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Ilya Rozanov was twelve years old when he found his mother’s dead body.
Pale, limp and cold. Lifeless.
He thought she was sleeping. He thought she was just in a deep sleep and she would wake up when he got closer, calling out her name so she could read him a story before he fell asleep for the night.
“Mama,” he reached out to shake her awake, but pulled his hand away when he felt how cold she was. “Mama? Do you need a blanket?”
Ilya reached for the thick blanket off the chair beside where his mother lay, eternally sleeping, and he stopped as he saw the bottle on the floor. He recognised it as a pill bottle, because he knew his mother took medication everyday. To help her smile, she told him.
Ilya looked at his mother again, and noticed her lips were a light shade of blue. The usual red colour in cheeks was replaced with a sickly white. He stumbled backwards.
This wasn’t his mother.
Soon after, Ilya was stood in the hospital corridor, a tiny shadow of his brother. He’d shouted of his father whilst trying to hide his tears so he didn’t get scolded for crying. They’d driven to the hospital behind the ambulance that carried his mother’s dead body.
Ilya wasn’t sure why they were going to the hospital when he knew what they’d be told there anyway, and when he knew his dad didn’t really care.
Ilya was quiet in the hospital. There was a feeling in his chest he’d never experienced before. A feeling of overwhelming loneliness, because his mother - the one person who was truly on his side, who truly loved him - was gone. Even without the confirmation, Ilya knew in his gut and in his bones, that the woman who had carried him, birthed him and raised him, was gone. She’d left him because she was so sad.
The doctors told them that Irina was dead. A drug overdose. Her body was resting in the morgue if they wanted to say their final goodbyes. Ilya saw the look on his dad’s face, one which said no, I don’t want to go and see my wife’s resting body because I wanted her dead anyway. That made Ilya feel sick to his stomach. His father made him sick to his stomach.
But they went, Ilya standing with his hands on the glass window, because his father wouldn’t let him go inside. He rested his face up against it, tears on his cheeks, his dad’s awful voice ringing in his ears, saying that she was better off dead.
Ilya hated him. Ilya wanted to cry and scream and kick him until he was gone too. Instead of his mother.
But it was impossible, so all Ilya could do as he took one final look at his mother, was beg a higher power to take him away, too.
“Shane,” as soon as Ilya was through the door, his shoes thrown to the floor, he was calling of his lover to take him into his arms. “Hey, moya lyubov.”
“Hi,” Shane was in the front room, standing in the doorway, his arms open for Ilya to walk into. “You played a good game.”
“I was okay,” Ilya buried his face into Shane’s collarbone, inhaling his familiar scent and letting the tension of the game dissipate as Shane wrapped his arms around him. He would be gone in the morning, back to Montreal for his game, and Ilya didn’t want to be alone. “I missed you.”
Shane tried to release Ilya from his grip so he could look at his face, caress his cheek and kiss him, but Ilya was dead set on staying with his face buried as deep as possible into Shane’s skin.
“Ilya,” Shane tapped Ilya’s waist. Nothing. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Ilya was always smiling. He was cheeky and loud and playful. It was one of the many things Shane loved about him. But this - this was a side to Ilya Shane rarely ever saw.
“I am just tired,” Ilya pulled away and Shane got a proper look at his face. His eyes looked heavy and wet. “Was a long day. Even longer game.”
And you’ll be gone tomorrow, Ilya wanted to say.
He loved their life together. He loved that they’d started The Irina Foundation and worked with kids at their summer camp to teach them how to play hockey. He loved that they had a home together at the cottage, and a home in Montreal - at Shane’s - and a home in Ottawa - at Ilya’s. He loved that they got to spend more time together because Ottawa wasn’t as far away from Montreal as Boston was. He loved that Shane was his and he was Shane’s. It was all he’d ever wanted.
But it still wasn’t enough.
And Ilya knew how selfish he was for thinking that, for feeling that way.
He’d spent his entire adult life knowing what it felt like for people to demand more of you. To take more from you. More money, more energy. He hated himself for wanting more from Shane.
Ilya had hated himself for a very long time, and it was only getting worse. Day by day, he realised that he was falling deeper into a dark black hole in the corner of his brain that he’d shut off for so long. But now, it was enticing him closer, drawing him in, and he was falling victim to the darkness that stole his mother from him.
And Shane had no idea.
“Let’s go shower and get you into bed, sweetheart,” Shane kissed Ilya on the lips, and Ilya wanted to cry and beg for him to do it again, over and over, so he could cement the feeling in his brain. “Then we can cuddle and sleep until the morning.”
Ilya nodded, but made no effort to even shuffle his feet along the floor. He was exhausted. Too exhausted to walk upstairs. He would’ve stayed there, in that spot in the downstairs hallway, if he could.
Shane looked at him, a sad crinkle in his eyebrows, like he knew something was really wrong. But he couldn’t, because he had no idea that Ilya had his mother’s weakness.
“Come here,” Shane lifted Ilya so easily. Like he wasn’t a hockey player built of nothing but rock hard muscle. Usually Ilya took care of Shane, but Ilya liked it when Shane took care of him. He could be vulnerable with Shane. “I’ve got you.”
Ilya wrapped his legs around Shane’s waist, his arms hanging around his neck, and his head resting against the top of Shane’s. Ilya sighed, closing his eyes, as he inhaled. Shane smelled like home. A mixture of fresh shower gel and shampoo and aftershave and just him.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Ilya’s voice was no louder than a whisper, but Shane heard. Shane understood. Shane squeezed Ilya a little tighter as he carried his boyfriend upstairs to their bedroom in Ilya’s house.
Ilya wished he was brave enough to tell Shane how he really felt. He wished he was brave enough to tell Shane about the dreams he had of his mother and seeing her lifeless body in the bed he found her in, in the hammock in the garden behind Shane’s cottage, sometimes in his bed in Ottawa, the bed he and Shane slept in. It made Ilya sick. His stomach twisted into knots when he thought about it. And it was too much for him. The guilt that he didn’t know how sad his mother was. The regret of not finding her sooner because he could make it better, he was certain he could. The devastation rip of his heart from his chest when he realised his mama, the one person who knew him, was gone and never coming back.
“I’ll shower with you,” carefully, Shane dropped Ilya down to his feet, lifting his index finger to caress beneath Ilya’s tired eyes. “I’ve got you.”
And he did. Shane did have Ilya. He had his heart and his mind and his soul. Ilya belonged to Shane. Shane knew everything about Ilya. Almost everything.
Shane knew how to make Ilya happy. He knew how to rile Ilya up on the ice. He knew how to pleasure Ilya in bed. He just didn’t know how to make Ilya happy enough, to remove the pain he felt in his heart and his head. Shane didn’t know Ilya was depressed and he wanted to take his own life.
And Ilya hated himself for that.
Shane wrapped his fingers around the hem of Ilya’s Centaurs hoodie, lifting it carefully over his chest, taking his shirt with it and pulling it over his head to reveal his soft, warm skin. He took his time to separate Ilya’s shirt and hoodie before folding them and placing them on the chair in the corner of Ilya’s bedroom. Then, he returned to Ilya’s slack body, reaching carefully for his sweatpants and pulling them down his thighs so they pooled around his feet. Ilya held onto Shane’s shoulders and stepped out of each leg, leaving him in only his underwear, as Shane did the same as before, folding Ilya’s pants. Ilya was going to put them in the laundry basket, but he let Shane fold them anyway.
Shane’s touch against the waistband of Ilya’s boxers was featherlight, causing goosebumps to rise on Ilya’s skin. His cock, still soft, outlined in the soft black material. Off within seconds, Shane tossed Ilya’s underwear straight into the laundry basket beside the chair, before caressing Ilya’s torso. His cock remained soft. Shane knew there was something incredibly wrong.
“Sweetheart,” Shane’s voice was quiet as he looked at Ilya again, noticing how blank his eyes were. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’m just tired, Shane,” Ilya shook his head and broke the eye contact between them, because if Ilya spent any longer than a few seconds looking into Shane’s beautiful eyes, he would break. “I’m fine.”
He hated lying to Shane, but the darkness he lived in was too much to share. Ilya feared it was contagious, that if he opened up, Shane would feel it too because he was worried about Ilya. He feared that Shane would stop everything to stay in Ottawa and care for Ilya, and he couldn’t let him do that, because as much as he loved Shane and craved Shane, he just wanted to be alone. Being alone and miserable was better than forcing it on someone else’s shoulders.
Ilya dragged his feet along the carpet to the en-suite behind Shane, who had also removed his clothes and folded each garment as he went, and patiently waited for him to turn the shower on and test the temperature of the water before they climbed in.
Shane stepped into the cubicle first, reaching his hand out for Ilya to take.
“I love you,” Shane smiled, as the water cascaded over their heads, their bodies pressing flush and Ilya feeling something for the first time all evening. “You are so beautiful, Ilya.”
“All yours,” Ilya whispered, his face brushing carefully against Shane’s. “Forever.”
Shane felt his muscles spasm, like something was wrong. Ilya was sad. He was quiet. He was tired. He wasn’t himself.
The Centaurs won. He scored two out of three goals. He led his team to yet another victory. Shane was frustrated because Ilya should’ve been happy. He felt like he didn’t even properly know the man he loved, that even though they were together, right by each other’s sides, they’d never been so distant.
“You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?” Shane asked, as he ran his hands down Ilya’s strong back, massaging the shower gel in circles against his shoulder blades. “If something was bothering you?”
“Of course.” Ilya lied. He blatantly lied to Shane’s face and felt nothing at all when he did it.
Ilya was just enjoying being at the mercy of the love of his life, savouring every single second because he never knew when it would be the last. He was enjoying every single brush of Shane’s fingertips against his skin. Enjoying the feeling of Shane’s hot breath in his face. Remembering what the pads of his fingertips felt like as they pressed delicately into his muscles, into his skin. He wanted to remember every single part of Shane. Every crook and every crevice. The way Shane looked at Ilya like he was the only thing in the world. The way he held Ilya like he was the most important thing in his life. He wanted to remember the way Shane looked as he glanced at Ilya, eyes wide with nothing but love and passion, cheeks flushed pink and those beautiful fucking freckles splattered across his skin.
Ilya loved Shane so much it hurt. He felt the ache in his chest because his heart was so big and full of love for Shane fucking Hollander. Shane Hollander, the most boring Canadian he’d ever met, but the only boring Canadian he wanted to know.
Tears stung in Ilya’s eyes. He played it off like it was shampoo.
A short while later, after more soft caressed and I love you’s in the shower, Shane and Ilya were under the covers, rolled on their sides. Shane was big spoon. Ilya was little spoon. His body felt tiny in Shane’s arms, compared to Shane’s big frame.
Ilya was so comfortable here. The feeling of Shane’s heartbeat pulsating against Ilya’s back. Shane’s breath hitting the nape of Ilya’s neck. Shane’s arms holding Ilya close, keeping him safe, protecting him from all the bad in the world.
Shane was good at that. He protected Ilya’s heart from everything bad and ugly and terrible in the world. The only thing he couldn’t protect Ilya from was the darkness that lived inside his mind. An eternal dark hole that nobody could save him from. And Ilya was so fucking close to falling for good.
His eyes were heavy with sleep. Shane was talking to him, telling him how much he loved him, how he was so good on the ice tonight, how he was the best thing in Shane’s life. But Ilya couldn’t hear a word. It was just noise.
He was tired, desperate for sleep, but every time he closed his eyes - every single night - he saw her. He saw Irina Rozanova. Sometimes, he was young again and she was alive, she was happy, and life was good. Other times, she was dead, her body limp as she lay in the same bed Ilya found her in, and he was screaming so hard he couldn’t breathe, hyperventilating and begging her to wake up. In some dreams, he was talking to her, telling her how he hated her for making him like this, how both her and his dad were cruel for making him this way.
More than he hated his parents though, Ilya hated himself. He despised himself. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could live with it.
“Love you,” Shane mumbled against Ilya’s neck, for the hundredth time since they got into bed, because he could never, ever tire of saying those words. Not to Ilya. “So much.”
Ilya just shuffled further backwards into Shane’s grip, pressing his ass into Shane’s torso, his back into Shane’s chest. Shane wrapped his arm tighter around Ilya’s body, pressing his hand to his stomach.
Ilya wished it was enough to be loved. Shane was the fucking light of his life, but he wasn’t light enough. It fucked Ilya up more than anything knowing he felt that way. It crushed him. Broke him. Shattered him into millions and millions of pieces that he wasn’t sure would ever go back together. Not for Shane they wouldn’t, he was certain of that.
And that’s why he was cruel. That’s why Shane didn’t deserve him. Shane deserved so much better than pathetic and sad little Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya let the heaviness of his eyes and the uncomfortable weight of his body overcome him. He closed his eyes, falling asleep, but wishing he would succumb to the darkness he craved so badly instead.
Ilya woke the next morning in a cold, empty bed. He woke up alone.
Alone and miserable and depressed.
Shane woke him at five, just as he was about to leave for Montreal to make it back for morning practice at eight thirty. He pressed kisses on Ilya’s face, told him how much he loved him and that he would see him in two days.
Two fucking days. Ilya wasn’t sure he would make it that long.
He rolled onto his back. He hated it when he had the day off but Shane was busy with practice and an evening game. He felt so empty most days, even when he was surrounded by his teammates, the best group of teammates he’d ever had. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough anymore.
Ilya wanted to sleep longer. Even though he was mostly met by his mother’s face or his mother’s dead body in his sleep, it was the one time he didn’t have to feel anything other than weightless. Everything was black. It was quiet. He got peace from his horrific fucking brain. The torture ended for a while. It was peaceful.
Ilya wanted to drink. Whenever he was alone and didn’t have a game, he would drink so much alcohol that his vision would blur and his liver would fill with dirt and shit that could kill him. He didn’t care. He would drink himself into oblivion because it took the pain away.
Ilya wanted to smoke. He didn’t do it much anymore, and never, ever in front of Shane. It was bad for his lungs. Smoking coated his lungs with the shit that would kill him one day, Shane told him. He was rarely ever wrong, but that one time, he was. The shit that would kill him was living in his head.
Ilya wanted to die. He wished the plane had gone down and crumpled with his body as it hit the ground.
He longed for the pain to end.
“Let me sleep, mama,” he begged, his body stiff. “Please let me sleep. He is gone, I am alone, and I want to sleep.”
Ilya let out a painful cry. One that shook his entire body. One that made him feel sick.
“Forgive me mama for being this way,” Ilya gripped the bedsheets. “Please let him forgive me for being this way. He does not deserve me.”
Ilya waited for her to reply. He waited for her to reach out and cup his face, allow him to melt into her touch - his mother’s touch which he was robbed of too early in his life - and tell him he would be okay.
But her response never came.
Like when he was twelve, and he called out her name, and he was greeted with nothing but her lifeless body and her extinct soul.
“I will be with you again soon, mama,” he whispered, lifting his heavy arm, doing nothing but briefly hold it above his head. “We will be together again soon.”
Ilya kept bottles of vodka under his bed. Proper, Russian vodka. The strongest stuff he could get. He craved it. He craved the feeling of his hand wrapped around the glass bottle and the liquid burning his throat as it travelled to his liver.
He had prescription painkillers under his bed in a box, ones he kept from the last time he injured his ribs and Shane told him he wasn’t allowed to skate until the team doctor said he was fit enough, that he had to take his medication as instructed to help him get better. He did, for a few days, then he shoved the rest under the bed.
The vodka, mixed with the painkillers, Ilya knew, would send him into darkness that was probably enough to cause his heart to stop. He wanted to feel his heart slowing in his chest, to feel the burning of his lungs as they became constricted and his breathing slowed, making him feel dizzy and light like he was floating. Taking him from this world to another.
Ilya found the courage - the strength - to sit up. He reached for his phone, a picture of him and Shane holding each other flashing before his eyes, shortly followed by memories of how Shane looked after him, caressed him, and held him last night. A twang of guilt seated through his body.
“Fuck,” Ilya muttered under his breath as his eyes adjusted to read the time. One thirty seven. In the afternoon. What the fuck time did he eventually fall asleep last night? “Fuck.”
He had a few messages from Shane. The first one, him letting Ilya know that he’d arrived back in Montreal and was getting ready to head to the practice rink. The second, a selfie, his freckles covering his red cheeks after he’d been out on the ice for a couple of hours. The third, and final, a call me when you wake up, I love you.
A single tear slipped down Ilya’s face. Hot and salty, the tear sat on his lip. He took it into his mouth.
Shane was the best thing in Ilya’s life. He always had been. Ever since Shane first approached him and introduced himself in Saskatchewan, adamant that he shouldn’t be smoking there - adamant that he shouldn’t be smoking from the very first moment - Ilya knew he was going to be the best thing in his life. It might’ve taken too many years, but when Shane was finally comfortable to be Ilya’s, and Ilya was finally at peace with never going home again to be Shane’s, it was like Ilya’s world shifted and everything slotted into place.
He left Boston. He moved to Ottawa. He spent summers at the cottage with the love of his life. They spent every possible night together. They supported each other. They were happy.
They, as a collective. Ilya, as his own person. And Ilya, as his own person, was miserable.
Ilya shook his head, his body aching with exhaustion, and he closed his eyes. He focused on the sensation of his heart beating against his inner chest. It felt normal. Not too fast and not too slow.
He thought about holding his breath until it was unbearable. Maybe it would knock him unconscious for a while. Maybe his lungs would be too weak to recover.
“Let me sleep, mama,” he repeated like a mantra, his head resting on the pillow again, Shane’s scent consuming his nostrils. He would suffocate himself to death with Shane’s scent if he could. “Let me sleep.”
When Ilya woke again, it was dark outside.
Just like it was dark in his head.
He needed to get in touch with Shane, because he knew he would be an anxious wreck. It had been hours and hours since Shane heard from Ilya, the last time being when he said goodbye that morning. Ilya knew he would be at the rink by now, based on how dark it was outside, so he probably couldn’t call. He didn’t want to call. He didn’t want to hear Shane’s voice. He couldn’t hear Shane’s voice.
He settled on sending him multiple text messages instead:
Ilya: I am sorry moya lyubov, I have been sleeping all day.
Ilya: I was catching up on sleep, as you say. Bed is too comfortable.
Ilya: I will watch the game. You will fuck them up. I love you so much, Shane.
Ilya: You are the best thing in my life. I love you. Always. Forever.
Ilya locked his phone and slammed it on the bedside cabinet, probably hard enough to smash the screen. He didn’t care.
He didn’t want to watch Shane’s game. Seeing him on the screen would just fucking ruin him. He already was at rock bottom. He couldn’t let anything drag him further down.
Seeing Shane, so happy and carefree doing what he loved, would just remind Ilya of how selfish he was and how careless he was with Shane’s heart.
Ilya Rozanov knew he didn’t deserve Shane Hollander.
There were a lot of things he didn’t deserve, but being loved by Shane was the one thing he should’ve never, ever been given. Shane was too good for him. He was the brightest light in the world. And Ilya? Ilya was just darkness.
Shane did make Ilya happy. He made Ilya the happiest man in the world. The way he cared for him, the way he wanted to make sure everything was always perfect for him, God, even the way he let Ilya fuck him until they were both shaking. Shane loved Ilya more than anything else in the world, and Ilya loved him just as much, if not more. But it was too much.
“I am so sorry, Shane,” Ilya whispered into the emptiness of his bedroom. “Please forgive me.”
Ilya rolled out of bed, unable to look at himself in the mirror because he knew how terrible he would look. And he didn’t want to remember himself that way.
Using all the strength he didn’t think he had, Ilya lifted the mattress to reveal the storage space beneath the bed. The one Shane thought was empty - because Ilya had plenty storage space elsewhere in his room - but it was actually filled with vodka and pills.
Shane would kill Ilya if he knew this was here. He would be so disappointed.
If Shane knew about this, he would realise who Ilya really was, and he would leave.
“Fuck.” Ilya reached under the mattress, pulling three bottles of vodka and a few too many boxes of pills. He didn’t think he’d have them all. Just thought it would be best to have plenty, in case he needed them.
Once he had a tight hold on the bottles and the painkillers, Ilya dragged himself to the side of his bed, sitting on the floor and leaving behind a messy bed that Shane would hate. He didn’t care. Why did he need to care?
He took one last look at his phone to see if Shane had replied. He hadn’t. It was half past seven, so Ilya knew Shane would be on the ice since his game started at seven, so he just had to deal with Shane not being there anymore. That was fine. He would survive.
Ilya opened the bottle of vodka and took the first mouthful, closing his eyes and holding his head backwards against the mattress as the first drops slid down his throat, burning like a bitch. Ilya didn’t care. Soon enough, he would feel like he was floating. Dissociating. Heading back to be with his mama again.
He didn’t quite understand how all the sadness started to disappear when he drank alcohol. He only ever used to drink when he was out at clubs or spending time with his teammates. But now, whenever he was alone and he knew Shane wasn’t coming back for a while, he would drink himself to sleep. He would let himself float into a peaceful sleep.
The dreams, after he had vodka, were usually better. He would see his mama. She would hold him, tell her she loved him, and things would be good again. Ilya felt at peace for a moment, in his mother’s arms, and he wanted to stay there for as long as he could.
He’d never tried the vodka with the pills before. He didn’t know what the dreams would be like. He didn’t know anything anymore.
“I am so sorry, Shane,” he kept muttering under his breath as he consumed more and more of the venomous clear liquid. “So sorry, moya lyubov.”
He kept going. He had no idea what time it was when he opened the second bottle, or when he reached for the first box of pills. All he could see, in his hazy state, was his mama, who was holding her arms out for him, calling of him, telling him to come closer. To be brave and come to her.
He did as she asked.
He thought about her as he crinkled the first packet of pills, popping all seven from one strip into his hand. He wondered what was going through her head as she poured the small pills from the bottle he found next to her into her dainty hands. He wondered if she thought of him, like he thought of her.
“Be with you soon, mama,” Ilya breathed, as he swallowed the pills down with a mouthful of vodka. “Me and you together again.”
Ilya wasn’t sure how long he was there for. Floating in and out of a sweet, blurry haze. Thinking about his mother. Sometimes thinking about Shane. But mostly his mother.
The second bottle of vodka was almost empty when something shifted inside of him. When he thought of Shane, and pictured him finding his weak body like this, slumped at the side of his bed. And because Ilya was selfish, he hadn’t told Shane that he was even the slightest bit unhappy. He hadn’t written Shane a note. Just sent some cryptic texts.
When Ilya thought he was going to die on that doomed plane on the way to Florida, he sent Shane a bunch of stupid texts because he couldn’t call him. He was in the air, of course he couldn’t reach for his phone and call the love of his life.
But now, he was on the ground, his body begging for more and more vodka, more painkillers, and his phone was right here. He could call Shane and apologise for everything. Tell him how bad he felt. How he hoped Shane would forgive him for keeping his feelings from him.
Ilya would tell Shane to find someone else, even though Ilya knew he never would. Ilya was Shane’s first everything. There was no way in hell Shane would ever, ever let anyone else into his life like had done with Ilya.
“He’s going to be all alone,” an animalistic cry ripped from Ilya’s breaking body. He was so weak. He couldn’t keep himself functioning for much longer. “But he will be better without me. Better without my sadness.”
Ilya paused then, and asked himself if he was really happier without his mother’s sadness. Or if he wished she’d stayed and told him how she felt so Ilya could help her get better.
Oh God. Ilya began to panic. Because he hadn’t thought this through. He thought this was what he wanted, but he wasn’t sure anymore. Oh God.
“Shane.” Ilya reached for his phone. He fumbled around on the lock screen and managed to get to Shane’s contact.
He pressed the call button, not even looking at the time or considering if Shane would be mid-game on the ice, or back home in Montreal waiting to hear from Ilya. When he saw Ilya’s name flash up on the screen, he would probably think he was calling to see how he was doing, to see how the game went. Ilya had no idea how the game went, or if Montreal had even won.
After three rings, Shane answered.
“Ilya?” He sounded panicked. “Ilya, are you okay? You had me so worried. Those texts, what the fuck were those texts? I’ve been trying to call you since i got off the ice an hour ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Shane,” Ilya mumbled into the phone, struggling to produce coherent words as he became hyper aware of the feeling of his heart in his chest. “I am so sorry. For everything.”
“Ilya,” Shane’s voice was softer now, filling with concern. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“I am just like her,” he tried to laugh, but it came out like a strangled cry. “So full of sadness and desire to die. I do not want this pain, this darkness, this horrible thing I have to live with that she gave to me.”
“Ilya, slow down,” Shane didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. “I don’t understand.”
Of course you don’t, Shane, Ilya thought to himself. That’s why I have protected you from the evil side of me.
“I want to be with my mama,” Ilya sniffled, before taking a pause to swallow another mouthful of vodka. That sweet burning sensation in his throat. “I want to be with her again. She keeps asking me to go and see her, to be with her, so I can be happy again.”
Another mouthful and a swallow.
“Are you drinking?” Shane sounded flustered. When he first answered the call, he was a little frantic but still. Ilya could tell he was rushing around now, he could hear him stumbling over his own feet in the background. “Fuck!”
“Yes, I have vodka,” Ilya smiled, his eyes closed. “Russian vodka. Is so good.”
“No, Ilya.” Shane shook his head as he rummaged around in his preciously clean pile of washing for some fresh underwear. Everything started to fall into place.
Ilya wanted to be with his mother. He was drinking. Those texts suddenly made sense. The identical text to the one Shane received when that damned plane was going down.
“You must forgive me for not telling you before,” Ilya could feel his heart in his chest. Getting slower, finally, he thought. He wasn’t sure. “I did not want to worry you.”
“Are you depressed, Ilya?” On the other end of the line, Ilya heard a slam which made him jump with a soft mutter.
Hearing Shane saw that word - depressed - made Ilya feel sick.
“Hm,” Ilya whimpered. “Just like her.”
Shane’s world was crashing down in front of him and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He was two hours away, in Montreal, and he wasn’t sure if breaking every speed limit in Canada would get him to Ottawa in time. Ilya sounded weak. Like he was falling in and out of consciousness. And she be was so far away.
“I am sorry for not telling you,” Ilya sniffled. He was almost finished with the third bottle of vodka and his eyes were starting to get heavy. He didn’t know how he’d made it last so long. “For not telling you I am depressed and I want to die. It is not because of you. It is because of who I am, how I was made. I was born with genetics that make me depressed and horrible person. Half her, half him.”
“Ilya, you are everything to me,” Shane was crying as he got behind the wheel. “You are everything to me. I would’ve helped you. Shit, I’m on my way. I need you to hang on for me, okay?”
“You do not need to come, Shane,” Ilya laughed. It was already too late because Shane had backed out of his driveway. “You just need to know I am sorry. That this is not your fault. And that I love you.”
“I love you too, Ilya, and that is why I am coming to be with you,” Shane’s hands were trembling on the wheel. “To help you. I need you to hang on, and we can get you help. All the help you need.”
“It is too late,” Ilya’s vision was blurry now. He could see dots behind his eyelids. “I have had too much vodka. Too many pills. Damage has been done.”
Shane smashed his fist off the wheel. He was crumbling. Everything was fucking crumbling.
Shane had to drive one hundred and twenty four miles until he could be with Ilya. Over two hours. Shane was worried Ilya didn’t have that long left.
His parents weren’t in the fucking country. They were travelling in Europe. Shane had no contact with any of Ilya’s teammates. There was nobody in Ottawa who could be with Ilya right now.
He was all by himself.
“Please stay with me, Ilya,” Shane’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You need to. Why won’t you stay with me? I love you. I’ve bought a fucking ring. I’m going to ask you to marry me. You can’t go. You can’t leave. You just can’t.”
“Shane,” Ilya said his name like it was the only thing that mattered. “I have had too much this time. Three bottles. One box. It is all dark and heavy now. She is right here, she will take care of me.”
“I want to take care of you!” Shane’s cry was dry and painful. “Please, Ilya. I can help you. Don’t be fooled by her, by the darkness she says is so inviting. You’re spiralling right now, but I’m here, and I’m on my way to be with you. We’ll get you some help, we’ll-”
“No,” Ilya whispered, starting to feel his hands turn cold. “Is too late now, Shane. I am sorry. I love you so much. I have to go.”
“Ilya!” Shane begged. “Stay on the fucking phone. Don’t go. Don’t hang up. Please.”
He pleaded. Shane wasn’t religious but he fucking pleaded for someone - something - to keep Ilya alive.
“I am sorry, moya lyubov,” Ilya struggled to maintain a grip on his phone. “I love you. I have to go.”
The line went dead.
Shane screamed as he forced his foot onto the accelerator even harder, begging his car to go faster.
Ilya had been unconscious before. Once or twice, when he’d experienced a big hit during the game. He recognised the sensation of being dizzy, of feeling like he was floating, of an overwhelming nothingness beckoning him to move closer. To just succumb. To fall.
He was tired now. He felt sick. His strong, fit and athletic body was pumped full of bad things. Drugs. Alcohol. He’d fought a lot of things in his life, but he was certain this was too much.
He thought of Shane. His beloved Shane.
I’ve bought a ring, he’d said. He was going to ask Ilya to be his husband. Ilya would say yes.
Maybe if he’d asked sooner—
“No,” Ilya’s speech was slurred, his head heavy and falling to one side. His heart was slower now. His lungs were burning as he struggled to take in air. “Is okay, Shane. I will be your husband. Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Ilya smiled. He loved Shane.
Shane, the last person Ilya thought of - and not his mother - as everything faded.
As everything slipped to black.
Shane forced his keys into the lock of Ilya’s front door, his hands trembling as he pushed the door in, slamming it behind him. His keys fell to the floor. He didn’t even stop to kick his shoes off. He just ran upstairs.
He’d spent the whole drive thinking about Ilya, not knowing how much further he could go without knowing if he was breathing.
“Ilya?” Shane had no idea what to expect. The whole drive from Montreal to Ottawa, he thought only of finding Ilya’s dead body. Pale, limp and cold. Lifeless.
He ran upstairs and burst into his and Ilya’s bedroom, the duvet all messy and ruffled across the bottom half of the mattress.
Ilya’s curls were only visible above the mattress on the other side of the bed. Shane ran to his side and fell to his knees.
He’s dead, Shane thought, as his eyes fell onto the man he loved. He’s gone.
“Ilya?” Shane reached out for Ilya’s hand, wrapping his fingers around his wrist to his pulse point. “Ilya, can you hear me?”
Shane could feel a very weak thumping sensation against his fingers. He tried the pulse point on Ilya’s neck, scared that it was just Shane’s own heartbeat he could feel radiating through his body.
“Oh thank God,” Shane didn’t like how weak Ilya’s pulse was. But it was there. “Ilya, sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Shane. Can you hear me?”
Ilya’s body was surrounded by, as he’d told Shane on the phone, three empty glass bottles of vodka and one empty strip of painkillers. He was scared there were more empty strips somewhere. There were four boxes next to him. Unopened.
“Are you breathing?” Shane pressed his ear to Ilya’s mouth and nose, his hands going to Ilya’s chest to feel for a rhythmic rise and fall. His breathing was there, but it was very ragged. Very slow, very broken. Very hardly there at all, just like his heartbeat.
Ilya’s body was cold. His lips were slightly parted, showing tinges of blue. His eyes were closed. His face was paler than Shane had ever seen him.
“Okay,” Shane needed to call for help. “Okay, Shane. Just breathe.”
This was his worst nightmare. This couldn’t really be happening in real fucking life.
“Please wake up,” carefully, Shane lay Ilya down, placing him into the recovery position, reciting each step out loud so he missed nothing out. “Oh God, what am I doing? We’re going to the hospital."
Ilya’s body wasn’t in the recovery position for long, because seconds later, and Shane was hoisting him into his arms, his head and his arms and his legs hanging loosely. He felt so small and frail in Shane’s arms.
“Please stay, Ilya,” Shane begged, as he flew down the stairs, into the hallway and out of the front door, running to the car so he could lay Ilya’s body across the back seat. “I just need to lock the door. Just breathe. Keep breathing for me, sweetheart.”
Ilya couldn’t hear him. He was knocked out cold. Each breath was more like a rattle of his lungs. Each pump of his heart was weaker than the last. He didn’t have long left.
Shane jumped into the car, glancing back at Ilya’s body. He needed to drive slow enough so that he didn’t hurt him, but fast enough to get him help on time.
He was fucking trembling. He just needed to drive.
“We’ll be at the hospital soon, Ilya,” Shane was scared. “Just keep breathing until we get there.”
Shane couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed that Ilya was depressed. How didn’t he notice? Ilya was supposed to be the love of his life - the man he was going to marry - and he didn’t even see that he was depressed. Shane deserved to go to hell.
Because he hadn’t noticed, he was now speeding through the streets of Ottawa in the middle of the night, after driving through the darkness from Montreal to be with Ilya, and to get him to a hospital in time before he fucking died.
Because he hadn’t noticed, his own heart was racing as he kept checking his rear view mirror to check on Ilya’s body as he sped through the streets of Ottawa, knowing this city like the back of his hand but forgetting every turn to the hospital.
Because he hadn’t noticed, Ilya tried to kill himself.
“Are you still breathing?” Shane asked, removing his hand from the wheel, increasing the stakes tenfold, to feel for any sign of life from Ilya. “God, fuck, I can’t tell if he’s still breathing!”
Shane slammed his fist against the wheel again.
When he turned into the hospital, he pulled up in front of the main entrance, not caring that technically, he wasn’t supposed to park there. He had the love of his life’s still, barely breathing body on the backseat. So what the fuck else was he supposed to do.
He switched the ignition off, jumped the car and pulled the back door open, reaching for Ilya’s body.
“We’re here, sweetheart,” his chest was hardly moving anymore. “Shit. Fuck. Breathe, Ilya!”
Shane closed the door behind him with his shoulder before he ran through the doors, holding onto Ilya’s lifeless body.
“Help!” He cried out, causing everyone - staff and patients and loved ones alike - to turn and focus their attention on him and the body in his arms. “He’s barely breathing, somebody help him!”
A doctor was soon by Shane’s side. Shane, who was crying hysterically as he followed this doctor into one of the bays, almost refusing to set Ilya’s body down because it would mean he was gone, out of Shane’s reach, maybe for the last time.
“I think he’s overdosed,” Shane’s voice was shaking, a lump hard in his throat. “I don’t think he can breathe very well. Please help him.”
“What is his name, Sir?” The doctor was a young-ish man, probably a few years older than Shane, and there was a woman at his side.
Shane looked at him, then back at Ilya’s body, as he placed him onto the bed. He saw the moment when it clicked for the doctor. Shane didn’t need to tell him Ilya’s name anymore. He knew.
“Ilya,” he said it anyway, his voice breaking. “His name is Ilya Rozanov.”
“Okay, Sir,” the woman moved from the male doctor’s side and began poking and prodding at Ilya’s body, Shane freezing on the spot as he watched her face drop. “I’ll just ask you to wait out here whilst we examine him.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Shane wanted to reach out for Ilya’s hand, to reassure him, to promise him he was here. “Please, you have to make sure he’s okay.”
“Over here please, Sir.” Shane was forced away and the curtain was pulled around the bay.
“His vitals are dropping!” Shane heard the woman shouting. “We need to get him to resus. His pulse is slowing!”
Suddenly, the curtain was pulled back and Ilya’s body was wheeled into the corridor on a stretcher, multiple doctors now surrounding him. Shane’s world was moving in slow motion, but he still managed to follow behind them, to run at their pace, to stay close to Ilya.
“Sir,” the same doctor from before was in front of him again. “Mr Hollander,” Shane had never told him his fucking name, and the fact that he knew who he was - that he knew who Ilya was - made this situation feel a million times worse. “I need you to stay here.”
Shane didn’t look at him. He tried to push past him, watching as someone held a mask over Ilya’s nose and mouth. He wasn’t breathing anymore.
“Please,” Shane begged, shaking his head. “Please let me be with him.”
When they turned a corner with Ilya’s stretcher, he was gone. Shane was alone, apart from this fucking doctor who was in his way, preventing him from being by Ilya’s side.
“Mr Rozanov is very sick—”
“Ilya.”
“Ilya is very sick,” the doctor spoke again. “We’re going to try and stabilise him, then look at the damage. We’ll be administering treatment for his overdose. Do you know what he’s taken?”
“There were three empty bottles of vodka and an empty box of prescribed painkillers,” Shane felt sick. “Three bottles, one box. That’s what he said to me on the phone.”
“Okay,” the doctor nodded, slowly, then guided Shane to the lift. Shane followed, said nothing. “I’m going to take you to a private waiting room upstairs then head back to Ilya. I’ll come and update you when I know more about his condition.”
“Will he die?” Shane’s voice was quiet against the constant beeping of the lift as they climbed floor by floor. “He can’t die. You need to save him. Please. I’ll do anything for you to save him.”
“Mr Hollander—”
“Call me Shane,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Shane,” the doctor began again. “I do not know much about Ilya’s condition, but from how he was when he came in, and what you’ve told me, this sounds very serious. But I will do everything I possibly can to help him.”
“Okay,” Shane’s voice broke with a sob, as they entered the private waiting area. “Thank you.”
The doctor nodded, then closed the door and left the room. Shane was thrown into the loudest silence he’d ever known.
There were many times in Shane’s life when he felt alone. Like whenever Ilya left his apartment in Montreal. When Ilya didn’t text him for months after the Olympics. When he was stuck in his head wondering if his parents would accept him as a gay man.
But this. This was loneliness like Shane had never known in his life.
Shane was alone for hours.
Just him, in the private waiting room, pacing back and forth, waiting to hear something. Anything about Ilya’s condition.
He knew it was serious because the only person who came to check on him was a nurse he hadn’t seen before, asking if he wanted any water. He said no every time. He wanted nothing other than Ilya.
He kept telling himself that if Ilya was dead, someone would’ve told him by now. And then, after that, it was just why didn’t you notice? You should’ve noticed. You’re ignorant and oblivious to your own boyfriend’s struggles.
Shane was so angry at himself.
He was in a fucking waiting room in a hospital in Ottawa, waiting for someone to come and tell him Ilya was alive. How the fuck was this happening right now? A quiet, isolated waiting room, no place for him to be, but here he was.
He’d tried sleeping on the uncomfortable chairs, but sleep never came. The only thing that kept him from breaking down was movement. So he paced around the small waiting room, over and over and over again, hands in his hair, nails in his mouth, his world falling apart.
A knock on the door interrupted him from his millionth lap of the night.
The doctor from earlier on - he didn’t even know his name - popped his head around the door before he entered the room, a solemn but maybe hopeful look on his face, Shane thought.
“Is he okay?” Shane was quick to run to the door. “Alive? God, please tell me he’s alive.”
“Ilya is alive,” the words brought Shane to his knees. He dropped to the floor and thanked God or the universe or whatever the fuck as his eyes closed and he clutched at his chest. “We lost him, briefly, but we managed to stabilise his heart rate and breathing.”
We lost him.
The words hit Shane like a tonne of bricks and the reality of this situation consumed him.
Ilya had tried to kill himself, and for a short period of time, he’d succeeded.
“Oh my God,” shaking, trembling, Shane reached out for one of the seat cushions to provide leverage for his panicking body. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Fucking hell.”
He was having a panic attack. He knew, because he could feel the tightness in his chest combined with the lightheadedness and the tingling fingers. The struggle to breathe. Was this how Ilya felt before I got to him?
“Hey, Shane,” he needed this doctor to tell him his fucking name. “Shane, I need you to focus on me. Focus on my breathing.”
Shane closed his eyes. He didn’t want anyone but Ilya talking him out of a panic attack. So he shook his head, closed his eyes, and started to ground himself.
“I can feel my clothes, the floor, my thighs, the warmth from that fucking heater and my pulse in my ears,” Shane muttered, causing nameless doctor to pull away. “I can see nothing because my eyes are closed, but that’s fine because it helps. I want Ilya. I need Ilya.”
Shane’s eyes shot open. He still felt like he was floating, his head a little fuzzy, but he was okay.
“I’m fine,” Shane wasn’t fine. “I’m fine. Just tell me. And tell me your name. I don’t even know your name and you’ve probably just saved his life.”
“I’m Sam,” the doctor smiled, and it felt nice to see a reassuring smile, for the first time since Shane set foot in this hospital. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. That was very unprofessional of me.”
“I don’t care,” Shane sighed, as he forced himself up to take a seat in the chair. “You saved Ilya’s life. So it doesn’t matter.”
Sam sat beside Shane.
“Ilya had consumed a lot of alcohol and a lot of painkillers,” Sam’s voice was stern. Serious. “He had a seizure when we got him into resus, which is likely a result of oxygen deprivation from his breathing. Ilya suffered respiratory depression, meaning his breathing stopped after being very shallow and irregular, like it was when you arrived, then he had a seizure.”
“You said you lost him.” Shane struggled to meet Sam’s eyes. He wasn’t sure how to make eye contact with him as they talked about this.
“Eight minutes and one second,” Sam spoke slowly, patiently. Shane felt like he was about to be sick. “We lost him for eight minutes and one second. When we got him back, we treated him immediately with reversal medications to counteract and prevent any further effects. And he’s responded well to everything since. He’s sleeping at the moment, but his vital signs, his heart rate, oxygen levels, everything like that, they’re responding better than we’d expect at this stage.”
Eight minutes and one second. Ilya was gone for eight minutes and one fucking second.
His Ilya. The love of his life. Shane hated the fact that if he’d just looked a little closer, paid more attention, that this would’ve never, ever happened.
“When can I see him?” Shane didn’t want to hear anything else. The information was going in one ear and out the other. “I need to be with him. Please.”
“He’s sleeping and he’s connected to numerous monitors for us to keep track of his vitals,” Sam said. “He’s currently on oxygen, just to give him that extra support in these immediate hours. I’m happy for you to see him now he’s stable.”
“Yes,” Shane stood up, not wasting anymore time. “Yes, I’m ready to go now. Please.”
“Follow me, Shane,” Sam smiled. “Would you like me to grab you anything? Some water? Something to eat?”
“Just some water will be good please,” Shane was relieved to be out of that tiny waiting room, where the four walls felt like they were closing in on him during the hours he sat in there. “Sorry, what time is it?”
He had no idea how long he’d been in there for, pacing back and forth as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. As soon as he was by Ilya’s side, he thought, he would crash and fall asleep, his hand slipped into Ilya’s where it belonged.
“It’s just gone seven in the morning,” Sam allowed Shane to step into the lift before he did. “I’m about to finish my shift, but I’ll introduce you to the doctor who will oversee Ilya’s care whilst I’m gone. Ilya is in a private room, so you are more than welcome to freshen up in the attached bathroom. There’s also a makeshift bed in there. I thought you’d need some sleep.”
“I’ve not slept in over twenty four hours,” Shane couldn’t understand how he wasn’t literally exhausted. “I drove from Montreal when Ilya called me, and since we got here, I’ve been moving. I couldn’t sit still.”
“You can take some time to rest now, Shane,” they exited the lift and Sam led him down the corridor. “Ilya is okay.”
“Thank you.”
Shane paused before setting foot into Ilya’s room. He had no idea what he was about to see. Machines and wires and medical instruments keeping his Ilya alive. He wasn’t sure if he knew how to deal with that.
“Oh, my love,” Shane rushed to Ilya’s side and took his hand. It was warmer than before. “Oh, Ilya. My God. Look at you.”
Ilya was lying peacefully. His eyes and lips closed, calmer than earlier when Shane found his body. Breathing steadily. Warm skin. A consistent heartbeat, so the monitors around his body told Shane. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, attached with a soft, stretchy elastic which rested around Ilya’s head.
“I’m here now, and I’m not leaving you again,” Shane whispered, as he lifted Ilya’s hand to his face, kissing his knuckles. “I’m so sorry for not noticing, for not realising you were hurting. I will never forgive myself, but I hope you can forgive me. When you’re better, we can go home and get you help. Whatever you need to make you better and get away from all of this. I promise. I’m so sorry.”
Shane felt the tears rolling down his cheeks. The first few came like a leaky tap but within seconds, tears and sobs and a snotty nose hit him, his entire body shaking with sobs and cries.
“We’ll make you better,” Shane promised. “I love you. I love you so much. Thank you for staying.”
Shane struggled to believe that this was his Ilya. The same Ilya he’d woken up next to just over twenty four hours ago. He wasn’t actually sure if it was his Ilya, because if Ilya could see himself like this - chained down to a bed with endless wires and wires and wires - he would’ve never tried to do this.
He would’ve never tried to kill himself.
“Hm,” a slight mutter caused Shane’s head to shoot upwards. “Moya lyubov.”
Shane wasn’t quite sure what to do. He just stood up so Ilya could see him, snot and tears and all.
“Ilya,” Shane never thought he would be so lucky to see those beautiful blue eyes looking up at him ever again. “Oh, Ilya. Sweetheart. Hi. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Ilya closed his eyes again and swallowed. He looked so small in that fucking hospital bed. His hand lifted to the mask on his face and he tried to pull it away from his mouth.
Shane wasn’t exactly sure if he should take it off. He just let Ilya do what he wanted - what he needed - to do.
“I’m sorry,” his voice was quiet. A tear fell from his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
The reality of all of this hit Ilya so suddenly. If he wasn’t feeling incredibly weak, he would’ve forced his chest away from the uncomfortable mattress he was lying on, and flung himself at Shane. But he didn’t have it in him to that. He felt tired.
“It’s okay,” Shane was crying harder than he ever had before, and he truly didn’t mean to frighten Ilya, but he wasn’t sure he could help it. “You’re okay, so it’s okay.”
But Ilya knew it wasn’t.
Ilya remembered everything. He remembered the way the lids of each bottle of vodka scraped against bottle as he used all of his strength to open it. He remembered the feeling of the vodka burning his throat, so aggressive that it felt like the inner lining of his throat was peeling away, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He remembered popping each pill from the packet and into the palm of his hand, counting every single one before throwing them all into his desperate mouth and washing them down with even. More. Vodka.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He counted each one from the first strip, threw them back, and swallowed. He did the same with the second strip.
Then everything moved slower, and he saw his mama, telling him he was so close, that he would be with her soon. But then he saw Shane, fighting with Ilya’s mother, and telling her he needed to stay. That was when things started to get a little blurry and he called Shane.
“I did not mean to,” he wasn’t sure if it was a lie. He thought it was the truth. “I just wanted to be with mama. She wanted me to be with her.”
“We don’t need to talk about it now,” Shane caressed Ilya’s cheek and placed the mask back over his nose and lips. “Please keep this on. It’s helping you.”
“No,” Ilya was adamant he wanted it away from his mouth. “Thank you for coming to save me. At the time, I did not want you to. I wanted to be alone with her. But you came and you saved me.”
“Ilya,” Shane shook his head.
“Let me talk, Shane,” Ilya looked at him. “And then I put mask back on and shut up. Promise.”
God, even when he was unwell, Ilya was still an asshole. Shane just nodded, permitting him to go on.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” Ilya squeezed Shane’s hand. “Thank you for not letting me die. I was stupid. I never want to leave you behind. I realised this when it was too late.”
“I think I broke every speed limit on the road between Montreal and Ottawa to get to you,” Shane laughed because it was probably true, and he would probably go home to a huge fine or something. He didn’t care. Ilya was more important than Shane’s money or his driving licence. “You’re the most important thing in my life. When I got those texts, after the game, that last message just like when you were on the plane… I knew something was wrong. And I couldn’t get hold of you. I almost started driving, but then I thought maybe you were just sleeping and I was being dramatic. I should’ve left sooner. I could’ve stopped it getting so bad.”
“Do not blame yourself, Shane,” Ilya shook his head. “Is not your fault. Is mine. Is all mine.”
Shane didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t Ilya’s fault, how he felt, what he tried to do. It was nobody’s fault. Nobody could’ve known this would happen. Shane felt like he should’ve, but that wasn’t important.
What was important was that Ilya was alive. Breathing.
“I love you,” Ilya whispered, as he looked straight at Shane and took in every single one of his perfect featured. “You are so beautiful. You are the best thing in my life and I am sorry I tried to leave you. I will never do it again, Shane.”
“Shh, Ilya,” Shane placed the mask back on Ilya’s face. “Keep this on now and get some rest. You need to sleep and let your body recover. You’ve been through a lot in the last few hours.”
Ilya nodded, grunting under his breath, probably in annoyance because he wanted Shane to be beside him on the bed or because he wanted to keep talking, to keep apologising, because he was cruel and selfish for what he did.
“I’m going to make you my husband when you’re out of here,” Shane’s chin was resting on Ilya’s thigh. “I’ve been wanting to do it for so long, make you my husband, all mine and nobody else’s. And I’ll leave Montreal, maybe this summer, so we can get married, and I’ll play in Ottawa, even if the guys don’t want me to leave and try to beg me to stay because they love me so much, I won’t do it. You gave up so much for me, so this, I will do for you. For us.”
Shane wiped his eyes.
“Anything for you, I’ll do,” he said, gripping Ilya’s hand. “Anything you ask.”
“I wish you could bring my mama back,” Ilya whispered it so quietly he wasn’t sure if Shane could hear. Shane heard. He wished he could do that, too. “I wish I could call her, see her, hold her. I wish she had been as lucky as me.”
“I’d call your mom for you if I could,” Shane had always wished he could’ve met Irina Rozanova, the woman who carried and birthed and raised the wonderful man he called the love of his life. “I’d call her and thank her for giving me the best thing in my life. I’d call her so she could soothe you when you’re sad and hear about the good days when you’re happy. I’d call her and ask for her permission to marry her son.”
“She would tell you to stop being so silly and get that ring on his finger,” Ilya nudged the mask away. He smiled. Shane loved that smile. “She would thank you for saving me. She would thank you for loving me.”
“If I had the ring on me, I’d put it on your finger right now,” Shane brushed his fingers up and down Ilya’s inner arm, feeling grateful that he had him here. That he was conscious again. “You scared me so much. I thought you were gone as you lay on the back seat in my car. So I’d stand here, beside you, and I’d ask—”
“Ask me, Shane,” Ilya tried to sit up so he didn’t miss any of this. He wanted to remember this moment for the rest of his life. “And not because you thought you were going to lose me, but because you have been a chicken every time you wanted to ask.”
Shane rolled his eyes. He reached for Ilya’s hand, standing at his bedside so he could see Ilya’s eyes as he did this. So he could commit every moment to memory forever.
“I had it all planned in my head,” Shane’s cheeks were hot. Ilya was focused on his freckles. “I was going to fill your living room with candles and ask you there. I just needed to find a gap in my calendar where I could be in Ottawa for longer than a day so I could get everything perfect.”
“Ah,” Ilya scoffed. “An excuse.”
“Shut up,” Shane scowled. “For once in your life, shut up.”
“You cannot tell me to shut up when I am in hospital bed after almost dying,” Ilya snapped back and Shane, whilst shaking his head, glared at him. “What? You cannot. Is not fair.”
“Be quiet, Ilya,” Shane took hold of the mask again and placed it back on Ilya’s face. “Don’t move that. Just listen. Asshole.”
Ilya frowned, but he nodded, lying back on the bed.
“You are everything to me, Ilya. You are the light of my life, the focus of my soul, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with,” Shane cleared his throat. “You are everything I have ever dreamed of. We have spent so much time pretending that we aren’t a couple, that we aren’t in love with each other. We spent even longer before that pretending we weren’t into each other. We have spent too many years pretending and hiding from who we are, what we are. And I want to tell the entire world that you are mine, that I love you, and I want you for the rest of my life.”
Ilya, for the first time in his life, was silenced by how meaningful Shane’s words were. How he could feel the emotion in every single syllable.
“I choose you,” Shane said. “I will always choose you, every day for the rest of my life.”
He paused, wishing he had the ring he’d bought for Ilya in his pocket, but it was back at his house in Montreal, tucked away in a drawer in the living room. Waiting for the right moment. As it turned out, there was no such thing as a right moment.
“Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov,” Shane started, watching as Ilya’s face lit up when he used his full name. “Will you marry me?”
Ilya nodded, tears rolling down his face, because how did he think he was going to fall victim to that darkness in his head forever when he had this man and this love waiting in the light for him?
“Yes,” he lifted the mask. “And do not tell me to put stupid mask back on. Yes, I will marry you.”
Shane leaned closer to Ilya’s face, caressing his cheek before lowering his lips to meet Ilya’s, kissing him only briefly because he was scared of causing more harm and more damage to Ilya’s already weak body.
“I want nothing more than to be your husband,” Ilya smiled. “And for you to be my husband. I want to get better so we can get married and live a long, happy life together.”
“We will do that,” Shane smiled, putting the mask back on Ilya, who nodded and let Shane secure it comfortably on his face. “I won’t rest until you’re happy. Until you’re better. I love you, Ilya.”
Ilya smiled as his eyes closed. He felt pain-free for the first time in a long time, a flicker of hope beginning to burn in his chest.
Ilya didn’t think he would ever be okay. He thought dying was the only way out. But he was wrong, selfishly, because Shane was his protector, his savour, his guiding light in the dark.
And Ilya would never, ever let that go.