Work Text:
[“Hi, Shane,”]
The first time Ilya had heard the diagnosis, cautiously pronounced by his doctor, he immediately thought about Shane; how could he do that to him? His lover. He had looked at the wall for five long minutes, fighting the urge to cry—will he remember everything?
Alzheimer, what a strange word on his tongue.
The worst part was his lack of power over his situation, the disease was smart and fast; how long will he be him? How long did Ilya have before he disappeared? Because what is Ilya without his memories than a useless body.
[“I’m writing all this, so I can remember—so you can remember me.”]
Ilya had returned home feeling like a dead man, it was the last part of his life, close the curtains, the show is over. He was sick and couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t—sooner than later, he wouldn’t be able to remember his illness.
The house was empty, Shane was… somewhere. Ilya had cried, feeling his brain fighting to not forget. Shane was so precious to Ilya, he was his everything; he had told him for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, till death us do apart, but he had never thought it would happen. In his head, life was endless because Shane always made him feel that everything was under control, that they would always be together.
But Ilya lied, he will abandon Shane, leaving him alone with nothing else but the memory of a sick man. What a coward.
[“Today is a good day, I can walk properly and I haven’t forgotten to brush my teeth. Sometimes I think about the first day you talked to me, when we were seventeen—I was so mesmerised by your freckles, I fell in love with you the moment I saw you.”]
The following days, Ilya hadn’t told Shane about the disease, it was too much to handle because Ilya had been diagnosed with depression years before and he didn’t want to be a burden for Shane—once again. But Ilya had learnt to deal with depression, Shane was accommodated, still, he was afraid that dementia will be more difficult to accept.
Ilya was forty five or almost, he had stopped playing hockey two years ago now; he was tired and everything had felt overwhelming, he was not as good as before and his treatment had changed his body. He was still Ilya Rozanov, but quieter and less athletic than during his twenties, but he was happy, because Shane was at his side.
He hated his father for everything but at this moment, he couldn’t feel closer to him; he was living the same end as his father. He apologised because it was a thing to be a jerk, but it was another, to die like that, alone and scared. Ilya had always regretted not having been there for his father’s death, because at the end of the day, he was still the man who raised him.
[“I’m sorry sweetheart, for all the things I told you, I was out of my mind, and for one second, I thought you were someone else. I hate that I can’t remember your face, and the only one I see is the one from before, when you were seventeen.”]
Ilya had looked at Shane, without a word. He had tried to retain every detail of him—all the freckles scattered across his face, the soft scar on his right cheek, the strong shape of his nose, his cupid bow lip, the light in his eyes. He was sure of himself: he will never forget the face of his soulmate, never.
Then, the light had faded and had been replaced with tears. Are you certain, or, we will find a cure; Ilya had taken Shane in his arms, telling him that everything will be okay, and that he will not be alone, even though they both knew it was a lie.
Later, Shane told him that he will stop hockey; it was fun somedays, and very exhausting the other days, but he was at a certain point in his life where hockey no longer had its place. Ilya will blame himself for the (short) rest of his life, because hockey was more than just a passion for Shane, it was his purpose.
But Shane wanted to be here for Ilya, in sickness and in health, because he was his person, the only one that ever mattered. He will still play hockey, for fun or special evenement, maybe one day, he will be a team coach, but at this moment, Ilya was his only preoccupation.
[“I saw the paper on the desk, where it said ‘hi Ilya, don’t forget to write in your journal’, and I was like: what journal? So I took the journal, and read a few pages, and yeah, this is my life, I remember. I don’t know how I feel, right now; I know that I am a totally different person than in the last few pages, but I don’t know how to deal with that feeling. I’m not dying, or, not today, but everything is so odd, like what am I doing?”]
For the first time, six months after the diagnosis, Ilya had forgotten where he lived. It was a sunny day, good for a walk, so he went outside. Ilya was not allowed to drive, so he walked for an hour, it was fine, he was familiar with his neighborhood. But at the end, Ilya had looked around him, not recognizing any of the houses, he was lost—or he thought he was.
Eight o’clock, the sun had set a long time ago, Ilya had found refuge under an old bus shelter; he was scared and cold. The illness was aggressive and way too fast, Ilya felt weak. The doctor had said, in the best case, twenty years, and in the worst? Yeah, six years, or less? Or less.
Ilya had asked how he could fight his disease, if it was his fault, maybe too many hits because of hockey. But no, they said Ilya hadn’t developed sporadic Alzheimer’s disease because the only factor for developing it is aging; so he had asked so what, I am not sick? They had looked at him with a sorrowful expression, and they had continued: he had developed a rare case of Alzheimer, the one who is hereditary. Because of his father and his family histories, he had a fifty-fifty chance of developing it, and with this specific case, the illness comes early, before the age of 65.
It was heartbroking, for him and for Shane, to know that his life had two paths and that he couldn’t avoid the wrong one. Ilya cried every single day since the diagnosis, he was miserable and so mad at himself.
On the way back—because at some point, Ilya had recognised one of his neighbours, he thought about life and the beauty of the world. And quite naturally, he thought about Shane and love, how happy and comfortable he was. Then, sadness took over his feelings; perhaps tomorrow will be the last time Ilya is in love, and oh God, Ilya will miss the feeling even in death.
That night, Shane had taken Ilya in his arms, hot tears running down his cheeks, telling him how much he was worried that something might have happened. Relief, it was the word of the night. Ilya had kissed him, on every centimeter of his skin, with such fragility and sincerity, lips trembling and eyes full of tears. They had made love, never breaking contact, whispering sweet words, then had fallen asleep, looking at each other—it was the last memory Ilya would remember fully until his death.
[“I looked everywhere for Anya today, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then, I noticed that her bed or her bowl had disappeared. So for the future Ilya, who reads these lines, and to prevent more tears; your dog is dead, years ago. I’m sorry because I can’t even remember the death of my pet, and it breaks my heart into pieces. I’m sorry Anya, for all the memories I can’t remember. I’m sorry Shane, for the grief of your dog, again and again, only because I forget. I’m sorry Ilya, for all the pain you’ve endured.”]
Two years into the illness, the medicine had done nothing to help. Ilya was a shadow of his former self; he had lost his spark, most of his energy and all his beauty. Shane had never seen him so skinny and pale, everything that had once made Ilya himself, was now gone.
It was difficult at first to accept that, to see his lover dying slowly. But it was way more difficult to be at his side, and to try to act like it wasn’t that bad.
Ilya was sad, and sometimes, he was so happy that Shane had to hide in another room because it was too much to handle; he knew deep down that it was not Ilya, his Ilya, in front of him even if he had looked like him for one moment.
[Illegible writing.]
Russia, strangely Ilya remembered it clearly; the cold and the snow, how everything was livid and somehow, beautiful. Sometimes, he could see his mother, her delicate smile and the love surrounding her. He once had blamed his mother for his depression, because it had caused so many problems in his life—with Shane but also with hockey, with himself.
Depression was still a part of his life—dealing with the feeling of loneliness, and the urge to end this soon. Ilya had tried once, to commit suicide; when Shane had to help him go to the bathroom. It was humiliating and so frustrating, Ilya could no longer take care of himself, he was a burden for his husband. He couldn’t do that to him, Shane had a life apart from him, he won’t always be able to take care of him. And Ilya was tired of needing others for such tasks like going to the bathroom; he no longer wanted to live that life.
But his pain was so intense when he had looked at the pillbox in his hand; the bright memory of his mother laying on her bed, cold and frigid. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t follow the path of his mother nor his father’s; but he was in an impasse.
[“I miss your touch and your voice, I’m dying and I can’t think about anything else but you Shane.”]
Six years is a lot, but when Ilya tried to think about the time that had passed, it seemed like a compilation of fragments of a life that he hadn’t lived.
He looked at Shane; he was older, way more than he should have been. But he was beautiful, still candid and lost in his thoughts, browns always furrowed and lips still pressed. He took his hand, Shane was asleep. Sometimes, during the sunrise, Ilya could remember his old life, or how soft it was—hockey and rivalry, love and friendship, the feeling of hiding, then the sorrow of the breakup.
He thought of Russia, and of his father, how annoyed he was about his father’s disease—he could barely remember how it felt to bury him. Maybe death would be nice, Ilya would be in peace with his parents, maybe it would be a good thing.
[The only visible words were: “Shane”, “my love”, “sorry for…I have to”, “mama”.]
Two months after the diagnosis, Ilya had told Shane that he almost regretted not having died during the crash, because that would have been a quick death. Because knowing that you’re dying is so much harder, the constant feeling of death makes it so difficult to breathe.
He had told him: I will always love you, even if I look at you, and ask you who are you. I will always love you, because I know that even if I forget about our life, I will fall in love with you again and again and again. I know that even in death, I will wait for you, because I know for more than a life, that we are, you and me, more than just two people in love; we are more than just soulmates. I will always love you because there are not enough words to express our relationship and how it feels to be loved by you.
Shane had cried all night, missing a man who was asleep by his side. He cried thinking about the fact that his parents will lose a son too, because Ilya was a son for them. He cried all his tears feeling the love of his life squeezing his body against his chest. He cried because he had no control over it, and everything will be different.
[“You told me to write today, so I’m doing it. I hate that, you look at me like I was already dead.”]
Ilya felt it, deep inside. He was tired, and his body was only skin over bones. Everything was blurry around him, he was sick of fighting. There was nobody around him, and somehow, it felt right to do it alone.
Life was a good show, with a lot of fun but too much emotion at the same time. His brain was overwhelmed with all the feelings, and like a bad joke, Ilya remembered a lot of things—the freckles and a shy smile, an awkward kiss and a starving touch.
Ilya remembered how life had changed when he saw those freckles, he had looked at it with attention and thought: one day, I will be able to kiss each single one of them.
He then thought about his father, how rude he was with him, but could he blame him? At the end of the road, no resentment was allowed.
And his mother, oh his mother, Ilya was impatient to meet her again. He was so proud of the man he had become, he wanted her to know that. And shyly, he wanted to tell her about Shane, how much he loved him, how great he was and that she will be so happy to meet him; but not now, he will tell her, not now, Shane deserves much more time before joining them.
He couldn’t breathe anymore, his lungs had given out; it was time to go. One more minute please, one more memory. Ilya begged his body, one more memory of Shane.
He thought about happy Shane, the giggles and the smiles; he thought about the kisses, his soft lips on his skin and the feeling of his hand on his body. He could remember the sound of his heartbeat when he was angry or turned on, the way his eyes glittered with lust or sadness.
Ilya could almost feel the warmth of his body, hear the sound of his voice resonating through his body—he wished he was there. But it was for the best, Shane was at his parent’s house, he needed some space, it was okay, only for a couple of hours.
Ilya had chosen his moment to leave, he couldn’t confront the pain on Shane’s expression. He looked at the ceiling with hot tears rolling down his face; his body had already stopped moving, all he had left was his mind.
It’s okay, death is not that scary, it’s just a very long nap. He closed his eyes, he had stopped breathing and everything will be fine.
He missed Shane, he was so excited to meet him again.
[“I know you are not reading this because you want to wait until my death, so I’m going to say it now, before I forget. I love you Shane, and when I’ll close my eyes for the last time, please don’t be sad for too long, I hate to know that I’m making you cry. I want you to live your life, and don’t worry, I know you won’t forget me; and I won’t. I’m so grateful for everything Shane, you can’t even imagine how much I’m glad that our paths crossed. Please, continue to play hockey, even if it’s just for the love of the game—please play it as if I were behind you, looking at your back with a large smile. I love the way you are Shane, I love everything about you, and I especially love how much you love me and how much you show it to the world. I love your awkwardness and your naivety sometimes, I love that you have learned Russian for me, and that you’re still so patient with me. But I’m sorry, I haven’t always been easy to talk to, yet, I think I told you everything about me, every single detail of my life; but when you would miss me, I filled several journals with my thoughts and memories.
I love you Shane, more than my life. Please continue to be as perfect as you are, I will wait for you, but take your damn time please.
I love you. I will never stop loving you.”]