Chapter Text
Ilya is not depressed. He is Russian. Occasionally, of course, Russians would be swept with unbearable sadness and anger but it was merely the Slavic blood running through their veins and the traumatic books they were forced to read at school.
Ilya hadn't taken up on Marly’s offer to go out with the team tonight. It didn’t feel necessary, the win was hardly fought for and easy. His body was tired in a way that made him question if it was because of the checks on the ice or something else entirely.
The room was dimly lit by a bread lamp. He’d won it from one of those claws machines and the bedside lamp had felt too far to reach.
He was laying in a starfish position under the covers, only because of the cold and not because he didn’t like having his feet unprotected.
He didn’t have much thoughts during those times. His mind fell blank. It wasn’t dissociating either, he was very much aware of his surroundings. It just felt hard to move and even harder to ask for help.
The ceiling grew boring and he wasn’t much of a back sleeper, he should move on his side or maybe stomach. But the physical weight isn’t lifted from his body or maybe it is the mental one. One day he’d scrolled too far and had found a post about how the mind gives up way before the body and that everything else is conditioning and sheer determination.
Ilya wants to turn, his body is aching and it feels like his ribs are closing onto his lungs. It’s a ghost pain, Ilya knows it isn’t really there but he can’t help that he feels it, like the only constant in his orbit. His body isn’t really cooperating so Ilya pushes out an exhale then slowly closes his eyes. He can only hope that sleep finds him soon.
As he slowly blinks, Ilya realizes that he moved in his sleep and is now facing the window. Soft hues of orange are filtering through, he doesn’t really know the source tho— streetlight?— but it’s pretty.
The window is closer than it should be. His vision is blurry and he blinks a few times to clear it.
His eyebrows furrow in confusion as nothing changes. The bed is cold and the window is really close and he reaches to touch it and his hand passes through air.
Okay so the window is there, he knows it’s real but he can only make out the outline and the light filtering through. The window is too close but at the same time out of reach.
Fuck. Is this what dying feels like? Ilya can only try to reach the window again but as nothing solid meets his hands, he blinks in a few rapid motions. The panic is slowly seeping into his bones and he feels his chest tighten. He reaches out for the window for a third time then a fourth. He only feels more agitated each time, his body feels heavy and he can’t move.
His heart spikes as he realizes that. Oh my god. He really is dying, isn’t he? His reaching arm falls limp at his side. Ilya is dying, alone, in a cold bedroom in Boston. He shouldn’t feel happy but he’s going to see his mom, he thinks as the window comes back into focus, the veil of blur in front of his eyes lifted.
He realizes, sheepishly, that the window is way too far to reach from his bed. He slowly breathes in and out until he is not about to have a heart attack anymore.
Calming his heart is the easy part, moving is hard, even harder for a bunch of muscles as he is. He spends a few minutes talking himself into moving his feet until he was in fetal position. He comes to the conclusion that he is never talking about what happened in the room tonight, the fear still in the atmosphere.
He stays like this until the early morning. He could only sleep a few minutes at a time before feeling like he was falling into the void.
He did not have a lot of deep thoughts. He thought he was rather not smart outside of hockey, at least not book smart.
The early ray of sunshine hits him in the face and he grumbles something to himself. He did not want to get up but it was no use staying in bed. It felt like one of these mornings where he would wake up and be filled with the want to cry, just at the thought of going to school. Although his mother almost never let him skip.
He buried the thought as soon as it turned to his mom. The walk to the bathroom is the longest it’s ever been in all his years of
living in this house.
He brushes his teeth for hardly half the time he should. His gums feel swollen. He should maybe also take a shower but the shower handle feels too low to reach and the thought of water touching his skin, no matter how hot, sends a shiver down his spine.
He wets a towel under the sink and runs it softly over his face then his curls, this would have to do. The walk to the kitchen is even longer than the one to the bathroom, his body feels… just wrong.
He pulls out a bag of lucky charms then some utensils. He makes his way to the other side of the kitchen island before realizing he forgot the milk. He considers eating like that but his gums would not like that.
He eats in agonizing silence. He usually puts on a playlist in the morning but everything feels too loud, even his own thoughts. He doesn’t bother pushing the stool back as he leaves.
It's still early in the morning. Around 8, way too early for his liking. He lays on the couch for a while. His phone is blowing up with pictures from the night out but he doesn’t really read the messages, the guys would expect him to answer, somehow. Although they’re probably all nursing hangovers.
He switches his official TikTok account to a different one. It’s not really peaceful there, his finger slides from one dramatic video to another. The Kardashians to some rappers’ beef. It’s not really something he enjoys but it’s mindless and doesn’t ask him to think. He doesn’t fixate on any video really, all of it is in English and it’s not really the right language at this moment.
A notification cuts through as he scrolls through the comments. Svetlana asking him how he’s doing. I’m fine, he thinks, he doesn’t really text back nor read the message. The notification isn’t really in the vicinity of his finger and Svetlana will want to FaceTime but his hair is a mess and he still hasn’t showered and he needs to look at his schedule for when is the next game and practice because he forgot and he has to check in on the group chat later to make sure everyone is safe and sound and he has to call somebody to fix the window Connor’s had broken by falling through it and he has to call to make sure his father is not dead and Alexei had not overdosed … he just has so many things and still he can’t pull himself together long enough to even send a fucking text. Life is so unfair.
He doesn’t remember a good chunk of the day but as he looks outside it’s dark. Did he fall asleep? It can’t be, he’s still holding the phone correctly.
The sofa isn’t really comfortable after spending an entire day on it but as he thinks of yesterday night’s events, he can only sigh as pulls the cover higher. When did he even get that damn cover for fuck’s sake?
He let the phone fall on the sofa in a soft thud. It’s not really peaceful there but he feels grateful for not turning the headlights on. Did he eat something? He can’t really remember but he doesn’t feel hungry so that’s a win.
Sleep comes easily and he doesn’t brace for anything as he falls unconscious in the dark room. Tomorrow, he will wake up and feel better. Tomorrow will be a beautiful day if he knows how to make something out of it. He snores softly as he falls into deeper sleep.
It’s kinder there, he thinks.