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The bed creaks as their weight settles on the mattress. Shane shifts in Ilya’s lap and moans as Ilya’s fingers dig deliciously into the skin of his ass. Their mouths are moving against each other in a heated motion, tongues clashing. Shane moves his own hands under Ilya’s boxers, and he caresses the skin while bringing him impossibly closer, seeking friction. Under his fingertips, he feels lines, and for a second, he focuses on feeling them out. He recognizes them, they feel like…
“What is that?” He asks, moving away from Ilya’s lips, turning his head.
“What?” Ilya asks while chasing after him, still oblivious to the storm running through Shane's mind.
“Your hips.” Shane doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn't need to. The two words are enough to make Ilya freeze.
“What about them? ” He asks, trying to sound nonchalant, but Shane can feel the tremor under his skin.
“Ilya.” He warns.
“Come on.” Ilya tries to distract him and grinds against his crotch. “Let me kiss you.” He asks, panting, but all the desire has already bled out of Shane.
“Ilya.” He repeats, this time softer. Ilya’s eyes reflect the soft light of the lamp, they are glistening, but his stare is fierce. “Did you cut yourself?” He asks because there is no way around it.
“No, what do you mean?” He casually questions, but his voice reveals the anxiety coursing through him. It makes Shane’s chest ache, but he pushes on.
“I mean.” He clarifies. “I can feel the fresh scars on your skin.” And suddenly, Ilya’s body is no longer plastered against his. The cold makes him shiver.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The defensive tone is so unlike Ilya, his usual confidence gone.
“Let me see it.” Shane moves to get closer and reaches out to push the material of the boxers down and see for himself. Before he gets the chance to touch him, Ilya slaps his hand away and pushes himself off the bed.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” His chest is rising up and down rapidly, and he looks like a wild animal, cornered and with no way to run.
“If there is nothing there, why won't you let me see?” Shane asks, anger seeping into the caring words. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
“Well, maybe you don’t mean much to me, ever thought about that?” It hurts to hear it, even when he knows Ilya’s saying it on purpose. Maybe knowing that makes it hurt even more.
“What?” His eyes are suddenly blurry, but he fights to hold back the tears. “You don’t mean that, Ilya.”
“Oh, because you always know fucking everything.” This time, he sounds condescending and much less fragile. He knows his defence tactic is working.
“Fuck you.” Shane rushes out, meaning to sound angry, but the words come out wet, laced with tears.
“Fuck you too.” Ilya, on the other hand, sounds victorious.
“Ilya, please.” It’s his one last attempt at getting through the high walls Ilya’s put up.
“What the fuck do you want, Hollander?” It’s like he’s tired of the conversation.
“Talk, I just want to talk.” Shane pleads, hoping to get through to him. “Please.” It scares him how much he seems to care, but he pushes that thought down. Now’s not the time to dissect his own feelings.
“Go talk to someone then. Fuck.” The cold words act as a bucket of ice, and Shane whimpers as the tears finally fall down his cheeks. “Why do you have to be so needy?” Ilya continues, adding salt to Shane's already wounded heart.
“I know you’re hurting me on purpose, but I have my limit too, you know?” Shane manages to get out and waits for a response that never comes. “Fine, if you want me gone, I’ll go.” And with that, he gets dressed and steps out into the cold night. If Ilya's willing to hurt him to hide his pain, then fine, so be it.
A few days pass, and Shane is going crazy with worry. He wants so badly to be strong enough not to come crawling back, but with Ilya, he's always been on the losing end.
“What am I even doing?” He speaks lowly as he finds himself in front of Ilya's apartment, already punching in the code he knows by heart. The door clicks open, and he steps inside. It’s eerily empty, and goosebumps cover his skin.
“Ilya?” He mutters into the ether and waits for a reply that never comes. The place looks just like always. He touches a cup left on the counter and feels the warmth; it’s still full of Ilya’s favourite tea. The one he always drinks when he feels uneasy, says it calms his nerves. Why would he brew tea and then leave? Is he pretending he’s not here, adamant to ignore him? “Ilya!” He calls out again, this time a little more desperate. He looks at the place again and sees Ilya’s shoes and jacket placed near the entrance. His car keys are in the basket, and looking further, he notices Ilya’s phone on the coffee table, lying there, abandoned.
“Ilya, I know you’re here.” He speaks into the empty space, but still, only silence greets him. He leans against the wall and exhales, running cold fingers over his face. “I’m sorry. I know I can be a bit much sometimes, but it’s only because… I got worried.” He admits, hoping Ilya is there somewhere, listening. “I mean fuck, Ilya. Maybe it’s not my place to meddle, but I really, really need to know you’re okay, that you aren’t just… coping while doing that to yourself. I know we’re not anything, but still, I’m on your side. You’ve got me, whenever you need to talk.” He waits for a few seconds, but the apartment stays ominously quiet. “Fine, you can ignore me if you want. You know where to find me when you wanna talk.” And with a sigh, he stands upright, already on his way out.
He spares the apartment one last glance, and a heavy weight settles in his stomach. What if.. What if Ilya… Both the bathroom and Ilya’s bedroom door are closed, and Shane’s brain goes into overdrive. What if he’s not answering not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t? It’s a ridiculous thought, but just for peace of mind, Shane decides to check, see if Ilya’s really there.
With a trembling hand, he reaches out to touch the bathroom’s doorknob, the metal feels cold under his fingers. Exhaling, he turns it and pushes the door open, eyes squeezed shut, afraid of what they might witness. Slowly, he opens them, and his knees go weak. The bathroom’s white, clean, and empty. Ilya’s not there. “Thank god. Fuck. Thank god.” Shane rushes out, voice laced with unshed tears. Breathing in deep, he stands back up and tentatively makes his way toward the bedroom. This time, his moves are more confident. He turns the knob and steps inside, halting at the metallic smell that hits his nose. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something red, and when he turns, the sight makes him scream.
Frozen in place, he stares at the scene before him and hopes he wakes up from this nightmare, because this cannot be real. There is no way his Ilya, the one he clearly cares more about than he allows himself to admit, is lying right in front of him, surrounded in blood. So much blood. Bile rises in his throat, and that finally makes him move.
“Ilya!” He shouts, running over to him. As he gets closer, he sees the source of the blood. Ilya’s arms are both cut open, gruesomely deep, clearly self-inflicted. Tears spring to his eyes, and he retches at the sight. “Ilya! Fuck!” In a moment of clarity, he picks up some shirts and presses them to Ilya’s arms. “What have you done?” The blood keeps on pouring out, but maybe that’s good, maybe that means his heart’s still beating. He’s still alive. Shaking, he reaches for his back pocket, takes out his phone, and for the first time in his life, he calls the emergency number. He puts it on speaker and goes back to pressing on Ilya’s arms. A few seconds pass, and then a voice.
“911, what’s your emergency?” The person on the other side asks, and Shane feels the tiniest bit of relief; he’s not in this alone.
“My fr-” He stutters and curses his brain for not cooperating. “My friend, he- fuck.” His lungs can’t seem to expand, and he cannot get the words out.
“What’s your name?” He hears through the speaker and tries to answer.
“Shane.” He manages to get out and wheezes as his airway starts to feel smaller and smaller.
“Shane, listen to me. You can do it. Whatever it is, you have to tell me so I can help. Breathe in and out. Come on. Shane, do you hear me?” The dispatcher speaks, and Shane follows their instructions.
“Yeah.” He tries his best to just breathe.
“Tell me where you are.” Shane obliges and recites the address from memory. “Okay, now tell me what happened.”
“My friend cut himself.” He replies, tears blurring his vision. “It’s like- “ The image of the cut skin enters his mind, and his breathing quickens again. “It's bad. I think. There’s blood. So much blood.” He cries out into the phone.
“Is he awake?” Shane looks at Ilya’s face, unmoving in all the chaos.
“No.” He whimpers. “He’s not.”
“Does he have a pulse? Check his wrists.” His body freezes again, and he hesitates.
“Fuck, I don’t-” He tries to tell the dispatcher that touching Ilya’s wrist is not exactly something he can do. “I can’t-” He forces the words out. “I can’t touch him there.”
“Right, sorry. Check the side of his neck for me, Shane. Right under the jaw.” They instruct him without missing a beat, and he complies.
He loosens the grip on one of the arms and reaches up, searching the skin for a sign of life. He places his fingertips on Ilya’s skin, still warm, and waits. A tiny force pulses against him, and he starts to cry with relief.
“I can feel it.” He whimpers into the phone and returns to keeping pressure on the wounds.
“Great work, Shane. Now I need you to find something and press it to his wounds. Can you do that?”
“I’m already, it’s, I’m pressing on them. With shirts, they’re not sterile, is that?” He starts to ramble, but the dispatcher cuts him off, not letting him get off track.
“That’s fine, just keep it up until the paramedics get to you. They’re on their way. You’re doing great.” They keep talking, and Shane stares at Ilya’s face. He looks so unlike himself, somehow younger.
“You can't die, Ilya. Not like this, not now.” He whispers, tears falling freely. “Please don't die.”
After a few minutes, he hears knocking in the distance and practically sprints to get the door. He only opens it and, without waiting, goes back to Ilya’s side, and continues to press on the wounds. The dispatcher disconnects as soon as they confirm the paramedics are here.
“You can let go now. We’ll take care of him.” The paramedics speak softly while peeling him away from Ilya.
“Okay. Sure.” He confirms and starts pacing. “Don't let him die.” He pleads. The lack of promise makes his chest painfully constrict.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. They let him ride in the ambulance, and he squeezes Ilya's hand all the way to the hospital. There, they make him wait, and he spends hours in an uncomfortable hospital chair waiting for some news. The soft material of his favourite hoodie is covered in Ilya’s blood, and he rips it off, unable to stand the sight of it. He goes over the different ways he could’ve prevented this. Maybe if he hadn’t left that night, Ilya wouldn’t be here today. Maybe if he were less prideful and an overall better person, Ilya wouldn’t try to kill himself. The thought feels foreign. Ilya being suicidal. It’s so unlike his image, but Shane supposes it makes sense no one ever noticed. He kept it hidden so well. If only Shane hadn’t pushed him that day. The bitter realisation that it all might be his fault crushes him.
Finally, a nurse approaches him.
“He's awake. You can go see him now.” He stumbles out of the chair and lets himself be led through a labyrinth of corridors, and soon he sets foot inside a bright room.
“I’m sorry.” Is the first thing he hears. It makes him turn toward the voice, and he sees Ilya, sitting on the bed with both his arms wrapped up in bandages. He looks so small, so fragile.
“Fuck, Ilya.” The sight makes him curse. The crushing weight of guilt overwhelms his senses.
“I didn’t think…” He speaks slowly, weighing his words. “I didn’t want you to find me like this.” The genuine regret is palpable in his tone. “I didn’t want anyone to find me.” He adds as an afterthought, making Shane choke back tears.
“Fuck, please don’t say that.” The thought of losing Ilya makes him braver, and he moves forward, grabbing his hand. “I’m so glad I did, I’m so glad you’re alive.” He’s rubbing circles on the back of Ilya’s hand.
“Oh, that makes one of us.” The words make him momentarily stop before he continues the soothing movement.
“Jesus christ.” He curses, trying to come to terms with the current situation.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-” Shane cuts him off.
“No, it’s okay.” Even though his heart hurts hearing this, he’d rather know the truth. “It’s just, we never really talked about our feelings, I didn’t know.” He admits quietly, biting the inside of his cheek.
“You weren’t supposed to. We were not supposed to…” Ilya cuts off, struggling to find the right words.
“Care?” Shane offers, because that’s exactly what he’s been telling himself the past few days.
“Yes, care. Be there for each other. Just sex, no strings attached.” Ilya lists off. “Especially not the ones I want to tie in a noose and put around my neck.” Shane can only nod, choking back the sob trying to make its way out of his tight throat. “Sorry for dampening the mood.” Ilya hangs his head low, accepting Shane’s silence. “I’m alive. You can go now.” He slips his hand free of Shane’s grip and hardens his expression.
“Ilya, I’m not going anywhere.” His offended tone only fuels Ilya’s annoyance.
“Shane, I’m not exactly in the mood to fuck, it might take a while, actually. So just go. I think this is over.” Shane stares at him, dumbfounded by the sudden outburst. “I don’t need pity.” Ilya adds for good measure, and Shane finally understands. Vulnerability is not something that comes easily, especially to Ilya.
“Ilya, are you insane? You almost died in my arms, I had to hold you while you were bleeding out, and you think I’ll just what? Go on my merry way?” The words sound harsh, but his tone is soft.
“Yes, you should do that.” Ilya jumps as Shane takes a hold of his hand once again, this time not letting him slip away. “I’m not someone you should want around.” He whispers, tears blurring his vision. He blinks them away furiously.
“Well, too bad, because I do.” Shane retorts and leans closer, opening his arms up for a hug.
“I don’t want you to think I’m weak.” Ilya whispers shakily, his perfect facade falling apart at the seams.
“I don’t think that. I would never think that.” The reassurance seems to bring some kind of release as Ilya mutters a single watery ‘Fuck.’ And suddenly his arms are full of Ilya as he collapses in Shane’s embrace. Shane squeezes him hard, and tears spring to his eyes as he feels Ilya breathing and the warmth of his skin.
“Do you have a therapist?” He whispers into the curly hair covering his vision.
“I do.” The response is muffled.
“Do you want me to call them?” It makes Ilya back away a little.
“Shane, I don’t need you to baby me.” He sounds almost offended, ready to go back and hide inside the shell he built for himself.
“I know. You’re strong, dependable, and capable of taking care of yourself. But let me help.” Shane pushes his head back down, into the crook of his neck, and runs his fingers through Ilya’s hair. It seems to do the trick, and Ilya settles in a comfortable position.
“Why?” He questions.
“Ilya.” Shane starts, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t want to scare you off.” Is this the right time to bare his soul? “I-” He starts, already trying to backtrack, so as not to overwhelm him, when Ilya cuts him off.
“I like you.” He says into the fabric of Shane’s shirt. “I think, maybe more.” Shane’s brain short-circuits. All this time, he thought he was the only one trying to squish down his feelings.
“What?” That's all his dumb brain can come up with. A beat of silence, and once again, Ilya is moving away, leaving his arms.
“You don’t?” He questions, already sounding wrecked. “Forget it.” But before he gets the chance to shut off his heart, Shane grabs a hold of his face and kisses him.
“I think I do. I think I like you too. Maybe more.” He rambles, trying to preserve the moment. “I was just…” He drifts off.
“Scared I wouldn’t feel the same?” Ilya finishes for him, and he nods.
“Yeah.” He adds, and his sight falls onto Ilya’s bandaged arms. “What happened?” He questions, holding one of the arms up delicately.
“Hmm. Bad brain day.” Ilya says simply.
“Bad brain day?” Shane cocks his head to the side, making his hair fall and cover his face.
“Yes. That’s what I call it.” Ilya reaches his hand up and pushes Shane’s hair away.
“Was I…?” It’s too much for him to finish that sentence, but Ilya understands exactly what he’s asking.
“No, it wasn’t because of you. Never.” His tone leaves no room for arguing. A heavy weight lifts off of Shane’s shoulders. “Just my fucked up brain coming up with ways to kill me.” Somehow, it sounds less scary than it should.
“Does it... happen often?”
“Bad brain day? Yes. A bad one like that, it’s the third time in my life.” He confesses. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that. I scared you.” Ilya adds, and Shane shakes his head as if to say ‘It’s okay’ “And sorry for saying hurtful things. I didn't mean them, you know?” He fiddles with his fingers, ashamed of the way he let himself get out of control. Shane’s hand on his stops the nervous twitching of his fingers.
“I know. You don’t have to apologize.” He leans closer and rests his forehead against Ilya’s. “I feel so bad, I had no idea.” He confesses.
“I never let anyone see.” Ilya exhales as he decides what to say next. “I think they will keep me here. That's what they did last time.” He reminisces, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Last time it got this bad?” Shane clarifies, and he nods in confirmation. “Okay. I’ll come visit, yeah?”
“Yeah. Please.” His head falls on Shane’s shoulder as embarrassment washes over him.
“And then we’ll do whatever you decide. I’ll do whatever you need me to. To help you get better.” Shane’s outpour of support only makes him more ashamed.
“I hate it.” He mumbles, fae still hidden. “I hate depending on people. I want to be able to fight this on my own, to not be a burden.” His eyes fill with tears, the material of Shane’s shirt absorbing the few fallen ones.
“Ilya, you’re not a burden.” Shane engulfs him in a hug, embracing him tightly.
“You say that now, but there's no way of telling if you won’t resent me later.” The wet spot on Shane’s shirt only grows. “What if I don’t get better? What if you’re left stuck with this depressed Russian who sometimes tries to off himself?” With that, Ilya finally looks up, and Shane’s heart stutters as he sees his rimmed-red eyes. Despite the crude choice of words, they sound desperately sad.
“You will get better.” Shane starts, but it only earns him a pointed look from Ilya, so he continues. “But, if you don’t, I’ll stay by your side, whatever may come.” He hopes it’s the right thing to say.
“Fuck, that’s so cringey.” Ilya comments and then, for the first time today, he laughs.
“Hey, you’re the one who started this.” Shane giggles, already feeling lighter.
“Thank you, Shane.” He whispers and leans closer, connecting their lips. They stay like that, in the hospital room, whispering to each other until the nurse comes and shoos Shane away. They part with a promise of seeing each other the next day, and Ilya feels like maybe having someone in his corner isn’t so bad.