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It started, as these things usually did, piece by piece and then all of a sudden.
The last weeks, the last months really, had been a lot. They had played a tough season so far, won most of their games but not all and very few of them were easy wins. Most of them were hard earned. Not even just because of the hockey. Hockey… hockey was the easiest thing of all right now.
It was their first season as Centaurs together, their first season of playing together on one team, as husbands. Not everyone in the NHL was fine with that and quite a lot of people felt compelled to tell them what they really thought about the first openly queer player couple in their sport.
There had been a lot of sneers, a lot of dirty hits, a lot of bleeding noses, trips to the hospital.
It was exhausting.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Mentally.
It wasn’t all bad, though. There were a few captains and players reaching out before or after the game to shake their hands, showing them that not the entire league were assholes. They won most of their games, their home stadium booked out far in advance for every game, no matter how small.
Ottawa loved good hockey and they loved their team.
Ottawa, or most of it anyway, loved their gay icons.
There was Pride merch in the Centaurs’ fan shop year round and every night they played there was at least one person in the crowd waving a rainbow flag. Sometimes even a bi-flag.
So, really, it wasn’t all bad, it had just been a stressful few weeks.
Ilya hadn’t been sleeping well — not that unusual for him during this part of the season — but waking up had somehow gotten harder and harder the longer it had dragged on.
He picked more fights than usual, chirp ready the second his skates hit the ice and before the homophobic assholes were ready to spew their bile.
Hit them first, hit them harder.
That’s what they got for forgetting he grew up in Russia. He had spent his whole life fighting and he had ended most fights on top and he wasn’t about to fucking stop now. Not when his team was on the line, especially not when his husband was.
Fighting took up most of his energy lately, so much so that he had to drag himself home after games, barely staying upright, barely enough of him left to stomach a meal afterwards.
He barely had a mind for sex. That was the only thing that somewhat worried him, really, because there was not a time in his life that Ilya Rozanov had not wanted sex, especially considering who he fell asleep next to every single day.
Living with Shane Hollander might just be the single best thing in Ilya‘s life right now, and ever. That and being married to him, getting to kiss him, knowing that this wonder of a man loved him back just as fiercely.
But Ilya was tired.
He was so tired and he hadn’t really realized how tired he was until they took off on their first two week road trip of the season.
The plane had just lifted off the ground, its nose pointing steeply into the sky, half the guys on the team still holding on tightly to their armrests when Ilya’s thoughts started to wander.
He let himself think about the last couple of weeks, of the games, of the chirps, of his sleeping schedule. And of his missed appointment with Galina.
Fuck.
He let his head fall back against the headrest, feeling his eyes burn.
Stupid, he scolded himself, stupid, stupid, stupid.
He shouldn’t have forgotten.
“What’s up?”
Shane had been texting during take off, content with lending Ilya his hand to hold and be sucked up into his own world otherwise. Now he was looking up from his phone and eyeing him, a worried frown on his face. Ilya loosened the tight grip on his husband’s hand and shook his head, turning his head towards the window and closing his eyes.
“Ilya.” Shane tugged at his hand and Ilya felt his thumb move softly over his knuckles, as if he were precious, as if a harsher touch could break him.
It felt like a single puff of wind could break him right now.
“What’s wrong?”
He sounded worried. Not that it was unusual for Shane Hollander to be worried, really, Ilya could probably count the days Shane hadn’t been worried about anything this season so far on one hand and they were all two days they had spent at the cottage without anyone around, and any clothes on. Shane worried, that was just the way things were, but Ilya hated when he was worried because of him. When he made Shane’s life harder, not easier.
He felt a single tear spill over and slide down his cheek, grateful it was the side currently turned into the head rest.
There was another tug on his hand and he took a deep breath.
“Am okay, мой любимый,“ he said when he was sure his voice wouldn’t break, “Just tired.” So fucking tired he couldn’t imagine ever getting up from this seat and so fucking exhausted that he could barely breathe, he didn’t say. But he did add: “Forgot appointment with Galina.”
The long silence that stretched between them was the ‘oh’ that Shane had swallowed down before saying but that Ilya knew lay on his tongue. The quiet meant Shane was thinking, working carefully through every option and their respective pros and cons and Ilya was grateful, so grateful, that he didn’t have to do the thinking right now.
He squeezed his hand eventually, head coming to rest on Ilya’s shoulder. “We can call her from Pittsburgh,” he said softly, thumb back to rubbing soothing circles into Ilya’s knuckles, “Ask her if you can do a video call or something.”
Ilya let his head tip to the other side, letting his cheek rest on the crown of Shane’s head and inhaling his husband’s scent. He nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe.”
Shane was curled up on his side on one of the beds in their hotel room, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and an even softer off-white hoodie with a barely recognizable washed-out logo in Cyrillic letters. The sleeves were slightly too long and he had tucked the right side up to the middle of his forearm and the left side pulled down so his hand could curl around the fabric. He was scrolling through his phone, watching clips from their latest game, taking note of what worked and what didn’t the way he always had and even more so now on this new team.
They had won against Toronto that night with both Luca and Ilya scoring and Hayes holding goals like his gloves were made of magnets. It had been a hard win with Toronto pulling all the tricks in the book (and quite a few that weren’t), aggressive in a way that felt like it wasn’t just hockey.
They had won, though, and that had been important, and he had hugged Ilya tightly on the ice afterwards and that had probably been important, too, judging by the loud booing accompanying the gesture. He had hated it, if he was being honest, had always disliked the way hockey fans had opinions on anything outside of hockey and hated the way that now his relationship – his marriage, fuck it – was a thing that people felt entitled to have opinions about.
Rose had been in the audience and her cheering had been heard even through all that and for a moment Shane had been actually worried about his best friend in that Toronto crowd. Not that anyone or anything could have ever kept Rose Landry quiet.
He loved her for that.
The two of them had spent the evening together at a small family-owned Italian restaurant tucked into a corner booth catching up. They had talked about Rose’s new movie (she was doing the kidnapping this time and was very excited about it), Shane’s first season with the Ottawa Centaurs so far (so much better than the fucking Metros), hockey in general (did they actually have a chance at the playoffs this year?), Ilya (Shane found himself agreeing with Rose when she said she missed him much to her amusement) and everything and anything else that had come up.
It had felt good to talk to a friend, to get out of the hockey bubble even if just for a second, laughing about things only they understood and cared about.
It had taken them almost three hours to get through their food with all the talking they had done and Shane had still been riding the high of the comfortable social interaction when he had gotten back to the hotel only to find Ilya gone.
He had texted him earlier that he was going out with the rest of the team, having made Shane frown down at his phone because he had cited being too tired after the game for not joining him and Rose.
Now it was almost midnight, Shane could barely keep his eyes open and he, kind of pathetically, missed his husband.
It didn’t help that he was worried about Ilya just a little bit more than usual on this road trip. He had been quicker to anger on the ice, more tired off of it than usual and while they had rescheduled his appointment with Galina to a video call, Shane still had the off-putting feeling of something being wrong without being able to really put a finger on it.
They had talked about starting medication briefly but Ilya didn’t want to jump the gun on that, especially during the season and especially on a road trip and Shane had agreed with him, especially after looking up the most common side effects of antidepressants and wondering how anyone was ever brave enough to take them.
He was still worrying at his bottom lip, staring past the brightly lit screen, when there was a sudden commotion in the hall outside their room. The telltale sounds of drunk hockey players returning after a night out. Above the mindless chatter he could hear Ilya’s booming laughter and it was enough for him to put down his phone and roll over until his back was leaning against the headboard, ready to catch the first glimpse of him.
Ilya was still talking loudly, boisterous in the way that made people around him love him so much (when they didn’t hate him for it, that is), when he heard him leaning on the door, fumbling a little until he managed to get the card into the slot and the door opened with a little click and a chorus of “good nights” before it fell shut and the voices were reduced to a muffled background noise.
Shane had pushed himself up from the bed and had his arms thrown around Ilya before he had made the conscious choice to move. He let his forehead rest on his collarbone, relaxing into the way Ilya’s arms came around his waist instinctively and pulled him into his chest more fully.
“Missed you,” he mumbled into his t-shirt, then with a grimace added: “You were smoking.”
“Shh,” Ilya shushed him, one hand now carding through his hair and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Was just half a cigarette, was Haasy‘s first one. He hated it.”
“Good.” He poked him in the side. “You shouldn’t get your teammates to smoke.”
He was prepared for an argument to break out over this. Nothing serious, just bickering, really, but Ilya just hummed non-committedly and leaned into their embrace, putting more of his weight on Shane.
Ilya was quiet, so unlike the rambunctious persona he had put on just a minute ago, and Shane clung to his large frame, mind racing while trying to give him the shoulder to lean on he so obviously needed.
Slowly he shuffled them both over towards the bed and gave Ilya a little push until they were both sat down on the edge of the mattress. He had his arm wrapped around his shoulders and positioned Ilya’s head on his shoulder in a way that allowed him to slowly massage his scalp.
“You okay?” he asked quietly into his hair.
Ilya nodded in return without saying anything and Shane was circling through possible ways to reframe the question to get an actual reply without being too pushy and overbearing and overstepping when Ilya mumbled something into his shoulder. It was too quiet for him to pick up on the words but he felt the rumbling of his torso against his arm.
“What did you say?”
Ilya turned a little out of his embrace, a curl tickling Shane’s nose as he moved, and repeated: “Is hard sometimes.” He paused and Shane thought that maybe this non-answer was actually the best he would get today and he was fully prepared to make himself be okay with it, when he continued, “Is easier with strangers. Or, not strangers, but,” he tutted, gestured with his hand that was resting on Shane’s knee, “Not you. Can’t pretend with you.”
“I’m glad,” he found himself saying, then gave Ilya another little push so he could actually look into his eyes, both hands on his cheeks to frame his face. He dropped a lingering kiss to his lips. “I’m glad you don’t pretend with me.”
He could see Ilya swallow hard at that, could’ve sworn his eyes were shining more than usual, but then he had leaned forward again, closing the distance and slotting his lips right over Shane’s.
He moved on instinct, climbing in Ilya’s lap as he opened his mouth to let his tongue in, sucking and licking into his mouth as if he hadn’t been kissed in days. Ilya dragged a hand down his waist roughly while his mouth darted to his neck, sucking and kissing at the spot right over Shane’s pulse point. He moaned loudly, throwing his head back to give him better access, fingers finding purchase in Ilya’s curls again.
“God, Ilya.”
Another push to his broad shoulders and Shane was laying on top of his husband, dick already hard and throbbing against his sweatpants. He attacked his lips again, content when he could draw out a moan that rumbled deep in his chest and then started sucking and kissing his way down his neck. His hands had already wandered down to tuck up the t-shirt and he let up for just a second to undress both himself and Ilya from the waist up before going back to peppering little kisses to his chest, spending more time and tongue on his nipples.
Beneath him, Ilya was softly sighing and groaning into the touch and Shane smiled against his skin. He loved spending time on his husband’s body, cherishing him the way he always deserved to be cherished. His hand trailed further down, slightly ahead of his mouth, lightly scratching his fingernails down his firm abdominals until he was playing with the waistband of his jeans, feeling Ilya strain his back to be closer to him. He popped open the button and brushed over the soft bulge in his pants.
When he looked up, Ilya’s eyes were already on him, shining again, before he let his head fall back with a frustrated groan that had Shane scrambling upwards until his elbows were on either side of Ilya’s face, knees on either side of his waist.
“Hey,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips, framing his face in a way he couldn’t avoid eye contact. “It’s okay.”
Ilya scoffed, his harsh breath hitting Shane’s face. He smelled of smoke and something sweet. “I can’t even get hard for this,” he let his fingers trail down the side of Shane’s body and he had to catch his breath at the way his cock twitched at the light touch. “Maybe I am broken,” he whispered into the space between them and now Shane had to catch his breath for a whole different reason.
Tears were shining in his eyes then, too, his husband’s face blurring slightly.
“You’re not broken.”
“It feels like maybe I am.” Ilya let his head fall back into the mattress, eyes closed, and Shane watched a single tear roll down the side of his face in horror. He caught it with his thumb before it could get lost in his hair.
For a moment they just breathed together, Shane catching three more tears that had escaped Ilya’s eyes and focusing on the strong heartbeat underneath him. Strong enough that he could feel it in his own chest. He wanted nothing more than to cover all of Ilya, put him somewhere safe, away from the world where no one would be able to hurt him anymore. Logically, he knew, that what hurt Ilya came most likely from inside his head and that no amount of coddling could make that go away but damn it, if there was a way, he wanted to find it.
An hour later, or maybe five minutes, when Shane could’ve sworn Ilya’s breathing had evened out enough for him to have fallen asleep, he spoke again.
“Sometimes,” he said, voice raspy and small, “I want everything to stop.”
Shane, head resting on his hand, having watched Ilya breathe the entire time he had been quiet, felt like maybe he could die of a broken heart.
“Everything?” he asked, thankful that his voice didn’t break on the word. He wanted to hear this, he needed to hear this, and he could damn well be strong enough to hear it.
“Everything,” Ilya repeated, sounding impossibly tired. His eyes blinked open, fresh tears shining in them, too many for Shane to all wipe away with his thumb. “I want to stop existing. Living. It is hard.” His voice dropped even more, barely more than a whisper now, barely more than a breeze. “Sometimes I want to die.”
For an eternity they sat with that admission. They were both crying now, tears dripping down Shane’s nose and in Ilya’s hair where they mingled with his husbands’.
So many things were running through his mind then. They needed to call Galina, first of all. He had never thought about Ilya being suicidal, secondly. He had read about it, of course, when he had first told him about his depression and Shane had done the only thing he knew how to – research and learn everything there was to learn. He had read about suicidality and self-harm and had hoped he would never have to learn anything more about it ever again.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat, trying to summon the courage to say – to say something. That was the one thing that had stayed with him, that the only wrong thing to do was to not talk about it. Especially when the other person had brought it up, had cried for help in the only way they maybe knew how.
“How much?” He cleared his throat when Ilya’s eyes found his, frowning in confusion at the question. “Like, on a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you want to die right now?”
Maybe it was a stupid question. Shane almost wanted to take it back. He wanted to put his hands on his ears and never hear the answer. He dreaded that Ilya would have enough of his shit, would roll over and leave their room and – Without conscious his hand tightened a little in Ilya’s hair. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t let him leave. And he wouldn’t leave. So, he sat in his anxiety, let it rot through his stomach and let his heart race while waiting for the answer he didn’t want to hear.
Finally, after what felt like years of them just looking at each other, of Ilya searching for something in his eyes that Shane hoped to whatever god there was he would find, he replied: “I think, maybe. 4?”
Okay. Shane let out the breath he had been very much aware he had been holding and let his forehead fall to Ilya’s, breathing him in. And maybe it had been a good question after all, because 4 was a number and it wasn’t the highest number and Shane might actually be able to work with that because he was good with stats, he was good with numbers.
“I love you so much,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Slowly, so damn slowly, Ilya’s arms circled back around his torso, pulling him into him in earnest as if Shane was his own personal weighted blanket, burrowing his nose in Shane’s hair. “This is helping. Thank you.”
They fell asleep like that, even though Ilya hadn’t brushed his teeth yet and even though they were laying on top of the covers and Shane was in his sweatpants that he never fell asleep in.
They fell asleep even though Shane’s heart was pounding so hard against his rib cage, his mind racing a mile a minute and he had been so certain he would never sleep again. But Ilya’s breaths were slowly evening out, every puff of breath a tingle on his skin, a proof to Shane’s loud mind that he was still here, still breathing, and so they fell asleep.
Ilya ground his teeth, slapping his hockey stick to the ice with much more force than necessary. He felt the impact reverberate through his arm and shoulder and ground his teeth some more. This training was a fucking shitshow. No one was clicking, everyone was all over the place. He wanted to scream and punch something.
Fucking hell.
“Stop!” he yelled and watched, with grim satisfaction, as everyone on the ice came to a standstill. He waited impatiently until they had assembled into somewhat of a circle around him while he kept smashing his stick to the ice. There was a pressure in his chest that had been building all day and that he could barely swallow past and now this practice made his team look like they had never been in skates before and he hated it.
“You are skating like fucking babies,” he snarled at the pathetic lot, all breathing heavily, all sweaty and wide-eyed and fucking annoying him. “You are NHL players?” he asked rhetorically, “Or you are fucking baby deer who has never been on ice before?”
He glared at them all, relishing in the way he could get them to shut up in a way he rarely did. But damn it felt good right now.
“You think we are going to beat the Admirals with this?” he made a flourish with his hand, hoping it showed exactly what he thought of them right then. “They are going to laugh in your face.”
“I think you’re being a little harsh, Cap.” Bood was the first one to speak up, frowning at him, more confused than annoyed which irritated Ilya. The fucking nerve of the guy, just because he had a fucking A slapped to his chest. “We’ve been playing non-stop for weeks, we’ve been playing good, we’ve been winning shit. This is just a bad day –“
Well, fuck that. Ilya was still wearing the C.
He scoffed at them, punching his stick into the ice again. “A terrible fucking day,” a spit out at them, “Fucking Hayes looks like he never caught a puck in his life,” he pointed his stick at the goalie, “Barrett always a step behind, Hollander never letting him fucking catch up. This is not one-man fucking show, this is not Montreal.”
There were whispers between them that Ilya didn’t even try to catch and just yelled over them: “Stop gossiping. You are fucking NHL players who want to win the fucking Cup not fucking housewives.”
“That’s sexist, man.”
He wasn’t sure who had made the comment but everyone seemed to be in agreement with them, nodding along, whispering even more.
He bared his teeth at them, fury and violence cursing through him. “You have a problem with me? Boo-fucking-hoo. Do fucking bag skates until you find respect again.”
When no one seemed to move he smashed his stick to the ice again and screamed: “Now!”
“Faster. This is not summer camp.”
Finally, they fucking listened to him and he watched in grim satisfaction as they cursed under their breaths but did as they were told, sprinting across the rink and back. The pressure in his chest had eased somewhat with all the yelling but it returned tenfold now that he was watching this team of great players that he loved dearly throw him confused and very much annoyed glares.
He pressed a gloved hand to his chest, trying to alleviate some of the pressure, trying to get in a fucking breath — to no avail. He was already standing at the boards and without giving it another thought, climbed over them and off the rink, trudging back to the locker rooms. Surely Coach would make them stop at some point.
He pulled off his helmet and training jersey roughly and before he had even managed to get off the pads he heard footsteps and sent a death glare to the person in front of him.
“What?” he snapped at Hollander who was standing in the entrance with his arms crossed in front of his chest and a frown etched between his eyebrows. He felt another surge of anger sweep through him.
“You’re being an asshole,” he said, slowly stepping closer. He kept fucking frowning at him like Ilya was a misbehaving child.
“I am an asshole.” He threw him a cold smirk. “Everyone knows this. Is what I am good at.” It might be the only thing he was fucking good at. He wanted to crawl out of his skin and punch a wall and scream all at the same time.
“You’re not an asshole to them,” he countered.
“Why are you not doing bag skates, Hollander?” Ilya was tired, he was so fucking tired. He didn’t want to be dissected right now.
“Because it’s a stupid fucking exercise, Rozanov,” he shot back and finally there was some annoyance bleeding into his voice. If Ilya was good at anything it was getting him mad. He grinned grimly. What a fucking gift. “Only dumb coaches who can’t get the respect of their team any other way do bag skates. Good coaching means telling Haas that he keeps missing the passes from his center because he’s busy being scared of the defense when that’s not his problem to worry about. It means telling Hayes good job on the last two games he played because he saved our asses and then telling him that he's leaving his left side open too much in practice today…”
Ilya could tell he was far from done but the pressure in his chest was back and it kept building and he wanted to fucking throw up, preferably without anyone seeing and fucking judging him for it.
“Maybe you should be captain then,” he grit out, hand pressed to his sternum, eyes flashing at him in anger that was in no way actually directed at the man, “Since I am so bad at it.”
He opened and closed his mouth two times and Ilya couldn’t even enjoy finally shutting him up because he couldn’t fucking breathe and then his fucking eyes softened and he crouched down in front of Ilya, hands reached out but not touching him as if he was a scared wild animal.
“You’re not a bad captain, Ilya.”
Fuck him and fuck his stupid fucking soothing voice that was the only thing that Ilya could focus on right now to not completely lose his shit.
He shook his head. He didn’t want to shake his head but he fucking shook his head and for some reason that denial was all the confirmation that Shane needed to drop his gloves and gently cradle his face in his hands.
“You’re a great captain, Ilya,” Shane murmured, thumbs rubbing gently over his cheeks.
Ilya felt himself tip forward until his forehead was resting against Shane’s padded shoulder and he shook his head again.
“They hate me,” he said quietly. The words tore a hole into his soul. “I am being mean and unfair and make them do fucking bag skates and they hate me and we are going to lose because of me and then you will never win Stanley Cup again because of me and then you are going to break up with me and then I am – Fuck.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.” Shane’s hand grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away from him, looking at him with a look of absolute disdain that softened into the face he always made before he told him he loved him. Ilya wanted to fucking cry.
“You’re a good captain and our team loves you. You’re a better captain than I ever was because you actually see the people and not just the player and we are absolutely going to win a Stanley Cup with this team. And even if we don’t…” he trailed his knuckles down Ilya’s cheek, “I’m never breaking up with you. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily, you know. The good and the bad, remember?”
“Is more bad than good right now,” Ilya sighed against him, hating himself for it.
“It’s really not.”
They stayed that way for a moment. Long enough for Ilya to breathe away the rest of the pressure that had been sitting on his rib cage like a stone and for him to muster up a somewhat convincing grin at his husband.
“You know, you still ignored captain’s orders. I think I must punish you for that later.”
Shane’s laugh went right to his chest, his wink went right to his pants. “Sure, asshole.”
Ilya was staring straight ahead, frowning at his reflection.
Half of his face was covered in shaving cream, the fancy mousse that Shane insisted on buying for himself and that had at some point migrated to being their shared fancy shaving cream mousse even though he kept half-heartedly complaining that Ilya didn’t appreciate it for what it was. (He didn’t, but he did like smelling like his husband.)
What wasn’t covered in mousse was an alarmingly similar color. He was pale, he knew, the only color in his face the purple bags under his eyes from too much exercise and too little sleep. His eyes… they looked kind of hollow, he thought, as if he was somewhere else entirely, not in this room, not in this body. He tried to tug his pale pink lips upwards but the grimace in the mirror made him wince and drop them back down immediately.
He sighed, wetting the blade and carefully starting on the right side of his face.
There were voices in his head that he had gotten used to early on in life but that had gotten worse in the last few weeks. They weren’t overwhelming, just… there. They were not nice voices. A lot of them sounded a lot like his father, some like his brother. Very few sounded like Shane, but those were the worst ones.
He knew they weren’t real, knew they were just in his head because his depression was getting worse and it was the way of his mind spiraling. He knew that.
He knew that Shane would never tell him he didn’t deserve him. Didn’t deserve anything.
His father had, so had his brother.
But these voices were not them, they were his worst memories and fears.
They still hurt.
He still couldn’t turn them off.
But they had been with him for so long, either quiet whispers or booming shouts, that he had learned to live with them. I wasn’t like he could pause in the middle of a game just because the voices in his head got too loud. He had a very accepting team but at some point even they would think he was crazy and get rid of him.
He had gotten through the right side of his face and neck, switching the razor into his left hand and starting at his jaw line again. The routine brought him comfort, gave him something to focus on that, while not shutting up the voices completely, at least gave them less space.
It was a good razor, one of the old ones that David had gotten him for his last birthday when he had complained about razor burn from the plastic razors and he had never really gotten into the fancy electric ones that some of their teammates used.
This one was sturdy – blade made from stainless steel and the handle made out of wood. It felt nice in his hand, warm and comfortable.
His hand was trembling a little and there were tears in his eyes. There were always tears in his eyes these days, it was like he was constantly seconds away from crying and he didn’t even know why. But his hand was trembling, his heart was racing, his breath came in shallow and he tried to swallow past the lump in his throat and that was probably why, when he started on the left side of his neck he put a little too much pressure on his skin.
Startled, he pulled the blade away, but he did it with his trembling non-dominant hand and he turned it and widened the cut even more before dropping the razor on the floor. Any sound was muffled by the soft rug he was standing on.
It hurt, burned with the shaving cream still on his skin and in the cut.
It also bled like hell, red blood running down his neck and into his white tank top.
He didn’t move — couldn’t.
There was a cut on his neck, maybe a centimeter wide, and blood was spilling from the flushed soft skin and he couldn’t do anything but stare at it.
For the first time in weeks the voices were quiet, like they, too, were surprised by the blood, like they didn’t have material for this scenario. It was blessedly, wonderfully quiet in his head.
Silent tears were running down his cheeks now and then they dripped down his neck and the salt burned in the cut and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to enjoy the feeling of the pressure finally easing.
He had been so high-strung for so long, constantly sharp and tense and the blood spilling out felt like an outlet more than anything else. It felt freeing.
“I-Ilya?”
His eyes flew open at the soft voice, the scared tone.
Shane wasn’t supposed to be here, he was supposed to be –
“I got us something to eat, blini and pirozhki from a street vendor, I just – I just got back. What – ?”
He shook his head. “Was not –“ He searched his eyes, needed him to believe him. “I did not –“ He choked on a sob. “I’m sorry.”
Shane’s hand dropped from where they were still holding on to the door and he took an involuntary step towards him, eyes flicking between the blood and his face. “Can I clean you up?” he asked carefully and when Ilya gave him the shadow of a nod, he fell into action.
He grabbed the dry hand towel and pressed it gently to the wound, apologizing under his breath when Ilya winced at the contact. He used the wet towel that Ilya had used to wash his face to wipe at the rest of his face. He pressed a soft kiss to his brow, before carefully pulling the towel away again.
“It’s not that bad,” he whispered, dapping a little at the cut. “It looks worse than it is.” It must still be bleeding, though, because Shane switched hands and put the towel back on the cut. His other hand trailed over the soft stubble on his neck. “Do you want me to do the rest?” his voice was shaking but his touch stayed firm, gentle.
Ilya gave a small nod, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against his husband’s.
“Okay, okay,” he said gently, pressing another kiss to his nose before gently pushing him back until the back of his legs hit the toilet seat and pressing him down on it. “Just sit down, hold this,” he moved his hand to cover the towel, “and give me a second.”
Once he had nodded again, Shane pressed one last kiss to the top of his head and then Ilya could hear him moving through the bathroom, picking up the razor and turning on the faucet – cleaning away the blood most likely – before rummaging through some of the creams on the sink and then he was back, tipping his head back gently.
Gentle. He was doing everything so gently, as if Ilya might break if his touch wasn’t feather-light.
He took control of the towel again, apparently pleased with the result because he didn’t put it back, and then started lathering his neck in more shaving cream, always careful to avoid the still burning cut. Ilya let himself be moved this way and that, eyes closed, shoulders loose, until Shane stepped away from him. He heard the faucet running and then Shane was dapping at his skin again. Once it was dry, his cool fingers started massaging lotion into his face and neck, still leaving out the cut. Finally he gave the cut one final dap and next thing Ilya knew he had a band-aid on his neck and Shane was in his arms.
His arms curled loosely around the back of his thighs, leaning his head against his abdomen, enjoying the way Shane’s fingers started messaging his scalp.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Ilya hummed roughly, eyes fluttering open. “Can we lay down?”
Instead of an answer, Shane pulled him up and gently steered him out of the bathroom and onto the bed. Once Ilya was laying down, Shane took to crawling in on his side, laying down beside him, so Ilya could curl into his stomach, holding onto his back.
They stayed silent for another moment, even though Ilya could practically feel his husband buzzing beside him with nerves, with fear.
It was that thought – Shane was afraid for him – that finally made him talk.
“Was an accident.” He felt the tension leave Shane’s body at the words, felt him return his grip just as tightly. “Was shaving and hand was shaking. But,” he swallowed hard, pressing his face deeper into the fabric of Shane’s sweatshirt. “Felt like relief.”
Shane’s breath stuttered at that and Ilya knew he had broken his heart but he couldn’t – he didn’t want to – lie to him.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he whispered into his hair, pressing kisses and tears into his curls. He breathed him in and Ilya did the same until: “On a scale of 1 to 10,” he swallowed and Ilya thought he might be scared to finish the question but he did it anyway, “How much do you feel like dying?”
He nodded slowly against his chest, taking time to sort through his thoughts like he did that first time and every time Shane had asked since, “7, I think.”
“Okay,” Shane breathed quietly, “Okay, we can work with that. Do you want me to call Galina?”
Ilya knew he would have to speak to his therapist, and soon, but… “Tomorrow, okay? We have game in four hours. Need to eat and take a nap, yes?”
“Tomorrow, okay,” Shane nodded into his hair and Ilya was grateful that he didn’t try to argue about him playing tonight. Hockey was the only thing that still felt normal, that he felt still useful doing. He thought that maybe Shane understood that better than anyone, even if he didn’t understand depression. “I’ll text her to make an appointment before we’re leaving tomorrow. Now we’ll eat and then sleep, okay? And then we’re gonna destroy Detroit.”
They had beaten Detroit, as it turned out, even though they had both felt groggy and uncoordinated after waking up from their pre-game nap. Of course their team had thought it hilarious that both married guys looked like they hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep and Ilya was wearing a band-aid on a very telltale spot on his neck.
Neither of them had denied or admitted to anything but it had taken off some of the tension from Ilya’s shoulders and he had managed to smirk his way through warm up and a pep talk. Everything had seemed good, had seemed normal. But Shane had noticed the way his eyes never matched his mouth and that his laugh always started a beat after it usually did when it was fully honest.
He had let him, though, because what was he supposed to do? They were here to play some hockey and so they did, like they always did, and they had won. He thought the smile after their win had looked a little more real, actually.
Now they were curled up on one of the queen-size beds in their hotel room, Ilya’s head was laying on Shane’s clavicle, his curls tickling Shane’s cheek with every breath. He kept running his fingers through them both because he knew Ilya liked it and because it gave him something to do with his hands, gave him something to hold on to. He thought Ilya might be asleep already.
The tv was on, running the post-game press conference that Ilya and Bood had been subjected to and these were always more fun when you were the team that had actually won the game, so Ilya and Bood had spent most of their time talking about their goals and how good the team was working together and how they were going to win the cup this year. (To be fair, that had been mostly Ilya, and it hadn’t really carried the same kind of energy it usually did but it had needed to be said.)
The questions were already winding down when one reporter spoke up again, a female voice. “Mr. Rozanov, we all noticed the band-aid you’re wearing. Can you tell us what happened there?”
And really, it was both a stupid question and one Ilya would normally have answered with a quick quip, a smirk and a wink in that order without really giving anything away. This time, however, he just … stopped, blinked at the reporter and the cameras as if lost in thought, as if he was far away, not even listening to them anymore.
Bood, who had obviously realized Ilya should’ve answered by now before the reporter did, slapped his shoulder with a big grin and roared. “You should really know not to ask him stuff like this at this point. Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
The slap seemed to have pulled Ilya from his trance who shot them a lazy smirk and winked, before the press-conference was called to a close and they cut away to Detroit’s conference instead.
Shane looked down at his husband lying peacefully in his arms and let out a soft sigh.
He knew there would be questions after the press-conference, knew someone else would have noticed Ilya’s lack of a reaction and he hated it. Hated that his husband was going through something hard and the world was out there trying to get a piece of him, any piece of him, while he was struggling. They didn’t deserve to be a part of this, didn’t deserve to know.
He pressed a kiss to the side of his head that he could reach. He couldn’t help it. He needed to touch him, needed to kiss him and love and cherish him.
Before he could think about it, he had pulled out his phone from his pocket without jostling Ilya too much and snapped a quick picture of them. It was a cute picture, Ilya asleep on his shoulder, face mostly turned into Shane but his band-aid – that stupid fucking band-aid – on full display. Shane, with his arm around him, had smiled down at his husband instead of in the camera.
He quickly swiped through his phone, landing on Instagram and, before he could chicken out, had uploaded the picture with nothing but a smirking smiley.
Let them have that.
Let them talk about their relationship, about how they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, how unprofessional they were being. Shane didn’t care. They didn’t know them and they would never try to anyway.
He just wanted to give Ilya the chance to fall apart and pick himself back up without the whole entire world watching and judging. He deserved that.
Pressing one last kiss to the top of his head, Shane moved them so they were curled around each other and pulled the blanket over them. He would deal with all of that tomorrow.
Ilya was still laying in bed, one arm tugged under his pillow, legs sprawled out over the length of the mattress. He wasn’t sure how long he’d lain here, just that he had woken up to an empty bed and had stayed there.
Shane was probably already going on a run or doing Yoga or lifting weights or measuring out his first protein smoothie. He had also probably already let out Anya, prepped their breakfast and bought a house -- or something. Ilya still wasn’t completely sure what Shane’s real estate fetish actually entailed and if he was keeping up with it after selling both the sex condo and his apartment in Montreal but he seemed like someone who would get up at 6 a.m. after a night out and buy a house.
Ilya hadn’t even moved his head in the time since he had woken up. He was still staring straight ahead at the dresser on the side of their bedroom without actually seeing it.
Yesterday had been a lot. It shouldn’t have been but it had.
Barbeques at Bood’s were easy, were normal and yet —
Talking to people, connecting to them had been hard, harder than usual and the whole time he had felt like they could somehow tell. They were looking at him and seeing how empty he was, how he barely had enough energy to come to these things anymore. And whenever he had gone to fetch himself another drink or had talked to someone away from the group and the laughter from the bonfire had drifted over… he had been sure they had been laughing about him.
Or maybe not about him.
Despite him?
They didn’t need him, obviously, were doing fine without him. They were probably relieved he had left them so no one was pulling down the mood anymore.
He knew he did that. He didn’t really know how to stop.
He forgot how to joke and when he joined in their laughter it was always a beat too late. He wasn’t a great captain right now. He didn’t make time for team outings as much as he should, wasn’t attuned to the needs of his players in the locker room and he made asshole comments on the ice.
He knew that. He knew he wasn’t being a good team leader and friend.
He just didn’t know how to stop.
Something was sitting heavy on his chest and he exaggerated his breathing to try to take the pressure off. His breaths came in shallow anyway, the oxygen not quite reaching his brain and if it had been anything else he would’ve thought he was heading towards a panic attack but --
This wasn’t that. It wasn’t the sweeping feeling of panic that overpowered everything else that he had seen in Shane every so often and didn’t feel like the anxiety his husband struggled with.
It was, somehow, both a lot calmer and a lot more oppressing.
It was every inadequacy pressing down on his ribcage, squeezing his lungs.
Ilya was dimly aware that he was spiraling when not being a good leader turned into not being a good captain turned into not being a good friend turned into not being a good husband turned into not being a good son-in-law turned into not being a good person.
He was aware and when he got to the conclusion he was still surprised.
They would be better off without me.
They don’t need me.
Nobody needs me.
It would be a relief.
He held in his next exhale for as long as he could, letting the words settle and etch into every part of his body, infecting his soul with a certainty he hadn’t felt in months.
The finger of his right hand curled and Ilya watched them move in fascination, not quite feeling them attached to his own body but rather watching from outside of it.
♥︎♥︎♥︎
An image, unbidden and sudden, popped into his mind of this hand holding on to a razor blade hovering over untarnished skin. He watched the blade trail over his wrist without cutting skin, moving down his torso and resting on his groin right where he felt the steady thumping of the big vessels.
He was suddenly attuned to all the places in his body where he could feel his blood pulsing.
The pulse points on his neck, his wrists, his fingertip where it was resting on the mattress.
He felt every heartbeat in his chest rattle his entire body.
He thought maybe his feet were bobbing along in time with every pumping of blood.
His whole body was prickling, tingling with the knowledge of blood rushing through it.
The hand holding the razor blade in his mind pressed down on the pale skin of his groin until it broke.
He let it play out — fascinated as he imagined blood spilling over and he closed his eyes at the relief.
Pressure decreasing until it was gone.
His body stopped prickling.
Quiet.
His hand tingled and he opened his eyes to look at his open palm, carefully moving his fingers just to check if they were still connected to his body, then carefully stopped the movement not just in his hands but in his entire body.
He made himself lay as still as he possibly could, forcing every single muscle to relax, as if he was scared someone could take possession of his body and get up, get a blade from the en-suite bathroom that was looming in his periphery vision and —
♥︎♥︎♥︎
This was bad.
The thought broke through the fog in his mind like a spear.
This was really fucking bad.
“Shane.” It was more of a croak than actual voice and he felt his breathing coming in faster as he prepared himself to try again.
He didn’t have to.
Ilya almost broke when his husband’s head popped around the corner, a soft smile on his lips, but he continued to hold himself in this self-imposed state of paralysis just in case.
Shane’s smile morphed into a frown and he cocked his head to the side as if trying to figure out what Ilya wanted from him and why he wasn’t moving and —
Shit. He felt tears well up in his eyes and Shane’s confusion was morphing into immediate alarm when the first one spilled over and Ilya still wasn’t moving.
“Is bad,” he croaked out, pressing his eyes shut because he didn’t want to meet his gaze for this, “I think, maybe, 8. I think I need help.”
“Where is he? Where the fuck is he?” Shane was sprinting across the entrance area, his runners squeaking on the light grey linoleum of the hospital hallways, Hayden hot on his heels. He came to an abrupt standstill once he spotted Luca anxiously standing a little off to the side of the admission window and felt Hayden barrel into him, barely putting out an arm to stop him from toppling over.
“Where the hell is my husband?” he demanded again, breath coming in short panicked bursts. On the phone they had said —
Luca was nervously wringing his hands and in any other moment that would’ve triggered a part in Shane that was used to protecting and comforting the kid but any and all protective instincts were already activated and concentrated on one person and that person, currently, wasn’t Luca Haas.
“They took him to the ICU because he wasn’t responding but they wouldn’t tell us anything else. Hazy went with him, though, and Bood is somewhere, I’m not sure. I said I’d wait here so I could find you when you got here and bring you to him.”
Then fucking move, Shane wanted to yell but didn’t. His face must’ve said something, though, because Luca turned around and started speed walking down one of the endless corridors of the Montreal hospital. He hated this fucking hospital. Hated all hospitals, really, and even more the ones housing his husband.
“What the fuck happened?”
“I,” Luca swallowed roughly, and Shane could’ve sworn he was tearing up but he couldn’t focus on it just then. He continued and once he started he couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m not sure. We were at a bar and Cap was kinda drunk? Like, I’ve never really seen him drunk before. I kind of thought he couldn’t get drunk, you know? And he hadn’t had that much to drink, I don’t think. But he was in a really good mood and he wanted to go to a club and, you know, how he has been kind of sad lately and he was so happy and so we all went to that club and I swear he didn’t drink that much but I think he fell on his knee and then Pointy gave him one of the pain killers he got for his ACL and then he got kind of loopy and then he sorta stopped and we freaked out and called an ambulance and you and now we’re here.”
“Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to give the drunk guy prescription pain meds?”
Shane cursed but all he wanted to do was wail. Because Ilya… Ilya knew he wasn’t supposed to drink, not until they knew how he reacted to it with his new medication and how could he have been so fucking stupid and take any other pills on top of that cocktail of messed up.
He wanted to fucking find his husband, make sure the idiot was fucking breathing and then he wanted to strangle him with his own two hands.
They were turning another corner and, right in front of the doors to the ICU, Wyatt Hayes was pacing back and forth, only looking up when they were suddenly standing in his path.
Shane felt like he hadn’t taken a proper breath in fourhundred years and every heartbeat was a painful squeeze in his chest next to his burning lungs and his stomach was churning and he was so fucking scared and Hayes was crying and --
“What --”
“They’re pumping out his stomach now, I think. The EMTs decided against intubation because he was sort of responsive in the ambulance but the Breathalyzer test wasn’t that high and they think someone might’ve slipped him something and they don’t know what and how his body is going to react going forward but they wouldn’t tell me anything and I couldn’t tell them anything else.”
While he was talking, he had stepped closer to the closed doors again and now pressed on a small bell next to a keypad on the side of them.
Before Shane realized what was happening, Hayes had told some desembodied voice who he was and suddenly the buzzer was sounding, the door was swinging open and there was someone in dark blue scrubs directing him to Ilya’s room.
“He’s taking venlafaxine,” he blurted out because it was the only thing he could think of, “And he might be allergic to peaches but not all the time but sometimes he gets a tingly feeling on his lip.”
The nurse? Doctor? stopped to look at him, nodding slowly. “Since when has he been taking venlafaxine?”
“Since Friday last week. He has been a little nauseous and he was feeling dizzy on the first two days but other than that he hasn’t had many side effects, I think, but he knows he shouldn’t be drinking and--”
“Mr. Hollander. Shane. It’s okay. He’s going to be okay.”
Shane shook his head roughly, only realizing he had started crying when he felt the tears drift to the side of his face and into his hair with the motion. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, hating how he couldn’t even wait until he was with Ilya because he needed to see him to believe those words but he couldn’t stomach taking another step right now.
“What happened? What did you have to do?” He needed to know, needed to know what he was going to find before going any further.
The man in front of him seemed to sense it and nodded again. “The EMT gave him some fluids and Narcan just in case because of the oxy one of his colleagues gave him. Sometimes these things aren’t dosed the way they’re supposed to. He got a little more responsive after that so we readministered it two more times and upped the fluids to clear the alcohol from his system faster. Because we weren’t sure if he had ingested anything else we did a gastric lavage and gave him some activated charcoal. He is still dizzy and mostly sleepy now but has been responsive so far. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation and will probably be able to discharge him tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay if you want.” The man’s voice softened at that and he put a hand on Shane’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “He’s been asking for you. And he is really going to be okay.”
“малыш.”
“Ilya.”
“‘M sorry, ’m sorry.”
All the anger and terror that had kept him upright and moving bled from him the second he heard Ilya’s voice. After the last five steps into his room had taken him almost two full minutes, he crossed the last few meters in half a heartbeat.
“Ilya,” he repeated desperately, grabbing at his hands and his cheeks and his hair and everything he could reach, letting his fingers touch the warm skin.
Alive, they seemed to realize with every rub and scratch and skim.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
“Fuck, you scared me.”
Shane hadn’t realized Ilya was grasping back at him just as desperately until he was pulling him towards him, until his head was hitting his husband’s chest and he somehow made himself small enough so Shane could curl around him, ear pressed to the steadily beating heart and fuck —
He pulled in a first stuttering breath.
Ilya was talking into his hair and he could feel his tears on his scalp and he understood what he was saying but he wasn’t really listening because he was busy trying to draw in another breath and another and another and suddenly Ilya’s grip tightened on his neck and he squeezed his eyes shut and when he tried to breathe in again he could only choke on air.
Panic attack, he realized dimly, and kept hyperventilating into his husband’s chest.
His husband who could’ve died today. His husband who was depressed and who had started medication because of it. His husband, who was told not to mix his meds with alcohol. His husband who was sometimes suicidal and who usually told him how bad it was when he asked.
He hadn’t asked today. They had been on the road and playing against Montreal and Shane had been in his own head so much and then he had gone out with Hayden after their win and he had forgotten to ask.
He didn’t know if this was an accident and dread curled tightly around his throat holding back the question.
What if it wasn’t?
What if Ilya had tried to— He couldn’t finish the thought but the next one pressed on — unbidden, unwanted.
What if he got to hold him now only to lose him later? How could he hold onto someone who didn’t want to stay? How could he live without —
“Shane. Hollander. Stop.”
Ilya’s voice grounded him momentarily and he sucked in one whole breath — enough to push away some of the dizziness crowding his vision.
“Was accident.”
Shane shook his head, gasping into Ilya’s chest.
“Was stupid.”
He couldn’t help but nod at that and he felt Ilya’s chest rumble beneath him. He tightened his grip around his waist.
“I don’t want to die.” The words were whispered quietly into his hair but they were the loudest he had ever heard.
On his next breath a sob broke loose in his chest and with the next exhale he fully broke down in his husband’s arms, crying so hard his chest felt like it was tearing apart.
“I’m so sorry, мой любимый. I’m sorry I scared you. I love you, I love you. I’m sorry.”
Ilya kept talking and running a hand through his hair, down his back, squeezing his waist and Shane kept crying and burying his nose between Ilya’s pecs, trying to eliminate all space between them until he could crawl into his chest and live under his skin, until they were finally close enough.
“What number?” he mumbled into his skin, after he had calmed down enough to form words.
Ilya’s grip on his waist tightened for a second, before he released it, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head.
“Before, I think it was maybe 4 or 5. Now it is maybe 1 or 2. I was very scared I would not see you again.”