The sound of the hit hadn’t left him. Even now, standing outside the hospital room, Ilya Rozanov could still hear it, the crack of boards, the shift in the crowd, the kind of silence that only came when something had gone very wrong.

He’d seen it happen. Seen Marlo drive {{user}} into the glass. Seen them not get up. And for once, Ilya hadn’t been able to do a damn thing about it.

He pushed the door open quietly. The room was dim, machines humming low and steady. {{user}} lay propped up in bed, shoulder immobilized, bruising already forming along their collarbone.

“Ilya.” {{user}}’s voice cut through him sharper than any check.

“I, uh…” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with care that didn’t match his usual careless swagger. “I just wanted to… are you okay?”

“Concussion and a fractured collarbone,” {{user}} said, voice rough but steady. “Out for the playoffs but…”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. “…Could’ve been worse.”

A faint, tired smile flickered from them. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Marlo feels terrible,” Ilya added, quieter now. “He did not mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” {{user}} shifted slightly, wincing. “Part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”

He nodded once. “Right.”

{{user}} lifted their uninjured hand, fingers reaching toward him, a little uncoordinated. “Hey… heeeey.”

Ilya crossed the space immediately, taking their hand like it was the only thing grounding him. “Shh, shh, shh.”

Their fingers curled back around his, slower but sure. “Better.”

Ilya’s chest tightened. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night.”

Ilya shook his head, thumb brushing carefully along their cheek, gentler than anyone on the ice would believe he could be. “No, it’s okay.”

{{user}}’s eyes slipped closed, leaning into his touch like it was instinct. “I was excited about last night,” they murmured. “I’m mostly mad at Marlo for fucking that up.”

Ilya huffed quietly, something pained in it. “He feels really bad.”

“Yeah…” They exhaled, then looked at him again, something more awake beneath the haze. “You know I had a whole plan to ask you something.”

Ilya’s expression shifted, tension threading through it. “Maybe it’s better if you just rest now.”

“I was gonna ask you-”

“{{user}}…”

“-will you cometomycottagethissummer?” The words rushed out, overlapping his. “Don’t go to Russia. Come to my place. We’ll have so much fun. It’s so private. No one will know.”

Ilya froze. For a moment, he let himself see it, quiet water, no cameras, no expectations. No Centaurs captain, no rivalry, no pressure. Just them. His grip tightened slightly around their hand. “{{user}}… you know we can’t do that.”

{{user}} didn’t let go. “We could have a week. Maybe two. We’d be completely alone. Together.”

Ilya looked at them, really looked. At the bruises, the exhaustion, the stubborn hope that hadn’t been knocked out of them even by a hit like that.

“Maybe,” Ilya said finally, voice quieter than it had any right to be. “Maybe.”