Chapter Text
When Ilya was seven, his mama taught him how to pray.
It was around his bed time. They stood side by side in front of the krasny ugol, ‘stood before God’, she’d said.
After some prayers from the book, she flipped to a different page, and said, “Now, we pray to Theotokos. I always do one for papa, one for Lyoshka, and one for you, to keep you safe. You can make your own list”
He nodded along. A list of people he wants to keep safe, he could do that.
It became their nightly tradition, they’d stand in front of the prayer corner together. After they finished, she would tuck him in and then go to her own bed.
Sometimes, on her bad days, she would forget. But he didn’t mind, his mama was just tired, he made sure to pray twice for her on those days. Maybe it wasn’t allowed, but Theotokos would understand. She was a mom too, she probably got tired just like mama.
*
Ilya’s smoking in the parking lot in Tampa when he realizes. Last time he and Shane spoke on the phone he didn’t say ‘I love you’ back. Shane had said it, and he had made a stupid fucking joke.
If he had died today, if the plane had crashed, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to tell Shane he loves him one last time.
It sits wrong in his chest. It’s not guilt, at least not completely. It’s something sharper, like something is out of place, or unfinished. The emergency landing feels like a warning sign, he can’t let it happen again.
He thinks, over and over, about the things he’d done differently today. Then, he makes a mental list, to remember what he needs to avoid.
It feels a little pathetic to be doing this. He knows planes, like all machines, malfunction sometimes, nobody could’ve prevented this. Still, if something like this happens again, and he didn’t do everything right, that’s on him.
*
The night before the worst day of Ilya’s life was relatively normal.
He got home from hockey practice, took a shower, ate dinner, and pretended to work on his school assignments. His mama was in a good mood. It wouldn’t have been surprising, if it weren’t for the fact that this past week she’s spent it mostly cooped up inside her room.
At night, when Ilya went up to the krasny ugol, she was not there. He’d been expecting, because of how much energy she seemed to have that day, that they’d pray together again. It’d been some time since they’d gotten to do that. Ilya shifted on his feet, briefly considering, before deciding to go to bed.
It’s not like his mama never skipped a night. One prayerless night, he decided, won’t hurt anyone.
So, the night before the worst day of Ilya’s life was relatively normal.
The only thing he’d done differently was skip his prayers.
*
When he came home, when he found her on her bed, pale hand hanging limply, his head started spinning.
He thought he must be having a nightmare. Thought he might be seeing things, but when he opened his eyes again nothing changed.
She lay there. Beautiful, still, and dead.
*
When his phone rang, his lungs were full of smoke. He coughed, the too-quick exhale making his chest hurt.
“Hi,” he said, and then broke out into a coughing fit.
“Ilya. Jesus. Are you okay?” asks Shane.
“Fine,” Ilya says, thumping his chest with his fist. He coughs again.
Shane pauses, then, “Are you smoking?”
“No,” he replies, stomping out what's left of his cigarette. “I was, but now I’m not,” he amends. The last thing he wants to do now is lie to Shane.
There's a beat. Then Shane says, “It must’ve been scary.”
“It was,” he confirms, “but everyone’s okay.”
Everyone’s okay, he repeats to himself. Next time, maybe they won’t be.
“You can tell me if you’re not okay,” Shane says gently. He’s always so gentle, so loving.
“I just–I didn’t say it back,” he says, trying not to feel embarrassed about how his voice trembles.
“What?”
There's a longer pause this time.
“I love you,” he says carefully. It’s important, he has to get it right.
Shane lets out a breath, it sounds like it could be a laugh or a choked off cry, “I love you too. Can I see you? Can we Facetime?”
“Of course,” Ilya agrees. When he accepts the Facetime request, it becomes very evident that Shane had just been crying. It makes him feel even worse. He did this, this is his fault.
“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
Shane gives him a shaky smile, “You should be.”
It’s a joke. He knows it’s a joke. He tries to smile back. “But I’m okay. Everyone’s okay.”
“You’re so far away,” Shane says with a sniffle, “I want to go to you right now. I need to hold you and feel your heart beating.”
“It would be a long drive,” he says, “from Washington to Tampa.”
“Thirteen hours. I looked it up.” his boyfriend says with a sheepish smile.
He feels a sudden urge. “I love you,” he says. And then says it again in Russian for good measure.
Shane repeats his words. It should feel better, but it really doesn’t. They keep talking for a bit, he says it for a third time before they hang up.
He watches as the screen goes dark in his hand. For a moment, he just stands there, staring at his reflection.
Something is wrong.
*
That night, after Papa had come home, after the EMS had come to take her away, he went to the prayer corner.
There was a new object, he realized, not a Saint portrait. There, hanging from a small Svyataya Anna painting, was his mama’s cross. The one he’d seen her fiddle with sometimes before prayer. He snatched it away and hid it in his pocket.
And he stood, ignoring the tears running down his face, and prayed. When he got to the intercessions, he went through his list. Mama. Papa. Lyosha. Sveta.
Somehow, it doesn’t feel like enough. He prayed again. Then, he thought of all the people he knows. Could he spare them his mama’s fate if he prayed for them?
He ended up adding names to his list, his classmates, his teachers, his teammates, his coach, everyone he could think of. Ilya couldn’t let them die just because he couldn’t bother to spare them a prayer.
He prayed, and then he prayed again, and again, until the sun rose outside his window.
*
The hotel room is too quiet. Most hotel rooms are.
Ilya lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. The mini fridge has been making a slight whirring noise for a while. The clock on the nightstand says it’s 2:13.
He closes his eyes.
Shane. Sveta. Yuna. David.
The names come easily. It settles a familiar ache in his chest. He exhales slowly. It should be enough.
He opens his eyes again, the clock still reads 2:13. Time is moving in slow motion.
Suddenly, a thought creeps in, quiet and insistent.
Who did you miss?
He turns to his side, trying to dismiss it. It doesn’t matter if he missed people. He—
Troy and Harris.
Why hasn’t he thought of them? They were sitting right in front of him as the plane was going down.
Shane. Sveta. Yuna. David. Troy. Harris.
He repeats it slowly. He exhales again, closing his eyes.
There. All better.
What about the rest of the team?
*
When the clock hits 4:17, he’s turned the lights back on. He figured, there's no point in going to sleep now.
He’s pacing now, sliding his socks against the rough carpeted floor. He’s lost count twice already, it keeps slipping, he keeps forgetting.
Shane. Sveta. Yuna. David. Troy. Harris. Bood. Luca. Dykstra. Chouinard. Boyle. Wyatt–
Has he already said Wyatt? Shit.
He starts again, goes slower. In order. It has to be in order. He can’t forget this time.
At some point he picks up his phone. Just to check. He has no missed calls, no text messages. It doesn’t help settle the ache in his ribs. What if something happened and no one has thought to tell him?
He swallows the knot in his throat. He adds more names.
Theo, the guy who wears their mascot costume.
Rose Landry.
Hayden fucking Pike.
Terry, the team medic.
J.J. Boiziau.
Eventually, he expands. He ends up adding his old Boston teammates, all the Centaurs staff and team, their families, Alexei. It keeps expanding, he doesn’t know how to stop it.
The names blur together, he repeats them until they don’t even sound like real words anymore. Just blobs of sound.
He sits down on the bed when black spots begin to fill his vision, massaging his chest.
He can’t do this. There’s too many names, too many people.
There’s always too many.
*
It became his own nightly tradition.
Without missing a night, he would stand there, leaving a space next to him for his mama, before God, praying until his feet hurt and the sun outside started rising.
One night, when Papa was not home, Alexei dragged him away mid-prayer. He lifted him off the ground as he kicked and cried, and didn't let go of him until they were in his room.
“Go to fucking sleep,” he said as he walked out, voice trembling slightly, “We can’t have you going crazy too.”
And then he locked the door.
Ilya feels off balance, like he couldn’t breathe. His chest hurts, as if he’s dying. Distantly, he thinks this might be what his mama must have felt before the end. He empties out his stomach in his trash bin at the thought. She must have been so scared, she must have been in so much pain.
And it’s all his fault.
He wakes up the next day on the floor, his chest is still hurting, and the stench of vomit in his trash bin has grown putrid.
His door is no longer locked from the outside, so he’s finally free to go. The first thing he does is quietly go into Lyosha’s room, and feels a sense of relief flooding his body as he sees his chest rise and fall. He feels like he could collapse from it.
He calls Sveta next, her father is confused about why he’s calling so early, but he lets him speak to her anyway. They talk for five minutes, until he feels like he can breathe again.
This can never happen again.
He makes a beeline to the krasny ugol, and rearranges it so everything is in the right place. The icons of Jesus to his left, icons of Theotokos to his right, and the cross at the center. He separates the male Saints and the female Saints on two different levels.
Finally, when it looks like everything is in place, he begins his morning prayer.
*
Not even ten minutes after he got home, Shane sank down to one knee in front of him.
The world goes very quiet.
“What is this?” he asks, barely a whisper.
Shane gazes up, his expression warm and determined. He’s talking, Ilya knows that much. His lips are moving, he catches fragments of things.
Ilya can’t hear it properly. He can’t hear anything but his own heart beating out of his chest.
“Shane” he says, not really sure what he’s going to say next.
“Could you not interrupt?” Shane asks teasingly, as he fumbles for something in his pocket, “For once in your life.” Then he’s holding a ring, pinched between his index and his thumb.
This is important.
Finally, Shane looks up at him, bright brown eyes shining, a little nervous, “Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, will you marry me?”
The answer is obvious, yes, of course he does.
Nothing comes out. His mind lingers on something else. This is important. He has to do it right.
His throat tightens, suddenly he realizes Shane is still down on one knee, waiting. “Ilya?” he asks, a small furrow between his brows.
He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it before saying anything.
What's the right way to say yes?
There has to be a right way, and if he says it wrong he could ruin everything.
Shane’s expression flickers, his expectant smile turns into something more subdued. “You can take some time to think about it if you–”
“No,” he says, catching Shane’s wrist, that was in the process of putting the ring back in his pocket. “Yes.”
His boyfriend stares at him with obvious confusion.
“Yes,” he says again, more firmly, nodding at the ring. “I’m saying yes, Hollander.”
Shane's lips spread into a wide grin, his face flooding with relief, “Yeah?”
“Of course,” he says. And that much he’s certain of.
Shane scrambles to his feet, and goes into Ilya’s arms.
In between kisses he tells him he loves him, and he manages to feel at ease when the only response to that is a kiss. He’s doing okay. Everything’s okay.
*
That night, after Shane has gone to sleep with an arm loosely on top of his stomach, Ilya stares at the ceiling.
The ring feels heavy, hanging from his mama’s chain right next to the cross. He fiddles with it, turns it once. Then twice.
Cross on the left, ring on the right.
He thinks about the word husband. It feels so much bigger than ‘boyfriend’ ever did. Maybe more dangerous too.
He touches them again. Cross on the left, ring on the right.
Mama and Shane.
He closes his eyes.
Shane. Sveta. Yuna. David.
He hesitates, then adds Shane one more time, just to be safe.
*
His father, as far as Ilya was concerned, hadn’t ever seen him praying. He assumed he knew about it. Before his mama died, they were the only two people in the house that prayed. With his mama gone, it’s just him.
There must be a reason the corner is still there, a reason the candles kept getting replaced by newer ones.
In one of his late nights, the ones that ended up turning into early morning, he is proven wrong. He hears him before he sees him, the harsh stomping noise of his boots breaks him out of the prayer cycle. He sighs, knowing he’s going to have to start all over again.
And then, there his father stands, in full uniform with his keys in his hand. For a moment, neither of them say anything. Ilya becomes hyper aware of everything all at once, he feels the dread that comes with being caught doing something wrong.
“I–” he starts, but his voice is too hoarse for him to continue.
Father’s harsh pale eyes flicker, from the candle, to the icons, and then back to Ilya. He doesn’t look angry. Doesn’t look sad. He just looks vaguely disgusted by him, more than he usually does.
He walks out the door without saying a word, it shuts behind him with a quiet click.
*
“I love you.” Shane says. The words hang in the air.
Ilya stills. He knows he should say it back. His chest tightens, he’s not sure why. It just doesn’t feel right.
“I love you too,” he replies. The words come out too stilted, like void of emotion. He winces, glad Shane can’t see him. “Can–Can you say it again?”
“Sorry?”
“Say it again,” he tries to make his voice sound light and teasing. Tries to see if he can pass this off as flirty.
It doesn’t land quite right, Shane lets out a startled half-laugh. “What?”
“Please,” he says. It comes out sharper and more desperate than he intends it to. He can basically see Shane’s frown on the other line.
“I love you,” Shane repeats, indulging and sweet. Always so sweet.
Ilya nods, taking a deep breath, and touches his chain twice. Cross on the left, ring on the right.
Something is still wrong. Something always is.
“Again,” he pleads.
“Ilya–”
“Just one more time.”
The silence from the other side of the line stretches into something a bit uncomfortable. “Is everything okay?” asks Shane after a beat.
“Shane, please.”
“I love you” Shane says.
“I love you,” Ilya repeats back to him.
It sounds wrong. Flat and empty. Like it belongs to someone else.
Shane goes quiet. “Listen, I have to go.”
“Yeah,” Ilya replies, absentmindedly, “Call later?”
He doesn’t get a reply.
He replays the conversation in his head.
He said it. He did it.
So why is everything still wrong?
*
When Ilya gets home from hockey practice his house is quiet. This is not unusual, by any means, but he calls out just in case, “Alexei?”
No response.
He heads down the hall. He knows something is wrong before he sees it. He stops in the doorway. The shelf is still there, but everything else is not. For a second Ilya just stands there, he doesn’t really understand. He’s just looking at the empty space where the icons should be, like he can will their presence back if he stares hard enough.
It doesn’t work, obviously.
He knows it was there this morning.
The next couple hours are a blur. He scans every cabinet and shelf, scours every drawer. His breathing picks up as the pounding in his chest gets increasingly louder and faster. He checks every room, but nothing ever turns up.
That’s when it hits him, the prayer book. He needs it.
He runs back to the shelf. The prayer book is gone too. A sharp feeling of panic climbs up his chest.
He needs the book.
He double checks, trying not to let his panic get to him.
As he looks again, he tries to remember the words. His head feels too clouded to make that possible.
Mama. Papa. Lyosha. Sveta.
Remembering that part is easy. But the rest is not. He only has fragments.
He drops to his knees, then rests his forehead on them. He repeats what he remembers, in front of the empty shelf. It’s not enough, and he knows it.
Ilya hopes that Theotokos can forgive him.
If she does, his mama might forgive him too.
Mama. Papa. Lyosha. Sveta.
He adds more, there’s always more. The names become easier to come up with each night. He presses his hands against his ears.
What if he does it wrong?
What if he does it wrong and something happens?
He continues anyway. Quietly, under his breath.
*
“I thought you’d given up on me,” Galina says. Her tone is not accusing, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling defensive.
“I was busy.” he replies, “Hockey.”
“It’s been over a month,” she says gently.
“I’ve been having fun with it again, have been feeling excited about it again,” he says. He finds that it is not a lie. “I thought maybe that was enough.”
“If only it were that simple,” Galina says, her lips curving up into a slight smile. “You mentioned in your message that you’ve been having trouble sleeping.”
“Yeah,” he confirms, “I think maybe it’s jet lag. I’ve been traveling a lot lately.”
Galina hums, and pauses. Sometimes she does this, when she wants him to talk. She probably thinks he doesn’t notice. They stare at each other for a moment, and just when Ilya is about to break, she starts again, “What about the flight?”
“It was a mechanical issue, a wing of the plane caught on fire. But everyone’s fine.”
“Were you scared?” she asks.
Ilya huffs out a laugh, “I mean, the plane was on fire, I wasn’t relaxed.”
“What about after the flight?”
“What about it?”
“Is that when the sleep issues started?”
“Yes,” he agrees.
Except, if he’s being honest with himself, sleep has never fully come easy to him. The key difference, he thinks, is that he used to have more ways to distract himself. Meaningless sex, loud clubs, fast cars, good hockey. It was all just a way to keep his mind and his body occupied.
But he’s okay. He doesn’t need any of that anymore, he has Shane.
“Are you finding your thoughts racing at night?”
“Sometimes, yes”
“What kind of things do you think about?”
He shrugs, “I don’t know. Games, travel schedule,” after a beat, he adds, “Shane.”
Galina tilts her head, “And how are things with Shane?”
“Good. Really good.”
“Do you ever find yourself worrying about him?” Galina asks, her gaze steady and calm.
That question hits closer to home than the others.
“Not any more than normal,” he replies.
He has to remind himself this is therapy, he shouldn’t have to lie. The silence between them stretches into something that feels pressing. He should say something
“I mean, I guess after the flight I started thinking about things like that more.”
“That makes sense,” she says. Good. “A near-death experience can bring those feelings to the surface.”
Ilya nods.
It makes sense. He latches onto it.
*
Outside Galina’s office, the air feels sharp. Like a thousand little needles on his skin. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself.
He takes out his phone. No missed calls, no unread messages.
*
At night, after therapy, he thinks. The day his mom died, she’d made him breakfast. Honestly, Ilya is not even sure what it was. He’s never gotten around to eat it, he had woken up late for school and had to leave in a hurry.
He thinks, when mama called out her usual ‘I love you,’ had he said it back?
He’s always thought he did, but what if he was leaving in such a hurry that he forgot?
His mama never really had a chance. He’d doomed her on all fronts.
*
Dinner with Svetlana had gone well. Surprisingly so. Maybe it’s because of how much they’d had to drink, maybe talking about Shane just puts him in a good mood.
Maybe he’d just missed her.
As they’re waiting for their separate cabs to arrive, Svetlana slumped against his side, she starts, “Are you…”, before trailing off.
“What?”
She hesitates, and then, “Is it happening again?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, trying to keep his voice steady. It comes out a lot sharper than he intends it to, bordering on hostile.
She tilts her head back, to look at him. Ilya tries to hold her gaze without feeling too queasy. “Okay,” she replies, smiling sadly.
A car pulls up. Before leaving, Svetlana pulls him for a hug.
“Call me anytime,” she whispers, the hug lingers for a little longer than necessary.
Ilya watches the car drive away until it’s out of sight.
He takes out his phone. Checks his notifications for missed calls. Then, for good measure, he refreshes the notifications and checks again.
He exhales.
Everyone’s okay.
*
For a while, he almost starts to believe it himself.
Things are going really good. The Centaurs have been doing well. He feels dizzy with happiness whenever Shane’s around. He gets Anya. He and Sveta are talking again.
Then, Hayden films a FanMail video and doesn’t check the background.
That’s when it all goes to shit.
*
It’s almost okay at first.
If he distances himself from the situation, it’s almost kind of funny. After a decade of hiding and sneaking around, they got outed by a fucking FanMail video. It doesn’t help soothe the sting of getting benched, but at least his coach took it well enough. He can’t imagine what Shane is going through.
He goes to check his phone just as it lights up with a text from Shane: ‘I ate a snickers bar’
Ilya calls him right away. Puts his phone on speaker as he sets it down on the bed.
“This is bad,” Shane says as soon as he picks up, “Theriault was fucking furious.”
“Well, he’s a prick.”
Shane lets out a small huff of laughter, and doesn’t deny it. “I can’t believe they benched us, it’s such bullshit.”
For a long moment, they just sit miserably with each other.
“It’ll blow over,” Ilya says, not entirely convinced himself, “People are just shocked right now.”
“Let’s see what Farah’s statement says,” Shane says with a sigh, “Rose was right, we should’ve had a Plan B.”
It probably wouldn’t have changed much, he wants to say, they probably just would’ve released a statement sooner.
“We’re okay, though,” he says. Everyone’s okay.
“Are we?” Shane asks.
The question hits him like a truck. He takes a deep breath. Everyone’s okay. “Yes, we are.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Shane says quietly.
Something in his chest tightens. He dismisses it. Tries not to focus on how off it feels.
“We’ll deal with it,” he responds, maybe too quickly, “It’s fine.”
Shane goes quiet. The silence between them wraps its hands around his lungs and squeezes tighter, and tighter.
“Are you even worried?” Shane asks. It catches him off guard.
“Of course,” he replies. “I’m just not panicking.”
“I am.”
The slight anger in his tone just makes his chest squeeze even more.
“That’s okay,” he says quickly, “You can panic. I take care of it.”
The words feel like a promise.
“You’ll take care of it?”
“Yes.”
“Ilya, this isn’t something you can fix.”
Something shifts.
“I can,” he replies. The tightness in his chest makes its way upwards, until it is clogged in his throat. He swallows harshly. “I just mean, it’s fine. Everyone’s okay. We are okay.” Alive.
“We are,” Shane replies, “I’m sorry I’m freaking out at you, this is just…a lot.”
He nods.
But it lingers, are they okay?
Something went wrong, that is a fact. This wasn’t what they had planned. Things don’t just go wrong. Something has to happen.
He did everything right, he said everything right. He made the lists. He must have missed something. Must have gotten something wrong somehow.
His breath stutters.
“Ilya?”
He presses his hand against his chest. He can feel his necklace through his shirt. Cross on the left, ring on the right.
“Hold on,” he tries to say, but he’s not sure if it comes out. The room feels off. Like, tilted. Something has shifted out of place.
“Ilya,” Shane repeats, “What’s going on?”
“I’m okay,” he replies automatically.
But he is not.
Nothing is okay. His lungs are not filling properly. Something is blocking them. He thumps his chest, tries to dislodge it.
“Ilya.”
He replays everything.
I love you.
The list. Shane. Sveta. Yuna. David. Troy. Harris.
Did he say them in the right order?
“I…” He stops, swallows even though it hurts. He thumps his chest one more time. “Give me a second.”
“What?”
Shane sounds angry. Why does he sound angry?
He has to do it again. Under his breath, he repeats, “Shane. Sveta. Yuna. David. Troy. Harris. Bood–”
“What are you doing?” Shane interrupts.
He ignores him, and continues, “Bood. Wyatt. Luca.”
Except, shit, he said Bood twice.
“Ilya, talk to me.”
“I did it wrong”
“Did what wrong?”
He smacks the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“I messed it up,” he repeats, faster.
He doubles over coughing before he can finish. It feels like his heart is trying to break out of his chest. His stomach is twisting violently.
“Ilya.”
He barely registers Shane’s voice. Barely makes it to the trash can before he throws up.
It burns. Burns his throat, his lungs, his eyes, his brain.
“Ilya! What the fuck is happening?”
“I’m sorry,” he manages to get out as he wipes his mouth. He’s faintly aware that his hand is shaking.
He grips the chain hard enough that it hurts. Cross on the left. Ring on the right.
He thought he’d been doing everything right. Clearly he missed something. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m–”
“Hey, hey,” Shane says. Gentle. Always so gentle. “Why are you apologizing? What’s wrong?”
Everything.
He tries to take a deep breath. His lungs don’t work anymore.
“I thought it would be enough,” he says in between gasps. He hopes Shane can understand. He hopes Shane can forgive him.
“You thought what would be enough?”
“I failed us.”
His vision blurs. Why are his lungs not working?
“Ilya, listen to me,” Shane says, but he can’t right now.
“I think I’m dying,” he tells him.
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. “You’re not dying,” Shane says, certain and grounded. “Ilya, I think you’re having a panic attack.”
Ilya shakes his head even though Shane can’t see him. “Something is wrong,” he tells him.
“Ilya, please listen to me.” Shane says, voice steady but urgent. He does. He’s never been able to deny Shane anything before, he’s not about to start now. “It’s okay, you’re okay, you just need to–”
It’s okay.
“Nothing is okay,” he says. His hands are shaking beyond his control. His body is on fire. The room feels distant now, like he’s not in it anymore.
“I’m here,” Shane says.
He can’t bring himself to respond.
“I’m getting in the car,” he continues. “I’m coming to you, just stay with me, okay?”
“No.” At first he’s not sure it comes from him. But it’s not Shane, so it has to be. “Don’t go.”
Shane says something to that, he’s sure of it, he can hear the low hum of his voice. But his words blur together. The edges of the room go hazy, as black spots flood his vision.
“Ilya?”
He tries to respond but nothing comes out.
The world tilts.
*
“Mama, why don’t Lyosha and papa pray with us?” he asked one night as she tucked him in.
She smiled at him sadly. Her smiles are always so sad. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. He loved that about her, she never lied to him. “That just means we have to pray extra hard for them, okay?”
He nodded. He could do that.
*
When Ilya opens his eyes, someone is sitting in front of him.
For a second, nothing makes sense.
Then, “Harris?” he hears a faint voice ask. Not his own.
Harris is crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee and the other one holding a cup of water.
“I think he’s back with us,” he hears Harris say. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing does.
He blinks, his lids feel heavy. Suddenly, he’s aware of something warm pressing against his leg. He looks down.
“Anya,” he mutters. She’s sitting close, head firmly resting against his thigh as her tail thumps tentatively against the floor.
Without meaning to, he lowers his hand and strokes her fur. She’s soft and warm.
“Good girl,” Harris says, glancing down at her briefly, before looking back at him. “She refused to leave your side.”
Ilya swallows. His mouth tastes faintly of vomit, his throat is still burning.
“Here,” Harris says, pushing the cold glass of water towards his hands, “Take small sips.”
He takes it with unsteady hands, watching as the water in the cup sloshes slightly. Somewhere, faintly, he hears his name. He sees his phone on the floor next to him. Shane’s voice, tinny and distant, is calling out to him.
“Shane,” he responds. He’s not sure what else he can say.
He hears Shane exhale. Anya nuzzles further against his thigh.
Everything is wrong. He did everything right and things still went wrong.
He grips the glass tighter.
What did he miss?
*
Beneath your compassion we take refuge, O Theotokos.
Do not despise our supplications in adversity, but deliver us from perils, O only pure and only blessed one
*
When he sees Shane, for a second, it doesn’t feel real.
“Hey,” Shane says, standing by the door frame. Not really at him or Harris, just into the space.
His eyes immediately find Ilya, and he steps closer carefully. Like the air might break. Harris shifts slowly, before quietly retreating into another room and taking Anya with him.
Shane stops a few inches away. He doesn’t look upset, but he doesn’t really look relieved either. He just looks shaken. “I got here as fast as I could,” Shane tells him, gently kneeling on the floor so they’re at the same eye level.
He pauses, and swallows harshly. Ilya can tell he’s desperately trying to meet his gaze, but he tries his best to avoid it. He doesn’t think he can handle that right now. “I thought maybe you…” he continues, “I thought you’d done something to yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya responds.
Shane winces at the word. “Don’t do that,” he says softly. “I’m not upset, I’m just…confused.”
“About what?”
“I don’t understand what you were saying to me on the phone…I want to understand.”
He doesn’t really know how to begin to explain it. Never has figured out how to put it into words without sounding crazy.
“I thought I was doing enough,” is what he finally lands on. It probably doesn’t help Shane understand all that much.
“Enough for what?”
Ilya hesitates. He doesn’t know if he should say it out loud. If he does, it’s going to become real. “To keep it from happening again,” he says finally.
Shane doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at him, like he’s trying to process something that he can’t comprehend.
“What do you mean by it?”
Ilya swallows, and finally meets Shane’s eyes.
When he sees them, beautiful, brown, with a shiny film of tears, he feels a stab of guilt. He did this to him.
“I don’t know…something bad.”
Shane shakes his head, “Bad things happen everyday. You can’t control that.”
Ilya tenses, “I’m trying to.”
It sounds small when he says it like that. Childish and helpless.
Shane leans forward, gets a bit closer. His expression shifts into something he can’t make out. “That sounds exhausting.”
He collapses forward, into the nook between Shane’s neck and his shoulder. He breathes in, taking in his scent.
It really is exhausting.
He feels Shane’s fingers begin to massage his scalp.
After some quiet, Shane pulls his head away, keeping his hand on the side of his face. Ilya tries his best not to completely lean into it.
“I need you to talk to Galina about this,” Shane says, thumb running along his cheek slightly.
He nods, feeling too tired to really say anything else.
Shane’s eyes well up again. “I really thought I was losing you,” he tells him softly.
“I’m here,” he replies through the knot in his throat.
Shane studies him for a long moment before nodding back.
“So am I.”
*
Later that night, or maybe at dawn the next day, they’re lying in bed. Shane’s fingers have been caressing his face for some time, making soothing patterns along his cheekbones, forehead, and eyebrows.
“I did talk to Galina about it,” he whispers. Shane’s movements still for a moment, before he continues. “Not fully, but I did. She said it was anxiety from the flight.”
“Do you think that’s it?” Shane asks, sounding unconvinced.
“I don’t know,” he responds, “In a way, maybe, but not completely.”
“You can tell me,” Shane says.
“I just…I keep thinking if I do something wrong, bad things are going to happen.”
He pauses for a moment to think, Shane looks at him expectingly but doesn’t interrupt. He searches his eyes for judgement, disgust, or anger. It’s a relief to find none, but he doesn’t fool himself into thinking it won’t happen once he tells him everything.
“It feels like,” he continues, “There are things I’m supposed to do, and there’s a right way to do them. And if I don’t, and something bad happens, I’ve failed.”
“Is it always like that?” asks Shane, looking at him sadly. He doesn’t know if he prefers pity to anger.
“Not always.”
Maybe that’s the worse part. He hasn’t been able to find the pattern, if there even is one. It comes in waves.
Shane stops his movement, withdrawing his hands from his face. “You’ll tell me next time it gets bad,” Shane says. It’s not a question but it feels like one.
“Okay,” he says. He’s not entirely convinced, but he doesn’t want to keep things from Shane. Not anymore.
Shane lets out a stuttering exhale, “Thank you,” he says. Then, softer: “Today was terrifying.”
His chest twists. “Why?”
Shane laughs, but it doesn’t hold a lot of humor. “I wanted to help you, but I didn’t know how. I don’t want to make things worse for you.”
Ilya shakes his head. “You don’t.”
Shane smiles at him, a little wobbly, but real. “We’ll figure out,” he tells him.
We’ll figure it out. Maybe, for tonight, that can be enough.