Chapter Text
When Ilya gets bad again, it happens slowly. Sleeping more, eating less, dreaming of his Mama, but only a little.
Except eventually, a little is not so little.
“Ilyusha.” Shane uses diminutives sometimes now, when he is feeling very tender or when he wants to get his way. Sveta taught him this because apparently hearing Shane say Ilya’s ‘full government name’ was ‘very sad and off-putting.’ Shane’s not so comfortable with them yet, but he’s trying. He says each one like he’s holding Ilya’s heart in his hands. This is not so far from the truth. “Do you think it might be a good time to adjust your Prozac dosage?”
He says this like a question. It is not a question.
Six days after Ilya’s psychiatrist increases his dosage of antidepressants, two things happen. The first is Ilya starts to feel worse. Sick-worse. Sad-worse. Just worse.
He has been having scary thoughts. But as long as they stay just thoughts he is in control. He can handle it.
The second is that Shane lets Anya sleep in bed. This is a very special thing. Probably it means Shane can tell what is going on in Ilya's head. That he is very anxious and thinks Ilya is bad enough to need coddling. He has been soft with Ilya all week. Ilya is…trying to be good about it. He does not want to push his husband away.
But Ilya has spent most of his life taking care of himself. So.
Anya seems to sense Ilya’s mood too. She budges her wet nose into Ilya’s neck until he resumes petting. Her fur is soft against his bare skin.
Next to them, Shane snores, curled around his pillow.
For the first time maybe ever, Ilya understands his Mama. The realization creeps up his spine at a snail’s pace, viscous and sticky. He used to have so many questions about why she left. He used to blame his Papa. He used to blame her.
But now Ilya understands. One day she knew how to fight and the next day she did not.
Simple.
Ilya does not want to kill himself. But if he wasn’t here anymore, maybe that would not be so bad.
Just thoughts, Ilya reminds himself. His husband is here. Anya is here. Her tail thumps over and over. I am in control.
Ilya’s skin feels strange and too-small. Probably a side effect of the med adjustment, like the lingering headache and the exhaustion. He is so tired and his stupid brain will not let him rest. Though that part is not new.
Sleep has been elusive for weeks. It comes in fits and starts. Ilya has become close personal friends with the hours between one and four in the morning. Phone games sometimes help but Shane hates the light, so Ilya tries not to play them unless he is desperate.
Tonight he is very desperate.
“Ilya,” Shane rubs his eyes. “You okay?”
“Mm, yes. Just can’t sleep.”
Shane tries to reach for Ilya but finds Anya instead. He tangles his fingers in Anya’s fur and wakes up in increments. Ilya watches it happen. Shane wonders why Anya is in bed, then remembers why Anya is in bed, then stares at Ilya like he's something to be afraid of. He sits up looking much more awake.
“Shane,” Ilya tries to inject some humor into his voice, but it does not work. He sounds sad. Ilya is so fucking sick of being sad. “It is very early. Insomnia is not an emergency. Go back to sleep.”
“Insomnia,” Shane repeats. “That from my Dad?”
“It is from the cookies.” They are good cookies. Hazy always has them delivered at team parties. Shane likes them too much and he gets cranky if Ilya tries to bring any home.
Shane pets Anya’s head with his thumb and studies Ilya. He clearly does not like what he finds. The crease between Shane’s eyebrows gets deeper. “What are you thinking?”
Everything Ilya is thinking will upset Shane. He is thinking of his Mama. He is thinking that he is scared to be awake, and scared to be asleep, and maybe, a little bit, resentful that he loves Shane so much, because it means he has to keep fighting.
“I am thinking - I wish I was not awake.” Ilya wishes he could lie. But they both agreed not to do that anymore. “Also that it is cold in here and you steal all the blankets.”
“We agreed to keep the thermostat at 19,” Shane huffs. “Don’t be a baby.”
This is an old argument. Except usually it is the other way around. Ilya gets too warm at night and always wants the air conditioning at full blast. “Wait.” Shane’s brain catches up. “You’re cold?”
Ilya frowns. “Do not say it.”
“Russians are never cold. You are a weak Canadian man.” Shane puts on a thick, offensively bad accent.
“Very embarrassing, I know you can do better.”
Fine, Ilya is cold. Canada has made him weak. Whatever. Ilya tugs some of the blanket from Shane.
“Oh,” Shane cocks his head, seeming to realize something. “Wait, you’re not joking?” He puts a hand on Ilya’s cheek. Then presses the back of his hand against Ilya’s forehead.
“I am cold, not sick.”
"Yeah, sure," Shane hums. “You always say that.”
“I feel fine.” Ilya does not feel fine.
“You’re feverish.”
“I think it is new meds.” Ilya shrugs. “Will go away soon.”
“I don’t think so. This isn’t a normal side effect.” Shane squints at his phone, tapping a few times. Ah, of course. The spreadsheet. Shane keeps a list of all Ilya’s medication doses and potential side effects and who knows what else.
“Oh, you are a doctor now?”
Shane is not listening to him. He taps his phone a few more times. “Does your throat hurt?”
Ilya groans. “Why does it matter.”
“Answer the question, asshole.”
“Yes. A little. Is fine, Shane.”
“What about your head? Any muscle aches?”
Shane is always very gentle about Ilya’s depression. He is less gentle with this, which Ilya appreciates.
“Sleep will help.”
“You know what else will help? Flu medicine. Because you probably have the flu.”
“You are dramatic.”
“Do a poll. See how many people think I’m the dramatic one.”
“Yes, you are good actor. Have everyone convinced that you are so perfect and polite.” Ilya closes his eyes. “Yuna and David will agree with me.”
“Stop weaponizing my parents,” Shane squeezes Ilya’s knee over the blanket. “They can’t say no to you.”
“Because I am their favorite.” Ilya knows this is what he is supposed to say. He knows Shane is joking. But his brain is very loud. My parents, he hears, not yours.
“Yeah,” Shane’s voice gets very soft. “You kinda are.” He taps on Ilya’s cheek. “Don’t fall asleep yet, I want to get your temp.”
“Bossy.” Ilya is approaching his caretaking limit. He has let this happen for days. Weeks. And it doesn’t matter that Shane is taking care of a different kind of sick. It is still too much.
Shane is very smug when it turns out Ilya does have a fever. "38.9," Shane says, but it sounds like 'I told you so.' Ilya rolls his eyes but it only makes his head throb.
“You must feel awful,” Shane says, crawling back into bed after feeding Ilya fever reducers and turning up the heat. He feels Ilya’s forehead again then tucks the blankets around his shoulders.
“You’ll get sick.” Ilya protests, when Shane pulls him close and tucks an arm over Ilya’s chest.
“Shut up.”
“Like I said,” Ilya closes his eyes, relieved sleep is around the corner. “Bossy.”
Ilya wakes, disoriented, with battery acid pooling under his tongue. He snaps upright and almost bangs his head on Shane’s nose.
“Hey,” Shane must have been awake already. “You’re okay.”
Ilya feels shaky. His stomach churns.
“Was it a bad dream?” Shane squeezes his neck. “Fuck, you’re warm.”
Ilya’s eyes dart around the room. It is still dark. Anya whines at the bottom of the bed.
Something is bad. Something is…
Ilya leans over the side of the bed and throws up.
Ah. That is what is wrong.
It is not cute. Actually it is very gross and he gags over and over again until he is gasping and his whole body is covered in cold sweat and goose pimples.
“Jesus Christ," Shane says, but not like he is mad, like he is scared.
The last time Ilya threw up in bed, he was 12 years old and Mama had only been gone a few months. Alexei heard. Ilya thought he would get mad and yell but he didn’t, he cleaned the mess off Ilya’s floor without saying a word. He wiped Ilya’s face with a damp cloth.
It is a nice memory. Ilya tucks it away gently, like glass in tissue paper. Thinking about Alexei always brings a rat-king tangle of emotions. He does not want to bring Alexei into their bed. He does not want to think about Alexei at all.
“ -alright?” Shane must have been saying something. Ilya comes back to himself, still trembling at the edge of the bed. Shane guides him back onto the pillows. He blinks a few times and tries to focus. His chest is heaving. His eyes are hot and swollen in their sockets. Why can’t he…
Shane moves to get out of bed and Ilya panics. He grabs Shane’s wrist.
He doesn’t know why, but he knows Shane needs to stay right here.
“I’m just going to clean up.” Shane looks equally confused at what is happening.
“No.”
“Ilya,” Shane is using his gentle voice. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
Ilya’s heart is loud in his ears. Anya starts to whine, trying to lick at his hands. Shane pushes her aside.
“Hey,” Shane presses his fingers to Ilya’s neck, taking his pulse. “Do you feel sick again? Dizzy?”
Ilya shakes his head and grasps Shane’s wrist tighter.
“Just take a deep breath,” Shane pries Ilya’s fingers off his wrist and places Ilya’s hand on his chest instead. He takes a big, exaggerated breath. Ilya copies him. They do that a few times. He keeps his fingers to Ilya’s pulse the whole time.
Bile stings the roof of Ilya’s mouth and the back of his nose.
“Fuck,” Ilya wants to spit, but he figures Shane is grossed out enough, so he let’s the acid linger under his tongue. Is this how Mama felt when she swallowed her bottle of pills? Maybe he should fantasize about something quicker. “Maybe overdose would not be worth it.”
Shane makes a noise like he’s been hit.
Ilya…did not mean to say that out loud. “I mean –”
“Ilya,” Shane’s voice cracks. He looks very not okay. Fuck.
“I –” His brain is foggy. English is taking longer than it should. He needs to make this better. Fuck. Fuck.
“It’s okay,” Shane’s eyes are still wide and haunted. “We will, um, come back to that.”
“Was a joke.” Ilya pleads. Why did he say this? He did not even mean it. A fantasy only. Something to hold on to, like a teddy bear. Not real.
“I don’t think – “ Shane takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. “We’ll come back to it. What do you need right now?”
“Nothing.” Ilya hates himself, a little bit. Maybe more than a little bit. He drops his hand from Shane’s chest. “You can go.”
Shane reels back like he’s been slapped.
“To get cleaning things.” Ilya follows quickly.
“Oh.” It’s clear Shane doesn’t want to, now. Or doesn’t think he should. “Here,” Shane hands Ilya water from his bedside. Ilya takes small sips. They both stare at each other. “Okay,” Shane says, like he is convincing himself. “You’re good if I…?”
“Yes, will not die, promise.”
“Not funny.” Shane hesitantly gets out of bed, like Ilya might change his mind. “I’ll be quick.”
“Always, for me.” Not Ilya’s best work, but it brings a wan smile to Shane’s face anyway.
“Asshole.”
Shane shoos Anya out of the room, gets supplies, and makes quick work of sanitizing the floor, giving Ilya a withering look when he offers to help. He manhandles Ilya out of his sweat-drenched top and into one of Shane’s oldest, softest sweatshirts. He pushes a thermometer in Ilya’s mouth and frowns at the blinking result.
Ilya has not been sick around Shane before except small colds. Shane does not love germs and Ilya does not love being babied, so. It works out. Usually, Shane makes Ilya tea and frowns at him for using a sleeve instead of a tissue.
This is different.
Ilya sweats and shivers and Shane becomes militant about tracking his fever and feeding him liquids. By the time the sun rises, both of them are exhausted. Ilya feels like he is dying. You can, his brain reminds him, if you want to.
He does not want to. He does not.
“I’m going to text Wiebe," Shane says, already tapping at his phone. “Call us out of practice.”
“You should go.”
“Ilya.” Shane is not amused. Very cute, very angry face.
“I will be fine!”
“We’ve been up since three.” Shane scrubs his face. “I’m not in any shape to be skating. And I don’t want to spread…” Shane’s nose scrunches. “Whatever this is.”
“Are you feeling sick?” Adrenaline shoots through Ilya. He sits up and reaches for Shane’s face.
“Relax.” Shane intercepts Ilya’s hand and squeezes. “I’m fine.”
“But you said.”
“Yeah, because I’m probably an incubator.” Shane’s hands are gentle and cool on Ilya’s wrist. “It’s an optional practice, I think the team will live.”
“Where is my husband? You know him? Very serious. Very sexy. Once made his whole team come to an optional practice sick as dogs.”
“They were not sick, they were hungover,” Shane sniffs.
“Poor Hayden Pike, he texts me, please Ilya, you must help us, Shane Hollander is terrorist, we will not survive.”
“He did not.”
“He did!”
The text actually had read: i don’t care if we hate each other, please do something about jane.
And when Ilya sent a shrug emoji, Pike texted again: i will buy my kids tiny centaurs jerseys if you make him stop.
Then Pike sent 5 SOS texts in a row. Ilya laughed so hard he snorted Coke out of his nose but eventually did text Shane that there was an ‘emergency.’ When Shane called, panicked and breathless, Ilya said he couldn’t find the can opener. Shane called him a piece of shit and hung up, but apparently it worked because Pike finally texted back:
what did you say to him dude
i mean thanks i guess
he’s still super mad but he’s leaving us alone
now he’s practicing your stupid move over and over
and not in a good way
shit i don't want to think about the good way
if you make a joke i WILL throw up again
i lied about the jerseys btw
“Wiebe says to feel better and that if either of us comes within 100 feet of the rink, he’s calling my mom.” Shane scrunches up his cute little nose. “He’s calling my mom? What are we, ten?”
“Wiebe is very smart.” Ilya shudders, thinking of Yuna, stern and disappointed. “He knows this is a threat.”
“I’m telling her you said that,” Shane locks his phone and puts it on the bedside table.
Ilya is starting to feel fuzzy and strange again. The meds Shane forced down his throat a few hours ago are wearing off. It takes him longer than it should to notice that Shane has his Serious and Concerned face on.
Ilya loves every Shane face but this one is not his favorite.
“Maybe we save big, serious talk for later?”
Shane sighs like he is exhaling a ghost. “I keep saving it for later.”
“I know.” Ilya stares at Shane’s nail beds, which are swollen and scabbed, like little mountain ranges. It is Ilya’s fault.
“So.” Shane starts. “You kind of. Said you were thinking about. Uhm. Overdosing.”
Ilya tenses. His shoulders come up to his ears. Shane does not need to say it.
“You scared me.” Shane takes a shuddery breath. “Not just before but – the past few weeks. You’ve been…god, Ilya. You’ve been so far away.”
“Yes, brain has not been so good.”
“I know. Fuck, I know. And I wish I could fix it.”
Ilya wishes this too.
“Do we need to make a new safety plan?” Shane asks.
“Hollander, no.” The current safety plan Galina forced them to make is laminated and tucked into a drawer next to the fridge. Every time Ilya thinks about it, shame invades his chest and sets like concrete.
“Are you sure? Because you don’t use it.”
“I would, if I had to.” Ilya is not that desperate yet.
“Okay, but it’s not only for emergencies.”
“Yes, I know.” Ilya ignores the pounding behind his eyes and breathes.
“Like if you feel really sad, or if you’re having a lot of intrusive thoughts, there are those DBT coping skills.”
“I know, Shane.”
“And we don’t have to use big things like the safety calls or even the environment changes,” Ilya grits his teeth. The environment change means removing pills from the house and limiting access to alcohol and sharp objects. Is not necessary.
The safety calls are worse. If Ilya is scared enough to need this, he will drive himself to the hospital. He is not going to call Sveta or Shane’s parents to make the decision for him.
“You would tell me, right?" Shane is so earnest. Ilya can barely stand it. "If you ever felt like you were in danger?”
Ilya hesitates for a moment. Just one moment. But it is too long.
“Ilyusha.” Shane grabs Ilya’s chin and forces him to look up. “Ilyushenka.”
He is going to kill Sveta. Hearing his name like that, in Shane’s voice, soft and tender - it is horrible. It is everything he has ever wanted and it hurts like a stick to the face.
“You have to tell me. If you’re thinking about hurting yourself, you have to tell me.”
“No,” Dread clogs Ilya’s throat, bitter and thick. “I mean, yes, I will tell you. But I will not leave you. Ever.”
“It’s not your fault, if you, well, if you ever do want that.” Shane continues. He sounds like he is reading from a script. Ilya pictures Shane hunched over his computer, trying to find the perfect words to use. It breaks Ilya’s heart. “I know how hard you’re trying. And I am so, so proud of you.”
"Hollander."
“My parents keep telling me to be patient. That there’s nothing I can do except listen and be here for you.” He does not want to think about Shane and Yuna and David sitting around talking about poor Ilya, sad Ilya, broken Ilya. “But it doesn’t feel like enough. It's not enough. So I’m asking. What can I do? Please tell me what to do.”
Ilya clenches his jaw until pain shoots into his ear. Shane’s eyes are wide and wet and Ilya imagines chewing on a handful of sleeping pills and never, ever waking up.
What can Shane do? Nothing. He can do nothing and Galina can do nothing and Wiebe can do nothing and Ilya can do nothing.
“Would it have been better,” Ilya whispers, “if you never met me?”
Ilya will not forget the noise Shane makes.
“You can’t – fuck. Fuck.” Shane’s hands twitch. He places them on both sides of Ilya's neck. “You can never say that again.”
“Shane.” Ilya sounds defeated. His whole body droops.
“Listen to me.” Shane’s fingers are very cold. Ilya stares over Shane’s shoulder and waits for this to be over. “Hey. Look at me.” Ilya does. Even though it hurts. Even though he doesn’t want to. Because Shane asks. “You are the most important thing in the world to me, okay? You are my world.”
He knows he is Shane’s world. This is the problem. This is what keeps him awake at night. Because it is already too late. Shane has to deal with Ilya forever and there is nothing he can do to fix it. He cannot be done fighting, because it will kill Shane. But he cannot fight anymore, because it is killing him. So he is stuck. He is stuck, chin deep in a winter-cold ocean, gulping down air between mouthfuls of salt water, wishing he will drown because when it happens, it will not be his choice.
“There is nothing,” Ilya tries to turn away but Shane’s grip is tight. His eyes burn and he’s frustrated when the tears start to spill over. “I know you are sick of me. I am sick of me too.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Shane moves his hands down to Ilya’s shoulders and squeezes. “At all.”
“Okie.” Ilya says, the same way he always does when someone is lying right to his face.
“I need you to tell me what's going on in your head.” Shane pushes Ilya’s damp curls off his forehead. He frowns and puts the back of his fingers to Ilya’s skin.
"I don't know," Ilya feels hazy and desperate. His nose is starting to run. “I understand my Mama now and it is the worst thing I have ever known. I want it to stop. I want it to stop and there is nothing.”
“Fuck.” Shane pets Ilya’s hair again. His lips are thin and white. “I’m sorry, I should have waited. We don’t have to talk about this now.” Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“No matter what I do, is wrong. I cannot play hockey right. I cannot love you right. I cannot fix my stupid brain.” Ilya keeps a lockbox of the things he is most ashamed of, tucked deep in the dark corners of his head. On bad days, he blows the dust off the top and brings out each truth to examine like an old polaroid. Lately, he hasn’t been able to keep the box closed. It is his fault that things are out in the open, for Shane to see. “I make things worse. I make you worry. Your parents. The team.”
“Hey.”
“I don’t know how to be happy. I am not good. And now you are stuck.”
“Ilya.” Shane is crying. Ilya can barely see through his own blurry, swollen eyes, but he can hear it in Shane’s voice. “You are good. You are so good. You’re the only one who doesn’t see that.”
Ilya feels shaky and drunk, like he might tumble off the edge of the world.
“Shane,” Ilya says, gasping. “Shane.”
“I got you.” Shane pulls Ilya into his lap. Holds him and shushes him like a child. Rocks him back and forth, which makes Ilya feel more disoriented, but he doesn’t want it to stop.
Shane force-feeds Ilya more pills between sips of watered down gatorade until Ilya gets too nauseous. He slips the thermometer under Ilya’s tongue and curses when it beeps, quick and loud. He wipes Ilya’s face and neck and chest down with a cool cloth.
The whole time, Shane is so, so gentle.
Ilya loses time. He falls asleep and wakes to Shane untangling him from blankets. He hears his Mama humming somewhere nearby and he calls out to her which makes Shane very upset. Ilya just wants them to be together. He wants his Mama to see how good Shane is.
Shane’s voice gets tight and quick and he keeps putting his hands on Ilya’s face when Ilya is trying to sleep.
The world spins and spins and spins.
When Ilya opens his eyes to Yuna Hollander, he cannot even be embarrassed. Everything hurts. Even his teeth. Even his hair. He is just glad to see her.
“Love you,” he says, tongue thick and slow.
“Oh, I love you too, honey,” Yuna is very good at sounding both warm and bossy at the same time. “But you’re probably not going to like me very much in a minute.”
It takes Yuna and Shane both to help him stagger into the bathroom. They sit him down in the shower and promise the water is lukewarm even though it feels like ice. By the time Shane cranks the shower knob off and they sit him on the toilet, Ilya has found enough energy to feel mortified. Yuna is tenderly drying his hair.
He wants his Mama.
“I’m sorry.” Ilya says, eyes fixed on the floor. “You did not have to come.”
Yuna opens her mouth but Shane beats her to it. He looks pinched and grey. “Uh, yeah she did? And you’re lucky that’s all. You started talking to your mother, Ilya. I was about to call 911.”
“Okay. Fine. Yuna, you are better than the hospital.” Ilya summons half of a smile and it feels herculean. “Big honor, I know.”
“Lucky me. Do they give out awards for that?” She finishes drying Ilya’s hair and tosses the damp towel in the sink, which makes Shane cringe.
“I will have something engraved,” Ilya rests his head on the wall next to him and has to fight to stay awake.
“Alright,” Yuna claps her hands together. Ilya closes his eyes at the noise. “Ilya, your fever is down for now, but we need to keep an eye on it. If it goes over 40 degrees again, you’re going to the emergency room whether you like it or not.”
He doesn’t argue. Probably it won’t be an issue. If it is, eh. He will deal with it then.
“Shane, I think you should call Terry and ask for a house call. This seems like a pretty bad flu. Better to get you both on prescription antivirals as soon as possible.”
Yuna stays for the rest of the day. She changes their sheets, makes a gigantic pot of soup, and bullies Shane into taking a nap by snapping “I kept you alive for 30 years, I think I can keep your husband alive for a few hours.” She is terrifying. Shane is just like her. He loves them both very much.
When she finally leaves, the house feels colder. But, for the first time in a while, Ilya finally sleeps through the night.
The next morning, Ilya wakes to the sun creeping up his face. The air is warm and syrupy. Shane, who would normally be well into his daily routine, is still in bed. He kisses Ilya’s hair.
It should be nice. It is nice.
Ilya has spent a lot of time, lately, convincing himself that things feel okay.
“Good morning.”
“It’s almost noon,” Shane runs a hand up and down Ilya’s arm.
“Ah,” Ilya doesn’t know what to say. He feels trapped and twitchy, like a prey animal. “Sorry.”
“You needed the sleep.”
“Mm.” Ilya is still waking up. He has to pee, but he does not want to move. His mouth is fuzzy and rancid. He is over-warm and sweaty. He still has a fever, then. But the ache in his head and body is a low thrum compared to yesterday.
“You are still in bed.” Ilya says. Shane never stays in bed.
“Glad you didn’t fry your brain and are still capable of basic observations.” Shane quips. The words are betrayed by his relief. He seems very happy to see Ilya awake.
“You are feeling okay?” Ilya looks over Shane. But he doesn’t seem sick.
“I feel fine.” Shane tugs on one of Ilya’s curls lightly. “I, uh. Just didn’t want to leave you alone.”
“I am not that sick, Hollander.”
“First of all, yes you are. I’ve literally never seen you so sick.” Shane breathes through his nose. “And even if you weren’t, you said some stuff yesterday that made me scared. Like, to leave you alone.” Shane hesitates. “Do you remember?”
Ilya squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think. He kind of remembers. Fuck. He was never supposed to say any of that out loud.
“It was only fever.” Ilya tries, but he knows right away there’s no point. It wasn’t only the fever. And Shane pays too much attention.
“I don’t think so.” Shane brushes hair from Ilya’s forehead and rests his fingers on Ilya’s cheek, frowning, presumably at the warmth that is still there.
“I was,” Ilya waves his hand. “Not myself.”
“You’ve been taking your medication?”
“Yes.” Ilya says.
“Every day?”
“Yes, Shane. I would not lie to you.” Ilya sinks back into the pillows, shaky. His head is starting to pound again.
“Maybe we could go see Galina together?” Shane pulls Ilya closer. “When you’re feeling better.”
“Yes,” Ilya hums. “Maybe.”
He loves Shane so much that sometimes it feels too big for his body to contain.
He cannot ever let Shane come home to find Ilya cold and blank. He cannot do this.
Maybe, his traitor brain nudges, you let someone else do the finding.
No. No, Ilya won’t.
He will not let this hopelessness become bigger than their love. He will not. He will not.