Chapter Text
Ilya sat in Galina’s therapy room, his leg stretched out on the couch. The brace was still locked in full extension, but he has been regaining range of motion quickly in physical therapy. The pain in his knee ebbed and flowed, but had improved since the rough first days after surgery. His physiotherapist was optimistic that he could start weight-bearing soon.
While his physical recovery was going well, the same could not be said about his mental state. Ilya fiddled with the strap of his brace, trying to ignore Galina’s gaze. David had driven him. Yuna had only been there briefly in the morning, together with David, as they checked in on him, but had quickly disappeared after. She didn’t even look at him. The wrongness of it all sat deep within him.
Ilya dared to glance up at Galina quickly. “Did you… Did you tell them to?”
Galina tilted her head, her brows drawing together in confusion. “I am afraid I’m not following. What do you think I told whom?”
Ilya stared at her and swallowed. “They are hiding my antidepressants from me. They are treating me like I am on psych hold.”
“Oh,” Galina said, exhaling loudly. “No… Wow, okay, I did not tell them to do that. By them, I assume you mean the Hollanders, your family? Yes? Okay. Do you know why they decided to do so?”
Ilya shook his head. “Sometimes I forget to take the medication, but I can be reminded. I have alarms…” Ilya paused, taking a moment to clear his throat, ”I think they think I am suicidal.”
Galina hummed, scribbling in her notepad. “Are you?”
Ilya shook his head and snorted. ”Not until now.”
Galina raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry, that was a bad joke,” Ilya said, his gaze drifting off to the side. “Everything is just… very tiring. I am exhausted. I feel like all my blood has been sucked out by a vampire.”
“Do you already have an appointment with the psychiatrist?”
Ilya shook his head. Galina started to sigh, but suppressed it, clearing her throat instead. “That is really important, okay? I’ve already called your psychiatrist to give them my impression.”
Fiddling with the velcro of his knee brace, Ilya nodded once.
“How have you been faring in your day-to-day activities?”
Ilya shrugged. “Fine.”
“Okay, let me rephrase. Do you find it difficult to engage in your day-to-day activities?”
Ilya nodded.
“Do you find it difficult to take care of your basic needs?”
Ilya nodded again, his eyes glued to a thread he started pulling out of the velcro band. “I would not… I don’t think… They help. A lot.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Ilya tore out the thread, twirling it in his hands. “Guilty. I am just burdening them. And now they think they need to supervise me, too. And then I feel guilty for not feeling grateful. But it also feels wrong that they didn’t talk to me.”
“Conflicting feelings can exist. Two things I would like you to think about. First, I want you to think about how you feel like a burden. Then I would also like you to think about how you can open up a channel of communication with them, so they can better understand what is going on with you and how to support you, okay?”
Galina pulled out two worksheets, one titled “challenging thoughts” and the other “non-violent communication”. Galina helped him work through them, giving Ilya pointers on how he could challenge his negative perceptions towards receiving care. She also helped him map out how he wanted to approach Shane to talk about the handling of medication, by aiding Ilya in articulating the four steps of non-violent communication, as well as looking up English words he could use.
At the end of the session, Ilya completed the routine outcome measures again. It took him longer than usual, his brain tired from the intense session. Yet he felt satisfied with his progress. Just as he was repositioning his leg, crutches already by his side, Galina spoke up again.
“Ilya, I want to say that I think you did a good job today. Please schedule an appointment with the psychiatrist. Or have someone else do so. You still have the note, yes? Okay.” Galina fell silent, her pen tapping her notebook. “There is one other thing. Your family is listening to silence. And they are right to be concerned. If you continue to struggle to take care of yourself independently, then we might need to consider more intense treatment options.”
“Oh,” Ilya said. His inner dams crashed. Everything that he had carefully been holding at a distance flooded his brain, filling every groove and crevice of his mind. Pressure formed inside his skull, spilling over into his body as his chest tightened. Almost knocking over his crutches, he grabbed them, getting up in a dizzingly fast motion.
“Right. I will schedule an appointment with my psychiatrist,” Ilya said, and all but fled out of Galina’s therapy room.
Ilya sat on the porch facing their garden, smoking a cigarette. It was already his second one in a row, probably close to the tenth of the day. It was damp where he was sitting, soaking the underside of his pants. Anya was trotting around the garden, switching between rolling in leaves and mud.
Shane was about to be back. Maybe that’s why Ilya had smoked so much today. If he smelled bad enough, maybe Shane would avoid him, saving him from the conversation that they needed to have. Probably, he would just lecture him on his cardiovascular health, freaking out about blood clots, which Shane was already concerned about, given the lack of movement Ilya was getting currently. Ilya would choose the blood clot conversation over the meds conversation any day.
He pressed out the cigarette in the ashtray, which held a soup of water and previous cigarettes. He didn’t bother to clean it out. Ilya grabbed his crutches and hobbled back inside. He called Anya and grabbed a towel to dry her fur and remove most of the mud. It wasn’t an easy task. He was sitting on the floor, trying to hold Anya still with little leverage. He tried to clean her paws as well, but she ran off, trailing mud through the living room all the way over to the entrance hall. Her wagging tail painted the furniture along the way.
Then Ilya heard the front door open, followed by Anya's bark. Ilya leaned back against the wall and listened to Shane greet Anya. He sounded tired. He listened to Shane move through the entrance hall, the sound of putting his keys down, taking off his shoes, and the heavy thud of a bag hitting the floor. Then soft footsteps made their way to the living room, accompanied by the pads of Anya’s paws.
Ilya looked up to find Shane standing in the doorway. Shane looked tense, his shoulders slightly hunched, thumbs hooked into his pockets, weight shifted on one leg. Shane studied him for a second, his eyebrows pulled together. Ilya was aware of how awful he must be looking right now, sprawled out on the floor, damp and muddy.
“Seems like the both of you could use a bath,” Shane broke the silence, attempting a smile. Ilya looked to the side and nodded. “Sure.”
Shane walked over to him, avoiding the spots of mud in the living room. He gathered his crutches and crouched in front of Ilya, getting ready to help him up. Shane’s nose twitched, and he grimaced, probably smelling the cigarettes. Ilya gently pushed him off. “I’ll do it myself.”
Shane stepped back, his face falling. “Oh, okay. I just thought... Nevermind. I’ll handle Anya and the mess.”
Ilya watched as Shane ushered Anya to the downstairs bathroom. He listened to the running water, then to the hair dryer. A bit later, Anya strolled out of the bathroom, her fur fluffy and shiny. Shane must have taken the time to use conditioner. Anya walked by where Ilya was still sitting on the floor, then turned and headed for her dog bed, curling up in it.
Shane stepped out of the bathroom, once again standing awkwardly in the doorway. “You sure you don’t want me to help?”
Ilya shot him a look. “Yes. It just takes me a while.”
Shane looked at him doubtfully. Then he nodded and turned, disappearing into their entrance hall. He reappeared with cleaning supplies and started scrubbing away the mud. Shane glanced over to him every other second. No longer wanting to be observed in his misery, Ilya pushed himself up, suppressing a groan at the stiffness of his muscles.
Ilya hobbled past Shane, not daring to look at him. He didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. Once he was in the upstairs bathroom, he turned on the shower, waiting for the water to turn hot. He shuffled under the stream on one leg, then let himself fall onto the shower chair.
He stayed in the shower for a long time. The mirror was all fogged up, the air in the bathroom heavy with its humidity. His skin was red and raw from the constant stream of hot water, and the skin at his fingertips had started to wrinkle. By the time he had gotten himself dressed and started limping down the stairs again, Shane was already sitting at their set dinner table, a cooked meal in the middle no longer steaming.
Ilya inched towards the table, lowering himself into his chair. A glance at Shane’s face revealed watery eyes. Ilya swallowed, shuffled in his seat, and gathered the courage to talk.
“I don’t want you to control my medication,” Ilya started, then frowned, realizing that he had started with the third step of non-violent communication. “I feel not trusted. Because you are hiding my meds. You cleared out the entire medicine cabinet.”
Shane stared at him. Ilya shifted in his seat again, rearranging his leg into a more comfortable position as he waited for Shane to reply. “I’m not comfortable with that.”
It took Ilya all his willpower not to snort. “So you do not trust me.”
“Ilya… I am worried. Especially when I’m gone. I am so fucking worried, I just need to know that that isn’t an option.”
“So you think I would do that,” and then, because Ilya couldn’t help himself, “Didn’t even ask me. Rude.”
“What the fuck was I supposed to think? You literally refused narcotics after the surgery, because of family history! Of course, I am thinking of your family history! And then, I found a note from Galina in your pocket, addressed to me, so that I could make an appointment for you with your psychiatrist. A note you never gave to me. Nor did you tell me that your dosage is not working right now. So yeah, I don’t feel like I can trust you right now.”
That is not what Ilya had meant with family history. “You should have talked to me.”
“Oh, because you were so talkative after the surgery? Fuck, you were so out of it, I was so close to calling Galina, or I don’t know, perhaps something more drastic. Fuck. I just wanted to make sure that you are safe. That you are taken care of. And now you don’t even want my help anymore? Please, Ilya, I don’t know what the fuck I am supposed to do anymore.”
Sometimes fighting with Shane didn’t feel fair. Shane did not have to translate everything from another language and had the luxury of making articulate and well-thought-out, structured arguments without having to think about them. Ilya had to carefully think about every word, making sure that the word he chose also meant what he wanted to convey. Proper grammar was out of question in an emotionally convoluted situation like this. And then his brain was slow right now, taking an extra second to process the words Shane was throwing at him.
“Ilya, please talk to me. I can’t go on like this.”
Ilya frowned, trying to figure out when the conversation had derailed. He wanted Shane to trust him, but he had achieved the exact opposite. He just wanted to feel like he had some fucking control right now.
Shane sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “And you’re not even mad at me. Fuck, Ilya. You should be mad at me. I acted out of fear. I don’t think I have ever seen you this bad, and it fucking scares me.”
Ilya shrank in on himself, the words creating a deep pit in his stomach. “I’m sorry.”
Shane got up suddenly, the chair creaking loudly against the tiles. He rounded the table and pulled Ilya into his arms. Shane pressed a kiss on his head and then wiped the tears away that had begun streaming down Ilya’s face. Shane hushed him. “Shhh. It’ll be okay. We’re gonna figure it out.”
They remained like this for a long time. Ilya slumped in the chair, leaning into Shane’s embrace as they comforted each other. Their meal was long forgotten, sitting cold on the table.