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Ilya knew it should scare him more. It had terrified him, the first few times he caught his thoughts slipping in that direction. Now it was a fact of life, the thoughts that came when the high of hockey faded, especially now that he could no longer distract himself with a quick fuck, or a fast car, or some combination of the two. His brain would drop into a strange, simmering mood, and he would think about killing himself.
There was no real intent. It was idle, dispassionate. He would never. He thought… at least, he thought he would never. He had never taken real steps, made concrete plans, never hurt himself. It would be silly. What would be the reason? He was rich, famous, hot, talented, envied and admired. It would be ridiculous. A waste.
Ilya shifted on the deck chair at the cabin where he had been sitting for the past three hours, give or take. The sun was still high on the horizon even though it was creeping late in the day. He should probably be getting hungry. Shane had brought him a sandwich and nagged him about sunscreen, at some point, but they would need to eat dinner soon. He wished he did feel hungry. That he had opinions on what they ate for dinner. He wished he could feel anything other than bone-deep exhaustion.
He had first opened up to Shane about his mother’s suicide only a few feet from where he was currently sitting. It helped, talking about her, even though it ached. He thought about her, of course, when one of these moods came.
Finding his mother would always be the worst moment of his life. For years as a child, he had struggled to understand how she could do that to herself. How she could do that to him. As he grew into his teens and twenties, and the thoughts began to crawl their way around the tower of his mind like choking vines, he thought he had begun to understand.
It was not that his mother had not loved him. Of course she had. But there had been a voice in her head telling her how much easier and simpler it would be to end it all, and a voice telling her that her children would miss her but they would be better off in the end without her.
Her death had torn a hole in his life, and he knew he was not better off without her. Maybe that hole in his life was the opening that allowed these thoughts to creep into his head. These things, after all, were often genetic.
It was a perverse truth, that he had never understood his mother until he had begun to experience these urges for himself. He understood both perspectives now: her death was a black hole he would never understand, that had brought nothing but pain and suffering and remained incomprehensible even so many years later. But at the same time, he knew why. He felt why. He heard the same voice.
It had also taken him a long time to understand how alone his mother had been. His father had been totally uninterested in her beyond her reproductive and political capacity as a token on his arm. Her children had been a light, but she could not lean on them for support. Had she had any genuine friends? He could not remember any. He could not remember her relaxed and carefree. He could not remember her having any hobbies. She had lived in a beautiful cage, and he had been so young.
He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of Shane starting to rattle around in the kitchen, probably pulling random things out of the cupboards and staring at them. Shane was a competent cook for straightforward, scrupulously healthy recipes with lots of nutrition and no flavor. It was extremely boring, and perfectly him.
Shane did make him feel better. Always. Kissing him, holding him, teasing him, fucking him. He knew now that he would never tire of him.
He thought sometimes of sharing these thoughts with Shane, to see if it would help like talking about his mother had helped, even if it ached. But what would he say? I have everything I could ever want and I love you, but sometimes I can’t stop thinking about killing myself? No. I wonder sometimes if there is something rotten deep inside me that I will never be able to fix? Definitely not. Or, worst of all: I’m lonely. I think, at my core, I have always been lonely. Absolutely the fuck not. He was Ilya fucking Rozanov, not a fourteen-year-old writing in a journal. He would get through it, and then he would come back to Shane, and Shane would stop worrying about him, and there would be no need to discuss it at all.
Ilya sat up and stared at the lake. Golden hour sun rays dappled the water, and there was a loon calling in the distance. The water looked cool and deep and inviting. It really was beautiful here, peaceful and alive with the breeze and the birds. He wished he could look at the lake without thinking about swimming out into the depths and allowing himself to sink. It would be gentle. Easy. Or maybe not. Drowning was not the quickest way to go. Probably it would hurt, and be terrifying, and he would regret it as soon as he drew water into his lungs. But it sounded calm. Peaceful as the lake itself.
A flash of Shane’s devastated face danced before his eyes and he physically flinched. Shane. He could never do that to him, never ever. Shane kept his emotions close to his chest, and even after all these years there were many things that they could not find the words to discuss with each other. But he knew to his core that Shane would never, ever get over it if he hurt himself.
He didn’t think that Shane would follow him. At the very least, his parents would be there to make sure that he didn’t. But he would blame himself, and allow his life to shrink down to the little that he thought he deserved. He could imagine an older, sadder Shane in that timeline having thrown himself wholly into hockey as a player, then as a coach. A Shane who kept nothing for himself and came home to an empty home at the end of the day, for the rest of his life. His heart clenched at that image.
He hated to admit that he was weak enough that he needed the thought of hurting Shane to prevent him from… well. But it was true. Maybe it was a good thing. Not that he would ever tell Shane. It wouldn’t just worry him, it would terrify him. He would probably start watching Ilya like a hawk around the kitchen knives and around the lake, which would be annoying as fuck and wholly unnecessary. No. This was Ilya’s burden to bear.
As if on cue, Shane padded out onto the dock to stand next to Ilya’s chair, his brows furrowed. He was already wearing an apron, fastidious as ever. Cute. “What do you want for dinner?” Shane asked. “I can’t decide.”
Ilya’s lips twitched, in spite of himself. “I will eat whatever boring meal you want to make, Hollander.”
As weak as that chirp had been, Ilya hated that Shane looked relieved to receive it. “Fuck off, Rozanov,” he said, that old refrain. Shane bit his lip. “Come help?”
Ilya hated that Shane looked nervous. He knew that Shane worried about him. He knew, he knew, and yet here he was, unable to lift himself out of this… mood.
Ilya simply nodded. He tried a lazy grin, but his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t think of another chirp.
Shane nodded back at him, eyes still worried even as he flashed a smile in return and turned to walk back to the kitchen.
Ilya sighed, turning away from the tempting depths of the lake. He would go tease Shane until he inevitably decided on a protein with roasted vegetables and brown rice, as he did every single time. He would try to heckle Shane into adding butter and lemon and spices, or, you know, flavor.
It would be fine. He would muscle through, as he always had. The thoughts would subside as they always did, and he would be fine.
He looked to the sky, blew a quick kiss to his mother, wherever she was, and picked up his aching body to bring himself inside.