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Ilya didn’t know if he believed it when his mom introduced him to her faith.
The idea of a Heaven seemed a far stretch—if it existed, sat like another country atop the clouds, then why had no one found it? A shining golden gate that was protected by angels with halos made from the blaze of the sun wrapped around their heads that illuminated the love in their eyes. A God above it all that was somehow able to contain every soul into one perfect, painless part of the universe.
He didn’t believe it, but he did believe in what he could feel, and what he could see.
A large, echoing building of worship that shadowed the kaleidoscope of colors from its stained-glass windows onto his mother’s face, sometimes covered in a grin, sometimes covered in tears, sometimes covered by her hands, the tips of her fingers pointed up towards the sky.
He could feel how strong her prayers were. How much she wanted these asks from God. They weren’t useless, small things, like requesting God to take a headache away. They were pleads that were so desperate they made her hands turn pale and caused her shoulders to tremble.
Ilya would place his small palm against her back, a question without its words, and she would say she was okay, that it was good.
“Good?” It didn’t seem as she said, it looked . . . painful. Painful to whisper the truths she did under her breath, painful to say amen and trust a God she’d never met with all her secrets.
“He always hears me. Even if He doesn’t answer. And He will listen to you, too, my Ilya. Always.”
Ilya mirrored her, and bowed his head with his fingers straight to the mural painted across the ceiling. Cherubs with curly hair and small, new wings, clouds amongst a baby blue, and at the center of it all, God rested on top of a cloud himself, with his followers reaching out to him with open arms.
Maybe it didn’t matter what he gave them. And instead, what he could. More than. More than they’d ever had. Someone to put their trust into, someone to let cradle their hopes and dreams and fears, and at the end of the day, know that he was there to hear anything else they wanted to rest in his heart.
Ilya prayed. Dear God, it started. Please hear my mama. She loves you very much. And for me, I don’t know what I want. So that. Help me know what I want. Mama says you guide her, and all of her choices. The priest says you are always with him, inside of his heart. I want to find you when I’m lost. Amen.
Ilya allowed for his world to expand. When his mom prayed, he did, too. When she came to church, there he was. Mama followed God, Ilya followed his Mama, and through her faith, his started to shine through.
It’s a good night. One that he and his team worked relentlessly for throughout the whole game, never wavering. Now that it was won, now that they were celebrating, it was a good night.
Shane was walking happily with him down the street, holding both his hand and his arm, cuddled close with the harsh cold. It wouldn’t stop them from finding a bar, though, and celebrating some more with proper drinks and hope in front of them for the next game.
“Cold,” Shane stated, to get Ilya’s arms more securely around him. Ilya listened to the question unspoken: hold me. Ilya made vows, after all—to have and to hold—and he didn’t intend to ever break them.
“We’re almost there. I think. Wyatt can not use Google Maps.”
Shane chuckles, his breath coming out a fog. “Thinks he doesn’t need it ‘cause he has a ‘good memory.’”
“Yes, and now my husband is freezing.” Ilya kisses his temple to warm him up, quickening his pace to catch up to their lost team.
“Do you, uh—do you wanna go home?”
It shouldn’t feel so sudden. Ilya’s been . . . tired? Not depressed, he doesn’t want to call it that. That would start a whole thing. Upped doses, longer talks with Galina, with Shane, and thinking. About why he’s depressed, where it’s coming from this time, how the hell to get through it once more, and again, eventually.
“I’m okay,” he answers. Shane’s attentive about it in his silent way. He won’t accuse Ilya about anything, not unless he’s showing some alarming signs that they had to talk about to watch for. Staying in bed the whole day, not eating, quieter, less energy, staring off into space.
Shane didn’t mention he was looking, but Ilya knew he was. It was comforting, knowing that if Ilya did backslide, Shane was already there to catch him, but it was frustrating, too. The first show of a lack of energy after a game was last week, slow to get off the bench and slower to accept the invite to go out.
Shane caught on, of course. Stopped him before they left and led him to a cleared-out hallway for privacy, for some quiet. “We don’t have to,” he whispered against Ilya’s hand, showing a rare display of PDA by pressing his lips to it. That was how worried he was, Ilya understood. “We can go back to the hotel, order some food. Go to bed. Wanna do that?”
Ilya almost nodded. But if he did, his chin would have fallen to Shane’s shoulder, and they would’ve had to consider what that meant, that exhaustion.
So Ilya said they should go instead. “Just for an hour or two, okay? Then we sleep. And I will feel better tomorrow, after some rest.”
Shane’s chin tilted up, trying to be calm about it, and trusting Ilya to know his own limits. “Okay. Whatever you think, Ilya.” He placed the agency in his hands, supporting whatever decision Ilya would make, and Ilya—loved him, very much, for treating him as if he could handle this, and not holding him like he’s fragile and speaking to him in some pitying, soft voice.
Ilya didn’t want that. He was strong, his depression was just one thing. Not weakness. There, but not everything. It didn’t consume, it lingered, it wanted to, but Ilya knew how to keep it controlled.
That said, he was exhausted by the time Wyatt finally navigated them correctly into the bar. It took probably nearly a mile, a bunch of apologies for telling everyone the wrong address and causing them all to be stranded as their Ubers left and their cars were back in the wrong parking lot, but they were here, after making their way through the busy streets.
Embraced by the warmth of the bar, and the familiar sound of laughter and chatter over a guitar-plucked song with soft drums, Ilya felt a little better. But he knew he wouldn’t be getting drunk, and wouldn’t be very captainly tonight, leading conversations like Shane said he did. He had a low amount of energy, and wanted to spend it with Shane back at home, discussing their game and little things like Anya needing to go to the groomer and needing to replace the coffee table after she’d launched onto it and scratched it up.
They claim a couple booths near the bar, throwing jackets and hats down, and spread throughout the room—getting drinks, situating in front of the TV that’s playing a rundown of their game tonight, a few taking the time to talk to excited fans that push phones in their faces and use the bright flash that Shane always squinted at and that Ilya found adorable.
Ilya sits in the booth, needing to rest. “I’ll get you a beer?” Shane kisses his curls quickly, then pauses. “Or . . a coke?”
“Beer is fine, sweetheart.”
He gives Ilya a reassuring smile, and pats Wyatt’s back when he goes to get their drinks, no doubt joining in on giving him shit for not knowing his own neighborhood.
The minutes come and pass, Shane’s fitted in beside Ilya while Bood and Wyatt sit across from them, and Luca, Troy, and Evan are in pulled-up chairs. Their little group always seems to find their way back to each other eventually on nights like this, and then it will disperse, and then it will form again, like some chaotic choreography.
Everyone does a round of shots other than Ilya. Which is very fucking lame, he knows, but at least Shane will be with him now in staying sober. He will not even want to risk getting drunk, in case Ilya needs him. Which he does, tonight. More than usual, and it’s nice Shane instinctively knows that, without needing to be told, because Ilya doesn’t know if he could admit it.
He stays close to Ilya through the night, eyes on him even when he’s dragged to the bar or another table. Ilya nods to him, have your fun, it says. He’d be circulating, too, celebrating if he wasn’t . . . this right now. A bit of a wallflower, like his social battery has fully died out.
He sits with Luca, and watches as he draws another variant of a superhero. This one, Ilya doesn’t recognize. “Is this an original design, Haas?” He tries to keep a spark in his voice, but it mostly fails. Luca doesn’t catch it over the noise from the rest of the energized room, luckily.
“Sorta. I’m trying to use our colors, but every drawing just looks . . . I don’t know. Sucky.”
“Are you calling our colors bad?”
Luca’s pen pauses on his drawing, his eyes going wide. “N-no, no! I’m calling my drawing bad.”
“That is ridiculous.” Ilya likes that word—ridiculous. The word ridiculous was ridiculous, from how hard it was to pronounce correctly to how weird it was spelled. “You are very talented. Seriously. You could be in those museums. Paint the murals on the ceilings. Like that one guy.”
“Michelangelo?” At Ilya’s nod, he laughs loudly, then, a little shy. “I don’t know. I’m less good with painting. Better with a pen?”
“Then make a mural with a pen. Who says you can’t?”
Luca spins the pen finger-to-finger, never dropping it. “That’s actually good advice. Thanks.”
“I’m very wise.” Ilya spreads his arms out, intending to make Luca laugh again, and he does. He’s a good kid, matches Ilya’s energy. And he’s polite, which is sometimes nice when Ilya doesn’t feel like joking around, and just wants a genuine conversation. He knows that’s silly to want on a night they’re all supposed to be care-free, but his own thoughtfulness over his sadness made him want to reach for connection instead of half-hearted, nothing words.
Bood calls Luca over from the bar sometime later, nodding towards a younger girl beside him. Luca groans. He never goes too far with these introductions to girls, mostly because Bood becoming his wing-man was agreed upon by no one other than Bood.
It was funny sometimes, Ilya wasn’t going to lie. Bood made a gesture in the air to her of writing with something—telling her that Luca was an artist—and then pointing at the TV, where they were talking about the Centaurs.
Just as Ilya starts to stand to find Shane, maybe say their goodbyes, another guy slides into the booth across from him.
Someone from Toronto, the team they played against tonight. Ilya distantly recognizes him from a party he and Shane attended a month ago for a charity, giving him both a cigarette and a light.
“Good game,” he says.
“Thank you.” Ilya keeps back the, so you liked losing? He doesn’t want to deal with this shit right now. He just wanted to have a calm night, couple hours with his team and the rest alone with Shane.
It pissed him off that some guys did this. Interrupted a celebration just because they were butthurt. Anyone decent would leave well enough alone, dust it off and do better in their next game. But some assholes wanted to prolong their embarrassment. This guy, sadly, being one of them.
“Your husband’s fuckin’ insane.” He downs the rest of his drink. Ilya isn’t quick enough to catch what it is, but he sits the glass down loud enough that Ilya rolls his eyes, scanning the room for Shane.
He could deal with this. But so could Shane, and then Ilya could avoid having to yell and set boundaries and ruin his night that was already being ruined by his stupid brain.
“Thank you. He learns from the best.” It rolls off his tongue easily, to poke fun at his husband in the most loving way possible.
“That’s humble.” The guy chuckles, and takes Luca’s abandoned beer, considers it, and drinks it.
Fuck’s sake. Ilya doesn’t want to be the guy he pours his anger onto. Ugh.
“You know, he was constantly on me, like, riding my ass. The fuck is that?”
Shane wasn’t an aggressive player by any means. But this guy, Parks or something, Ilya thinks, is very tall, and buffer than what Ilya is. So yes, Shane is going to compensate for his own height by playing with more enthusiasm. That’s how smart he was, adapting to whoever he was playing in only a few seconds on the ice. And the guy deserved it, anyway, for talking shit about Shane to Ilya, Shane's husband.
“I think it’s called hockey. Are we done here?”
Finally, Ilya spots Shane talking to Evan. He waits only a short time before Shane finds his eyes. He nods him towards him, and he can already see Shane trying to get away from Evan and through the crowd to him.
“Uh, no. And that’s kinda rude, don’t you think?”
“I am kinda rude. Sorry.” The apology comes weightless. It’s meant to make him mad, but also to throw him and make him go the hell away so Ilya can get himself out of this situation and, preferably, out of this bar and into Shane’s arms, underneath warm blankets.
He’s relieved when Shane stands in front of their table, placing his beer down.
“Parker,” he greets him, with an impossibly kind voice. And that’s how Ilya knows he’s pissed.
“Hollander.” Parker gets a shit-eating grin on his face. And, ah. That’s why he found Ilya first, and not Shane. Ilya was just the bait. He wanted to unnerve him by fucking with his husband first. Of course. Because that wasn’t a horrible thing to do.
Shane smiles back, planting his hands on the table. His biceps flex as he extends his arms underneath his tight shirt. Ilya sits back and watches, pleased. “How are you? Heard you had a baby.”
Parker looked shocked for a moment. Yes, asshole, my husband is actually a sweetheart, and you are the problem here, Ilya thinks, his arms crossed. Parker clears his throat. “I did! Her name is Sophie. She's amazing.”
“That’s great, man.” Shane pats his shoulder, such a genuine gesture that Ilya wonders where he’s going with this for a moment. “Do a favor for me?” He leans in a little closer, physically blocking Parker from seeing Ilya.
“What?”
Shane’s smile fades away. His voice is stern, final when he answers. “Get back to your team, and step the fuck away from my husband?”
He doesn’t bother to mince his words. Not tonight, with Ilya being as exhausted as he is, and not with Ilya being uncomfortable. He rarely gets to see him this outwardly protective. He expected Shane to come over, grab his hand and lead him away from the booth with some random excuse. But this—this is Shane losing his patience for all of those manners. His only concern is Ilya, and it makes Ilya want to push him up against a wall and thank him a thousand times with harsh, claiming kisses.
Parker sputters. “We were just—“
“Hey.” Ilya can see the way Shane’s fingers dig into Parker’s shoulder, his word gentle and his meaning behind it anything but. “No need to explain. Just go. Okay? Now.”
The force of it even shocks Ilya. He’ll ask him where the fuck this came from later, but right now, he’s reveling in it. Shane’s intense gaze gets Parker up on his feet, and out of the booth. “Understood. Night, I guess.”
“And sorry,” Shane adds on.
“Yeah. Sorry, Rozanov.”
No apology needed. When Shane’s beside him, blocking him off again from the rest of the bar, Ilya doesn’t let him get a word in before he’s pressing his lips to his, and slipping his tongue past his mouth.
Shane claims him easily with a hand on his jaw, his strong thigh thrown over Ilya’s. All in goddamn public, because Ilya wanted his mouth on his, and Shane wasn’t going to deny him.
“That was so hot. What the fuck, Shane?”
His smile is slow, his eyes on Ilya’s now bitten lips. “Did you like that?”
Jesus fucking Christ. What has gotten into him? Ilya doesn’t know, but the only time he ever sees this is on the ice. “Yes, I fucking liked it. What was that?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t want you worrying anymore tonight. That asshole was bothering you for no reason. And, also, we’re married, and no one’s gonna treat you like that.”
Ilya shakes his head in disbelief, taking Shane’s chin between two fingers, gentle as he caresses over the soft skin. Shane defended him, because Ilya couldn’t himself with how tired he is. And, like he does on the ice, he adapted and did what he thought—knew—was right for him.
“You don’t even know what he said.”
Shane’s face falls at that. “Was it bad? Do I need to go have a talk with him again?”
Oh, fuck. Ilya would marry him a third time if he could. “No, no. It’s just—“ He shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to put this. “Thank you. For taking care of me. Very sweet, defending my honor.”
“Like taking care of you.” He's learned Ilya inside and out, and shows it every day, all the time, in moments, Ilya thinks, that he might not even catch. “Are we ready to go? I wanna cuddle.”
Ilya laughs, sudden. There is my Shane, he quietly says to himself in his head, and then feels so grateful that he can't help but touch the crucifix around his neck.
Ilya’s been trying to hold onto small, precious moments to get him through the rest of the season without having to adjust medication. He knows what that entails, the horrible sickness from side effects he was unlucky enough to deal with. And the tight schedule of his job that meant sometimes he couldn’t take his pill at the same time everyday, and wouldn’t get the set number of hours of sleep he needed to rest his body.
Being home is good. Safe in bed with his husband, the lights dim and Anya snoozing in her dog bed. Shane rubs Ilya’s back in light circles, his eyes closed but this overall need to comfort him, even as tired as he is.
“Shane?”
He hums sleepily, so Ilya knows he’s listening. And here’s the admittance, it has to be. Because Ilya is . . worried. About himself. And scared that tomorrow he’ll wake up, and he won’t be able to speak at all. So it has to be now, pushed to the limit Shane would say he shouldn’t have waited until.
“I’m probably . . . probably getting bad again,” he whispers. He nuzzles more into Shane’s neck, as close as possible. It’s hard to look at him when he has to talk about this.
He feels Shane’s nod more than sees it, his chin resting against Ilya’s head. “Okay. We’ll talk to Terry. Get your sertraline adjusted.” His planning, logical part of his brain comes first. And that’s good, Ilya likes that he has this plan memorized—adjust meds, talk to coach, take games off so he can rest and get better, and come out the other side. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you. We’ll get you through it.”
Tears sting at Ilya’s eyes. He grabs at Shane’s arm until he reads the signal and holds him tighter. He slides the blanket up Ilya’s back, tucking them close. “Hey. Ilya. I’ve got you, okay?” He knows, God, he knows, he just, he finds it hard to breathe, or to act like this is okay when it isn’t. It’s nearing the end of the season and he couldn’t get through it.
Shane turns them over so he can look into Ilya’s eyes. He’s more awake now, searching his face. He untangles Ilya’s crucifix from his shirt, always building him back together. “You’re scared?”
Ilya nods, hesitant to admit it verbally. He anchors himself with how prepared Shane is, how he didn’t even blink.
“We know what this is. We know how to help you. Listen,” he says softly, when Ilya tries to hide in his chest. “You’re so fucking strong. You can do this, okay? We can do this.”
“I don’t want to,” Ilya admits. That’s why he’s been pushing it away, saying the meds are still helping. He hates this, how ugly it will get, and he can tell by how heavy he’s felt the past month, and how often his thoughts have spiraled that this isn’t going to become easy in just a couple days. It’s going to be a fucking undertaking. It already is, it—Ilya wishes he could prevent it. But the intrusive thoughts are loud, his hands have been shaking, his appetite’s been failing him. There’s nothing he can do, other than drag himself through it.
“I know you don’t, baby,” Shane soothes, the rare pet name lowering Ilya’s guards even further. He cries, now, openly, in Shane’s arms. “I’m sorry. Do you think you can talk just for a couple minutes more? It’s okay if you can’t.”
Ilya holds at his wrist, keeping his hand surrounding Ilya’s cheek. “Mm. Yes.”
“Good,” he encourages, beautifully smiling, all soft. “That’s good. I’m gonna handle everything, alright? Don’t worry about practice tomorrow. And I need you to be honest with me. Do you want me to stay home with you?”
Can you be alone, it means. Are you going to try something?
Is he? Ilya doesn’t know. He could. He doesn’t think he wants to, but every time he sees the knives in the drawer, his stomach clenches in fear, and when Shane isn’t here and the silence of the house is deafening, he starts to wonder how they’d feel cutting into his skin.
And that’s new. He’s never gotten . . he’s never wanted that. He thinks of the speech he was given when he was diagnosed properly, about how some people got so depressed that they didn’t even have the energy to kill themselves. There was something morbidly miserable about it, in a way that made Ilya uncomfortable to repeat back to himself. Ilya didn’t think he’d ever feel like that, he’s never had suicidal ideation, Galina’s been good at asking him about it, and he’s told the truth.
But it’s lingering now. Infecting his brain, creeping past. How does he tell Shane that? Anyone? That he’s to that point, the point his mom got to.
Oh, God. Ilya could . . he doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want to leave. But there’s ways he could get access. Pills, crash his car, the knives.
He feels too scared to move, now, his body shaking underneath Shane's hands. “Please don’t leave,” he whispers to him. “Please stay.”
The moonlight makes the shine in Shane’s eyes more obvious. Fuck, Ilya made him cry, scared him. That’s not what he intended, he’s embarrassed about this whole fucking thing even though there’s no shame in it at all, he rationalizes, at least some part of him still steady.
“Of course,” Shane says, his voice assured, but Ilya can see the cracks appearing in his strength. He’s really, really fucking trying for Ilya, to support him, but no matter what, this was going to take a tole on him, too. “When did you start feeling bad? After that game, two weeks ago? Or before?” Ilya sighs, heavy. “I know it’s annoying. Terry’s gonna ask, though. If we talk about it now, I can handle the whole appointment, okay? All you have to do is be in the room. And you can hold my hand, and you don’t have to worry about a thing.”
Ilya’s present, he knows. Somehow. He’s still in bed, still holding Shane, but his throat feels blocked, bringing all of his sadness to the ugly surface.
“Ilya, baby, come on. Hey, you can do it. You can talk to me. I’m right here, baby, you can talk to me, just a little while longer, I promise, my love.”
He takes a deep breath. Follows the guide of Shane’s words. “Month,” he grits out. His body doesn’t want to cooperate with his mind that’s shouting, a month, but you got me through it, you kept me standing, so please don’t feel guilty that you didn’t push, you know I am stubborn.
Shane’s shaky exhale comes against Ilya’s forehead before he places a kiss over the skin. “Fuck,” he whispers, almost unintelligible. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. I’m gonna take care of you now, I promise, okay? Gonna take such good care of you, you’re gonna get through this, fuck, Ilya, I’m not gonna let you go down any further, I promise you, I’m right here.”
Ilya encapsulates his face, and kisses his cheek in response, a small show of gratitude, the biggest he can give him right now. The panic inside him is too strong to let anything else out, he feels worn and exhausted, much too exhausted for any talking, or telling Shane okay, telling him he loves him and he trusts him to help him, that he’s so scared but he knows he’s going to be there.
“You can sleep. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.”
He does, for a while, in and out of it, drifting. But dreams startle him awake, loud thoughts of what he’s lost and what he could, and it’s not easy to rest, not until he gives into his mind, focuses on what it wants him to, what he can tell himself is better, now, on any other day, but nights like this? Nights like this, he’s unable to prevent his brain from spiraling.
And he prays for it to stop, but it doesn’t. He tries to distract himself by looking at Shane, but he just can’t stop fucking thinking.
Shane is church and state across soft cotton sheets, both the prayed to and prayed for, if each of Ilya’s palms cupped both of Shane’s cheeks like he held his crucifix at night, then did that mean Shane was his line to divinity the way the blessed cross was, kisses of cleansing that were an amen to both of them and tucking them close to his heart the same?
Everything his sadness bottled up started to spill out. And if Ilya knew the answer, then maybe he’d finally be able to piece together what the after of Heaven was or what he meant, fully, when he said God, please, or maybe he’d know exactly where carefully chosen Russian words went that were a message, a yearning, a cavernous grief, if when they finally reached their destination did they find the soul of his mother?
Strong, came the need to comfort her, and Ilya thought that would fade—how he’d brushed her hair from her cold, pale face, thinking of how it’d annoy her, even when she was lying in her final resting place and her sensations were gone.
But the judgement came palpable to Ilya. His father’s officers that readjusted in their seats uncomfortably as the priest read the final words to leave everyone with who knew Irina. Ilya remembers them, how they’d looked down at their laps. Had they known? Had they been the ones to supply his father a final shot at the bar before he went home, and did it rest heavy on their shoulders, that knowledge that he was a mean drunk, that he was going home to his wife and two sons with that nasty holding around his heart?
It filled Ilya with a rage that a twelve year old boy was not intended to carry. Even he knew that, back then, clenching his fists as he suppressed the need to yell at all of them about how his mother had a smile, a laugh just as everyone else. That they didn’t get to feel guilty or uncomfortable with the way she died when they made the choice to stand back.
And God rest her soul, says a priest who did not know her, in a room of officers who would’ve turned her away if she tried to report their captain, in a room where her sons were that didn’t know what to do now that their mother, who kept them safe and hugged them goodnight was gone, and was taking something of them with her.
In a church, in a church where she had prayed every week and taught Ilya to do the same, where her hopes were big but not unreasonable and she sang hymns with a gentle voice, it was quiet.
The prayer was quick, forgotten amen’s said too late and too soft. The service ended abruptly to Ilya, who was still not ready to cease talking about her in this way forever, in the context of a reassuring God that welcomed her with open arms and would guide her to a happiness she couldn’t have alive—Ilya wanted to know the priest, a man who had dedicated his life to the belief of Heaven could truly say, in front of everyone, that she was resting.
It was the only thing holding his tears back. It was the only thing that made it okay that she was not with him. It was the only comfort he had when his father had his palms clasped in his lap securely and his brother's arms were crossed at his chest.
Please say she’s alright, Ilya thought. Just once more.
As everyone stood, as they began to leave the church for the graveyard, for the end, Ilya wanted to stop time. If she could—if she could say something to all of them, what would she say? What would she want Ilya to say? He wanted to protect something of her still, to show all of the cowardly men how strong she was in a way they’d never be, but—what was Ilya, a boy who had just lost his mother, a boy who they’d all just heard cry, a boy who did not fit into his suit—to a crowd of men with empty grievances and not a hint of an idea what his mother’s laugh had sounded like?
It didn’t matter to them. And as the church cleared out, it was plain to see that it never would.
He spent his days, years after showing a certain anger that wasn’t appropriate anywhere other than on the ice, taking it out on overconfident boys who maybe had an infernal rage radiating from them the same way, compressing something deeper, harder to let out when it signified weakness and made them all look as young as they really were.
It laid dormant and quietly respondent, so subtle that when it started to take over, Ilya didn’t know how to greet it. To introduce it to Shane, to see if he could stop it? To fall into it alone at night where no one else could see his pain? To take something sharp and willing to cut and expose it to the light, to finally see its ugly sludge of black underneath his skin?
Every option seemed . . . unbearable. Too much. Maybe it was alive inside of Ilya, maybe it knew that, because instead of anger, it turned him tired. That exhaustion rang just as bad, burned him out and brought him to his knees as soon as he was by himself once more.
Ilya closed his eyes, following what Shane’s done, ready to turn off his brain, just for a couple hours. He didn’t like to think his depression was fully rooted to his mother. This—it didn’t mean blame, it didn’t mean it was all on her—but as soon as he’d start to think about how . . . how the only thing connecting him to her now was sadness, he stopped. Stopped thinking about what else it branched to, stopped looking deeper the way Galina has been guiding him to in therapy, prodding him on.
No one had been kind to her, a young mom married before she could even experience falling in love. Ilya wouldn’t do this, too, he wouldn’t assign this horrible sadness inside him to her, even though he knew they carried the same illness. The same weariness, the same heaviness.
It was nice to think of her happy. Hair wind-swept, her curls frizzy from the humidity at a bright beach, grinning back at Ilya and asking him to join her where the cool ocean met burning sand.
He finally fell back asleep to this—holding her hand at the edge of the world, looking miles and miles ahead and only seeing hues of dark pinks and summer oranges backsplashed to a rising morning sun.
The pills make him horribly sick, as he thought they would. He spends the time inside, hunched over a trashcan at his bedside, gagging after eating a solid meal. And Shane’s always there behind him, rubbing his back, whispering sweet nothings, and a couple times, in Russian, “It’s okay, my love.” It breaks his heart, just a little, to hear his language, it makes him miss what he can never get back.
But he doesn’t tell Shane that, because he loves it at the same time. With how soft he speaks to him, it comforts him, and he mumbles that he loves him into his neck, and tries to sleep, even though he knows he won’t be able to for more than a few hours.
He’s out of balance, miserable. Somehow, upping his dose made things worse. He’s been dealing with it, because it was bad the first days he got on it, but fuck, he’s tired of feeling so horrible.
Shane helps him into the shower, and that helps a bit. Warm water on his back, not his hair because he didn’t want to deal with that. But Shane lets him lean on him, washes him carefully with his own bodywash, making the bathroom smell like his fresh, rainforest soap.
Ilya feels protected with it, for some odd reason. Like Shane is making him smell like him in the hopes it’ll calm him down, or comfort him. Smell is a powerful thing, he knows, it’s why Shane can only tolerate subtle soaps like this or vanilla candles, otherwise he gets so nauseous he has to lay down. Can barely handle cologne when it’s on his own neck.
Ilya opens his eyes when Shane taps his back. “Hi,” Shane whispers. Ilya grows a real smile at the gentleness. “I was gonna call Terry. Maybe the sertraline isn’t good anymore. We could try something else.”
It’s the only SSRI Ilya’s ever tried, and he doesn’t want to go through this whole process again. But really, he’s not seeing a light at the end with how it’s currently going. His mood swings are fucking overwhelming, crying for no reason, and then turning terrifyingly numb.
“I don’t like it,” Ilya says. He wants to kiss Shane, but he is too focused on washing his chest.
“The sertraline?”
Ilya nods.
“Me neither. I don’t like seeing you so—so fucking sick. I know it was like that last time, but that was, like, two days. There’s no way this is right. It doesn’t feel—it doesn’t feel right.”
“Mm. You’re telling me.”
That manages a laugh out of him, for the first time in a week, and it lights a match in Ilya’s chest.
“Okay, so maybe one that’s better for people who get really bad side effects from meds. Like Citalopram, or Lexapro, I don’t know. I was doing some research, and—“
“You—“ Ilya interrupts, clearing his throat. His voice is underused, it takes an effort to get himself across. Feels like speaking to someone over a deafening bass. “You are not a doctor. Or . . . my therapist. There are others for that. You can be just my husband. And that is good, Shane. It’s what I need, please.”
His fingers flex around Ilya’s arms, the nerves of the notion of something being out of his control getting to him. The pressure he puts on himself is visible, physical. His jaw is locked up, he’s been clenching his stomach as an anxious response. Ilya rests a hand over it to tell him to stop, and feels him inhale against it. “Another,” he directs. Shane listens, taking a deep breath. He pushes against Ilya’s hand. “Good. Better. Good, Shane.”
A sob chokes out from his throat, and then hurries back inside. “Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I just want you to get better, I didn’t mean to be so-so cold, or distant or like I don’t care, I swear I wanna listen if you want to talk, if you’re—“ The words lose him, and he places his forehead beneath Ilya’s throat. “I’m trying not to fuck this up.”
Ilya runs his fingers through his damp hair, carefully. “Let’s go to sleep, okay?”
He nods, and helps Ilya get dressed. After he’s in Shane’s shirt and his own sweats, he lays down in fresh sheets that were changed before Shane joined him. He closes his eyes against the nausea that tries to come up, and focuses on something else instead—his husband, his voice down the hall, echoing into their dark bedroom.
“No, Terry, he’s . . yes, if you can meet us tomorrow, then, yeah, please, because . . no, he hasn’t. I’ve been watching him. But the sertraline is only making him worse, I mean, fuck, he can barely speak. You need to help him, he . . No, I don’t need to take a fucking beat. You need to change his medication. He’s fucking suffering, he’s just too nice to tell you that your meds aren’t fucking working, so . . . I’m—what? I’m calm. I’m calm. No, I don’t need anything, can we just meet tomorrow and you actually help him, please? . . . Yeah, I’m fucking sure he doesn’t need more time, he needs to fucking get off this fucking medication, Terry, I’m serious. Fuck. Yeah, okay, bye.”
Ilya listens as he quietly comes back into their bedroom. He plugs in his phone, checks on Anya, takes his shirt off. He climbs into bed as careful as he can, thinking Ilya’s asleep, and kisses his head. “You’re gonna feel so much better, I know it. I love you.” He stays close, curls an arm around Ilya’s waist, finally relaxing his body, falling into the comfort of their warm bed and Ilya beside him.
Before Ilya’s asleep, he whispers, “You curse more than I do.” Shane sharply inhales, and then groans. “It’s impressive. Hot.”
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“I am now. Thank you.”
The smile is felt against Ilya’s hair. “Anything. Always.”
To jump into the lake, his breath restricted and his vision darkened, all so he can float and feel the weight lift off his back. And something calls him down, those blind gaps of light between moss-covered rocks, but what carries over the water is that lightness of Shane’s voice, rippling across the lake and sliding over Ilya’s chest, an ale to the sun’s harsh scald.
They’re at the cottage instead of the house—Ilya wanted to be here to heal. Surrounded by the good memories, and waking up to the sun greeting him through the windows. A change in location was good, too, and not just for him. Shane was more relaxed here, he always was.
“Do you feel better?” Shane’s leaning up against a rock, water dripping from his face like dewdrops after rain, covering the freckles dusted across his pinkened face.
Ilya swims over to him, grabbing his hips underneath the water. He thinks a yes, and then a no, but both feel untruthful. He’s sitting at the inbetween, not sinking but not rising, either. Which is good, he thinks, compared to a few days ago.
Shane needs the hope, and hasn’t relaxed his jaw since he asked, so Ilya nudges his nose with his own, catching a glimpse of a smile on him, hesitant as it is. Just because Ilya wasn’t exactly happy didn’t mean Shane couldn’t be. “Little bit. How are you? Okay?”
“I’m good, Ilya.” His name gentle as it falls from Shane’s lips, like he spells it with love in parentheses. “What do you want to eat? Burgers?”
Yes. Ilya would love to make them with him, too, cutting the tomatoes like he usually does while Shane watches the grill, giving him a cute wave through the window. But there’s everything stopping him, and it’s all things he has to—has to—consider, with his brain the way it has been.
His new medication that’s still making him nauseous as he adjusts to it. Not as bad as the sertraline, thank God, but still present. The energy it took out of him to stand for that long because he wasn’t going to just let Shane make dinner all by himself. And the last one, the reason he hated the most—the sharpness of the knife required to slice through the onion and tomato. He’s never, and he wouldn’t, but he could. It’s more about not trusting himself.
“Don’t know if I can keep them down,” Ilya says. He puts the tip of his finger to Shane’s chin, then wipes at the water on his cheeks. Guilty, he adds, “Sorry.”
“No,” Shane mutters, kissing the apology away quickly. “I’ll find something light to make. I really don’t mind.”
The paper dictating all of the dinners planned out for the next week minded. The ingredients Shane bought so they didn’t have to worry minded. And going against what he had planned mattered to Shane’s eating habits. If not burgers because of Ilya's appetite, then that was negative towards Shane’s head, too, no matter how he’d try to push it away—it’s still going to float around his subconscious, that he shouldn’t be eating them, either.
“I can . . . we can try. Maybe it’s okay. I ate breakfast, so.”
There was a decision already with Shane’s silence, but he says, “No, hey. I’m really okay. Okay?” The water laps between them, and Ilya’s chain floats closer until it bumps Shane’s chest. He draws Ilya’s attention back, cupping his cheek. “Okay?”
“Yes,” Ilya responds, strong. Confident. He doesn’t want Shane to think he’s doubting him, or saying he’ll relapse—and Shane needs him to believe in him, to say Yes, we can change the plans, and you will be okay. And that’s easy, because Ilya does believe in him, he just worries, and that can sometimes bleed through a bit heavier than Ilya intends.
Shane’s patient about it. Ilya hopes that if he ever does overstep, that he tells him, the same way Ilya will tell him if it feels like he’s hovering too much when he takes his medicine, or when he comes to find him after therapy online with Galina. Ilya’s confident about the respect they have for each other, so he trusts that when Shane nods, and smiles, that he means it. It’s terrifying to trust someone like that, but Shane deserves that vulnerability.
“We can shower, then look at recipes?” He grabs Ilya’s hand underneath the cool water, tapping at the heel of his palm.
“Okay.” New plan. New plan is good. They will make something that neither of them has to worry about, and can just enjoy. Ilya loves him so fucking much, for understanding and then immediately offering up another option without arguing. So he whispers it in Russian, and then, delighted that Shane responds back the same, says, “Lessons paying off.”
He smirks. “I have a good teacher.” Quipped in Ilya’s language, too, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
“I have a good student.” Ilya says it slow, simply so Shane catches it. He watches as it does, as Shane blushes, looks down and laughs.
Momentarily shy, it fades as quickly as it comes when Shane whispers, “Let’s go inside, my love.” The pronunciation is still not fully confident, but the way Shane kisses him after is. He pulls him along the lake until they’re on land, and Ilya follows closely.
The final push comes when Shane shows him some tough love and gets him out of the cottage. Ilya knows it’s good to get his body active after spending the most of two weeks in bed or on the couch, and that he needs to make up for all the practices and work-outs he’s missed, but keeping a few paces behind Shane is just . . shameful. And extremely annoying.
Gravel crunches harsh underneath his sneakers, following down the shoulder of the rocky road that leads towards the cottage. It’s empty, shaded by tall trees, peaceful where the only sound is birds chirping and their combined breath, Ilya’s faster than Shane’s.
“Wanna stop?” He calls back to Ilya, looking over his shoulder for a second to check on him.
“No.” He keeps his eyes frontwards, to the back of Shane’s neck—which is distracting, actually, with the gleam of sweat—and he tries to let his head clear. Working out has always been a means to an end for him, while it’s the opposite for Shane. When he’s stressed, he’ll smoke, or go on a long drive, or find Shane and tease him until he gives him his attention and his beautiful laughter.
But he can’t do any of those things. He finds himself too tired, still, and considers he might be acting too needy towards him. He’s leaned on him for everything these past two weeks, fixing the medicine, talking to their coach, their team, taking care of Anya—Jesus, even helping him wash his hair and encouraging him to take just one more bite, alright, I don’t want you to get sick.
He’s thankful for it, that Shane’s dragged him through this whole miserable situation, but he’ll be glad to return to day-to-day life where Shane doesn’t have to be watching him every second, and can relax, because he barely has.
“Can we do a few more minutes?” Shane slows his pace to fall beside Ilya, and, okay, that’s not helping, how red his cheeks are, or his longer hair in his face, or how he’s looking up at Ilya all encouraging with a subtle nod.
“Depends. Do I get a prize at the end?”
Shane’s grin widens from something reassuring to almost cocky. He knocks into Ilya’s side with his bicep. “If you’re lucky.”
Then yes, he can do a few more minutes.
They fall into a patch of grass at the end, and Shane holds up his watch to show the kilometers they went. He looks proud of Ilya, smiling over to him and then kissing his cheek. “You did good. Really fucking great, Ilya. Love you so much.”
“I love you,” Ilya echoes back, his breath heavy. “But, fuck. That was torture.”
Shane laughs, a cracking into Ilya’s heart. “Glad I made you come, though? You aren’t . . mad?”
“What?” Ilya taps his cheek for him to look at him. “Of course not. I told you before, when I’m like this I need you to push me. Otherwise I’m going to stay in bed, you know?”
“Yeah, but. You need that rest.”
“I know,” Ilya says. “I had it. Now I need this. You’re giving me . . what I need. Okay? Don’t worry so much.”
“Okay. You feel good?”
Ilya nods. He really does. For the first time in a while, he feels like everything is not so intimidating, or harsh. “Yes, Shane.” The pressure coming off his chest makes it easier to think, the endorphins from their run let some of the pain go. He exhales slowly, grinning, and feels the grass between his fingers. “My, uh . . my mother. She used to go on walks with me. Take me to the park.” The memory comes as a surprise to him, and he doesn’t have time to think of it before it’s out.
It’s more of a painting than a video played back. Her helping him lift up onto the swing he was too short to reach, her hair tickling at his face as she leaned down.
And the next, like a slideshow—Ilya taller, on the swing, stood up as she held under his arms so he wouldn’t fall. I’m almost tall as you, mama, he remembers saying, and, God, what had she said back?
“I think I have cried more in my life for her than for me,” he continues, as if he can’t stop. Maybe he doesn’t want to. It’s been so locked up inside him for so long. “Do you think that’s bad?” Like when it came to himself, his own emotions didn’t matter—like he was numb, anymore, to his own pain, and could only feel it so severely when he was hurting for someone else.
Shane turns to look into his eyes, and laces their fingers together. “I think that’s just grief, Ilya.”
It feels like a blow to the stomach. The plain sense of it tears something ugly out of his mouth, a retched laugh that breaks up into a sob. “How horrible.” He stares up into the sky until the brightness forces his eyes closed. “I’ll be older than her, my next birthday. That is not supposed to happen.”
“Do you think that’s what brought this on? The episode?”
Ilya considers, then nods his head, covering his face with his arm. Every birthday wish was like a sort of prayer, and he’d used his thirteenth to say, Please let her be happy up there. He wondered if she was wishing the same for him as the sun shone brightly into his eyes, as a butterfly landed on his knee. “I think so. That and the wrong medicine, yes?”
Shane huffs half a laugh beside him, squeezing Ilya’s hand. “I’m happy that I could fix that for you,” he says. Then, “I hope that didn’t sound dumb. Sorry.”
“No. No, not dumb. You’re a good husband,” Ilya assures him, going on his stomach, chin to Shane’s chest. “The best I could ask for.”
Shane cradles the back of Ilya’s head, and brings him closer. “You’re the best I could ask for. The only one I want. Every part of you.”
Ilya’s smile is wobbly, but sincere. He kisses the middle of Shane’s neck, the place where his lips happen to fall. “You wouldn’t even change that I steal the blankets?”
“Nope.”
“That I interrupt your reading time?”
He shakes his head.
“Not even that I turn off all your terrible alarms in the morning? Wow.”
Shane wants him relentlessly. And that—Ilya loves it, but it feels bigger than him. Like another sort of mythology he cannot touch but has been written about since anyone could grasp what a heart really meant when it started to jump towards someone, like they were the sole cause for making it beat.
He pulls Ilya up from the grass, and kisses him gently. “Guess you’re stuck with me forever, huh?” He winks, then says, “Now run back with me.”
Ilya groans over Shane’s laugh, but starts up at a quick pace. “I’ll fall over.”
Shane runs ahead, and it amps up Ilya’s competitive side. He yells back, “Then I’ll catch you!”
He runs through the strips of sunlight and shadows, and Ilya’s beside him in no time. Whether it’s because Shane slowed down or Ilya sped up did not seem to matter as their movements fell into sync on the road back home.