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Shane shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Their bedroom was silent, curtains drawn; The sound of Ilya’s slow breathing was swallowed up by the darkness. A slice of sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains, and Shane frowned at the dust mites swirling in the thin beam of light.
Ilya enjoyed sleeping late in a way that Shane respected, but could never really understand. From a logical standpoint, he could see the appeal of a warm bed and no work. There had certainly been many weekends that Ilya had tempted Shane into staying in bed for another hour or so, taking full advantage of the little alone time they got together. But they were hardly spending that time sleeping. Shane felt his cheeks flush with the memory of it, and shook his head.
“Rozanov,” He tried again, taking another step into the bedroom. “It’s time to go, c’mon.”
The words made him wince, and he bit down on his lip. There was really no way to say come on, we have practice, we’re gonna be late! Without sounding like a nagging mom. Still, Ilya stirred almost imperceptibly beneath the comforter.
“Am sick,” He said, voice hoarse from sleep, “You go. Tell Coach sorry.”
Shane frowned. The Ilya-shaped lump beneath the comforter sounded tired, but he didn’t sound congested. Maybe he’d picked up whatever Amber Pike had on Saturday, when they were at Hayden’s barbecue? Unlikely; Despite eating like a stoned teenager and refusing to regularly take vitamins, Ilya had the immune system of a very strong, very stubborn horse.
In fact, in their five years of marriage, Shane could only remember Ilya getting really, properly sick twice: Once with the flu that decimated pretty much their entire team his first year with the Centaurs, and once with food poisoning from that awful burger joint in Colorado.
Even then, he’d tried to play through it. The only reason he’d stayed confined to bed and hadn’t killed himself through exhaustion on the ice was because Shane had been very convincing. So if Ilya was saying he was too sick to go to practice, that was definitely cause for Shane to worry.
He quickly tamped down on any rising panic, casting aside any thoughts of oh my God, he has cancer or that paper cut from last week has turned into a fatal case of sepsis. His particular brand of Hollander overthinking would not be helpful in either of those situations. Instead, he dropped his gear bag in the doorway, and closed the space between them.
The mattress dipped when he perched on the edge of it, gym shorts riding up awkwardly. If Ilya felt him sit down next to him, he didn’t react. Shane’s frown deepened, the worry he’d so quickly pushed aside blooming once more in his chest.
“Ilya,” Shane murmured, resting a gentle hand on what he assumed was Ilya’s shoulder beneath the comforter, “What’s wrong?”
Ilya swallowed thickly, and pressed his face deeper into the pillow. If Shane didn’t know any better, he’d think he was trying to hide from him.
“Nothing, lyubimyy. I am sick. Go to work.”
“Sick how? Nauseous? Is your chest hurting?” Shane chewed the inside of his cheek. “Are you–”
“Do not worry, Hollander,” Ilya interrupted, a little sharper than usual. He finally peeled the comforter down enough for Shane to see his face. “Go to practice.”
Oh. Oh.
Shane’s stomach dropped, and something hot and tight formed in his throat. Ilya looked more than sick; he looked exhausted. His usually golden skin was sallow, deep purple rings circling his hazel eyes. Still beautiful, Shane thought; always beautiful. But his jaw was tight, and his eyes were slightly swollen, as if he’d been crying.
Shane hummed, and ran a gentle hand through Ilya’s tangled curls. He watched Ilya’s eyes flutter closed at the touch, and suddenly his chest hurt.
Not for the first time, Shane was overtaken by a wish that he could do something, anything, to alleviate his wonderful, kind, funny husband’s pain. Frankly, he found it unfair that someone who had already been through as much as Ilya had would have to suffer even more pain, but he understood on a clinical level that the two problems were likely interlinked. Cause and effect.
They’d talked about Ilya’s depression as frankly as possible a few years ago. Even then, Shane could tell just how difficult it was for him to voice it, especially in a language that wasn’t his own. And honestly, it had scared Shane to death; all he could think about was their first time at the cottage, Ilya’s head on his lap:
“I don’t want you to think she was weak. She wasn’t. She was so funny, and beautiful. And so sad. And my dad was so hard on her.”
Shane had carded his hands through his golden-brown curls, and listened intently, equal parts awe and horror clawing at his chest. That feeling had never really left. He’d never seen Ilya as weak, never viewed him as anything less than everything. But by all accounts, Irina Rozanova was smart, and funny, beautiful, strong and kind.
Ilya was all those things, too. Ilya was not weak. Ilya had suffered unimaginably at his father’s hand, much like his mother had. And it made Shane’s heart stop to think of him going down the same path as his mother.
“Sweetheart,” Shane muttered, and continued to card his hands through Ilya’s tangled curls, “Talk to me.”
Shane wasn’t usually one to break out the pet names, but sometimes his love for Ilya was so strong, so unwavering, so painfully deep, that nothing else would do. That, and the fact that he knew it made a little hidden part of Ilya melt to hear it.
Thankfully, Ilya granted him mercy; he leaned into his touch, nuzzling against his hand. The knot in Shane’s chest loosened slightly at the reciprocation, but it didn’t dissipate completely. Ilya looked exhausted, the pale indigo of his veins sprawling like spiderwebs over his eyelids.
“I think,” Ilya started, then swallowed thickly. “I think I am maybe broken, a little bit.”
“No,” Shane frowned, immediately, “You’re not broken, Ilya.”
Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Shane winced internally, and tried desperately not to let it show on his face. He’d read book after book about depression and supporting people struggling with their mental health; listened to podcasts on his runs, watched YouTube videos obsessively, even spoken with the experts they partner with at the Foundation. But still, even with all that advice and knowledge, he felt helpless in the face of it. Terrified of making a wrong step, but even more scared of not saying anything at all.
No, one thing he was sure of: Ilya had suffered like this, all alone, for far too long. And he wouldn’t have to do it alone anymore. Shane took a slow, deep breath, and tried again.
“You’re not a… a thing that can be broken,” He said, slowly; Ilya stirred against the navy pillowcases, eyes fluttering open, “You’re a person. You’re my person. And you’re hurting, yeah, but you aren’t broken.”
Shane watched Ilya’s hazel eyes soften, and wondered how they’d managed to dance around each other for so long. He said nothing, just stared up at him, eyes heavy-lidded and so impossibly sad. And that was it, really. Shane had made his decision before he’d even realised he was thinking about it.
He took out his phone, fired off two quick texts— One to coach Weibe, the other Troy Barrett— before immediately setting it to Do Not Disturb, and shutting it in the drawer of his bedside table.
The mattress shifted under him when he toed his sneakers off, one after the other. He didn’t even bother picking them up and putting them away; That could wait. Practice could wait, the entire world could wait.
Ilya had waited long enough.
Shane pulled his quarter-zip over his head, folding it hastily and laying it on the ground beside his sneakers. He still had some restraint, after all. It was only when he stood up to dispose of his gym shorts that Ilya seemed to realise what he was doing.
“Shane,” He said, pushing himself up on one elbow. Shane had already rid himself of his shorts, and was digging around in the very modern chest of drawers Ilya kept directly facing the bed. It was where they usually stored their sleepwear and non-sponsored athleisure. ”No, no. Stop, now, okay?”
”Stop what?” Shane asked, feigning innocence. He swiftly pulled on a pair of pyjama pants, the soft jersey almost worn thin from years of use. He liked what he liked. And Ilya liked them, too, which is why he chose them.
“You will be late for practice,” Ilya protested, weak; his head had already fallen back on the pillow.
Shane didn’t dignify it with a response. His hair had gotten so long; he pulled it up quickly into a shaggy bun, hanging limp at the nape of his neck. It would surely come undone within minutes of laying down, but that didn’t matter all that much.
Podcasts, websites, books and articles— Sure, they were helpful. His mom’s advice was helpful. But Ilya wasn’t a case study, and he wasn’t something broken. He was his husband.
The bed was still warm when Shane peeled back the comforter, slipping into the bed beside his husband. Again, that terrible knot in the center of his chest loosened ever so slightly, just from the simple act of pressing his chest to Ilya’s back.
“I already told Weibe that we can’t come in today,” Shane muttered, pressing his nose into the crook of Ilya’s neck. He was trembling, ever so slightly, and Shane squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t cry, because this wasn’t about him, but fuck. The thought of Ilya suffering like this alone, for months, for years, broke his fucking heart. “He says it’s all good.”
Well. Shane had no proof that Weibe had reacted quite that well. But it wasn’t as if he was taking a huge risk; it had actually been pretty fucking jarring, moving from the Voyageurs to the Centaurs, and realising just how much the Cen’s general management care about their players.
No, he couldn’t imagine Weibe would be red in the face over one missed practice.
“You never miss practice,” Ilya protested. “I don’t want you to miss for me. Is fine, is not worth the trouble. Okay?”
He shifted in Shane’s arms as he spoke, turning over to face him. He was trying to play it off, Shane could tell, but even that small movement looked as though it had exhausted him.
“Not trouble,” Shane shook his head, bringing a hand up to rest against Ilya’s sharp, stubble-covered jaw. “None. I don’t want to be at practice. I want to be with you. This is where I want to be.”
Ilya’s face crumpled, his perfect features contorting into an expression Shane could remember seeing on his husband’s face less than a handful of times in the entire time he’d known him.
Immediately, Shane pulled him closer, and closer still; Ilya’s skin was warm against his bare chest. Any space between them was still too much. Ilya’s shoulders were still shaking, and Shane could feel the wet sting of tears against his shoulder.
“I’m right here,” He murmured, voice disappearing into Ilya’s hair, “I’m where I wanna be. Okay? Just rest. I’ve got you.”
He continued down that vein, muttering vague comforts into Ilya’s hair, only stopping to press gently kisses to his forehead, his eyebrows, his nose, his cheeks. It was so far beyond Shane’s comprehension that someone so beautiful and kind could hold so much pain. It was so fucking unfair.
It could have taken five minutes or five hours for him to calm down; Shane wasn’t keeping count. But eventually Ilya’s breathing evened out, and he tilted his head back, eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
“I’m sorry, lyubimyy,” He started, and Shane frowned. He leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, effectively cutting off whatever Ilya was going to follow his apology with. Sure, the websites and the podcasts had told him to give Ilya space to express himself without judgement, but he wasn’t going to let his husband apologise for having a mental illness. Jesus Christ, that’d be like Shane apologising for having a fake tooth.
“You don’t have a single fucking thing to say sorry for, okay?” Shane intoned, exhaling sharply. Ilya didn’t exactly smile, but the corners of his lips turned up.
”I like this tone. Is very commanding. Very sexy.”
”I’m serious,” Shane continued, refusing to let Ilya put his cocky, charming, defensive walls back up, “You’re gonna take a nap right here, and let me hold you, as is my justice-of-the-peace-given right. And then we’re gonna eat some breakfast—“
”—Is already ten in the morning, far past breakfast—“
”—And then we’re gonna go for a walk, just me and you and Anya, and spend the rest of the day together. Tomorrow, we’ll both go to practice, and you’re gonna call Galina. But today you’re gonna rest, and you’re gonna let me hold you and cook for you and… I dunno, do all the things husbands do when their husbands are sick.”
For a second, Ilya was silent, and Shane worried that he’d gone too far. Had he made too big of a deal of things? Had he been too overbearing, and shoved Ilya back into his oh so carefully constructed shell?
But then his eyes closed, so gently, so softly. “I love you so much, Shane Hollander.”
”Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane replied, settling back against the pillows. Ilya was warm in his arms, soft and sleepy and completely unguarded. Totally vulnerable, but this time, not alone.
He’d never feel alone ever again. Not if Shane had any say in it.