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Ilya Rozanov had finally gotten everything he once wished for.
He's won the Stanley Cup multiple times. He's with a team he loves, in the city where he and husband had cemented their love story. His husband. He can officially call Shane Hollander his husband, his lover of more than ten years. He can tell the entire world his love story, without shame or guilt weighing on his shoulders. He has friends, a family, a beautiful dog. He couldn't ask for anything more.
And yet, he can't seem to get out of his bed.
The weight of his head has made his pillow sink, creating an uncomfortable ache in his neck. His leg is cramping from being the same position for hours. He's starting to sweat under the blanket, but he can't bring himself to move.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet, logical voice tells him that this is manageable, that getting up, taking a shower, going for a walk, taking his medication, will be good for him. A louder voice tells him that this is easier and more comfortable. His body feels heavy, his head is registering everything as static, but also amplifying every sound and movement. Laying under his heavy and thick duvet cover is the simplest, most accessible solution to his problem.
Shane was away for a commercial shoot in New York. He had insisted that Ilya come with him, they could do some touring and sightseeing when Shane wasn't busy getting poked and prodded with make up brushes, but Ilya refused. Of course, he loves every opportunity to spend time with his husband, but he was tired and wanted to get a head start on rest. He had thought it was exhaustion from the season having just ended, but he's starting to think that the bone-deep fatigue he's feeling is something else entirely.
A buzz from his phone brings him back to the reality he's feeling untethered from. A simple, sweet, Good morning <3 text from Shane. Ilya can't even bring himself to pick up his phone, staring at where it lays next to his pillow. From there, he couldn't stop his thoughts from spiraling even if he wanted to.
What kind of husband can't even reply to a simple message. I should reply to his text, let him know I love him, I miss him. I spent so long wanting to love him, and now I can, and I'm doing it wrong. I'm loving him wrong. Sometimes, I'm so bad at love. Maybe I'm always bad at love. Maybe, I'm just like my father. Maybe my father was right. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Eventually, the sun is not as bright as it was when he first opened his eyes. Not setting, but clearly, not as high in the sky as it should be. Ilya moves his arm, the simple movement taking his full force, and taps his phone screen to check the time. It's almost 1:30 p.m. He's practically wasted the whole day away. When Shane is here, they follow a morning routine: wake up, go for a run with Anya, shower, have breakfast. Ilya loves spending the mornings with his husband. And he can function without his husband, he can. Maybe he doesn't follow the same meticulous routine, but he can still get up, shower, have breakfast. He's an adult.
Today is not going the way it should. I can't even act like an adult without Shane here, he starts to think. He's going to get tired of taking care of me. This should not be his responsibility. This is not his burden. It's mine. When will I stop bothering him. When will I grow up.
Suddenly, it's not his thoughts anymore. It's his father's voice. He's lazy, the voice supplies. So childish.
He manages to sit up, taking a look at his phone once more. More notifications from Shane fill his screen, who was probably worried at his husband's lack of response.
Shane <3: Call me when you wake up? I miss you. 9:47 a.m.
Shane <3: Still sleeping, baby? 11:24 a.m.
Shane <3: Ilya, everything okay? 11:50 a.m.
Missed call from Shane <3 11: 51 a.m.
Missed call from Shane <3 12:04 p.m.
Missed call from Shane <3 12: 33 p.m.
Missed call from Shane <3 1:02 p.m.
Shane <3: I'm getting worried, love. If you don't reply soon I'm gonna ask my parents to check up. 1:10 p.m.
The guilt kills him. He's an inconvenience not only to his husband, but his in-laws as well. If Anya wasn't visiting them right now, he would be a horrible inconvenience to his dog as well.
He manages to get his fingers to function enough to send Shane a response.
Sorry sweetheart, I overslept. I love you :D
He hopes the smiley face made his lie believable enough. The immediate call from Shane, however, makes him think otherwise.
"Ilya," Shane's voice sounds rough and anxious through the phone, "How are you, baby? Everything good?"
"Yes," he slightly cringes as he replies, his own voice was rougher than he expected. He hopes he can pass it off as having just woken up, "I stayed up very long playing video games. I am okay. How is the commercial? Did they make you look all pretty?"
The teasing tone of his voice should be enough to convince Shane he is okay. He's inconvenienced Shane enough, it was time to manage his problems on his own. He can mask whatever is going on with him today, deal with it, and be better tomorrow.
He just has to make it to tomorrow.
His husband, unfortunately, has other plans. "We actually finished early. I'm gonna come back today instead of two days from now. I have a flight in two hours, so I should be home by evening."
The panic hits Ilya almost instantly. Evening is too soon, he thinks, I'll still be like this by evening. Shane is going to deal with my mess again. He won't even have time to rest from his flight. I can't be seen like this. I can't do this to him. I can't let someone else deal with my problems. I can't let someone else come home to this.
I'm just like my mother.
"Ilya?" Shane asks through the phone. He must've been silent for too long.
"You do not want to do some sight seeing? You like the piers near the Brooklyn Bridge, yes?" Halfheartedly, he tries to convince Shane to extend his stay. He misses his husband, he does, but he can't have Shane see him like this.
Logically, he knows it is not the big deal he is making it to be. Shane is his husband, they're married and have been living together for years, known each other for over a decade. He's seen Ilya like this before, and has been his strongest pillar of support through weeks-long episodes, new medications and their side effects. Still, for some reason, the shame that consumes him today is debilitating.
"I do like the piers, yes, but I'd rather be home with you. I miss you," he pauses for a second, "Everything is really okay, Ilya?"
And Ilya can hear in the way Shane asks the question that he knows. He knows Ilya is not okay, but still, grants him the grace and respect to ask anyway. To hope Ilya will tell the truth.
I'm a liar, Ilya thinks. I'm a liar, I'm an inconvenience. I am my mother and father's son.
"Yes, everything is okay, moy pomidor. I will see you soon. I love you."
"I love you too, baby. I'll see you soon."
With that, they exchange goodbyes and hang up. Ilya finally, finally, gets up, ready to make himself and the home at least somewhat presentable for his husband. When he enters the bathroom and looks in the mirror above the sink, he finds himself looking exhausted and honestly, disgusting. He stands in disbelief, in disappointment, knowing Shane will come home and be greeted by this face. Quickly, he brushes his teeth, splashes some water on his face, and rubs at eyes as if it will wash away the darkness under them.
It doesn't work.
Not to worry, he can take a shower and he will come out looking new, rejuvenated, alive. He lets the water run down his back, and suddenly it feels too cold. He turns the knob to make the water a little warmer, but it's still cold. He turns the knob, turns it again, and again, until he can't adjust the temperature any more. The scalding hot water slides down his arms, his back, leaving the skin red, and finally he feels relief. The hot water surrounds him like a blanket, like the blanket he left on his bed. He begins to crave that warmth again.
After he steps out the shower, dries himself off, and puts on some clothes, he thinks about what he needs to do. He left some dishes in the sink, he should wash those. He left a load of clothes in the dryer, he should take those out and fold them. He has some clothes strewn across the floor, he should pick those up. He should dust some shelves, maybe vacuum.
He lays back down in his bed.
The tasks he has listed feel like a never ending list of insurmountable, impossible things to do. Where would he even start? How long would each one take? Would he even do them well? Would Shane be happy with his work? His heart feels like its beating out of his chest, coming up his throat.
Time passes without him. He feels like he's sinking into his bed, his blanket surrounding him like a warm, sad, hug. He remembers a conversation with Galina about this. About feeling comfortable in his depression, about not letting himself succumb to it.
He ignores her voice in his head.
A movement from downstairs rouses him from his dissociative state. Distantly, the door opens and closes, footsteps reaching closer. Panic clogs his throat again, tears forming in his eyes. He hadn't done any of the work he was supposed to. He's stuck the way he was hours ago, and Shane is about to bare witness to his miserable, ugly state of being. He stares ahead at a wall, keeping his back turned to Shane, who enters the room.
Wordless, Shane lays down beside him, a hand sliding over his waist, warm lips behind his neck. All at once, his throat tightens, his lips quiver, tears threatening to fall from his eyes.
"Will you turn so I can see your face, baby? I missed you. Missed your eyes, miss your moles, hm? Let me see you." Shane whispers, his voice so soft, Ilya almost tells him, stop, I don't deserve this. I've let you down, again. I've taken advantage of your kindness, again. I don't know how to stop.
When Ilya makes no move to turn, Shane lightly pulls him back by the waist to get him on his back, and Ilya has no choice but to let Shane maneuver him. He had surrendered himself to Shane long ago anyway. His heart, his mind, his body, all he is, all he ever will be. Even if it's not much, it belongs to Shane Hollander. Ilya only wishes he had more to give.
His eyes stay closed, too afraid to open them and see what expression Shane might be making. He couldn't bare to see the disappointment that could be gracing Shane's features. Or, would he be making a face similar to Ilya's when he found his mother all those years ago? Confusion, sadness, anger, all laced into an odd scrunch of eyebrows and downturned lips.
But then, he remembers how much he was missing him. It had only been a few days, but still, he missed seeing those freckles up close. When he feels Shane's thumb rubbing soft, small circles under his eye, and then, along the mole on his cheek, he opens his eyes to meet Shane's own. Shane, with sparkling brown eyes, freckles dotting his cheeks, and a slight smile on his face. A smile, the last thing Ilya could've expected. His husband was looking at him with ferocious love, adoration, devotion, and Ilya was a weak, weak man. The tears begin to slide down his cheeks, his throat tightening in almost painful manner.
"I'm sorry," he barely manages to whisper. He slightly hiccups, the tears coming in full force now, and he reaches a hand up to try to wipe away the mess. It's no use, though, as the tears mark his cheeks again. Shane takes the hand, brings up to his mouth to press a kiss, and then presses a kiss to his wobbling lips.
"No sorry. I love you, I have you. Always," he whispers against his lips. He rests his whole body against Ilya's, like his own personal weighted blanket, and Ilya's arms instantly come up to wrap them around his husband's body. Shane's legs bracket his waist, his arms come up around his head, and Ilya feels a new type of comfort now. No longer the lonely, quiet comfort that comes with his depression, but the warm, enlightening comfort that comes with being Shane's, being loved by Shane.
He doesn't know how long they stay in that position. Time seems to be running from him today, he can't get a grasp on it at all. But now, he's content to let time flow, wrapped up in his husband's arms, his scent, the sound of his heartbeat. Eventually, when the tears have stopped, his breathing has calmed, and he feels more tethered to reality than he has all day, he does a little movement to let Shane know he's okay to let go. Shane moves back, but only enough to be looking into Ilya's eyes.
"I'm hungry, come eat something with me?" Shane asks. Not, have you eaten, because Shane already knows the answer to that question. Not, get up and eat, because he knows that choice and agency matter to Ilya. Shane knows him, through and through, and Ilya can't remember why he was so scared earlier. He leans his head up to give him a kiss, one that says, thank you, and, you know me, and I love you, I love you, ya tebya lyublyu, je t'aime.
So, they get up. Shane holds his hand, as they walk out the door, as they descend the stairs, and as they enter the kitchen. While he prepares them food, he makes sure their arms are touching, or their hips, or he gives him a kiss every now and again. When they eat, they sit side by side, their socked feet making contact the whole time. Once again, Ilya feels eternally grateful at how well Shane knows him, his need for physical contact. It's this gratitude that prompts him to start talking for the first time in hours.
"I am not okay today," he starts, "I am sorry I lied on the phone. I was embarrassed. I did not want you think I am," he pauses, looking for the right word, "incapable. Without you."
Shane nods, but no look of discontent graces his features. Only focus, his full attention on what Ilya has to say. He reaches a hand out to grasp Ilya's. "It's okay, I'm not upset you lied. I know you are capable of taking care of yourself, days like today are not your fault. They don't define you. Sometimes the illness becomes stronger than you, I know that. I want you to know that as well. And, if there are days where you need me, or anyone else, that's okay."
Ilya gives Shane's hand a squeeze, a quiet thank you. Once they finish their eating, Shane is about to rinse the dishes, but Ilya intercepts and insists that he do it. "It will make me feel better," he explains, "to know that I helped." With that, Shane relents, and goes to pick something to watch in the living room.
When Ilya is done and enters the living room, Shane is ready with a nature documentary on the screen and two blankets in hand. Ilya lays his head on Shane's chest, who begins to run his fingers through Ilya's curls the way he likes. The blanket drapes over their laps, another one around their shoulders. For the first time that day, Ilya lets his eyes shut with no other thoughts clouding his head, feeling lighter and more alive.
"I love you," he whispers to Shane, who tilts Ilya's head up with the hand not in his hair. Shane kisses his eyelids, his forehead, his nose, the mole on his cheek, and finally, finally, their lips meet.
"I love you more," Shane replies, whispered against Ilya's lips. "I love you so much, moy pomidor."
With a slight giggle from both of them, Ilya lays his head back down on Shane's chest, and rests.