Chapter Text
Every day seemed dull. Before he’d drink unhealthy amounts, party a bit too hard, and drive a little too fast. But now he had Shane. Good Canadian Shane, who could never commit a crime in his life.
Ilya refrained from vodka, didn’t smoke, didn’t party as much, and sold all of his sports cars—all but one.
He thought it’d be better, closer to his boyfriend. The only thing that he had wanted for years. But now everything seems dull.
He loved his team. They were nice. It wasn’t really friends per se with any of them. Normally, anytime he had time, he spent it with Shane. And when Shane wasn’t there, he had that persistent feeling—the one that dulled everything.
Recently, he had that feeling even with Shane; the kisses he used to look forward to now seemed insignificant. The sex he once waited for now seemed less exciting. Don’t get him wrong. He loved them both still very much, but it wasn’t the same.
Shane had come down for a weekend. Skipping practice because he missed Ilya. Normally, that would warm Ilya’s heart. But that same feeling, which seemed to persist for weeks on end, was still there.
Ilya didn’t want Shane to notice. So he tried to disguise it.
It was two hours after Shane had arrived, and he’d made Shane cum twice in a matter of minutes—very impressive, he thought to himself.
“Moya lyubov’, do you want takeout? Or we have that meat David gave me.”
Shane rolled over, humming, and tucked his head into Ilya’s chest. “Mm, Thai.”
Ilya chuckled, running his hand through Shane’s hair. “You are beautiful.”
Shane blushed at that, his already perfectly dusted pink cheeks turning brighter, his gorgeous freckles standing out more, and his smile lifting a little higher. God, how Ilya loved this man.
But no matter how much he loved him, that persistent, irritable, numbing, horrible feeling stayed. He tried to ignore it. He tried so hard. And he hated it. It felt familiar. Too familiar. Like the last few weeks before his мама died — when everything had already gone quiet inside her.
Half an hour later, their takeout had arrived. They were sitting slouched on the couch, leaning into each other.
Shane had eaten most of his food, giving the rest to Ilya. Ilya let it slide, knowing Shane at least ate most of it.
They lay there for a while, and Ilya found himself dozing off.
“Do you want to go to bed?” Shane asked softly.
For some reason—one Ilya couldn’t understand—he got angry. Maybe it was his recent lack of sleep, or his recent lack of Shane, but no, he did not. “No, I do not want to sleep,” he spoke rudely, his tone louder than it ever should be when speaking to Shane, especially about such a little thing.
The second it came out of his mouth, Shane looked alarmed, sitting back in alarm, almost scared.
“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, Shane, I did not mean to.” Ilya profusely apologized. He started to scoot away from Shane, afraid of his own anger.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m not scared, just surprised, that’s all.” Shane cooed, bringing his hands to rest on Ilya’s face.
Ilya pushed his head down, refusing to look at Shane. “I am sorry.”
Shane smiled sadly. “Baby, I promise it’s okay. Let’s go to bed, okay?”
Ilya nodded, standing up and following close behind Shane.
Shane lay down, lights off. Ilya curled against his side. Shane lay awake, thinking. There was definitely something off—but to be completely honest, there had been something off for a while now. And he was worried.
He took his phone from the nightstand and started googling.
Search History
1:30 Therapists in Ottawa
1:10 How do you help depression?
12:59 What does masked depression look like?
12:48 Depression symptoms
12:47 How do you know if your partner is drinking a lot?
12:35 Adhd symptoms
12:24 How does unresolved trauma show?
12:21 How is burnout caused?
12:19 Signs of burnout
12:18 What’s wrong if someone is easily angered, acting off, seeming sad, almost
Shane rubbed his eyes, exhaustion of the day catching up to him. He set his phone down, a plan in place.
He’d wake up, make Ilya breakfast, and gently bring it up in conversation. Nothing serious. Nothing dramatic. Just a talk.
Shane looked at Ilya, smiled softly at him, and finally let himself drift off to sleep.
Shane woke early, sleepily reaching out to find Ilya. Ilya’s usual presence was gone; he must’ve gotten up even earlier.
Shane wearily got up, peeking his head into their bathroom to see if he was there. Then wandered to the living room to find Ilya sitting there on his phone.
Now that Shane looked—really looked. He saw unfamiliar circles under Ilya’s eyes and a tint of red in them.
Ilya didn’t even seem to realize Shane was there, sitting there seemingly unfazed.
“Hey,” Shane spoke steadily, careful not to startle his boyfriend.
Ilya looked up, rubbing his eyes and smiling—a smile that didn’t reach those same eyes. They seemed less bright. The normal, beautiful blue dulled by what must have been the feelings Ilya held.
Ilya reached his arms up, motioning for Shane to join him. Shane, who was impossible to deny, of course, took the request. Ending up nearly on top of him.
“You okay?” He asked conscientiously.
“Just tired,”
But he didn’t seem tired; he seemed worn. It was a sort of tiredness you couldn’t put into words. The one that wore you down until you were a shadow of yourself. And when Shane looked and tried so hard to see someone else, he couldn’t. And was granted with that unfamiliar shadow of Ilya.
“Would you eat if I made breakfast?” Shane asked, feigning unknowingness.
Ilya took a second to respond, apparently weighing the thoughts in his head. “Yes, I would.”
And that was settled. Shane would make food, and then he would confront Ilya. His perfect Ilya, who was hurting for a reason he couldn’t seem to place, and one that worried him nonsensically.
Ilya was exhausted. He yearned for a peaceful night's rest next to Shane, but anytime he closed his eyes, he seemed to be haunted by the cold, dead image of his мама. Recently, he understood her more—he understood why.
His thoughts were interrupted by Shane calling him—he must’ve really zoned out for food to already be ready.
Ilya sat down across from Shane. Something seemed wrong. Was Shane okay? God, Ilya was too busy self-pitying himself; he couldn’t even tell that something was up with Shane.
He knew Shane would be better off without him, but he just never liked admitting it.
“Ilya,” Shane repeated.
Ilya looked up, startled. Unsure, he heard the first few times. “Sorry,” unable to think of an excuse.
“I um wanted to ask,” Shane took a pause, looking down at his plate. “Well, I wanted you to maybe think about therapy.”
Ilya stared in confusion, therapy? Shane wanted him to get therapy? He would do a lot for Shane, but talk to strangers about feelings he wasn’t even sure about himself.
“I think I’d be good, sometimes you seem…off.”
Ilya swallowed, digesting the information. “I think sometimes I am like my мама.”
Shane nodded slowly, “Thank you for telling me that.”
Ilya rummaged around with his fork a bit more before continuing. “I will.”
Shane looked relieved, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”
The next week was spent trying to find the right therapist for Ilya. Shane thought he had shown every single one he thought might work to Ilya, and Ilya denied every single one. “Ilya, please help me out. You have to give it a chance.”
Ilya finally admitted that he wanted someone who could understand his Russian, so Shane looked, and they were in luck. One Russian-speaking therapist in all of Ottawa. “It is easier to say what I think in Russian,” Ilya explained.
Eventually, they set up an appointment, and for the first time in a while, Shane's nerves were eased. Yes, he knew therapy wouldn’t just automatically make Ilya happy, but maybe it was a step in the right direction.
Turns out that the right direction took countless more months.
Ilya went weekly, sometimes twice if he got too bad. He admitted it was helping, but still, he couldn’t stop those persistent feelings that would hang around for so long.
One night, Ilya came home; his session had lasted longer than usual, so Shane sat waiting in the dining area. “Took a bit, you okay?”
Ilya looked at him, his eyes guilty and full of tears, holding a small paper bag. “I am like my мама.”
Shane stood up, going towards his boyfriend, and brought him into a soul-crushing hug. “I love you no matter what, okay? I know this may be hard, but I wanna do that because I want you, I want every part of you, the good, the bad, the angry. I don't care, you’re everything to me, and nothing is going to be able to change that.”
By the time he was done, Ilya was sobbing into the crook of Shane's neck. “Spasibo, moya lyubov’” It came out breathless and bathed in tears. But he was scared, scared of what the meds may do to him, and honestly didn’t want to admit he needed them. Didn’t want to come to terms with the weakness he held. You are lazy, you are weak, just like your poor excuse for a mother. Instead of focusing on the voice in his head, he tried to focus on the deep breaths and the warm body pressed up against him. What would he do without Shane?
“I want to get better,” Ilya concluded.
With that, Shane declared it his mission to help Ilya as much as he could. He did that by buying a weekly pill organizer and filling it up every Sunday. It started with just the antidepressant, then it turned into multivitamins, omega-3, vitamin D, and magnesium. Shane had been taking all of these ever since his hockey career took off, and clearly, Ilya had not been as adamant about his health, but with this recent pill organizer, it seemed to be working.
At least… Shane hoped it did.
At first, the reminders were gentle.
“Have you taken your meds yet?”
“Yes, boring Hollander.”
A few days later—
“Did you take them?”
“Yes, of course, moy pomidor.”
By the second week Shane still asked and was showing no signs of ever stopping.
“Ilya, take them.”
“Oke.”
Ilya had decided to start calling them his drugs at some point. Which they were but Shane just didn’t like that terminology.
“Meds?”
“Drugs.”
“Stop calling them that!”
“That is what they are. I see no harm.”
It continued.
“Have you taken them?”
“Yes. I am drugged.”
“ILYA!”
Still, Shane was pretty sure it was working; Ilya seemed better and even sometimes went out with the team. Their new guy, Troy, seemed not to be the best, but Ilya said he understood why. Shane didn’t ask further.
Shane also seemed to now possess every symptom of every antidepressant known in his head. He spent A LOT of time on Google.
Search History
3:21 Sertraline side effects
3:17 Citalopram side effects
3:07 Escitalopram side effects
2:59 Fluoxetine side effects
2:51 Paroxetine side effects
“Dr. Shane, give me your phone.”
Shane blushed, reluctantly obeying. “I’m just making sure you have the best one.”
Ilya softly smiled, “Do not worry, solnyshko moyo, Galina is smart.”
“I know, but-”
“No buts.”
Shane tried to go on but was interrupted by a kiss.
Maybe everything would be okay. Everything seemed to be going along. Ilya took his medication–and vitamins. Even at away games, where Shane would persistently text him every day, and when Sundays came, remind him to refill the organizer. Which he did–for Shane. No other reason. Ilya Rozanov did not grow to like his little container with the days of the week on it. Not at all.