Work Text:
Ilya was a different person than he had been. Obviously. That was mostly Shane’s doing. He was kinder, softer, a little less angry. He liked this version of himself.
He was also less self-destructive.
There were bad days. Depressive episodes, technically. But his old teenage habit — he hadn’t fallen back on that in a while now. Almost a whole year.
It had scared Shane, the one time he did it since they met. That was about nine months ago. They were married, happy, with a dog, and Ilya had still done it. Shane had been upset. He acted calm, but Ilya knew him well enough to catch on to the confusion, the fear, even the undercurrent of anger. It had pissed Shane off.
“Why didn’t you talk to me first?” he had asked. And Ilya didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to articulate that, at that moment, Shane actually hadn’t mattered at all. It was just Ilya and the blade. And then after, when reality came rushing back in with the pain and the realization that Ilya had done it, had done something exceptionally stupid, had failed at staying clean — that’s when he thought about Shane. And the guilt hit him hard.
Ilya didn’t know how to say all that, so instead he said, “I’m sorry, solnyshko.” And Shane had encouraged him to talk next time. Had told him he’d always listen.
Had asked him, in a halting, awkward voice, where he kept “the stuff.” The blades, he meant. Shane couldn’t say the words. Or maybe he didn’t totally understand how Ilya had done it. But he had correctly guessed that there was “stuff” Ilya owned and hid.
The thought of telling him left Ilya abruptly panicked. He wanted to protect Shane. He didn’t want to bother him with his bullshit sadness, let alone the gory details.
And a dark, quiet part of him didn’t want Shane to take it away. If he told Shane, he’d make Ilya get rid of “the stuff.” And for whatever reason, Ilya couldn’t.
So he had avoided the question. Said it didn’t matter. Apologized again. Distracted him by changing the subject. It had worked.
Nine months later, and Ilya was clean. It hadn’t come up again. It’s not that he didn’t feel the urges. Almost every day, he felt a tug to do it. But the thought of Shane’s face stopped him every time. He had managed nine months this way.
He tried not to think about it too much. That’s how he avoided acting on it. He stayed busy. He trained hard, played harder. He went to therapy and took his pills. On the harder days, he cuddled Shane and Anya. On the hardest days, he stayed in bed. He didn’t act. You can feel it without acting on it. That’s what Galina had said. That’s what he was trying to do.
Until.
“Hey,” Shane said one evening, and his voice sounded stilted.
Ilya had immediately tensed in his spot on the couch. Anya had looked at him when his hand stilled mid-pet.
Shane had been obsessed with spring cleaning. He wanted to organize every drawer, wipe down every cabinet, and give away at least 50% of their things, or so it seemed to Ilya. In truth, he recognized Shane was just a bit of a neat freak, a minimalist, and excited to have an excuse to reorganize their house.
Ilya was the opposite. In fact, he didn’t know how Shane had the energy. Ilya spent most days just trudging through. He had nothing extra to give to organizing or cleaning or basic homeowner tasks. But he tried for his husband. He contributed, if a little less enthusiastically. He wanted to contribute. He wanted to match Shane’s energy. He didn’t want Shane to think he was…incompetent, or whatever. He wanted to be worthy.
So it was a Saturday, and the smell of cleaning supplies was still in the air from a day of scrubbing, and Ilya was freshly showered and lazing on the couch when Shane walked in and said, “Hey.”
“Yes?” Ilya asked. Carefully. “What’s up, moya lyubov?”
Shane sank down next to him on the couch and, in a totally uncharacteristic move, reached for his hand. Ilya let him grip it. He felt the dredges of panic fluttering in his stomach. Was Shane mad at him? Had he fucked up? Was he about to leave him?
He did not at all expect what Shane said next.
“I found your stuff.”
Ilya blinked. What? “My stuff?”
“Your —” Shane swallowed. “The stuff you used to — you know.”
His eyes darted down to Ilya’s thigh, then back up. And suddenly Ilya understood. Ice ran through his veins.
“You weren’t meant to see that,” he choked out.
Shane’s grip on his hand tightened. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, always so gentle, but bile rose in Ilya’s throat.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”
It had been hidden well, Ilya thought. Tucked behind some of Ilya’s old clothes in a drawer Shane never opened. He never wanted to upset Shane. He never wanted him to see all his fractured edges.
“Baby, breathe,” Shane reminded him, and Ilya took in a ragged breath. “It’s okay. It’s handled. I threw it away.”
Ilya had been working on breathing, listening to Shane’s calm voice saying calm things. But at that last sentence, alarm bells blared in his head.
“You — you threw it away?” Ilya asked, in total disbelief.
Shane looked at him like it was obvious. Like he hadn’t just said something that, to Ilya, was inexplicably devastating.
“Yeah, I got rid of it. So it’s okay now.”
There was a pause. Ilya felt, to his mortification, tears prickling behind his eyes.
“No, you can’t — it wasn’t — I need that,” he finally said.
Now it was Shane’s turn to look at him like he was crazy. Which, all things considered, he kind of was. “What? You don’t need it. It’s bad for you. I was helping.”
Ilya suddenly jumped to his feet, the panic surging into anger. “You don’t decide that, Hollander! That was mine!” It was fucked up and damaging and not at all who Ilya wanted to be. But it was his. And he did need it. How could Shane not see that?
Hurt flashed across Shane’s face, probably at the use of his last name more than anything, and then it gave way to pure confusion. “Okay, you’re not making sense,” he said. “Ilya, sit down. Explain it to me.”
But Ilya was choking on his own breath, those damned tears threatening to spill over. And it was stupid. It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt himself, not really. The rational part of him understood why Shane did it. He understood Shane loved him and cared about him and did not want to see him self-harm. But this had never been rational. It was complicated and emotional and borne out of anger. With nothing else to hold onto, anger is what gripped him now.
It was hard to appear angry while he was crying, but he could try.
“Dammit, Shane!” he snapped, and shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes as if he could stop the water from leaking out.
Shane was suddenly on his feet, standing in front of Ilya with his hands on his shoulders. “Hey. Okay. You’re upset. I should’ve talked to you first, I see that now. I’m sorry.”
Ilya opened his mouth to protest, to rage, to apologize, but only a muffled sob came out. Shane pulled him against his chest into an awkward, tight hug, Ilya’s hands still covering his eyes, Shane’s hands rubbing circles over his boyfriend’s shoulder blades.
“You’re okay,” Shane murmured as Ilya cried. “You’re going to be okay.”
They stayed like that for a long few minutes, until Ilya’s sobs finally quieted. Shane held him the whole time.
When Ilya was cried out, Shane kissed his forehead. Ilya expected him to ask questions, to demand an explanation. He didn’t expect for him to say, “I’m so proud of you.”
“What?”
“I am,” Shane insisted. “This is hard shit. I’m sorry you’re dealing with this. I’m sorry it hurts. I wish I could fix it. I tried to help, but I obviously triggered something.”
Any other time, Ilya would roll his eyes at the therapy talk. Now, he just listened. Shane continued.
“You let yourself feel it. You didn’t close off. I’m proud of you for that and I’m proud of you for trying to get better.”
The two men were silent for a minute. Ilya felt the absurd urge to laugh. Shane was proud of him for not doing something that should require no effort not to do. It was ridiculous.
But he was right; it was hard.
“It’s been worse lately,” Ilya finally admitted into Shane’s shoulder. His boyfriend hummed, listening. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut tight. “I mean, it’s always — I always want to. But it’s been harder lately to not do it.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Shane said. He hesitated, then added, “I don’t really understand, but I know it’s hard for you. What can I do to make it easier?”
What could he do? Ilya had no idea.
“I don’t need you to fix,” he finally said. “Is not your job.”
“No, not to fix. But I’m your partner. I want to be there for you,” Shane corrected. “Good times and bad, remember?”
Ilya sighed. God, he was so tired of being tired.
“Can we just go to bed for now?” he asked in a small voice. “I’ll call Galina tomorrow. I’ll up the meds. I’ll do whatever you want. Just — can we sleep now?”
Shane rubbed circles on his back and nodded. “Okay. We’ll talk about it in the morning. But you’re okay. You’re here and you’re safe and I’ve got you.”
Ilya was exhausted, overwhelmed by the depth of his response to Shane’s announcement, a response that he didn’t totally understand. Still teary-eyed, still fractured, still certain he was broken. But he knew Shane was telling him the truth. It was hard and, right now, he was okay. Two things could be true at once. Another Galina quip.
As Shane led him to their bedroom, Ilya held on tight to his hand.