Work Text:
Ilya sat in the passenger seat in silence, phone clenched in his hand, eyes fixed on the same leaked photo he’d already seen a hundred times.
Him and Shane on the dock at the cottage, barefoot and laughing. Shane’s arm around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It wasn’t supposed to be public, especially not when they’d just started breathing again after accidentally coming out to Shane’s parents two weeks ago. That had felt terrifying but manageable. This felt uncontrollable.
He scrolled through posts without really reading them, just absorbing the heat of it all. Headlines, comments, and screenshots already being shared faster than he could process. He forced himself to stay calm, because Shane was driving, and Shane was already barely holding it together.
The second they pulled into Yuna and David’s driveway, Shane’s composure shattered. The look on his parents’ faces when they opened the door, sympathetic and worried and soft, was all it took.
“I wasn’t ready,” Shane said almost immediately, pacing the living room like he couldn’t breathe in one place for too long. His hands were buried in his hair, tugging hard. “I wasn’t ready for this, for any of it. What about our contracts, the sponsors, the press?”
Each word landed heavy in Ilya’s chest, he almost laughed remembering how thrilled the words sounded when Yuna spoke about new sponsors for them as a couple two weeks ago.
“I wasn’t ready,” Shane repeated, voice cracking this time, and Ilya felt something inside him twist painfully.
Ilya did what he always did, he stayed calm and sat on the couch and nodded, grounding himself so he could ground Shane. He told him it was fine, that he understood, that they would figure it out like they always did. He even tried to joke, something stupid about how at least they could just hide out at the cottage for the rest of their careers.
Shane didn’t laugh.
Yuna stepped in easily, like she’d done this a thousand times before. Her voice was steady and reassuring, with hands warm on Shane’s arms as she guided him to sit down. David hovered nearby, quiet but solid. Watching them calm Shane so naturally made something in Ilya’s head feel wrong, like a wire had been crossed.
He hated that he felt like he was failing him.
The next few days blurred together. Shane’s emotions were at a high, switching from anger to panic every other hour. When they finally went back to the cottage, his parents showed up that same night without asking, arms full of groceries and concern. Because that’s the kind of parents Shane had. Parents who showed up. Parents who knew. Parents who loved loudly and without hesitation.
The cottage filled with noise of chatter and laughter that felt a little forced at first but slowly became real.
Yuna hugged Shane so tightly it almost hurt to watch. David put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder and said, “We’ll get through this,” like it wasn’t even a question.
Ilya smiled, tight and polite, and quietly slipped into the background. He had no right to feel jealous. None at all. They were kind to him too. Asked if he was okay. Included him. But that somehow made it worse.
A week after the photos leaked, things started to calm down for Shane. The backlash faded quicker than expected, replaced by overwhelming support. Teammates texted, fans defended him online. Sponsors stayed quiet, which was better than the alternative.
So Shane started breathing again, chatting about his return to the ice soon after their summer was over with excitement again.
Ilya didn’t.
His phone never stopped buzzing with messages in Russian. Old friends. distant family members, strangers who shared his language but none of his humanity.
At first he couldn’t stop reading the threats, death wishes, and promises of what would happen if he ever went home again.
He stopped opening them eventually, but he still felt them there, like a weight pressing into his ribs. Like Russia itself was reaching across the ocean to remind him of everything he’d run from.
At night, when the cottage was quiet and Shane slept easily beside him, Ilya laid awake staring at the ceiling. His thoughts spiraled back to his childhood, being out didn’t feel freeing. It felt dangerous.
–
Shane noticed the change slowly, right as he was starting to feel like himself again. He felt lighter and more free, almost, now that the secret was gone and people still loved him anyway. He didn’t mean to pull away, but he just thought maybe Ilya needed space. Every time Shane asked what was wrong, Ilya brushed it off or changed the subject.
Ilya stopped joking. Stopped eating unless Shane reminded him. He flinched every time his phone buzzed. One night, Shane found him sitting on the edge of the bed, phone dark in his hands, eyes empty.
“Ilya,” Shane said softly. “What’s going on?”
“I’m fine,” Ilya answered automatically, the words hollow even to himself.
Shane didn’t push.
The following days Yuna and David started to notice too. Shane warned his parents before bringing Ilya to dinner. They hadn’t really noticed how much Ilya had changed, too focused on Shane, on press, on what being out meant for them as a couple. But the second Ilya stepped inside, Yuna saw it. The sadness sat on him like a weight. Ilya started zoning out during conversations, staring at nothing while Russian phrases he hadn’t thought about in years looped in his head. Old words and voices. On the outside he had gone pale and expressionless.
—
The depression came in waves. Since returning to the ice in Ottawa, things had gotten a bit better. Some days he felt empty, other days it hurt so badly he couldn’t breathe, like the weight of his past had finally caught up to him.
Shane left first. Training meant packed bags and early flights and promises whispered into Ilya’s neck late at night. Shane kissed him like he always did, even though Ilya seemed to be glued unmoving to their bed the past few weeks.
“Call me,” Shane said as he got out of the car at the airport. “Any time. I mean it.”
Ilya smiled and said he would.
He didn’t.
Yuna started checking on him the same way she checked on Shane. Asking if he’d eaten. Touching his arm when she spoke to him. Making his favorite foods without saying why and dropping them off at his place. Ilya thanked her every time, quietly like he was ashamed to be seen.
Ottawa felt colder than it ever had before. The rink was familiar, but everything else felt wrong. Too quiet and empty. Without Shane, the nights stretched on forever.
At first, returning to the ice helped. Skating burned through the numbness. Practices gave him something to focus on. Some days he felt almost normal, empty but functional. Other days, the weight came crashing down so hard it felt like he couldn’t breathe, nevermind get out of bed.
His phone buzzed constantly. Messages in Russian he didn’t open. Threats he didn’t read but still felt. He stopped calling his family, or he should just say Svetlana, entirely. He barely texted Shane back.
One day after moving through practice on autopilot, it started to hurt so badly he had to sit on the bathroom floor after practice, head in his hands, waiting for the world to stop spinning as he told his teammates at the door he got sick.
Sleep didn’t come easily either. When it did, it brought dreams of home. Of his father’s face twisted with disgust, or his fists getting ready to hit him or throw things in their home. He heard his dad telling him over and over, what he was doing was wrong. His brother saying that he was fundamentally wrong
He started skipping meals again. He lost weight without meaning to. Teammates noticed but didn’t say anything. Coaches chalked it up to stress.
One night, alone in his apartment, Ilya sat on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hands. Shane’s name glowed on the screen, unread messages stacked one after another.
He thought about calling. About hearing Shane’s voice. About admitting how bad it really was.
Instead, he turned the phone face down.
For the first time since the photos leaked, Ilya wondered if being out hadn’t just exposed him to the world, but stripped away the last defenses he had left.
—-
The days after that blurred together in a way that scared him. Reminded him of his mom.
Ilya stopped noticing time the way he used to. Mornings came whether he slept or not. Nights stretched out endlessly, heavy and quiet, pressing in on his chest until breathing felt like work.
His apartment stayed dark most of the time, blinds half-closed even during the day. He told himself it was just easier that way.
The ice stopped being enough. At practice, his body moved on instinct, muscle memory carrying him through drills while his mind stayed somewhere else.
He missed passes he never used to miss. Fell harder than necessary. The frustration from the coaches barely registered. Pain made more sense than emptiness.
After practices, he lingered in the locker room long after everyone else left. Sitting there, staring at the floor, listening to the hum of the lights. Sometimes he forgot where he was entirely and flinched when someone said his name.
His shame had weight. It followed him everywhere.
—
Shane kept texting. Long messages at first, full of reassurance and love and updates about his own training. Then shorter ones. Then just check-ins. Ilya read every single one. He just couldn’t bring himself to answer them.
He didn’t want to ruin Shane’s freedom with his dramaticness.
Yuna came by one afternoon unannounced, bags of groceries in her arms.
Ilya almost didn’t open the door.
He stood there frozen for a long moment, heart racing like he’d been caught doing something wrong. When he finally let her in, she took one look at him and her face fell.
“You’re too thin,” she said quietly.
“I’m fine,” he replied automatically.
She didn’t argue. She just started cooking, filling the apartment with warmth Ilya wasn’t sure he deserved. He sat at the table and watched her move around like she belonged there.
He barely touched the food, and then felt ashamed for it.
That night, after she left, the quiet came back worse than before.
The dreams started bleeding into his waking hours. He caught himself expecting to turn the corner and see his mom. It always started with her.
Just her humming in the kitchen when he was a little too sleep deprived. The way she smelled laced into his clothes. He imagined the way she used to smooth his hair down when his father wasn’t watching, whispering, мой душистый горошек.
Then the memories shifted.
Her eyes got duller. Her voice softer. The way she slept too much, or not at all. The way his father called her weak, useless, dramatic. The way Ilya learned early that sadness was something that got punished.
Some mornings he began to call out of practice. He lay there staring at the ceiling, heart racing for no reason, body heavy like it was glued to the mattress. He told himself it was just exhaustion or stress. Just temporary.
When Yuna dropped off food, he let it sit untouched until it went cold. Sometimes he threw it away unopened, guilt twisting in his stomach afterward.
One night, after a loss, and the night following a particularly bad practice where his coach pulled him aside and asked if everything was okay, Ilya went home and sat on the floor of his shower without turning the water on. He stayed there fully clothed, knees pulled to his chest, struggling to breathe through his muffled crying.
He thought about how easy it would be to disappear.
Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly. Stop answering messages. Stop showing up. Let the noise fade on its own. Let everyone forget him.
The thought scared him because it felt comforting.
He thought about how tired his mom must have been. How trapped and alone. The thought scared him more than anything else, because for the first time, he understood it.
He wondered if Shane would forgive him for not calling if he went through with it tonight. If Svetlana would blame herself. If Yuna and David would think they hadn’t done enough. He wondered if his mother had thought about him in her last moments too.
The thought made his chest ache until it hurt to breathe.
He finally called Shane by accident.
His thumb slipped, Ilya panicked and almost hung up, but it was too late.
“Ilya?” Shane answered immediately, voice soft and concerned and so achingly familiar it hurt. “Hey, I’ve been worried. Are you okay?”
Ilya opened his mouth to lie but nothing came out.
Shane didn’t rush him. He waited. The silence stretched until it felt unbearable.
Feelings flashed in his chest, telling him he was disgusting, and sick. Tears started to spill over, hot and silent, dripping down onto his hands again. “I think I’m… getting worse,” Ilya admitted. “And I don’t know how to stop it.”
—
The next day, Ilya woke up and didn’t remember falling asleep.
He dragged himself to practice because muscle memory told him to. Because not going would mean questions, and questions meant words, and words felt impossible.
That night, he turned his phone back on, realizing before he went to bed last night he had called Shane in a panic.
The messages flooded in immediately. Shane’s name at the top, over and over. Missed calls. Short texts at first. Then longer ones. Concern replacing confusion.
“Ilya, what do you mean getting worse?”
“Please just tell me you’re okay.”
“I miss you.”
“I’m worried.”
“My mom’s coming over if you don’t respond”
“Я ТЕБЯ ЛЮБЛЮ”
“Please answer when you see this”
“I’m coming back home for the weekend”
“I’ll be there asap tomorrow morning”
Ilya’s chest ached so badly he thought it might split open at the last text.
He typed. Deleted. Typed again. His hands shook so badly he put his phone down and splashed his face with water.
“I love you” he replied finally.
Shane called immediately.
“Ilya?” Shane’s voice broke on his name. “I’ve been calling you all day. I just got off a plane back to Montreal, I’ll be there in a few hours.”
Ilya tried to speak. Nothing came out at first. His throat felt tight, like it was closing in on itself.
“I think,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper, “I think something is wrong with me.”
“Oh?” Shane didn’t rush him. he just stayed there, breathing on the other end of the line.
“I feel like her,” Ilya said, and the word sat heavy between them. “My mother. I feel the same.”
The line went quiet for a second.
“That doesn’t mean you become her,” Shane said finally, voice steady even though Ilya could hear the strain underneath it. “It doesn’t mean this ends the same way.”
“It feels the same,” he whispered.
“I know,” Shane said. “And I’m really glad you told me.”
There was a pause, then Shane exhaled. “My mom’s already on her way to the airport to get me so we can leave the second I get to Otawa.”
Ilya’s stomach dropped. “You don’t have to do that.”
“We do,” Shane said gently. “You don’t get to disappear on us.”
—
They arrived the next morning.
Shane was there first, eyes scanning him quickly like he needed proof that Ilya was real and breathing. Behind him stood Yuna, her face soft and worried and already breaking.
“You’re here,” Shane said, relief flooding his voice as he pulled Ilya into his chest without asking.
Ilya froze for half a second, then melted into it, fingers clutching Shane’s jacket like it was the only thing holding him upright.
Yuna didn’t say anything right away. She just stepped closer and wrapped her arms around both of them. Ilya’s throat tightened painfully.
They sat together on the couch after. No one demanded explanations. Yuna made tea and Shane stayed close enough that their knees touched at all times.
Shane swallowed hard as Yuna sat down across from them. “We’re going to get you help,” he said. “Real help. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Shane slept beside him like a guard later that night, arm wrapped tight around his waist. Yuna took the couch.
For the first time since the photos leaked, since the messages started, since the memories came back sharper than knives, Ilya didn’t feel like he was fighting the darkness by himself.