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Ilya Rozanov did not have bad days.
This was mostly because he did not have good days, either. He simply had days and worse days. He would call them “normal” days, but he isn’t sure if that’s the right word because he doesn’t think it’s normal to feel empty all of the time.
Ilya knows this, of course. Knows that he isn’t “normal”. Knows this enough that he sees a psychiatrist, goes to therapy, takes medication—all the things he’s supposed to.
But despite all of this, Ilya still feels like nothing has changed.
Most days, he manages. He wakes up in the morning and he goes to practice, not early but never late—always right on time. He goes to the store and buys food with the intention of cooking a meal, but always ends up either ordering takeout or, too often for his liking, eating nothing at all because feeling nothing includes not feeling hungry.
He is always tired, though. The emptiness gives him that, at least. It’s not the regular kind of tired, one that a good night’s sleep or a nutritious meal might fix. No, this kind of tiredness is heavier, as vicious as it is unrelenting, a constant ache in his body and his mind that has been around for so long that Ilya cannot remember a time where it did not exist.
On practice or game days, he lets himself be distracted by the flow and the energy surrounding him. He doesn’t necessarily enjoy hockey (he’s not sure if he ever has), but he doesn’t dislike it, either. It’s just what he does, and he cannot imagine himself not doing it. It’s the one thing he’s got going for him (besides Shane, now, he guesses) and he cannot imagine he would still be here without it. It gives him a purpose, something to hold onto, to keep him tied down to this world. On these days, he becomes the energetic, arrogant, apparently talented Russian hockey player that the world knows him to be. It’s easy, on these days, to just let go and be what the world needs him to be.
On days off, however, Ilya is not blessed with such a distraction.
With hockey, he does not have a set schedule, a set time frame each week that serves as a weekend. Instead, he has sporadic instances every couple of weeks where there happens to be enough time in between practice and games and traveling where he can actually take most or all of a day to himself. Ilya is grateful for this, because off days allow too much room for thinking, for dwelling on bad thoughts, for working himself into a corner of self-deprecation and existentialism that he cannot get himself out of. He is grateful that most of his days are too busy to actually allow him to sit down and think.
Unfortunately for Ilya, today is one of those rare occurrences, in which he actually has almost 48 hours to himself before he has to hop on a flight to his next game.
Even worse, it also happens to be one of the rare occasions where he has plans to meet up with Shane.
When Shane and Ilya’s whole “secret romance” began, Ilya’s depression was not as bad as it is now. Shane has known for a while now that Ilya has depression, but he also knows that Ilya is getting treatment for it—he goes to his biweekly therapy sessions (weekly is too much with hockey) and he takes his medications and he manages. Shane thinks Ilya is managing. Ilya also thinks he is managing. He knows, deep down, that the depression has gotten worse the past couple of years, the darkness creeping up on him like dusk at the cottage, but he refuses to acknowledge it. How could he? He is already doing all of the things he is supposed to, and instead of getting better, he has gotten worse. He is broken, and nothing in this world will ever be able to fix him. Not that he was ever whole in the first place.
Shane believes that Ilya is managing, that he is coping, that though he has depression that will never go away, he is living with it. Ilya doesn’t think that “living” is a good word to describe his current existence.
It is 12 pm on a Monday in Boston, and Ilya has plans to meet up with Shane for lunch at 1 pm before the two would come back to Ilya’s apartment to spend the rest of the day and the night together.
Ilya has not moved from his position on the bed since he opened his eyes at 6:42 am this morning.
Ilya did not sleep well last night. A more accurate description would be that he barely slept at all. He got into bed around 10 pm and initially fell asleep for a deceivingly blissful 2 hours before he was harshly awoken to an image of his mother on the floor, pale and cold, lips as blue as the empty bottle of pills she had taken.
The remainder of the night was filled with restless tossing and turning, brief periods of uneasy sleep interrupted by more nightmares, before Ilya eventually gave up as the sun started to rise and instead took to curling up on his side and staring directly at the white plaster of his bedroom wall.
He did not cry. His nightmares did not make him cry. They simply made him stare listlessly at nothing while his mind rambled through endless horrific scenarios in which everybody he had ever loved left him and he eventually succumbed to the nothingness and took his own life as his mother had, with a seemingly innocent blue bottle of pills.
Ilya blinked, and looked at the clock beside his bedside.
1:10 pm.
He was supposed to meet up with Shane for lunch right about now.
The thought circled lazily in his brain, but there was no desire to address it. His body felt like lead and his mind like a crackling ball of lightning. The incompatibility created a situation in which Ilya’s brain flicked to the razor blades in his bathroom cabinet and contemplated doing a not-so-great thing, but simply could not will his body to actually do it.
Instead, he stayed curled up on the bed, eyes on the white plaster, staring into nothing and everything all at once.
Ilya blinked again. The clock read 1:35.
Ilya’s phone buzzed, the screen lighting up to reveal multiple new messages that his brain deciphered as coming from “Jane”.
He did nothing, and remained with his eyes fixed on the wall, but his mind decidedly elsewhere.
Everything felt fuzzy, like time was passing rapidly and yet not at all. Ilya’s brain could not rationalize the passage of it, and his thoughts circled repeatedly, unrelenting in their intensity.
A war was playing out in Ilya Rosanov’s mind, but his body remained frozen, giving no indication of the chaos occurring inside.
The quiet of the apartment was suddenly broken by a loud bang, jolting Ilya’s brain out of its internal strife long enough for his eyes to blink heavily and fall on the clock. 2:15 pm.
“Ilya!” He hears a frantic call from outside his bedroom door, and after a few seconds, recognizes the voice as Shane’s, although it seems much more strained than usual. Ilya vaguely realizes that his non-appearance at lunch is most likely the cause of Shane’s stress, and that he should feel guilty, but he doesn’t.
“Ilya!” The voice—Shane’s voice—calls again. It sounds closer now. Before he can comprehend that the door has opened and that light is now spilling into the room, the figure standing in the doorway has already made its way to the bed and its face—Shane’s face—is directly in front of his own, eyes shining with worry and concern.
“Ilya?” Shane’s voice asks gently, softer now that his face is in view. Ilya does not move his head to look at him, but he has bent down instead, and Ilya’s eyes flick just slightly upwards to take in the redness of his cheeks and the rushed, uneven breaths coming and going through his slightly parted lips.
Later, Ilya will realize that Shane had run all the way here from the restaurant when he figured out that something was wrong. He had a car, but it was at the ice rink, and he had not wanted to waste time waiting for an Uber or Lyft when he was unsure of the safety of his partner.
In this moment, however, he simply continues to stare, now at Shane’s face, as warm hands gently cup his cheeks and caring eyes slowly but anxiously take in every inch of him.
Shane can sense that Ilya isn’t in a place to respond verbally, or even physically to him right now. So instead of asking him a million questions, or trying to get him to get up or even move his body just a little, he simply climbs into bed next to him and lays down. His body curls around Ilya’s, providing a grounding pressure that reminds Ilya that he exists, and a warm hand traces a gentle bath through his curls and down the nape of his neck.
Shane says nothing, just lying silently against his partner. His breathing slows to a normal rate, and although his heartbeat is still faster than it should be, he keeps himself calm and simply exists in the bed with Ilya.
Around half an hour later, Ilya blinks again, and the world comes back into focus.
He feels a warm body pressed against him, and remembers the lunch plans that he had so cruelly ignored. He tenses, and feels a warm wetness on his face. He blinks, and all of a sudden his vision is blurry again, but his mind hasn’t changed. It takes him a minute to realize that he is crying, silently but roughly, big, bulky tears streaming down his face and only seeming to pick up the pace the moment he understands what’s going on.
Shane must have noticed the change, because his soft hand slowly comes up—like he’s trying not to startle Ilya—and gently wipes his cheek.
“Are you with me now?” He asks quietly, painstakingly kind, low voice dripping with sympathy and concern. Ilya manages to tilt his head down just slightly, and prays that Shane realizes he is attempting to nod, but still isn’t fully back in his body yet.
“Can you talk?”
Ilya shakes his head from side to side. His mouth feels like the desert, a dryness that water could never fix, and his lips feel like they’ve been sealed shut with superglue.
“That’s okay.” Shane shifts against him, hand running up and down his back in a comforting motion. “It’s okay. We can stay just like this. As long as you need.”
Shane knows better than to push in situations like these. He knows that asking the logical questions of “Are you okay?” and “What‘s wrong?” would only send Ilya spiraling further. Instead, he simply waits until Ilya is ready to speak, hand on his back, body pressed against his back, reminding him that is there and he’s not going anywhere.
Ilya doesn’t know exactly how many minutes later it is when he opens his mouth and chokes out a word.
“Sorry.”
His voice is rough, muscles stiff from being locked in the same position for hours. Shane frowns.
“What for?”
“Lunch.” Ilya supplies tonelessly. He doesn’t have the energy to form a full sentence, but he knows Shane will understand what he means. Ilya stood him up, and he feels absolutely terrible and yet at the same time, can’t really bring himself to care.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Shane replies without hesitation, hand now moving from his back to intertwine their fingers. His thumb swipes along the back of Ilya’s hand. “Is it bad right now?”
Ilya feels a lump in his throat and swallows awkwardly, simply nodding.
“Okay. That’s okay. Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
Ilya nods again.
Shane takes a deep breath and lets it out before beginning. “Did you take your meds this morning?”
Ilya shakes his head in response. He hadn’t moved at all since he gave up on sleep this morning, let alone gotten up to take his meds. It dawns on him that he hasn’t used the bathroom, either, but he doesn’t feel an urge to go right now. He isn’t sure if that’s because he truly doesn’t have to or if his body still isn’t working the way it should.
“Have you been taking them at all recently?”
Ilya isn’t quite sure how to answer that. He settles on “When I remember,” voice rough, throat scratchy still.
Ilya can feel Shane let out a sigh, even though he tries his best to hide it. He knows, in the logical part of his mind, that he needs to be taking his meds consistently for them to work. It’s just that sometimes, he can’t really bring himself to care.
“Have you been feeling worse lately?”
Ilya stiffens at that. He doesn’t know. It’s hard to tell if you’ve been feeling worse when his body and mind have been on autopilot for so long that he doesn’t really feel anything at all. In lieu of a verbal answer, which he doesn’t think he can conjure up, he simply shrugs.
Shane doesn’t press, simply letting them sit in the quiet for a moment while Ilya thinks of a way to express the absolute void that lives inside his mind.
“I don’t feel much of anything,” he admits, voice barely a whisper. That truth scares him. He doesn’t usually feel this bad, but he also never feels happy. He never really enjoys anything that he does, not even his time with Shane, which used to be the highlight of his day. He’s simply numb to the world, going through the motions without bothering to feel a thing. He doesn’t mind it, but at the same time, it terrifies him, because he can’t imagine a way to get himself out of the hole he’s been dug into for far too long.
He feels Shane’s hand tighten its grip around his own, and lets out a shaky breath. “I just- nothing’s working. I take my pills, I talk about my feelings, but I never feel any better and I just don’t know what to do anymore.” He chokes on a sob and buries his face into Shane’s neck, chasing his warmth like a drug. “I just want to be n-normal.”
Shane suddenly shifts, pulling both himself and Ilya up into a sitting position and placing both hands on his cheeks so he’s looking him straight in the eyes. He can see that Shane’s eyes are watery now, too, and he hates himself for being the cause of his sadness.
“Ilya,” Shane says, firmly, but with a hint of desperation. “I need you to listen to me for a second. I know it sucks right now, and I’m so, so sorry that you have to deal with this. I wish with every ounce of my being that I could take away your pain. If I could take this load off your shoulders, I would. Nobody deserves to go through what you’re going through, and I’m so angry that you have to. It’s not fucking fair, not at all. I- I don’t know-“ Shane’s voice cracks, and Ilya can see that his eyes are shining with unshed tears. He takes a few deep breaths, hands still resting on Ilya’s cheeks, fingertips stroking his hairline. Ilya wants to comfort him in return, but he can’t bring himself to do anything more than stare at Shane as he continues to speak.
“I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know if I can. I can’t promise that things are going to get better, but I do know that I’m going to do everything in my power to try and help you. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll work through this together. I’ll be here every step of the way, no matter what, because I love you so, so much, Ilya. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I will never, ever let you go. So I’m not asking much. It’s okay if you can’t handle a lot. But please, let me be here for you, let me help you, let me in. All I ask is that you try, for me, okay? Because I’m lost without you, Ilya. I need you, so please, please just stay.”
Something breaks inside Ilya then. He lets out a choked sob and crumples into Shane, hands clutching his shirt, arms grasping onto him like a lifeline. Shane simply holds him, rocking them slowly back and forth as Ilya continues to sob into Shane’s chest. They stay in the embrace for several more minutes before Ilya’s tears finally dry up, though he remains comfortably in Shane’s arms.
“It’s going to be okay,” Shane’s voice gently reassures him. “I got you.”
Ilya doesn’t smile, but he looks up at Shane and feels ever so slightly lighter than he did before. “I love you,” he whispers, voice weak and crackly, but there. “So much.”
Shane smiles brightly, enough for the both of them.
“I love you too.”