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    Summary

    When Ilya woke again, his body ached from somewhere deep. Exhaustion burrowed into the fiber of his muscles and the marrow of his bones, consuming him entirely. He lay still, staring blankly at the ceiling, willing himself to move just enough to cover up with the blanket.

    Shane would be back from his run soon, he figured. Most of the time, when he was having a hard day, Ilya would plaster a well-timed smile on his face and do his best not to worry his already anxious boyfriend. Today, he did not possess the willpower. He felt hollowed out, feckless, unmoored. This was the version of himself he kept carefully tucked away, hidden behind a fortress of self-assuredness, sarcasm, and charisma. This was the version of Ilya Rosanov no one got to see – not even Shane.

    Any minute now, his carefully constructed facade and perfectly positioned walls would come crashing down. This time, he was too overcome by the sheer intensity of this bout of depression that he couldn't shield Shane from it. He was too exhausted to move, let alone conceal his shortcomings.

    Language:
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