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Ilya had always believed that if he kept moving and never ended up with someone like his father, he could avoid the fate that befell his Mama all those years ago.
That had been true for most of his life. Through junior leagues and the MHL, through his Papas decline in health and memory and his eventual passing. Through the years of hate-fucking Shane Hollander and pretending it didn’t mean anything. It had been true up until it wasn't.
Now, married and settled and wearing a ring he sometimes felt the panic bubble up within. He needed to keep going, he needed to be faster, train longer, smile wider and never let anyone see him crack from inside out. He felt like time was catching up with him, he was nearing the age his Mama was when she died, a silent time limit that Ilya had set himself unconsciously all those years ago.
He used to be able to ignore the pit in his stomach and fog in his mind, blow off steam, go out and get drunk or slam someone against the boards during a game and start a fight, but motion didn’t help anymore.
Dr. Molchalina watched him carefully as he spoke, her expression neutral but kind. He hated that look, it made him feel seen in a way he couldn’t joke his way out of.
“You’ve described these episodes as getting more frequent” she said. “Longer. Harder to pull yourself out of.”
Ilya shrugged, slouching deeper into the chair. “I am Russian. Melancholy is cultural.”
She didn’t smile this time. “You’re also exhausted. And scared.”
That landed closer to home than he liked.
She leaned forward slightly. “I think it’s time we talked seriously about medication.”
The word itself made his stomach drop.
Ilya’s knee bounced. He stared at the carpet, suddenly too aware of how silent it was in the room around him. “My Mama” he started, abruptly.
Dr. Molchalina waited.
“She started pills” he continued. His voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else. “Antidepressants. Doctors said it would help. That she would feel better.”
He swallowed.
“She stopped crying” he said. “Which everyone thought was good. But she also stopped laughing. She stopped yelling at me. Stopped…caring. She was there, but not there.”
His fingers curled into his palm. “Then she overdosed.”
The silence that followed was thick but gentle.
“Ilya” Dr. Molchalina said carefully “what happened to your mother was tragic. But what happened to her does not mean the same will happen to you.”
He scoffed, sharp and humorless. “You don’t know that.”
“No” she agreed. “But I do know that untreated depression is also dangerous.”
He hated that she was right.
Shane noticed something was wrong the moment Ilya didn’t chirp him for spilling his coffee on the morning newspaper (a New York Times subscription that David Hollander had gifted the couple a few years back).
It was subtle, most people wouldn’t have caught it, but Shane had built a marriage on noticing the small things. The way Ilya went quiet instead of loud. The way his smiles started ending too quickly and how he spent more time staring into nothingness, thoughts churning inside his head.
That night, curled together on the couch after dinner, Shane waited until Ilya’s head was tucked under his chin before speaking.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked softly.
Ilya hesitated.
Then, in a sudden rush, he told him everything.
About Dr. Molchalina. The pills. His Mama. The fear that taking medication would hollow him out until he was empty and smiling and dead all at once.
Shane listened without interrupting, his hand slowly and steadily drawing circles where it rested between Ilya's shoulder blades.
When Ilya finally ran out of words, Shane pressed a kiss into his hair.
“You’re not your mom” Shane said. “And this isn’t the same situation.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No” Shane said, echoing the therapist in a way that made Ilya huff weakly. “But I do know you. And I know it's getting worse again.”
He pulled back just enough to look at him. “Trying something doesn’t mean you’re committing forever. You can stop, you can adjust.”
Ilya searched his face. “And if I become…nothing?”
Shane didn’t hesitate. “Then we deal with it together.”
That was the thing Shane always did, organised Ilya's thoughts and fears from a jumbled list into a narrowed down issue with a solution right next to it.
So Ilya agreed to try.
The first week wasn’t dramatic.
No sudden emptiness. No unbearable side effects. Mostly just a dull, persistent fatigue that clung to him through practices and games. He told himself it was fine, just the normal adjustment period that everyone experienced.
Then one morning, Shane rolled over, warm and half-asleep, mouth brushing Ilya’s shoulder in that familiar wanting way. Burying his face into the crease of Ilya's neck before slotting his legs between Ilya's.
Shane's hardness was undeniable, even beneath their layers of clothes and blankets.
“Morning” Shane murmured, voice rough with sleep and intent.
Ilya smiled automatically, reached for him…and
…and nothing happened.
His body didn’t respond the way it always had. No coiling pressure in his groin, no heat, no precome, no spark. Nothing.
He froze. He couldn't seem to get hard, even with Shane lazily humping his erection against Ilya's thighs.
Shane shifted, frowning slightly. “Hey. You okay?”
“Fine” Ilya said too quickly. He laughed, forced and bright. “Season’s killing me, too much stress. I am ancient.”
Shane raised an eyebrow but let it go.
Ilya expected it to be a one time fluke, a trick that his body had decided to play on him early in the morning. Except it didn’t stop.
The next time, and the time after that. Ilya could be pressed against his husband, have him pinned beneath him on the couch or squirming in his lap, he couldn't get hard. He felt feral with want, but his body lagged behind, uncooperative and frustratingly limp.
Each failure stacked on the last, shame curling tighter in his chest.
He stopped initiating, started changing in the bathroom in the evening, blamed long practices. Travel fatigue. Stress.
Shane noticed.
Shane always noticed.
By the fifth day, Shane was watching him with narrowed eyes from across the bed, concern etched into his face as Ilya quickly pulled on his pyjama pants, body turned away from Shane.
“You sure you’re just tired?” Shane asked carefully.
Ilya’s laugh came out sharp. Defensive. “You think I am lying to you?”
“I think” Shane said gently, “that something’s going on, and it's clearly weighing on your mind.”
Ilya kept his back turned to Shane, jaw tight. Shane, who didn't push any further…at least not yet. But the suspicion lingered between them.
And Ilya lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was the beginning of losing something else he loved and whether the pills were already stealing parts of him he didn’t know how to get back.
The problem with spiraling was that it didn’t feel dramatic at first.
It felt logical.
If he couldn’t touch Shane the way Shane wanted, how he needed, then what was he good for? He was a hockey player with an expiring body and a husband who deserved someone whole. Someone functional. Someone better.
He started pulling back even further, not even on purpose. Less teasing. Less casual contact during training or in public. He kissed Shane’s cheek instead of his mouth, and turned away sooner at night. Although Ilya could tell that Shane was hurt by it, he knew that the truth would only hurt Shane more.
The fight was bound to be expected and it happened to land on a Thursday, after a bad practice and an even worse game. They were both keyed up, exhaustion sitting deep in their bones even with the post game adrenaline still pumping.
Shane sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Ilya, we haven’t…” He stopped, choosing his words. “We haven’t been close in weeks.”
Ilyas hairs raised at the confrontation that he had been dreading. And of course in Shane fashion, he had to put it so bluntly that Ilya couldn't deflect it.
“We live in same house. We sleep in same bed.” Ilya tried anyway.
“That’s not what I mean” Shane said, frustration bleeding through despite his restraint. “You won’t even look at me sometimes, let alone touch me.”
“Maybe I am tired of being pawed at like- ” Ilya snapped, immediately regretting it.
Shane’s eyes darkened. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this conversation,” Ilya shot back. His chest felt tight, breath shallow. “You think I don’t notice? You pulling away because you’re annoyed?”
“I’m pulling away because every time I try to talk to you, you shut me out!” Shane cried out, pain and confusion laced in his voice.
The words cracked something open.
“Because what is there to say?” Ilya burst out. “I am broken. I don’t work. And you keep reminding me of it.”
Shane stared at him, stunned and completely still. “That’s not—”
Ilya laughed, sharp and panicked. “Sex is all I am good for, Shane. If I can’t even do that- cant even fuck you properally like you deserve-”
His voice broke.
The sound surprised them both.
Tears came suddenly, violently, the flood gates opening all at once. Ilya’s hands came up to his face as he folded in on himself, shoulders shaking.
“I can still cry” he choked out, half-hysterical. “Thank God. I can still feel something.”
Shane was there instantly.
The fight vanished like it had never existed. Shane crossed the space between them in two steps, pulling Ilya into his arms, holding him tight like he might shatter otherwise.
“Hey” Shane murmured, over and over. “Hey. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Ilya sobbed into his shoulder, years of fear and shame pouring out unfiltered. Shane didn’t rush him. Didn’t say it was okay or ask him to stop. He just stayed, rocking them slightly, one hand firm and grounding at the back of Ilya’s neck.
A familiar weight nudged against Ilya’s knee.
Anya, alerted by the noise, climbed onto the couch and pressed her head insistently into Ilya’s lap, whining softly. Ilya let out a broken laugh through his tears and buried his fingers in her fur.
“Even Anya thinks I am disaster.” he muttered. Shane huffed softly. “She thinks you’re sad. Big difference.”
When the crying finally slowed, leaving Ilya hollow and exhausted, Shane shifted just enough to look at him. “Talk to me” Shane said quietly. “Please.”
Ilya swallowed. His throat burned. “It’s the medication” he admitted. “The antidepressants. I think they’re… doing this”
Shane froze. “You mean-”
“I didn’t want to tell you that I haven't gotten hard properly since starting medication” Ilya rushed on. “I didn’t want you to think I was…weak. Or that I didn’t want you.”
Shane pulled back fully now, hands framing Ilya’s face. “You thought I’d leave you because of sex?”
Ilya looked away “What else am I giving you?”
Shane went very still, hands still resting on Ilya's tear streaked cheeks.
Then he talked. Slowly, almost stern. “Ilya, I could go the rest of my life without sex and still want you. Still choose you. Still love you.”
Ilya blinked at him. “You would be unbearable with no sex” he said hoarsely. “So grumpy.”
Shane snorted, eyes shining. “That’s true. But I’d be grumpy with you.”
Something loosened in Ilya’s chest then. Even if just a little, it was enough to breathe.
They spent the rest of the night tangled together on the couch, Anya wedged firmly between them like a furry bodyguard. Shane’s arm stayed wrapped around Ilya, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against his skin, whilst Ilya's face was pressed against Shane's chest, breathing in the other's scent.
“We’ll talk to your therapist” Shane said softly. “Adjust the dose. Try something else. This doesn’t have to be permanent.”
Ilya nodded, nuzzling even further into him. “Thank you for not expecting anything.”
Shane kissed his temple. “I expect you to stay. That’s it.”
And for the first time in weeks, Ilya believed that might actually be enough.