Chapter Text
Some days were harder than others. But that was fine — normal even. That’s how it was for most people.
But Ilya didn’t know how to articulate that his good days weren’t actually good, they just weren’t all consuming, nearly devastating like his bad ones. They were empty, and he had that false sense of quiet that he momentarily mistook for happiness. It always faded, leaving him with nothing but his own tortuous mind to peel back his layers, leaving him vulnerable, exposed, and aching
He wasn’t sure how to explain this to anyone. His teammates, his therapist, or even Shane.
And he didn’t really want to. If Shane was by his side, and still half as in love with him as he always was, Ilya had to be happy. That’s just how it worked – an unwritten rule that guided his life. Shane brought feelings forward that he couldn’t name or place, but they left his chest warm nonetheless. He was just as obsessed with his husband as he was many, many years ago, sitting in hotel rooms alone, watching his games or interviews through a lonely television set, which Ilya used to roll his eyes at.
Now he couldn’t tear them away.
Anyone with any sense would know they were lucky to have Shane Hollander to be theirs, and Ilya was just about the luckiest bastard alive, because he’s the only one who put a ring on that beautiful man’s hand.
Shane was his, and that was supposed to be enough.
He really tried to make it enough.
The ‘good’ days were supposed to outweigh the bad. Because he was married to the love of his life, still in the career he loved, and even playing on the same damn team, together. They got to love each other openly and loudly, pushing past any nasty comments or looks they got, because at the end of the day, they had fallen so deeply for each other that nothing else was supposed to matter.
This was the most free he had ever been in his entire life.
That’s what Ilya told himself, denying how he really felt.
That his heart hurt everyday, his whole body weighed heavy, and he was just so tired.
Frankly, he wasn’t even sure the last time he had one of those ‘good’ days.
Not that he’d ever tell Shane that.
This was Ilya's own burden, not his.
He wasn’t ready to drag his husband down with him.
***
The third period had less than 2 minutes left. All the Centaurs had to do was stop the other team from scoring, considering they had been leading by two points pretty much the entire game.
Someone from Mississippi had the puck, and Ilya knew it wasn’t going to be for long. He rapidly pushed himself forward on the ice, quickly gaining on the player he hadn’t even learned the name of. Not that it mattered. The guy would be behind him in just a few more seconds, and he can read the name on the back of Ilya's jersey.
He watches the player look behind himself, eyes widening behind the helmet at the still closing in proximity. Ilya just grins, enjoying how startled he looks, knowing immediately the man is intimidated, but what he didn’t expect was for the player to hastily panic, then try and make the shot. They weren’t that close to the net. At most, he thought he’d pass it off to someone else, knowing he wasn’t going to win in stick control against Ilya.
But no.
This idiot took the shot. It was an amateur, arrogant decision, evident from someone who hadn't been playing professionally for long.
Wyatt’s quick to stop it with his own stick, an easy block and Ilya doesn’t really have time to think when the other player who just missed, rushes forward. He assumed he was going for the puck.
Once again, his assumption was wrong.
He watches the kid launch himself at Wyatt, striking the side of his shin pad with his stick hard, purposefully, his actions full of anger and resentment. He pulls back, readying another hit.
And Ilya moves.
He doesn’t think to stop before he’s throwing himself at the other player, tackling him away from Wyatt and down onto the ice. Both their helmets reverberate from the impact, and Ilya just shucks off his gloves, not waiting to swing forward harshly.
The other player, who Ilya is now assuming is a rookie, does the same.
They swing bare fists at each other, filled with aggression that was definitely not representing good sportsmanship. But Ilya didn’t care. You don’t touch his goalie.
The rookie manages to roll Ilya over, straddling him as one of his hits lands directly against his nose, their helmets already lost in the scuffle.
Ilya doesn’t get a chance to reciprocate. Referees pull them apart, and it’s only then that Ilya realizes both of the teams had swarmed the ice, desperate to back up their own players. It’s a sea of jerseys, and it’s overwhelming, as he wobbles on his skates for a minute as he forces himself back onto two legs, before righting himself, hoping no one notices his unsteadiness.
Ilya spits to the side, barely paying attention to the blood that went with it.
He shoves himself away from the referee, whose admonishments had fallen on deaf ears. Ilya isn't even listening as he's delivering his decision to the game on what happens next – how they will be punished.
He turns, and sees Wyatt standing there, grimacing at the sight of him, though the player nods in a silent thanks.
Ilya gives him a slight one in return.
There’s a brush of an arm on his back, and he turns around sluggishly, suddenly exhausted, and he sees Shane, staring at him. His eyes are a mix of annoyance and concern, but either way, it makes Ilya desperately want to kiss him.
“Get your face checked, Rozanov. You’ve got a seat in the box waiting for you,” Shane grunts, but Ilya doesn’t miss the way his eyes rake over his injured face over, and over again, making sure everything is okay. Ilya can’t stop himself from grinning, ignoring the blood pouring from his nose as it coats his teeth, definitely making an unpleasant view.
Shane can’t help but let a reluctant, soft grin pull on his face. He turns away, as the whistle is blown and they need to return to their positions, this time with Ilya off the ice. Though, he doesn’t miss his whisper before he goes.
“Be careful, you asshole.”
And as Shane skates away, Ilya briskly slaps him on the back as he goes, just to let him know he heard.
A referee raps on his shoulder, grunting as he tilts his head to the side, signaling Ilya to get off the ice.
Ilya shrugs him off, skating to the box as he notices his team manager trying to wave him over. He doesn’t listen. He puts himself in the penalty box, ignoring the red-faced man's request. He’s barely paying attention, leg bouncing up and down when there’s another tap on his shoulder a few minutes later. He holds in a groan when he looks, seeing Coach Wiebe next to him, arms crossed.
“Let’s go, Rozanov, someone will substitute. We’re getting your nose looked at.”
“Is fine. Just a bump,” Ilya grumbles, pointedly looking forward to the game, eyes immediately finding Shane, as always. The man is tearing up the ice, easily out skating the other team as he heads towards the net, puck easily dominated by his stick, which skillfully keeps control. Ilya can’t help but watch with awe and attraction, which is how he almost always looks at Shane.
There’s always been something so beautiful about the way Shane skates. It’s elegant yet fierce, confident, and like he relaxes all his worries the minute he steps onto the ice. It captivated Ilya, even before they met. Back then, he might have felt threatened, but now, he’s just filled with pride.
Hollander’s close to the goal, his stick pulls back, and—
“Let’s go, don’t make me ask again,” Wiebe sighs, pulling Ilya's attention away from the ice. The loud buzzer rings behind him, telling him a goal has been scored.
Shane’s goal.
And he missed it.
Ilya sighs tiredly, standing up and following Wiebe to the dressing room, not bothering to check who took over his penalty time.
He drags his skates beneath him, eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly, the pit sinks deeper in his stomach.
Fucking great.
***
The game quickly ended, with Ottawa winning 4-1, but Ilya didn’t have it in his heart to celebrate with his team. By the time his nose was checked out, he had slinked off to the showers before the rest of the team came back and began whooping with joys that echoed even in his shower stall.
His nose wasn’t even broken, which he had known, but Wiebe had insisted they at least get the bleeding under control. Now, Ilya was sure he would be left with just a gnarly bruise. He hadn't bothered himself with looking, yet.
He didn’t know why he was so upset. His team had just won, and he helped them for most of the game, at least until he wasn’t allowed to.
But something close to agony sat heavily in his chest, consuming every piece of him. He turned the shower off, and sat in just his towel on the locker room bench, hoping for just a few more minutes to wallow, alone.
He knew he’d have to put a brave face on soon, unless he knew how to slip past everyone unnoticed.
Which he didn’t.
But for now, he could just have a moment alone in his own pain.
“Ilya? Everyone’s looking for you,” a familiar voice rings out, and instead of sending the usual electricity up his spine, he just tenses at the sound. “How’s your face? Nothing broken I hope, how else are you going to mouth off to the other teams?”
Turns out, he didn’t have a moment.
Ilya forces a tight lipped smile, and looks up to see Shane, gear stripped off, grinning at him.
Though, his smile quickly falls away when Ilya hesitates to answer. “Jesus, what did they say? Really, are you okay?”
Ilya forces his mouth to move, the words clumsy as he keeps a tight smile on his face. “I am fine. Nothing is broken.”
Shane noticeably relaxes at this, taking a few steps forward. “Good, though I’m sure you’d look very sexy with white bandages covering your nose.”
“I am sexy in anything,” Ilya grunts, trying to channel his normal playfulness, but it must fall short, because Shane’s expression dampens just a bit.
Suddenly he’s closing their distance, and Ilya doesn’t even have to look before he feels Shane’s warmth against his side, sitting on the bench next to him. Shane looks around to make sure they’re alone before putting a gentle hand on the small of his back.
They may be out, but PDA in the team locker room is not something either of them could live down.
“Hey,” Shane says, his voice suddenly much softer, and Ilya has to fight the urge to look at him. He instead keeps his eyes trained down, where his hands are clasped together in his lap. “Really, are you okay?”
“Fine,” Ilya says curtly. He forces that same false grin onto his face, hoping he’s exuding much more confidence than he’s feeling. He finally looks Shane in the eye, and the concern he’s met with makes his stomach tie itself into knots. “I did not see your goal.”
Shane huffs gently, face relaxing just a bit. “You’ve seen me score plenty of times before.”
“But your only one this game,” Ilya reminds him, and Shane scoffs, muttering a curse under his breath. This time, Ilya's grin is real.
“Fuck you. You’ll see it again in the near future, we both know that.”
It was light teasing, pretty tame for them, honestly. But Ilya can’t describe why he feels sick at the reference to the future. It’s not that he didn’t want a future with Shane, that was far from it. Truthfully, there was nothing he wanted more. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d choose him over hockey, and that decision wasn’t ever going to change.
That Ilya was certain.
But it’s something about the idea of a future — his own future — that leaves him feeling sick to his stomach.
Which frankly, terrifies him.
Did his mother ever have this realization?
Shane must see something on his face, because the light touch on Ilya's back slides up, becoming a heavy, comforting arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him so close that their foreheads are touching.
PDA be damned.
“Ilya,” Shane’s voice is so tender it threatens to pick apart every thread holding the Russian man together. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
Ilya takes a breath slowly, doing his best to stop it from shuddering in his chest. He lets his eyes close, leaning into the touch, the only comfort he can find.
“Was long day,” Ilya sighs. “Everything is okay.”
He opens his eyes again, hoping that was enough. Shane doesn't look reassured, so Ilya reaches his hand up, and softly grazes his thumb over his cheekbone quickly, before pulling away. “My face hurts, sweetheart. That is all.”
Ilya knows it's playing dirty to use the nickname, which he only really uses by accident, when it naturally slips out. But he watches Shane soften a bit finally, and he feels like he can release his own breath that he hadn't realised he was holding.
It wasn't exactly a lie anyways. His face really did hurt – his nose was throbbing. It's just that the ache in his chest burned more.
Shane huffs, finally looking like his worries had washed away, and Ilya's chest tightens with guilt. He had told Shane he would talk to him, be honest when he has a bad day, but today somehow feels different. And the last thing he wants to do is tell him.
“That was quite a hit you took.”
“They touched the goalie,” Ilya supplies, and Shane huffs again, as if he wasn't well aware of the unspoken etiquette.
“Doesn’t mean you had to go in swinging,” Shane gently counters, and Ilya stares at him for a moment, brain working sluggishly to translate. He must have been more exhausted than he thought. “I mean you didn’t have to punch the guy.”
“You would do same,” Ilya shrugs, and Shane shakes his head.
“I don't get into fights. And even if I did, that also doesn't mean I can’t lecture you about it,” Shane hums, before continuing. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I am,” Ilya agrees, maybe too quickly. As if he was afraid Shane had already forgotten that same lie from moments earlier.
“The team is talking about getting drinks after this, y'know, to celebrate.”
The invitation is clear. But Ilya definitely didn’t feel like he had anything to celebrate. He was walking away from this game with nothing more than a swollen nose, and a black eye.
Again, he must hesitate, because Shane quickly starts speaking again, in a much faster tone, like he’s trying to fix every problem Ilya has. That would be impossible, considering Ilya couldn’t even be honest with his own husband.
“I know you’re probably not up for it, so maybe we can just go home and-.”
“You should go,” Ilya cuts in curtly.
Shane is quick to shake his head. “No, no. It’s okay. I’ll stay-.”
“We do not have to be together every time, Hollander,” Ilya says, and there’s a certain sternness to his voice that makes Shane pause.
Like he wanted to be away from Shane.
He isn’t sure what hurts more, the dismissal, or the use of his last name. It became a rare occurrence after being married, and hearing it makes Shane fumble for a minute.
“Yeah, I know, but-.”
“Have fun with the team. I will ice my face,” Ilya sighs, standing up and beginning to finally get dressed. Shane watches him for a moment, an unexplained unease rippling through his core. “Really. Is fine.”
Something was off.
“You would tell me if something was wrong, right?” Shane finally asks, struggling to find his voice for a few moments.
Ilya turns to look at him, and just for a brief moment, there is a blankness in his expression that leaves Shane feeling cold, and lonely. But in a blink, it’s gone, and he nods. “Yes.”
Shane doesn’t get a chance to respond, to question him further, because Ilya moves past him and out the locker room.
By the time Shane returns to the dressing room, the Russian man has already left.
***
Ilya had planned to go home, put some ice on his face, and go straight to bed. He skipped out on drinking with the team because he wasn’t feeling up to it.
But somehow, he still ended up with a drink in his hand.
Though this was much more depressing.
He sipped the vodka lightly, hating the taste. It was some random cheap stuff from the closest liquor store he happened to stop by at on the way home. All his good, expensive vodka from Russia had run out. He makes a mental note to himself to order some more soon.
Now, he’s just alone, sitting in the darkness of his room, and he’s never felt more suffocated.
Maybe he should have gone out, but he knows he’d just make everyone around him miserable. It was kind of his special talent.
He made his dad miserable.
His brother.
Shane, for a long time.
Even his mother.
And look what she did to get away from him.
He tried to tell himself that wasn’t true, because deep down, he knew that it wasn’t. She was trying to escape his father and his abuse, not her own son.
But he’s sure she noticed the similarities between him, and his dad.
His smile.
The shape of his nose.
The fact that he was still his fathers son.
That fact was something he hated so thoroughly, it threatened to tear him into pieces, even years after his fathers death.
Ilya could understand why she did it. Maybe he resented it at first, feeling left behind and alone, but now, truly alone with nothing but booze and his own thoughts, he really understood.
At least she actually had a reason.
He’s just weak. And selfish.
And that scared him.
The thoughts had always been there, living in the back of his mind. He’d always pondered if it was easier than living life the way he was, but then he’d move onto something else.
Now, he was having a hard time moving on.
It felt like his brain was slathered in honey, and the thoughts were swarming and sticking like vicious bees.
Shane would be furious to know that this is why he skipped out on team drinks. Maybe he’d be disgusted.
Even resent Ilya.
The thought makes him shudder, and he soon swallows another large gulp of vodka, which just burned heavily in his stomach.
He hated himself for it too. Hated that he wasn’t stronger, or brave enough to even tell someone what’s going on.
But how do you explain something you don’t even understand yourself?
He just can’t help but think about the fact that if he was dead, he wouldn’t have to explain anything.
He could just be gone.
And hopefully for once, he could possibly find peace.
Maybe Ilya would even get to see his mother again.
He stands up suddenly, as if he could physically run from the thoughts that clouded his mind, leaving him with tunnel vision.
In his rapid movement, and inebriated state, he dropped the glass tumbler with very little remaining vodka.
It shatters loudly on the floor, and suddenly he’s grateful he left Anya outside of the room where she can’t get hurt by glass shards. He hadn't wanted to drag her mood down either.
His whole body is tense and he holds his breath for a moment, before forcing himself to exhale. Even after more than 10 years of living in a world his father was no longer a part of, he cannot forget the fear he trained into him.
Old habits die hard.
His father wouldn’t let a broken glass slide, because he has to be an idiot to do something so foolish, like behave clumsily.
It’s an embarrassment, a stain on the Rozanov name.
But that’s all Ilya had been led to believe he was.
Ilya sighs, exhausted, beaten, and worn down.
Maybe he wasn’t thinking, or maybe he was thinking too much.
He bends down, disregarding the idea of getting a broom, and begins picking up the bigger pieces of glass with his bare hands.
It sits sharp and heavy on his palm, and for a moment, it feels like everything around him stops, goes silent.
That’s simply because he doesn’t hesitate beyond a brief pause, before squeezing his fingers around the broken glass, letting its sharp edges dig into his palms.
A painful sting spreads in his hand and he winces, but he doesn’t let go.
And like a miracle, for just a moment, his mind is silent, too busy to worry when he’s flooded with pain that continues to grow as he just further tightens his hold.
It was like some sort of sick magic trick. The same effect as when his father would beat him, or throw things at him in a fit of rage. It was occupying, and let everything else fall back into the shadows.
And Ilya would be lying if he said he didn’t relish in this feeling for even just a minute.
He blinks, and the relief is gone. He releases his grip with a groan, and the glass pieces clatter back to the floor, the blood dripping from his palm and fingers mixing with the remnants of vodka on the ground.
His hand is so red with his own blood that continues to spread, that he can’t even see where the wounds are. He curses to himself in Russian, the regret replacing anything he was feeling before.
He fumbles for the tissues on his nightstand, which immediately soak through with blood. He just prays he doesn’t need stitches.
How could he be so stupid?
He stumbles to the bathroom, vision swimming from a mix of panic and alcohol.
He rips the first aid kit out from under the sink, desperation seeping into his actions.
Finally he pulls out some gauze, and Ilya struggles to rip it out of the packaging. He hastily wipes at his hand, before creating a tight wrap around the wounds. He sighs, exhausted, knowing he still has to clean up what felt like a crime scene he left behind. His palm is burning with pain, but he can barely feel it as the reality of what he had just done begins to wash over him.
It was a mistake. Just a simple, foolish mistake. Ilya was just trying to clean up, nothing more, nothing less. He hadn’t meant to, just like how he absolutely does not feel like the world is caving in on him.
He was fine. He had to be, for many, many reasons.
But there’s one reason that stands out among the others.
What was Shane going to say?
Ilya was certain about one thing.
He could never tell him it was intentional.
***
Something was wrong.
Shane could feel it churning in his gut as he half heartedly sipped his second beer. He had checked out of the conversations erupting around him twenty minutes ago, and it gave him time to think.
It wasn’t right that he was here without Ilya. Not that they were attached at the hip (only kind of), but still, something wasn’t right.
It felt like Ilya was hiding something. Shane trusted him completely, but he wasn’t sure if Ilya trusted himself to be honest.
Frankly, Shane was worried. His brain was tumbling with ideas. Ilya had seemed tired lately, and not himself, and somehow, Shane was only just noticing. He just started a new antidepressant a few weeks ago, and Shane knew it could disrupt things like his sleep.
But he couldn’t help but worry that there was more to it.
Ilya had promised to tell him if something was wrong. When he broke down crying, admitting everything, he had told Shane he wouldn't leave him in the dark anymore. Yet Shane is feeling just as clueless now as he did then.
Suddenly, his fear is consuming him.
“-llander? Hollander, hello!”
Shane jolts out of his own thoughts, looking towards Bood. He's been playing with this team for a little over a year, and it was a quick connection. They were open, accepting, and forgiving, much different than Montreal. Not that he didn't miss playing for Montreal sometimes, because truthfully, he did, but he'd also learned to love this team just the same.
If not more.
He felt happy with these guys, like he could actually be himself without anyone rolling their eyes at him, at least with serious malice. The friendship was damn near instantaneous, and Shane quickly learned why Ilya loved this team so much, even if they weren't the best in the league.
They had merit, and that wasn’t something that could be faked.
“Sorry,” Shane grunts, taking another long swig of his beer as he feels Bood evaluate him.
“What's up with you tonight, dude? You look like a kicked puppy.”
“I do not,” Shane grumbles, but there's no heart in it, because he knows the other man is right.
“Are you worried about your man? I’m sure he's snoring away already,” Bood teases, and Shane can't help but feel his cheeks tinge pink. It had been a long time since they announced their relationship, but it still made him feel bashful to talk about it so openly. But he no longer felt that shame.
“He probably is, with Anya in the bed,” Shane sighs, wishing that was true, but he couldn't shake this feeling of dread. “I think I'm gonna call it an early night. I’m fighting to stay awake here.”
Bood playfully boo’s him, and Shane can only offer a small smile in condolence. He throws down a wad of cash, telling Bood to use it to cover both their tabs. He leaves without saying goodbye to anyone else, to avoid the complaints he knows he'll receive for ditching the party.
His leg bounces the entire taxi drive home, and he keeps his head facing out the window, unable to stomach the anxiety that continues to brew deep inside. He couldn’t place this feeling, or even explain what he thinks could be happening. That’s what was really bothering him — he had absolutely no idea what was wrong.
The drive has felt far too long, so he can’t stop the breath of relief from escaping him when he finally arrives back to their home. Once in the gate, he can see that it looks like most lights are off. He shakes his hands out at his side as he pushes his key in the front door.
It’s quiet.
He was right, the lights are off, but Shane doesn’t need them to get around, knowing this place's layout easily by now.
One thing does make him pause.
A very tired, sluggish Anya greets him at the door, tail still wagging despite the fact that he just interrupted her sleep.
Shane immediately bends down to pet her, just like he always does. But this wasn’t right.
Why wasn’t she in the room with Ilya?
Ilya may deny it all he wants, but Shane knows he lets her sleep in the bed, even though he’s not supposed to. He spoils her so much, and frankly, she was the head of this household.
So why was she out here?
His heart hammers in his throat, and he tries to tell himself that everything is fine. He really wanted it to be fine.
Anya tiredly follows him as he heads straight for their bedroom. The door creaks open slowly, and the room is consumed by darkness, just like the rest of the house. Anya wanders off to her bed, and for some reason, Shane feels even more nervous, like he was now doing this entirely alone.
Doing what exactly? He wasn’t sure.
But his heart could not stop pounding.
He practically tiptoes to Ilya's side of the bed, and his knees almost collapse with relief. The man is sound asleep, snoring softly, bruised face smushed into the pillow.
Shane lets out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh.
He was overreacting. Of course he was just sleeping, the man told him how tired he was. And Shane just doubted him.
Guilt and relief swirl in his stomach, and he gently uses two fingers to push some of Ilya curls away from his face, smiling to himself. This was one of his favorite sights. Ilya completely relaxed, guard down, and completely at peace. Shane would never get tired of coming home to this.
Ilya shuffles in his sleep, and Shane pauses, hand still outstretched, holding his breath. He hopes he didn’t wake him up. Finally, Ilya settles back down, having flipped onto his back.
Shane’s just about to walk away to shower before joining him in the bed, but Ilya moves again, and he freezes.
What was that?
Ilya's hand has slipped out from under the covers, and it dangles off of the edge of the bed.
It’s wrapped thickly in puffy white gauze, with slight bouts of red and copper seeping through.
Shane’s jaw clicks as he stares at it, like his whole system is rebooting.
His mind is flooded with possibilities, and some are much scarier than others. He fights really hard against the urge to wake Ilya up immediately, and ask what happened.
But he stops himself.
He’s sure there’s a reasonable explanation. There has to be. Ilya is a grown man, he can take care of himself.
Shane can’t help but wonder if he truly is, though.
He kneels down gently, just for a moment, admiring the man in front of him. He silently begs in his head that everything is okay, and that it will stay that way. They’d worked so hard to get where they are today, and Shane wasn’t ready to lose it, again. He presses a soft chaste kiss to the wrapped up hand, then one to Ilya's forehead, before he forces himself away to the shower.
And when he’s done, he crawls into bed with his husband, and holds him so close, almost as if he was scared that if he let him go, he would lose him forever.
***
Ilya wakes up to the sound of Anya barking, and he groans softly, an ache settled in the back of his head. He sits up slowly, feeling much more sore than he expected. Maybe that rookie got a few extra good hits on him.
He looks around, half expecting Anya to be standing right next to the bed, demanding his attention, but he’s totally alone in the room. He can’t stop the stitch that realization puts into his chest.
He glances at the other side of the bed, and sees that the blankets were very neatly folded back to their intended position, which tells Ilya that Shane was home, and already up.
He felt guilty for not being awake when Shane came back last night, because frankly even one night apart was enough to make Ilya miss him like crazy, but he also knew he couldn’t face Shane last night.
He isn’t really sure how he was going to face him now.
Ilya moves slowly, like there was a thousand pounds weighing down on his shoulders.
Deep regret for his actions last night hit him fast and hard.
But it’s overshadowed, because despite the shame he feels, he realizes, painfully, he wants to do it again.
He swears at himself over and over again in his head, an endless brigade. He forces himself completely out of bed, knowing he can’t hide forever.
He pulls on a hoodie — his or Shane’s, he isn’t even sure at this point. He stuffs his hands into the pockets, hoping to buy himself just a few more minutes of peace.
He makes his way out of the room, and soon finds Shane in the kitchen with Anya, who was scarfing down her kibble rapidly.
Ilya watches her for a moment, unable to stop the soft smile from seeping onto his face, before his attention turns towards Shane. The aforementioned man is working at the stove, making something, but Ilya can’t see what. He doesn’t say anything at first, wanting this calm, domestic view to last forever.
But Shane must’ve heard him coming, because he turns around and flashes Ilya a grin that to this day, still makes his heart skip a beat.
He just wishes it still had the power to fix everything, but he knows it can't.
Not anymore.
He’s too broken.
“Hey,” Shane says softly.
Too softly.
Immediately, Ilya's guard is up.
“Good morning,” he mumbles, rounding his way past the counter island to press a kiss to the side of Shane’s head, who hums. “What are you making?”
“French toast,” Shane says curtly, looking between Ilya and the stove. It’s that shaky eye movement that makes Ilya realize Shane's nervous.
Ilya takes a step back, and Shane’s eyes follow him.
It doesn’t take long for him to notice how Shane’s eyes are drawn to his pocket, where his hands are still shamefully hidden.
So he knows. The real question is how much?
“Were you awake long?” Ilya tries to divert, and Shane just shakes his head.
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
Shane’s restlessness is just making Ilya nervous too, so he walks away, over to Anya, hoping Shane won’t find the words to ask.
But the universe is not on his side. Maybe it never had been.
“Can we talk for a second?” He watches Shane turn the stove off, and turn around to face him, fidgeting on his feet.
The Russian man lets out a breathless sigh, taking a seat at the island. He doesn’t have anything else to say, knowing he can’t get out of this, so he just nods.
Shane faces him from the other side of the counter, leaning forward, and Ilya feels scrutinized under his gaze.
He should’ve just gone on a morning run or something. Anything to avoid this conversation. He can see how the questions burn on the tip of Shane’s tongue, and guilt erupts inside him, knowing he’s about to lie to his husband.
Again.
“I’m worried about you,” Shane finally says, and Ilya resists the urge to flinch. Before Shane, he had no one to worry about him, and now he still doesn’t know how to handle it.
“I am fine.”
“What happened to your hand?” Shane’s voice is so tender that it makes Ilya want to crumble. To sob, confess, and bare his soul.
But he knows he can’t. That would destroy the both of them, and he refuses to drag Shane down with him.
So instead of honesty, he’s filled with irritation.
“I broke a glass. I am fine,” Ilya repeats, but he isn’t sure how convincing he really is, considering he can’t even look Shane in the eye.
“Is that really all?” Shane asks hesitantly, and Ilya resists the urge to roll his eyes. Not that he has any right to, considering there really was more to it.
“Yes.”
Shane inhales slowly, his gut is telling him there’s something more happening here, and Ilya's suspicious behavior confirms it. He’s keeping his answers short and concise, there’s not a hint of teasing in his tone, and he won’t even look at Shane. Something must have shifted, it’s the only explanation Shane can come up with for why Ilya is acting so distant; so unlike himself.
“Why would you pick it up with your hands?”
“Jesus, Hollander. Why do you not believe me? I broke a cup,” Ilya grunts, frustration leaking through, and Shane feels his own nerves prickling.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“‘Hollander.’”
“That is your name, no?” Ilya snipes, and Shane’s brows furrow, as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“Not to you. Not anymore,” Shane sighs. “At least not in that tone.”
“I call you Hollander,” Ilya tries to argue.
“You’re saying it like you’re mad at me!”
“I would not be mad if you left me alone!” Ilya says, voice starting to raise in volume.
“I'm only asking because I am worried!” Shane shouts back, and Ilya recoils, his frustration beginning to boil into anger. He runs his good hand through his hair, keeping the other one still tucked in his pocket.
“You do not trust me?” Ilya growls, standing up and taking a few steps back, chest heaving as he gets more and more worked up. He doesn’t even know why he’s so mad. Shane shouldn’t trust him. Every word right now is a lie, yet Ilyas the one shouting at him?
He really hates every piece of himself. Shane would be better off if he was gone too.
Ilya's entire body tenses as the thought floods his mind, and Shane must’ve noticed, because whatever he was about to spit back dies on his tongue, the anger going with it. He sighs tiredly, and scrubs his hands over his face.
“Look, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I’m your husband, and I love you, remember? I’m not trying to accuse you. It’s just-,” Shane hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment, too ashamed to say it. “It’s just that I’ve missed the signs before.”
Ilya swallows so thickly that he’s worried the gulp is audible. “The signs?”
Shane hesitates, and as Ilya really looks at him, he realizes he looks guilty. That doesn’t sit right with the Russian man. Shane, who brought colour, laughter, and love back into his life, has nothing to be guilty over. Ilyas the problem here, just like he always is. He’ll never change.
And he knows one day, the gift that is Shane Hollander, will outgrow him.
And then he’ll have nothing.
“I didn’t know, back then. I didn’t know what was wrong. At least not until you told me. And now I do know, and I don’t want to make that same mistake,” Shane explains, looking exhausted and ten years older, and the look on his face makes Ilya want to vomit.
This is what he does. He takes the life out of those around him. He can plaster on as many fake smiles as he wants, but at the end of the day, he ruins everything he touches. He’s already put Shane through so much turmoil during the first ten years of being together, and he thought maybe he had changed. Ilya thought he could do better — be the partner Shane deserves. He knows Shane deserves better. The man only deserves the best in life. He was a gift in Ilya's life, and here he is, years later, still ruining them — ruining Shane. He wouldn’t be making that face if Ilya wasn’t here. That wounded expression that will forever be burned into Ilya's mind, haunting him. He can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep fucking up and letting everyone around him suffer the consequences. He’s in the way, a burden in this life, and it was time to stop letting others pick up the pieces.
“I did not want you to know, then,” Ilya says quietly, like it was a terrible confession. “You did not miss anything.”
Shane shakes his head. “I did. You were suffering, and I let it happen. I don’t want to repeat that same mistake.”
“It is not your job to fix me.”
“No, it’s not,” Shane agrees. “I’m not trying to fix you because you aren’t broken, Ilya. I love you, and because I love you, I want to help you. It’s not an obligation. I just want you to be happy.”
There’s a lump in Ilya's throat, suffocating him, as he speaks. “I am.”
“You can tell me if you’re not.”
“I broke a cup,” Ilya repeats, and Shane stares at him, like he’s waiting for him to crack.
He won’t. He has enough practice to hold himself together.
“Okay,” Shane finally agrees, but Ilya can see the doubt that lingers. Ilya thought it would take some of the weight off of his shoulders. It doesn’t. “Okay, are you feeling hungry yet? I can keep making the toast-.”
“No, I am going on run,” Ilya says, standing up, suddenly feeling like if he doesn’t escape now, he’ll asphyxiate on his own lies. He stands up and leans across the counter, kissing Shane gently. “Thank you.”
Shane still looks apprehensive, like he doesn’t believe everything is fine, and Ilya can’t help but wonder if the man can see right through him. "At least let me put new bandages on your hand.”
“No need,” Ilya grunts. He knows he’s being too shallow now, and Shane is going to pick up on it. He can’t stop himself. He doesn’t have it in him to pretend wholeheartedly, and he has to get out of Shane’s questioning stares now, before the act breaks completely. “Anya needs to go outside.”
Shane looks like he wants to protest, like he wants to suggest he’ll come too, which has become their usual morning routine. But he doesn’t. He knows there is no invite — it’s clear Ilya is trying to avoid him, and this conversation.
Shane just nods, and Ilya goes without another word. Shane watches him walk out the door, and his husband doesn’t even turn back once.
The Russian man runs until his lungs burn and his legs are on fire. Both he and Anya are exhausted by the end, practically limping back to the home, but it doesn’t matter.
That pain still wasn’t enough to silence his mind, which is only growing louder.