Chapter Text
Shane expects Ilya to be angry with him when he picks him back up.
When Ilya answers the door, his eyes are a bit red-rimmed. His arm hangs at his side, head cocked to the side, eyebrow raised.
He doesn’t look mad. If anything, he looks lighter.
“I’m sorry,” Shane blurts out anyway. “I should have told you I was planning to drop you off. I just didn't think you’d-”
Ilya flings his head back and groans so dramatically, Shane falters.
“Yes, yes, you are sorry,” he says, but when he looks back down at Shane, there’s amusement all over his face. Shane feels his shoulders drop just slightly. “Canadians are always sorry.”
“I am,” Shane says desperately, and he’s never been so sure of anything in his life.
Ilya looks him over, his brows furrowing slightly. “Where is your jacket? You’re freezing.”
Shane looks down at his own figure and realizes that his bare arms are tinged pink, and covered in goosebumps. He’s shaking. His lungs burn a bit from the cold. “I- I drove here, I didn’t need it.”
He’d been suddenly very hot when he’d gotten home. He’d stripped it off and left it on the couch, actually, before spending the next few hours pacing-
“Christ,” Ilya mutters. He takes Shane’s hand and pulls him into the house.
“Is that Shane?” calls Yuna from somewhere in the kitchen. Shane swallows hard.
Ilya closes the door behind them. “Yes!” he calls. He turns back to Shane and starts rubbing his arms
“You were just so upset after your appointment, I knew that Mom would be able to help,” Shane says. His chest is weirdly tight. Everything around him is just so much that it seems to just merge together.
“It was funny, sweetheart. You drove away so fast-”
“It wasn’t to, like, prank you, or anything-”
“Shane, I know that.”
“I shouldn’t have done that without talking to you first. I’m not supposed to surprise you like that, it’s not good for-”
“Shane.” Hands suddenly trail up and down his arms, like they’re trying to rub warmth back into him.
“I’m sorry,” Shane pleads, and to his horror, he feels his eyes are burning. Along with the rest of his body, actually. He’s shaking, too, beneath Ilya’s touch.
Ilya takes Shane's fingers and cups them in his hands.
Shane, dry-mouthed and panicked, stares at the shape of Ilya’s lips as they pucker slightly, blowing warm air into the little cave he’s made, like he’s thawing him out. Like Shane is the one that had frostbite.
“I’m not mad at you,” Ilya says seriously. He smacks a kiss to the side of Shane’s head, then another one in his hair. Then, softly, “Relax, Любимый мой. Nothing happened. We are okay here.”
Shane’s heart pounds. Ilya slings an arm over his shoulder, like he’s J.J or Hayden or Troy, a bro, and leads him to the kitchen.
Yuna has her back to them, removing the tin foil on a dish she’s just clearly just pulled out of the oven. She turns when they enter. “Just in time. Lunch is ready.”
Lunch, apparently, is Shane’s reckoning for ambushing his boyfriend with his in-laws.
He sits at the table, next to Ilya, who has taken to chatting up Yuna while simultaneously keeping a grounding hand on Shane’s knee. Shane stares at the plate his mother has loaded with milk-white pasta and a small, sopping pile of lettuce that smells like vinegar from a foot away.
“Thank you, favorite Hollander,” Ilya says loudly, directly into Shane’s eardrum, twirling his fork with glee.
“David may have gone over-board with the dressing,” Yuna says unhelpfully, poking at her own pile with a grim look. Her fork scrapes against the glass plate in a jarring, tiny screech. “It’s been marinating all night. You don’t have to eat it.”
Not eating it only leaves the pasta, though. Too large of an amount to just move around on a plate without going unnoticed.
“David would love Russia,” Ilya says. He shovels a fork-full into his mouth and grins with a mouth of dark green. “Pickled everything.”
Shane’s stomach turns.
“So.” Yuna smiles over her wine glass. “Want to tell Shane the news?”
“News?” Shane echoes.
He’d not only abandoned Ilya, but also missed something big enough to warrant an announcement?
“Is nothing bad,” Ilya says, like he knows what Shane’s thinking. He removes his hand from Shane’s knee to wipe his mouth with a napkin and rests both his forearms against the table. “Yuna found me a Russian therapist.”
Shane’s racing heart suddenly stutters, then slows.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Ilya says, smiling widely.
“Here? In Ottawa?”
“I did not think it was possible either.”
Shane lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and with it, an unexpected laugh bubbles out of his mouth. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s about time the universe started looking out for you,” Yuna says.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees. Unbidden, his eyes drift towards the gold chain glinting around Ilya’s neck.
Ilya catches the look. His hand moves, subtly, to touch his chest where the cross sits under his shirt. Yuna stands to refill her glass.
“Moms always know what to do,” Shane says quietly, almost to himself.
Ilya visibly swallows, and his expression does something complicated. He clears his throat and turns back to his pasta.
“Yes,” Ilya says, just as quietly. “I think they do.”
A ray of sunlight catches the edge of the window to their left, and the room grows brighter.
A day later, about an hour after Ilya swallows the first of his new dose, Shane watches him suddenly dart up from his barstool and sprint down the hall.
He chokes, mid-gulp of his smoothie. “Ilya!”
It comes out gurgled and panicked and entirely indecipherable. He swears, wiping his mouth and chases after him.
He hears the retching before he even enters the bathroom.
Ilya’s on his knees, his whole body heaving, clutching the toilet with white fingers. His shirt is stuck to his back, navy blue turned even darker with sweat. The sounds he’s making make Shane’s own stomach roll.
He forces it down and grabs the washcloth folded on the sink.
“Okay,” he says, crouching down next to Ilya, who moans painfully. “It’s okay. Just get it out.”
Ilya seems to take that to heart, because he vomits for a total of seven minutes before his stomach seems satisfied.
Shane talks him through it, sweeping his curls away from his forehead and snaking an arm under his sweat-soaked t-shirt to run the washcloth down his back. Ilya just pants and groans into the toilet.
“You didn’t eat,” Shane remarks when it’s finally over.
Ilya makes a noise that almost sounds like a growl.
“You can’t take it on an empty stomach.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah,” Shane nods. “It says on the pamphlet. You have to-”
“Shane.”
“Yeah?”
“Please get out.”
Shane blinks. Ilya doesn't move, sitting with his legs around the toilet and his elbows resting on his knees, faced away from him. His face is white, his eyes closed, breathing carefully through his nose.
“I’ll make you some food,” Shane promises.
Ilya doesn’t respond.
Shane stands and heads to the kitchen.
He opens the fridge and surveys what they have. Ilya’s appetite hasn’t improved, so he’s going to be eating smaller amounts, which means those smaller amounts have to be nutrient-packed. And he’s on an SSRI. Patients on SSRIs should have a diet high in healthy fats, omega 3’s, and magnesium.
Foods in that category: nuts, seeds, avocados, fish dark leafy greens, and oysters. They have peanut butter, but it’s smooth, and Ilya only likes the crunchy kind. They have trail mix, but it’s mixed in with chocolate, and Ilya doesn't need excess sugar right now.
Shane stares deeper into the fridge, eyes trailing over each item, like something new will appear.
There, on the second shelf: Raw salmon.
Shane was going to make that for dinner on Thursday, but he can switch it around. Yeah, that should be fine- he can swap the broth and tofu. He’ll just have to compensate for two days in a row of high salt intake.
He pulls the salmon carefully out of the fridge. It's a small sacrifice to make when Ilya is the one suffering down the hall, taking pills that make him sick, so he doesn’t disappear.
By the time Ilya finally emerges from the bedroom, the salmon is fully cooked.
Shane is plating it when he sees him- shirtless and trembling from exertion, curls matted to his forehead. His color- which Shane was just about to say looked a lot better than earlier- suddenly went white-green again.
“Are you going to throw up again?” he asks, already rounding the island.
Ilya literally gags. His abs visibly clench. His hand flies up to pinch his nose. Shane stretches out his arms-
Ilya swears in Russian, holding out his free hand to stop Shane in his tracks. “Christ, Shane, why are you making evil fucking things right after I am throwing up?!”
“I- it’s fish. You need to eat. It has all-”
“Fish, Shane?” Ilya interrupts faintly, sinking onto the couch, breathing in slowly through his nose. “Why?”
“You need to eat,” Shane repeats firmly. “You’re not eating consistently. It makes the side effects worse. Patients on SSRIs need to eat healthy fats, but you aren’t eating enough, so what you do eat has to be-”
“I just threw up!” Ilya says loudly. Shane falters. “I cannot eat fish!”
Shane’s hands clench briefly at his sides. “Ilya,” he says carefully, “you have to eat with your medication.”
Ilya blows air out of his mouth, head in his hands, but doesn't respond.
Taking it as a win, Shane continues. “I know it doesn't sound good, but salmon has everything you need in it. It helps you absorb the medication more efficiently. You threw up because you took them on an empty stomach. I should have made sure you’d eaten, that was my bad, I’ll set a reminder moving forward-”
He sees the moment Ilya’s body tightens, right before he snaps.
“Stop!”
Shane falls silent.
“Stop doing this!” Ilya waves his hand in the air. “You keep deciding what I will do! You think I cannot take care of myself? You think I am stupid?!”
Shane’s heart stutters. Ilya finally raises his head, and stares at the wall across from them. Like he’s unable to even look at Shane.
“I know you are trying,” he says. “I know that, and I know I scared you, and it was not fair, but Shane- I cannot fucking breathe. You do not know everything. You think you have all of the answers, but you don’t- who wants to eat fish when they are sick? You aren’t thinking about this, you aren’t thinking it through.”
Shane feels a surge of irritation, because what the fuck else has he been doing if not that?
“That’s literally-”
“No.” Ilya finally looks at him, shaking his head with eyes so sharp and his jaw clenched so tight that Shane can almost feel it himself. “You are not thinking, you are panicking. One thing can not fix everyone. One thing is not right for everyone- you of all people should know this!”
Shane’s jaw drops. “Is that a fucking jab at me being gay?!”
Ilya scoffs and waives his hand, like that’s a ridiculous conclusion to come to. “You said, ‘patients on SSRI’s’, just a minute ago, did you not? You are thinking of me as a project, as a number! A fucking patient! You are not my doctor, Shane. You are not a doctor at all.”
“I never said I was!” Shane yells back.
And shit, he is not supposed to be yelling at Ilya, that’s exactly what drove him away last time. He’s supposed to be open, let Ilya communicate to him how he’s feeling, and that’s exactly what Ilya’s trying to do now-
“Shane, I am- I am trying. But you are not letting me. I need to get better, yes? Then let me learn how to get better. You doing all of the things I’m supposed to do is not going to fix me.”
And that… is a good point. Ilya’s the one who’s actively trying to change his brain chemistry. It has to be him..
“Okay,” Shane says, tucking his thumbs in his pockets. “I hear you. You’re right.”
Ilya mock gasps- subdued, obviously still nauseous, but teasing all the same. “Hold on, say that again, I need to record-”
“Shut up,” Shane says back- teasing, too, because bantering Ilya is better than sick Ilya. “I- I can send you all of the articles? And the list?”
“List?”
“Yeah. This- the fish was stupid. Sorry.” Shane nods, mostly to himself. ”I’ll just- I’ll send you the research. So you can learn by yourself.”
Ilya looks at him for a moment. His jaw clenches.
Then, quietly, resigned, and clearly irritated, he mutters, “Sure, Shane. Of course.”
Shane watches as he slowly rises from the couch and walks back to the bedroom. Shane hears the door close behind him, then open again, like Ilya had remembered what the rule was.
His eyes start to burn. He swallows, staring at the hallway like it will give him answers.
He’d gotten it wrong, again, clearly.
God, he felt like a little kid again. Misinterpreting whatever fucking clues he was supposed to pick up and either getting laughed at, or people thinking he was being disrespectful. Only this time, it was his boyfriend- the one person who usually understood him like he could see inside his brain. The one person who never got offended when Shane spoke.
But, Shane had already missed so much of Ilya. Those enormous empty caverns in his mind, with their whispering ghosts and “Under Construction” signs, that Shane was supposed to be filling. He was supposed to know by now how to fix him.
But if all of that research didn’t work- if it kept making everything go wrong, kept upsetting Ilya- what the fuck was he supposed to do?
At a loss, floundering for air, Shane stands in his living room for a few more minutes, wondering where he went wrong.
By that evening, Ilya still hadn’t left the bedroom.
He was awake, though. Shane can hear him rustling around in the blankets, playing games on his phone loud enough to hear through the doorway.
Shane can’t help but feel like he’s keeping a hostage.
The answers he had were wrong. He’d kept fucking up, trying to execute a plan he wasn’t qualified to make in the first place. Ilya was right about that; he’s not a doctor. Who the fuck is he to try to play that role?
There’s only two things in this world he’s perfected, and only one of them is something Shane can take the reigns on right now.
So he stands in front of the mirror, under the dim light of his guest bathroom, and gives himself one last once-over.
He looks good. He knows that. Shane’s intimately aware of the way he catches people’s attention. The way the cameras linger on him a bit longer, the way his teammates would scoff at the way the Voyageurs younger female fans flocked to him for photos and squealed his name. The more predatory, unsettling looks when he was first drafted, from people much older than him who were looking at him with a bit too much hunger.
One of his favorite secret past-times is pretending that he doesn’t notice it. He likes watching Ilya glower at the people looking at him, feel Ilya’s hand on the small of his back as he acts non-the-wiser and lets himself be guided away. He likes how hard Ilya fucks him afterwards, like he’s proving to an imaginary audience that he’s the only one who gets to have him.
His body is a tool.
Shane likes knowing the effect he has on his boyfriend. He likes that his body belongs to two things: hockey, and Ilya.
He doesn't how it feels like both of those are moving too far away, too fast, for him to keep up.
This, he can fix. This, Shane knows. This, to him, is tried and true, with a guaranteed positive outcome- at least for his boyfriend.
He straightens, watching the light ripple over his reflection.
“Man up,” he whispers to himself. He can see his fucking heart pounding under his chest- a very faint up and down- and prays Ilya will be too distracted by everything else to see.
He’s ready.
Shane finds himself counting the steps to the bedroom, pausing just before the doorway.
He breathes in once, squares his shoulders and feels his feet beneath him, the way he does when he’s about to step onto the ice.
Confident. Steady. No room for error, because he knows what he’s doing. He knows these calculations, he knows how to maneuver himself, and he knows how to get the outcome he wants.
This will give him a leg up. Steer them back on track, so they can start over.
I know how to do this.
He opens the door and strides in.
Ilya is sitting with the nightstand light on, instead of opening the curtains for the last few hours of sunlight. He looks up when he hears the door creak, and raises an eyebrow when he sees Shane.
Shane, for once, determinedly holds his gaze. He peels his shirt off- slowly, flexing his bicep in the way he knows will trigger the heat in Iya's stomach.
When the shirt is over his head and he finds Ilya’s eyes again, he sees them familiarly narrowed.
Bingo.
He folds the shirt and lays it carefully over the armchair.
Ilya’s body goes still under the covers, his jaw jumping. There’s heat in his gaze.
Shane moves on to the top button on his shorts. This part, he usually doesn't do anymore- this is typically where Ilya takes over, moving across the room so quickly it’s like he can’t contain himself. Shane hasn’t given him an actual strip show since their first time at the cottage together.
It’s exciting, showing off for him like this again. Like getting back on the ice for the first time after a slow-healing injury.
He folds his shorts and adds them to the pile.
“You gonna make me do all the work?” Shane asks, his voice huskier than he expected it to be. He trails a finger along the top band of his boxers.
Ilya’s adam's apple jumps in his throat.
Shane is taking the lead here, though, so he doesn't wait for a response. He pulls his boxers off, already half hard, and they join Shane’s other clothes in their neat stack. Then he stalks across the room, eyes trained on Ilya’s clenched abs, and climbs onto the bed.
He slowly starts to peel back the duvet. He dips his chin and peers up at Ilya through his brows in the way he knows will get him a reaction, his hand snaking lower, until-
Ilya’s soft.
Shane blinks, his plan screeching to a halt. Ilya is staring at him with a look Shane has literally never seen before.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks, frozen.
Ilya makes a weird noise, like he’s trying to scoff, or laugh or something. He yanks the duvet back over his lap and Shane leans back, pulling his arms into himself like he’s been burned.
“I’m sick, Hollander,” Ilya says. In that same weird tone that Shane’s literally never heard before. His eyes aren’t distant, at least- but instead, they're darting between both of Shane’s so quickly, he doesn’t know how he can see anything at all. “You think I can get it up right after I threw up again?”
Yes, Shane thinks, heart pounding in a rhythm that’s frantic in a way it wasn’t before. Because you’re insatiable, and you always have been, and if I so much as breathe too close to you, you get a semi.
That’s an Absolute Truth. It’s something both of them know, and it’s something they can both bank on when nothing else gives, and that’s never been a secret.
That’s not to say Ilya can’t change his mind- Christ, of course he can.
It's just that he would usually do it without letting Shane slowly undress himself like a cheap whore in his own bedroom, and fucking… laughing at him afterwards.
Maybe he was waiting, a small voice in the back of his head says nastily.
Waiting to see if Shane’s body is still enough, even though he hasn’t been sticking as firmly to his diet over the last couple of months.
“Sorry,” Shane whispers, feeling like a fucking moron.
Bare naked, slightly cold, erection quickly flagging as he kneels in the middle of his own bed, unsure what to do with his arms now.
Ilya makes that weird noise again. The look on his face now is something Shane can decipher a bit better now- something between anger and fear. He’s looking away, bending his knees to bring them closer to himself as he scowls. “I- I’m sorry. It is different now, I have been trying, but…”
It's different now.
Shane feels vaguely nauseous. Panic starts to curdle in his stomach, just above something a lot deeper that sort of feels like dread.
Because of course it was.
Shane was exciting once, sure- years ago, when they were sneaking around together. When he was young and novel, eager and in better shape. When he could tease Ilya from far away, make him wait until the next time they were in the same city.
When the thought of being something more- belonging to each other- was something unthinkable.
The idea of him is fun, he’d found over the years. People’s reactions to meeting him, the way the press obsesses over him, the way rookies still talk about him with stars in their eyes. He’s a professional athlete, the best hockey player in the fucking world.
But Shane himself, any closer, is boring.
He doesn't drink or smoke. He follows the rules. He plays his game and doesn't make eye contact in the locker room, let alone participate in small talk. He goes on silent retreats, and wears the same clothes, and eats the same foods.
“I- it is not you,” Ilya says quickly, suddenly sitting up.
Too quickly.
Overcompensating.
Embarrassment swells over Shane so quickly, he feels lightheaded.
How could he think that he, alone, would be sufficient for a man who was constantly seeking a thrill? Who got antsy if he spent more than ten seconds in silence, or without moving around? A man that had spent his life and career having enjoyable, consistent sex with strangers every week before he was pressured into moving to an entirely new country, and playing for a shit team?
Shane had taken everything from him.
“It isn’t you,” Ilya repeats quickly.
Shane can’t speak. He feels like a moron. He feels like a fucking alien. He draws even further back, away from Ilya’s body, hand catching clumsily in the sheets.
“It is the medication.”
But his blue eyes are so wide, so guilty.
He looks like he’s been caught. Shane feels bile rise in his throat, and the towers in his mind are starting to give way.
How had he gotten this so wrong?
Wrong words, and wrong movements, and wrong researching, and wrong judgement.
You think you have all of the answers, but you don’t.
“I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying.
His skin feels taunt, pulled over his muscles like there’s too much to fit inside. Disgusting.
Ilya reaches out and Shane flinches away, the thought of his pity unbearable- but not before his hand lands on Shane’s thigh.
The fat there moves- it fucking ripples- and Shane suddenly remembers the pastry he’d eaten from his dad, and the greasy pasta from lunch, and the way sodium holds onto water in the body and how badly he fucked up his diet earlier. He’d eaten the fucking fish he’d cooked, not wanting it to go to waste, which meant he’d had both of his high-sodium meals for the week back to back-
And now his body is clinging to it, holding onto every weakness Shane had given into, stretching out his skin, wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Shaneya,” Ilya says, pleading. “Look at me, please?”
He can’t.
He should have just thrown the fish out- or fed it to Anya, at least. He should have started over, skipped lunch today and picked up again tomorrow with his new grocery delivery.
He- this will take days to flush out, probably. He needs to train, he needs to go to the rink and do fucking bag skates, but Ilya is sick, and Shane can’t leave him alone.
Not when it might cost him Ilya’s life.
Shane made him come here, and now he’ll die if Shane leaves. He’s completely dependent on someone who can’t even get him off anymore-
“Shane, it’s the medication,” Ilya insists. He grips Shane’s thigh, bringing his other hand to match, trying to get Shane to look at him, but all Shane can feel is those strong fingers resting on top of a disgusting mound of dirty flesh.
And Shane- he’s left with no fucking options. He’s failed. Truly, wholly, and undeniably.
Everything he’s done- finding a way for them to be together, trying to learn Ilya’s mind, trying to give him any semblance of happiness, trying to keep him safe-
Shane’s completely out of control.
He has no fucking idea what he’s doing. The answers were wrong.
“I’m so sorry,” Shane rasps. He sounds like a fucking child, his voice all shaky and small.
Ilya sucks in a breath, scooting towards him, and Shane can see him shaking his head, but Shane can’t look him in the eyes right now. He can’t fucking bear it.
“I-” Shane swallows, his mouth dry. He backs away, his leg finding the other side of the bed. “I’m going to sleep in the guest room.”
“Shane, no,” Ilya begs.
He sounds so fucking guilty, even though he has no reason to be, and Shane can’t bear torturing him for one more minute.
“It’s- I’m so sorry.” He sounds like a broken record. He stumbles towards the door, clumsily picking up his folded stack of clothes like a participation trophy he doesn't want. “I shouldn’t have… that was my bad. Just-”
And he can’t help it. He’s so, so fucking needy, it’s pathetic, but he can’t help it-
“Please just keep the door open?” Shane’s voice cracks. His fingers grip his clothes like they’re a lifeline. His eyes are so full of tears he can barely see.
Then he turns and practically runs out of the room.
He hears Ilya call his name, tight and scared, and Shane barely manages to cover his mouth with his free hand before a sob bursts out of his mouth, but he doesn’t stop until he’s across the hallway. The guest room is dark and plainly decorated, with photos of some abstract American beach on the walls. The sheets are freshly replaced, and the air still smells faintly of his mom.
He leaves the door cracked open. Anya pokes her nose at the small gap, but Shane shoos her away.
“Go, Anya,” he pleads. “Daddy needs you. Go see Ilya.”
She leaves.
Shane settles onto the bed, trying to stifle his sobs. His hands find his bare thighs again, burning like Ilya’s hands are still there. He feels a surge of complete mortification as he kneads the skin between his knuckles, knowing Ilya had felt it too.
The stupid fucking fish and its stupid fucking sodium.
He had a diet for a reason- he ate fish on Thursdays for a reason- and now he’d ruined things with his boyfriend, and he was only getting older, and when he got back on the ice in a couple of weeks, his teammates would see it too. That he’s aged out, lost his value, at age twenty-eight.
At the same age most people started their lives- bought a house, started raising kids, finishing up doctorate degrees or starting novels or starring in movies- Shane was already done.
His thighs start to hurt, and Shane realizes he’s digging his short nails into the skin, gripping hard enough it will undoubtedly bruise.
But he can’t let go. He can’t move. He can’t even fucking breathe.
“Shane,” Ilya calls from down the hallway.
He sounds almost angry- but in the way he does when he’s scared, desperate to be understood. It’s loud and commanding, and Shane almost instinctively wants to answer, but he just sobs instead.
“Shane, дорогой, please.”
“Go,” Shane chokes out, digging, digging, digging his fingers deeper, trying to at least ground himself, because everything’s spinning so fucking far out of control. “Just go, Ilya, please. I’m sorry.”
Ilya pauses. Shane can see his shadow across the floor through the gap in the door, dark against the warm lighting from the living room.
Shane’s chest clenches in a hiccup, and he clamps his hand over his mouth again.
Finally, after an eternity, Ilya speaks again.
“Okay.”
Quiet, shaky, and resigned.
All of the things Ilya Rozanov should never be. The things Shane’s forced him to become.
The light disappears, and the house goes quiet, and Shane doesn’t sleep.
Somewhere around midnight, the wind outside starts howling, and Shane sighs heavily when he realizes a snow storm is rolling in.
For Shane, growing up, that used to mean board games and being curled up near the fireplace in between his parents while they never let his mug of hot chocolate run more than half-way empty.
But Ilya, he’d learned, would get kind of quiet. Morose. He’d avoid the windows, turn the thermostat up a little higher than it needed to be.
Shane let him. It felt like another one of those things where Ilya was trying to prevent something. But he hated them, Shane could tell.
He caves a few minutes later, when he hears ice start to hit the window.
Shane stands and tiptoes back to their bedroom- praying Ilya’s sleeping, like he should be. He just wants to check on him. It’s irrational, he knows it is- he would have heard if something had happened- but he can’t help himself. He just needs to make sure he’s still breathing, still there, still in the house-
Shane quietly pushes the door open, socked feet muffling his steps.
Anya is curled up at the end of the bed. Ilya’s flat on his back, hands limp at his sides, the moonlight catching the sharp curves of his muscles.
His eyes are open.
Shane’s breath catches in his throat.
Then Ilya’s chest falls, and then rises steadily again, and Shane almost whimpers in relief.
“Sorry,” he whispers, because there’s no way Ilya doesn't notice him there. “I just wanted to check on you.”
Ilya doesn't respond.
Shane pauses. Then, hesitantly, “Ilya?”
Nothing.
And while Ilya may be petty sometimes, and even though he might be angry right now, he would never just ignore Shane. Especially not to his face.
Shane swings open the door before he even realizes he’s moving.
Ilya remains still. His eyes, Shane realizes, are completely distant. Glossy, like they’ve been open for a long time.
Shane feels hot pressure behind his own eyes.
His skin is cool, and a bit clammy. His neck is in an awkward position against his pillow. Shane adjusts it, lifting Ilya’s head a tiny bit to pull the pillow down. Ilya sighs a little bit- more of a deep exhale, than anything- but he still doesn't move.
It’s like he doesn't even realize Shane’s there.
“Okay,” he whispers, reaching out to softly tuck a curl behind his ear. Ilya blinks, slowly, but still doesn’t turn his head. “Okay. You’re okay, baby.”
He doesn’t seem okay. He doesn't seem not okay, either, though. He’s just… gone.
You think you have all of the answers, but you don’t.
Shane has to be careful how he approaches this. Ilya can’t do it himself- not if he can’t even see it, and being completely out of his own body like this is dangerous.
“I got you,” Shane murmurs quietly.
He pulls the duvet up over Ilya’s chest.
He won’t try to fix this, but he can at least find a name, give Ilya a label for it, so he can get the help he needs without Shane inserting himself and inevitably fucking it up.
It almost feels like a relapse, the way the relief swells so wholly in him.
Shane spends the next day tucked away in the guest room, hunched over his computer.
The storm stopped at around eighth AM, but when Shane peeked out the window and saw snow so high it almost reached the window downstairs, it became abundantly clear they were going to be stuck in the house until the snowplows came.
Which meant no grocery delivery, he realizes with a sinking feeling.
But… maybe that’s okay.
He’ll just save what he has left, in case it’s a longer delay than usual. There’s other food in the house, but nothing Shane would eat if there was a gun to forehead- let alone a snowstorm.
He doesn’t eat breakfast. He doesn't need it; the excess of sodium will more than tide him over.
He keeps the door halfway open, just in case. He only hears Ilya’s footsteps a few times, and it seems to just be to the kitchen and back. For the most part, it seems that he’s just sleeping off the side effects of his upped dosage.
According to the internet, there are a few things that seem to match Ilya’s symptoms, and each one only sounds worse.
Amnesia.
Dissociation.
Absent seizures.
Brain tumor.
Stroke.
And now, Shane really can’t leave it alone- he can’t afford to. He would rather Ilya feel smothered or annoyed, he would rather Ilya hate him than be dead.
Around noon, he feels a headache blooming, and realizes that sitting hunched in the dark definitely isn’t good for his eyes. He needs his glasses- but those are in the bedroom on the nightstand, where Ilya is.
Never mind. That’s not an option. Shane’s done enough damage already.
He grits his teeth and keeps going.
One PM rolls by.
His headache is worse. Suddenly aware of how dry his mouth is, he chugs the spare water bottle on the nightstand, making a mental note to replace it before his parents stay over again.
He can literally feel it go down. Shane snorts at himself. Of course, he was just dehydrated.
Another hour goes by, and there’s a tentative knock on the door.
Shane’s head whips up so quickly, his vision goes white for a second.
Ilya stands in the doorway with Anya held close to his chest. He shifts from foot to foot. There’s a worried, uncertain look in his eyes that makes him look younger than Shane’s ever seen him.
Shane’s heart pangs.
“You’re okay?” Ilya asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Shane says, but it comes out too raspy to be understood. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, of course. What’s up?”
“You have not left this room all day,” Ilya says, pinning him with his gaze. “Did you eat?”
Oh. He wouldn't have thought Ilya would want him to make them food- especially not after what happened yesterday. He usually liked to fend for himself, cook something for himself.
But he’s not feeling well- of course, he wouldn’t be up to making himself a whole meal right now.
“There’s meal prep in the fridge,” Shane says, sitting up straighter. “You can have whatever you want. I’m starting over tomorrow with a new delivery. There’s no more fish, don’t worry- it’s mostly just grains-”
“No, Shane, did you eat?”
Shane falls silent.
Ilya is staring at him in that way that usually makes heat flicker in his stomach- but right now, for some reason, all it makes Shane feel is a bit nauseous.
“Yeah,” he says, looking back down at his computer, pretending to be looking at whatever article he’s on right now.
He doesn't really know why he’s lying. He’s almost surprised by how defensive he gets- but he can already hear the ribbing, the teasing, the pitying looks. The ‘you think you have all of the answers, but you don’t, the telling him to loosen up-
He’s too busy for that right now. Especially with everything going on with Ilya. He can’t have Ilya worrying about him.
“Shane,” Ilya says quietly.
Shane glances back up, feeling a flicker of irritation. “Ilya.”
A heated staring contest that Shane really doesn’t have the wherewithal to try to win.
“You don’t have to be here,” Shane insists. “Seriously. I can handle myself, I know how to eat. I’m not a child.”
Jesus, what?
It works, though. Ilya, now seemingly a bit irritated as well, just flicks his hand in a universally-understood Slavic ‘whatever’ and retreats from the doorway. He says something in Russian that Shane thinks might mean hypocrite, if he’s at least been doing those lessons correctly.
He buries himself back in his work.
Another hour goes by.
Shane realizes, suddenly, that he really doesn’t feel good.
Sweaty, kind of.
His head isn’t spinning, but it’s something close. Almost like he’s… tipsy, or something.
Tipsy and… nauseas.
He stares harder at his screen, and it’s like the words just float past. He has to re-read the same sentence about four times before it makes any sense.
He doesn't know how long it is this time, but his hands are shaking now. The nausea is worse.
And he’s tired. Like, bone-tired. Fucking stupid, because he’s done literally no physical exertion today, but maybe he’s caught a bug. Shit, maybe that’s what’s wrong with Ilya- maybe it’s not his meds. maybe it’s, like, a weird flu or something.
He really doesn't feel good.
He needs more water. And his glasses, probably. Yeah, that will help the headache.
Shane stands.
The movement seems to take his body by surprise. His knees buckle a little bit, head spinning for a second. His vision goes dark around the edges.
“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, digging the heel of his hand into the sockets.
Speaking, apparently, is the wrong move. His stomach lurches. His entire body goes hot. His hands start tingling, and so does his tongue.
He- something’s wrong.
He needs water. Probably. Yeah, that- yeah, he needs water.
He walks to the door, thankful that it’s already mostly open, because he would have probably walked right into it. Something weird is happening with his vision. His whole body feels like it’s pitched too far in one direction, like he’s tilted, or walking sideways or something-
In the hallway, now, Shane feels his foot almost slip under him.
He feels like he’s on the ice, kind of. Not like he’s skating, though- like he’s walking across it in his shoes.
He’s not wearing shoes. He’s got socks in. Socks can make things slippery.
He’s in the kitchen now. His heart is thudding. He’s sweating.
He doesn't feel good.
Open the cupboard. Get a glass, because he has to have something to put the water in-
But Shane’s hands are shaking. So much, they’re shaking, it’s like his arms aren’t even attached to his body anymore.
“Shane?”
It’s far enough away that Shane doesn't really register it. He grabs the glass and pulls it down towards himself, but it almost hits the counter, it’s so heavy-
He turns around. Ilya is standing behind him, eyes narrowed but alert, darting all over Shane like they’re across from each other at the puck drop, and he’s trying to psych Shane out, figure out his next move-
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
It’s instinctive, at this point- but this time, it comes out weak and limp.
Water. He just needs to get to the fridge and get water.
He walks towards it. His stomach lurches again.
He really doesn't feel good.
“You are very white, sweetheart,” Ilya says, but from far away again, like he’s throwing his voice. He’s across the island, though, which isn’t that far. Shane feels a flicker of anger, or panic, or something else that doesn't make any sense, because why the fuck won’t he just talk like a normal person?
Shane frowns. “I’m- not.”
And he doesn’t know what the fuck happened there, but the words sound all slurred, like he’s drunk.
His mouth feels so weird.
Full of cotton, and too wide, and his lips won’t touch-
“Shane,” Ilya says, louder. He’s moving around the island, arms hovering at his hips, like he wants to reach for something. Trying to get Shane's attention.
Shane’s fucking listening. He tries to tell him that, to tell him to leave him alone, but-
The vignette around his vision narrows into pinpoints.
Someone shouts his name.
And suddenly, Shane is on the floor.
He blinks. His head is a million pounds, but someone- Ilya, he recognizes that voice- manages to lift it anyway, off the dark floor and into the crook of his elbow.
He’s so strong, Shane thinks. He doesn't feel good.
“Wake up!” Ilya bellows.
Shane is awake. Or, maybe he’s not- he doesn't know, because his mouth won’t cooperate. He releases a strange, weak noise, and it’s not enough.
Ilya moves, and Shane is shifted along with him. There’s beeping, and a long dial tone, and Ilya swears, before he tries again, and again, and finally Ilya cries out like he’s in fucking agony.
A long, desperate string of Russian, and then Shane’s being gently lowered to the ground again.
He tries to sit up, to follow him, but his arms barely twitches.
He can hear Ilya moving. The fridge door opens- Shane can see it now, barely, through the small separation he’s managed to get as he heaves his eyelids open. He’s probably getting Shane water. Shane should have gotten it himself, really, if he’d just made it in time for whatever this is-
Then he’s being hauled back into the crook of Ilya’s arm. His mouth is forced open, and something horrible and explosive and sour is poured over his tongue.
Shane chokes, and sputters.
“Drink it, Shane,” Ilya says, loud and commanding and leaving no room for argument. It’s his Captain’s voice, Shane realizes, but he’s never heard it directed at him before.
But following orders is the one thing Shane is good at, and following Ilya’s is even easier.
So he lets it trickle down his throat, swallowing weakly, until it stops.
“Good,” Ilya says, and Shane’s heart lurches at the way his boyfriend’s voice breaks a little bit. He feels an almost aggressive kiss to the side of his head, and then he’s being rocked back and forth. “Good, Shane.”
Warmth spreads through his limbs, and Shane sinks into it.
He opens his eyes a little bit, catching a glimpse of Ilya’s face. He looks pissed, but it’s the kind pissed-angry-scared he gets after one of his rookies goes down, or when Anya runs a bit too far towards the street at the dog park, or the time last month when he’d almost broken down the bathroom door trying to get to Shane.
Shane must close his eyes, because Ilya lightly smacks his cheek a couple of times, and he opens them again.
“Awake, любимый.” He pulls Shane closer, until Shane is being cradled against his chest, close enough that Shane can hear Ilya’s heartbeat fucking racing. “Stay awake.”
And because it’s Ilya, because it’s the one person who always seems to know what’s right for Shane, he does. He stays awake, keeps his eyes cracked open, occasionally rolling back as his head pounds painfully.
A few minutes pass.
Wetness trickles down below his ear. Shane makes a weak, aborted sound. Ilya’s shoulder moves, and Shane realizes he’s wiping away a tear that’s escaped down Shane’s completely numb cheek and made it down to his neck.
Shane breathes. His hands slowly regain their feeling. Ilya calls him something in Russian and runs a gentle, firm hand over Shane’s leg, where it’s hanging limp over Ilya’s knee.
The contact hurts; an almost jarring soreness that makes Shane’s breath hitch.
Ilya pauses. Shane feels a single finger gently hook under the bottom seam of his shorts and pull up. Ilya gasps.
Shane forces his eyes to fully open. He finds it easier now. He feels less alien. Whatever Ilya had made him drink had fixed whatever the fuck this was, and he’s still trembling a little bit, but it’s easier to see, now, at least-
Ilya is staring at Shane’s thighs in abject horror.
Shane follows his gaze. There are long, irritated red stripes dragged along his upper legs, leading to five deep, purple marks along the line where his thighs and hips meet.
His own fingerprints, Shane realizes.
He’d done that. Last night, when he’d ran away to the guest room. He’d done that to himself.
Ilya’s head whips towards him. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face swollen, and he looks like he himself might collapse when he realizes Shane is sitting up on his own.
“Oh, Christ!” Shane is immediately pulled back into Ilya’s chest, but at a better angle now. “Спасибо, мама. Fuck, Shane, fuck-”
Thank you, Mama? Shane blinks blearily, trying to orient himself.
He lifts his arm, brings it closer to his lap. He smacks his lips. They’re sticky. His whole face feels like it’s got pins and needles. “What happened?”
Ilya pulls back a little bit- enough to hold his entire palm against Shane’s cheek and stare at him like he’s trying to read hieroglyphics. “You passed out, Hollander. Are you- how do you feel?”
He feels weird. Like he’s coming off a roller coaster, his stomach swooping and his limbs all tingly. But, decidedly- “better. I feel better.”
He glances around him, head still spinning a little bit. His ass hurts from where it’s been pressed into the floor for who knows how long. There’s an entire jug of orange juice sitting next to them, the lid off, and Shane’s eyes fly up to his hairline.
“Did you force-feed me orange juice?”
Ilya clenches his jaw, moving his hand down to cup the back of Shane’s neck. Shane lets his eyes drift to Ilya’s lips.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Because I tried to call 9-1-1, but the phone service is not working because of the storm, and I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you gave me orange juice?” Shane repeats.
He’s not even angry, even though that is so far outside of his diet, he’s just so fucking confused-
“Yes. You had low blood sugar,” Ilya says, jaw set tight. His eyes are tracking Shane’s again, flitting back and forth. “Low blood sugar, Shane. Because you haven’t eaten anything all day.”
Oh.
“And I asked you about it,” Ilya goes on, and there’s something in his gaze that is so fucking haunted that Shane can’t look away, “and you fucking lied to me. I checked the trash, and I came out here to make you sit down and eat something, and you collapsed, right in front of me.”
The same wet hotness trails down Shane’s cheek again, and he realizes he must still be crying.
Ilya’s staring at him. Shane doesn’t know what to do.
“I-” he swallows. Tries to gather something to say. His mind is moving too slow for his mouth to be able to form anything. “I didn’t think it would- I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t mean to,” Ilya repeats. Still not breaking eye contact, moving his other hand to grip Shane’s waist, giving him no room to run away, he pulls the bottom of Shane’s shorts up again. “Did you not mean to do this either?”
“Stop it,” Shane whimpers, his voice cracking.
He reaches arduously forward, and tries to uncoordinatedly cover his legs back up. His stomach literally trembles with the effort.
Ilya watches him silently.
“As soon as the roads are clear,” he says in a low voice, “we are going to a hospital.”
Shane immediately shakes his head. “No. No, Ilya, that would be impossible to hide, we’re already dealing with the other hospital visit.”
“That’s not a negotiation.”
Big word, Shane thinks almost bitingly, and then feels a swell of shame. “They couldn’t even do anything at this point, Ilya. The fix for low blood sugar is to fucking eat sugar, and I did that.”
The words come easily to him now. Surprising, again, in their viscousness.
“Shane, you put yourself in danger! And you lied to me about it, why would you do that?!”
I don’t know! Shane wants to scream.
“I’m fine now,” Shane says. “We’re not wasting a hospital bill or risking getting caught on camera over something that was fixed in fifteen minutes. What’s the point in that?”
“The point is that you fucking scared me!” Ilya bellows, and then he’s moving, and Shane’s entire head is suddenly engulfed in Ilya’s enormous hands, forced to look at him.
He looks insane.
He looks terrified.
Shane did that to him.
“You were on the floor! You were not moving! And you did that to your fucking legs!”
Something has snapped in Ilya’s resolve. His shoulders suddenly cave and he starts crying, hysterical, and whatever adrenaline that had been coursing through him a few minutes ago has clearly run out. Shane finds himself crying too, hot tears running down his face like a child, dripping between Ilya’s thumbs.
“You hurt your body,” Ilya pleads, and Shane has never hated himself more in his fucking life. “My Shane, you can’t- please.”
“Okay,” Shane blubbers, bringing own hands up to cover Ilya’s, trying to soothe what little he can. “Okay, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m okay, I promise. It was stupid. It was an accident.”
Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s. Shane lets his eyes fall shut, and neither of them mention the fact that that word has started to mean something else entirely.