked up and gave him a lopsided smile before moving to lay Nadia on the bed.

He'd already set out her lotion and pyjamas before the bath, a little white onesie with purple and pink flowers.

Shane went ahead and set up her bassinet and the humidifier beside their bed, along with the thermometer, nasal bulb, wipes, and a few other things he thought they might need in the night.

"Мой ангел, посмотри, какой ты милый в пижаме," Ilya cooed as he finished dressing her.

He pulled her into his arms and lay back against the headboard. Shane shut off the bedside lamp, switching on the nightlight instead, before climbing in beside Ilya. Anya jumped up and laid on the end of the bed.

They tucked Nadia between them and just sat there in the quiet dark space of their room, taking a deep, collective breath after what felt like the longest day of their lives.

"Today was hard," Ilya said softly after a few minutes.

"Yes, it was," Shane agreed, reaching out to wrap his hand around one of Ilya's.

"I am glad I am doing this with you. There is no one else I would rather it be," Ilya said then, squeezing Shane's hand back in return.

Soon after, Nadia was tucked safely in her bassinet, Shane and Ilya wrapped in each other's arms.

All three of them, deeply, peacefully, asleep.

The night air was heavy and damp in late summer and the cries of cicadas echoed in through the open shoji.

A dim orange glow from the lanterns cast shadows along the walls, while the scent of incense and musk hung in the air, thick and sweet.

The heat of your body was a sharp contrast against the cool silk of the futon and sheets; the sake dripped warm against your skin as rivulets slid down to the divot between your breasts.

The first rays of early-morning sun spilled into the room; through the cracked window you could hear birds chirping and smell the spring air. Kento was sitting on the couch, and you were curled up at his side.

He was deeply engrossed in a novel, coffee mug in hand, while your own sat steaming and abandoned on the low table in front of the couch.

"Baby, your coffee is getting cold," he murmured, watching the steam slowly dissipate from the mug.

You groaned softly in response, pulling the blanket up to your chin, having fallen back into the warm liminal space between waking and sleeping.

It was the weekend, but Kento had still gotten up at his usual time to go about his morning routine, and that had left the bed too cold and empty for your liking.

Naturally, you had to follow him downstairs, even though you weren't quite ready to wake up, which meant he was already dressed for the day, wide awake and rested, while you were still in your robe with heavy eyes and unruly hair.

"Should I carry you back to bed?" he offered, setting his coffee down and rubbing your back gently with his now free hand.

You mumbled out a response, something along the lines of:

"Mhmmm… 'm comfy here..."

"If you say so," he smirked, wrapping his arm tight around you; he shifted his attention back to his book while you drifted off to sleep.

When you woke again, Kento was almost halfway through said book, and you had been drooling onto his shirt, though he didn't seem to care. Wiping your mouth, you rolled over and sat up with a yawn.

"Welcome back," he said, reaching out to brush some hair away from your face.

Your eyes were squinted shut against the brightness of the mid-morning sun, your lips and cheeks slightly puffy with sleep, and two deep lines leftover from leaning against the seams of his clothes marked one cheek, but still he looked at you with an expression that was somewhere between total adoration and slight amusement.

"What time is it?" you murmured, noting how you felt much more rested than before. Kento glanced at his watch.

"Ten thirty."

"Mhmm…" you hummed, rubbing your eyes absently.

Despite your best efforts, waking during the single-digit hours just didn't suit you. You then remembered your coffee, and, reaching over, you touched the side of the mug to find it had indeed gone cold.

Before you could say anything, Kento was already setting his book aside and taking up your mug in hand.

"Don't worry, I will get you a fresh cup and a snack," he said, patting your leg before getting up and making his way out to the kitchen.

You nodded, settling into the couch with your blanket; you couldn't help but smile a little. Early mornings may not be your thing, but Kento made them just a bit better.