Chapter Text
Shane had the amazing ability to read a hockey strategy with two passes of a puck. He would predict exactly what teams were going to do as soon as they hit the ice. He noticed every weight change, every stick tap, he noticed everything. Sadly, that skill did not extend outside of hockey in any way. He often felt kind of dumb, he knew he missed obvious social cues all the time. Socializing felt like playing a board game every one knew the rules to but him. One thing, out of the many, he loved about his husband, was Ilya’s ability to read a room.
Ilya read people like Shane read hockey. After years of being around each other they had gotten into an unsaid habit of Ilya sort of translating socializing. It made Shane feel a lot more at ease when Ilya would patiently explain things he missed, like pointing out when their friends were obviously having a bad day that Shane didn’t see, or when someone was being condescending or rude. Shane trusted Ilya to catch the things he didn’t.
Maybe he became too reliant on that, and that's how he let things get this bad.
Shane and Ilya were in their second year together as Centaurs. The whole world knew about their relationship; the hype had declined, but it was never fully gone. It took them a long time to figure out how to just- be. Their first season with the Centaurs was harder than either of them could have predicted. They both struggled to know each other at this new level. They struggled being around each other every day. They struggled between hiding and being proud. It was a nightmare, but they had a routine now.
Shane learned much about Ilya’s depression after they began living together full-time. Ilya noticed every meal Shane skipped or meltdown he had. The learning curve was hard, but they had an understanding now.
That’s why Shane was mostly on edge this week. They were two months into the season, and Ilya was in a depressive episode. Shane hated it when he got like this, because he wished he could do anything to help, but was always painfully reminded how little he could do. Each episode was different, but there were patterns that Shane relied on. This episode broke a pattern.
The Russian had been in a pretty serious episode, and then one day he wasn’t. It was like someone flipped a switch. Rozanov went from bedbound to his normal charismatic self after one game. Shane could admit it was a good game, the Centaurs had dominated on the ice. But doing well at hockey didn’t change a chemical imbalance. Shane couldn’t help but watch Ilya loosely in the locker room after the game. His husband was joking around with the team, making plans to celebrate that night. He wore a bright smile, and his loud laugh echoed off the tiles. Ilya had almost not come to the game today; he had been feeling so bad, but now he looked great.
Shane decided to take the victory.
Ilya seemed to have shaken off the episode after the game, and the two went back to normal.
Two games later, Shane sat on the bench. His eyes tracked the puck with sniper-like accuracy. The Centaurs and Utah’s team were one-to-one. It had been a tense game; both teams were desperate to win. They were at the beginning of the third period, and it still didn’t seem like either team was making headway. The Canadian’s leg bounced as he watched his team skate circles around Utah, but their goalie was good. Some rookie, too good.
His attention relaxed when a whistle rang out for a stoppage of play. He took a breath and straightened up in his seat. Shane’s eyes scanned the ice, curious as to why they stopped, only to see the situation immediately.
The Utah forward and a Centaur tumbled on the ground aggressively. Their gloves and sticks were scattered across the ice without a care. Shane shot out of his seat at the horrific realization of what name was on that red jersey. Rozanov. Shane cursed quietly. He had been so focused on the puck that he hadn’t noticed when the altercation start.
The two hockey players were swarmed by refs in an instant. They desperately tried to pull the men off each other while dodging the flying fists. Shane chewed anxiously on the inside of his lip. He couldn’t get a clear view of what was happening.
After another moment of fighting, the Utah player and Ilya were dragged to their feet and separated. Ilya wore a sickening grin, continuing to yell obscenities at the other player. Blood poured from his nose, and his right eye was already starting to swell. He tried to push away from the refs, who refused to give him even an inch, then spat blood towards the other player. This only angered the other player more. A few Utah players joined the ref’s efforts in getting him not to pounce on Ilya.
“Fuck.” The Canadian heard Wiebe mutter from somewhere around him.
Shane’s eyes never left his husband as he was hauled to the penalty box and shut inside. Ilya met his eyes once and smiled brightly. Shane cringed at his husband's battered appearance.
The Centaurs were able to score the goal they desperately needed to win the game towards the end of the period. The team was exhausted but happy for the victory. Shane immediately cornered Ilya at his cubby.
“Are you okay?” Shane cataloged Ilya’s injuries in his mind. His nose had stopped bleeding by now, but his eye was turning a disgusting shade of purple.
Ilya laughed and began to shed his gear, not giving Shane much attention, “Yes. You should see the other guy.” He flashed Shane his signature smirk, but was met with only a frown.
Shane stood back while Ilya undressed. He glanced around the room nervously and was glad to see not a single one of their teammates was paying attention to them. “What did Terry say?”
“That I will die tonight,” Ilya rolled his eyes, “It is very tragic. I would like pink flowers at my funeral.” He sat on the bench and pulled off his skates.
“Not funny,” Shane replied curtly.
Ilya met Shane’s gaze fully for the first time, “No. I am a national treasure. Ottawa will miss winning, but it is my time.” Shane didn’t reply, so Ilya sighed, “I am okay. Barely broken nose, I get to keep my looks.”
Shane’s lip pressed into a thin line. Of course, he knew Ilya was okay; he had gotten back on the ice once his penalty time was up and Terry checked him. Shane was sure he wouldn’t have been allowed to skate if it were anything serious. “Good… what happened out there?”
“Shouldn’t you be getting undressed?”
“Shouldn’t you not be getting into fist fights on the ice?” Shane said back quickly, an eyebrow raised in a silent challenge for Ilya to keep arguing. He crossed his arms uncomfortably. He hated standing around in his sweaty gear.
Ilya rolled his eyes again and continued to remove his gear, “It is hockey. Fighting is part of the game. Now go away, nurse, you smell very bad.”
Shane hesitated. He wanted to know what the fight was about. Actually fighting wasn’t something Ilya did very often. Players tried often because Ilya liked to run his mouth, but he usually kept his gloves on. So in principal he was nervous about what this guy could have possibly said. It was obvious that Ilya didn’t want to talk about it here, so Shane went to his own cubby. He resolved to talk to Ilya about the situation at home.
Yet they didn’t talk about it at home. Ilya brushed the conversation off. Shane had tried to bring it up again, but halfway through Ilya blowing him in the kitchen, he forgot the subject entirely.
This pattern continued for months. Ilya would come home from almost every game with some injury, either from fighting or being bashed into the boards. He started skating more aggressively and putting a lot of pressure on their opponents. Which, in turn, made their opponents target him.
Shane noticed, of course, he noticed. He had spent the better part of ten years studying how Ilya skated, and this was different. The part that Shane hated was that it was working. Centaurs were having a record-breaking season, so obviously, whatever this new strategy Ilya was employing was beneficial. Of course, it wasn’t just Ilya. The whole team was on fire. Shane tried his best not to hover every time his husband got hurt. He pushed himself to accept that maybe this was their new normal. It sat uncomfortably in his heart, but he wanted to be supportive.
One morning, when Ilya was sleeping off a particularly nasty check, Shane got a call. The Canadian had been nursing a tea while he worked in the office on some foundation things. They had an off day from practice and games.
Shane was pleasantly surprised to see Harris Drover’s name on his phone screen. They were friends, of course, but Harris didn’t often just call. Shane picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey! Good morning. What are you and Ilya up to this morning?” Harris spoke brightly.
Mentally, Shane went over his plans for his day before answering, “I am just doing some paperwork. Ilya is still asleep; he is very sore, so I don’t imagine he will be doing much today.”
“Yeah, that was a nasty hit. I am going to take Chiron to the dog park. You should come with Anya!”
“Oh,” Shane blinked, “okay, sure. Yes, she would enjoy that. Thank you for the invite.”
“Yay, I am excited. I’ll text you the information, see you there in like forty minutes?”
“I will see you then,” Shane said politely before the line went dead. He stood there for a moment. He tried to shake the deep discomfort he had from sudden plans. He really did enjoy Harris’ company; this was just a surprise.
When it was time, Shane was able to spot Harris and Chiron easily at the dog park. Anya was buzzing with excitement to join the fun. There were a few other people with various dogs around the large fenced-off area. Harris waved excitedly when he saw Shane. Shane took a moment to let Anya off-leash. She took off to Chiron, the pups met halfway and immediately started to play, which made both owners smile.
Shane joined Harris, where he stood in the sun. He gave his friend a quick scan; he seemed like his normal, joyful self. Harris immediately started a conversation about their dogs, which Shane appreciated. He always found it easy to talk to Harris, so the conversation flowed smoothly. After twenty minutes, they fell into a comfortable silence. Shane threw a ball for their two pups, who joyfully chased it.
“So,” Harris started, his face wore a soft smile, “How is Ilya doing?”
Shane watched their dogs, falling into an easy rhythm of throwing the ball, “He is doing well. I am sure he will heal fast, he always does.”
Harris’ attention was fixed on Shane; he was conscious of how the other intentionally avoided his eyes, but it didn’t bother him, “That's good… You both are super important to me. So I just want you to know that if you or him need support, I am here. I am happy to be included in any safety plan if needed. It takes a village.”
Shane gave him a confused glance. Safety plan? “Oh. Uh. Thank you,” he had no clue what Harris was talking about or why.
Harris laid a friendly hand on Shane’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, “I know it isn’t easy. It takes… well, it takes a lot out of me when Troy relapses. So if you ever want to talk, just let me know. I know what it's like trying to support someone who self-harms.”
Shane immediately turned to face Harris, forgetting about the dogs entirely. He wore a shocked expression on his face, “Self-harm? What are you talking about?” He glanced around anxiously after realizing he might be speaking too loudly.
“Ilya,” Harris said, his brow furrowed in confusion, “him self-harming”
“He doesn’t-” Shane took a breath, feeling the panic start in his chest, “Did he tell you he was hurting himself?” his mind spiraled.
“No, no Shane. Hey, take a breath, buddy.” Harris smiled sadly, “He didn’t say anything to me, I just noticed the signs.”
Shane’s gaze darted around Harris’ face. Signs? What signs? Shane knows he would have noticed if Ilya was cutting himself; they fuck way too often for him not to see that. Maybe even if he was blind, one of their teammates would have noticed in the locker room and said something, right? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He doesn’t self-harm. He is doing well; therapy and medication are working well. He... he is doing great. I would have noticed if he was hurting himself.”
Harris paused. Shane could tell he was choosing his next words carefully. After a moment, Harris nodded, “Okay, good. I am glad. I am sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” He placed his hand on Shane’s shoulder again, “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just wanted to offer my support if something was going on. But if it isn’t, that's good.”
“Why did you think he was?” Shane asked quickly. His gaze landed on a button on Harris's shirt. He couldn’t force himself to make eye contact right now.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No,” Shane said quickly before calming, “It does matter. Please just tell me why you thought he was self-harming.”
Harris sighed and removed his hand. He turned back to watch their dogs, “Just the way he has been playing, I guess. Troy said he has used hockey in that way before. Intentionally getting into fights or baiting players. Ilya has been playing so aggressively that Troy and I were nervous.” He glanced over to Shane nervously.
Shane pushed out a breath. He didn’t want to believe it for even a moment. That isn’t actually self-harm, right? That is just hockey? He isn’t cutting himself. It is just hockey. He nodded and stuffed his hands into his jacket pocket.
“I shouldn’t have assumed. I really am sorry, Shane. Just…” Harris trailed off. Shane could tell he was holding back what he wanted to say, “... just keep in mind I want to support you guys. You are my friends, and I love you both.”
“Of course. Thank you,” Shane felt paralyzed. Silence overtook them again, this time awkward and tense. Shane had no clue how to fix it; his mind was too distracted trying to rationalize what Harris said. He didn’t know Ilya as well as Shane; it was just a poor guess. It had to be.
That night, when his husband was lounging on the couch watching some movie in Russian, Shane sat in front of his computer in their office. His fingers tapped anxiously on the desk as he stared at the blank search bar. What was he doing? Harris already apologized and cleared everything up. It was an assumption. It wasn’t a fact. Yet Shane couldn’t get it out of his mind. Slowly, he typed into the search bar.
Self harm
He scanned the medical overview before changing his search.
Signs of self-harm
His heart rate picked up as he read a few articles.
Types of self-harm
He picked an article and read it carefully.
When people think of self-harm, they usually imagine physical self-harm, but there are various other types as well. Due to a lack of awareness of these different forms of self-harm, self-harm can go unnoticed. What are-
Shane slammed his laptop shut. He tried to let the cool temperature of the metal calm him. He felt dizzy with anxiety and shame. How could he be such a fool? Harris was right. Ilya was self-harming. He wasn’t doing great. A horrific realization crossed his mind. On the surface, Ilya was doing great; he hadn’t had an episode in months. Yet Shane now realizes he hadn’t had an episode because he was doing this. His husband was weaponizing hockey into some twisted punishment for himself. Shane lay his head against his laptop and pushed out another deep breath. His mind ran a mile a minute.
Bad. Bad. Bad. This is bad.
Shane gave himself another minute to collect himself. He couldn’t afford to panic; he knew that he had to do something. He pushed away from his desk slowly. As he approached the living room, he heard the rapid-fire Russian coming from the TV. His brain didn’t even try to translate, it was too busy going over what he was going to say.
Ilya smiled at his husband when he entered, but didn’t move. He lounged across their couch, his legs fully extended, and his arms rested behind his head loosely. Shane took a seat at Ilya’s feet. Ilya playfully nudged his thigh with one foot. Shane could see the deep purple bruise poking out from the neck of Ilya’s shirt, it made him dizzy.
Shane watched the TV motionlessly. He was procrastinating. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to say it? What tone was he supposed to use?
“I can turn on captions,” Ilya offered, which immediately pulled Shane’s gaze to him.
“No-no, it’s okay,” Shane smiled briefly before looking forward again, “I actually… I wanted to ask you something.”
“Okey” Ilya said. He waited patiently for a moment, and when Shane hadn’t spoken yet he paused the TV.
Shane clenched his fists together and turned to face Ilya completely. He tucked his legs underneath himself on the couch, and he let one hand rest on Ilya’s ankle, “Okay…” he met Ilya’s eyes; his husband now looked worried. “This is…. This is hard,” he took a breath, “Are you hurting yourself?”
Ilya’s expression flashed in horror for the smallest second before it settled on a look of forced confusion, “What?” He forced out a small laugh, “No.”
Shane cringed. He didn’t know what he was expecting from this conversation. “You have been getting into a lot of fights lately.”
“Yes. We play this dangerous sport called Hockey, Shane. Maybe you forgot?” Ilya pushed himself up to sit in the corner of the couch instead of laying sprawled out.
“I know that. But- I don’t know. It has been bad lately. I don’t want you to fight anymore.” Shane pleaded. Doubt crept into his mind. Was he being dramatic? Ridiculous?
Ilya rolled his eyes, “Shane, you are being weird. I have always fought. It is part of game. Not everyone is Mr. Perfect Golden Boy Canada. You are that word. You don't want to fight.”
“Pacifist?”
“Sure that. I am not that,” Ilya crossed his arms and shrugged. His gaze trained on the TV, “Stop being weird. I let you hover, I can not let you be weird too.”
“Right, right. Sorry,” Shane nodded and faced back towards the TV, “Just please try to fight less. For me?”
Ilya hesitated a moment. His fingers anxiously fiddled with the couch cushion. “I will try.”
“Thank you.”