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A gnawing, aching, hole was open in Shane's chest. It took up residency right in his heart, displacing the rest of what he held there to the back burner of his body. It's been a day since he slept, most likely even longer, if he was able to keep track of the passing hours he's lived since giving birth. At night, he listens to Ilya shush and coo at their daughter when she cries. He will hum a Russian lullaby and then botch the lyrics to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star afterwards.
It should make Shane's eyes well up with content tears, delighted at hearing Ilya be such a good father. Instead all the sounds do is grate like nails against his skull, making Shane shake with the need to make all noise disappear at once.
Most of his days are spent staring at his baby while silently willing her to stop crying. To stop needing him. When Ilya is gone, it's far worse. He can keep it together if Ilya is there, because he handles all the major tasks that Shane fears.
Even holding her feels impossible, as if one touch to a hair on her head then she is going to break and fall apart in his grasp. While it all comes so naturally to Ilya—he holds her, smells the top of her head and grins like he is the happiest person on planet earth.
Shane is trying to rest but the blinding afternoon Spring sun is making it impossible for him to relax when his eyes close. The baby is crying next to him and Ilya isn't even here to pick her up.
He's showering upstairs, but not before he offered to watch the baby while Shane showered first. Shane simply shook his head no, though he wanted to scream yes, please let me get away from this. He didn't say that, he didn't say anything else but an agreement to watch her while he showered. After all, Ilya actually deserved a long and relaxing shower without having to worry about Shane.
Shane's taken too much refuge in the bathroom these days, always locking the door—a new occurrence in their household, one in which Ilya has definitely noticed and been too preoccupied with parenthood to bring up yet—and ripping off his clothes in a hurry to get under the spray. The water dulls the sounds of cries and soothing words Ilya utters to her while scrubs his skin raw.
He's been transfixed with the way his flesh goes pink and red, the way it allows him to think of himself as human again. Like he finally has control over what his body does again. Not that it is an object, an incubator, a source of something for someone else.
There's a Centaurs game playing on the TV. Volume set at three, because any louder and Shane can't handle it. He looks at the screen, ignores the way his daughter is sleeping in her crib in front of him, and watches the period end with the Cens up by 1.
Troy is being interviewed at intermission and Shane is so ferociously jealous in an instant that he wants to throw up with the rage. Not because he's answering the same questions every professional hockey player has been answering their entire careers, but because of the sweat dripping down his forehead, the way his chest is heaving with exertion after his last shift. All the while Shane is stuck in this house, holed up and stuck like he's a kid again and not able to be seen with Ilya anywhere else.
Troy is saying something, Shane can't hear it because of the volume, but it's enough to see the way his lips spread around a smile that make Shane want to throw the baby toy he's holding right at the fucking screen. Instead, he turns off the TV completely. He doesn't want to watch the Centaurs win, doesn't want to see the joy and rush of adrenaline they'll all get from it.
There's tears in his eyes before he even registers it. Which is usual for Shane under normal circumstances, though lately it's happening ten times a day. His shower time is mostly reserved for the worst of the sobbing fits. Ugly, retching sobs that he stifles with the fall of water and a hand over his mouth.
What he has accepted since becoming a father is that Shane is weak. He doesn't just feel like he is weak. Maybe the way he used to think of himself years ago. No, he knows that he is weak now. He can't use his daughters name, or sing to her softly, or any of the normal fatherly actions that Ilya does with even unpracticed ease. Seeing his teammate giving an interview reduces him to instant tears. Pathetic and weak.
His chest is already tight with it all, tears coming down in infuriating droves across his cheeks when the baby starts crying. The sound of it rips him open from the inside, his gut instantly nauseous and a headache forming in the blink of an eye. It's only been ten minutes that Shane has been alone with her, and she's already crying. He can't do it—can't do any of this in the right way, the good way—Ilya is the only one who can handle her.
Or, more fitting, Shane is the only one who can't handle her. His parents love their granddaughter, their eyes were lit up with pride when they first saw her. It was the first time his mother looked at him that Shane truly believed that he wasn't a failure in her eyes. He created a person, a living, breathing human from his own cells, in his own body. So much of himself is what his body can do for others—win a hockey game to make his mother proud, his country love him, sponsors want to give him money.
His body did what it was supposed to do. It created a baby. It held the baby, carried it and delivered it. Completely healthy, no complications. If there were awards for a perfect pregnancy, Shane would have won a hundred times over.
Still, he doesn't want to pick her up and care for her like he should be able to. The cries are hurting his ears, the room is far too bright and Ilya is still upstairs. She cries harder as if she is begging for Shane to do something, anything at all. He closes his eyes, puts his hands over them to block out even more light and rocks himself on the couch.
The upside to not giving a shit about himself or what he is looking like lately means that he hasn't done any nail care in weeks and his nails are long enough to do damage to his skin when he removes his hands from his eyes to dig them into his legs. There's enough pressure and sharpness that there's specks of blood that he can see. Red. Even redder than his skin in the shower.
"Shane!"
Shane shakes his head. The voice is too loud, too fucking loud. Can't handle it, he can't handle it. He can't handle any of this. He's not cut out for it, it's not what he was made for. His body did it—created something out of nothing, but what else could he possibly be good for? Certainly not fatherhood.
"Shane, stop, now, please," Ilya begs. Shane realizes that he's gripping at his wrists with the one hand that isn't holding their daughter, desperately trying to rip them off of his legs. "Please. I have Sofia now, okay? It's okay, sweetheart, please."
"You have her?" Shane cries. He looks up through his wet lashes to see Ilya holding her close to his chest, safe and protected in her father's arms. Ilya is protecting her from Shane. "I–I'm so sorry, Ilya."
"It's okay, Shane," he sighs.
The baby isn't crying anymore. Because Ilya has her, because he is the one who gathered her up in his arms to comfort her. The air in the room has been all but sucked out, so silent that all Shane can now hear is the rushing of blood in his ears.
"Why don't you go clean up in the bathroom. Then get some rest, I will come to check on you when Sofia is back down for her nap, okay?"
He nods slowly, eyes drooping down to where there is blood under his fingernails. He is a mess. He is utterly ruined. Shane wants nothing more than to be able to kiss Ilya's cheek, hold his daughter in his arms and tell Ilya to finish his shower. He could wear a bright smile that shows everything is okay, that he's a caring and an attentive father. Maybe he just got flustered for a moment, but that it passed, and he can be good for them again.
That isn't a possibility right now of that they both know. Ilya must be so disappointed, unable to finish even a shower without having to intervene and save their daughter from being in the care of Shane.
Not only is Ilya caring for a newborn, but his own husband. Shane has been preparing for the day he wakes up and everything of Ilya's and his daughters stuff is gone, like they simply disappeared into thin air in the middle of the night. That would be the only option, really. It must be hard for Ilya to plan his escape when Shane doesn't sleep for long enough to gather all of his things.
"Okay," is all Shane says. He stands up, sluggish and disoriented as he passes by an exhausted Ilya cradling a peaceful baby that doesn't feel like his anymore.
He retreats to the en-suite bathroom of their bedroom, ensuring the door is locked before he stands in front of the mirror to take stock of his appearance.
Shane looks awful, though it's not like he expected anything else. That's all he has been seeing these days. The permanent red-rimmed eyes, dark circles, and a glassy not-all-the-way there stare in his gaze. The sink is turned on with the water as hot as it can go while Shane starts pumping soap to clean the blood left under his nails. He cries while doing so, tears pouring like it's bile coming up his throat.
His hands and thighs are clean but his soul is tainted, dirty, and wrong. He slides down against the door, making his body as small as it can be. Curled into a ball, he keeps crying, doesn't know if the tears are ever going to cease.
Maybe he will simply drop dead of dehydration on this bathroom floor. It's probably the best outcome that could come from all of this—if he is dead, then Ilya will be able to raise their daughter without the dark cloud of his damaged and unfit husband in the way. This is a horrible thought, wishing to leave behind a grieving husband and daughter. He still wishes for it nonetheless.
It would be better, though. He gave Ilya the last greatest gift his body could give.
Ilya would be unburdened, his daughter would be happy and loved without him. Even hockey doesn't need him. The league has wanted him dead the moment that he was outed. This is the solution, it has always been the solution. Only now is Shane able to accept it. He stands up with legs shaking like a deer skittering across a frozen lake to cross his way back to the counter.
There's no pills other than some OTC painkillers that Shane has ran through since coming home, so those won't do the trick. His eyes land on a pack of blades, unopened and waiting to be used with his safety razor.
His fingers trace the edge of the box. They are tempting him with the way the metal is gleaming and refracting in the harsh bathroom light. It's not like it would be new. Hurting himself, that is. The scar on his shoulder blade from when he opened the skin in a panicked attempt to breathe easier and also to punish himself serves as a reminder of what pain can do for him. Ilya still doesn't know the truth behind that scar. His mom doesn't know either, even though she was the one to take him to the ED.
He had told her, and the doctor, that he had fallen on a rock by the lake by his childhood home. That he and Zeke Brohman had been trying to learn MMA moves (not a complete lie—that kid had been obsessed with MMA and Shane liked him, so he learned the names of a few moves here and there) and their roughhousing had gotten too rough. His mom looked at him unbelieving but the overworked ED nurse patched him up without any more fret. In the end, Shane thinks the placement of that wound had saved him. Or made him much, much worse.
So, he certainly already knows the feeling of metal across skin. The way his brain would go quiet and there would only be blood to worry about. The pack of blades is open and one is in his hand before he realizes it. Harsh metal, soft skin. A perfect pairing. His skin looks so pale in this lighting that Shane is already imagining the contrast of a bright red running down his forearms.
A knock. The sound of Ilya wiggling the door handle. "Shane, open the door. Why are we locking doors, Shane?"
Shane holds the blade on the top of his wrist. Not enough to sear through skin, not enough to bleed. One harsh swipe and maybe this would be all there is. There isn't the sound of a crying baby anymore, or the face of Troy smiling on his TV. Only the urgent voice of Ilya speaking to him from outside the door. The rattling of the door knob is making him want to slit his wrists faster.
"Fuck," he cries. He presses the blade a little harder. Just to feel it. To know the only way out is a slash away.
"Shane, please open the door. Or please say something," Ilya begs. He can't reply and hopes that Ilya gives up, that he will walk away. "Okay, okay. I am going to try to bust door. Please stand away from it. If–If you are all there, please."
Ilya punctuates his sentence with a crack of his voice. In a lucid rush triggered by the sound of Ilya's wet voice, Shane pulls the blade away from his wrist. He places it back into the drawer and into it's rightful package. His husband is crying and begging on the other side of the door. He is ready to ram his body full force into an object because he has to reach Shane, because Ilya thinks Shane is going to kill himself.
He was going to. He was really going to kill himself. At the very least, he was definitely going to cause himself immense harm.
"I'll be right out, Ilya," he calls back. He clears his throat, hopes it doesn't sound like he has been sobbing for the past twenty minutes. "Please don't bust down our door."
"Okay."
Shane waits for more but Ilya does not reply. Taking one last look at himself has him dreading walking out that door, with his eyes even puffier and redder than when he cornered himself in here. He pads across the room and sees Ilya hunched over on the edge of their bed with his head in his hands when he opens the bathroom door.
"Sorry, didn't realize I locked the door," Shane says. He avoids eye contact, ignores the way Ilya is tracing his every movement.
"Yes you did. You lock the door all the time now, Shane."
He shrugs and lays down on the bed, curling up and facing away from Ilya. It doesn't stop Ilya from crowding behind him, his body flinches away from the touch on instinct. A sad sigh comes from Ilya and his hands retreat to his side of the bed.
"Shane… you," Ilya starts. Cautious, his voice lowered as if what he is saying is a secret. "You are not okay."
"'m fine," he mumbles into the pillow.
Get out. Get out. Get out. Getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout—
"No, Shane. You are not fine!"
Shane keeps his eyes closed. Squeezes them shut. Tries to keep Ilya's voice far away. But Ilya is so loud, he is so much, he takes up space in every room he has ever walked into. It was one of the first things he truly noticed about him, a thing that he used to his advantage at every event they've ever been to together. He resents it now, wants to be stuck in a quiet room without him.
"You are not okay, Shane," Ilya repeats. "Please, you have to speak to me. If–if you do not want to speak to me, maybe your mother, yes?" Shane flinches again. His heart rate picks up. He does not want his mother to know how badly he is failing. She can't know. No one can know. "Okay, no Yuna. Maybe therapist?"
It rips from Shane's throat. He has wanted to say it for the past month. "Get out!"
The warmth of Ilya's body next to him completely retreats. He doesn't see it, but he can feel when the bed fluctuates without Ilya's weight. It makes Shane want to go back into the bathroom and purge out everything he's barely eaten in the past two days. Eating has felt impossible these days, in a way that he hasn't felt since he was in his twenties. His stomach is in a perpetual state of upending nausea, like the guilt is trying to eat through the sinew from the inside out.
Ilya will hate him, possibly already does hate him, so he has to get out. No one in this house needs to be tainted with Shane and the nothingness he is bringing to the table. Ilya must take himself and their baby far, far, away from him.
"Shane, I can give you alone time. I can, but—"
"No!" Shane erupts. He quickly sits up, eyes dilated and wide. "Out of my house! Out of my life! Get out, get out, please, please, Ilya. Just go, just fucking go."
"Your house?" Ilya counters. His shoulders are hunched, his voice still low. He isn't fighting back, isn't trading barbs like they normally would in an argument.
"Fuck! Fine, get out of our fucking house. Get your stuff and fucking leave!"
He stands up and starts pacing the room looking for everything around him that is Ilya's. He tears open the dresser drawers, takes briefs and socks and throws them onto the floor. Grabs all the soft, love-worn t-shirts that Shane has worn to bed a million times and throws those too. Ilya is on his feet and coming towards Shane's frantically shaking body.
"Shane, you need to calm down." He grabs Shane by the shoulders and he thrashes to get out of the touch. "I do not want to touch you and cause you more distress when you are like this, but I need you to stop."
"Get out, please, Ilya. Get her away from me, please," he pleads. Ilya takes his hands off like Shane's skin has burned him. He steps back, one, two, three times and they're halfway across the room from each other now.
"You want Sofia gone?" he chokes.
"Yes!" he screams. But it's not that. He's crying again, God, he just wants to stop fucking crying. Ilya is looking at him with the most devastated gaze he has ever seen the man wear and he cannot stop the tears no matter how much he has tried. He can't talk about their child, the sound of Ilya saying her name so sweetly is enough to make Shane want to break their bedside table lamps over his own fucking head. "She's not mine, Ilya. She isn't… I can't do it. Just take her away from me, please. Or I am going to do something bad."
Ilya gapes. Shakes his head like he can't understand the words coming out of Shane's mouth. "You would never hurt her, Shane. You are going to be a great father, it just—"
"No, no!"
Shane certainly notices the way Ilya words it. He is going to be a great father. Because he isn't one now. Because he wants to kill himself to get away from their daughter, because he's trying to throw Ilya out of his life completely so that he cannot ruin them even further.
He storms past Ilya and thrusts open the walk-in closet, goes to Ilya's side and starts tearing clothes off their hangers. Ilya is of course following him, right on his heels, not caring that he's stepping on all his favorite shirts and tripping on the expensive shoes Shane is throwing his way.
"Stop it, Shane. I am so scared right now—I don't know what to do."
"You're supposed to tell me what to do!" he sobs. His chest aches in a way that he doesn't recall it ever aching before. He grabs his chest, tries to catch his breath and fails.
He collapses onto the pile of shirts he has just tossed out like they were nothing, right at Ilya's feet. He gets on his knees and wraps his arms around Ilya's legs. Ilya gets a hand in his hair, pulls at it, just tight enough the way he knows how Shane needs it.
"Ilya, you–you have to leave. With her. Please. I promise it will be better."
"No," Ilya whispers above him. He squeezes the base of Shane's neck. "We will make it better together. I cannot leave you. Are you… are you scared you are going to hurt Sofia?"
Shane shakes his head against Ilya's thigh where he's pressed into. "No, Ilya."
"Why do you want us to leave?" He urges.
"I can't say it."
Ilya removes his hand and a whimper falls from Shane's mouth. After untangling Shane's arms from his waist, Ilya joins him on the floor. He grabs Shane's face, brushes his thumb across his cheeks to gather the tears. "You said that I am supposed to tell you what to do. So I am telling you now, Shane. You have to tell me why you are trying to kick me out of our house. Breathe in, breathe out. Tell me, sweetheart. Now."
He gulps. Buries his face into Ilya's shoulder. There isn't a world in which Shane can get out of this conversation without at least a little bit of honesty. He can't simply say that he is fine and have Ilya accept that—he has to give him some part of the picture.
"I'm sad," he says stilted. "Overwhelmed."
"Okay," Ilya replies. Waits for more.
I want to kill myself but I can't make you find my body so it is easier if you leave me. "Just worried I'm not going to be a good dad. Not good enough for her or you."
That part is true, even if it doesn't begin to scratch the surface. Still he gives a piece of the puzzle for Ilya to solve. Hopes that is enough for him.
"You are always good, Shane," Ilya whispers, then kisses the side of his head. Kisses his ear, his cheek. "We will figure this out. Okay?"
Nodding is all he's able to do in response. This is the most he has spoken about his feelings, anything to do with him, really, since the baby was born. It makes his throat close up, his eyes burn with all the tears shed.
It's selfish the way Shane is clinging onto Ilya right now. He'd roared and begged for Ilya to leave him and to get their daughter out of his sight, he'd been cruel and unkind. Still, Ilya holds him. Shushes him just like he does with their daughter when she cries.
"I'm so sorry," Shane whispers into Ilya's collarbone.
Ilya just holds him tighter.
—
Somehow, by an act of God, Shane is able to get through three days without crying. Tears still welled up, his eyes still got that glossy shine and his throat ached with the need. But he was able to control it like he used to when so much of his energy used to be tied to trying to keep the vulnerable monster of his underbelly tied up. When he never let himself fully cry or fully love Ilya.
He's truly tried to get out of his head and not give into the demanding voice telling him to get out. Going for walks helped—Ilya pushing the stroller beside him and letting them exist in comfortable enough silence. Spending time to actually eat a home cooked meal is nice, too. At least he isn't the one having to cook it, because Shane had reluctantly agreed to invite Hayden and Jackie over for dinner after Ilya suggested it may be nice to see other people. Not just a TV screen, his husband and a baby that he is afraid he can't love properly. Ilya didn't say that last part but Shane still thinks that it was implied.
Hayden and Ilya are in the kitchen grabbing themselves a drink while the salmon finishes cooking. Shane's on the couch with Jackie, who's waiting for a fill up on her own glass. He feels awkward and unknown even in his own house, with people he considers best friends. It doesn't help that this is the most he's been seen in the last month. He tried to make himself look presentable. Normal, boring Shane. He even has jeans on and everything. His hair is clean, styled and longer than it's been in years. Ilya likes to run his fingers through it which has been a comforting bonus.
Jackie's holding the baby close to her chest, bouncing her softly. Shane has always admired her, wondered how she deals with it all. Four kids with a husband that is away or busy for most of the year. Sometimes when Hayden complains about his children he wants to slap him across the face. To be more grateful for how much unappreciated effort Jackie has to go through when she is home all alone.
Sure, Jackie and Hayden have access to childcare where they won't have to worry about a price tag. Though Jackie cooks six days a week, takes the kids to school and practices and rehearsals, all the while still making enough time to come to games to support Hayden. Unfortunately, Shane knows too, that Hayden is also getting laid on the regular. Jackie should be winning fucking awards.
"How do you do it all?" Shane asks suddenly.
Jackie looks up, smiles a confused grin. "Do what?"
"Kids, marriage. I don't know. Just seems really hard what you do."
Hayden floats by her to put a glass of wine in her hand, kisses her head and follows Ilya through to the game room. There will probably be yelling in about five minutes from them, complaints of cheating and measuring of metaphorical dick sizes.
"You're doing it too, now, y'know," she points out. She sips from her glass in one hand and has his baby cradled in the other. Shane ponders to himself if he should be worried about the position, but Jackie knows how to take care of his child better than him.
"Not really."
She quirks an eyebrow up, sets her glass down. Makes kissy faces at the baby. "What do you mean?"
Shane shrugs, sinks himself further into the couch. "Just that… you've been doing this for a long time. Being a mom. You're so good at it. I don't know how you don't have a breakdown every day thinking about all of it."
"Well," she cackles. "I've had about a million of those. Like, holy shit." She covers the babies ears and laughs. "Oops, sorry Sof, but I'm sure you've heard your dads say worse. When I first got pregnant and I had the first sonogram, Hayd was on a string of away games. The doctor looked at me and said 'oh, you're having twins!' and Hayden wasn't even there. I got into my car and screamed at the top of my lungs. Full ugly sobbing."
"Really?" he gapes. He's always seen Jackie as sort of this superwoman, juggling everything all the time. He can't imagine her screaming and ugly sobbing.
"Oh! And once, Ruby flushed my favorite mascara down the toilet. It got clogged, obviously. Which was already annoying, but at least Hayden knows how to fix stuff like that. But I was so fucking pissed at the mascara. Like, that was my favorite tube and this gangly little kid just ruined it. Insane, because I was barely wearing makeup when they were that young. Still, I just lost it. Actually, I can name about a hundred more stories exactly like that."
Shane feels that way every second of every day even when nothing is happening. Even when the baby is asleep and Ilya is holding him in their beautiful house and comfortable bed, even when there is absolute silence all around them. His chest tightens and his eyes immediately well up. Fuck, do not cry in front of Jackie, do not wail sob and just eat the fucking salmon and the side salads. Then you can go cry in the shower when they leave.
The oven timer dings and Jackie stands up, already ushering the baby into his arms. He flinches and rears back. Jackie gapes, now awkwardly hanging onto his kid in the middle of his living room.
"Shane, are you okay?"
The oven beeps again. Shane can't speak, his chest is so tight, his heart beating out of his chest. He can't hold his fucking baby.
"Shane, hey?"
A sob rips out of his throat before he can help it. It's been days coming, clawing up his stomach and his throat. The tears demand attention, normal, lovely dinner party be absolutely damned. He stands up abruptly and flings himself upstairs to the first bathroom in the hallway. It's a guest bathroom, well, it is for now. Though it will be his child's bathroom when she grows up. That thought makes him feel worse, has him falling to his knees over the toilet and trying to eradicate everything out of his body. He hasn't eaten enough today, so it's mostly water and bile. His throat is burning by the time it's all out of his system.
Knocks come quickly and urgently. Shane wants to fucking die, wants to stop having breakdowns on dirty bathroom floors. He can't even remember the last time he cleaned this bathroom.
"Shane?" Ilya's voice comes. Harsh, already choked up. Hayden says something too, probably from right behind Ilya. "I–I don't know, Hayden. Okay? He's been not doing great. I, fuck, we need to get this door open, now!"
Shane sobs harder. Everyone knows how fucked up he is. Maybe this is really the reason why Ilya suggested for Hayden and Jackie to come over—to show them how useless he is. See how wretched and awful he is at being a father, a husband, a friend, a person. They all know. He's been found out. It's somehow worse than when he was outed, or maybe it feels the same. It hurts, his chest fucking hurts, and he's going to die in this cramped bathroom. He wants to die, he needs to die.
"Ilya, breathe. He's just feeling overwhelmed. This doesn't help, got it?" Jackie warns. A thankful peace envelops Shane. "Shane, hey, I'm gonna send the boys downstairs. The salmon needs to come out. Can I maybe come in? Or if you want, I can just sit on the outside of this door. You don't even have to say anything."
Footsteps recede and Shane feels safer. He scoots back from the toilet to line his back against the door. He sees the shadow of Jackie sitting right outside. He opens his mouth, tries to tangle together a sentence but only a sob escapes.
"It's okay, Shane," she soothes. Probably has such a calming voice from the amount of rowdy toddlers she's had to talk down from a tantrum. He feels so young and so lost. "Being a parent is so fucking hard, isn't it? No one tells you how scary it is, especially right after they're born. They're so little. But so demanding and so fucking loud."
He nods to himself and grunts back with what he thinks is a yeah. Gulps down another sob and rocks his body to comfort himself.
"I, um. I had really bad postpartum depression after having Arthur. I cried every day for weeks. Blew up at Hayden every chance I got. I could barely look at Arthur… it's like he didn't feel like my own kid. I wanted to just wake up from a bad dream. Or, you know, off myself to make it stop."
She laughs, soft and self-deprecating. Probably doing it for the sake of making it seem less like a giant bomb drop. A breath catches in Shane's throat, but after he initial shock he finds it easier to let the breath escape clearly. Jackie, an incredible mother, someone he is genuinely proud to call a friend also looked at their own child and wasn't able to embrace the bundle of "joy." It felt revolutionary to hear from her mouth.
Scooting back, Shane then angles his arm upwards so he can open the bathroom door. Jackie looks shocked when he opens the door but still smiles at him, then asks with a silent nod if she can come in. He nods quickly back at her.
The two of them with their backs against the door stare straight forward to the sink. Shane relishes in the silence for a moment while he prepares himself to finally speak.
"You really felt that way?"
"Yes, Shane," she exhales. "And the thing is, a fucking bunch of new parents feel that way. It sucks because when you're in the thick of it, it feels like it's genuinely never going to end and that no other parent has ever been as awful as you. I mean, it—you feel insane because of it. Like, looking at your baby and you feel nothing? Or worse, you feel rage."
It's now or nothing. Jackie's honesty is so refreshing. So raw that he doesn't feel as scared to tell her what he's feeling right now. "I was going to kill myself the other night. Ilya was in the shower and the baby started crying and I freaked out. Ilya came in and had to scoop her up. To essentially save her from me. And that was it. I just wanted to fling myself off the tallest building in the world."
"Oh Shane," she says softly. Their pinkies brush and Shane tries so hard not to flinch away from the affection. "Does Ilya know all of this?"
He shakes his head and then puts it between his knees, his tears hitting the tiled floor. "He was trying to get the door open and I was, fuck, I don't know. Freaking out. I went out there and told him to get out, to take her. Get her away from me. He begged me to tell him what was wrong and I couldn't, god, Jackie, I couldn't fucking say it. I don't want him to hate me. I'm so scared every day that he is going to hate me."
"Shane," she says seriously. He cranes his neck upwards to look at her. "He is never going to hate you. He wants to help you. He wants to be there for you. He wants you to look at Sofia and love her the way he knows you will once you're in a better space."
"What if I never am? What if—what if this is it? What if this is just who I am?"
"It's not. Remember when Sof was born? Remember that feeling. Her on your chest, her little heartbeat against yours. The first time you heard her cry and relief flooded your whole body. When she first opened her eyes and looked at you."
"Fuck," he cries. His chest tightens again at the memory. When she was placed on his chest for the first time after the delivery. Ilya beaming next to him, watching him drink in his husband and his new perfect baby. "She was so beautiful. A little slimy, but so beautiful."
"Exactly!" she laughs wetly.
"Jackie, I can't even say her name most days," he admits into the air. "It feels… wrong. Like I shouldn't even be allowed to say it."
Jackie just nods. "That's okay. You're just scared. It all feels so too real, but also like sort of a waking nightmare, yeah?"
"Yeah," he agrees. He takes a deep breath out. "How the hell do I be normal now?"
"Not super easy, but, therapy. Medication helped me. Talking. Seriously, like, you have to get it out somehow. You can't just be holed up in a bathroom crying. 'Cause that's what I did. I didn't want Hayden to think I was a bad mom. Didn't want my own mom to see how much I was struggling. But once I got it all out, things got easier. Shitty answer, I guess, but it's true."
He nods and breathes in shakily. "Okay, fuck, okay. Yeah. Shit. This really fucking sucks, Jackie."
They both pull themselves up off the cold bathroom floor and Shane grabs her in the tightest hug he can. She hugs back just as hard. They stay like that for a few minutes as Shane's tears subside and breathing returns to normal.
"Thank you so fucking much," he says. His voice finally isn't shaking and he needs her to know that she just possibly saved his life.
"Of course, Shane. Listen, I know dudes don't really talk about their feelings, so I don't really expect you to have Hayden on speed dial when you need some comfort, but he's there for you. So am I. Like, seriously, any time of day or night. Just fuckin' call me, and I will answer as soon as I see it. Okay?"
"Okay," he agrees.
—
Once Jackie and Hayden leave, the door is locked for the night, and all the salmon that was barely eaten packed away in tupperware, Shane is expecting Ilya to pounce on him immediately to tell him everything.
He doesn't. He sits in the nursery and watches their child sleep and Shane watches him from the doorway. Blond curls messy and sweaty from the evening and the probably one and a half beers he had. When he gets really into a story, he's always waving his hands around and then running them through his hair. He looks so wistful, or sad, as he gazes at the baby.
Shane's heart breaks all over again taking them both in. So beautiful, so beloved. He wishes he could do this all over again and get it right.
"Hey," he croaks.
Ilya immediately whips around to look at him. He smiles bright and crosses over, leading them both out of the nursery and into the dim yellow hallway light. Ilya looks him over, eyes passing over his tear-streaked cheeks and bitten lips.
"Sweetheart," he breaks and falls into Shane's chest, arms quickly going to wrap around his waist. "I am so sorry."
"For what?"
"I don't know." He pulls back, tears in his eyes this time. He brushes his knuckles against Shane's nose, cheeks and then his lips. "For not being there for you. I know you were struggling. I–I did not know how to help. I thought you needed time, or, I don't know. I don't know what you needed and I never really asked. I am so sorry."
"Thank you," he says softly. He can't help it, he needs it, really and so he kisses Ilya. Chaste. Soft and simple. It heals something in him every time. "And of course I forgive you, Ilya. But um, you should know. I'm not fine, I'm not just a little sad or overwhelmed, Ilya."
Ilya nods and squeezes Shane's hips, encouraging him to keep speaking.
"I am depressed. I think I'm, uh," he pauses. He thinks to the advice Jackie said before she left. Say bluntly and exactly what you are feeling. Ilya will be scared, especially with, you know, his mom's history. But he will be all the more glad to know before anything happens. Just tell him. "No, I know, that I am pretty… suicidal right now."
"Fuck, Shane, no, no."
"Ilya," he warns. Gets Ilya's face between his hands and forces himself to make the eye contact. "I'm really fucking messed up right now. And so much of this is because it fucking hurts to say all of this out loud. To put a name to it or something. But it's hurting me and us… and it will hurt her."
"Sofia? It will hurt her?"
"Yes," he agrees and nods, mostly for his own peace of mind. "So, I'm not, uh telling you this to hurt you now. I just needed to say it. It will help prevent the hurt… later, I think. And I also think this is all I can say tonight, because I'm fucking exhausted and I'm so sad that my fucking bones hurt. I really would just like to lay down with you and not talk about… all of this right now. But tomorrow. We make an appointment."
"Yes, my love," Ilya says and kisses Shane again.
The kiss tastes like tears. Both of their tears this time. Shane hasn't even realized until tonight how deeply touch-starved he's been. The feel of Ilya around him, the smell of his cologne and their laundry detergent, the slight tickly feeling of Ilya's curls on his forehead. It all threatens to make him break down a million times over again, but because of how wonderful it makes all of his senses behave.
"God, I fucking miss you, baby," he cries. Ilya lifts him by the thighs and carries him all the way to their bed.
"I'm right here," Ilya says once their both snuggled into each other in the middle of the mattress. He kisses Shane's eyelids and goes to lay atop his chest. "I'm so sorry I wasn't before."
"You were, Ilya, I just didn't want to. Fuck, I just didn't want to let you in."
"I'm in now, okay? I am all in. You understand?" Ilya peers over Shane's chest to look directly into his eyes. Shane idly scratches at Ilya's scalp and delights in hearing the deep breaths he's taking below him. "And if I'm all in, then you have to promise me something. You tell me when you need me, what you need from me and I give you. I give you everything. I will steal the fucking moon for you."
"I know, baby."
Ilya inhales deeply right into the crease of his armpit. Shane even lets himself laugh at the sight, but ultimately it makes him stomach all gooey with love. Ilya loves him so, so much. Even when he's failing.
"I really, um," he starts. One last hurdle. Remembers Jackie's words again. Sofia isn't for anyone else. She is yours and Ilya's. When you say her name, it's not because you're talking to a doctor or your mom. Or fucking whatever. She's your baby. Say your baby's name. When it's just you and Ilya. "I want to get better. For… for me, for you. This family. For Sofia. Okay?"
Ilya squeezes him impossibly tighter and Shane has never been more thankful that Ilya stayed quiet. Let the sentiment rest and fade out into the air. His husband holds him all night, lets him sleep and wakes him in the morning with breakfast and his beautiful, sleepy little Sofia.