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It had been thirty days. Thirty days since Shane last felt Ilya’s touch. A calendar's page had turned since Shane had last heard his husband's voice break the silence that now suffocated him—calling his name with so much affection that Shane couldn't help but drown in it. Four full excruciating weeks had passed since Shane’s heart had broken into a million pieces and shattered to the ground, tearing away a fragment of his soul with every piece that fell, leaving him bleeding dry.
It had been an entire month since his world had turned bleak.
Thirty days since he had lost Ilya.
When he had found his husband—lifeless and cold—his entire world titled in its axis. It burned his lungs—his entire being—to take a breath. He felt terrified to move a muscle in the fear that the room would swallow his husband whole if he did so. It felt like someone cracked him right in the middle, all at once, suddenly, but also, at the same time, so excruciatingly slow, that he could feel himself bleed out slowly with every second that ticked.
It felt like his flesh was being picked apart with a blade, bit by bit, letting him feel his nerves shoot up with agony, letting him feel the anguish and the torment with every piece of him that fell detached. But, also, it felt like he was struck with something so sharp, so quick, that he felt no pain at all—his life ending before he could even process what it was.
When he had found his husband—with Ilya’s eyes staring into the void with the light behind them long gone—Shane didn't scream. He didn't turn away. He didn't run. He stayed, standing rooted to the bathroom floor—the same floor tainted with the crimson dripping from his husband's wrists. Shane's heart had bled the same liquid with every unwilling beat that it was forced to take.
When his legs stumbled a step forward, his vision had suddenly lost its hues. Everything turned into shades of a somber gray, but the aching red tinge stayed, pulsing against the dingy background, mocking him.
It was the same red—the one that seemed to bloom underneath his feet the closer he walked to his husband. The same dull, sickening red that filled his vision and seeped into his soul. The same bleeding red that stood stark against his husband's pale skin. The same ghastly red that took his husband away from him—far, far away to some place it knew Shane couldn't reach.
His legs had buckled, and his knees hit the solid ground beneath them with a force so strong that Shane had prayed that it would fracture him. Ilya, who fit right into Shane's world like they were made for each other, was laying motionless in the bathtub. Ilya, his husband, who Shane had so much love that it rivaled the magnitude of the cosmos, was lifeless in front of him.
Ilya—his Ilya—was gone.
He had cradled Ilya’s face with his quivering fingers, tracing the dried trails of the tears, the bridge of his nose, his lips that had worshipped Shane, the mole on his cheek, so gently, like he was terrified that Ilya would break even more just by his touch. His husband had gone cold. It seemed that Ilya took away all of his warmth when he left. He took away with him the warmth from his smiles that filled meaning in Shane’s days, the warmth from his eyes that kept Shane protected and safe, the warmth from his subsistence that kept Shane breathing and alive.
It was gone with him.
Shane's hands had shook violently as he tried to muffle a cry. His teeth had dug into his lips until they were stained with the same ugly red that oozed out.
It had been thirty days since Shane had felt anything but unbearable suffering. It hurt to close his eyes. The darkness behind them always got replaced with the sight of Ilya laying in the bathtub—his chest unmoving. But, it also hurt to keep his eyes open. It hurt to look around the cottage—at the endless memories carved into each of its walls. Everything he looked around at was a dreadful reminder of the life he knew he couldn't continue living, because his heart had stopped beating the moment his husband's did.
He could hear the walls echo with a bitter melody, like they were begging him to free them from the affliction. Like they could no longer contain within them the grief that seeped out of Shane with every breath that he struggled to take. Like they would crack just the way Shane did.
Sometimes, the ghost of Ilya’s figure danced in his vision. It was a hallucination that felt more haunting than comforting. Every time Shane reached his hands out to just as much as to touch Ilya, his husband would dissipate into thin air.
Yesterday, he had heard him call his name from the kitchen.
“Shane, my love.”
Shane had craned his neck to look towards the kitchen. He saw his husband leaning against the counter, smiling at him. Ilya looked peaceful, but his smile still didn't reach his eyes.
“Ilya," Shane croaked. His tongue felt like it weighed a ton, sitting heavy in his mouth. The same name that spun around it a million times suddenly felt foreign. “Everything hurts.”
Ilya’s smile had dropped at that, and his eyes filled to the brim with the unshed tears of sorrow. The next second, before another sharp bout of pain spread throughout Shane, his husband was gone. Again.
Shane had cried until he felt his eyes dry and give up. Until he had run out of tears to shed. His body ached with a longing so deep that he wanted to stick a thousand needles into his skin hoping they would numb him until he couldn't feel anymore.
But he still did, anyway. He felt everything and nothing, all at once. He felt hollow. Soulless. Then he felt overwhelmed. Devastated. There was a constant battle of emotions in his head, each one waging a war to leave him completely desolated and heavy-hearted at the end.
But there was one emotion that had conquered him thoroughly: guilt. It punctured his veins and circulated everywhere from there. It settled just beneath his skin—like a second skin. Guilt gripped his already shattered heart with the just the right amount of tension to collapse the last bits of it hanging loose. It grew ugly, sharp thorns, piercing right into his soul.
Shane felt guilty. Guilty for not being able to protect his husband. Guilty for being right there next to Ilya, watching what his husband went through, but still not being able to predict what happened, prevent what happened. Guilty because he thought that, somehow, his love wasn't deep enough, strong enough, to pull Ilya out of the prison of his mind. Guilty because he thought that he wasn't enough.
He knew Ilya would argue, disagree, and call him outright delusional for ever thinking that way—that Shane was all Ilya ever needed and wanted. That he was more than enough. But, right now, Ilya wasn't there. He wasn't there to tell Shane that he was wrong. He wasn't there to tell Shane that it wasn't his fault. He wasn't there to pull Shane into his arms and whisper sweet words into his ears. He wasn't there to be the blanket of comfort that he always was. Shane hated the reminder that Ilya wasn't there.
When the guilt wasn't eating him alive and let his brain to be conscious enough, he would hope that Ilya would find it in himself to forgive Shane. Forgive the love of his life who couldn't protect him, who couldn't keep him safe like he did with Shane. Like he did with everyone that he loved.
Life was cruel to Ilya. So fucking cruel. Ilya loved with all of his heart, like he had an unending, infinite source of warmth within him to give to the people that he held close. But what ultimately thrived in his mind for himself was the opposite of it. And Shane could do nothing but watch Ilya drown deeper and deeper—his hands never reaching his husband enough to pull him out.
Shane knew Ilya tried. He tried his best. He fought like a warrior, but warriors got tired too, eventually. Even when they fought with all the bleeding wounds, what counted was the fact that they’d lay perished at the end of the battle, with the only marks they could leave being their spilled blood. They fought, but sometimes, they couldn't win.
And Ilya couldn't win.
Shane could not even start to fathom how that must've felt like for his husband. Ilya—who always gave his best and came out with either a victory or a more polished, strengthened determination to win the next battle—had lost.
Shane had lost Ilya, and Ilya had lost to himself.
It felt cruel to put it that way, but Shane knew that it was the truth. The truth stung, but it did not compare to the burn from the guilt. Shane knew that by the time he would breathe his last—which he prayed would come sooner than ever—the guilt would've completely consumed him. It would poison him from the insides until he turned blue. Until he bled that same vile red that would haunt him forever.
Ilya had left him a note. Shane had read it over and over again, until every single word had completely burned into his brain. He would stare at it like it would bring his husband back to life. He’d clutch it tight and sob all night, because he knew that it was Ilya's final act of love. A goodbye.
Dear Shane,
My love, if you're reading this, it's probably already too late.
I never wanted you to find me in this state. I did not want you to see me in a state that I pictured a million times in my head. You deserve only the best part of everything in this world. Including me.
But I could not fight it anymore, my love. I tried so hard. Everytime I wanted to quit, I thought of you. And it made me fight harder. You gave me a reason to live, Shane. You’re the good in my life. I am nothing without you. You're my moon, my star, my entire universe.
I will always love you so deeply, like I always have. Even when I'm not there next to you, my love will keep you warm. My love for you is undying. And it will protect you and tuck you to bed on nights when I can no longer kiss you goodnight.
I'm sorry for leaving you, solnyshko. I cannot say that I did not have a choice. I did. But it was not easy, Shane. Leaving you was the hardest thing I have done. I might be gone, but I carry with me the ache that I left you alone.
Please do not blame yourself, my love. You are the reason I knew happiness. You are the reason I believed in love. You are the reason why I felt safe and happy. You are my home. It would kill me all over again if you blamed yourself. It is hard not to, I know, my love, but keep living for me.
Don't worry too much about me. I am going back to mama, and we will look after you from there. I will tell her all about you, and she will love you just the way I love you.
I will forever love you, Shane. Until the end of time.
I will rest now, lyubov moya. But I will always think of you. Always. You're always in my heart.
— Forever yours, Ilya.
Even if it would drain his entire life source, Shane would still wake up the next day. Because Ilya wanted him to breathe, to exist. Because Ilya promised that his love for him will engulf him and keep him warm. Shane hoped that it would.
When he would see his husband the next time, Shane thought, he would run to him and hug him tight, never letting him slip away, ever again. But until then, he had to keep living. And he would. For Ilya, he would.