Chapter Text
"I already chose you, Hollander."
His own words rang around his skull, again and again. It was true. Ilya had given up... Everything. His cars, his lifestyle, his old friends, his happiness. He attempted to reason with himself. That last part wasn't entirely true. Shane made him blindingly happy when he wasn't making Ilya feel this ache so intense it bordered on physical. He couldn't blame Shane, not within the confines of reason. It wasn't his boyfriend's fault that Ilya threw his life away, it wasn't his fault that Ilya was miserable beyond what he ever believed to be possible. It wasn't Shane's fault he was, well, whatever kind of crazy he was.
He slumped against the door of his bedroom, attempting to take in a breath without choking on a mixture of air and his own saliva and tears. He hadn't truly cried in so long that the constriction of his airways felt terrifyingly foreign, each huff of air a battle against his own traitorous body.
He held his right hand out in front of himself, observing it in the dim light that escaped his curtains. The appendage was trembling so intensely he thought, for a grim moment, that it may fall off. He could barely feel its connection to his body, past the pins and needles across each and every nerve within.
His entire body felt wrong, as if he was suspended in a dense fog, his limbs too heavy to bare the weight of life. A low electronic buzzing came from somewhere else in the house, but his ears refused to listen. The sound was sustained, continuous, reminiscent of the constant dull thrum of blood rushing through veins. He felt as if he was going to be sick.
Ilya dropped his hand and allowed his head to lull back to rest against the door behind him. His eyes slipped down to a state of near closure, and through his tears all he could see was the gray of the dark room. The tightness of his throat and the pressure encasing his ribs was becoming increasingly overwhelming.
What did drowning feel like? He thought that it very well might feel not too dissimilar to this. Perhaps it was calmer, to truly be suspended in water, unable to come ashore. If he looked above, he would see blurs of the sky, or at the very least some sort of cavernous ceiling. He imagined the muddied outlines of people looking down at him through the water, perhaps there to save him, perhaps just to look on with grim amusement. In this scenario, like all others, he was not going to be saved. He would sink down to the murkiest depths, down, down, down. Would he flail his limbs, desperate to live? No. He would lay back, accept the pull of the depths and sink down like a coin tossed into a well by a wishful child, down, down, down. When he thought so intensely about it, this scenario of drowning felt almost like a cherished memory. It was the small semblance of light amidst the fog, a blanket for his frigid skin. It was the soothing embrace of a mother.
When he thought of death, which had become a semi-frequent routine in the previous weeks, he almost immediately thought of his mother. His miserable mother. His mother who was just like him. He wondered if she felt the way she did now in her final hour, suffocated by silence, desperate for reprieve. He wondered if she had thought about him first, wondered if there was even a moment that she realized Ilya needed her. As a child, he had convinced himself the decision was a difficult one for her, that she did not want to leave Ilya alone. Recently, he had begun to change his outlook. Ilya simply couldn't blame her. She lived a painful life with a treacherous man and disappointing children. No one could truly want that. Ilya himself was no real reason to suffer through it.
The justification for her end never made the pain it caused Ilya any less staggering. He was not worthy of her continued suffering, not worth staying for. He could feel the inadequacy in every fiber of his being. The fact that he, a fully grown man who prided himself on his strength, still spent so many hours silently calling out for his mother in the dark only made him more pathetic.
The sole truth was that Ilya was weak. He was unworthy of his mother, unable to resist a childish meltdown, too stubborn to accept happiness. He cowered from his father even as his mind and body deteriorated. He had abandoned his country, his life, for a man he was not even worthy of keeping.
Shane was, in his mind, all that he had worth keeping. He could not claim to have the most difficult life in the world, others thrived in far worse circumstances. Again, he was weak. He belonged to an NHL team full of amazing men. He had millions of dollars, a beautiful home, his dream career. All signs pointed towards a blindingly happy life, yet he was utterly miserable. He awoke most mornings to a cold bed which he could barely force himself to exit. He practiced, and played, and worked until his ankles bled, because that was his job. The rush he had once felt stepping on to a sheet of freshly zamboni cleared ice had dwindled and died, replaced with a cruel emptiness. His time spent in the locker room almost always included the inevitable conversations. 'How are you doing, Roz?' 'Come out with us for once cap,' 'Is something going on...?' Each and every time, Ilya made an excuse to say or do as little as possible. He had become negligent of his team, he was smart enough to know that much.
He was so utterly tired of the routine. Practice, games, workouts, laying in bed, lying to the men who were supposed to be his friends. He rarely strayed from those five activities, aside from when Shane was with him. Shane, who he had sent away, Shane, who was angry and going to leave Ilya.
The thought sent another wave of choked sobs through his body.
Ilya could feel Shane's love wavering each and every moment he breathed. Ilya had never been particularly easy to love. His mother left him behind, his father never made an attempt, no friend had ever truly known Ilya, not really. Ilya was cruel, and irritating, and carried the sickness of his mind everywhere he went. When Ilya was not in a room no one thought of him. No one truly, completely wanted him, no one ever had. Perhaps Shane had, before this ache in Ilya infected so much of him. Oftentimes he felt more like a vessel for misery than a human man.
He didn't want to do it anymore, carry this disease, go through the motions of a life he could not stand. He imagined continuing, standing up and going on with his day. He pictured future practices, plastering on a smile and laughing at the appropriate times in conversation. He pictured going back home to his cold bed and laying still, the same way he had so many nights. The mere thought of it felt like he was dying already, so overwhelming, so bleak. He couldn't do it, he didn't want to do it ever again.
He rubbed a palm over his eyes until he saw kaleidoscopic shapes and colors behind his eyelids, clearing the blinding tears from them. He placed his hands on the wall to steady himself as he rose to his feet, unsteady as a newborn foal. He knew he looked ridiculous, and it only made the pressure in his chest tighten. He distantly heard a small, weak sound, and it took him a moment to register that it had come from his own throat. On trembling legs he made his way to the kitchen.
Ilya held the bottle of vodka close to his chest, as one would a particularly cherished infant. He used his free arm to stabilize himself on the edge of his kitchen island as his eyes searched the room. Subconsciously, he knew exactly what he was looking for.
After a moment of hesitation, he lowered himself onto a barstool, allowing his weak body reprieve. He unscrewed the bottle and brought it directly to his lips, allowing himself a gulp. It was his best vodka, one he normally saved for special occasions. None of that mattered any longer, not that it had for months, but still. The liquid burned, heating his trembling body as it traveled down his throat. He took a second, and a third, and a fourth, resting his head on the cool surface of the marble counter top in between. He wanted so desperately to just rest.
Ilya could feel his thoughts rapidly swinging into a darker direction, one he could never fully come back from. It was nothing new to him, a passive longing to finally be finished, but this was decidedly not passive. He could feel its pull like a siren, he could feel the cold of death in the air, as if the world knew what came next.
He had never considered what one should do in such a situation. Was there someone he was meant to call? Did he want to do that? If he called, the choice would be out of his hands, he would have no choice but to go on. He wasn't entirely sure if he wanted that.
Ilya thought, perhaps, that if he called someone and wasn't entirely honest, then maybe he could slowly bring himself down from the metaphorical ledge he was quickly approaching. The choice, which he assumed he would still want to make, would have been made with a clearer mind. His last moments may not be filled with trembling and the heavy weight of misery.
He reached for his phone and located it in his right pants pocket, a difficult task, seeing as his hands were still somewhat numb. He successfully fished out the device and held it in his hand.
Ilya slowly typed in his password, 100591. Shane's birthday. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to call him, to hear his voice. But Shane wouldn't even be home by now, he could easily turn around, or even worse, he may not bother to pick up. Ilya wouldn't blame him.
He scrolled through his contacts and picked one, Troy Barrett. Troy might not have been Ilya's closest friend, but no one was. Their friendship was on personal enough grounds for Ilya to call in this state without it seeming entirely off putting, though it would still be odd. But Troy didn't care about Ilya, not really. He wouldn't come to Ilya's aid in person, which was exactly what he needed.
He clicked on the small Call icon and listened as it rang. His hearing was still somewhat fuzzy, and he was still letting out occasional, uncontrollable sobs, but he could hear the phone continue to ring.
"The owner of the number you have reached is currently unavail-"
Ilya slammed his finger down on the end call icon, another sob wracking through his body. He wasn't exactly sure what he had expected. He had never actually called Barrett before. He had a life, friends, family. It was a day off. No reasonable person in his position would have picked up the phone.
He sat still for a moment before placing his device on the counter and, once again, teetered to his feet and set his sights on what he would need.
Shane had just arrived home and began to slip off his coat when his phone rang. The optimist in him hoped that it would be Ilya, but upon inspection of the screen, it revealed a number he had never seen before.
He had had a long enough morning already. He had absolutely no interest in dealing with whatever telemarketer or PR manager was attempting to bother him. He hit the decline button, the motion aggressive.
He was so frustrated, both with himself and his boyfriend. He had been a bad partner, ignoring how much Ilya had sacrificed, refusing to communicate maturely. But Ilya had been just as bad, shutting down and kicking him out, ruining a perfectly good day they could have spent together. They had spent so little time with one another recently, and it always made Shane feel like an awful person. Ilya had hinted at being lonely in Ottawa, and Shane had tried to ease it, but he had, once again, abandoned Ilya.
His frustration only grew when his phone immediately rang again, before he was even able to kick off his shoes.
"Oh for fucks sake..." Shane muttered under his breath, reluctantly pressing the accept button. "Hello?"
A voice that was, surprisingly, somewhat familiar came from the other end of the line. "Shane, thank god. Um, this is Troy Barrett?"
Troy sounded genuinely panicked. Shane frowned, his own voice taking on a hint of worry. "Is something wrong? Why are you calling me?"
"Y-yes, yeah. Very. Listen- I don't know a lot about this situation, or why you're involved or whatever... And I- I'm not gonna try to dig and bother you about it, because it isn't my business..."
"What, Barrett?" Shane's voice came out harsher than he'd intended to, but he couldn't help it. He rarely heard a voice quite so distraught.
"I'm at the hospital right now. Um- with Rozanov. With Ilya."
Shane almost dropped his phone. He immediately put his coat back on. "What hospital? I'm on my way. Fuck."
Troy texted him the address and Shane immediately plugged it into his phone's navigation app. Two hours. He would make it in one and a half. He rushed out to his garage, pulling his SUV out far too quickly. It didn't matter to him in the slightest.
"What happened?" Shane asked, his voice both somewhat rushed and harsh, but also terrified.
"He- he called me, and I missed it, I was out, um, doing something. He had like- never called me before, he never calls anyone, so I thought it was weird, for an off day. So I called him like, six times, because I- I don't know, I got worried, he's been really weird lately and... So he never picked up. Then Harris tried a couple times, still nothing. At this point we're both really fucking worried, and he's only like, ten minutes away, so we kind of haul ass to get to his house, you know, just to check. I- I know it seems extreme but he's been like... Weird. Okay? So-"
"Would you please just get to your point, Barrett?"
"He... He hurt himself. Badly, Shane."
Shane felt his heart drop. He had no idea that Ilya had been that bad. He had noticed occasional odd moments of silence, a few snappy comments, but he had chalked it up to Ilya being, well, Ilya. He had to wipe his tears with one hand to see the road.
"Was it- was he trying to...?"
"It really seems like it. The- the doctors said they've only seen it this bad a couple times before. It's a whole thing, he's-" Troy's voice cracked with emotion, "um, they're working on stabilizing him, but he needs a bunch of, like, blood and other stuff. Said we were lucky we got there when we did."
"Fuck. Fuck. Okay, okay, okay."
"He was- listen, again, I don't know your situation, but when I- when I found him, he was really confused, kept saying your name, asking for you. I just thought I probably had to call. Some people from the team are coming, but everyone- they'll be cool, they won't care that you're there."
"I don't even- I couldn't care less if people knew right now, just. Fuck..." Shane hit his hand against the steering wheel, accidentally honking at the person in front of him. "Okay, I'll be there in a bit. Call again if anything changes..."
"Yeah, of course. Drive safe. He really needs you here in one piece."
Shane nodded to himself in his car, despite the fact that Barrett couldn't see him. He was going to get to his fucking boyfriend.