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Everything is going okay. It’s November. Ottawa is in a better spot than this time last year. Shane could go through the stats to sooth himself. It’s healthier than twitter. It’s healthier than going over the meal plan again and again.
He eats lean ground beef and chicken thighs now. He eats fiber enriched white pasta. Steak - a fancy restaurant, with vegetables and a very plain baked potato.
He doesn’t hate the meal plan. He mostly likes it. Marina has a colleague who specializes in eating disorders, who is also helping build Shane’s professional hockey meal plan. Shane is eating even more than over the summer, but he’s also playing games, practising, cross training, and doing maintenance PT for his leg. So it doesn’t feel heavy, not the way he did for basically all of inpatient.
Shane is too fucking aware of his body today anyways. Apparently that will fade. Leah, his new therapist, who Kieran reached out to and everything, says so. Apparently there’s a regular level of body awareness they can work to achieve together. Another therapy goal.
The good news is that he’s finally at a protein level that feels reasonable. He can feel himself getting stronger. That part he likes. He doesn’t explain it to Leah. It’s not a bad feeling - he’s allowed to want his body to feel capable again and no one will let him do it in an unhealthy way. Mostly that feels good. No one will let him go back to what he was.
Things are feelings settled. Contained. Something.
Things are better like this. Hockey is better, he’s smarter than he was this time last year. He actually spends time with the team. Shane goes out and laughs and orders off the regular menu. Last time it was salt and pepper wings and a single beer and sweet potato fries. Ilya picked the prettiest of his own buffalo wings and Shane took it in his mouth in a way that would put that desperate look in his husbands eyes.
It was nice to kiss Ilya for its own sake, not because he was starving for flavour. When Shane took Ilya’s fingers into his mouth, they were still spicy and they both laughed about it.
They’re home now, back from a demanding and fairly mediocre west coast roadie. Ilya’s shoulder is bugging him. He slept on Shane’s lap on the flight out of Calgary, ice pack melting onto his t shirt. Shane watched the pretentious movie Rose was a secondary character in. He ate his prepacked snacks and protein bar, and a small handful of the weird fancy pretzel Hayes passed around the plane. Then he watched his ex girlfriend topless for a twenty minute scene she acted her heart out during.
Shane drove them to pick up Anya, then home.
His parents for dinner. His dad made chili. Shane eyeballed a quarter cup of shredded lactose free cheddar they had started buying for him. Cornbread, not too sweet, but crispy on the edges. Salad too, apples in it.
They played Durak after dinner. Ilya had taught the card game to them a few weeks back. He was a good teacher - clear and generous. The first time the Hollanders managed to beat him, he smiled bright, and then re-dealt and trounced them. Today was more relaxed, just a few hands, then home again.
Shane’s making his evening snack - protein smoothie with frozen spinach and also mango and raspberries. It’s a double batch, because Ilya likes this one too. Multigrain bagel with peanut butter. Carb, protein, healthy fat. Anya got to lick the butter knife with the peanut butter on it. He weighed the ingredients for the smoothie out, but that’s a texture thing not a control thing. He doesn’t weigh the peanut butter. Seeing Anya get excited about peanut butter makes it easier.
Ilya isn’t there. Ilya is home, his husband drove them home from dinner. Ilya knows it’s evening snack time - it’s 8:45 and they are at home. Ilya would have heard the blender. Ilya would have heard Anya’s happy little jumps when Shane took out the peanut butter. (Shane and Anya share peanut butter, the natural kind that lives in the fridge).
Shane doesn’t need his husband to sit with him while he eats. But Ilya should be here.
Problem. Food is ready. Protein smoothies are bad warm. He’s supposed to try to enjoy food. But Ilya. He breaths. This is a fixable situation.
He texts Ilya.
Shane: Are you awake?
Ilya types for a frankly unreasonable number of seconds, before sending back: no.
“Fuck,” Shane says, mostly to Anya. He balances the plate with the bagel on top of the blender, and carries glasses stacked and cradled against his chest. Then he walks to their bedroom.
It’s not the worst his husband has ever looked. But it is the first time in a while Ilya has looked this bad. His eyes are flat and staring into the middle distance. His face is shockingly blank. The whole effect is made worse by the fact Ilya won’t look at him.
“Go away,” Ilya says. It’s not very convincing. It would work on a rookie or a stranger. But not Shane.
“No,” he says simply. He puts the food down on his nightstand, and turns the little lamp on.
“I don’t want to drink your boring smoothie,” Ilya says, a little harsher this time. Some bite in the sea of emptiness currently drowning his husband.
It occurs to him that if he let Ilya pick this fight, the smoothie could grow warm and gross on the bedside table. Anya would probably lick the peanut butter off the bagel, and Shane would get mad, and they would argue again. But Shane wouldn’t have to eat any of it.
He doesn't want that. He reminds himself he doesn't want that. A moment of temporary triumph over all the little rules will not give him a life he wants. Today was okay. Things can be okay. He wants to have good sex with his husband and not wake up ravenous and guilty.
“If you want to be mean, we can have sex about it later. But I have to eat my fucking snack first.” The word snack suddenly feels childish and pathetic.
He pours two glasses. Ilya still isn’t turning over.
Humiliatingly, he can feel tears prickle in his eyes. It’s just a smoothie. It’s a smoothie he likes. The shame only swells in his stomach. It occurs to him that this is the first time Ilya hasn’t been trying to support him during a meal. It fucking sucks. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t need it. But it would be nice to have right the fuck now.
Shane sits on his side of the bed. His lamp is on. The smoothie glass is sweating condensation. He takes a gulp. It’s fine.
“I love you, asshole. I fucking married you and you can’t scare me off.”
He’s not looking at the husband shaped lump under the comforter. He sips mechanically. Tries to tell himself this will only be harder to navigate if he isn’t correctly fueled. Sighs. Eats the bagel too.
This sucks, he thinks into the sparsely illuminated room. What else is true? Kieran’s voice prompts. Nothing, Shane replies to the therapist in his head. The bagel is too sticky in his mouth. Shane is worried Ilya's smoothie will sit out too long.
He can feel the sugar hit his bloodstream. It's nice. It hasn't gotten old yet. His thoughts are a little quieter. It's easier to sit patiently with Ilya. He can hold a thought other than “food noise”.
The dishes are simply going to have to be a tomorrow problem. Shane places a kiss onto his husband's head. Ilya takes a shuddering breath in.
“Which smoothie is this?” Ilya whispers. His voice sounds rough. Shane wonders if he should have caught this. Ilya was quiet. Didn’t ask to play another round or for dessert.
“Mango and raspberry,” he says.
“I like that one,” Ilya replies. Then he sits up. “I am sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize until I lay down.”
“Did you sleep?”
“No,” Ilya pushes himself up, and takes the smoothie on his bedside table. It leaves a big wet ring. Shane wonders if it's warm.
“Thank you,” Ilya says. “My perfect husband takes such good care of me.”
Shane doesn't know why he wants to argue with that statement.
“I ate a bagel too. And Anya had peanut butter.”
Shane has talked to Leah about trust. It's complicated. Ilya does try to not interrogate Shane about what he's eaten. Shane is honest. He volunteers the information, even.
Leah is very validating. Says that everyone is doing their best, but the situation is still hard. And Shane can feel however he wants about that.
Ilya visibly relaxes hearing Shane has eaten. Like they didn’t eat dinner together a few hours ago. Like it isn’t Shane who should be worried right now.
He chooses to push those thoughts to the side. Ilya is the one struggling right now. Shane can be a good husband.
“What do you need?” Shane asks.
“You,” Ilya replies. He isn't wearing a shirt, the covers having fallen off when he sat up. He's beautiful. Shane strips his own shirt, and sits on Ilya's lap. Bare chest on bare chest. It’s one of Shane’s favourite ways to be, skin to skin with his husband.
His husband is warm and solid. Even when Ilya brings his cold wet hands onto Shane's back.
“Asshole,” he says.
“Yes,” Ilya says. He sounds fond. Tired too. “Sorry,” he adds. “You were trying to help.”
“Is it working?” Shane asks. Ilya sighs. Not in a way that’s targeted. Just shaky and tired. It’s the wrong question. Shane wishes he knew the right one.
Without that as an option, Shane holds his husband closer. Presses kisses to every surface of Ilya he can reach - head, hair, forehead, ears, the space between his eyes. He hopes his body is getting right what his words can’t. Ilya leans in, relaxes.
Eventually, Ilya leans back, all without letting go of Shane. Just keeps holding him close. Shane falls asleep listening to his husband's steady heartbeat.
In the morning, Shane wakes up at his normal alarm, kisses his mostly sleeping husband, goes for a stationary bike ride, and the previous night’s dishes are done when he comes to the kitchen for breakfast. Ilya has made them coffee. They take their meds. Life is normal, life is good.