Work Text:
The first time Ilya heard the phrase “Crocs in sport mode,” he was absolutely and utterly delighted.
Shane looked up from the book he was reading and frowned immediately, because the laugh coming from Ilya usually meant mischief.
“What?” Shane cautiously asked, and Ilya turned his phone around so he could see the post he had been looking at.
“Apparently, when you flip the strap on Crocs behind your heel, it is called sport mode.”
Shane stared at him, “That sounds fake. Like someone would make it up for clicks or something.”
“It is real,” Ilya seriously nodded then, before chuckling again at the meme.
Shane deeply sighed in response, recognising the exact kind of problem that was about to enter his life in this very moment.
Throughout the following months, it became Ilya’s favourite phrase to use whenever the opportunity arose, after getting himself - and Shane – a pair of Crocs during their next shopping trip. Ilya eventually emerged from one of the aisles, carrying one deep purple and one navy pair of Crocs in both hands, looking unbearably pleased with himself.
After that, everything suddenly required Crocs in sport mode.
Ilya would slide into the Crocs before taking out the trash and announce, “Sport mode activated!”
Other times, he would dramatically flip the straps back before walking Anya, insisting that this was, most definitely, sport.
Sometimes Shane would catch himself smiling before he could stop it.
“You think it’s funny,” Ilya grinned when he caught him smiling one day.
“I think it’s annoying.”
“No, you don’t,” Ilya grinned triumphantly, before beginning to walk away, clearly satisfied.
Shane was smiling after he was long gone, because had Ilya looked so happy at that tiny crack in his composure that Shane couldn’t even pretend to be irritated anymore.
Some days, their world still turned dark.
Not as often as it used to. Not as sharp. But depression was patient, persistent, treacherous. It quietly waited for weak spots, for exhaustion, for long days with too little sleep, and that particular kind of sadness that sometimes still befell Ilya when he spent too long thinking about the past.
Shane noticed the signs early now.
The silence came first.
Ilya was always loud in one way or another – whether it was speaking, moving or humming. Ilya lived loudly, and Shane loved that about him.
Depression hollowed him out slowly until the simple act of existing seemed to cost too much energy.
He stopped existing loudly, boldly, when things got really, very bad.
Stopped singing along to whatever music Shane put on while cooking, stopped trying to make him laugh.
Then he stopped his jokes about his Crocs in sport mode.
One evening, Shane came home from practice and found him sitting on the edge of their bed in the dark, still wearing sweatpants, absently staring at the floor.
Not crying, hardly ever that.
Somehow, that was always worse.
“Ilya,” Shane said softly.
Ilya looked up after a moment. His expression immediately shifted into an apology, which hurt Shane more than the sadness itself.
“Sorry,” Ilya murmured.
“Hey,” Shane quickly crossed the room, “No.”
Ilya dropped his gaze again, “I know you asked me to make dinner.”
“I don’t care about dinner,” Shane said firmly.
He sat down beside him, slipping his hand under Ilya’s shirt, letting it rest on his lower back. His skin was warm, his muscles tense, his features radiating exhaustion.
Some days during these episodes, Ilya could still function almost normally. Other days, it seemed like his whole body got too heavy to carry on.
This was one of the heavy days.
“Did you eat?” Shane asked.
A tiny shrug. Shane knew it meant no.
“Okay,” Shane kept his voice gentle and comforting, “We can fix that.”
One of the few things that could be easily fixed, at least.
Ilya leaned sideways slowly until his head rested on Shane’s shoulder. Shane briefly closed his eyes at the familiar contact.
There had been a time when Ilya would have hidden this. A time when he would disappear into himself and insist he was fine because he thought needing care made him weak. Unlovable.
Now he let Shane see him. All of him.
That trust still felt sacred.
Shane carefully turned his head and kissed his temple, “Soup?”
Another shrug.
Then, quietly, against his shoulder, Ilya whispered, “With grilled cheese?”
Shane softly smiled at the hint of normalcy, “Okay. We can do that.”
His gaze dropped to the pair of purple Crocs sitting beside the bed. Ilya must have worn them around the house again, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to be upset at that – not now. Maybe not ever.
Shane looked back up at Ilya.
Still quiet. Still sad. Watching him with tired eyes.
Without saying anything, Shane bent down and picked up the Crocs.
Ilya followed his movements, but said nothing.
Slowly, so Ilya could see what he was doing, Shane began to flip the straps of his Crocs back to the heels. Understanding flickered across Ilya’s face, watching as Shane got off the bed to crouch down in front of him.
Shane carefully slid the Crocs onto his feet, his hand briefly lingering at Ilya’s ankle, warm and grounding.
For one long second, Ilya just watched him.
A small smile crossed his face, fragile and fleeting and heartbreaking all at once.
“Crocs in sport mode,” he whispered.
Shane’s chest and throat tightened painfully.
“Crocs in sport mode,” Shane nodded, voice quiet and almost cracking at the words.
Ilya’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.
He immediately looked away, but Shane caught his hand before he could hide from him.
“Hey,” he gently squeezed his hand.
“I’m being ridiculous,” Ilya sniffled.
“No,” Shane said firmly, “You’re having a bad day.”
The distinction mattered. Shane made sure to remind him of that every single time.
Ilya swallowed hard, still refusing to look at Shane, “I do not know why you are so kind when I am like this.”
That nearly broke Shane apart. They had talked about this. At home. At therapy.
Shane knew some days the darkness still overshadowed the progress they had made.
He stood immediately and cupped Ilya’s face in both hands.
“Because I love you,” he said, “I love you when you’re happy and loud and annoying, and I love you just as much when you are tired and quiet and sad.”
Ilya’s eyes briefly closed, clearly blinking away a few tears in the process.
Shane pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“You don’t have to earn being cared for,” he murmured against his skin.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Shane slightly pulled back and smiled, a little unsteady, but knowing Ilya needed to be pulled out of his own thoughts.
“Come on. Your sport mode has been activated.”
That finally earned him a sniffle and a wobbly smile.
“Better,” Shane softly smiled and gently tugged Ilya to his feet.
The Crocs squeaked against the hardwood floor as they headed toward the kitchen together.
Halfway down the hall, Ilya gently caught Shane’s wrist.
When Shane looked back, Ilya’s expression was still sad around the edges, but there was something softer in his eyes now, something calmer.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Shane leaned in and kissed him once, slow and familiar, full of love for Ilya that could not possibly run out.
Some days might be lighter.
Some days might be harder.
Shane would always be around for both, no matter what.