Chapter Text
Ilya's hands clench around the steering wheel, squeezing until his knuckles go white. He takes a staggering breath, before reaching for his phone in the cup holder.
He sends Shane a text, saying he’s on his way home, before tossing the phone onto the passenger seat without watching a response.
He should just get home, hold his husband close, and fucking relax, but his hand doesn’t move to turn the car on.
He sits there feeling stuck like a fly in a glue trap.
Therapy was hard. It took everything out of him, often leaving him breathless. He felt dissected like a frog in some high school biology class, and he doesn’t know how to stitch himself back together.
He knew it was helping, being back in Galina's office twice a week, and allowing himself to tell her what he can’t find the words for in English. It alleviated the weight in his chest, leaving him with a gaping wound that he struggled to fill.
He had been earnestly trying — going to the appointments, taking his medication, and telling Shane when some days felt worse than others, which were still most. But the distance between the pain was slowly growing, giving him more time to feel the warmth around him, before succumbing again.
The process felt slow, but the small progress was there. Enough that Ilya got through most days without reverting back to the habit of trying to erase himself completely.
But he wasn’t invincible.
His heart feels heavy as he finally starts the drive home, a slight tremor to his hands he can’t shake out. Every breath feels forced, calculated, and he tries to blink past it, focusing on the lines on the road.
Silently, he pulls into his driveway, and turns the car off. He doesn’t immediately climb out. His body feels like deadweight, and he struggles to even get himself to move.
When he finally does get up, his movements are sluggish, and reduced to a minimum. He drags his feet as he steps up to the house. The keys are heavy in his hands as he pushes the door open.
There’s a soft patter, and he looks down to see Anya standing in front of him, wagging her tail. He moves his leaden arms to pet her gently, forcing a terse smile on his face.
“Hello, my girl. Is papa home? Or is he still at the store?” Ilya asks her, already knowing the answer. He saw the absence of Shane’s car in the driveway, and his stomach churns, hating the fact that he was alone.
She bows down, stretching for a minute, before going to get her toy, and he follows her into the living room, kicking his shoes off while paying it no mind.
He falls heavy onto the couch, sitting on the end so that when she brings her ball over to him, he can reach it. He halfheartedly tosses it across the room, and she chases it, and Ilya wishes he felt happy.
The day already started off poorly. He felt the ache in his chest from the moment he woke up, and struggled to move. He wanted to stay there forever, wrapped in blankets where no one could see him.
He was going to tell Shane, he really intended to.
But Shane had his own therapy appointment the day before, and mentioned feeling lighter, and Ilya didn’t want to press the weight back down on him.
So he smiled at his husband, kissed him good morning, and dragged himself to therapy despite how every bone in his body fought against it.
He told Galina all about the heaviness crushing him, but it didn’t do anything. It just cemented it in place, and he feels even more ruined than he did this morning.
Anya brings the ball back, and looks at Ilya, panting, waiting for him to toss it again.
He holds the toy in his palm for a minute, feeling its weight, focusing on it, before throwing it again. He closes his eyes, and leans back against the couch as he listens to her scamper after it.
She doesn’t return this time, and he cracks an eye open to see her settle into her bed with the ball in her mouth, chewing on the rubber.
His foot taps against the floor as he takes a deep breath, wishing the oxygen would reach deeper.
Ilya stands up again, after another moment. He heads towards the stairs, but then he pauses, turning back to look at the kitchen.
His throat feels dry as he lets himself hesitate from crawling back into bed, feeling allured by the ghosts of his past.
The ache has only been growing today, tearing down his defenses. He feels trapped, and he desperately needs air.
He clenches the bottom of the railing to try and steady himself, as his eyes land back on the knife block, which Shane still hesitates to leave out in the open.
But Ilya had earned back that trust. He’d proven he could control himself.
But at this moment, he isn’t sure he can.
It could be quick. The only reprieve he has left in this world.
The pain would be fleeting, but maybe it would take some of the emotional cost with it, carrying it further away from him. His jaw clenches as the urge suddenly feels overwhelming, drawing him closer like a siren song written specifically for him.
Ilya takes a step forward, then pauses. Was he really going to do this?
Was he going to ruin everything he’d rebuilt with Shane?
The guilt and desire are a raging war in his mind, clashing at every junction and Ilya wraps his arms around him, squeezing his fingers into his bicep to try, and ground himself.
He takes a few more steps forward, falling into a rhythm before he’s in front of the knife rack, blinking down at what’s actually in front him.
His breath catches in his throat and nausea steamrolls through him, as he stares at the familiar black handle.
It would be easy.
He could do it quickly with practiced ease, and hide the evidence before Shane ever found out.
But the idea seizes his lungs. He can’t breathe as he grips the counter, refusing to reach forward. His chest heaves with every laboured breath, and he feels dizzy as he chokes on nothing.
A few cuts is all it would take. What were only a few more marks on his skin?
But it feels like more. The idea feels like a loss in itself, and Ilya fights to not give in.
A shaky hand pulls his phone from pocket. He fingers fumble over the password, messing it up over, and over again. Frustration flairs in his chest and he slams it down onto the counter, still struggling for air.
He stares at the knives again, like they were beckoning him forward, and he feels taunted.
But he picks his phone back up, finally successfully unlocking it. He immediately pulls up Shane’s number, and hesitates only a few more seconds, before he’s pressing the call button.
He holds it against his ear, his skin slicking with sweat. He fists a hand into his shirt, applying pressure to the tearing in his chest.
The line rings, and rings, and the whole time, Ilya can’t help but debate hanging up, and replacing the phone's weight with the knife, knowing it would feel lighter, easier.
Just as he’s about to act on it, the call connects.
“Hey,” Shane breathes into the phone, and he sounds so peaceful, Ilya feels sick with the knowledge that he was going to ruin it.
“Hey,” he says, voice thick. “Are you still at the store?”
“Yeah, I’m just grabbing a few more things. How was therapy?”
Ilya is silent before he finally finds the words in his scrambled brain. “Good. Was fine.”
There’s a beat between them, and Ilya holds his breath.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks after a moment of hesitance.
“Was stupid. I should let you-.”
“No, don’t do that, you called for a reason. What’s going on?” Shane asks, the concern leaking out in his tone, and Ilya can practically see the frown on his face.
Ilya stutters for a moment, the lie pushing its way to the front. But he clenches his jaw and sighs, voice falling into a whisper, “I need you to come home, please?”
“Now? Okay? Wait, okay, yes. Right-, I’m coming home right now, just hold on,” Shane says, sounding breathless, almost like he was running. Ilya wants to tell him never mind and to finish getting the groceries, but the knife block is still screaming his name, and he has to rip his eyes away from it. He collapses to the floor of the kitchen, pulling his knees to his chest as he keeps the phone pressed tightly to his ear. “Are you safe right now?”
Ilya breathes out slowly, choking on the air as it exits. His eyes burn and his skin itches loudly, but he just nods pathetically. “I am, but please hurry. I don’t want to do it. I really don’t.”
“I know, baby. I’ll be there soon. Just tell me what’s going on?” Shane reassures, and Ilya feels Anya come, and lay down in front of him, her weight sitting heavy on his toes.
“I don’t know-, it is all too loud today. Too much, I am too much,” Ilya admits quietly.
“You’re doing great. I’m almost there,” Shane says adamantly. “Just stay on the phone with me, yeah?”
“Don’t drive like an idiot,” Ilya says half-heartedly, his heart clenching tightly at the idea of Shane getting into an accident in his haste.
“I am being careful. I promise. Where are you right now?”
Ilya hesitates. “The kitchen.”
The silence on the other end of the phone is palpable, and Ilya can feel Shane’s panic rising without any words being spoken.
“Do you-.”
“No, I’m looking at them,” Ilya rasps, glancing back up from the floor. “But just looking. I’m not holding a knife.”
“Good,” Shane says slowly, and Ilya can hear the shaky exhale. “Just stay right there. Just hold on for me.”
“I’m trying,” Ilya says, voice empty.
Shane parks in the driveway in a panicked manner, the car crooked next to Ilyas. He doesn’t care. He barely locks the door as he’s running into the house, cursing as his hands fail to put in the key in the deadbolt on the first try.
He walks inside the front hallway, not even bothering to remove his shoes as he barrels towards the kitchen, out of breath.
His eyes land on Ilya, a small heap on the floor, with Anya right there with him. His heart cracks as he kneels down in front of the two. Ilya blinks at him sluggishly, eyes wide and face pulled tight as Shane reaches out, a soft hand landing on the side of his face.
“Hey, you did good. Really good. Tell me what you’re thinking,” Shane says, sitting down completely. Ilya worries his lip between his teeth.
“I’m not really thinking anything, maybe just regretting that I called you. I don’t know why today is so bad-.”
“Hey, no, stop. It’s okay. I’m so relieved you called me,” Shane quickly interrupts before he can spiral, but Ilya can’t meet his eyes. “I’m going to move the knives, and then I’ll be right back, okay?”
Ilya can only nod tightly in response, placing his chin on the arms still cradling his knees to his chest.
Shane hesitates, terrified to leave Ilya alone, but he knows the reminder needs to be removed, for both their sakes.
He stands up, feeling dizzy as he picks up the knife block. He moves them out of the kitchen, and into a hallway closet, slamming the door probably harder than he needed to.
He makes his way back to Ilya, who hasn’t moved. He looks just as close to the verge of tears as he did moments ago.
This time, Shane sits down next to him, putting a stabilizing hand on Ilya's thigh.
“I’m here,” he reassures, thumb rubbing small circles against the fabric of his pants.
“Thank you,” Ilya grunts out through the tightness in his throat, stemming from his chest. “Thank you for coming.”
“I’ll always come when you need me,” Shane promises.
“I don’t want to do it, but I do. It’s like itch, I just can’t reach it. I know it sounds stupid,” Ilya sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, and Shane shakes his head.
“No, it’s not. It sounds frustrating. But it’s going to pass. Just take the time to let yourself breathe,” Shane says softly, leaning his head on Ilya's shoulder, who presses his cheek into Shane’s hair.
“I feel helpless, I hate it.”
“You’re not helpless. You called me. You didn’t pick up the knife. That’s strength, Ilya," Shane says, voice wobbling. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I do not feel strong,” Ilya admits. “I feel weak. I should handle this on my own.”
“You are. I didn’t stop you — you stopped yourself. That doesn’t mean you have to sit in the pain alone,” Shane says carefully, snuggling closer into Ilya. The Russian man can feel his breath puffing against his skin, and it grounds him.
“You didn’t even get to finish shopping,” Ilya murmurs, and even he isn’t sure if it was supposed to come out like a joke.
“Some things are more important than shopping,” Shane says, his hand finding Ilyas, and squeezing tight. “I think we can make it a few more days without restocking the fridge.”
“I’m sure the dirt outside would taste good to you,” Ilya says, a small smile cracking through the agony when Shane huffs at him.
“Wanting to eat healthy, and eating dirt are not the same thing.”
“It tastes like they are,” Ilya hums, kissing Shane’s hair gently.
They let silence fall upon them after that. They sit in it instead of trying to wriggle their way out. And for once, Ilya doesn’t feel suffocated by it. He welcomes it, feeling steadier than he did before with Shane pressed against him.
His eyes close where his head still rests against Shane, and he takes a few deep breaths in. Ilya wishes he could say the urge was gone, and he could smile freely now, but that would be a lie, which he didn’t want to acknowledge, considering how hard he worked to even get to this moment, letting himself be seen without falsities. It leaves him exhausted, worn down, but somehow feeling lighter. Like the weight in his chest has shifted, without leaving.
“This is so boring,” he finally says, and Shane snorts.
“I thought you liked boring?” He teases, lifting his head to meet Ilya's eyes.
Ilya holds his gaze, the corner of his lips gently upticking, and his eyelids feel heavy. He swallows, “I love it. I need boring in my life.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Shane reaffirms, seeing meaning in Ilya's words. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” Ilya says, sounding certain, and warmth blooms in Shane’s chest. Wordlessly, he stands up, and holds out a hand. Ilya doesn’t hesitate to take it, and he’s unceremoniously pulled to his feet. Shane guides him through their home, Anya's soft steps clicking as she follows them.
He presses a kiss to Ilya's lips before gently pushing him to sit on the edge of their bed. Ilya lets himself be moved, malleable to Shane’s command. Shane rummages in the closet and pulls out his own favorite hoodie, and Ilya is surprised when he brings it back over to him.
Shane raises an eyebrow at him, and Ilya understands. He lifts his arms up, and Shane pulls the clothing onto him, no words needing to be spoken. Once the fabric is settled around Ilya, Shane grabs another sweater and pulls it on himself.
“Come with me,” he beckons, and Ilya stands up so fast he feels dizzy. He follows Shane back downstairs to the kitchen. Shane moves like a man on a mission. He goes to the pantry, and pulls out the little locked box stored inside. He turns his back to Ilya as he twists in the code, and Ilya watches him rummage in a fashion that has grown familiar to him. Shane comes back over a few minutes later with a single pill in his palm, and places it on the counter in front of Ilya, who hadn’t even realised it was time for his medication.
Shane fills a glass of water next, and brings it with him as he settles next to Ilya, their sides touching at every point, entirely aligned.
Ilya doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. This was routine for them, and slowly he’s started to find comfort in it. That isn’t to say his stomach doesn’t twist as the pill lands on his tongue, still understanding the kind of hold it’s had over him in the past, but he blinks the thoughts away as he swallows it.
Shane squeezes his shoulder gently, and kisses the side of his head, and Ilya didn’t realize a few tears had escaped him until Shane wiped them away.
His husband keeps his thumb pressed to Ilya's cheek as he sniffles. “I don’t know why I’m-. I’m okay, really. Sorry.”
Shane shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m proud of you, and I know medication is always hard, but you’re doing it right. You’re safe.”
“I know I am. You help me feel safe,” Ilya nods, his eyes still wet, but the soft tears no longer spilling. He smiles at Shane in earnest, a small laugh escaping him. “Enough with the sappy shit. It is too much.”
“Okay,” Shane nods in understanding. Ilya expects him to say more, but instead he lets out a sharp whistle Ilya has always tried, but failed to replicate. Anya comes trotting over immediately, tail wagging as she stares up at them.
“Do you want to go outside, huh? Would that be fun?” He asks with a teasing grin, and Ilya's own smile widens at the way she jumps, and starts barking loudly, knowing it’s one of her favorite words.
She moves around like the rambunctious puppy she once was, continuing to bark at them like she was telling them to hurry up.
Shane flashes a look at Ilya, the happiness evident on his face, and it feels contagious. He grabs Shane’s hand and pulls him to the back door, Any trying to climb at them, and push past them. She gets tangled in their legs and they both laugh as they trip around her.
Ilya pulls the sliding back door open, and she bolts, immediately running fast, but tedious laps around the backyard like she had a marathon to finish.
The two stumble out behind her, hands still intertwined.
Anya immediately bounces over, and jumps so high against Ilya that he almost stumbles over, and he can hear Shane chuckling at them. Her paws sit on his chest as she stares at him, panting in his face, and he’s grinning so wide that his face hurts.
“You are like a truck, Anya. Too strong for your own good,” he teases and her ears perk up, and she tilts her head at his voice. She falls back down onto all fours, and races to grab a ball, before returning back to him. She drops it at his feet, bowing down in anticipation. He shakes his head fondly, picking it up, and throwing it as far as he can in their big backyard. She was running after it before it even left his palm.
Ilya watches her run after it, some of the lingering ache loosening further in his chest. He can still feel it sitting there, trying to drag him back down, but he focuses on this moment, and he doesn’t let it.
Ilya plops down heavily into one of the chairs they have back there, and he watches as Shane drags his own even closer, sitting down next to him. His hand immediately finds Ilyas again, and he squeezes gently.
They both watch as Anya flops down into the grass, rolling around, digging the green up with her movements.
Shane huffs. “There goes our lawn.”
“It is better than digging holes,” Ilya reminds, and he watches as the poorly contained horror passes over Shane’s face at the memory of having to fill those, only for Anya to dig them right back up, and make it even bigger. That was a long weekend.
“She looks happy,” Shane hums, leaning back in his chair. He looks so relaxed, that Ilya just stares for a moment, forgetting to respond entirely.
Shane looks back over at him, and Ilya doesn’t hide how firmly his gaze was locked on him.
“What?” Shane asks with the hint of a smile threatening to break free. There’s a growing fondness in his eyes that has Ilya's heart fluttering in his chest.
“Nothing. Just you are beautiful,” he finally says, watching Shane roll his eyes.
“I always knew you were a sap,” he teases, squeezing Ilya's hand again, and he relishes in the feeling.
“You make it easy,” he counters, enjoying the slight pink tinge that appears on Shane’s cheeks.
“You always have to win, don’t you?” He mutters petulantly, looking back over at Anya to avoid Ilya's gaze.
But Ilya doesn’t look away. He stares at his husband — at the love he feels like he’s fought for his entire life. He thought coming out would put an end to the battle. He always thought that would fix everything that drags him down.
And now he knows that’s not true, it was just idealistic. Like a drowning man looking for air.
Ilya knows he isn’t done fighting. He knows that he isn’t perfect, or maybe even okay.
But that doesn’t take away from this moment. Not anymore. The warmth he feels in his chest drowns the rest out.
He keeps staring at Shane, who smiles easily, and laughs loudly, and he knows there’s enough room in his heart for more than sorrow.
Ilya made sure there was.