Chapter Text
Ilya was a deeply fucked up man. And he knew it. His mother had died much too soon, his father was frequently disappointed in him, and his brother was essentially scum. Yet they made him feel like he was the problem. He was the one who went to the states, left his suffering father behind. And even if he sent ridiculous amounts of money he was still useless in their eyes. No one liked him. Truly. Maybe Svetlana cared, but that was about it. He thought Shane… He thought Hollander cared. But clearly he was wrong, since Hollander was out galavanting with Rose.
Every Rose has its thorns, but that rose wasn’t hurting its holder, no, it was hurting the onlooker. Ilya knew why he felt this way. He loved, no, loves Hollander. He’d known it from the start. However, Hollander would never feel the same way. Which shattered Ilya.
He was so alone. It was cold outside, he was alone in the house where he’d lost it all. All because he flew too close to the sun. Lately, in his heartbreaking loneliness, he'd been contemplating just giving up. He loved hockey. But his team didn’t actually care about him. Sure, they liked having him as their captain, since he was very popular and talented (not to toot his own horn), but they couldn't care less about him outside of the locker rooms.
As he thought about it, his mind drifted back to LA with Hollander. Hollander joked that Ilya shouldn’t jump when he found him on the rooftop that night. Would he still say that now?
Shane, would you stop him now?
He’d been developing a bad habit. One worse than smoking and drinking. He loved to do both of those things, but he just couldn't work up the energy to. And Hollander hated when he smoked. Not that Hollander gave a damn anymore, but it just ruined it for him. So he’d began picking up razors.
It was a challenge at first, finding somewhere to hide the marks. He was pretty frequently butt ass naked in the locker rooms, and he didn't exactly want people to see them. Not because they’d care, but because they’d think he was weak. However, he discovered that he could get away with just… not changing in front of them. It was surprisingly easy to walk into the stalls and change, to come to games already in his jersey and just not shower until he got home.
He didn’t even bother to keep them in a special hiding place. No one came over anyways. There were razors on the coffee table, his bedside drawer, the kitchen sink. With no one there to moderate his harm, it just didn’t matter. It spiraled. When there’s no one to hide it from, you tend to get carried away.
Flopping down onto his too-large sofa in his empty house, he spun the silver blade around in his hand. Today he wasn’t feeling like hiding, and he wanted blood. A strange bloodlust had been boiling within him as his habit grew worse, and no matter where he did it, the wrists bled the best. Sure, the thighs hid it better and the ankles were somewhere no one looked, but nothing surpassed the bloodflow of the wrists. His left wrist had mostly healed over, since it had been two-ish weeks since his last episode.
Suicide wasn’t an option right now, he had games to win. Hockey was his only reason to stay alive at this point, and part of him hoped someone would care before he got deep enough to actually do it. Someone had to eventually care, that was why he hadn’t done it yet. But the end of the season drew nearer, the love of his life was dating a beautiful woman, and his family couldn't care less. Maybe Hollander would come around, though. His hope, that small, tiny feeling of hope kept him from going off the deep end.
One line of blood turned to ten, to twenty, until his flesh was pretty much mutilated. He couldn’t care less. His body handled brutal training regimes, it could handle a few cuts. It all looked so pretty… The blood stained his pants, dripping onto his couch. He just watched, unmoving. Maybe he’d gone a little crazy, as he was feeling lightheaded, but he would just stay still. He should probably clean it up.
His bathroom was nice enough, and he kept it well stocked with first aid. He lazily rolled some bandages onto his arm, not caring enough to clean out the plethora of wounds. He just needed to slow the bleeding before he actually passed out. He returned to his kitchen, poured a glass of vodka, and drank it.
He liked the burn. He was very tired all of the sudden. Most likely his stupid emotions and his blood loss. He didn’t have anything going on for a while, so he just went to bed.
And for months he lived like that. Months, he suffered in silence. The only thing keeping him tethered to earth was the sliver of hope that Hollander would come back, and the fear of what came after death.
The life he was living was hardly a life at all. It was limbo…
Things changed. Shane eventually was with him. But Ilya was scarred now, deeply. He refused to show it, but his months of living as a shell of himself exhausted his spirit. And somehow, Hollander had noticed.
“Rozanov?” He’d spoken. His words were quiet yet precise. They’d just gotten back on decent terms, and were currently sitting in a hotel room. This was the first night they’d been in a position like this and not just gone at it like dogs in heat, which confused Shane.
“Yes?” Ilya replied, blunt, mildly annoyed. That was how he always sounded, even though he didn’t feel annoyed at Hollander. He could never feel that way towards him. Yet he acted like it, just to keep the distance there.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Shane spoke, although those words had no real venom in them.
“Nothing. I am fine, Hollander.” Ilya scoffed, leaning back against the wall of the room they were in.
“But you’re not, Rozanov. I mean, I’ve noticed it.”
“You are digging too deep.”
“No, I’m not! I can just tell. You look almost soulless, like youre just a husk of the man I knew. Why the hell are you so empty now?”
“Do not act like you care about me!” Ilya yelled, rubbing his face in anger.
“Ilya, I do. I actually, stupidly, really care about you.” Shane said. “And I can tell somethings up so spill it. Spill it or I’ll fucking… Ill walk out of here again.”
“Hollander! Do not leave.” Ilya said. There was a yearning, begging tone in his voice as he pleaded, voice shaking. “I cannot tell you. It is too much. Just…stay.”
“Rozanov…” Shane whispered, walking closer. He cupped Ilya’s face, and Ilya just leaned into his hand. Like a tired, sick old dog. And Shane would die to find out what was going on in that moment.
“You remember the rooftop, in Vegas?” Ilya whispered, eyes still shut. He couldn’t look Shane in the eyes, not now. Maybe not ever again.
“A lot happened on that roof, Ilya. Be specific.” Shane said, trying to lighten the mood. It failed, miserably.
“You told me, you said. It is not wort jumping over. Do you remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I was joking, I knew you weren’t like that… or, I thought you werent?”
“Shane… Hollander, those words are the only fucking thing that kept me here.” Ilya breathed, his hand shaking slightly. “You said that to me once, just one time, but I replayed it in my mind every night. Its not worth jumping over.”
“Fuck, Rozanov. You… did you ever actually try?” Shane breathed, almost scared of the answer.
“No. I am… what you call it, uhh.. Too pussy.” Ilya said, a smirk on his face. Shane did not respond to that smile positively.
“Thank god.” Shane breathed, like a weight got lifted from his shoulder.
“When you were with her… would you have told me not to do it. During those months, would you still have stopped me?” Ilya whispered.
“Fucking of course? Jesus, I date a girl and all of a sudden I want you to die? No, I would never have let you. If I knew, if I knew you were struggling like that I would’ve ran.”
“Good.” Ilya breathed. “That is what I was hoping for.”
“Did you.. Do anything?” Shane whispered.
“Maybe. Be more specific, Hollander. I’ve done many things in all of these months.”
“Like, did you hurt yourself or anything?” Shane asked. He didn’t think that Ilya would’ve done that. I mean, locker room culture was insane with Hockey players, and Shane knew that Rozanov wasn’t shy. He just wanted to ask, just to be safe.
“Yes.”
Shane just about shattered at that one word. His hand dropped, and he just stood there for a moment. Fuck…
“Speak, Hollander, please…” Ilya said.
“Just…where? Why? How??” Shane was fully flabbergasted. How does one even hide that? Ilya did so many things that resulted in people seeing his naked body, how could he hide self injuries.
“Where…? All over the place. Why? I wanted to. It was stronger than drinking, I suppose. And it is surprisingly easy to hide.”
“Have you done it recently..?” Shane whispered.
“No. I did not have access to my supplies while in the hotel.”
“Thank god.” Shane said. He was saying that a lot tonight, but he was relieved at even the smallest positives. This was a heavy situation, and the small little pros felt so amazing.
Ilya just kind of…stood there. He wasn’t used to being this vulnerable around people. Even if it was Shane, he didn’t feel fully comfortable.
That night was amazing. Not because Ilya was self harming, but because their bond grew. Ilya felt a little more comfortable around Shane, and Shane felt much closer to Ilya.
Shane spent all night kissing every single new scar on Ilya’s body. Not because he felt pity, but because Ilya was so, so strong. And he deserved to be worshipped. Shane would do that for him.
Each scar meant the world to Shane, they were marks of survival. And he was so happy that the man he adored was still alive. Shane was sure if whatever caused Ilya to cut happened to Shane, Shane didn’t think he’d be strong enough to survive.
It took a while, but Shane was persistent. Every scar was kissed, showing his love like words never could.