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Ilya
Ilya knew when he went to sleep last night that he would wake up this way. Drained. Tired. Exhausted, really, despite the full night’s sleep. It’s not a physical exhaustion, but a mental one — over the years, he’s learned to distinguish them.
A physical exhaustion, he feels in his bones, but he can curb it if necessary. He can chug one of those energy drinks that Shane fucking hates the taste of — he forces Ilya to brush his teeth thoroughly before he’s allowed to have any kisses. He can push himself to the brink, knowing he’ll be able to sleep it off eventually. It’s something that makes the day drag until he’s able to rest, but it’s doable.
A mental exhaustion, though. The day doesn’t drag on and on. It fades into nothing. It feels like he’s stuck in a point in time, while everything else moves around him. No amount of caffeine or adrenaline can combat it. It’s just a numbness that creeps into his soul and mind, rendering him useless. It’s a waiting game until his brain decides to reboot and he can remember that he has things to live for. A lot of very, very good things to live for.
Ilya blinks in the morning light — he assumes it's morning, at least. He has no idea what time it is. There’s no sun, though, because it’s hidden behind gray clouds. Soft rain patters against the window. Fitting weather for this mood. Mellow and dreary, but not dramatic.
A shadowy figure blocks some of the light, and Ilya forces his eyes to focus. Shane, sitting on their bed. His husband. Ilya can tell that with one look, Shane knows exactly what kind of day it is. They’re rare now, actually, but that doesn’t mean that Shane hasn’t seen enough of them in their twenty-seven years of marriage to notice the signs immediately. Shane tilts his head, offering Ilya a small smile.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs. “M’here.”
Ilya resists the urge to apologize. He knows by now that he has nothing to be sorry for, and Shane doesn’t want to hear any apologies anyway.
“Hi,” Ilya barely mumbles, his voice a cracked whisper.
Faintly, coming from downstairs, they hear a few cabinets shut in the kitchen. Ilya tries to ask what time it is, but all that slips out is, “Time’s it?” in a barely distinguishable slur. Shane understands, of course.
“Almost lunchtime,” he says quietly. “Mina wanted to make us something, but I told her I was going to go pick up food. Does pelmeni from the place with the name you claim I can't pronounce sound okay?”
Ilya doesn’t respond. He hates eating when he’s in these fits. He’s already so weighed down by just existing, and then it uses so much extra effort to fill himself with food. Plus, it all tastes like nothing, anyway. Shane combs his fingers through Ilya’s curls, avoiding pulling his hair when he encounters the tangles. “It reheats well anyway, so if you’re not ready, we’ll heat it up when you are. Yeah?”
Ilya just barely nods. Shane leans down and presses his lips to Ilya’s temple, giving him a few quick kisses. Ilya knows Shane is trying to send that love straight to Ilya’s brain, like he can kiss it better. “Be back soon,” Shane murmurs. “Love you.”
By the time Ilya can muster the energy to say it back, Shane has already softly shut their bedroom door behind him. Ilya sinks back into himself, feeling heavier than ever. He knows that once he feels better, he’ll needlessly thank Shane for taking care of him, but he still feels a twinge of guilt that he struggles to make himself do it now. It shouldn’t be that hard to say Thank you, I love you, because, of course, he feels that way. But in times like these, getting it out feels like lifting a building with his bare hands.
He blinks slowly at the slats of the blinds, hazily seeing raindrops hit the window through them. His mother used to hate the rain, and because of that, Ilya always hated it, too. She hated it because it always ruined her hair or her makeup, and because she loved the sunshine. Ilya hated it because it always ruined his day, because it meant he had to stay in the house, with his father and his brother. When Irina was alive, she would try to make the rainy days better with card games and puzzles, but there was always still tension in the house that both of them felt.
Ilya doesn’t hate the rain anymore, because one of his favorite memories with Shane happened in a downpour. They had gone on a long walk around the lake. Blue skies, not a single cloud, and a clear forecast turned into a very sudden, unexpected storm. Shane had been devastated that their walk had been ruined, huffing and crossing his arms. But he’d looked so fucking cute, cheeks red and soaked to the bone, that Ilya had kissed him up against a tree right then and there. It felt like something out of a stupid, cheesy romance movie. It felt like a moment Ilya should’ve never been allowed to have in his life, but he took it anyway. He held onto the moment so tightly, greedy for these kinds of things that normal couples get to have without fighting for them.
Now, when it rains, Ilya usually thinks about how they stumbled back through the trail towards the cottage, kissing and laughing and flicking water at each other, despite already being drenched. He thinks about the warm shower they took together afterwards, and how Shane had looked at him like he was so fucking happy to have him. Like he wanted these moments between them, too.
Today, Ilya watches the rain, and he remembers his mother. Remembers how she would screech and nearly curse whenever they’d get caught in bad weather, trying to shield her hair. He remembers the days indoors where his father would drunkenly flip their board game or take cards out of Ilya’s hands, or where his brother would steal and hide puzzle pieces, frustrating Ilya to no end.
The door creaks softly, bringing Ilya back to the present. He knows he has a horrible sense of time in this state, but there’s no way Shane is back already.
“Papa?” a quiet voice asks.
Fuck.
Of course, Mina has seen him in this state before. She’s almost seventeen, and there have been countless bad times in those years. But Shane has always, always been here to make sure she’s cared for properly in these times. And sure, she’s grown up now, capable of taking care of herself to some extent, but she’s still his baby. Something in Ilya tells him he has to get up. He has to move, because his daughter needs him. He knows this. He knows this.
And yet, he cannot move. If anything, he sinks further into the mattress, almost in defeat. In shame. He’s no better than his mother, who would lie in bed, staring blankly ahead as Ilya would beg and try to reach her. He can’t do that to Mina.
“Come,” he croaks, hopefully loud enough for her to hear. Her footsteps are silent as she rounds the bed.
Her straight, dark hair is in a braid, and she’s in an old Boston Rozanov hoodie that Ilya found in a storage box years ago, and she had stolen. It’s long enough that it looks like she’s not wearing pants, but Ilya knows she’s got on those fuzzy pink shorts she wears religiously.
They adopted her when she was six months old, but God, she looks so much like Shane. Her eyes are a different shape and not as dark brown as Shane’s. And her face shape is so much softer, of course. But maybe it’s just the mannerisms, and the hair, and the freckles, and the fact that they’re Ilya’s two favorite people in the world that links them so closely together.
She fiddles with her hoodie string as she sits on Shane’s side of the bed. Her hoodie rides up enough to reveal the hem of the pink shorts. On any other day, Ilya would smile about how he knows her so well. Today, he just blinks at his old team logo. He swallows. “Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” she says back. Even her cadence is the same as Shane’s, soft but not cautious. Just gentle. “Dad said he’s getting Russian food because you’re not feeling well.”
Ilya wants to remain silent, his energy depleting further with every second. But he refuses to be a shell, like his mother. He refuses to do that to his daughter.
“Yes,” he says. “Bad day.”
Mina nods. She hesitates for a few seconds. If Ilya weren’t stuck like this, he would coax out of her whatever she clearly wants to say. He would remind her that she can tell him anything. For now, he hopes she knows this already, and he just lies there, studying her. He never thought he could love someone as much as he loves Shane, but the minute he first held Mina, his heart split into two sections. Shane owned one half, and that tiny bundle of dark hair and brown eyes held the other. He cried like a fucking baby when they brought her home, and then again when Shane first held her in her new bedroom. They fought so hard to get to where they were, and every single moment of longing and hidden pain was so fucking worth it now that Ilya had this family.
And he hates that he’s still fighting himself when he has so much to be happy about.
Finally, Mina asks, “Can I lie down with you?”
Ilya blinks.
“You don’t have to talk or do anything,” she assures him quickly. “We can just, like, cuddle. Like we do when I don’t feel good.”
Something in Ilya’s chest stirs — an unfamiliar feeling when these depressive states cause him to feel so numb. It’s a tiny spark of warmth that flickers, threatening to extinguish immediately, but Ilya reaches for it and tries to hold tight.
He inhales, looking at his daughter, who waits patiently. Yes, of course, he wants to say.
“I stink,” is what comes out.
Mina huffs a sudden, quiet laugh. “Well, that’s nothing new,” she teases softly. Ilya almost smiles, but that warm feeling expands just enough for him to uncurl his arms.
“Come,” he says. Mina pulls back the covers and slides beneath them, scooting closer until she’s tucked against Ilya’s chest. One of his arms is beneath her neck, and the other rests heavily over her waist. One of her arms curls over his side, her palm pressing against his back. He doesn’t care how old she gets; he would hold her like this every day if he could. She’ll always be this little thing he needs to love and protect, even when he knows she’s old enough to handle herself. He focuses on the soft rises and falls of her shoulders as she breathes against him.
Like him, she runs warm, but Ilya doesn’t mind. In fact, the body heat is grounding, and he focuses on it.
“Love you, Papa,” she whispers.
“Love you, malyshka (babygirl),” he says back, that warm glow in his chest expanding just a little. Ilya swallows. He can’t remember if he ever tried to hug his mother when she was in a depressive episode, but he thinks he should’ve. It’s not an immediate fix, but there’s a small part of him that’s coming back to life as he holds his daughter close to his heart.
Her breathing evens out, and eventually, so does Ilya’s.
Shane
“Spasibo (Thank you),” Shane says to the woman with a smile as she hands him the takeout bag. She grins.
“Your accent is getting better,” she says, nodding at him.
“Well, that’s an easy word,” Shane says, but his smile widens. “But I’ll tell Ilya you said that next time he makes fun of me.”
“And tell him to come visit,” she says sternly. “Always sending you to pick up food. Very bad husband.”
Shane chuckles. “He’s a good one, I swear, but I’ll tell him.” He grabs the bottle of horrible orange soda that his daughter loves. “See you next time.”
He carries the food out to the car, setting it gently in the passenger seat beside him. He opens his phone, checking his email again. He’d asked Rose if he knew anyone who could get him an early digital copy of a movie that was still in theaters that Ilya has been wanting to see.
“Nice,” he murmurs, nodding to himself when he sees the download link in his email. He turns the car on and heads in the direction of home. It’s unlikely that Ilya will even be up for watching the movie any time today, but it might entice him to get out of bed tomorrow, especially if Mina agrees to watch with them. He’d seen the concern in her eyes when Shane had told her that today was a bad day. They’ve gone into depth with her about Ilya’s mother and how her depression had passed down to him. She’s seen plenty of bad days and knows they’ll pass eventually.
It was harder when she was younger, and Shane felt like he was juggling taking care of her and worrying about Ilya. Now, she’s more than old enough to entertain herself while Shane checks on Ilya and tries to test his responsiveness. Some days, he’s deeper than other times. There are days when he barely even blinks. Those days, Shane sometimes subtly checks his breathing just to make sure he actually is breathing. Other days, he can get out a full sentence or two at a time. It’s a spectrum, Shane has learned. Mina will probably learn the full array of it, eventually. They’ve never shielded her, exactly, from Ilya’s episodes — the last thing they want is for her to believe depression is something to be ashamed of. They want her to know it’s something that should be talked about, though Mina has never shown any signs of having it. But Shane knows that, secretly, Ilya still worries about her seeing too much of him in this state. He doesn’t want her to ever be resentful of his inability to properly care for her, not that Shane thinks Ilya is ever doing a poor job at taking care of their daughter.
He exhales softly as he parks in the driveway, grabs the food, and heads inside. The house is silent, which means Mina is probably back in her room. Shane shoots her a text that the food is here before beginning to set out the containers. He sets Ilya’s pelmeni off to the side. After a moment, he checks his phone to see that the text was unread.
Shane climbs the stairs and knocks on her door. He waits. Nothing. She must have her headphones in, so he slowly cracks the door open. “Mina,” he says, hesitating before peeking his head in. He blinks at the empty room. Her phone sits on the edge of her bed. Shane glances down the hall, trying to consider where she might’ve gone. She wasn’t in the living room, and she has no concept of television volume, so he would’ve heard if she was using the big TV in the basement.
His eyes land on his own bedroom door. He walks down the hall and pushes it open carefully, and— oh. Shane’s heart is going to fucking explode. His daughter is there, of course, wrapped up in his husband’s arms. Both of them are asleep, if their even breathing is any indication. He creeps closer, avoiding the spots in the carpet that he knows creak, until he’s on Ilya’s side of the bed. He sits gently, running a hand through his curls.
His eyes flutter open, and he turns his head to look at Shane. Immediately, Shane notices the slight difference in Ilya’s demeanor. There’s a little bit of light in his eyes now. The creases around his eyes seem a little softer.
“Mm. Fell ‘sleep,” he mumbles.
“I see that,” Shane smiles. “This was a very cute thing to walk into.”
The corner of Ilya’s lips just barely tugs up for a second. “Yes,” he says, glancing at their daughter. “She is very cute.”
“You both are,” Shane says.
“Mm,” Ilya hums. His eyes unfocus a bit as he stares at the ceiling. Shane watches him for a few seconds. He wishes he could carry more of this weight for Ilya. He can’t do anything but wait beside him, offering whatever support he can. He’s about to mention the food when Ilya’s eyes slide to his. “I know no saying sorry,” he starts quietly. “And this is not that, exactly. But can I say something?”
“Of course,” Shane says softly, his hand moving from where it was resting in Ilya's hair, down to stroke his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. Shane is floored that he’s speaking so much now, but he doesn’t question it. Mina being so close must’ve done more for Ilya than Shane initially realized. Ilya’s eyes shut, and Shane waits a few moments.
“I feel so…” he trails off, swallowing. “Ya chuvstvuyu vinu (I feel guilty).”
Shane’s brows furrow immediately. “You feel guilty?” he whispers, just to confirm. Ilya nods once. Shane doesn’t ask why. He just waits for the explanation to come.
“I am… so happy. I have you. I have Mina. My life is so… good. I have no reason to feel this way,” he says, the words coming out stilted, like each one takes enormous effort. “I feel like I am being… eh, neblagodarnyy (ungrateful). What is word in English?”
Shane swallows, his chest aching. “Ungrateful?” he whispers.
“Yes,” Ilya says thickly. “I should not be like this. I have too much good in my life to be like this.”
Shane frowns, considering his response. His other hand comes up to rub Ilya’s upper arm. He leans down and presses a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder.
“You aren’t doing anything wrong, you know,” he says softly. “When you have bad days. You know you can’t help it. You’re not at fault. You’re not to blame. You know this.”
Ilya blinks at him. And then slowly, he nods once. Like he’s begrudgingly accepting that yes, this mental illness he did not ask for is not his fault. Shane swipes his thumb over Ilya’s cheek again.
“So you know you shouldn’t feel guilty for something that’s not your fault. No one else blames you, and you know not to blame yourself. So there’s nothing to feel guilty for.”
“But it should not happen,” Ilya whispers, his face edging on frustrated. Shane tries to swipe away the irritation with soothing strokes of his fingers.
“But it does, because you can’t help it,” Shane says gently. “And when it does, it doesn’t mean you love us less, or you’re ungrateful. I know you’re happy with our life. I know you love me, and I know you love Mina. These things don’t change, even on bad days. Even when you don’t have the energy to tell us.”
Ilya’s eyes shut, as if he could block out the rationality of Shane’s words. Even with the closed lids, Shane can see a tear building in the outer corner of Ilya’s eye. Shane brushes it away before it has the chance to fully form.
“You don’t have to listen to me right now,” Shane says, knowing that it costs more energy for Ilya to fight whatever’s going on in his head to let Shane’s words in. “I’ll tell you again another time. But we know you love us, okay?”
Ilya swallows hard. “Okay,” he whispers. Shane leans down again and kisses Ilya’s forehead.
“Can I have a real kiss?” he murmurs, his nose bumping Ilya’s.
“Haven’t brushed my teeth,” Ilya says back. Shane smiles. Any other time, that would be unforgivable. Right now, Shane couldn’t care less.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I still want one. If that’s okay.”
“Yes, okay.”
Shane leans down and connects their lips in a gentle, easy kiss.
Besides them, Mina shifts a little bit, and then they hear, “Oh, gross.”
Shane breaks the kiss with a small laugh, pulling back. Despite her words, she’s smiling as she snuggles against Ilya’s chest.
“We are not gross,” Shane says.
“The grossest.”
“That’s not a word.”
“Says who?”
“The dictionary.”
“Pfft,” Mina rolls her eyes, smiling. She somehow has the same smile as Ilya. And the same sarcastic attitude, and the same carefree confidence. Yuna says she got the best traits of both of her fathers, but all Shane can see when he looks at her is Ilya.
“Did you get food?” she asks.
Shane nods. “Might have to reheat it a bit, but yes.”
His eyes flick to Ilya, about to ask, but Mina beats him to it.
“Are you hungry, Papa? We can share your pelmeni.”
“I got you—“ Shane starts, but he cuts himself off. He sees what she’s trying to do, gently pushing Ilya into eating.
“You can have some of mine, malyshka.”
“It tastes better when I steal it off of your plate, though.”
Ilya doesn’t respond, and Shane thinks he’s going to find a way to shoot her down. But then he exhales slowly, and his eyes shift to his husband. “We are raising a thief.”
Shane grins. “I can heat the food and bring it up here.”
Ilya lifts a brow. “Eating in bed?”
Shane shrugs. The thought of spilling on their expensive mattress does make his skin crawl a little, but if it’s easier to bring the food to Ilya so he eats, Shane will take the risk.
Mina stretches one arm up, yawning. “Papa, we’re like royalty. With a little errand boy to fetch us food.”
Shane’s jaw drops. “Errand boy?”
“Mhm,” she hums, her eyes sparkling like Ilya’s do sometimes. “Chop chop.”
“I’m going to spit in your Fanta,” Shane calls as he leaves the room, smiling when she screeches in protest. Shane puts Mina’s takeout container in the fridge and reheats Ilya’s pelmeni, as well as his own soup. He juggles the utensils, napkins, Mina’s drink, and the bowls as he walks back up the stairs. When he returns, Mina is sitting cross-legged on the bed, and Ilya is up, leaning against the headboard.
“It’s like a picnic,” Mina says as she takes the pelmeni.
“How is this like a picnic?” Shane asks. “We’re in bed, and this is not picnic food.”
She blinks, shifting closer to Ilya so they can share. Shane leans against the headboard beside him. “Because it’s like,” she gestured vaguely to the bed, “I don’t know. The vibes.”
Nothing about this setup gives picnic vibes, but Shane doesn’t say that. His shoulder brushes Ilya’s, and he leans over to murmur, “Are we being too much? We can quiet down.”
For a second, Shane thinks Ilya is going to agree, but then he shakes his head. “No. Is okay,” he says, taking the bowl of pelmeni from Mina. “I may not talk. But I do not mind listening.”
Shane smiles softly. “Okay,” he nods. He can work with that. He turns his attention to Mina, asking her if she wants to try his soup. As she does, he talks about the movie they can watch later if they’re all up for it. Mina talks about how she’s heard good things about it, and then the conversation shifts to how Aunt Rose was planning to send her a signed poster for her newest movie.
Through everything, Shane keeps his arm pressed against Ilya’s and subtly keeps track of how many bites he takes. He rarely gets Ilya to eat anything substantial on bad days, but he should’ve known that Ilya would do just about anything possible for their daughter.
By the time they’re finished eating, Ilya has eaten more than half of the pelmeni. Mina stands from the bed, taking their bowls with a soft smile.
“Thank you, malyshka,” Ilya says softly. Shane knows he’s thanking her for more than just taking their dishes.
“You’re welcome,” she says. “Maybe we can watch that movie later? If you’re up for it.”
Ilya hesitates and then nods slowly. “Maybe, yes.”
She smiles, leaving them alone. Slowly, Ilya deflates against Shane’s body. He lifts his arm and curls it around Ilya’s shoulders. “This okay?” he mumbles.
“Mm.”
Shane leans his cheek against Ilya’s curls, and they just sit there for a while, breathing together.
“She helped,” he whispers after a while.
“Good,” Shane says. “It’s okay if you still don’t feel better. But good, baby.”
He feels Ilya shift a bit. “Can we lay down?” he whispers. Shane hums, and they move together until Shane is on his back and Ilya’s face is tucked into the crook of Shane’s neck. He feels the faint puffs of Ilya’s breath on his skin. After a while, Ilya says, “You help, too.”
Shane smiles a bit, his hand running up and down Ilya’s spine. “Good, baby,” he repeats. “I’m glad. I’ll do anything for you, you know.”
Another long silence. “I know,” he says finally. Shane feels a little bit of relief at the response. He knows how hard it is to reach Ilya in moments like this. How hard it is for him to believe he isn’t alone. It’s why he never pushes Ilya for any kind of response when he offers reassurance or sweet nothings.
Like now, he whispers, “I love you,” with a soft kiss to Ilya’s curls. He expects nothing in return, but he still smiles when Ilya eventually murmurs it back.