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Shane is old hat at this, by now. He does not panic once he realizes.
It’s the final week of July, the last bit of true downtime in the summer before August rolls in with the first of the preseason preparations. It’s a time, by most accounts, for attempting to catch up on sleep before having to ration it for the remainder of the year. For Shane and Ilya to try whatever extensive, adventurous stuff in the bedroom they’ve been meaning to set aside the energy for before being swept up in the hockey of it all. For swimming in the lake in the dead of night, or for one more glass of wine. Indulgence and joy in equal measures.
It’s a time for remembrance, too. Irina.
The anniversary of her death is different from year to year, Shane always taking Ilya’s lead. Sometimes, he wants to spend it loudly, full of love and with the company of others. (Ilya will ask, shy still in this regard, if Shane will invite his parents over for the day. Shane is able to read between the lines on this one and knows he’s asking for Yuna, more than anything. He always says yes.)
Sometimes, the day is spent just of the two of them and Anya, their own little family unit. Ilya likes to tell stories about Irina, and Shane listens while thumbing through the small album of photographs Ilya has from his childhood. (Svetlana managed to snag it while visiting Ilya’s niece the last time she was in Russia and brought it back as a surprise gift. Shane watched the two of them sniffle softly into each other's shoulders with a deep set sense of fondness in the aftermath before giving them their space.)
Sometimes, Ilya goes quiet in a bone-deep, empty sort of way. This year, Shane knew now, would be one of those times.
It’s always a possibility, but Ilya’s gotten better at telegraphing his depressive episodes, and has (mostly) gotten better at communicating with Shane when feels something inching forward on the horizon, dark and heavy.
Ilya brought it up on his birthday, back in June (the Centaurs, two seasons deep into their retool since signing Shane, had just missed the playoffs). After a long day, sunny with celebration, Shane joined his husband out on the dock of the lake. They sat, drenched in the deep blues of the twilight hour and surrounded by the hum of cicadas. Content in silence.
“It will be rough this year, I think.”
The steady rumble of Ilya’s voice drew Shane out of his thoughts. “The season?”
“No,” Ilya met his gaze, “Next month. The end of July.”
Ah. “That’s okay. Thanks for telling me.”
Then, with some practiced restraint to avoid overwhelming Ilya with a million follow-up questions: “How can you tell?”
Ilya hummed noncommittally, shifting to look out over the water. Shane knows this means he has an answer and is turning it over in his mind, not quite ready to share. He’s getting good at this; he is not going to push. Instead, Shane reaches over to pull Ilya’s left hand into his lap, fiddling with the gold ring on his finger that during the summer months lives in its rightful place instead of on a chain, underneath a jersey.
A loon calls out in the distance, and Ilya does not flinch. His voice is thick when he responds. “Starting today, I am older than she ever was. Thirty-two.”
Shane sat with the admission, squeezing Ilya's hand to let him know he was listening.
“Age is hard to understand when you’re little, I think. Everyone who is not you feels ancient. I did not realize how truly young she was until now.”
“Sometimes, I dream that my father left her alone like he should have. She would still be alive.”
Something inside of Shane tugs, aching. They’ve walked this path of what ifs before, and he hates it every time. “You wouldn’t, though,” he whispers, moving close to Ilya’s side and resting a gentle head on his shoulder.
“Would that be so horrible?”
Shane’s not so good at this part, and probably never will be. He wrenches his head back a bit to stare at Ilya.
“Ilya.” Firm and gentle. Shane practices ironing the fear out of his voice for moments like this. It mostly works.
Ilya stares back before deflating, shoulders slouched forward. “That was mean. I’m sorry, moya lyubov.”
Ilya told Shane once that one of his least favorite things about depression was how easy it was to be cruel. Like poking a bruise. It hurts, but it’s simple. A shortcut to feeling something instead of nothing at all.
Once upon a time, Shane might’ve latched onto a comment like this, but it’s been a long time since he’s followed Ilya down that path. Grace is a kind of balm, though it is slow-going in comparison. Shane takes his time to parse out what he wants to say in response, and Ilya lets him.
“I’m sorry that your mom is gone. I’m sorry that you’re hurting. But,” he carefully begins, “I can’t- I won’t be sorry that you’re here. That you’re alive. Don’t ask me to do that.”
Ilya shakes his head once, twice, before bringing his hands up to hold Shane’s face to kiss him softly. Shane relents, just a little. When Ilya pulls back, his eyes are steadier than before.
“I won’t, again. I won’t. It’s just-” Ilya’s voices breaks off, rough again. The dock is shrouded in darkness now, though the stars are bright over the water and the woods and the two of them, tucked together. Ilya is silent for a long moment.
“I keep waiting for it to make sense. Him being like that. Her having to leave. Me being like this, still. It is exhausting, to wait like this. Every year I get older, I think, maybe this is the year I understand. Every year, and I never do. I think I’m realizing I never will. I want to stop punishing myself and the people I love for an answer I can never have. I’m going to try, I swear.”
“You will,” Shane said, because trusted his husband. “I’ll be right there, with you. There’s an answer you can have. As many times as you need to hear it.”
Suddenly, Shane remembers the topic of conversation that brought them there in the first place.
“And Ilya? The end of July can be whatever you want. I’ll block off the whole month, if you think we need the time. There’s no pressure.”
Ilya all but melts in the circle of Shane’s arms, forehead resting against his chest just above the steady beat of Shane’s heart. “I love you,” Ilya whispered. “I love our life. You know that, right? Whatever else is happening in my head, whatever else happens in our lifetime, good or bad or whatever. Those things are true, first. Always.”
“I know, Ilya.”
He smiled, then, letting the softness of his expression seep into his tone. “Reminders are always welcome, though.”
Ilya scoffed, raising his head to meet Shane’s eyes. “Who’s birthday, Hollander? Yours was the month before, don’t be greedy.”
Shane laughed, lightly, and crushed Ilya to his chest in a hug. They breathed in and out together, a few times. “Speaking of greedy-”
“Something you want, Shane?”
“Mom left the rest of the chocolate cake from the bakery you like when she left. I’ve been thinking about it, like, all evening. Want to go inside?”
Ilya’s eyes are soft. There is a weight that wasn’t there before; he is looking at Shane, instead of through him.
“Right now, there is nothing I want more.”
The night is quiet, and dark, but it is alive.