Chapter Text
He needed to at least begin speaking slowly. Everything inside Ilya resisted clawing the admission out. Not that speaking it out loud made it more true, but his mouth fought against willing the shape of the words out. Lips wrapped around vowels to communicate.
Shane, legs drawn closely on the couch, waited patiently. His fingers played with the hoodie strings, but he tried not to fidget too hard because Ilya would notice he was anxious and then console him. And today wasn’t about him. It was about whatever Ilya sat him down to talk about. “Thank you for being here.” Ilya’s low rumble began, trying to fill the empty room.
Shane nodded, lifting his gaze from the floor to meet the other’s. He didn’t quite know what Ilya needed right now. Space? An encouraging tap on the leg or no touch?
“What’s on your mind?” Shane asked, concerned. He could be patient. Whatever Ilya needed. Ilya’s shoulders heaved and sank into the couch a bit, trying to scrape up an answer out of a place in his heart that felt so raw. “I need to tell you something I have not told anyone yet.” Shane nodded, pulling his posture up a little straighter. He was a bit nervous, but there was nothing he & Ilya couldn’t face.
“My father is sick.” Ilya admitted. Time paused and stretched; Ilya imagined the tension, the determination to live alive in the present body of an authoritarian parent and police chief commander against the withering inevitability of age. Shane furrowed his brows in concern. “That’s not good. What do you mean by sick?” The words were stuck in Ilya’s throat. There was nothing he hated in the world more than what he had to say next. “Dementia. Doctors diagnosed him yesterday.”
The general painted picture of Ilya’s mental state was not good, an unshowered messy fuzz of curls and the sweatpants he’d been rotting on the couch with for the last day. Didn’t feel in the mood to go outside. Didn’t want to answer and text socialization plans of going out to the team. He feared if he walked outside for fresh air he’d cry. But talking here with Shane, the sinking, drowning feeling that swam around Ilya, paralyzing him for the entirety of yesterday cleared a little bit. It was a step.
“Oh beloved.” Shane murmured, pulling Ilya close. Now that an awful weight seemed exhale from Ilya, Shane wanted to gently comb his fingertips through blonde curls, as if Ilya was something gentle and precious and worth protecting. "Are you okay?"
That was all the nurturing Ilya needed. He knew it was safe to express this to Shane. “What if it’s like grieving my mom again? I feel so helpless.” Ilya poured out, uncharacteristically still. His eyes couldn’t meet Shane’s.
Truth can be an ugly, unavoidable thing, Ilya thought. The last thing he ever imagined himself doing was crying over the man with an unleashed temper, who pushed him to become the best hockey player he could be. “It won’t be like that, Ilya. He’s a fighter, he’s strong.” Shane provided. There were rivets of encouragement Shane could give, scarce pieces plucked out from a grim backdrop that could sing the notes of hope. “It won’t be like last time with your mom. You’re so strong now and the circumstances are different. I know you don’t want to have to go through that pain again.” Shane had to briefly close his eyes from how painful it was to imagine the scene Ilya found as a child. “You were so young.” he said softly, running his hands up and down Ilya’s forearm in a comforting motion.
He looked up to see tears silently falling down Ilya’s face. Of course he cried without noise as sobs wracked his chest. Ilya must've taught himself how, behind closed doors and darkened night lights. Counting glow in the dark stars smattering across a childhood bedroom ceiling to 1, 2, 3, 4 inhale, hold, and 1, 2, 3, 4 exhale breaths. Shane understood it was complicated with Ilya’s father. Ilya despised him sometimes for how he berated him as a kid. But there was always a part of Ilya that came back like a dog looking for home. You are only given one father in the world. Seeing Grigori reduced to such a state, from the man he used to be was a stark contrast.
"It's alright to be scared Ilya. It proves you care. I'm here for you, you don't have to endure this alone like when you were a kid." Shane softly whispered, just holding Ilya in this moment. It was enough. It had to be enough. Nothing promised tomorrow, or a year from now with Ilya and his father, or hell even Ilya and Shane. Dementia and those types of indicative, shattering labels walked as they liked into and out of lives.
Ilya intertwined his hands with Shane's calloused ones. He knew for this moment in time, it was different than his childhood. They had each other.