Archive of Our Own

The first time it happened, it was an accident.

It was a hot summer day. Time moved slow, as if the clock were made of syrup, while the sun crawled up and decided to simply sit there and enjoy the suffering of the people walking on the burning ground.

It was hot even in Moscow.

Ilya had turned fourteen the previous month, and his birthday had come and gone with no parade nor ceremonies. Nothing was worth celebrating under their roof, and Ilya would lie if he said that he hated the lack of attention. The last thing he had wanted to do was wearing a mask in front of people he did not know and who did not truly care for him. Especially since the joy had left two years ago when Ilya’s world had suddenly lost all colours and sounds.

But that particular day of July was different.

The air was heavy, but Ilya was happy for the first time since he had seen his mother’s coffin being lowered and buried under tonnes of dirt. His father was out of town for the whole weekend. He was on a work trip to meet someone Ilya did not know. Maybe a politician who was celebrating their son’s birthday, or maybe it was an old friend from the army who was hosting a reunion of sorts. Either way, Grigori was gone for a few days, probably showing off the young woman hanging off his arm with a big diamond on her finger.

Ilya and Alexei were alone in the big house.

Despite being relieved at the thought of not having to sit through endless meals filled with useless chat and rigid politeness that felt like poison on his tongue, Ilya missed eating with his family. Even if Polina would never miss the chance to chastise Alexei for his lack of manners and his father couldn’t stand looking at his dead wife still sitting at the table through Ilya’s curly hair and gentle face, it was better than sitting alone for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Anything was better than the constant solitude Ilya had been breathing for the past couple of days.

But that day, something changed.

It was a hot summer day, and Alexei was bored. He was a few years older than Ilya, and he had taken the freedom given by their father’s absence like the gift it was. He had been spending all his time outside with his friends and older people Ilya had never met. He had come back that morning, smelling like a brewery that had gone on fire, and he was getting ready to have dinner out again. But it was too early to leave, so he wandered around the house in search of something to do. He passed in front of his brother’s room and stopped.

Ilya was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a book balanced on one knee as he tried to focus on the words blurring on the page. Alexei looked at him as if he had just remembered about his existence. Just like Grigori, he usually avoided looking at Ilya’s face. Seeing the gentle curve of his rare smiles or the way the light shone through his curls was enough for Alexei to feel his heart thump painfully against his chest.

“Ilyusha.” Ilya blinked and looked up. He had almost forgotten the sound of his own name on someone else’s tongue.

“What?” Alexei leaned against the jamb with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face.

“Do you want to learn something?”

Ilya narrowed his eyes and studied his brother’s relaxed posture. “Learn what?”

“Well,” Alexei raised a hand to scratch his cheek. “I need to shave, and I thought you’d want to learn. I see you’ve finally grown something that looks like a beard.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose and he bit his lip. He absently raised a hand to caress the facial hair that had started to grow on his cheeks. It was uneven and nowhere near a full beard like Alexei’s, but Ilya was proud of being the first among his classmates to grow something that resembled a stubble.

“I don’t know… ”

“Come on.” Alexei rolled his eyes and groaned. “You need to get rid of that poor excuse of a moustache. You look ridiculous.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true.” Alexei huffed a chuckle. “And I know you already asked Dad to teach you.”

Ilya averted his eyes and tried to will the heat away from his cheeks.

The morning Grigori and Polina left for the weekend, Ilya had indeed asked their father to show him how to properly shave. He had walked past the bathroom and noticed Grigori standing in front of the sink with white foam on his face and a razor in his hand. Ilya had stuttered his request from the threshold, and his father had only raised a brow as he briefly glanced at him through the mirror. The twitch had been followed by a smirk and a muttered comment about children trying to be adults. Ilya had lowered his gaze, apologised for bothering him, and hurried to his room with embarrassment lapping at his face.

He didn’t know if Alexei had witnessed the shameful exchange or if their father had laughed with him about the little boy who wanted so desperately to be a man. To grow up and finally be treated with something akin to respect. Either way, the inglorious attempt was not another secret he would have to keep.

“So?” Alexei was standing at the threshold, his smirk molten into an annoyed expression.

“What?” Ilya blinked away the haze of his thoughts. Getting lost inside his mind had become frighteningly easy. Sometimes Ilya was scared he would not find the way back.

Alexei sighed and mumbled something under his breath, then turned and walked away. Ilya blinked a few times at the emptiness he left behind.

“Wait!” He could already feel the warmth raising on the back of his neck and colouring his cheeks as he rushed to put the bookmark between the pages and follow his brother down the corridor. He almost fell backwards when he stumbled upon Alexei, standing just a step away from the threshold with his arms crossed, like a predator waiting for his dinner to stagger upon him.

“You coming?” Alexei smirked, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

“Yes.” Ilya straightened his shoulders and nodded.

Alexei’s expression faltered, and for a moment his smile seemed genuine and full of an emotion that maybe was fondness. Ilya was unable to understand the warmth of his gaze. It had been years since he had seen his brother smile or heard his joyful laughter. It used to be his favourite sound, so carefree and warm like the hugs he used to share with him and their mother. He really missed those days.

Alexei slapped a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, and he blinked. He was starting to sink inside his thoughts without even noticing. He swallowed his fear, raised his gaze, and watched as Alexei tilted his head to the side. “Let’s go.”

That afternoon was the best memory Ilya had of his brother after their mother’s passing.

He could still remember fragments of their childhood, images of his brother pushing him on a swing or spending hot afternoons running around while their mother sat and watched them with a gentle smile that never quite reached her eyes. Despite knowing that there was a time Alexei had been a good older brother, Ilya knew that their mother’s death had broken something between them. As if she were the sole bridge connecting their two worlds.

Despite everything, Ilya was happy that day.

He kept nodding along to Alexei’s instructions, and the two of them stood side by side in front of the mirror. He was almost as tall as his brother, and even if Alexei’s hair was darker and his features sharper, they looked strikingly alike in the cold light shining in the bathroom. For a few blissful minutes, he even thought that spending time with his brother was the cure he had been waiting for. The rope that would pull him out of the darkness that was silently growing inside of him. Maybe playing hockey and finding a friend inside those four walls would finally sate the emptiness slowly eroding his bones.

Sometimes he still thinks about that day.

The gentleness of Alexei’s hand as it enveloped his trembling fingers and slowly guided the razor down the curve of his jaw. They laughed with foam on their shirts and noses, badmouthing the woman who was trying to become their new mother, and trading tips on the best places to hide if they wanted to kiss a girl on the school grounds.

The first time it happened, it was an accident.

They were both shaving, and Ilya’s hand was firm as he pushed the razor against his skin. His brother was talking about a girl he was hoping to meet that night at a party. As he ran the razor over the curve of his jaw like his brother had showed him, his skin opened and burnt. Ilya hissed at the unexpected feeling, lowering his hand and staring at the red streak appearing right under his chin. Alexei stopped mid-sentence, turning to him with one cheek still covered in foam. His shoulders dropped when he noticed the minuscule cut on Ilya’s skin.

“That’s alright.” Alexei put his razor down. He turned on the faucet and cupped his hand under the stream. “Just wash it and use some paper.”

“Fuck.” Ilya’s eyes watered when Alexei touched his skin with his cold hand. “It stings.”

Alexei chuckled and dried his hands. “It’s nothing.”

He turned and grabbed some toilet paper, dabbing it against Ilya’s chin. He tilted his head away from his brother’stouch. The sensation was unpleasant and unknown. It was different from the time he had cut himself while trying to help their mother in the kitchen.

“Stay still.” Alexei cupped the back of his head, holding him as he dabbed the paper against the cut. When the small red beads stopped appearing, he nodded and hummed. He threw the paper in the toilet and picked up his razor.

“I hate this.” Ilya stared at the razor in his hand as if it had personally offended him.

It was an old one Alexei had taken from their father’s drawer. Its blade could be removed and changed, and the shape was different from the one Alexei was using. His brother had assured him it was the best one he could use to learn without getting burnt. Ilya finally understood how someone could get burnt while shaving his face.

He washed the blade and resumed shaving with slow and delicate strokes.

“You need practice.” Alexei put his razor on the sink and washed his face. He dried himself with the towel and then retrieved a bottle from their father’s cabinet. He applied some of its contents on his palms and rubbed them together. He then ran his hands over his face and neck. Ilya watched Alexei slap his own cheeks while grinning at him through the mirror. “You done?”

Ilya shaved the last portion of his jaw and lowered the razor on the counter. “Yes. I’m done.” Copying his brother’s actions, he washed his face with cold water and gently dabbed his cheeks and neck with the towel.

“Here.” His brother held out the bottle, and Ilya raised his cupped palm. “Now rub it with your hands and then put it all over the skin. On your neck too.”

Ilya followed his instruction and held back a groan when he touched the small cut. “Now?”

“Now we’re done.” Alexei stood back and put his hands on Ilya’s shoulders. “Look at you, Ilyusha. Shaving like a real man.”

Ilya straightened his shoulders and smiled at his brother through the mirror. He felt a warmth inside his chest that had nothing to do with sitting too long under the sun or eating too fast without waiting for the soup to cool down. It was a pleasant emotion he had long forgotten. Something nestled between happiness and belonging. He liked that feeling.

A shadow passed over Alexei’s eyes, the same one that always appeared when he stared at Ilya for too long. Or when he stared at himself for too long and remembered where his hazel eyes came from.

“I’ll be late.” Alexei looked at the watch on his wrist and stepped back, taking with him the feeling that Ilya still hadn’t identified. “I have to go.”

He walked to the door, and Ilya frowned at his reflection. Alexei stopped in his tracks and turned his head to look at Ilya over his shoulder.

“Clean everything.” He nodded towards the razors and the bottle of aftershave still sitting on the counter. “And don’t tell dad we used his precious piece of metal.” Before Ilya could think of an answer or even thank him, Alexei was gone.

Ilya stood there, blinking at the reflection of the empty threshold as he listened to the sounds of his brother walking around the house and then closing the front door. He was once more alone with the sole company of his mind and the emptiness left where the pleasant, foreign emotion had sat for a few idyllic minutes.

He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the edge of the sink while running the tips of his fingers on his cheek and neck. He stopped when he reached the faint pink line on his jaw and pushed. It was an odd sensation, something new and yet not unknown. He had hurt himself plenty of times before, both on the rink while playing hockey and outside of it while fighting other kids or falling from trees. He couldn’t remember something burning quite like that.

Ilya stared at himself. He blinked, and his eyes ran to the razor sitting on the counter. He picked it up and twirled it in his fingers. The surface of the blade was still damp with small drops along the edge, glimmering in the cold light like forgotten pearls.

Ilya had always been a curious child.

He used to follow butterflies and trip into the tall grass as he tried to see where they would hide, often ending up with bruised knees and eyes full of tears. The cut on his face had burnt, and he did not understand how such a thin piece of metal could cause so much pain. Ilya gently touched it with the tip of his finger and didn’t feel anything when his skin sliced open.

He was mesmerised as a thin line appeared on his fingertip. When he blinked, small drops of red materialised along the invisible cut, the burn finally reaching his nerves. Ilya watched his blood fill the gap and then absently lifted the finger to his lips. He frowned when the burning heightened as he licked the wound. The taste of blood momentarily filled his mouth. There was a small speckle of red on the razor, and Ilya washed it before putting it back in its designed place. His father had a bag full of razor blades, and Ilya stared at them for a moment before closing the zip and putting everything inside the cabinet. He cleaned the foam from the sink and went back to his bedroom.

That night, alone in that big, silent house, he lay on his bed and stared at the small line on his finger. He thought about the moment the blade had touched his skin. It had hurt for less than a second, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about the beauty of the blood gently appearing like small rubies adorning his pale skin.

It was nothing more than an accident. Curiosity had made his finger slip on the edge of the razor. He quickly forgot about it, and when someone would finally sit in front of him, look into his glimmering eyes, and ask about the first time it happened, he would not talk about an accident that did not exist in his memories.

The first time Ilya cut his skin open, it was an accident.

The second time it happened, it was for scientific purposes.

Ilya was still fourteen, and the days had turned cold like it only happened in the land of ice he called home. November arrived with freezing winds, snow-covered streets, and a new classmate who always sat alone. Ivan had long black hair that always fell in front of his piercing blue eyes, and his sole existence poked at Ilya’s curious mind.

An older girl said he had been expelled from his previous school for trying to stab a classmate. Someone else told Ilya that Ivan’s mother was in jail and he had moved to Moscow to stay with his uncle. A boy was sure that his mother had been arrested for killing his father, and Ivan had barely escaped the crazy woman as she tried to murder her only child. The rumours, however crazy, spread like wildfire, and soon everyone avoided Ivan as if he were surrounded by an invisible line no one could cross.

Ilya, who had learnt years ago that one can never trust whispered comments running through corridors and classrooms, found himself staring at the lone boy while also hiding his curiosity in front of his friends. Weeks passed by with the days turning darker and colder, and the summer with its heat and freedom was long forgotten in favour of a boring routine made of lessons and hockey practice. Until one morning a teacher paired Ilya with Ivan for a project, and he found himself sitting next to a boy who would soon become a dear friend. Even if only for a little while.

Ivan was nothing like Ilya.

He was quite short and extremely thin, with fair skin that made him appear sick under the soft winter sun. And yet, Ivan was very healthy and very funny in his own dark way, with twisted jokes about death and stories that made Ilya think twice about watching a horror movie alone at night.

One thing they had in common was the emptiness brought by an absent mother.

On one side Ilya was still trying to understand how to shape his life around the hole left by his mother’s death, while on the other side Ivan had long accepted that his mother simply didn’t love him as much as she loved drugs.

The sun was getting warmer, and winter was slowly leaving its place to a lukewarm spring when Ilya found out that Ivan’s mother was not in jail. She was secluded inside some clinic where she was being forced to heal from her addiction. Ivan talked about her absence with the easiness of a person explaining an equation, as if a mother giving birth to a sick boy after running away from home and spending the whole pregnancy high and under the effect of alcohol were as logical as summing or subtracting numbers.

Ilya had accepted the information without sharing too much of his own pain. He was still learning how to put a name on what he felt, how to talk about the accident that had not accidentally taken away his mother.

They were eating lunch together at Ivan’s house when Ilya saw the scars on his arm. He didn’t say anything, but he knew Ivan had noticed his gaze drifting to his forearm every time his sleeve slid down his wrist as he brought the fork to his mouth. They were sitting in a park when Ilya finally asked him about the red streaks on his white skin.

“It helps me.” Ivan pulled back his sleeves, and Ilya tried to hide the uneasiness that the view caused in his chest. Ivan’s arm was white as snow and covered in lines all scattered around as if someone had tripped and let them fall inside the meat of his forearms. Some were angry and red, while others were pink and looked soft. There were lines covered in dried blood, purple at the edges as if carved inside a bruise.

Ilya was almost fifteen, and he had never seen something like that before.

“How?” Ilya looked away from the butchered skin and met Ivan’s piercing blue eyes. There was a glimmer in them, an emotion that he often saw in his own reflection and always refused to acknowledge. A gust of wind howled, dancing on the trees around them. Ilya shivered and tried to push the thought away.

Ivan pulled his sleeves down and hugged himself against the cold. “My life has always sucked. The world is shit and I can’t do anything about it.” He shrugged and hid his face behind his scarf. It was red like the dried blood on his skin. ­“The pain is the only thing I can control.”

“And this…” Ilya waved a hand in the air. He uselessly tried to give a name to the enormous secret Ivan had just shared. “This thing you do...” He knew there was a word, a specific term for what his friend was doing to himself. The pain and the blood and the sadness. But saying it would make it real. So Ilya didn’t say it. “It makes you feel better?”

Ivan fiddled with the sleeve of his coat. "More or less." His eyes were staring at the ground between his boots. He looked so small and so sad. Ilya wanted to hug him, but he was also scared of breaking him in a million pieces if he sat too close. “I just… I need it.”

“Okay.” Ilya stopped asking questions, scared by how logical Ivan’s words sounded to his brain.

The conversation ended, and Ilya never saw Ivan again.

But it was not a surprise. Ivan had been talking for weeks about his uncle finding a new job in another part of the city, and he had already visited his new school. They were moving towards the north or maybe the western side of the city. Ilya could not remember the details. All he knew was that Ivan had no choice but to follow his guardian to a different place, somewhere that was close but that felt further than the moon. Especially when you’re almost fifteen and your universe ends at the corner of the next street.

That night, Ilya lay in his bed inside a house that was silent in the way absence echoes through empty walls. His father and Polina were at a gala, and Alexei had gone with them. He was old enough to be introduced to Grigori’s friends while Ilya was too young to attend such events. So he had been once more left alone in an enormous house that was slowly starting to feel like a prison. Small and claustrophobic despite the size.

The second time it happened, it was for scientific purposes.

Ilya could not stop thinking about Ivan’s words. It was the first time he had seen someone being so honest about hating the world and desiring pain. But it was not pain that Ivan was seeking, or so he had said. All he wanted was to feel in control of something in his life, and Ilya’s mind kept slipping back to the feeling of the razor against his index. The way the blood had pooled and then stopped when he had licked it away. The way he had been in total control of his own pain and his blood.

He got up and went to the bathroom. He opened the bag and took one of the many blades his father kept there and never used. Carefully, he pulled the blade out of the paper and let the piece of metal fall in his palm. He held it between two fingers, studying the edge under the cold light. It was sharp, glimmering with danger, and Ilya could feel the blood rushing in his ears and thumping inside his throat. He rolled up his sleeve and held the blade against his skin, on the outer side of his wrist. His hand did not tremble. Not much, at least. For a moment, everything was quiet. Quiet in the way the air is moments before a storm. Even his mind stopped screaming.

The cut burnt.

The blood started beading along the edges of his open skin. For a beat, everything stayed silent. Ilya took a deep breath and put the blade on the counter. He stared at the blood filling the cut, and he let himself feel the pain running along his nerves. He touched the raised skin, almost sighing at the heightened ache reverberating through his body.

The moment went like it arrived. In a blink and accompanied by the calm that reigns right after a storm.

A switch flipped inside his mind, and Ilya realised what he had just done. What his body was feeling and why.

With trembling hands, he washed the blade and dried it with some toilet paper, careful in not cutting his palms with the sharp edges. He cautiously put it back into its package before throwing it inside the bag. He turned on the cold water and stood in front of the mirror with his wrist under the stream. Mesmerised, he watched the blood disappear down the drain while the pain turned into the memory of an old ache. He dabbed his wrist and saw that the shallow cut was already closing. A pink line was all he had left of his shameful experiment.

Ilya simply wanted to prove himself that Ivan had been wrong and that causing pain to his own body would never make him feel better. Or in power. Or calm.

That night, Ilya was sure his experiment had been successful and that he would never think about it again.

Ilya met cigarettes a few weeks after he met the blade.

The first time he tried a cigarette, he was once again at home. Completely alone.

He had seen some of his classmates smoke cigarettes and cigars on the way from school to the local park. They would buy packets at a specific vendor, an old man who did not care about the age or the height of his customers as long as they had money in their hands. Ilya had seen some boys try a cigarette for the first time, and he had listened to and memorised the instructions the others would give them.

Ilya had always been a fast learner.

One day, after slipping a cigarette out of Alexei’s pack and grabbing a lighter from the kitchen, Ilya closed himself in the bathroom and opened the small window. He lit the cigarette and concentrated on taking a slow breath. The secret was inhaling the smoke in his mouth and then letting it slowly slither into his lungs. The smoke burnt its way down his throat, and Ilya’s eyes watered for a moment. He exhaled and then did it again. And again. And then tapped the cigarette to free it from the ashes, watching as they swam inside the toilet.

Ilya kept inhaling and exhaling the smoke, and by the time he was almost done with the cigarette, his stomach was burning and his head was slightly spinning. He threw the spent butt in the toilet and flushed away the evidence of his crime. He left the window open and went back to his room. There was sweat on his hairline, and his heart was thumping loudly inside his chest, both from the rush of breaking the rules and the idea of having found another way to erode his body and make the candle of his life melt slightly faster.

He had hated that cigarette.

The taste was awful in his mouth, and his lungs were full of lead. As he lay in bed with the odd taste on his tongue and the burn inside his throat, Ilya wondered why people liked smoking.

A few days later, he thought again about the quietness in his spinning head and the feeling of inhaling poison while he slipped another cigarette from Alexei’s pack. He smoked again inside the bathroom, and again he delighted in the silence of his mind while it spun after the first few breaths. Two days later he bought a lighter and a pack from the old man who didn’t even look at his face as he took the money from his hand.

A few weeks later, Ilya relished in the claps and smiles of his smoking classmates when he lit his own cigarette as if he had been smoking for years. For a few minutes, as he tried to school his expression into something neutral, his heart fluttered inside his chest. He had loved the praise and he had loved the affection even if it had lasted for less than a minute. He spent that night wondering how to get more of that feeling. More time with his heart fluttering and his head light and devoid of thoughts.

Smoking became a habit, and Ilya stopped feeling the rush of it. When his brother found out, he simply clapped him on the back and asked him where he had bought the lighter. His father shook his head and went on with his day, smirking with an odd light glinting in his eyes. Polina didn’t even bat an eye, asking if he had a cigarette and if he wanted to share it while she secretly handed him a small glass full of vodka.

The rush faded, and soon Ilya realised that it was not enough. When the itch came back, he found himself inside the bathroom in the company of a blade and the pain that kept silencing his screaming mind.

Sasha never asked questions.

Ilya quickly discovered that being good with his sexual partners meant they would never ask questions about his scars.

He was sure Sasha had noticed them.

It happened on a cold day, and they were hiding in the storage room right before practice. Sasha was on his knees, teasing Ilya with feather-like kisses and soft touches before taking him in his mouth. Ilya felt the moment Sasha touched one of the scars, the way his fingers ran along the line as if questioning its existence. But then his warm mouth enveloped his cock, and Ilya forgot about the well-constructed answer he was rehearsing inside his mind. When they were both pulling up their pants in complete silence, Ilya waited for the question. He didn’t know if he expected concern or disgust. He didn’t know what he was hoping for.

In the end, Sasha didn’t ask, and Ilya wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or disappointed.

No one seemed to notice his scars.

Or so Ilya believed since no one asked questions or pointed them out. He wasn’t sure if he wanted someone to acknowledge them and accuse him of being fragile and ill just like his mother or if he simply wanted someone to realise that he was in pain. That maybe he needed help.

When he was in bed with his fingers pushing into his fresh wounds, Ilya would imagine someone, anyone, hugging him and telling him that he was not a lost cause. That he was still worth saving even if he was broken. He wanted someone to point and ask him why he was making himself bleed. Maybe Ilya would finally have the chance to explain that the world was shit and he craved control. A say in how much and how often the blood poured from his skin.

But no one ever asked, and Ilya kept hiding under long-sleeved shirt, sure that no one was ever going to notice his pain. He was invisible in a way that forgotten memories are lost in the back of someone’s mind.

Until one day Alexei made a comment.

They were once again home alone for a few days, and for once they were having lunch together. It was just a bunch of leftovers from the previous meals, heated up and put on plates as if someone had actually made them with love and care. They liked to pretend someone in that house still cared for their health. For their lives.

Ilya and Alexei sat on opposite sides of the table, eating in silence and exchanging a few words as they passed each other bowls full of soup or a bottle of wine that should have been hidden in their father’s collection.

“Pass me the bread?” Alexei pointed at the basket, and Ilya nodded. “Careful with your sleeve.”

Ilya pulled back the sleeve without thinking and carefully held the basket over the pot full of steaming soup.

“Thanks.” Alexei’s expression twisted in confusion. “What did you do to your arm?”

“What?” Ilya looked down and froze. He pulled his sleeve over his hand, hiding the lone scar on his left forearm. His thighs had been too red and swollen, and the previous night he had slipped into the old habit of slicing open the skin of his arm. He didn’t know what to say, so he let the silence settle between them. He could feel shame lapping at his cheeks while his heart echoed inside his ears.

“Hockey?” Alexei tilted his head, munching on a piece of bread. “But how do you cut yourself like that?”

Ilya looked down at his plate. It was the perfect moment to say what he had been thinking for the past few years. He could share with his brother the fact that he hated himself. That he wanted nothing more than to disappear from the world without leaving a trace. That sometimes, when he was alone in his room, he understood why their mother had taken those pills to quiet her own mind. To stop feeling the nothingness expanding inside her chest. That at times he was scared he would push the blade too deep, and other days he wished he had the strength to actually do it and let his body bleed dry. Sometimes he fantasised about their father finding his body. He often pictured Grigori passing by the bathroom and scoffing in cold disappointment at the red stains on the carpet. Maybe Ilya would stop being a disappointment if he stopped breathing.

Alexei put down his spoon. Ilya's mind went quiet.

The silence that enveloped them was suffocating. The kind of silence filled with expectations. Charged with the weight of words unsaid.

Ilya lifted his gaze and saw the shadow of understanding obscure the light in Alexei’s eyes. He waited with baited breath for his brother to say something, to accuse him of being weak and useless. Or maybe he would worry and actually care for his wounds even if they were the result of an ill mind.

But Alexei said nothing.

Ilya saw his jaw clench, and then he picked up his spoon and kept on eating his soup. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just realised that his little brother was so desperate to feel something that he was resolving to opening his own skin and letting himself bleed.

Ilya’s heart was so loud he could hear it inside his throat. Inside his mind. With a shaky hand, he picked up his piece of bread and stuffed his mouth to stop the whine from escaping his throat. He blinked and stubbornly forced the tears back from where they came. One lone drop slid down his nose, and he watched it fall into his plate without making a sound.

That night Ilya went back to the bathroom, locked the door, and ran the blade against his arm one more time. He sighed and let the tears fall as he poked at the wound and watched the blood bead and run down his arm in slow rivulets of shame and self-hatred. The wound was shallow enough to dry but deep enough to leave a scar that would never disappear.

Ilya was sixteen when he learnt that he had no friend among his relatives. And that night he selfishly hoped he would not live long enough to turn seventeen.

Ilya never cut himself during the summer.

Holding back was hard, but he knew it would be impossible to hide the scars from the many women he loved to bring into his bed during the summer breaks between one season and another.

Years had passed since Ilya had stood in the bathroom with beads of blood crowning the burning cut on his wrist. Years of wishing for someone to see while mastering the art of hurting himself without anyone noticing. He knew how deep he could push so that the cuts would not bleed too much nor close immediately. He also realised that it wasn’t the act itself that would bring him relief, but the day that followed when he could push his fingers on the band-aid under his pants and bring back to life the delicious pain that would run through his nerves and calm his screaming mind.

Ilya did not think of it as a problem. For him, this was a solution.

He didn’t want to hurt himself badly enough for it to scar. He was always careful in not going too deep and letting his wounds heal enough so they would not be too visible. Too noticeable.

He simply needed the pain to quiet his mind. It was all about control, and after years of experimenting he could now admit to himself that Ivan had been right. The pain brought him the control he never had, and it also helped ease the numbness inside his chest.

But that summer something changed.

For starters, he was not in Russia but in Toronto. And he was not dancing in a club, nor getting drunk, nor having sex. He was filming a commercial with a boy he didn’t know but craved the same way he craved pain.

When Ilya had first met Shane Hollander, he had felt something new and different. He could not remember what the boy had told him nor what their small chat had been about, but Ilya would never forget the smoke in his lungs, the throb in his left thigh, and the feeling of light-headedness that Hollander’s freckles had given him. He wanted to ruin that golden boy, and even desiring him felt like the worst idea at the end of a very long list of bad choices Ilya could make. And it also seemed like the most interesting one.

Shane Hollander was poking that curiosity that made Ilya want to explore a different part of himself. A part that maybe liked the risk of kissing his coach’s son while his teammates were passing by in front of the closed door.

After that first encounter in Hollander’s room, Ilya changed his routine.

It had never happened before, not even when Svetlana had commented about his scars and tried to coax him into admitting he had a problem. But they were both Russians, and Russians never talked about feelings and mental health. Especially not Russian men who were taught to be strong and unwavering and incapable of showing any emotion that was not anger or resentment or disappointment.

But Ilya changed his routine. And it took him a long time to notice it.

After that first night, Ilya never cut himself during the summer nor before meeting with Shane Hollander.

The first time they hooked up, right after the commercial, Ilya had been worried about Hollander saying something regarding his scars. He wasn’t sure Hollander had noticed them with the darkness swallowing the room and the way he had closed his eyes while eagerly sucking Ilya off as if he had been starving for it.

But if he had noticed the lines dotting Ilya’s thighs, he said nothing. Not even during their next encounters in hotel rooms and in the building Hollander had bought specifically to not give Ilya his address. And Ilya slowly adapted his schedule around those fleeting bursts of pleasure, carefully letting his scars heal and never opening new ones in the days that would lead to a hookup with Shane—golden boy—Hollander.

He was only being careful, or so he told himself when he realised that maybe he felt something more than attraction for his rival.

The day Hollander became Shane as he orgasmed on his couch with the other boy straddling his hips, Ilya knew he had fucked up. The moan had slipped from his lips, and when Shane refused to kiss him, Ilya felt his stomach drop and his mind scream at him like it hadn’t done in years. That night was the first night in months that he took a blade to his skin, and it was only when Ilya saw the healed scars on his thighs that he realised he hadn’t hurt himself in a long time.

He had actually stopped and didn’t even notice.

Maybe he was getting better. Maybe he didn’t need pain if he could drown in the adrenaline of their dangerous arrangement. Either way, that night was the first of many Ilya spent in his bathroom with the sole company of a razor blade he had bought despite owning disposable razors.

Then Rose Laundry came along, and Ilya found himself back to being sixteen with throbbing thighs and a screaming mind. He often wished he could go to sleep and simply disappear from the world without leaving a trace of his existence. Never waking up sounded like a dream coming true. And sometimes those thoughts scared him enough to cry as he buried himself under his bedsheets, even if he had nothing left but the shell of a father and a brother who only cared about the contents of his bank account.

Sometimes Ilya wondered if his inability to put an end to his pain was strength or weakness.

He just kept on existing without dwelling too much on it.

Ilya was in love.

And someone was in love with Ilya.

Shane Hollander was in love with Ilya Rozanov, and Ilya didn’t know what to do with it. Except being happy. And trying to actually believe it.

He finally had something to live for. Something that was not a game to win nor a cup to hoist up above his head as he cursed all the people who had never believed in him. There was a person in this world who truly loved him, and they were planning a future together. A future that apparently required honesty and an open heart from the both of them.

The talk happened in the cottage, during the second week of his staying.

It had been a quiet day full of lovemaking, video games, and more future planning while they cuddled on the couch.

That evening Shane made burgers.

He had used a recipe Ilya had carefully wrote down after cutting in half the portions of the original instructions Shane had found the previous week. They were sitting on the porch, admiring the light of the dying sun reflected onto the surface of the lake. The silence was gentle. It embraced the air like a cover carefully draped on their shivering shoulders.

Then, something shifted.

Ilya had always been a perceptive man. He knew that his ability to notice small shifts in others’ behaviour had to do with growing up in a house with an angry father and an addict brother. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the gift.

Shane shifted again in his chair, putting down his burger and cleaning his hands with a napkin. He started fiddling with it, not making a motion to pick up his food and eat it. His eyes were lost somewhere between the jug of water and the ketchup. Ilya looked from his absent gaze to his twisting fingers and then back up at his fleeting eyes. He gulped and raised his brows.

“What?” Shane almost jumped off his chair.

“What?” He whipped his head around so quickly that Ilya wondered if he was imagining the sound coming from his vertebrae.

“I asked it first.” Ilya smiled and put down his burger. He took a napkin and cleaned his hands. “Your eyes are lost. You have something in your mind.” Ilya didn’t word it like a question, because it wasn’t.

Shane looked down and sighed. Ilya swallowed the knot in his throat and felt something cold pooling in his stomach. Despite their relationship being based on sex and not too many words, Ilya had learnt that Shane always needed a few seconds before speaking his mind.

“I wanted to talk about something.” Shane looked up and met his eyes with a mixture of emotions that managed to confuse Ilya. He seemed scared but also full of uncertainty.

“Okay.” They were sitting side by side, and Shane turned to face him. Ilya put down his napkin and did the same, putting his elbow on the back of the chair and propping his head on his fist.

Silence stretched for a few more seconds, and Shane sighed with a sheepish smile. “I actually don’t know how to say this.”

Ilya smiled softly and leaned forward. He put a hand on his knee and squeezed lightly. “It’s okay. Just say what you are thinking. Nothing bad will happen.”

Shane’s smile widened and then disappeared when his eyes fell on Ilya’s outstretched arm. He lifted his hand, and when his index gently caressed the faint line on Ilya’s forearm, he suddenly knew what Shane wanted to talk about. As if burnt by the touch and the sudden realisation, Ilya felt the urge to get up and find a place to hide. He wanted to flee Shane’s knowing eyes, the infinite questions that were probably jumping about his mind.

But he didn’t.

Somewhere deep inside his chest, Ilya was too tired to run away. After all, he knew this day was coming. Since they had shared their true feelings for one another and promised to be sincere about their thoughts and emotions, Ilya knew this conversation was bound to happen.

You can hide your scars from your friends and teammates, and even your family. But you cannot hide them from a person who has touched almost every inch of your skin.

Shane looked up, and Ilya saw a shadow cloud the light in his eyes. It was the same expression that had twisted Alexei’s face when he was sixteen. This time, however, the expression didn’t melt in a neutral mask of disinterest. This time Shane’s face twisted into something full of fear, and his eyes were glimmering with tears in the red light of the sinking sun.

“I wanted to ask you but I didn’t think…” He curled his hand around Ilya’s arm, putting his other hand on his thigh. He gently ran his fingers alongside the internal part of his leg, and Ilya’s breath hitched. It was not a lustful touch, and Ilya did not feel aroused as Shane slowly caressed the broken parts of his body. His warm hand was gentle, and his touch was a feather on top of his shorts.

Ilya felt his eyes sting and closed them. His heart was pounding between his ribs, and he felt again a strong urge to get up and leave. To hide himself from the eyes of the beautiful, perfect man sitting in front of him. Ilya tried to pull his arm back, to twist away from that gaze. To stop tainting him with his touch.

“Hey, no—“ Shane tightened his grip on his forearm. When Ilya looked at his face with fear and confusion, he saw his own emotions reflected in Shane’s eyes.

“I’m sorry.” The apology was quick, and when it left Ilya's lips it broke a dam inside his chest. The tears started falling, strong and unexpected. Ilya raised his other hand to cover the sobs that started falling from his mouth without his permission.

“Oh, Ilya… “ Shane pulled him forward, and they met halfway. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but Ilya let his boyfriend hug him against his chest, rocking slightly as he cried on his shoulder. Shane was still holding onto his arm, his fingers warm around his wrist, and Ilya hid his face in his neck while fisting the back of his shirt with his other hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Ilya shook his head in denial, hoping Shane would understand that the wave of emotions had taken away his ability to speak, to think, and to form a coherent word that would be stronger than the wails building up inside his chest.

Ilya took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “I—“

“You don’t have to explain.” Shane cut him off, letting go of his wrist and enveloping him into a crushing hug. "Just breathe."

They sat like that for a few moments, rocking slightly as Shane murmured sweet nothings against his ear. Then Ilya felt the pain expand all over his back and groaned while pushing away from the embrace. Shane let him go, and they sat on their chairs. Shane’s knees were bracketing Ilya's while their joint hands hung between their thighs.

“Hey.” Shane tilted his head and locked eyes with Ilya, and his heart leaped inside his chest. He knew how hard it was for Shane to make and keep eye contact. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Ilya shook his head and raised a hand to dry his cheeks. He quickly slithered his fingers back into Shane’s hold. “I feel… I have to say—”

“You don’t. You don’t have to say anything.” Shane shook his head and then bit his lip. “I just… I would lie if I said I never noticed those… marks.”

Ilya turned his head towards the lake.

The light was disappearing behind the horizon, and everything was slowly being swallowed by darkness. When Shane squeezed his hands, Ilya looked back to his face. He had wondered when, if ever, this conversation would happen between the two of them. He had imagined disappointment or even disgust. But Shane’s eyes were glimmering with pure and unadulterated love.

“Hey.” Shane smiled, and Ilya felt his shoulders relax. “I’d like… Can I ask you some questions?” Ilya shivered, and Shane felt it through his hands. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Ilya studied Shane’s face. When he realised he would not find any trace of dishonesty or mirth in his expression, he relaxed and nodded. “Okay.”

It took Shane a long silent moment to put together his first question. Ilya sat quietly in his chair, his burger forgotten as he studied his boyfriend’s pensive expression.

“Do you…” Shane locked eyes with Ilya, and his face glimmered in the darkening light. “When was the last time you did it?”

Ilya took a deep breath and lowered his gaze to their joint hands. “I… I don't remember. Some months.”

Shane waited for Ilya to add more. Silence stretched, and when it was clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, he nodded and squeezed his hands. “Okay.”

Ilya frowned at him. “Okay?”

“Of course.” Shane smiled and ran his thumb over Ilya’s knuckles. “You tell me what you want to share, and I won’t push for more. I promise.”

Ilya relaxed and pulled one hand away from Shane’s. He rubbed his bare arm, and Shane knew Ilya wanted to say something but didn’t know how to express it. As it often happened when he was extremely angry or lost in pleasure, Ilya had a hard time piecing together long phrases to articulate his jumbled thoughts and breathe them into existence. Shane waited patiently for him to stop rubbing his arm, and when Ilya finally spoke while staring at the darkening lake, Shane admired his profile. It was odd thinking of someone so strong and so beautiful being so vulnerable. Wanting to hurt himself badly enough to leave scars.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Ilya looked down at their joined hands and bit his lip. “I only want you to know that I don’t want to do it anymore. I won’t do it again. At all.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk.” Shane blinked, letting a lone tear fall down his face.

“Not now, but maybe… one day?“ Ilya added in a whisper. His voice was so soft and unsure Shane wanted to hug him and keep him hidden from the world. Safe in their sanctuary.

“Of course.” Shane bit the inside of his cheek and squeezed Ilya’s hand. “Can you just promise me something?”

Ilya looked up and frowned at the tear slowly running down Shane’s face. He lifted his hand and cupped his face, gently caressing his cheek with his thumb.

“Ilya.” Ilya blinked and focused his attention on his boyfriend’s words. Sometimes, he still got lost in his head. But he was getting better at finding his way back to Shane.

“What promise?”

Shane swallowed and cupped Ilya’s hand where it rested on his cheek. He gently lowered it and leaned forward, squeezing Ilya’s fingers and losing himself into his hazel eyes.

“I need you to promise me that if you ever feel like… hurting yourself again—“

“I won’t.” Ilya shook his head.

“I know.” Shane nodded, sliding his chair closer to Ilya’s. “I trust what you said, and I know you won’t. I just want you to write me or call me if you ever feel like doing something bad to yourself. Even if you only think about it.”

Ilya looked away, and Shane leaned a little bit forward. He raised a hand and cupped Ilya’s face, tilting his head so he could stay in his line of sight. “Just promise me.”

“Okay.” Ilya nodded and tried to smile through the emotions raging inside his chest.

“I just love you so much.” Shane took a deep breath, holding back a sob. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself… To be in pain. Do you understand it?”

“Da. Yes.” Ilya nodded and raised a hand to run his fingers over his eyes. He was so tired of feeling and crying so much. He had cried more in the past two weeks than in his whole life. But somehow, after all the talking and all the crying and all the feeling, he was liberated from a burden he did not know he had been carrying on his shoulders.

Shane leaned forward and gently kissed the corner of his mouth. When he moved back, Ilya captured his lips in a long, sweet kiss that was chaste and yet full of promise. Their foreheads touched and they breathed into each other as the silence started filling with the sounds of the night.

“Can we finish burgers now?”

Shane huffed a chuckle and sat back into his chair. “Yes, we can.” He kissed Ilya’s cheek while running his hand through his unkempt curls.

They kept eating in the quiet that was not absence, but peaceful company that did not need words to feel present. The wind danced among the leaves. A loon called in the distance. The darkness reached their feet and swallowed the last tendrils of sunlight. With their food gone, they sat in the quiet, and Shane turned his head to look at Ilya. Sensing his eyes, Ilya tilted his head to the side and lifted his brows.

“What?”

Shane shook his head and grabbed his hand simply because he wanted to. Simply because he could. “I just love you. Like a lot.”

Ilya let his heart flutter inside his chest and didn’t try to hide the happiness brimming under his skin. He smiled and squeezed Shane’s hand. “I love you too.”

The last time it happened, Ilya was scared.

He knew now that what he used to think of as a habit and a tool to feel control over his life was nothing more than a cry for help. A cry that had gone unanswered for more than a decade. A cry that Ilya himself had hidden out of shame and out of fear.

Ilya found out that many things can change in a few years.

He had left Boston and moved to Ottawa. He had stopped winning prizes, and he had stopped being a playboy who would be photographed with a different girl every night. He had stopped doing numerous things, and along the way Ilya had also stopped feeling joy. Feeling anything that was not sadness and loneliness.

It had been years since The Talk at the cottage.

The topic had been brought up, and Ilya had not been ready to share the extent of the emptiness inside his chest. And after that day, they never talked about it again. Sometimes Ilya could see the gentle way Shane would kiss his skin and smile when Ilya commented with faux frustration about him not believing his promises. They would kiss, and the moment would pass with Shane never prodding and Ilya never sharing.

Ilya knew he had broken his promise a long time ago.

He had felt the urge and never told anyone. The need came between dreams of his mother and an odd feeling in his chest that he had thought was long gone. But it had apparently never left. Not entirely. It had simply been dormant under his skin, hidden in his bones, silently waiting to make its presence known. To tear him apart one more time.

Ilya never shared his need with Shane.

Between games and commercials and the foundation, Shane had too many things on his plate. He was often so exhausted he would fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Ilya didn’t want to put another weight onto his shoulders, so he tried to hold back those thoughts and push them into a dark corner of his mind. But his strength was wavering, and Shane was starting to notice the sadness lingering in his eyes, in the way he was once again getting lost inside his head without noticing.

The last time he had gone out with his teammates Ilya had spent minutes staring at his bottle of beer. When Wyatt had clapped his back while laughing about a joke he had missed, Ilya had simply nodded with a smile and realised it was time to stop acting. That night he let the thoughts slither back inside his mind.

But nothing had been as hard as Shane leaving after the Halloween party.

He had come for just a few hours and left in the blink of an eye, taking with him the little joy Ilya was capable of feeling. After closing the door, Ilya sat on the ground and cried. He cried without making a sound. His body was so tired he couldn’t even find the strength to sob. He thought about the numbness he felt while playing, while drinking, while sitting alone inside the big house he had bought away from everything he had known and everyone he had loved.

He realised, that night, that he had become a ghost in his own life.

He didn’t remember going to the bathroom. Nor finding the blade he thought he had lost during the move. When the pain registered in his brain, Ilya saw the red bead along the cut through blurry eyes. He put the blade on the counter and held his arm, watching as the gash right under the crook of his elbow filled with blood. He was shivering, both from the cold and the fear running through his body.

That was when he realised it.

He was still capable of feeling something other than nothing.

The thought comforted him in a twisted kind of way. If he could still feel pain and shame and fright, then he still had a heart beating somewhere under his skin and muscles and bones.

He was still alive.

His mind was finally quiet after months of screaming thoughts. Maybe that was why his brain finally registered the depth of what he had done. The promise he had irrevocably shattered. The tears fell down his cheeks, and Ilya was too exhausted to even clean his face.

He cleaned himself up like he used to do when he was sixteen. He put his arm under the cold running water and waited for the shallow cut to stop bleeding. He stood for a long time in the bathroom, feeling his arm go numb under the frigid stream. The hot tears stopped running down his face and dried on his cheeks.

That night, as he lay in bed and searched for therapists in Ottawa who could speak Russian, Ilya realised he did not want to hurt himself. He wanted to stop bleeding and get better. And maybe learn how to love himself along the way.

When Ilya first met Galina, he promised himself he would tell her all the truth and nothing but the truth. He wanted to get better, and to do so, he needed to be sincere, or therapy would simply not work.

Ilya did not say anything about his scars during the first appointment. Nor the second. Nor the third. It comes up during their fourth encounter, when Galina finally addresses the issue. She asks the question with that peculiar way of hers that Ilya is starting to appreciate and admire. Calm, collected, and without fanfare.

“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself?”

Ilya tries to think about what they have been talking about. They started with his mother’s death and his latest thoughts regarding not wanting to wake up in the morning. Galina asked a bunch of questions and this is the first one to be met by silence. It fills the small room in an uncomfortable way. Ilya inhales and feels the words get stuck in his throat. His feelings are a hot balloon being inflated between his lungs. His chest feels funny and his heart beats faster and louder with each passing second.

Ilya starts rubbing his arm over his sleeve. He thinks about lying and lowers his eyes. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and fixes his gaze on a spot over Galina’s shoulder as he speaks in a whisper.

“Yes.”

“What did you think about?”

“No.” Ilya shakes his head, pushing his thumb harder onto the faded line of his broken promise. “I used to do it.”

Galina doesn’t react.

She notes something down and Ilya hears her pen click. It echoes in the silence that surrounds them.

She focuses her eyes on his face and he forces himself to meet her gaze. She does not appear disgusted or angry or sad. She is simply assessing the situation for damage, like a constructor looking at the cracks of his mind to see how to best fix the broken walls. He has to be honest if he wants these conversations to work. If he wants to get better and heal. He needs to stop being ashamed of his thoughts and emotions. During their first meeting, Galina had told him that crying was a natural response after years of suppressing a great variety of feelings and traumas. 

Ilya lets the tears fall, uselessly trying to put his thoughts into a straight line.

“Do you want to tell me what you used to do?” Ilya looks down and swallows.

“I…“ He blinks and takes a deep breath. “I don’t… “ He shakes his head, suddenly overwhelmed by the situation. Words are flying around his mind and he doesn’t know what to say or how to say it. Not even in his mother tongue.

He wants to tell her about Ivan. About the failed experiment. About the sense of control he had felt the first time he had seen the blood fill the gash on his arm. He wants to explain that it was not about the blood. Never the blood. It was all about controlling the pain he was feeling. About pushing into his wounds to silence the noise in his head.

“I am going to ask some questions,” Ilya blinks and slips out of his mind. “You can answer me with a simple yes or no. Is that better?”

“Yes.” Ilya sniffles and nods.

“Good.” He looks at Galina’s hands to avoid staring at her face. “Is this something that started recently? In the last two or three years?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Galina doesn’t write on her notebook. She doesn’t journal his answers and Ilya is weirdly grateful for that. “Did it start when you were a teenager?”

Ilay nods and slides his hand down his arm. He pushes the nail of his thumb in the palm of his other hand. The pain is grounding and it stops his mind from floating away. He thinks that he needs to find something else to stop his brain from melting into the fog of his thoughts. Something that does not require pain.

“Do you still have the signs on your body?”

Ilya blinks at the question and nods again. He can feel the tears fall from his eyes as he tries to vocalize his answer. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Galina’s hands are folded on her lap. They are firm and completely still. Unshakable, just like her voice and her presence. “One more question and we can move on. Yes?“

“Yes.”

“Is it something you are still actively doing?”

“No… I mean—” Ilya gulps around the knot in his throat and takes a deep breath. “I did it before the first appointment. I don’t… I want to stop. I want to be better.”

“Alright. Thank you for telling me.”

“I am broken, yes?” Ilya raises his gaze to Galina’s face. She’s smiling and he can see some sympathy break through her neutral facade. But she is not looking at him as if he is crazy and needs to be locked away. Her gaze is full of an emotion that is something akin to pride.

Ilya has often seen the same light shine in Shane’s eyes, and he had spent his whole life longing to see it in his father’s. He cannot remember Grigori’s gaze ever being soft and open. His mother always looked proud of him, but the memory of her eyes is now washed away by time.

“Not at all.” Galina takes hold of her notebook and clicks her pen, but her hands remain still. Her eyes are gentle when she smiles at him. “You have been through a few traumatic events in your life. It actually surprises me how aware you are of your own emotions.”

“Yes. I am very broken. I know that.” Ilya takes a tissue from the box sitting on his knee. His hand is already full of used tissues. He’s so tired of crying, but it feels so freeing. He’s so grateful he found a place where he can shatter without caring about appearance. Without thinking about picking up the shards of his mind and hide it behind a grin and a snarky remark.

“You are not broken.” Galina’s tone is soft and so incredibly patient. Ilya forces himself to meet her steady gaze once again. “Like I said, you are very aware of what the problems are, and you already know what you want."

"I want to be better. To be happy."

Her eyes wrinkle when she smiles. "And this is extremely good. I hope I can guide you towards it.”

He blinks away the tears. “Me too.”

For the first time since he met Galina and started with her this awful journey through forgotten memories and buried traumas, Ilya feels something warm bloom inside his chest.

Hope.

The last time it happened, Ilya was scared.

But it turns out that fear, maybe, was the wake up call that pushed Ilya towards the right direction.

Towards the help he always needed.

Towards the love he always deserved.

Towards the future that awaits him.