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The apartment was too quiet.
Ilya had always hated silence. Growing up, silence meant something was about to break; silence meant danger. Now, in Ottawa, in this place that was supposed to be his - his new team, his fresh start, his chance to prove he could do this without Shane there to catch him - the silence felt like an accusation.
You're failing.
The voice sounded like his father. It always did.
Ilya stared at his phone where it sat face-down on the kitchen counter. Shane had texted three times in the last hour. Ilya had read them all, watched the little typing bubbles appear and disappear, appear and disappear, and couldn't make himself respond.
Shane: How'd practice go? Miss you
Shane: Call when you can?
Shane: Ilyusha?
That last one had come twenty minutes ago. The nickname made Ilya's chest ache.
He picked up the phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, then set it down again. What was he supposed to say? That practice had been a disaster? That he'd missed three easy passes and Jensen had looked at him with that barely concealed frustration? That he'd stayed late, skating laps until his legs burned and his lungs screamed, trying to outrun the feeling that he didn't deserve to be here?
That he'd come home to this empty apartment and immediately wanted to claw his way out of his own skin?
Anya padded over, her nails clicking on the hardwood, and pressed her nose against Ilya's thigh. He reached down automatically to scratch behind her ears, but even that felt mechanical. Like he was moving through mud. Like there was a pane of glass between him and the rest of the world, and he was trapped on the wrong side.
You're not good enough. You never were.
"Shut up," Ilya muttered, but his father's voice didn't listen. It never did.
Shane is better off without you dragging him down. Ottawa didn't want you - they settled for you. Even your mother couldn't stand to stay-
He growled slightly at the thoughts that were circling in his head.
"Stop." His voice cracked. Anya whined, sensing his distress, and Ilya sank down to the floor beside her. She immediately climbed into his lap, too big for it really, but he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her fur.
His mother. God. He couldn't think about his mother right now. Couldn't let himself spiral down that particular hole because if he started he wouldn't stop, and he was already standing too close to the edge.
But the thoughts came anyway, relentless.
She'd been sad. His whole childhood, she'd been sad. Not just regular sad - the kind of sad that made her forget to eat, forget to shower, forget that she had a son who needed her. The kind of sad that ended with him finding her lifeless body after coming home from school and hearing nothing but silence.
He remembered his father's face, stone-cold and furious even in grief. Remembered the way his father had looked at him at the funeral and said, low and vicious, "Don't you dare cry. Don't you dare be weak like her."
Ilya was twenty nine now. Seventeen years later and he could still hear it.
Weak. Broken. A burden.
His phone buzzed. Shane again. Ilya didn't look.
He should eat something. He knew he should eat something. He'd barely touched breakfast, had skipped lunch entirely, and now it was past seven and the thought of food made his stomach turn. But that was part of it, wasn't it? Part of the spiral. Not eating, not sleeping, not taking care of himself until everything felt impossible.
Until he started thinking about how easy it would be to just... stop.
No.
Ilya shoved himself to his feet, breathing hard. Anya scrambled up with him, alert and worried. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't be alone in this apartment with his thoughts getting louder and louder and Shane's unanswered texts burning a hole in his phone.
"Walk," he said to Anya, and she perked up immediately. "We go for walk, yes?"
He didn't bother changing out of his joggers and hoodie. Just grabbed Anya's leash, his keys, and headed out. The October air bit at his face, cold enough that his breath fogged, and he was grateful for it. The cold helped. Made him feel something other than the crushing weight in his chest.
He walked with no destination in mind. Just walked. Anya trotted beside him, occasionally looking up to check on him, and Ilya kept his eyes on the sidewalk. One foot in front of the other. That was all he had to do. Just keep moving.
His phone rang. Shane. Ilya declined the call and immediately felt sick with guilt.
Shane would be worried. Shane was already worried - Ilya could tell from the texts. But how was he supposed to explain this?
How was he supposed to tell Shane that some days he woke up and the depression was just there, sitting on his chest like a physical thing, making it hard to breathe?
That he had a good life now, he was genuinely happy, so happy, in a way he couldn't ever remember being. He was loved, he had a family, a successful career - and it still wasn't enough to keep the darkness away?
Shane knew about the depression. They'd talked about it. But knowing intellectually that your boyfriend has depressive episodes was different from dealing with him in the middle of one, and Ilya couldn't stand the thought of Shane seeing him like this. Small and pathetic and barely holding on.
He'll leave. Eventually. Everyone leaves.
The thought was so loud, so certain, that Ilya stumbled. Anya stopped immediately, turning back to check on him, and Ilya had to bend over, hands on his knees, trying to remember how to breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
You're going to end up just like her.
No. No, he wasn't. He wouldn't do that to Shane. Wouldn't leave him with that kind of trauma, that kind of guilt. Shane had saved him, over and over, and Ilya loved him too much to-
But what if he couldn't help it? What if one day the thoughts got too loud and he couldn't resist them? What if he had kids someday - he and Shane talked about it sometimes, careful and tentative - and they inherited this, this broken thing inside him? What if he made them as miserable as his mother had been?
What if he couldn't fight it forever?
Ilya realised he was crying. Tears were streaming down his face, hot against his cold skin, and he couldn't make them stop. Anya pressed against his legs, whining, and Ilya forced himself upright.
"I'm okay," he lied to her. "I'm okay."
He kept walking.
The streets were familiar in that vague, barely paying attention way. He'd been in Ottawa for four months now. Long enough to know his way around his neighborhood near the apartment.
But he wasn't thinking about where he was going. He was just trying to outrun his own brain.
It didn't work. It never worked.
Failure. Disappointment. Too much.
Time passed strangely. Ilya didn't know how long he'd been walking when he looked up and realised where he was.
Shane's parents' house. How did he get here?
The Hollanders lived in a quiet neighbourhood about forty minutes from Ilya's apartment, or thirty if you were walking fast, which apparently he had been. The house was modest, warm-looking, with lights on in the windows.
Ilya could see shadows moving inside. Yuna, probably. Or David.
He should leave. He should turn around and walk back before they saw him. This was insane. He couldn't just show up here, couldn't burden Shane's parents with his mess.
They'd only known him a year. They'd been so kind when Shane came out, so welcoming when Shane introduced them properly as his boyfriend, but that didn't mean they signed up for this.
But Ilya's feet wouldn't move. He just stood there on the sidewalk, Anya sitting patiently beside him, staring at the house like it might hold answers.
His whole body was vibrating. Anxiety crawling under his skin, depression pulling him down down down, and he didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to make it stop.
Weak. Just like your mother. Shane will see. They'll all see.
He was shaking. Actually shaking, his hands trembling where they gripped Anya's leash. The intrusive thoughts were getting worse, sharper. Images flashing through his head that he didn't want, couldn't control. Of blood. Of Shane finding him. Of Shane's face twisted in horror and grief and-
Stop. Please stop.
The front door opened.
Ilya's head snapped up. Yuna was there, backlit by the warm glow of the hallway, and she froze when she saw him. For a moment they just stared at each other - Ilya on the sidewalk, tears still wet on his face, body wound so tight he thought he might snap; Yuna in the doorway, her expression shifting from surprise to concern in half a second.
"Ilya?" Her voice was soft. Careful. The way you'd talk to a spooked animal.
He couldn't answer. His throat had closed up entirely.
Yuna stepped out onto the porch, not bothering with a jacket despite the cold. "Honey, what's wrong?"
Everything, Ilya wanted to say. Everything is wrong and I don't know how to fix it.
But what came out was: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't- I was just walking and-" His voice broke. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, sweetheart." Yuna came down the steps, moving slowly, and Ilya wanted to run but couldn't make his legs work. She stopped a few feet away, giving him space. "Are you okay?"
The laugh that burst out of him was ragged, borderline hysterical. "No. No, I don't- I can't-"
"Okay." Yuna's voice was steady, grounding. "That's okay. You don't have to be okay. Can you come inside?"
Ilya shook his head violently. "I can't. I'm bothering you. I should go. I'm sorry-"
"You're not bothering me." Yuna took another step closer. "Ilya, you're not bothering me. You're never bothering me. Come inside, please. It's cold out here."
"I can't." The words came out as a sob. "I can't, I'm- Shane is going to- I'm ruining everything-"
"You're not ruining anything." Yuna was right in front of him now. Close enough to touch, but she didn't. Not yet.
"Listen to me. You are not ruining anything. Shane loves you. We love you. And right now you're hurting and that's okay. But I need you to come inside with me, okay? Can you do that?"
Ilya's knees buckled.
Yuna caught him. Just wrapped her arms around him as he crumpled, and Ilya buried his face in her shoulder and broke. All the fear and pain and self-loathing he'd been holding back came pouring out in great, gasping sobs. Yuna held him tighter, one hand in his hair, murmuring soft reassurances that Ilya couldn't quite hear over the sound of his own crying.
"I've got you," she said. "I've got you, honey. You're safe."
Anya pressed against his legs, whining, and Yuna somehow managed to get an arm around her too. "Good girl," she told the dog. "Good girl, you brought him here."
Ilya couldn't stop crying. Couldn't catch his breath. His chest hurt and his head pounded and he felt like he was going to shake apart, but Yuna just held him through it. Solid and warm and steady in a way that made Ilya cry harder because he didn't deserve this kindness.
Somewhere in the back of his head he registered that he was losing his mind in public, on the driveway of Shane Hollander's parents house and if anyone saw him-
"Let's get you inside," Yuna said, perhaps thinking the same thing and breaking through the storm in his head slightly. "Can you walk?"
Ilya nodded against her shoulder and tried to straighten up, but his legs felt like jelly. Yuna kept one arm around him, guiding him up the steps and through the front door. Anya followed, tail low but staying close.
The house was warm. Too warm after the cold outside, and Ilya started shaking again. Yuna led him to the hallway bench and helped him sit, then crouched in front of him.
"I need to call Shane," she said gently. "Is that okay?"
Panic shot through Ilya's chest. "No. No, please don't. I don't want him to worry. I don't want-"
"Ilya." Yuna put her hands on his knees, meeting his eyes. "He's already worried. He's been calling me for the last hour, trying to figure out if you're okay. He knows something is wrong. I need to tell him you're safe."
"He's going to-" Ilya's breath hitched. "He's on the road. He has games. He can't- I can't make him come home because I'm-"
Broken. Weak. Too much.
"Let me call him," Yuna said. "Just let me tell him you're here and you're safe. Okay?"
Ilya wanted to argue. Wanted to run. But he was so tired, and Yuna's hands on his knees were the only thing keeping him grounded, so he nodded.
Yuna pulled out her phone.
Shane was approximately thirty seconds from a complete meltdown.
He was in his hotel room in Montreal, supposed to be resting before tomorrow's game, and instead he was pacing a groove in the carpet with his phone clutched in one hand. Ilya hadn't answered. Hadn't responded to texts. And Shane knew something was wrong.
The texts had been off all day. Short. Clipped. Not like Ilya at all. And then they'd just... stopped.
Shane had tried calling. Five times. Voicemail every time.
Eventually, about an hour ago he'd called his mom in a panic. Not knowing what he should do but knowing, somewhere in his gut that something was wrong.
She had calmed him down, like always, reassuring him that Ilya had probably just crashed after the game. Or gone for a shower or could be doing a million other reasonable things that didn't mean he was somehow in danger. She'd told him to give Ilya another hour and if he didn't hear back, then she would go round and check on him.
It had been over an hour and there was still no answer. Not even a read text.
He'd booked a flight home. The earliest one he could get, leaving in just under two hours. He'd already told Coach he had a family emergency - hadn't specified what, and thankfully he hadn't pushed. But two hours felt like an eternity when Shane's brain was screaming that Ilya was in trouble, that Ilya might be hurt, might be-
No. He couldn't think like that.
But he couldn't not think like that either.
He knew about Ilya's depression. Had held him through episodes before, days where he struggled to get out of bed or to find the motivation to shower. He'd learned the signs, had promised to always be there. But Shane was in Montreal and Ilya was in Ottawa and Shane had no way of knowing if he was safe.
His hands were shaking. He realised he'd been rubbing his thumb against his fingertips for the last ten minutes - something that usually helped but wasn't doing shit right now. His chest was tight. His thoughts were spiralling.
What if I'm too late? What if he's hurt? What if-
Shane grabbed his phone and dialled his mom.
She answered on the second ring. "Shane-"
"Mom." His voice cracked. "Mom, I need you to go check on Ilya. Please. He's not answering at all and I'm worried, and I know you're closer and I just- I need to know-"
"Shane. Honey. He's already here."
Shane's brain short-circuited. "What?"
"Ilya's here. He just- he walked here with Anya and he's not doing well, sweetheart, but he's safe. He's here with me."
Shane's legs gave out. He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, phone pressed so tight to his ear it hurt. "He's there? He's- is he okay?"
"He's hurting." His mom's voice was gentle. "But he's safe. Do you want to talk to him?"
"Yes. God, yes, please-"
There was shuffling on the other end. Murmured voices. Then:
"Shane?"
Ilya's voice was wrecked. Raw and small and so completely unlike him that Shane started crying.
"Ilya, baby. Oh my god. I was so worried-"
"I'm sorry." Ilya was crying too. Shane could hear it. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean- I didn't want to bother-"
"You're not bothering anyone." Shane was crying harder now, trying to keep his voice steady and failing. "You're not. I love you. I love you so much. Are you okay?"
"No." The word was barely a whisper. "No, I'm not okay."
"That's okay. That's- it's okay to not be okay." Shane wiped at his eyes with his free hand. "I'm coming home. I have a flight in two hours. I'm coming home and I'm going to be there as soon as I can, okay?"
"You don't have to-"
"I want to. I need to." Shane's voice was fierce. "I need to be there. You're the most important thing. Always. Okay?"
Ilya made a sound that might have been agreement or might have just been more crying. Shane heard his mom say something in the background, then her voice came back on the line.
"Shane, I've got him. We've got him. You focus on getting home safe please, okay?"
"Okay." Shane was still crying. Couldn't seem to stop. "Okay. Thank you. Thank you so much-"
"We love you both. Now go catch your flight."
The line went dead. Shane sat there for a long moment, phone in his lap, trying to pull himself together. Ilya was safe. Ilya was with his parents. That was good. That was- that was better than Shane's worst fears.
But Ilya's voice. The way he'd sounded. Small and broken and so scared. He'd never heard him like that.
Shane started packing.
Yuna hung up and turned back to Ilya, who was still sitting on the hallway bench, looking like he might shatter at any moment, coiled tight with stress. David had appeared from the living room at some point and was standing nearby, concern written all over his face.
"He's coming home," Yuna said softly. "He's catching a flight. He'll be here in a few hours."
Ilya's face crumpled. "He has a game tomorrow. He shouldn't- I'm making him miss his game-"
"You're not making him do anything," David said, his voice gentle but firm. "He wants to be here. He loves you."
"I'm ruining everything." Ilya's hands were fisted in his hoodie, knuckles white. "I'm too much. I'm-"
"You're not too much." Yuna sat down beside him on the bench. "Ilya, look at me."
He didn't.
"Sweetheart. Look at me."
Slowly, reluctantly, Ilya raised his eyes. They were red-rimmed and haunted, and Yuna's heart broke for him.
"You are not too much," she said. "You are not ruining anything. You're hurting, and that's not your fault. Depression is an illness. You wouldn't blame yourself for having the flu, would you?"
Ilya's laugh was bitter. "Flu doesn't make you want to-" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.
The room went very still.
"Okay," Yuna said carefully. "Okay. Have you been having thoughts about hurting yourself?"
Ilya wouldn't meet her eyes. That was answer enough.
David moved closer, lowering himself to sit on Ilya's other side. "Have you made any plans? Done anything to act on those thoughts?"
"No." Ilya's voice was barely audible. "No, I- I took Anya. I knew I wouldn't if I had her. I just needed to get out of the apartment and I walked and I didn't- I didn't mean to come here. I'm sorry-"
"Stop apologising," Yuna said. She put her arm around him, felt him tense and then slowly, slowly relax into her side. "You did exactly the right thing. You knew you needed help and you came to people who love you. That took so much courage, Ilya."
"Doesn't feel like courage," he mumbled. "Feels like being weak."
"It's not." David's voice was firm. "Asking for help is one of the strongest things you can do."
Ilya shook his head, and Yuna could feel the tremors running through him. He was wound so tight, trapped in his own head, and she didn't know how to reach him.
"Come on," she said gently. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable. Can you walk to the living room?"
He didn't say anything, couldn't say anything. He just let them pull him up and move him like a ragdoll.
Anya followed, her whole body pressed against Ilya's legs like she was trying to hold him together. They settled him on the couch, Yuna on his left and David on his right, and for a moment no one spoke.
Ilya was staring at his hands. His breathing was wrong, too fast and with an edge of something else. His whole body had gone rigid. Yuna watched as he seemed to fold in on himself - shoulders hunching forward, arms wrapping around his middle, making himself as small as possible.
"Ilya," she said softly.
No response. His eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing. His chest was rising and falling too quickly, each breath shallow and inadequate.
"Sweetheart, I need you to try to breathe with me," Yuna tried, keeping her voice low and calm. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
But Ilya wasn't hearing her. He was somewhere else entirely. She wished he knew where.
His hands were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles had gone white. Yuna reached over gently, trying to ease his fingers open, and felt how badly he was shaking.
"You're safe," she murmured. "You're here with us. You're safe."
Ilya's breathing somehow got worse. Faster. He curled tighter into himself, head dropping forward, and made a small sound in the back of his throat - trapped, desperate.
David moved closer, putting a hand on Ilya's back. "Try to relax your shoulders, son."
But Ilya couldn't. He was fighting himself, fighting the panic, trying so hard to keep it contained that he was barely breathing at all. His nails were digging into his palms and Yuna carefully, persistently worked to uncurl his fingers.
"That's it," she said when his right hand finally opened. There were red crescents in his palm, close to breaking skin. "Good. Now the other one."
It took longer. Ilya was shaking so hard now that Yuna could feel it through the couch cushions. But eventually his left hand uncurled too, and the moment it did something seemed to break in him.
He tried to lie back against the couch, tilting his head back, mouth open as he tried desperately to pull in air. His chest was heaving. A groan escaped him, low and anguished, and tears were streaming down his face though Yuna didn't think he was fully aware of crying.
"That's it, keep breathing," Yuna kept saying, her hand rubbing slow circles on his back. "You're doing so well. Just breathe."
David had moved to Ilya's other side, one hand on his shoulder, steady and grounding. "We've got you. You're not alone."
The panic was washing over him in waves now - no longer trapped inside but crashing through him. His whole body shuddered with it. But at least he was breathing, even if the breaths were ragged and interspersed with sobs.
"That's it," Yuna murmured. "Let it out. Don't fight it."
"I can't—" Ilya gasped. "I can't—"
"You can. You are. You're doing it right now."
Anya had climbed up onto the couch, ignoring all rules about furniture, and pressed herself against Ilya's legs. The weight of her seemed to help. Ilya's hand dropped to her head automatically, fingers tangling in her fur.
Yuna kept talking, her voice a steady stream of reassurance. "You're safe. We have you. You're not alone. Just breathe. That's all you have to do."
Gradually - so gradually - Ilya's breathing started to even out. The sobs were still coming but quieter now, less desperate. His eyes were closed, tears still leaking from beneath his lashes, but some of the terrible tension had left his body.
"Mom," he whispered, and Yuna's heart stopped.
For a second she thought he was calling for his mother. But then Ilya's eyes opened, found hers, and she saw the recognition there. The devastation.
"I'm here," she said, her own voice breaking. "I'm right here, sweetheart."
Ilya made a sound like something was being torn out of him. "You shouldn't- I don't deserve-"
"Yes you do." Yuna pulled him closer, and this time he came willingly, turning into her embrace. "You deserve this. You deserve to be loved and cared for."
He was crying harder again, but it was different now. Not panic but grief. Raw and overwhelming. His whole body shook with it. No one but Shane had seen him cry in seventeen years. He didn't know if anyone had ever seen him cry like this. Not even his mother when he was a child. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this. So overwhelmed and completely out of control.
"I know," Yuna whispered. She was crying too now. "I know, baby. You don't have to hold it in anymore."
"I tried so hard," Ilya sobbed. "I tried so hard not to be weak. Like my father said. But I can't-I can't do it anymore-"
"You're not weak." David's voice was thick with emotion.
"Hear me when I say this Ilya. Your father was wrong. About your mother, about you, about everything. He was wrong. You're the strongest person I know and you deserved so much better."
Ilya sobbed harder at that. He cried for a long time. Yuna just held him, rocking slightly, while David kept his hand on Ilya's back and Anya pressed close. She cried too - for this boy who'd had to grow up so hard and so fast, who'd taught himself not to cry, not to break, not to need anyone. Who'd been so terrified of ending up like his mother that he'd nearly destroyed himself trying to be different.
This boy who was so passionate, so intelligent and brave and kind and loyal and incredible in so many ways and loved her son in a way that was bigger and brighter than anything she could have dreamt for him.
Eventually the sobs quieted. Ilya's breathing evened out into something that wasn't quite sleep but wasn't quite consciousness either - just pure exhaustion pulling him under.
"Let him rest," David said softly.
Yuna nodded, settling Ilya more comfortably against her shoulder. His face was blotchy and swollen from crying, still streaked with tears. He looked impossibly young. Vulnerable in a way that broke her heart.
"He called me mom," she whispered.
David squeezed her hand. "You are his mom. In every way that matters."
Shane had told them once what happened to Ilya's mom. It broke their heart.
They sat like that for the next three hours. David made coffee. Yuna refused to move, afraid of waking Ilya, and just held him while he slept fitfully. He whimpered a few times, caught in memories, and Yuna soothed him until he settled.
It was just past midnight when they heard a car in the driveway.
Shane.
Yuna looked down at Ilya, still sleeping against her shoulder, and her heart ached at how fragile he looked. Pale and drawn, with tear tracks still visible on his face. Dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he'd been through a war.
The front door opened quietly. Shane appeared in the doorway of the living room, still in his travel clothes, and stopped dead when he saw them.
His eyes landed on Ilya and immediately filled with tears.
"Oh god," Shane whispered. He pressed his hand over his mouth, whole body shaking, and Yuna saw the exact moment he started to break down.
David was up in an instant, crossing to Shane and guiding him back out into the hallway before pulling him into a hug. Shane made a choked sound and buried his face in his father's shoulder.
"He's okay," David murmured. "He's okay, Shane. We've got him."
He pulled away to look back through the doorway at his the curled up form of the love of his life in his mothers arms. "He looks-" Shane couldn't finish the sentence.
"I know. But he's safe. He's here."
Shane made a wounded sound and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I'm trying. Dad, I'm trying but I can't—"
"You're all good. You're doing great." David pulled Shane into a tight hug, providing the deep pressure he knew his son needed. "Feel my breathing. Match it."
For a long moment Shane just stood there, shaking apart in his father's arms. David held him through it, solid and steady, while Shane's breath came in gasps and his hands moved and twisted and his whole body tried to process the overwhelming flood of emotion.
In the living room, Yuna watched through the doorway, still holding Ilya. Her heart was breaking for both of them - her two boys, both hurting so much. She wished she could split herself in two, could comfort them both at once. But David had Shane, and that would have to be enough.
"I don't know how to help him," Shane gasped against David's shoulder. "What if I can't help him? What if I'm not enough?"
"You are enough." David's voice was fierce. "Listen to me, Shane. You love him. That's what he needs. Not you to fix him. Not you to have all the answers. Just you, loving him. That's enough."
"But what if it's not?" Shane pulled back, his face blotchy and wet. "What if he- what if next time-"
"Then you'll deal with next time when it comes. Right now, he's here. He needs you to be present. Can you do that?"
Shane nodded, still crying but breathing more evenly now. His hands were still moving - but the frantic edge had dulled.
"I need—" Shane took a shaky breath. "I need a minute."
"Take your time."
Shane closed his eyes and started rocking slightly, a stim that had always helped him self-soothe. David stayed close but gave him space, watching carefully. After a few minutes, Shane's breathing had slowed. The trembling had eased. He opened his eyes and they were still red, still full of tears, but clearer now.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I can do this."
"I know you can."
David guided Shane back into the living room. Shane moved stiffly, like he might fall apart if he wasn't careful, and settled on the couch next to Ilya. Close but not quite touching, like he was afraid.
"You can touch him," Yuna said. "He needs to know you're here."
Shane reached out with a trembling hand and gently brushed Ilya's hair back from his forehead. The touch seemed to ground him slightly. He was still crying, still flicking his fingers on his free hand, but his breathing was starting to slow.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Yuna and David explained as much as they knew. The walking, the state Ilya had been in, the panic attack, the things he'd said about his mother and his fear of ending up like her. Shane's face went through a dozen different expressions - pain, fear, guilt, devastation. Shane's face crumpled when they mentioned the suicidal thoughts.
"He told me once," Shane said quietly. "About finding her. The pills. His father making him pretend it was an accident." His voice broke. "He was twelve years old and his father wouldn't even let him cry. He's been having a hard time," Shane said. His voice was thick. "I knew he was struggling but I didn't- I thought he would tell me if it got this bad."
"He didn't want to burden you," Yuna said gently. "He said that several times."
Shane made a pained sound. "He's never a burden. Never."
"We told him that. He's having trouble believing it right now."
"You're doing so well, honey," she told him. "I know this is hard."
Shane nodded, but he didn't look convinced. Yuna watched him carefully, saw the way he was starting to retreat into himself, and made a mental note to check in with him separately later. Shane needed support too.
"Do you want to wake him?" she asked gently. "Or let him sleep a bit longer?"
Shane glanced at the clock. "We should probably wake him. Get him home."
"Okay." Yuna shifted slightly. "Ilya, honey. Time to wake up."
Ilya stirred, mumbling something in Russian. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. Then he saw Shane and his whole face crumpled.
"Shane," he choked out, and then he was crying again, reaching for Shane with shaking hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry-"
"Shh, it's okay." Shane pulled him into his arms, holding him tight. "It's okay mishka. I'm here. I'm here."
"You weren't supposed to come home. You have a game-"
"I don't care about the game." Shane's voice was fierce. "I care about you. Just you."
Ilya sobbed into Shane's shoulder. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I'm such a mess-"
"You're not a mess. You're hurting. There's a difference." Shane was crying too now, both of them clinging to each other. "I love you. I love you so much."
"I love you too." Ilya's voice was muffled. "I'm sorry-"
"Stop apologising." Shane pulled back just enough to cup Ilya's face in his hands. "You have nothing to apologise for. Nothing. Okay?"
Ilya nodded, but his eyes were full of doubt. Shane kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, whispering "I love you" between each one until Ilya finally started to relax.
Yuna and David exchanged a look. This was their cue to give them space.
"We're going to give you two some privacy," Yuna said. "But before you go - you're both welcome for dinner tomorrow. Or any day this week. No pressure."
"Thank you." Shane looked up at her, eyes red. "Thank you so much. I don't know what would have happened if-"
"Don't think about that," David said. "He's safe. That's what matters."
Shane nodded. He helped Ilya to his feet, and Ilya swayed dangerously before Shane caught him around the waist.
"I can walk," Ilya protested weakly.
"I know you can." Shane bent down and scooped him up anyway, lifting him with the ease of someone who'd done this before. Ilya made a halfhearted sound of protest but immediately curled into Shane's chest. "But you don't have to."
They said their goodbyes. Anya trotted after them as Shane carried Ilya out to the car, and Yuna and David stood in the doorway watching them go.
"They're going to be okay, right?" Yuna asked softly.
David put his arm around her. "I think so. It's going to be hard. But they love each other. That counts for a lot."
"I hope it's enough."
"Me too."
Shane drove home in silence. Ilya was curled up in the passenger seat, eyes closed but not sleeping. Shane kept one hand on his thigh the whole drive, needing the contact.
When they got home, Shane helped Ilya inside and straight to the bathroom. He ran a bath, making the water hot and adding the lavender bath salts Ilya liked. Then he carefully helped Ilya undress.
Ilya was moving like he was in a trance. Compliant but distant, and it scared Shane more than he wanted to admit. But he just kept his movements gentle and steady as he got Ilya into the tub and climbed in behind him.
Ilya settled back against Shane's chest with a shaky exhale. Shane wrapped his arms around him and felt some of the tension bleed out of Ilya's body.
"Just relax," Shane murmured. "I've got you."
He washed Ilya's hair slowly, massaging his scalp until Ilya made a soft sound of contentment. Then he washed his body, taking care around the bruises from today's game - a nasty one on his ribs, scrapes on his knees.
"Did you eat today?" Shane asked.
Ilya shook his head.
"Okay. We'll fix that."
After the bath, Shane dried Ilya off and dressed him in soft pyjamas. Led him to the kitchen and made him drink a protein shake - not a meal, but better than nothing. Then to the bedroom.
Ilya climbed into bed and immediately curled into a ball. Shane slid in beside him, pulling him close.
"I'm sorry," Ilya whispered into the dark.
"I know you are." Shane kissed the top of his head. "But you don't need to be. We're going to figure this out, okay? Tomorrow we'll talk about everything. About getting you more support. Maybe finding you a therapist here in Ottawa. Making a safety plan for when you have episodes. Whatever you need."
"I don't deserve you."
"Yes, you do." Shane's voice was firm. "And I need you to hear me when I say this, Ilya. I love you. Unconditionally. That means I love you when you're happy and when you're struggling. When you're doing well and when you're having a hard time. All of it. All of you."
Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm scared I'm going to end up like my mother."
Shane's chest tightened. "I know. But you won't."
"You can't promise that."
"Maybe not. But I can promise that I'll be here with you. Every step. And we'll fight like hell to make sure it doesn't happen." Shane pulled back enough to look at Ilya's face.
"Your mother didn't have support. She didn't have someone who loved her and understood. You have me. You have my parents. You have resources she never had. That makes a difference."
"What if it's not enough?"
"Then we'll find what is enough. Together." Shane cupped Ilya's face. "I know you're scared. I know the thoughts are loud. But you're stronger than them. And when you're not strong enough, I'll be strong for you. Okay?"
Ilya's eyes filled with fresh tears. "Ya tebya lyublyu." he whispered into the room. Pressing his forehead against Shanes.
"I love you too." Shane kissed him softly. "Now try to sleep. I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Ilya curled back into Shane's chest, his breathing gradually evening out. Shane held him and tried not to think about how close they'd come to losing this. How much worse it could have been.
But Ilya was here. Alive. Safe in Shane's arms.
Tomorrow, they would figure out the rest. Tonight, they just needed to be together.