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Ilya stared at the razor in his hand. Unblinking, unmoving, except for a slight tremor in his fingers. His brain was terrifyingly blank.
He hadn’t meant to get to this point, he’d swear on anything that it was an accident, and it was true.
He had been getting ready for bed, waiting for Shane to get back to the house when his elbow had knocked the razor he had used to shave his face earlier off the counter. It clattered to the ground, the blade dislodging and sliding out.
He’d picked it up carefully, and moved to fix it back into the razor. He paused.
He’d been feeling bad lately. He couldn’t say he hadn’t been thinking about it. It was always in the back of his mind when he started to feel low. It was less of a need now, more of a dull pulse at the back of his skull. The memories of stinging showers taken after everyone on the team had already left the locker room, making sure his boxers didn’t ride up when he was getting changed. Sometimes he wondered if the vague want would ever go away completely.
It had been years. He didn’t count the days anymore, begging to be able to get to the next one without hurting himself. The emotions were a lot sometimes, but he’d gotten better coping mechanisms. He’d gotten Shane.
Shane, who’d seen the thin white lines scattered across Ilya’s upper thighs during one of their hookups early on. Who politely pretended not to see them, didn’t comment on them until after they were done with what they’d met up for.
“Hey, are you… okay?” He’d asked, slightly self-conscious, like he was trying not to step out of bounds.
Ilya stared at him questioning, not knowing he’d seen, until Shane’s eyes briefly flicked down to his thighs, now covered by the sheets, before meeting his eyes again, concern in them.
Ilya knew Shane wasn’t stupid. He knew what he’d seen. Ilya was lucky enough to have avoided this conversation until now, telling Shane that sex would be more comfortable for him if he was on his hands and knees, until he’d gotten used to the feeling. And he’d always made sure Shane was particularly out of his mind to some extent before undressing himself.
But that night Shane had asked to be facing Ilya, and Ilya would do anything to give Shane what he wanted, a fact that he would deny until he was blue in the face. Really, Ilya was so turned on he hadn’t even been thinking, had accepted without a second thought this new position, this new development. He had wanted to see Shane’s eyes, see his face as he got closer to the edge.
“Got hit by a puck.” Ilya attempted a joke. It fell flat.
“Rozanov.” Shane had said. “Pucks leave bruises, not scars.”
“Go back to your room Hollander, you have early flight tomorrow.”
It wasn’t even said harshly, he just sounded tired. He didn’t have the energy to put up his usual walls.
Shane took that as the dismissal it was, and started to head out, pulling his jeans back on.
“I know we don’t usually talk much”, he said, a little awkwardly, a little pink on his cheeks, “but if you ever want to talk, you can just text me, okay?”
“Goodnight Hollander.”
Shane took that as it was, nodded, and shut the door.
Ilya had contemplated in bed afterwards. Something must’ve gone wrong somewhere, for Shane to look at him like that. To look like he cared if Ilya was hurting. To look scared, not of Ilya, but of what Ilya was doing to himself. Shane had spoken haltingly, like he knew this conversation was stepping out of the normal bounds of their arrangement. But he’d spoken anyways. To see if Ilya needed help.
And somehow, miraculously, years later, they had finally stopped the bullshit and admitted what they were to each other. They had been boyfriends, they had spent summers at Shane’s cottage. Ilya went to family dinners, after not having a family for so long. And Ilya, for the first time in years, was happy more often than he was not. He understood that some things never went away, he would always carry some kind of sadness, but there were days it was further away than he ever could’ve imagined.
On hard days, when one or both of them were apart from each other for games, Ilya would call Shane, and ask him to just talk to him. Shane would understand, not mention the issue directly, just talk mindlessly about his day. About Rose’s new movie he’d watched on the plane, or would mention a fumble in a play Hayden had made because he knew it would make the corner of Ilya’s mouth twitch, would tell him about all the gross new recipes he wanted to try that fit into his meal plan, telling Ilya you “couldn’t even taste the zucchini” in his so called ‘brownies’. And when he ran out of things to say, he would stay on the phone, listening until he could hear Ilya’s breathing slow and even out.
They were married now, and Ilya had learned, gradually, that he could lean on his husband. Could tell him when he was feeling down, and Shane understood what that meant, would drag Ilya to the car to get McDonald’s, even if Shane himself wouldn’t get anything, would lead them downstairs to watch Fast and Furious or some other mindless action movie, would ask if Ilya wanted to go on a walk with him and Anya. Would distract him until Ilya forgot about the urge entirely.
Almost.
Sometimes he was afraid he’d never get rid of the urge, no matter how much easier it was to avoid giving into old habits as time went on without a relapse.
Shane was the one who kept track of how long he had been clean, the only one who knew the exact date. When he hit one year, Shane had even brought him a little cake, candle and everything. Ilya had stopped keeping track, it had been long enough he didn’t feel the need to, but Shane continued to have the date on the calendar marked each year, so they could celebrate it in little ways.
But Shane was out tonight, catching up with Hayden, and the urge snuck up on him. Was triggered by nothing more than a clumsy move, a razor on the floor.
He stood there frozen, just staring. He had no idea for how long. There was a staticky sound in his ears, everything sounded a little muffled.
Which is why he hadn’t heard Shane come home.
“Ilya! I’m back and I have leftovers if you want some before bed, and Hayden wanted me to tell you- Ilya?”
Shane stopped short in the bathroom, taking in the scene, Ilya frozen in front of the mirror, blade in his hand.
Time seemed to slow down. Ilya silently cursed at himself, for not being able to pull himself together, for not just being able to screw the blade back into the razor like a normal person. He opened his mouth to tell Shane it was alright, he was okay, he hadn’t done anything, but a strangled sound came out instead.
Shane’s face was filled with emotions, but none more prevalent than the blatant fear and concern. Within seconds, it had disappeared, schooled into something neutral. He wasn’t angry, not upset, just pushing his emotions aside so he could take control of the situation, be able to show up for Ilya.
Ilya’s guilt was going to consume him.
“Baby…” Shane murmured, walking slowly towards Ilya now, like he was approaching a cornered animal.
Shane reached him, gently took the blade out of his fingers, and screwed it back into the razor. Simple. Moving slowly, making sure Ilya could see all of his movements. He set the razor to the side of the sink, turned back to Ilya, and reached for his face, hovering, stopping just short of touching him. Ilya gave a slight nod, and a soft palm against his cheek brought him slightly back to himself, thumb brushing soothing lines under his eye.
“I didn’t do anything.” Ilya sounded hoarse.
“I know, I know, it’s alright.” Shane took his hand and led him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, urging him to sit on the bed. “Walk me through it.”
Ilya paused, trying to find the words.
“I wasn’t going to- I wouldn’t-"
“I know” Shane soothed, “I should’ve thought before getting these razors, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, is not your fault, I have been fine for so long” Ilya scrambled, fingers scrubbing over the back of his neck. “I just got lost in thought, when razor fell out, I have been in not the best mindset, was just thinking”.
Shane took Ilya’s hands in his, absentmindedly running his fingers over Ilya’s knuckles as Ilya continued.
“I have just been sad recently, for no reason. And is frustrating to me that every time this happens, I remember what I have done, what I could do. No matter how long the thought stays away, one bad day, and is back. Urge is not so strong, has been forever since I have done anything, I just got stuck I guess.”
Shane’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and he moved impossibly closer to Ilya before speaking, their hips and shoulders pressing together.
“That’s okay, I want you to know that I would never be mad at you for a slip up, a relapse of some kind.” He took a deep breath. “But I also want to tell you how proud I am of you for pausing to think, for not doing anything. You are the strongest person I know Ilya.”
“A stronger person would not have fallen into such habits in the first place.”
“Ilya. What? That makes no fucking sense, these things happen, you’ve had horrible things happen to you, you’ve felt out of control your whole life. You found some semblance of control with this, it just wasn't healthy, so you've been working on replacing it with other ways of coping.”
“Fine. Okay. Fine. You win.” Ilya huffed like he was giving up.
Shane had had his conversation with him millions of times, and it stuck with him a bit more each time. He’d like to believe him, and found he almost did. Shane must've seen the concession in his eyes. He dropped a quick kiss to Ilya’s forehead.
“Good. Do you need ice?”
Ice. Something Ilya had learned in therapy, something that helped bring him back to himself. When he held it tightly in his fists, it would cause an amount of pain that would take the edge off that wouldn't cause him lasting harm, that he could use instead of the alternative.
“No. Just... stay?”
Shane nodded, understanding immediately and started moving, guiding Ilya away from sitting on the edge of the bed and further into the middle, laying them both down. Ilya was facing away from Shane, and Shane scooted up behind him, pressing his body against his back, holding him. One arm was draped over his waist, a steady anchor keeping him tied to the present, the other under his neck. Ilya curled into himself and Shane kept close, curving his body around Ilya’s, a shield.
It was all so much. The emotion, the night, feeling guilty about scaring Shane, and feeling scared himself that he was going to do something stupid. Ilya felt the tears track down his face into his hairline, keeping his shoulders still so he could try and keep Shane from noticing.
Shane always noticed.
“It’s alright Ilya, it’ll be alright”. Shane's arm that was pulling Ilya to his chest moved up to brush the tears away before they could slip down his face, then moving to his hair to comb through it with his fingers gently. Ilya’s eyelids fluttered and started to droop. He was exhausted.
“Hey Ilya?” Shane whispered.
“Hm?” Ilya hummed.
“What do you say we grow out our playoff beards a little early this season?” Shane sounded uncertain, as if he was unsure if Ilya would feel coddled, still trying to come up with a solution.
Ilya’s heart warmed. Shane always finding alternatives, to help Ilya.
“You cannot grow beard. Is too scraggly. Scratches my face.”
Shane huffed against the back of his neck, half indignation, half laugh. “Asshole.”
Ilya turned his face further into the pillow, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Goodnight Shane.”
Ilya felt a gentle press of lips to his shoulder as he drifted off.
Ilya would keep trying. Although a faint urge came whenever he was upset, it was easier and easier every time. To breathe, to wait. To reach for a distraction, to reach for Shane. One day at a time.
Days clean: 3 years, 2 months, 1 week, 1 day 2 days