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The weather is almost as shit as Ilya’s mood, grey and overcast, a fine drizzle soaking through everything it touches, umbrellas or coats be damned.
Naturally, it doesn’t deter Anya, who’s keen to be outside rain or shine or snow or hurricane. Ilya feels a tug of warmth try to break through his chest as he crouches to attach her lead to her collar, as she sits so nicely for him but is clearly working hard at it - up and spinning in excitement as soon as he pushes himself back to standing.
She collects her ball from the entryway, panting around it in delight as he pulls on his coat, checks he has poo bags and a couple of treats in his pocket, and lets her lead the way out of the house.
As always, he ends up picking up her ball two minutes in when she drops it for a more interesting sniff. He tucks it in his pocket as he watches her, tries to absorb some of her joy as she dances down the pavement, switching sides almost every metre to be able to smell everything in sight.
He’s had a not-great week, the haze of a depressive episode weighing heavily on his shoulders. It’s not as bad as some, has been manageable without an emergency therapist appointment or needing to call out of work, but he’s just so exhausted.
He’s never been more glad for Anya, at times like these. That she needs to be taken outside, requiring Ilya to drag himself out of bed and shower and put on clothes; that she’ll curl up on his lap, after their walk, a warm weight keeping him grounded; that she happily gives him quiet, unconditional companionship and love when he needs it most - she's sometimes the only reason he’s able to get through his bad spells.
She stops and sits as they pass through the gates to the park, well used to their routine. Ilya bends down again, unclips her and she waits as still as she can with her excitement, is such a good girl until Ilya says “okay” and she’s off, sprinting ten metres down the path before skidding to a halt and beelining back to Ilya as he ambles slowly behind her.
He follows their usual loop, glad they’ve done it so often he doesn’t have to think about it anymore; his feet taking him down the paths without input from his brain.
Anya dances around him when they reach the big grass field and he manages a little smile for her, pulls her ball from his pocket and the smile becomes a little more real as she sits again in request, practically vibrating as her eyes fix on the ball.
She tears off after it as he launches it across the open space, returning to drop it at his feet with an expectant tail wag. Ilya throws it once, twice more as she brings it back before carrying on, knowing she’ll follow.
She drops the ball at his feet a few more times and he keeps throwing it back into the field as they circle it, the park still pretty deserted although the drizzle has stopped.
He gets distracted by a text and replies to Sveta as she checks in. They’ve got a system now, for when he’s sad; they’ll check in once a day to make sure he’s not struggling too much, that he remembers he’s got a friend and support when he needs it. He’s grateful for her, too, that even across the country she thinks and cares for him as much as she does.
He looks up as he puts his phone away, but can’t see Anya.
He pushes down the spike of worry, she’s probably just found something interesting to sniff and is in a bush somewhere, so steps further into the field. It's only been thirty seconds, she can't have gone far. He can’t see her ball either, and the low-grade anxiety pulses in his fingertips, in his throat, makes the call of “Anya” hoarse and weak.
She’ll come back, he tells himself. She has to. She always has before.
He waits for a minute, two, but she’s nowhere in sight. He can’t see anyone else around either, so where could she be?
He picks up speed, makes it to the middle of the field as he calls for her again, panic setting in and making him shake, and there, there’s a soft bark that sounds like her.
He’s running before he knows it, not quite full-speed so he can hear potential future barks but he tears through the line of trees lining the other side of the field and skids to a halt as he almost trips over his dog. She’s sitting in front of a stranger, her ball on the ground between them.
“Shit! Are you okay?” a man’s voice asks as he stumbles, catching himself on a tree and hissing as the bark scrapes his palm.
Anya barks happily to see him and he curses lowly, ignores the wet grass as he drops to his knees and pulls her into his arms, muttering his relief into the top of her head.
“You scared me, Anya,” he admits in Russian, feeling the heat of tears prickle at the back of his eyes. She pants happily into his shoulder as if she’d not just taken a decade off his lifespan, and his hands shake as he pulls out her lead and clips it onto her collar.
“Hey,” a voice interrupts gently, and Ilya realises there’d been someone else here. “Are you alright?”
Ilya looks up, and up, sees a man hovering maybe a metre or two away. He’s beautiful, thickly muscled even hidden under a loose waterproof parka, black hair glistening with water as if he’d been caught in the rain despite his coat.
“I-” Ilya can’t lie as he meets liquid brown eyes, openly concerned as they watch him. A hand is stretched out and Ilya puts his hand in it automatically, winces as pressure is exerted on his palm as he’s pulled to his feet.
“Sorry,” the man mutters, loosening his grip but not letting go. He gently adjusts Ilya’s hand, turns it so the palm is facing upwards and the red-raw skin from where he’d caught himself on the tree is visible. There’s a bead or two of blood and the man mutters in dismay.
“I’ve got- one sec,” he lets Ilya’s hand go as he rifles around in his pockets, pulls out a wallet and from that, a plaster.
“You’re, um, not allergic?” he asks, lifting it in question and Ilya can only shake his head, the lump in his throat back for different reasons, preventing him from speaking. He keeps his hand where it was and watches the stranger delicately peel back the paper from the plaster and place it carefully over the tiny wound at the base of his thumb.
“You should wash that out when you get home,” the man says, as Ilya stares at the flesh-coloured plaster, fresh tears welling at his eyeline and making the vision blurry.
“I- okay,” Ilya manages a nod, realises he’s still holding his hand out like an idiot and folds his fingers in, pulls his hand back in towards his chest.
“Are you okay?” the man asks again, and the first tear tips down his cheek.
He presses his hand to his face too quickly, hisses as the scrapes sting with the pressure.
“Sorry,” he shakes his head, and blinks down as Anya leans against his legs, eyes wide as she stares up at him. “Sorry, Anya,” he apologises again, and his voice breaks, more tears joining the first on his cheeks and fuck he can’t believe he’s doing this in public.
“Hey. Hey,” the voice is too soft and Ilya doesn’t know what to do with it, what to do with himself right now, can only shake his head and apologise again.
“No, don’t be sorry,” the man says and he sounds so fucking earnest Ilya feels a fresh tightness in his chest. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Just- do you want to sit? Take a minute?”
As if Anya understands what’s going on better than Ilya right now, she gently tugs forward at the lead until Ilya’s following on autopilot, takes a seat on the bench she stops next to, ignores the dampness seeping into his trousers. The stranger sits next to him, a couple of inches of distance between them but even so the warmth of him bleeds through into Ilya’s side.
Ilya pets Anya’s head gently as she rests it on his knee, grateful for something else to focus on other than the clutch of sadness in his chest. He breathes as he and Galina had practised; four in, hold for four, exhale for four, repeat until he feels a little steadier.
“Sorry,” he eventually manages to say, the stranger sitting silently next to him still.
“Like I said, nothing to be sorry for,” he replies, and Ilya can almost feel the weight of his gaze on Ilya’s face. “I’m sorry if I came in where not wanted. Um, Anya, is it? Anya,” he repeats, when Ilya’s dog wags his tail at the mention of her name, “dropped her ball by my feet. I wasn’t sure what to do, I was going to see if I could catch her and check the number on her collar, and then you appeared.”
Anya’s tail wags again at the mention of her ball, clearly delighted with herself.
“Thank you,” Ilya murmurs, glancing over to meet brown eyes, still watching him carefully. “Sorry. I- it has been… a bad week,” he admits, “I do not normally cry in parks with strangers.”
A soft laugh, more consolidatory than mocking. “I’m sorry you’ve had a bad week,” the stranger offers gently. “Is there anything I can do?”
Ilya shakes his head, “No. Thank you,” he adds, flattening his palm on his knee and looking at the plaster again.
The stranger hums and they sit in silence again for a long moment. It’s not as awkward as Ilya had feared, the quiet somehow comfortable and light. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence as he’s usually so good at when he’s more like himself, and glancing over at the stranger he seems content to just sit and watch the trees without requiring any input.
“I am not normally like this,” Ilya finds himself saying after a few minutes, and meets the stranger’s gaze for a brief moment before they both look away. “I, um. I have. Depression.”
He exhales heavily as he says it, still not used to sharing. It’s something that he and Galina have been working on; many of his friends and colleagues know now, are able to offer quiet support when he has bad days. The stranger nods, and Ilya risks a glance at his face but sees no judgement, just thoughtfulness, and it loosens the grip of anxiety on his vocal cords.
“Anya usually helps. Gets me out of the house, and things, when I don’t want to. Well, until she disappears,” he adds with a rueful huff, fingers scratching the back of Anya’s ear as she stares up at him adoringly.
“I’m glad you have help,” the stranger murmurs, and Ilya just knows he’s telling the truth. “And for the record, even if you were, usually, um, like this? I think ah, I still think you’d be beautiful. You are beautiful, even as you are.”
The stranger flushes, freckles across his nose growing more prominent as his cheeks turn pink. Ilya does not blush, but he can feel heat travel up to his cheeks too, as he processes the words.
“I’m sorry, that was probably really inappropriate,” the stranger murmurs, and Ilya shakes his head quickly. Relief relaxes his companion’s shoulders, and he turns slightly towards Ilya. “I’m Shane, by the way,” the stranger says.
“Ilya,” Ilya manages to push past the new lump in his throat, growing with the thrumming of his heart.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ilya.”
“... You too.”
“And you, Anya,” Shane adds with a quiet laugh, as Anya wiggles over to sit between the two of them, her head migrating so it’s closer to Shane’s knee as if in protest that they’re not including her.
“We should probably go,” Ilya admits reluctantly, “she has not had her breakfast yet.”
“Do you walk around here every day?” Shane stands as Ilya does, Anya dancing around their feet, excited to get moving again.
Ilya nods. “Usually a morning walk here, and then evening somewhere new, where we can.”
“This might be too much, so feel free to turn me down,” Shane starts, and hope blossoms in Ilya’s chest, pushes out some of the gloom, “but if you ever, um, wanted a human companion, I usually run here in the mornings. I’d be happy to ah, join you. If you wanted.”
“I would like that,” Ilya agrees, the joyous surprise from the offer one of the strongest emotions he’s felt this week. “We usually get here about 8.”
“Okay. Great,” Shane smiles widely at him and it’s like looking into the sun, the warmth of it thawing Ilya another degree. “Um, see you at eight tomorrow, then?”
“Okay,” Ilya agrees, and tries not to feel bereft as he steps away and Shane does the same in the opposite direction.
He takes another step, Anya glancing back at Shane as if also disappointed he’s not coming with them.
“Wait, Ilya,” Shane calls, and Ilya stops dead, turns with anticipation a song in his ears. “Do you- would you want- I mean, if you’re free now-”
“Do you want to come over for coffee?” Ilya interrupts, “I maybe have things to make pancakes, too.”
“Yes. Please,” Shane agrees, and a small but real smile tugs at Ilya’s mouth, feeling warm and like a bit of the weight has shifted, has sloughed off and collapsed at his feet, as the handsome stranger jogs over towards them.
Anya half-jumps up in joy, remembers herself and instead prances around both of their feet instead.
Maybe this is insane, inviting a veritable stranger back to his house, and Ilya’s not sure whether he’s managed to keep it clean enough this week for visitors, really. But it’s too late now, and Ilya has a good feeling about this, he really does.
They get home and Shane insists on cleaning Ilya’s palm for him. He’s gentle as he wipes the wound with antiseptic, places new plasters on the little cuts. He doesn’t baby Ilya too much, though, leaves him to make the coffee as he looks around the kitchen, the open living room.
They share soft smiles and quiet brushes of fingertips as they sip their coffees, Anya chowing down happily on her breakfast in the corner.
“I don’t- I don’t do this,” Shane eventually admits with a self-admonishing smile. “I’m sorry if I’ve, um-,”
“Shane,” Ilya cuts him off, presses his knee to Shane’s where they’re sitting on the sofa, watching Anya turn to her basket of toys and dive in with post-breakfast zoomies. “I might be depressed, but I am not unable to make an informed decision. You have been very kind, and are very handsome, and if you are not put off by the fact that my brain hates me sometimes, I would like to know you more.”
Shane’s hand gently takes his again, fingers entwined but keeping the pressure off Ilya’s scratched palm.
“I’d like that too,” he admits, and they sit there in the quiet, shoulder to shoulder, palm to palm, both ready to start something new.