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Ilya hated winter.
He hated the way everything looked gray and dead and still. He hated the long nights that made his body feel heavy and his mind feel slow. The ones that left him staring vacantly at the ceiling, a prisoner in his own bed, as his brain ruminated on everything he could have done better that day. Sometimes he’d muster up the strength to get up, to trudge outside where the freezing air, although sharp as a knife, would at least remind him he was alive.
But the cold brought its own special kind of hell. It sank deep into his bones, hollowing them out and settling there. Worst of all, it made him think of Russia. Russian winters were brutal - harsh and biting. He remembered them all too well, and thoughts of Russia always snowballed into much darker territory.
When he was already feeling the incongruous combination of sad and numb, the images of his life in Russia came back to him easier. His mother, face hollow and eyes unblinking, staring at the wall while his father yelled at her. Dishes breaking against walls, glass sparkling against the floor. His mother unable to get out of bed, not answering when he would try to speak to her. His father calling her lazy, weak, useless, yelling at Ilya to leave her alone.
Then, inevitably, his mind would return to that night - the nauseous feeling in his stomach as he pushed the bedroom door open. The hall light shining dimly into the otherwise dark room, and landing on his mother’s hand hanging limply from her bed. His horror as he inched slowly closer, feeling the bile rise in his throat with each step. He remembered the orange pill bottle on the floor, open and empty. He didn’t remember much after that, but he must’ve screamed because his father came rushing in, his brother close on his heels. He remembered his brother pulling him out of the room as his father cursed and picked up his phone. He remembered his father sitting them down after they had taken his mother away and telling them it was an accident. Even at 12 years old, Ilya knew that didn’t add up. His mother was smart - she wouldn’t have taken a whole bottle of pills on accident. But he would never have said that to his father, whose ire now had nowhere else to land but on him. Of course it turned on him. His father had never liked him. It’s like he knew, even from a young age, that Ilya was different. He always said Ilya was too soft. Even when he would take and dole out hits during his hockey games without so much as blinking. It was never enough - nothing was.
He felt guilty for still getting like this. He had a husband who he lived and worked with, he had friends, he had a family now. He had everything that was supposed to make him happy. And he was happy, a lot of the time. But these periods would always come. His therapist said it was normal - that the type of depression he had wasn’t something that would go away, just something to manage through medication and therapy. Most of the time this felt doable, but on nights like these, he couldn’t imagine having to live out the rest of his life feeling like this. He tried to remind himself of the good days when he got like this, but it was hard to bring back even a sliver of those feelings when he could barely feel anything at all.
That’s how he found himself, lying in bed at 2:30am staring blankly at the ceiling and feeling utterly hollow. He could hear Shane breathing steadily beside him. Good, he thought. At least one of them was getting some sleep.
It hadn’t been a bad day. They had gone to practice, laughing and joking with their teammates as usual. Ilya had felt relatively normal as he and Shane got in the car afterwards and made their way home. That was almost the worst part - there was no reason he should be feeling like this, nothing that triggered him. Yet, here he was, unable to sleep and trapped in his own mind.
He rolled quietly out of bed, careful not to wake Shane, and tiptoed out through the living room and to the sliding glass door that led to the deck, grabbing his cigarettes from the counter on his way. It was cold outside, frost lining the deck and fogging the glass on the door, and he dimly registered that he was barefoot and wearing short sleeves but he didn’t care enough to go back in. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands and leaned against the deck railing. He heard Shane’s voice in his head telling him not to lean against the railing - what if it breaks? And then you fall? We’re on the second floor, it’s a long way down, you could get seriously injured!
Ilya thought “I hope it does” before he could stop himself and immediately felt guilty. His therapist told him that these type of thoughts were common when you had depression, and had instructed him to try to shift his way of thinking when they came about, to think of reasons he wanted to live and things he was looking forward to. That was easier said than done.
Ilya exhaled a cloud of smoke, and dropped his face to his hands, pushing on his head hard to try and force his brain to shut up.
He didn’t know how long he had been out there when he felt a hand on his back and nearly jumped out of his skin. He wheeled around and came face to face with Shane, eyebrows drawn and brown eyes filled with concern.
Ilya quickly put out his cigarette and dropped it in the ashtray.
“Sorry,” Shane said softly, pulling his hand back. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Ilya shook his head sharply, eyes glued to the floor of the deck.
“You okay?” Shane asked after a few beats of silence.
Ilya opened his mouth to say he was fine and it was in that moment that he realized how incredibly freezing he was. His body, betraying him, began to shake fiercely, his teeth chattering painfully. He wrapped his arms around his middle, curling in on himself.
“Shit, let’s get you inside. How long have you been out here?” Shane’s voice was more urgent now, but Ilya had no idea how to answer that question. It could’ve been ten minutes or two hours for all he knew.
He felt a hand at his back and let himself be led inside, his feet pins and needles under him. Shane guided him to the couch, and then disappeared for a few moments before coming back with socks, and several blankets that he wrapped around Ilya. He dropped himself down on the couch next to Ilya, pushing his legs under the blankets and putting them on top of Ilya’s feet to help them warm up.
Ilya felt Shane’s eyes on him, but he refused to look up from his lap. He didn’t yet feel fully present in the moment, but that didn’t stop the embarrassment and shame from pooling in his chest. He hated when Shane saw him like this. It had been so much easier to hide when they were long distance, but now it was like he was laid bare, all the ugly and grisly parts of him, and he hated it. It made him feel angry and small and ridiculous. He was usually good at hiding it, and for the six months that they’d been living together full time, there had only been a couple times so far that Shane had really seen this version of him.
“Are you getting warmer?” He heard Shane ask. Ilya nodded curtly. “Can I see your hands? I’m worried about frostbite.” Ilya snorted before he could stop himself, and could basically feel Shane’s eyes narrow. “I’m serious. I don’t know how long you were out there.” He felt Shane grab at his hands, and inspect them closely, before moving on to his feet. Seemingly satisfied, he crossed his arms and leaned back, gaze still set on Ilya.
“Did you have a bad dream?” He asked. He knew that Ilya had nightmares every once in a while. Ilya shook his head. He could feel Shane looking at him, waiting for him to say more, but he couldn’t.
He heard Shane let out an annoyed huff. Ilya felt his heart clench. He knew he was being difficult. Shane couldn’t read his mind and he was obviously worried about him. He had promised months ago when he had finally told Shane about his depression that he would try his best to communicate with him when he was feeling down, but that was easier said than done. He felt that it was impossible for him to describe the way he was feeling at all, let alone in English.
But he understood Shane’s frustration - Shane had a hard time reading people and his anxiety often made him spiral when Ilya got like this. Shane’s first thoughts were to blame himself, thinking he did something to make Ilya angry and avoidant. Even though Ilya always assured him that this wasn’t the case, he knew his mind still went there. But Ilya still felt so disconnected from his mind and body that he didn’t even know if he could get a word out.
He blinked a few times, trying to pull himself back to his body. He could feel himself still shaking, and he knew it wasn’t completely from the cold.
He opened his mouth, shut it. Opened it, shut it. Then squeezed his eyes shut in frustration.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Shane’s voice was closer now, and softer, and he felt his hand come to rest on his shoulder. “We don’t have to talk right now.”
Shane stood up and walked away and Ilya thought for a moment he might go back to bed and leave him here. However, a few moments later Shane returned with their pillows. He put one on the edge of the couch behind Ilya, and guided his head onto it. The other he put on the far edge of the couch, before settling down on it himself. The couch was not nearly big enough for both of them, their limbs were twisted together and overlapping. Ilya wanted to tell Shane that he didn’t have to do this, that he could go back to bed, but the truth is he didn’t really want to be alone, as much as he hated to admit it.
Ilya didn’t sleep the rest of the night, and he wasn’t sure that Shane did either. The guilt was overwhelming when he saw Shane sit up and yawn, the bags under his eyes noticeably bigger than usual.
Shane looked over at Ilya and their eyes met for a split second before Ilya’s darted away. Despite the lack of sleep, Ilya was feeling more in control of his body. He felt himself take a deep breath before saying in a low, quiet voice, “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Shane said immediately, just as Ilya knew he would. Ilya scoffed, gesturing to him and the couch and saying, “You got no sleep.”
“I got some sleep. And it’s an off day so it doesn’t matter anyway,” Shane shrugged, before standing up and stretching. Ilya knew, despite Shane’s words, that it did matter. Shane thrived on routine, and it threw him off when he didn’t get his normal eight hours of sleep. “How are you feeling?”
Ilya felt himself stiffen involuntarily. He felt horrible, heavy and groggy and bone crushingly sad. But he didn’t really know how to say that, so he just shrugged.
“Did something happen or is it a depressive episode?” Shane asked softly. He had talked with Shane before about how when he got like this, there wasn’t always a clear reason. Shane sometimes called them his “bad brain days.”
“Nothing happened,” Ilya answered simply. Shane nodded and leaned over to press a soft kiss to the top of Ilya’s head. Ilya wanted to cower away, his brain telling him he didn’t deserve this. Instead, he sat still as a statue.
“Will you eat something? Just something small. So you can take your medicine.”
The thought of eating made Ilya feel nauseous, but he nodded anyway, not wanting to worry Shane any more than he already was. Five minutes later, Shane came over with a plate of food, water, and his pill. Ilya ate a few bites and forced down his pill before he couldn’t stomach anymore. He noticed Shane frown slightly at his plate before taking it into the kitchen.
Ilya barely got up all day. Most of his day was spent underneath the blankets, curled up on the couch staring at the wall. Shane sat with him most of the day, working quietly on his laptop or watching TV. Ilya felt even more guilty knowing that Shane hated sitting around all day, had probably planned out his entire day just to be stuck here because Ilya couldn’t do something as simple as get up. It made Ilya feel like a nuisance, made him feel lazy. He figured maybe his dad had always been right about him.
He heard himself let out a sniffle and realized, suddenly and horribly, that he was crying. Shane was there immediately, kneeling on the floor next to him, fingers gently brushing the tears away. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. I’m sorry you have to feel like this. It’s not fair,” he whispered. Ilya started crying harder at that, breaths coming sharp and ragged now. He quickly sat up, trying to pull himself together, but Shane followed him, wrapping him up in his arms and holding him steady. Ilya couldn’t help but to let himself go then, body going slack and arms wrapping around Shane, fingers clinging onto the back of his shirt. He felt himself being rocked and closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to be comforted.
“I love you so much, and I know you’re going to feel bad and feel like you need to apologize but you don’t. I love every part of you, including this part, and I want to be here for you in any way that I can, just like you are for me. You don’t need to hide from me. It’s okay to feel how you feel and it’s okay to let yourself be comforted, okay?”
Shane’s voice was low and soothing and Ilya latched onto it, letting himself sink into the words and maybe even letting himself believe them. They stayed like that for a while, until Ilya had quieted and settled back onto his pillow. He still felt heavy, but not quite so much as before. He looked at Shane then, their eyes meeting, and despite his mind nagging at him to look away, he didn’t. He looked at him and he reminded himself that as much as his brain might tell him otherwise, Shane wasn’t going to leave. He wasn’t going to be scared off, and he knew this because he was still here. He was still sitting with him and smiling at him and looking at him like he was important and worthy and good. And maybe, with enough time, Ilya might be able to see that in himself as well.