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Ilya had never asked about the lines.
They'd always been present since they had first fucked in 2010, sitting innocuously on Shane's skin, thin and clustered and parallel, smattered across his hips and upper thighs. Some of them sat starkly from the stretch marks Ilya cherished every time he got his hands on him, but sometimes the difference was minimal, Ilya just looked close enough; he knew that they didn't line up with the curves of Shane's body and were far too carefully placed. But he never saw the lines scabbed over or bleeding, so he tried to avoid assuming.
Especially after he had seen how self harm scars could look.
He had hooked up with a girl in his early twenties. It followed all of the beats his hookups usually did. They met at a club, eye-fucking each other for a while before their bodies connected on the dance floor. They made out extensively, and the offer to come back to her hotel arose naturally. In her hotel room, she had kissed him fervently as he tugged at the hem of her sweater.
But instead of letting him take her sweater off, she grabbed his hand. She admitted that it was her first hookup in a while and that she would understand if the scars were a turn off; she could keep her shirt on or leave. Ilya pressed a kiss to her neck and told her that the state of her arms made no difference to him (or, more truthfully, his dick). So he fucked her, pretending that the sight of the raised and purple scars didn't make his heart sink a little.
He said all of the things he said to everyone he slept with, got both of them off how he usually did. But if he held her a little more tenderly, trying to be a little more considerate than he would his usual hookups, she wouldn't know. They still parted ways in the morning, and both of them were satisfied by their night together, never to speak again.
Her scars looked so different to the lines on Shane's body.
He couldn't bring himself to ask. Not with the intimacy that he was still getting accustomed to after years of suppression— of being afraid of pushing Shane away, yet dying at the thought of being separate from him. Back when Ilya noticed that more lines had appeared between hookups, it just seemed better for it to go unspoken. Shane always pretended they weren't there, so Ilya followed suite.
He dreaded the thought of bringing it up. Maybe he'd be wrong and Shane would get weird and freak out in the way that only he could, retreating swiftly and hiding.
They laid there, an open secret neither of them were brave enough to talk about.
It should be different now, but the both of them were nearly thirty and the subject died on his tongue every time Ilya thought about bringing it up. Part of him didn't know if it mattered anymore. In the last several years of their now serious and exclusive partnership, many of the thin lines had faded away, blending together to where they could be shrugged off as random splotches of discoloration. Maybe bringing it up again would make things worse, or God forbid, bring it back. Shane's ongoing restrictive eating habits, trying to make the most of their time together, (barely) managing his depression, and simply making it through every day took too much time for Ilya to put much weight into something that could be nothing.
Of course, Ilya should've known to never doubt his observational skills. Especially when pertaining to Shane.
The two men laid, bodies intertwined on the couch. Ilya laid on top of Shane, resting his head on his collarbone— a favorite position on Shane's part— the warm press of his husband sandwiching him with the cushions. The television ran some cooking competition neither of them paid much attention to. Anya slept on her bed on the loveseat next to them.
Ilya knew Shane was thinking, given away by the careful way he chewed his lips and the crease on his forehead as he laid unsettlingly still in Ilya's arms. He had a lot on his mind since they'd talked about Ilya's depression. He didn't rub Ilya's back or run his hands through his curls, resigning himself to simply holding his fiance's body. He stared into the distance and thought.
So Ilya patiently waited, trusting their many years together that Shane would piece together his words and bring it up on his own; allowing his hands to gently wander over him in the meantime.
Sure enough, after several minutes of waiting, of gently tracing shapes onto Shane's shoulder and pressing chaste, infrequent kisses around Shane's collarbone, he broke the silence.
"Ilya," Shane said. Ilya monitored the nervous press of Shane's lips together, the way his eyes flittered around the room to anything and nothing before settling behind closed eyelids. "Can I ask you something?"
He moved a hand to cradle Shane's jaw, a thumb slowly brushing back and forth against his cheek. "Yes, my love?"
Shane remained still, controlled in a way that made Ilya frown. "Last week after you came home, you told me about how you feel depressed sometimes." Ilya hummed in confirmation. "Did you ever… do anything risky because of it?"
"I do not want to kill myself, Shane," Ilya responded immediately. The days he had laying in bed doing nothing had given him plenty of time to roll the thought in his head. "And I have never tried. I do not want to leave you behind."
Shane knew that there was more to that, of course. They had talked about the possibilities the first time Ilya had brought up his depression— how it wasn't impossible but it wasn't the first thought Ilya defaulted to when it got hard— but this remained true. Maybe he just hadn't made it clear enough before? Or maybe Shane wanted another confirmation that Ilya wasn't actively suicidal and just lying about it. Either, Ilya figured, was an unfortunate yet valid thought process.
"That's… Well, good." Shane thumbed with the hem of Ilya's hoodie, running his nail along the textured ribbing. After a moment, the words came out meekly. "Did you ever hurt yourself?"
Ilya stilled.
Fuck. It was happening.
For a second, he could only see those beautiful hips and thighs, trying to suppress the surge of anxiety running through his body. He thought of how he noticed them stack and stack over the years, how sometimes they were all lined up and parallel and how sometimes they were grids. And shit, maybe he paid more attention to them than he thought he did. He remembered how Shane would sometimes hesitate before taking off his boxers or briefs when they hooked up; how Shane would look blissfully ruined off of their making out until Ilya's hands wandered to his waistband; how Shane seemed relieved when Ilya never said anything, yet how there was something harder to identify in that expression than relief. Something lost and untethered, like a balloon waiting for someone to reach out and pull him back down before he floated too far into the sky. Something desperate. Something lonely.
Ilya recalled the one time Shane had cancelled on him. Boston and Montreal had a game the next day and Shane had told him that he was "was spending time with his parents" and couldn't meet up. Ilya thought little of it at the time, feeling only slightly needy and sexually inconvenienced. Now he thought that maybe that was bullshit. Maybe there were rows of scabs where his hands should've been. Was there anything else he missed?
Ilya hadn't seen the grids grow and the lines reappear in years, but he'd seen that same look— the scared and wounded expression that could go anywhere from completely taking Shane over to just flashing across his face.
He took a deep breath and brought himself back, hoping Shane didn't feel his increasing heart rate.
"Sex; fighting on and off the ice; drugs and alcohol," Ilya said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. He kissed Shane's jaw softly and let the feeling linger. "It's a long list, but nothing you don't know about. Nothing I do much of now." Shane nodded. "Why do you ask me this?"
Shane's lip trembled before he caught it in his teeth again. "I just worry and I love you. And I don't want it to sound like you're bothering me— because you aren't—" Shane took a breath. "I just wanted to ask since it's something that came up in the things I was reading. About depression. And I would like to know if you ever felt that way. I would want you to tell me. You'd tell me, right?"
"Of course. I will let you know."
"Thank you."
Ilya squeezed him for a second. Shane squeezed him back. It did little to release the tense ball of worry in Ilya's chest. Shane remained quiet.
He could totally leave the conversation here. It'd be easier to let it trail off. But the lines. Ilya couldn't leave it alone now. If they didn't talk about it now, it never would come up. Or it would come up and there would be no segue, no natural way into the conversation. That sounded way worse.
God, he hadn't ever thought to bring this up with Galina, to make strategies to have this conversation as tactfully as he could. He was getting better at hard conversations, but he usually knew those were coming before they happened.
He was not suddenly immune to brashly snapping or saying the wrong thing. Even so, years of never addressing the scars on Shane's body and wanting to ask but not knowing how; remnants from a near decade of emotional suppression and doing anything he could to keep Shane from pushing him away finally and suddenly escaped his lips.
"Would you let me know?"
If Ilya thought Shane couldn't have gotten more tense, he was wrong. He felt more statue than man in Ilya's arms.
Shane stammered out, "What?" His eyes were wide, trained on a random corner of the room while he caught his bottom lip in his teeth the chew on.
"You asked me this because you used to," Ilya said. He felt like he'd explode if they danced around it any more. Of course Shane knew that Ilya knew— the both of them had spent extensive time studying each others' bodies— but the accusation spread over them both, thick and heavy.
Shane let out a shaky breath. "… Fuck. I'm sorry, I— fuck."
Ilya shifted, gently pulling Shane up to sit next to him. He held Shane's face in one hand, ready to wipe the tears that bubbled up on his waterline. He gingerly pressed kisses across his face— his forehead, his freckles, his jaw. He pressed a firm and loving kiss to Shane's lips so he couldn't bite them until they bled. "We're okay. You're safe here." Ilya rubbed his other hand over Shane's shoulder, holding him steady.
"I love you so much, Ilya," Shane whispered, twisting the fabric of Ilya's shirt in his hands. "I want to share everything with you. I do. I just— I don't want this to be one of the things we share. I don't want you to feel like this, too. I fucking hate this about me. I had to make sure."
Ilya felt his stomach sink ever deeper, the hole carving straight through his chest. The nervous lump at the base of his throat became harder to ignore. Everything in him screamed to end the conversation, to go back to holding each other like they had been just moments prior. He was sure that Shane could sense it, but they both knew how hard it was to ignore a reality once they had spoken it aloud.
"Have you… recently?"
Shane shook his head. "We fuck enough that I think you would've noticed," he mumbled caustically.
"But you still think about it?" It was more of a statement than a question.
"I feel fucking pathetic," Shane said.
"Shane," Ilya scolded softly, moving a hand from Shane's face to rub up and down his arms. "My fiance is beautiful and strong, yes? So do not talk that way about the love of my life."
Shane let out a strangled noise, a tear finally rolling down his face. Ilya caught it with his lips, kissing the wetness into Shane's cheek. "Sorry, I— Sorry."
"You are so strong," Ilya repeated. The salt bloomed over his tongue. He let the taste of it comfort him in the way Shane didn't quite have the capacity to right then. "How long has it been?"
"Almost five years? I try not to think about it."
Ilya scheduled when he would do the calculations on what happened that year for when Shane softly snored beside him in their bed. He would analyze what happened in between every hookup where more scars had appeared, piecing together every memory he had of Shane and the timeline of their relationship, but for now he stayed present. "Do you still want to?"
"Sometimes," Shane choked out. "I think it's the procedure? I know all of the steps I take, how deep I can get without it being too much of a problem, how to clean them. And I feel something other than anxious all of the time. It's like I can get out of my head of a second."
"What are you thinking about when you're worried like this?" God, he felt like Galina. He was sure they would've joked about his therapy inspired questioning if either of them were more settled.
"God, what am I not thinking about?" Shane laughed bitterly. "Everything I thought I had handled got derailed in one moment, and it feels like I can't control anything anymore. Like I'm always drowning. It's like the only time I have any say in what happens to me is when I'm with you. Sometimes it feels like we're in a bubble that everyone else is trying to pop and I can't do anything about it. I just have to watch and let them."
Ilya considered the words. He didn't know what living in Shane's brain felt like— even if he got pretty damn close. Shane's constant anxiety and worry didn't live in Ilya's body the same way. But Ilya knew what it felt like to have Shane be his only reprieve from something that permeated his life, the murky haze that kept him in bed and made him unable to answer texts. He knew that being together was not a cure, but something that eased the pain; something that turned navigating the pitch-dark into fumbling around silhouettes.
"You will always have choice with me," Ilya reaffirmed after thinking for a bit. "They cannot take that away from us. Not what is ours."
"Your citizenship— we're not married yet," Shane pointed out, painfully.
"I hear you are worried. We will be husbands soon. And there is nothing left for me in Russia. My world is right here." He squeezed Shane's shoulder, eliciting a small, wet smile from him. "We'll figure it out."
"I don't like that you have to choose," Shane admits.
"Is not your fault. I will choose you always. In every lifetime."
"Okay."
"Also," Ilya began, taking one of Shane's hands into his, pacing a thumb over his knuckles. "I do not care if it has been a long time or you feel silly about it. I will sit with you until you do not want to hurt yourself. Is the same with my depression. We will do this together, yes? We will be husbands and married and we will face our struggles together."
"Together," Shane repeated. And after a moment. "I've never told anyone. I didn't think I ever would."
Ilya pressed his forehead against Shane's, his heart swelling at the warmth and closeness of their shared breathing. "Thank you for telling me. I love you." Shane nodded a little, letting out a small noise. "You are my everything, Shane. I will do anything for you."
"Me too," Shane said, opening his eyes to look at his fiance. "I love you so much."
Ilya smiled through the sting of tears in his eyes. "I know, Shane."
Shane pulled Ilya closer to him, meshing their lips together, the television still playing some show neither of them cared about. Shane buried his hands in Ilya's curls, taking pieces and twirling them around his fingers. They spent a while just breathing in each other's air, hairlines pressed together.
After some time of holding each other and kissing and absorbing each other's warmth, the two of them meandered to their shared bedroom. Ilya flitted through their drawers for pajama pants while Shane undressed and tossed his clothes into their hamper.
"Join me?" Shane asked, opening the door to their en suite bathroom. Of course, there is no world in which a sane Ilya would say no to this except under extraneous circumstances.
Shane was already in the shower when Ilya entered the bathroom, rinsing conditioner out of his hair as steam crept onto the edges of the mirror. He opened the glass and stepped in, latching onto Shane and kissing his shoulder like they hadn't been holding each other for over an hour just moments ago.
They worked together in silence, languidly letting the waterfall shower wash over the two of them. Shane motioned for Ilya to turn around, lathering shampoo in his hands before working the foam into Ilya's curls. He always did this for much longer than he probably had to, simply enjoying the way Ilya would go content and nearly limp, leaning into Shane's fingers as he massaged the suds in.
He guided Ilya's head into the water to rinse, repeating the cycle with conditioner, evenly applying it and letting it settle into the strands. He grabbed a bar of soap and ran it over his fiance's body, admiring the birthmarks and moles dotting his skin. He crouched as he went, pressing chaste kisses into each patch of newly clean skin.
Once he had finished, he handed the bar to Ilya, who repeated the process on Shane. Ilya was attentive at scrubbing behind Shane's ears. He gave a swift and cheeky squeeze at Shane's pecs as he passed over his chest. As he traveled lower, following the bar of soap with his lips, he found himself kneeling, eyes flush with Shane's pelvis.
He ran the bar of soap over a faded cluster on Shane's hipbone, brushing his thumb against them. He let the water wash the bubbles away before pressing his lips to them.
Shane's breath hitched.
It wasn't the first time Ilya had kissed him on his scars, not when there were so many in such a central area, but this felt more deliberate; more raw.
"This okay?" Ilya breathed, looking up at Shane, his gaze thick with adoration.
Shane nodded affirmatively and hummed, unable to suppress the stinging returning to his eyes or find any words to properly respond. He felt fuzzy and a little dizzy from the relentless care and adoration. It made his heart squeeze. He fought the urge to spiral, allowing himself to be seen instead of pushing Ilya away to hide.
Ilya continued, washing and pressing kisses to each clump of discolored lines. He placed a steadying hand on Shane's waist when he realized he was trembling.
"You are beautiful," Ilya said against his thigh. "All of you."
He repeated this over and over, throwing in the occasional "I love you" as the bar of soap exponentially shrunk. Ilya finished washing Shane's legs and feet, peppering his scars with kisses all the while.
Shane threaded his fingers into Ilya's hair in a practiced motion.
Of course, having his fiance on his knees and latching his lips onto his skin quickly caused Shane's dick to quickly erect itself, despite the nonsexual nature of Ilya's kisses. Ilya traced a path over to it with his tongue.
"Beautiful. I love you," Ilya reminded Shane again before licking a stripe over the side of his cock.
"Oh fuck, Ilya," Shane groaned, his grip tightening on Ilya's curls. "Love you, too." His voice came out choppy and strained. He leaned into the hold Ilya had on his hip. The mouth on his cock did little to quell the shakiness in his body, only adding to bouquet of feelings threatening to overwhelm him completely. But he trusted Ilya.
Shane was familiar with physical release, maybe to the point of obsession. He studied several forms it could take— the push and exhaustion when he pushed his body to the crest of its strength, the adrenaline when someone slammed him against the rink boards hard enough to bruise, and the endorphins flooding his brain once he added a wound to his skin— but of all the ways he could let go, nothing felt as safe as this, as handing over his body to the man he loved. He relished in the heat, the build up; in Ilya's attention to detail, the way he'd memorized Shane's body and knew it's reactions better than he knew his own. Shane loved the way his brain went quiet other than the chant and prayer of Ilya's name looping in his mind. He did not have to be anything other than Ilya's.
He'd been craving some sort of give or release for what felt like eons. The whole world seemed to be observing him like a strange specimen in a lab, journalists pumping out garbage gossip articles on the secret Shane had spent years fighting to keep precious and private. "How Shane Hollander Coming Out Will Impact His Career" and "The Implications of Hollander and Rozanov's Relationship on Hockey" and "On Shane Hollander Sabotaging his Team for Boston's Ilya Rozanov". Between the invasive prodding from reporters, teammates, and other Metros staff; his own uncontrollable and unyielding anxiety; and the worry he had for Ilya's well-being despite his pretending to be fine, he was honestly impressed with himself for avoiding a relapse. And now someone he loved knew. Someone he loved knew that he used to cut himself and stayed despite how flawed it made him.
He did so well, all things considered, that he figured he owed himself this. He owed himself to fall apart somewhere he knew someone would catch him, and he owed himself permission to be seen.
At some point, the bar of soap made it back to its home on a small ledge on the shower wall, allowing Ilya to move his other hand up Shane's thigh to grab his ass, firmly digging his fingers into the flesh. He continued gently lapping and mouthing at Shane's cock, unhurriedly. He took the head into his mouth, giving Shane a soothing squeeze on his hip as he bucked forward.
"Please," Shane begged, breath ragged and face flushed. Ilya traced ginger, loving circles around the tip with his tongue. "I can't— I need more."
Ilya, always weak to the look of intoxication in Shane's eyes, obliged. He took Shane further into his mouth, dragging his tongue as he sunk down on the length of him. He savored the heady cries and moans escaping Shane's throat. He swallowed before thoroughly fucking his mouth with Shane's dick until the man went slack against the wall, held up only by Ilya's hands and the corner of the shower.
There was no higher honor, Ilya thought, than having someone trust him to take care of them so openly and absolutely. He was not raised with a stable foundation, so he never thought he could provide stability for someone. And yet Shane trusted him. It took years of earning, but Ilya became a solid enough presence to rely on. He tried not to cry at the thought.
Shane came, writhing and crying against the tiles, gripping Ilya's hair like he would float away if he loosened his grip at all. Ilya held him just as firmly, working the last of Shane's release out of him before swallowing, reveling in the tang and salt of it. He pressed a few final kisses to the scars, slow and comforting.
"Ilya," Shane whimpered. "Ilya. Ilya." Ilya rose from his knees, ignoring the ache from the tile patterning indented on his knees. He kept his hold sturdy, guiding Shane's weight from the wall and entirely onto him. Shane grabbed onto Ilya's biceps, resting his head on Ilya's collarbone. "Thank you. Thank you."
They held each other under the warm, steady stream of water until Shane reentered his body, hand finding Ilya's cock to return the sentiment.
They fell into bed exhausted, Anya curled up on her pillow at the foot of their bed. They laid facing each other, entangled in each other's limbs. Shane's eyelids hung heavy as he sleepily gazed at his fiance like he'd given him the world.
"I don't think I'll get up in time for my morning workout," Shane grumbled.
"Came so hard you'll be out until next season starts," Ilya quipped. He poked Shane's cheek with a finger, laughing softly at how his face scrunched.
"No. Could've been better. Six out of ten."
Ilya gasped dramatically. "Never in my life have I been rated this low in the bedroom. You must be lying! You are a liar."
"Fuck off, 'm not lying," Shane said through a yawn. "Try again tomorrow. Maybe you'll get a better score."
Fuck, Shane was so perfect. He was perfect and funny and he loved Ilya, trusting him enough to give him a part of himself he wanted to hide.
Ilya, knowing his time with an awake Shane rapidly dwindled, took a moment to gather his final thoughts of the night. He needed to get one last thought out about their earlier conversation.
"I am glad you told me," Ilya said. "Thank you for trusting me."
"I love you," Shane replied, yawning. He didn't get another word out before he fell asleep, cuddled up against Ilya, arm slung over his waist.
"I love you, too," Ilya murmured, kissing Shane's temple.
He let the darkness envelop him, comforted by the feel of Shane in his arms. He shut his eyes, focusing on the sound of his family around him, their breathing.
Fuck, it was scary. Having figures in life that he loved and who loved him was absolutely terrifying. Ilya never knew if he was being too much or if he was enough at all. Shane would never make him feel inadequate on purpose, of course, but that didn't stop him from worrying that he was. He was afraid of monopolizing Shane's time without realizing it, taking and taking and asking for much more than Shane wanted to give. So he allowed himself to notice, but did his best not to push.
Here, laying in bed with his family, he realized that it might not be enough to notice. He had to push sometimes to know things were okay.
And though Ilya felt guilt settle in his stomach, wishing he asked Shane about his scars much earlier, another part of him just felt relieved that he knew for certain that he and Shane could talk about it now. It wasn't a scary, off-limits topic that would push Shane away. It was uncomfortable as hell, yes, but it was attainable. There was more to talk about— how they would handle their bad days, what to do if they overlapped, Shane seeking professional help— but Ilya felt content with where they let the conversation trail off, feeling skin again skin, warmth against warmth.
Ilya was still learning what this love meant to him. This love meant seeing someone wholly, observing their habits and knowing their tells. It was studying someone as a student does their favorite subject, absorbing and connecting pieces together with an unyielding hunger to know more. Love was noticing. But most of all, love was proving to someone that there is not piece of them too broken to love.