Archive of Our Own

Ilya, sometimes, has trouble getting out of bed.

Anya on the other hand, doesn't. To Ilya's utter misfortune.

It's 9 A.M. on a Saturday. Shane (because he's a psychopath) takes longer morning runs on the weekends since he doesn't have practice. It's a routine they have now— Anya and Ilya— like a silent agreement in a way: that Ilya is allowed to sleep in until Shane gets back if he doesn't end up waking at the crack of dawn and running with Shane. Honestly, Ilya just hasn't been able to find the motivation to get up early at all, so he hasn't. And he has a bad feeling Anya is picking up on that.

Shane knows better than to push him. Just like Anya, he can guage when Ilya is having a few off days— nothing jurastic, but sometimes Ilya likes to pace himself. Shane, because he's human, can much better tell Ilya's mood because they can verbally understand eachother, of course. Ilya knows when Shane asks which side of the scale he might be on when he isn't feeling too great, Shane will act accordingly. After being together for so long— and now a happily married couple— it has been much easier to find a balance regarding what Ilya needs and doesn't need during his respective episodes even if he can't pinpoint exactly why he feels so terrible.

It's nice how considerate his husband is though, offering Ilya extra hugs, kisses, making him food when he doesn't want to do it himself. Shane has always been so helpful, so supportive as Ilya had navigated his MDD— which he came to find means major depressive disorder— diagnosis, getting therapy and getting on medication. Any help Ilya gets from the people he knows he's always going to be grateful for, especially considering that was something he never had the privilege of growing up with.

And then there's Anya, their 3 year old, adorable, playful little border-collie that Ilya rescued a year or so back.

She and Ilya have always had their own sort of way of communicating, especially since she officially finished her training and became a certified as a PSD— a "psychiatric service dog". She's helpful in all her own ways, too. They haven't had her for too long, but Ilya always felt like they've had her forever. She just seemed to fit with them, making them a little family, taking up a space in their home they hadn't realized was hollow.

Most dogs are, Ilya supposes, but if there's one thing about Anya it's that she is very, very persistent.

It's almost scary, how quickly she can evaluate when something is wrong with Ilya. As if he dares to groan or sigh a certain way on some days,  she'll flag the noises as a warning, or— an "alert", as Shane called it— that something is off with him, that something might be wrong. Astonishingly, (and no matter how stubborn Ilya can be about admitting it) she's somehow correct every single time.

She was trained well. Maybe a little too well.

So, when Shane gets home after his run, showers, and starts making his smoothie in the kitchen and Ilya still isn't out of bed, Anya starts to get antsy.

She had been holding off, Ilya could tell, as he drifted in and out of sleep up until almost 9:30. Truthfully, he just felt lazy. Indolent. Like maybe if he stayed in bed all day it might solve all his problems, including getting rid of the slowly growing weight within his chest that had no real reason to be there.

Of course, their sweet girl wouldn't let slide Ilya even thinking about letting himself sulk.

Eventually, when she'd had enough of him, Anya prances up to the bed and nudges Ilya's hand that rests limply just over the edge of it. Ilya groans again, waving his hand a couple times as if to tell her to shoo, but Anya pays it no mind. She nudges him again, and again, licks his hand, nudges him once more, whining dramatically. Even when Ilya retracts his hand and rolls over, trying to bury himself into their comforter, Anya just hops up onto the bed and nudges her wet nose into Ilya's face.

"Go get your dad, Anya." Ilya moans out, wanting to be left alone to rot. "Papa is just resting. Do not worry."

Anya, in reply, barks at him once. She doesn't want to go anywhere. They both know she won't— not until Ilya gets out of bed.

"Shane." Ilya drawls pathetically.

"Yeah?" He hears his lovely husband ask from down the hall. He's making lunch or something, Ilya thinks. He was too busy drifting as Shane explained his plans for the day to remember.

"Idi syuda, lyubimaya." Come here, my love, Ilya says with half his face into his pillow, gently pushing Anya back for a taste of her own medicine. All it does is cause her to bark again.

Shane appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame and wiping his hands with a kitchen towel. "Yes?" He tilts his head, taking in Ilya's boneless form with their adorable, fluffy black and white dog standing over him on the bed.

"Anya wants you to play." Ilya says. He lifts his head, making eye contacy with his beautiful, angel of a husband, "With you. She just tell me this right now."

Shane only hums, crossing his arms. He has this knowing look on his face, which means Ilya probably isn't going to get away with what he clearly wants.

"You're lying." Shane says, his tone leaving no room for argumeny. "I think we both know what she's really asking for."

Ilya sighs heavily, planting his face into his pillow once again. So much for Shane's help.

Anya barks again, once, twice. She whines again, clearly becoming more and more impatient.

"Anya, come." Shane instructs her, "Medicine."

Shane turns around and leaves. Anya jumps off the bed, going to follow. She stops in the doorway, remembering her initial task and seeming to get stuck deciding what she needs to do first— force Ilya to get out of bed, or get his medication for him.

She ends up deciding on the former. Since she now has another task to accomplish, she has no more time for messing around.

Anya bounds back onto the bed, and all but jumps onto Ilya, attempting to lick his face.

"Bozhe moy, Anya!" Ilya exclaims, trying to shove her off. She's panting happily, her tail wagging wildly behind her. "Okay, okay. I am coming, yes?"

She barks happily, clearly excited, as if she really comprehends his words. It takes Ilya a bit to find the willpower, and Anya seems to understand that, giving him a minute to sit on the edge of the bed before pushing himself up. His limbs feel heavy, like they're weighing him down in tandem with the gaping hole in his sternum. His muscles feel like they're made of lead, his mind is a foggy ruin.

Once Ilya is on his feet there's no denying that he feels, one-hundred percent, like absolute shit. He already wants to go back to bed.

Anya hops off the bed, turning around and waiting in the doorway for Ilya to follow her. Even with his slight irritation, Ilya can't help but find her endearing. Damn her, for being so cute. Still, he thinks maybe he'd rather bury his head in sand like a cartoon ostrich than do anything that requires the little bit of energy he has right now.

But this is Anya's job— to take care of Ilya. She enjoys taking care of him. It's the least he can do, he thinks, to follow her instruction and make her happy.

Ilya yawns as he drags his feet, making his way into the kitchen. Anya rounds the island and licks Shane's ankles as she passes by.

Ilya shuffles over to Shane, the love of his life, wrapping his arms around his waist. He's cutting tomatoes to make some sort of healthy sandwiches on focaccia bread. Ilya doesn't have much of an appetite, but he thinks that maybe if he can try to be better for Anya, maybe he can try to be better for Shane, too.

Ilya places soft kisses to the nape of Shane's neck, savoring the sight of the faint, hidden freckles there. Ilya and his husband's freckles are quite intimate with eachother by now. He never lets any go unnoticed nor unworshiped, especially not the ones everyone else don't really get to see. They deserve attention too, Ilya thinks.

Shane greets him with his lovely, warm smile, telling Ilya the ingredients he plans to use for the sandwiches as he rests his chin on Shane's shoulder. It's not long before one of the lower cupboard doors is audibly opened, then closed, followed by the rattling sound of a medicine bottle. Anya comes trotting back around the island holding Ilya's orange bottle of Lamotrigine in her mouth, wagging her tail, clearly already very pleased with herself.

"Looks like you have a delivery." Shane snorts, wrinkling his nose. Ilya rolls his eyes fondly before squatting down to Anya's level, resting his forearms on his thighs.

He reaches out and she drops the bottle in his hand, sitting, waiting. "Molodets, Anya." Well done. Ilya opens the bottle and shakes two pills into his hand before closing it again. Anya stretches deeply before standing back up while Ilya pets her head fondly, taking the bottle back from Ilya's hand, satisfied, before turning to put it away.

"Sladkaya devochka." Sweet girl. Surprisingly, Ilya can't help but smile, just the smallest bit.

How beautiful it is, a Russian voice in the back of Ilya's head murmurs— and, strangely, it sounds exactly like his mama, that you are so loved.

Shane glances at Ilya in his peripheral vision. He's not good at hiding it.

"She's so eager. What would we ever do without her?" Shane asks, a small smile of his own pulling at his lips. Ilya hadn't even taken the pills yet, but he's starting to feel like maybe the air he's breathing isn't as stifling as he thought it was in the bedroom. There's sunlight pouring in from a window over the kitchen table, and a hockey game playing in the background on their flatscreen TV. His sweetheart is there, smelling like his bourbon vanilla body wash and that sexy cologne Ilya forgets the name of. He feels his appetite growing, which is probably a good sign.

Anya— with her tasks completed— runs to the living room to play with the copious amount of toys Ilya and Shane have spoiled her with. Ilya watches her, knowing if he had stayed in bed, he'd be feeling a lot different right now. Today, he supposes he's slightly glad he let her pull him out of bed.

Ilya throws back the pills, washing them down with a glass of water. He hums playfully, pretending to consider an answer to Shane's question.

He sets the glass down on the marble island, taking a seat at one of the barstools and watching Shane carefully cut pea shoots for their sandwiches. Any slightly old pieces get tossed, and each stem gets cut the same length.

"I suppose maybe you would have to get on your knees and be my new dog." Ilya smirks, leaning an elbow on the table with his chin in his palm. It still takes effort to find his voice, but at least he's starting to feel a little bit more like himself.

Shane looks to Ilya, narrowing his eyes at him. "In your dreams, maybe. Pervert." He retorts, but he has nowhere to hide the smirk of his mouth, or the flushing of the tips of his ears. Ilya didn't know anyone who was worse at hiding their feelings than his Shane Hollander.

Ilya leans forward, picking a sliced cucumber from a little bowl in front of Shane. "You would like it, probably." Ilya teases, popping it into his mouth. "Wearing collar for me— keeping you in place with a leash."

"Shut up." Shane scoffs, although he's full on blushing now, his cheeks as red as the tomatoes sitting next to the cutting board. Ilya stands, and Shane attempts to pull away, giggling when Ilya goes to grab at his hips, pressing kisses up the soft skin at the side of Shane's warming neck. Teasing and taunting his husband is just too easy, too fun.

"Okay, okay." Ilya relents, kissing Shane and thumbing at his nose lovingly. "we, ah, table this. I am correct?"

"Yes," Shane all but beams at Ilya's use of the new phrase he recently taught him. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you." Ilya says, resting his chin on Shane's shoulder again. "I am very smart, I know."

Shane disregards Ilya's sarcasm, his tone light, airy.

"I'm always proud of you." He says genuinely, then glances over to Anya. "We are."

Ilya watches Anya for a moment, chewing on a small, stuffed, hockey stick toy. Then, because Ilya has never known how to take compliments that don't revolve around his talent as a professional hockey player, he bites the inside of his cheek, attempting to blink away the sudden tears welling up in his eyes.

Ultimately, it's a pointless endeavor. Ilya's been feeling the need to cry since the second he opened his eyes this morning, and of course it had to be Shane's honey-coated words that ended up breaking the dam.

There was just no avoiding it, really. Ilya can't help but be constantly weak for Shane— it's a known fact that one of his favorite places to be is at Shane's feet. Nobody else softens Ilya the way he does. For a long time, Ilya was brainwashed into thinking that being weak was this terrible, ugly thing. He never, ever could've known Shane Hollander would be the one to teach him otherwise, let along turn into Ilya's complete, ultimate undoing.

But being vulnerable around Shane just felt so natural, like the way a pair of lungs breathed in air before letting it all out just to unconsciously repeat the process. Ilya used to really struggle with believing letting himself acknowledge that maybe sometimes he felt a little more than just "sad" (the way his mama was, years and years and years ago) was okay, and that it wasn't something that he should be ashamed of.

In the end, it was Shane who made him this way. He split Ilya open and filled his chest with beautiful things, cracked open his skull and managed to kiss the bad thoughts away.

Ilya doesn't want to think about where he'd be right now without him, or without Anya.

What matters is that Ilya is here, he is present. He is putting in the effort, and as long as he can do that, he thinks everything might just have the potential to be okay.

One behavioral red flag (among a plethora of others) that Anya is trained to identify, is an alteration in Ilya's sleep patterns.

Something about staying up late at night can be a big trigger for Ilya's depressive episodes, which can be a big problem since his depressive episodes make it difficult for him to sleep. It's an annoying loop that Ilya has to keep careful track of so he doesn't slip away. Luckily, Anya is big help when it comes to keeping him on a schedule. Even if it means missing out on some things.

The Pike's had invited them over for a barbecue night to celebrate Montreal's most recent win against the Admirals. There was a time where Ilya could never have seen himself willingly hanging out with Hayden Pike let alone his (very kind, very sweet) wife and kids. At some point between confessing his love to Shane and where he was now— sat having a tea party on the living room carpet with their twins, Jade and Ruby— a lot of things had changed.

"I did not finish my tea— why you give me more?" Ilya asks Ruby, who keeps pretending to pour more tea into his cup from a plastic teapot every five minutes. He probably looked incredibly funny wearing fake fairy wings and a princess crown, but Ilya couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed. He had grown to like these kids too much.

Ruby giggles, her own flimsy pair of wings sparkling behind her. "It's yummy!"

"Yes, but now my cup will be too full and spill. This is what you want?" Ilya asks, making both girls laugh. Ilya feigns seriousness. "This is not a joke, do I look like I am making joke? Okay. We spill it everywhere so your dad has to clean it up."

The girls agree easily, standing up, squealing and flipping over their empty cups along with the empty tea pot. "Oh my goodness, oh what a mess!" Ilya exclaims, turning to look over his shoulder at Hayden who was standing at the kitchen counter chatting with Shane. He's nursing a beer in one hand and sliding a Ginger Ale towards Shane with the other. "Pike— Pike we need your help. This carpet will stain, you have to hurry."

Hayden rolls his eyes, but he's smiling fondly, watching the girls in their princess dresses run circles around Ilya. Amber and Arthur are in the kitchen too, sitting at the table in their respective high chairs and happily munching on cut up vegetables from a platter.

"Not my problem." Hayden says. "Shane will handle it."

Shane scoffs. "They're your kids, Hayd."

Hayden only shrugs. "Not when they're in trouble. When they're in trouble, they're Jackie's kids."

"What did you say? I heard my name." It's perfect timing as Jackie rounds the corner into the kitchen, setting out a plate of steaks before pulling seasoned salmon out of the oven for Shane. It always made Ilya's heart swell— the way that the Pike's always respected Shane's diet. Shane was always thanking them, telling them he didn't want to be a bother. But Jackie had insisted, the last thing she wanted was for him to come over and feel excluded. It was nice.

"Nothing honey." Hayden puts a hand on her back and kisses her on the cheek. "Do you need help with anything?"

Shane offers to set the table, and when it's done, Ilya (who barely managed to save himself from forgetting to take off his crown and wings) holds Arthur on his hip, helping him get his plate. He cuts up the steak in little squares like Arthur insists, and puts an even amount of green beans beside it, like Arthur insists. Ilya doesn't question it. It just makes him think of Shane and how he likes certain things to be particular in his life as well, even if there's no important explanation for it. It just is what it is.

Jackie sits at the end of the table with her own plate, but focuses on feeding Amber mashed potatoes with a child's spoon. Shane sits beside Ilya, his smile warm and expression content as he eats, making conversation with Hayden and Jackie. Ilya chimes in every once in a while, but the kids mostly like taking all his attention. Ilya doesn't mind it at all. He never thought he'd grow so endeared and connected with children so much— he supposes he never really considered what the image of it would be like. He never had any younger siblings or younger cousins, so these dynamics were very new to him. But Shane said it was "heartwarming", and Jackie always thanked him for being so good with them, so he figured he must be doing something right.

After dinner, Jade and Ruby are tasked with cleaning up the table (which Ilya expresses is a little messed up and asks aloud about what the laws of forcing children to work entail, to which Jade and Ruby agree heavily), but Pike explains that Jackie says it's good for them to learn to be responsible, or something, so Ilya lets it slide, despite all the twins' complaints. Jackie knows best, after all. Ilya respects her greatly. Being married to Hayden Pike has to be enough of a chore on top of taking care of four kids, surely.

Arther ends up getting frustrated over something Ilya wasn't paying attention to and starts to cry, which in turn makes Amber upset and causes her to cry as well, probably because she's tired. That's when Jackie calls it, and it's officially bedtime.

"Let's go girls, you have school in the morning." Jackie says while Jade and Ruby try to wrestle Ilya to the ground, yanking at his arms and jumping on his back. It's a fruitless endeavor, of course, but at some point Ilya lets them take him down and falls to the ground, pretending to be defeated.

Ruby tries to attack Shane as well. Ilya expects him to be boring and twist away, but instead he picks her up MMA style and all but drops her onto the couch, tickling her.

God, he thinks, Ilya's heart swelling dangerously in his chest, I love my husband, and I love these kids.

Jackie manages to take them back, only after telling the kids to "say goodnight to uncle Shane and uncle Ilya".

Afterwards, Shane and Ilya stay for a bit longer to watch old tapes— particularly one from about eight months ago where Shane scored a hat trick in the first period against the Centaurs, before Ilya had changed teams— and relax. Pike is lucky— Ilya would've, at one point, given him a lot of shit for even thinking of rubbing such a thing in his face. Now, of course, their relationship is much more lax thanks to their shared love of Shane. Ilya knew they'd be forced to get along at some point, so he had to give in at some point.

As Ilya sat on the couch beside Shane with a heavy sigh, Pike reaches over the back of the sofa and hands Ilya an open beer. Ilya doesn't particularly love beer, but it's a Corona so he doesn't complain.

"This better not be poisoned, Pike." Ilya comments, taking a sip.

"Of course not, Rozy. I need you alive." Pike pats his shoulder once. "I'll always be grateful for any break I can get from trying to tire out these little demons. Seriously." Pike says, flopping onto a recliner to their left. "You guys ever tried babysitting?" He asks, pointing at them with his own beer.

"Eh", Ilya says at the same time Shane says "no".

"Well, you should." Pike says, taking a quick swig. "Hey— speaking of kids—"

"Nope." Shane cuts him off. Hayden frowns.

"Shane does not want kids." Ilya tilts his head, pursing his lips.

"What?" Shane asks, a little bit panicked for some reason, "I never said—"

"Hockey is his kid." Ilya drinks his beer to hide his teasing smile.

"Ilya." Shane groans, running a hand over his face. Ilya nudges him playfully

There's a beat of silence, and it's all Pike's. He takes another drink, eyeing the two of them.

"Well, I think you guys would make great parents."

Shane blushes as Pike goes on a whole spiel, and Ilya gives him shit for it. He decides maybe that's something they can talk about later— not necessarily that he'd ever really thought much about the concept. Maybe he should.

The three talk together more than they watch the hockey game, Pike and Ilya drinking a couple more beers because there's nothing for either of them to do tomorrow. Ilya is in the middle of showing Pike the loon tattoo design that he plans on getting when he glances at the time on the top left of his screen.

"Blyat'." Ilya mumbles, pulling his phone back and showing Shane the time. 9:47 P.M.

"Everything good?" Pike asks when Shane sees the time, his brows raising.

"Yes." Ilya says. "Just— my, uh..."

"We've gotta head out." Shane takes over, thankfully. "Breakfast with my parents tomorrow morning— I forgot."

"Shane, you don't forget things." Pike says, matter of a fact. To be fair, it's true. "But hey, no biggie man. It's getting late anyway." 

Ilya doesn't blame him for lying, even though Shane is the worst liar in the world. But Pike doesn't seem to mind. Ilya just didn't really want to admit the truth.

He can imagine it now: him, a six-foot tall man made of 200 pounds of pure muscle, admitting that his dog starts getting severely anxious when Ilya misses his bed time. He thinks maybe he'd rather jump off a cliff than see Hayden Pike's reaction to him saying such a thing.

Ilya Rozanov, who is in his mid 20s, needs to have a bed time in order to stay sane. The sentence itself sounds ridiculous. He's not a child.

Ilya tries not to think too much about it like that. Shane always says it's nothing to be ashamed about— nothing that's good for his mental health is anything to be ashamed of. That it's no different than using physical activity to de-stress. During the initial conversation, Ilya promptly disagreed about this part. He argued that miserably staring up at a dark bedroom ceiling for hours until he inevitably passed out was much different than pushing Shane's face into a pillow while Ilya fucked him repeatedly until they both passed out. Shane, of course, was not very impressed with the sentiment.

Unfortunately, by now, Anya has this sort of internal clock. It's somehow both incredibly strange and incredibly impressive. She knows when he needs to wake up and doesn't let him sleep in, makes him take his medicine on time, sometimes even signals for him to eat lunch if he skips it. She hates when Ilya doesn't stick to his schedule. Ilya sometimes wishes it wasn't as important as it is, or that it ultimately wasn't for his greater good.

He couldn't lie and say that he was having a terrible time socializing with Pike— insanely enough. But he also couldn't deny that Shane's social battery was definitely tapering off by now, if the way he had gone practically silent for the past fifteen minutes was anything to tell by. He was preserving the little bit of energy he had left anyway. Ilya could tell.

So, Pike ends up walking them to the door, strangely, offering Ilya a "beer for the road". Shane denies it before Ilya can even open his mouth, scolding him. Pike concedes, leaning forward and wrapping Shane in a brief hug. Ilya declines one when Pike turns to him after, saying he might throw up. Pike, thankfully, takes it in stride.

Shane can tell Ilya is a little nervous on the way home. He hates worrying Anya. Shane tells him, she's okay, don't worry, but how could he not? That's their sweet girl. That's Ilya's sweet girl. And she doesn't deserve to be worried.

When they get home and are walking up the driveway, he can already hear Anya barking. When they walk through the door, it's as if Anya's entire little body seems to fold with each wag of her tail.

"Privet, Anya." Ilya says, squatting down to her level.  Shane ruffles Ilya's hair as he walks past, petting Anya briefly as well. "I am okay, yes," He scratches at the sides of her fluffy little face, "Papa is here."

Anya barks, and all but bounds up into Ilya's arms, who catches her easily. He follows Shane to the bedroom, cooing at their dog in his arms like she's an infant being swaddled. Ilya always finds it funny, how insane Anya goes whenever they're gone for only a few hours. She always treats it like they've just gotten back from war. Time for her as a dog is probably a lot slower, to be fair, so he supposes he can't really blame her.

Of course, because of this, Anya becomes extremely clingy. Which means that when Ilya tries to make a move on Shane when he gets out of the shower (because he really just couldn't resist after seeing Shane in only a towel, with his wet hair, water-glimmering chest and flushed cheeks, which make his freckles even more gorgeously apparent), but Anya just wouldn't stop cock blocking them, and Ilya feels too guilty for keeping her waiting to kick her out of the room for a bit.

So, reluctantly, bedtime it was. It was after 10 P.M. by then anyway.

Shane fell asleep easily— he always does. Ilya just lays there with his arm around Shane's waist, envying him greatly, listening to his soft snores and his sleepy mumbling. It's so innocent, so winsome, Ilya almost starts to cry. Almost.

There might be other reasons for that too, though. Reasons like the fact that Ilya just hadn't been feeling too great today. He isn't sure why, but it's frustrating nonetheless, however distantly creeping his illness could sometimes be. He supposes getting to entertain Pike's kids was helpful for a bit, but distractions can't last forever.

Sometimes he dreads the nighttime for this reason—because the end of the day is usually when all the bad things in his head swell the most before crashing down over him.

Maybe it's his medicine. Maybe it's because he didn't go to sleep when he was supposed to yesterday either. Or, maybe, Ilya's stupid brain just loves to malfunction for no reason no matter what he does.

Ilya sighs, spooning his sleeping Shane. He rubs a hand over Shane's chest to feel his beating heart, pressing his forehead against Shane's naked back after kissing the skin of his shoulder. He stirs a bit in return, humming as he dozes.

"Is everything okay?" Shane asks in his deep, sleep soaked voice, because of course he does. He's always been so empathetic— his whole life probably. He's always asked Ilya that— always needed to make sure, even when they weren't together and Ilya would build walls so high that nobody could climb them. He feels guilty for those times back then, he hates to think of a time where he was so mean to someone he loves so much. He sometimes wishes he could travel back in time and slap his old self in the face, and tell him, that's your future husband, dickhead, show some respect. It's okay to open up a little.

Of course, that's not possible. So instead, Ilya's brain chooses this as the night's topic to silently mope about.

"Ilya?" Shane whispers after getting no response.

Anya curls up at Ilya's back, letting out some kind of noise that's a mixture of a sigh and a whine. She is so dramatic. Even more than Ilya, maybe.

"Yes." Ilya whispers. "I'm okay, kotik. Get some sleep."

Shane groans, adjusting to get comfortable in Ilya's arms, moving to press against him even more, if possible. "I don't believe you." Shane says, so quietly that Ilya nearly misses it.

Ilya says nothing, just closes his eyes.

Anya noses at the back of his shirt, small and wet, perpetually reminding him she is there. She always tries to attach herself to him when possible, because she never wants to leave Ilya alone. She wants to be here for me, Ilya thinks— or, tries to remind himself, Shane is here. I'm fine. Everything is okay.

Sometimes, Ilya just has to force himself to will it so. Shane always reminds Ilya that he can wake him up in the middle of the night if he ever needs anything, even if it's just a hug or a kiss. Ilya appreciates it, he does, but he doesn't think he'd ever be able to bring himself to do it. He doesn't want to bother Shane, not when he looks so peaceful when he's asleep.

When Ilya finally passes out (after what feels like forever since he laid down), it isn't gradual. He doesn't feel tired, doesn't feel melatonin slowly flooding his brain like normal people would. It just sort of happens all at once, as if one moment he's wide awake with his eyes closed, curled up into Shane, and the next he's plunged into the darkness of sleep.

Shane had always been a light sleeper, even since he was little. It was mostly because he was always anxious he'd be late for hockey practice, he thinks, which he knew would throw off his schedule and then throw off his whole day and then he'd just be upset. He loved hockey more than anything else. Doing things like sleeping and eating were never at the forefront of his mind, even as a teenager.

It was needless to say that it was very easy to wake Shane up. He'd easily sleep through the night, especially because once Ilya passed out he usually slept like a rock, silent and staying in one position. But there were other nights, of course, where Ilya had a lot of trouble sleeping. He'd speak Russian nonsense in between restless silences, tossing and turning and sometimes even kicking Shane, fighting for more space as if Ilya didn't already take up two-thirds of the bed most days anyway. Shane had to admit it made him more concerned than irritated.

Tonight seemed to be one of those nights.

Shane was falling in and out of sleep, waking when Ilya would grumble and shift his body again and again, as if he couldn't get comfortable. Anya was there, still, always trying to lay close to him no matter how much he moved. Shane would scratch softly at his curls or rub half-asleep circles into his back and it would stop Ilya's incoherent mumbling for a bit, just to return half an hour later.

Shane didn't want to wake him up, but he didn't seem to be getting a lot of rest anyway. He stared up at the dark ceiling with half-lidded eyes for what was probably an hour, just rubbing Ilya's back with his fingernails so he could stay asleep. That plus a combination of Anya laying on him seemed to work, mostly, but Shane was exhausted by the time it hit four A.M. and ended up passing out again no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

The next time Shane wakes up, it's to Ilya's body flinching violently, his eyes closed but hands fisted into the sheets. He's speaking in unintelligible Russian again, louder, shaking his head. His brows are so furrowed that it looks painful.

Shane clocks it immediately.

Ilya was having a nightmare.

Immediately, Shane's heart skips a beat as he sits up and turns on the lamp on his nightstand. Anya is already at alert, jumping over Ilya who was curled up on his side to paw at his body and frantically lick at his face. She was trying to wake him up.

Shane reaches out to help, gently running a hand over Ilya's bicep and whispering his name. It doesn't take long for them to pull him back into consciousness. After a quick moment his eyes shoot open and he wakes with a stuttering gasp, his chest heaving as if he can't get enough air into his lungs. Anya whimpers as Ilya panics, trying to invade his space and remind him she's there, she can help. But Ilya is sweating, his eyes are glossed over. He might not even be fully awake. He looks terrified in the dim, orange light of the lamp, his hair wild as his eyes, and his skin slick with sweat.

"Hey, hey, Ilya—" Shane whispers, nudging him, thumbing at his cheek, trying to bring him back to reality. "Love, it's okay. I'm here. Breathe, Ilya."

It takes him a moment, but Ilya fumbles to push himself up with shaking limbs, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out. He looks so scared, as if there was a danger threatening him that Shane couldn't see. It made his own breath catch in his throat, his esophagus hurting with the painful remembrance that this was just another way that Shane would never be able to protect Ilya from his own mind.

Shane scoots over, assisting Ilya in sitting up so he can catch his breath. He's all dead weight in his bleary panic, but Shane is strong. Anya moves to Ilya's other side as Shane sits him up, laying her body on top of his covered legs as soon as she can, trying to get him to focus on the weight of her body.

"Sh— Shane—" Ilya trembles, his head lulling and his hands shaking violently where they reach out for Shane.

"I'm here, I'm here." Shane says frantically, unable to hide the anxiety and fear leaking from his tone.

"Shanya—" Ilya whimpers, hiccuping when he starts to cry. It shatters Shane's heart into a million pieces. Every time he sees his husband in pain like this, he thinks he loses another small part of himself. "Y'ne m— mogu—"

"Breathe, Ilya, please," Shane nearly begs, holding onto Ilya's forearm and his hand, squeezing, trying to bring him back down to earth, "You can, I know you can."

Anya stands to lick at Ilya's face, trying to bring him down too. Ilya's other hand goes to her back like it's second nature, shakily petting at her coat.

Shane instructs him to breathe, but he only seems to sob more. Shane reaches up to squeeze at the nape of Ilya's neck, to run his fingers through the sweaty hair at the back of his head— anything that provides sensation for Ilya to focus on. Anya licks away his tears, and Ilya holds her closer. Shane takes that as a good sign.

He wipes away the spit on Ilya's lips, the snot dripping from his nose with a tissue from the nightstand. Ilya heaves in a rocky breath, and Shane praises him for it. "Good, yes, you're doing so good sweetheart." He nods, encouraging. "That's it. I love you. I love you so much. Everything is okay."

Ilya hugs Anya, burying his wet face into her fur and squeezing Shane's hand. Anya has always been a big help for Ilya in grounding him, thank god. Whatever helped Ilya stop hyperventilating, Shane was grateful for.

Shane shifts on the bed to sit and face Ilya fully, reaching out and thumbing away any stray tears as Anya lays back down on him. He keeps guiding Ilya to breathe until he has it under control, and he's not crying anymore. Shane cards his fingers through the hair on the side of Ilya's head, and his heart melts when Ilya leans into it so deeply. He just looked so... broken, like whatever was plaguing his dreams was real and actually put up a fight to hurt him. Maybe it was. Shane wouldn't know— he would never know what it was like to battle all the internal things that threatened to break his Ilya down to pieces.

"Okay?" Shane asks, bending down a bit to find Ilya's gaze. His eyes flick up to Shane for a second, and Ilya nods. "You're doing so well for me, okay? You're doing great. Just try to relax." Shane encourages softly. Ilya hadn't let go of him for a single moment, as if Shane was his anchor tying him down to reality. It's exactly what Shane hopes he can always be for Ilya.

By the time Ilya has calmed, his eyes are distant. He looks exhausted, like his mind is trapped in a state of lethargy. It makes Shane's heart ache so bad that it takes his breath away. It's all Shane can do to keep any physical contact with his love, thumbing at the soft skin of Ilya cheeks, his bottom lip, resting his hand on the side of Ilya's neck.

"Are you okay?" Shane asks, moving to touch his chin carefully, trying to will his head up so Shane can get a better look at him. "Ilya?"

Ilya's lip starts to tremble again, he whimpers and oh, does the sound feel like a javelin through Shane's gut. Ilya's anguish will always be a violent strike to Shane's system— as if his well being and Shane's are intertwined. Maybe they are. Maybe they were dependent on eachother in a lot of ways, but that was love, wasn't it? To have a rooted sense of empathy was to feel the things your partner does just as deeply, in order to understand how to save them when they need it most, right?

"Yes. I'm so— orry." Ilya hiccups, clearly trying to hold back another shattered whine.

"Hey— no. No, Ilya. Don't be sorry." Shane says, carefully holding the sides of Ilya's face. Ilya's lashes — thick and sticky with tears— flutter as he relaxes in Shane's hold just the slightest bit, sighing, as if he doesn't have the energy to fight against Shane's desperate pleas.

"I woke you up." Ilya whispers after a moment. He's ashamed, clearly, even though he has no reason to be at all. Shane can't help it. He leans in, pressing his lips against Ilya's. He can taste the salt of Ilya's tears on his upper lip, but pays it no mind.

"I don't care." Shane says, kissing the side of Ilya's mouth, reaching to pet the fur on Anya's head softly. Now that Ilya's heart rate is somewhat back to normal, she seems to have relaxed along with it. "Neither of us do."

Ilya nods, sniffling. It's a small thing, easy to miss in the lowlight— more resigned than agreeing.

Shane had suspected he wasn't doing too great before they went to sleep. They both knew it was a nightmare. Rarely, he sometimes had night terrors too, where he'd thrash and sometimes even scream in his sleep, but neither Shane nor Anya are able to wake him up, and then he doesn't remember it at all the next morning. At least tonight, they were able to pull him out of it, thank god. Ilya's nightmares were brutal, but nothing freaked out Shane more than his night terrors, however far between they were. And if it scared Shane, then he couldn't imagine how Ilya felt.

"I love you, I love you." Shane reminds him, because he doesn't think he could ever say it enough. He kisses Ilya's head, rubbing Ilya's forearm as he scratches at Anya's neck. He needs Ilya to know that everything is okay, that this is just his mind giving him a hard time again. Shane is here, and he'll stay for as long as Ilya will have him.

Ilya takes a big, deep breath, and it's doesn't fool Shane at all— the fact that he's desperately trying to dawn a mask.

"I'm okay." Ilya says, shaking his head. It's a lie. "I am okay."

"You're not," Shane says, his heart heavy, "And you don't have to be. You don't have to hide from me. Please don't hide from me." He all but begs. Shane leans forward, kissing Ilya's frowning face, and then both his cheeks to seal the words.

Ilya swallows, resting his head against Shane's and closing his eyes. They're both silent for a long moment, just breathing. Eventually Shane pulls back to plant a kiss to the corner of Ilya's eye, pulling him in for a hug the best he could considering Anya was still resting on Ilya's lap.

"Okay." Ilya says, finally, his voice broken. Shane nods, echoing him. Okay.

Shane had reached out and tugged lightly at Ilya's hand, suggesting they go to the living room and watch a movie. He read somewhere that after having a panic attack it was good to change locations— something about letting the brain "reset". It seemed to make some kind of logical sense, Shane supposed. He hoped so, anyway. They both knew Ilya wouldn't be going back to sleep any time soon.

Carefully, Shane (and Anya) lead Ilya out of the bedroom and made sure he wouldn't groggily stumble into any walls, considering he looked more like he was drifting in and out of a hazy consciousness more than being fully awake. Shane wrapped an arm around his husband's waist, pulling him close and keeping him steady. When they reach the couch he lowers him carefully, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders. Anya was glued to his side, yet again laying her head on one of his thighs.

"Hot chocolate?" Shane asks, kneeling before him and reaching up to push his messy curls away from his beautiful face.

"Okay." Is all Ilya says, his voice small and cracking apart. Shane bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn't start tearing up. He hates seeing Ilya so still, so small, so catatonic. He's so lively, usually. His depressed self was merely a shell of the marvelous being Ilya was, but it never made Shane love him any less. He sort of adored that he was able to take care of Ilya in his lower moments. It felt like a privilege. It felt like love, picked apart down to its finest pieces, for Shane to have the opportunity to show Ilya that he could hold him together for a bit if he needed him to. That he could be strong for the both of them, when Ilya couldn't for himself.

Because Ilya never got that when he was younger. He had only talked about his childhood maybe a handful of times, and still, it made Shane's heart hurt— the way he was treated so drastically different than Shane was as a child. The things that Ilya had gone through at such a young age; twelve year old Shane didn't know anything at all about death or loneliness or depression and what it can do to a person, let alone his own parent. These were all foreign, abstract concepts to him— Shane, with his two parents who adored him, who took care of him, who tucked him in at night with forehead kisses and endless affection.

On top of that, of course the universe had to go and be even more unfair to Ilya and pass his mother's illness down to him. Shane would move mountains if only he could lift the weight off his shoulders forever. He wouldn't think twice. It's just what you would do for the person you cherish the most. 

Anya snuggles up onto Ilya's lap on the couch after Shane covers his sitting body in their fluffiest throw. He looks empty, tired, exactly the way a man who lost the battle of fighting for sleep does. Shane presses a warm mug into his hands, but Ilya only manages one sip before staring into the drink, like he had resigned to the disappointing fact that it didn't actually make him feel better the way Shane believed it would.

"It felt so real." Ilya had whispered sadly. Shane sat next to him, pulling him to rest his cheek on Shane's shoulder, petting Anya with his free hand. "It always does."

"I know baby." Shane replies, his stomach aching. His mouth feels dry. He feels useless.

"Do you... want to talk about it?" Shane asks, hesitant. In the past when Shane had managed to get him to open up, Ilya always said they were about his dad, or the day he found his mom. Sometimes it was about his brother and how terrible he was. It was always his family— never anything else, it seemed.

Shane can't imagine this one was much different.

"No," Ilya shakes his head, his voice breaking, "no."

"That's okay." Shane is quick to soothe him, kissing Ilya's shoulder. Shane can't ever blame him. If he was Ilya, he doubts he'd want to speak his literal nightmares aloud either.

He kisses Ilya's warm forehead, reaching up to wipe the sweat from the skin there. His eyes flutter closed, and Anya whines. Ilya has to scratch at her neck to relax her.

Shane ends up putting on a movie— one of Ilya's Russian favorites, Brother 2. At some point it seemed to start becoming one of Shane's favorites, too. He had seen it so many times by now he could probably recite half the lines perfectly, even if he didn't know exactly what they meant.

After that, all Shane could do was hold him while Anya licked at Ilya's knuckles, and hope it would be enough to stave away the darkness.

September in Montreal always seems to have a unique way of rolling around each year, turning time into an ugly, aggravatingly slow crawl that feels like it stretches on forever.

The warmer weather starts tapering down into chilly temperatures, but it always feels like it hits Ilya out of nowhere, as if a switch gets flipped, especially as the month starts coming to an end. One week he's wearing light jackets every time he and Shane go out, and then the last week of the month approaches, and the cold starts to seep much more dangerously into Ilya's bones, threatening to freeze up the marrow in them completely. 

He wakes up the same way he does any other day— with Shane on the left side of the bed quietly snoring and Anya at his feet, the beginning of the day's sunlight just barely starting to peek through the blinds of their bedroom window. There's nothing unique about it at all, except for the fact that despite getting a decent amount of sleep he felt like he hadn't actually gotten a wink of it.

Ilya had stared up at the ceiling for a bit while he waited for Shane to wake up. It's only when a notification pops up on his phone and he picks it up off his nightstand to check it, does he realize why his chest feels so strangely heavy. 

He reads the time— 7:09 A.M.— and then looks below it at the date, and it reads—

Sunday, September 25th.

He blinks down at the screen, wondering how the time had gone by so fast. This year, Ilya had turned 32 in June. He must've been so caught up in married life and hockey and his own issues he still was sometimes struggling to get a grip on that he hadn't realized it.

Today was the anniversary of his mother's death. Her 20th anniversary, to be specific. 

Ilya exhales shakily, setting down his phone and laying back down to stare at the ceiling for a little bit longer.

Maybe, he thinks, if he stays really still, maybe the world will let him off just this once. Maybe he'll find a way to not have to face the day— he'll try to sleep through it, just to make it to tomorrow a little quicker.

It's a naive belief. That's not how the world works and it never will be. Ilya is far past being grown up now; he doesn't get to hide under the covers from his monsters or cry to his mama when he can't handle them on his own. Even 20 years later, these things seem to torment him at every chance they get. It's as if just any time he's about to take a deep breath, something clogs up his lungs and blocks them from taking in all the air he needs.

It's as if Ilya's body is reminding him of exactly how he felt that day— that night, 20 years ago, breathless and dizzy and dissociating as he stared at a pale, lifeless hand hanging off the side of a bed. He can still feel the way his old, cheap hockey stick was grasped in his young hands, and the unsteadiness of his young, bony legs. The weight of a large hand on his shoulder the next day, telling Ilya, it was an accident, and nothing more.

But it wasn't. His mama chose fully on her own accord to go that night. And Ilya has been carrying the heavy wreckage of her actions ever since, still attempting to meticulously pick out all the poisonous debris of it embedded in his organs.

At this point, Ilya thinks maybe he'll never be clean of it. Hell, it's been 20 years now, and each anniversary seems to hit just as heavily as the first one.

Ilya doesn't even think twice when a little voice in the back of his head convinces him to repress it all; the pain, the never ending ache that was what it meant to be left behind by a parent at such a young age. Even after all the work Ilya had put in to try and better his habits, today he just couldn't find it in himself to fight the idea he was pathetic for still feeling this way after all these years.

Ilya wonders why he can't just move on for what is probably the millionth time since that wretched night, wonders why he has to be trapped in a body that only knows to constantly mourn, and probably will continue to for the rest of his life.

Eventually Shane's alarm goes off, waking both him and Anya up.

It's like a drug— Ilya's sadness— a dirty substance that poisons him from the inside out. Anya smells it on him immediately.

She's mid yawn as she gets up, getting in a quick stretch before making her way over to Ilya, immediately laying her weight over his shirtless diaphragm. Fuck.

He hadn't realized his breathing had gone a little funny, or that his heart was beating a little bit faster in his chest. His dog seemed to know his own body better than Ilya did, sometimes. If that isn't a little humiliating in its own right, Ilya doesn't know what is. 

Immediately, he feels guilty for thinking that way. Anya's just doing her job— a job Ilya should be grateful for. He is grateful, really. He just—

Ilya takes in a deliberate breath, sighing deeply, hoping it pleases her. Anya rests her head on Ilya's chest, putting all her weight over him and trying to calm him with her warmth and gentle pressure. He closes his eyes, giving in and trying to focus on the feeling of Anya's soft fur, of the inflation of her own lungs, her warm breath on his chin. I'm fine, he thinks, you're fine, stop being so pathetic—

"Is everything okay?" Shane asks, his voice deep from having just woken up. He rubs at his eyes with his palms, blinking at Ilya sleepily. The golden morning sun stretches a thin beam of light over part of Shane's face, accentuating the freckles over his left cheek. He looks remarkable.

"Yes. I'm okay." Ilya says, trying to convince himself. "She is clingy this morning, is all." He says, petting her coat. Silently, they both know she's trying to regulate Ilya's nervous system that is threatening to go haywire. He feels like a coiled spring ready to snap, and he's trying desperately not to show it.

Mm, Shane hums, pushing himself onto his elbow to lean over Ilya, meeting their lips in a kiss. He knows Ilya's lying— he can read Anya just as well as Ilya can. There's a physical difference to Anya when she's trying to calm Ilya down and when she wants comfort herself. Her lying on top of Ilya is clearly a sign that something's not quite right.

Thankfully Shane takes the answer in stride, carding a hand through Ilya's curls affectionately. Shane knows what today is— he has to, if the painstakingly careful way he looks at Ilya is anything to tell by.

He won't say anything though. It's not that Shane has to tip-toe around the subject, but the anniversary day itself is always rough on Ilya, and Shane knows he'd rather just get through it than talk about it. As long as he's there, as long as Ilya isn't alone, that's good enough for both of them.

They start the day with home-made waffles that Shane makes. Anya won't leave Ilya alone when he tries to sit at the island, looking up at him and pacing around his chair, so Ilya sits on the couch so she can lay her head on his lap. He was fine. He felt fine, but clearly Anya disagreed. There was something biological about him that Anya had flagged too important to ignore.

Still, the day goes by like any other off day he and Shane have. It's relatively anticlimactic though, full of watching hockey or Shane's boring nature documentaries he likes and leaning into eachother as if their shoulders were perpetually made to touch.

Usually they'd go to the gym together or stay home having copious amounts of sex, maybe go on a run or two— things of the like. But Ilya can barely find the motivation to get himself off the couch. His mind feels like it's stuck in the past, his thoughts muddled together and impossible to sort through. He always does when this day of the year comes to haunt him.

Where it is usually rather weightless, Ilya's mother's Russian orthodox weighs heavy where it sits around his neck, over his heart. He'd take it off, maybe, if he didn't believe it was the last thing keeping her soul and spirit tied to him. 

The day stretches on like molasses. Shane does suggest they get up and go for a short walk, or even just sit out back for some fresh air. Ilya declines the offer, shaking his head stiffly, feeling guilt swirl nauseatingly through his stomach at the disappointed look on Shane's face. For a long time, they just sit around doing nothing. Shane is a real trooper, considering it's probably the one thing he hates the most. He seems to be keeping himself mostly satiated by reading a book.

Usually, the sight of his sexy husband in his sexy reading glasses has Ilya wound up in seconds. It's a damn shame that when Ilya reaches a certain threshold of misery, his sex drive is almost completely strangled out. It's incredibly, horribly unlike him.

Can I do anything to help? Shane asks, because he is so considerate, compassionate and wonderful in every way that matters. Do you need anything, dear?

Mostly, Ilya's heart just aches. There will always be a missing piece to it, but on his mama's anniversary it's as if the scar she'd left becomes sore and irritated around the edges, pulsing and angry and inflamed, making it impossible to ignore.

At least Shane is there, holding his hand and kissing his temple and forcing him to eat and drink water. Anya, too, of course— who pokes her nose into his arm when Ilya feels tears welling up in his eyes. She hates seeing him cry.

The evening comes slowly, the sun moving at a snail's pace. Ilya just wants to sleep, but he'd been napping on and off all day like a lazy sack of potatoes, which meant he probably won't be able to as much later.

It's 6 P.M. when Ilya turns his head to the right where he sits on the couch, taking in the calming sight of his husband asleep against the armrest, his glasses slipping from his nose, still holding the book he was reading that now laid flat on his chest. His breathing came and went in the silent rise and fall of his chest. Distantly, Ilya wondered if he ever looked as peaceful as Shane when he slept.

He probably didn't. Especially recently, Ilya always woke up feeling irritatingly unrested.

When the TV switches to some old soccer game that Ilya doesn't care for, he finally decides to listen to his bladder that had been screaming at him to take a piss for the past twenty minutes. Anya, who was lying against Ilya's thigh, stirs a bit when he gets up. She lifts her head in question, but Ilya tells her to stay because he had a feeling she was going to try and follow him. Watch over dad, he whispers in Russian after carefully taking Shane's glasses off his face, folding them to rest on the coffee table and pulling his favorite throw blanket over him.

He'll be right back.

The hallway is dark, but they've lived here long enough for Ilya to navigate the hallway with his eyes closed. He finds the bathroom easily enough, but as he goes to open the door, he pauses.

He turns and keeps walking, deciding to use their bedroom one instead.

Ilya keeps the bedroom light off when he enters, quietly opening the bathroom door and turning on the light, closing it behind him. He mindlessly does his business before re-tying the strings of his sweatpants and washing his hands. Stupidly, he makes the mistake of looking into the mirror above the sink. 

He looks like shit. He guesses a part of him figured he would. His cerulean eyes lack the brightness they do on most other days, with dark bags casted like shadows below them, his eyelids naturally fallen half-lidded. His hair is a greasy, ran-through mess. Shit. Now he understands why Shane kept looking at him like one wrong move would send all the little fissures in Ilya's vital organs splitting open completely.

He looks physically ill. His head fucking hurt. He felt sick. Maybe he was sick— really sick, like his mama was—

No. It wasn't true. Ilya didn't want to die. He had thought about what it meant, or what might happen if his mind ever did fall into such a dark place. He could only linger on the hypothetical for so long, too afraid of getting wrapped up in something dangerous. It was enough that Ilya felt depressed sometimes in and of itself, the last thing he needed was to end up in a fucking looney bin.

He tears his gaze away, blinking hard and sighing. It always seems to surprise him, how utterly lazy he can be and yet still somehow be exhausted. It's fascinating, really.

Ilya mindlessly reaches up and opens the cabinet behind the mirror. He grabs the bottle of Ibuprofen in there, twisting it open and shaking a couple into his palm. Well— he means to, anyway.

What actually ends up happening is that because the bottle is fuller than he expected (and Ilya isn't quite as present as he wishes he was), so he ends up accidentally shaking a lot more pills out into his hand than he intended to.

He isn't sure why it makes his heart jackrabbit in his chest the way it does. It wasn't like he meant to do it.

The little orange pills pile up in his cupped palm, and because he's trembling just the smallest bit, some of them fall to the bathroom floor— the sound of them dropping like little firecrackers as they bounce along the tile.

Ilya swears under his breath. He balls his hand before any more can fall and crouches down, using his free hand to pick up the stray pills to drop them back into the bottle.

When he hears the faint sound of repeated sniffing, Ilya notices a little black nose peaking out from under the doorframe. Of course Anya just has to be there. Doesn't she know? Ilya is fucking fine— there's nothing wrong, so why won't she just let him be for five minutes?

Ilya exhales sharply, growing irritated. He's a grown man, he can take care of himself. He wants to tell her to go, but he knows it will be useless. She's not going anywhere until he opens the door and she sees he's okay.

When he picks up all the fallen pills he stands, dropping them back into the medicine bottle. Then he opens his palm, taking two and swallowing them dry. Hopefully it does the trick for his painfully pounding head.

Anya keeps sniffing for him, the nails of one of her paws showing past the doorframe. Ilya ignores her.

He doesn't have any real explanation as to why— when he decides not to pour the rest of the pills in his hand back into the bottle. It's not— he's not going to do anything, he knows that for sure. He's not stupid enough to let himself cave even on his worst days. He gets too wrapped up in how devastating it would be for Shane; Ilya leaving him behind the way his mother did him.

It won't happen. Because Ilya— no matter how dogshit his mental illness makes him feel— has people now. He has family, even if they might not really be his, necessarily, but people that have grown to care for him nonetheless. There's Shane, Yuna, David. Sveta, his teammates. Even Pike was starting to grow on him, not that Ilya would ever admit that aloud. Anya counted, of course, too.

But... Ilya just wants to understand, just for a moment.

He wants to feel what it's like to have the thing that took away his mama from him in his own hands, up close and personal— wants to feel what it means to truly control himself. He doesn't plan on doing anything rash. Never. He would never actually do it, but...

Ilya closes the bottle, his stomach churning with something ugly. With the pile of Ibuprofen in his hand, he sits on the closed toilet lid, staring down at them.

Anya is whining now, quietly. She doesn't like that he's been alone for more than three minutes. It's fine. Ilya just needs a second. He's fine, he'll be out soon.

Ilya closes his eyes, wondering. While Ilya was twelve years old at his hockey practice, oblivious, his mama was at home in her bed, probably doing just this. She had taken three different kinds of medications, so it was probably a little different. Morbidly, Ilya wonders how it went down.

Did she take them one by one? Did she take them all at once? How did she know when she had reached the point of no return— how did she know she had been completely, utterly, one-hundred percent sure she wanted this before she finally did it?

When, exactly, did she become so sick that she decided she needed an escape more than she needed to take care of Ilya, or his brother? How long had she been planning on ending her life before she actually went through with it?

The cross against Ilya's bare chest almost starts to burn in a way he can't explain. It was as if someone had taken a blowtorch to it, heating up the gold metal before pressing into his skin.

Anya, at the other side of the door, barks.

Ilya, stupidly, flinches so hard that he spills nearly all the pills from his hand.

Shit. Fuck.

She barks again. Ilya tries to hush her, but she doesn't listen. She barks again, and again, whimpering as if Ilya needs saving, or something. Which he fucking doesn't. What he needs is for her to be quiet, because nothing is even wrong and if she doesn't stop she'll wake Shane up and then—

Oh fuck. Shane.

Shane, who is an incredibly light sleeper.

Ilya drops to his knees, trying to gather the pills with his hands into a little pile. He's shaking, he realizes, feeling as if he's doing something he really shouldn't be. Anya seems to agree, for some reason, because— and, bless her, really— she just wont stop making noise.

"Godspidi." Ilya groans, huffing as he pushes himself off the floor. He's nearly hit by the door when it suddenly swings open, almost running right into his husband who looks frantic, for some reason. His eyes scan over Ilya quickly, before his attention is drawn down to the pills, most of them still scattered all over the bathroom floor.

All the color seems to drain from Shane's face in that moment as he takes in the scene. He looks horrified.

Ilya can't really blame him. It is an ugly scene, after all.

This looks bad. Really bad.

"What—" Shane goes, "Ilya—"

"Shanya, w— wait—" Ilya starts, but Shane is already reaching for him, yanking him out of the bathroom by the arm as if the pills were glass shards— dangerous and sharp and could hurt Ilya just by being near them. "Shane—"

"Ilya, what the fuck?" Shane exclaims, tightly holding onto Ilya's arms and glancing between him and the bathroom with the pills all over the floor. Anya paces around them anxiously, whining. She wants to help him. She doesn't know how to.

"It— Shane, this is not what it looks like." Ilya tries to explain, his heart feeling like it's about to beat from his chest.

"Not what it—" Shane breathes, "Ilya, what— why the fuck are there pills all over the floor?"

Ilya opens his mouth, but Shane is freaking the fuck out. "What did you do? Ilya— did you take anything?"

"No, no, Shane, I swear." Ilya says, shaking his head, feeling tears well up in his eyes. "Well— I took two, for headache. B— but I swear— the pills, it was accident—"

"Ilya don't lie to me." Shane says, and he looks like he's on the verge of a panic attack. "I swear to god Ilya, please—"

"Shane." Ilya urges, quieting him, putting his hands on the sides of Shane's arms. "I do not lie. Breathe, please, solynyshko." my sunlight.

Tears are welling in his eyes, too. It makes Ilya want to punch himself in the face. He never meant for this to happen. He's terrified that he isn't sure if Shane will believe him.

"It was accident. I only took two, I put too much in my hand, not on purpose." Ilya explains, trying to hold Shane's gaze and keep his voice steady. The adrenaline coursing through him has him feeling more awake than he has felt all week. "I spilled them because Anya barked and I was— ah, surprised? I promise, my Shanya. I just have headache."

"I— fuck, Ilya." Shane sighs, his chestnut eyes rolling back before he hides his face in his hands for a moment. "Okay. Okay, sorry— I just— I thought—"

"No, Shanya, moya lyubov," Ilya carefully wraps his fingers around Shane's wrists, pulling them away from his face, "I will never, Shane. Do this— what you think. I am not like her. Well— I am, maybe, but not like what you think right now. Please, Shane, I am being honest."

"You can't know that, though. Not really." Shane says, shaking his head. "Can you?" Ilya is horrified when he sniffles, his husband's eyes going completely glossy as more tears build at his waterlines.

And, well, no. Ilya supposes Shane is right. Neither of them can really know if what Ilya is saying is true.

But that's not the point. Right now, Ilya is sure that would never happen. Sure, what Shane is insinuating is something that always has the possibility to change in the future (Ilya's depression has always had a terrible sort of inconsistency to it), but Ilya really, really hopes it won't. It shouldn't— not with the help he's been getting for a while now, and the fact that Ilya has gotten better at reaching out when he needs it. Mostly.  

Ilya messed up. He messed up, and now he needs to focus on Shane— on comforting him and soothing his worries. Because right here, right now, Ilya knows he wants to live. And Shane needs to know that too.

Shane can't look Ilya in the eyes anymore, not when his emotions are so big and overwhelming. That's usually how Ilya knows Shane is really, really struggling.

"I promise I only take two, Shane." Ilya says. "I did not let Anya in because— because I can take care of myself. I just had to use the bathroom, okay? I would never, ever do that to you. Never."

"You promise?" Shane asks, his tone terribly flat. When he finds the strength to lift his chin and momentarily meet Ilya's eyes, all Ilya can see in them are all the terrible scenarios coursing through his racing mind. Ilya feels terrible— this is all his fault. He fucked up here, severely. And he has to fix it fast.

"My heart is cross." Ilya says, hoping it's correct. Anya jumps onto the bed beside where they're standing, panting and wagging her tail. Ilya envies her never ending energy. He feels like his is only dwindling more and more by the minute.

Shane, despite the flushed, pink skin of his cheeks, his nose, his under-eyes, snorts. "It is?"

"Yes. Is— whatever. You know what I mean." Ilya rolls his eyes, smiling a bit. He steps closer into Shane's space, guiding him into his strong arms. Shane, once Ilya has a tight grip on him, seems to go boneless, sinking into Ilya's hold comfortably with his arms around Ilya's waist.

Shane sighs deeply, as if he had been holding his breath without realizing it. Anya is lying at Ilya's feet, now, watching over them protectively. And that's when Shane starts to cry.

Ilya's heart squeezes painfully. Anya gets up and starts pacing with anxious energy. She hates when Shane cries, too.

"Shanya, Shane, no, my sweet love," Ilya tries to soothe him, "Do not cry. There is no reason, okay? I am here. I am not going anywhere."

Shane only seems to cry harder, gripping onto Ilya and burying his face in Ilya's t-shirt, wetting the cloth. It breaks his heart more and more each time Shane cries like this (which isn't often at all, but maybe that's why the burn of it only amplifies), especially when it's Ilya's fault.

Finally, he acknowledges Anya, an idea coming to mind. Ilya hushes Shane, starting to lead him towards the bed. "Is okay. Lay down for me, kotik. Okay? Can you do this?"

Shane sniffles, hiccuping between sobs. His cheeks are a flushed, deep pink, his under eyes red and irritated. It all makes Ilya feel sick to his stomach with guilt, the type that curdles in his stomach. He never, ever meant for this to happen.

Ilya sits on the bed, scooting over to make room for Shane. Anya jumps up onto the bed the same time Shane sits, laying into Ilya's side and knocking their knees together. Shane sniffles, still trying to collect himself as he wraps an arm around Ilya's diaphragm, resting his head on Ilya's collarbone.

"Anya, come." Ilya instructs, and she hops over Ilya's extended legs to come to his side, immediately resting her upper body and head on Ilya's thighs. "No, Anya," Ilya points towards Shane's lap, "here."

Anya obeys easily, standing and walking over Ilya's lap to get to Shane's side, before trying to lay on his chest. Shane, still catching his breath, adjusts himself so that he's laying down a bit more so Anya can be more comfortable as well. She sighs heavily, resting her head on Shane's chest as he reaches up to pet her back a few times. She does her job so, so well.

Shane, clearly despite himself, smiles just the slightest bit, laughing wetly. "So sweet."

"Mm," Ilya mumbles, wiping away his love's tears, "Just like you."

"Shut up." Shane shakes his head, sniffling as he rubs consciously at Anya's side. It calms him quickly— Anya's presence, as the pressure she provides helps to bring him back down to earth.

"No." Ilya argues. "Is true. Even Anya thinks so." He says, petting her head. "You are so loving, so caring. I am surprised your heart fits in your body at times— is just so big."

Shane huffs, not saying anything for a minute. He lets Anya rest on him, Ilya telling him to focus on his breathing, and focus on hers— to focus on the physical weight of her, and just try to relax.

It seems to work, as Shane's heart seems to start beating at a more regular rate. His eyes close at one point, and Ilya thinks maybe he fell asleep.

But then his hand moves, and he's running his fingers over Anya's coat. Shane's eyes crack open just the slightest bit.

"Twenty years." He says, and Ilya feels his stomach twist. "That's... a long time." He says, leaning slightly to fiddle with the golden cross pendant around Ilya's neck.

Ilya honestly hadn't expected for them to talk much about it— about his mother and her death. Shane usually doesn't bring it up whenever her anniversary came around, for Ilya's sake. Usually it's what Ilya preferred, but it wasn't something he was always able to hide away from.

"Yes." Ilya agrees simply. "Is long time."

A beat falls over them, a silence that's not particularly heavy, just kindof there, waiting.

"Was— are you..." Shane starts, his words seeming to slip away from him. He tries again. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asks, because he is Shane, and he is always so gentle.

Ilya purses his lips. "No, no," he says, "Is just... you know." Ilya reaches up and wipes the stray wet streaks that traveled down Shane's soft, rosy cheeks.

He isn't sure why he says that— "you know", because ultimately it's not true; Shane doesn't know what it's like to be in Ilya's position at all. And, hopefully— Ilya prays— he never will.

"I'm sorry." Shane apologizes. "I got scared and freaked out for no reason, and—"

"Hey, hey, no," Ilya soothes, running a thumb over Shane dark lashes. "Do not apologize. I was being idiot, I was just taking a moment to myself, I made a big mess on accident. I am sorry."

Shane cuddles into him deeper, as if Ilya might disappear if he doesn't keep a good enough grip on him. Anya whimpers, clearly still aware of the fact that Shane isn't calmed down completely like she needs him to be. He pets her absentmindedly, trying to soothe her in his own way.

"And, it was not for no reason." Ilya says, kissing the hair atop Shane's head. "It is a big day, for me. Sort of.. ah, difficult— you know this. I cannot blame you for being so worried. If you were sad like she was sad, I would worry also."

Shane nods, wiping at his poor little runny nose. Ilya wants to kiss it, along with all those little freckles speckled over his face like the spots on a baby fawn. They are a crucial part of Shane to Ilya in ways he can't explain.

"But Shane," Ilya whispers, to which Shane hums questioningly, his eyelids fluttering. Crying must have taken up a lot of his energy. "I promise you, if I need help I will always come to you. I have you, and therapist, and Yuna, and David, yes?"

"Yeah." Shane breathes. Anya lifts her head at Ilya, as if he could ever forget.

"And this little creature, of course." Ilya says, scratching at a spot behind her ear as she pants happily.

"Don't call her that." Shane lightly pushes at Ilya's bicep. "It's not because I don't trust you. I need you to know that."

"I know." Ilya says. "You do not have to explain. I am not upset with you, my Shanya. Everything is okay."

Shane, thankfully, nods. Anya seems pleased now they they've calmed down.

A silence falls over them, as things start to go a bit hazy. Shane is probably coming down from an adrenaline rush, and Ilya is, finally, just flat out tired. It's a little bit early, but Ilya mostly just wants today to be over, as he readjusts himself to lay down a bit more. Shane's eyes are already closed as he half lays on Ilya, still fiddling with his chain.

Sleepily, Shane speaks. "This is really nice, actually. I should steal her more often." His voice is quiet, drowsy. Ilya can tell he is drifting.

"She does not mind." Ilya says softly. "She loves you very much."

Of course, he gets no reply. Shane's breathing steadies out, and it's almost as if Anya's does at the same time, too.

"Ya tebya lyublu." Ilya whispers, kissing Shane's boneless hand. Ilya always makes sure he tells Shane before he goes to bed, even if Shane isn't awake.

Ilya doesn't mind being the last one up, now. He takes a lot of comfort in knowing the person he loves the most is safe, along with their sweet Anya. As he takes in the stillness of the bedroom, he starts to understand why their dog takes her job so seriously. In a way, by helping others, she's regulating herself as well.

It's fascinating, really.

What would we ever do without her? Shane had once asked Ilya. He had made a joking reply at the time, but the truth was that he just didn't know. He couldn't imagine how much more he'd probably be struggling despite all the help he'd been receiving, without her. Anya was sort of Ilya's icing on the cake in that regard; the final piece that he and Shane never knew was necessary to complete the puzzle of what was their syrupy, domestic life. Ilya didn't think he'd be able to make room for anyone else in his heart once he fell in love with Shane— the damn thing practically belonged to his husband, stuffed full of his undying affection for the man he had been seeing for so long.

But after he took Anya home, she managed to wriggle her way in, making room for herself that Ilya didn't know he had. And thank god, Ilya thinks often, that he had taken Anya home the day he decided to. Ilya is sure that no other dog would've completed him and Shane the way she does.

Just as Ilya closes his eyes, he feels movement beside him. He cracks open an eye to watch Anya stepping over Shane (who, surprisingly, doesn't seem to notice) in order to wedge herself between his and Ilya's legs. There is no room for her, considering he and Shane are completely pressed up against eachother. She isn't a big dog by any means, but she isn't as small as she seems to think she is, either.

It's silly. Ilya finds her endearing— that she would rather be in the middle of both of them where there is no space for her than only on top of Shane.

It doesn't make him stir and Ilya always appreciates her weight, so she stays. Her eyes are already closed anyways, and Ilya can feel himself slipping as well.

Good girl, Ilya thinks, always so good, because she is.

Ilya, as comfortable as he can be, falls fast asleep.