Chapter Text
Ilya smacked his lips as he woke up, trying to get some moisture in his mouth. Moving his limbs felt like lifting weights, and he debated staying in bed for the rest of the day. And he would have, had it not been the sound of the blender in the kitchen. He sat up, elbows on his knees, and breathed through the fog in his mind. The fatigue lingered, heavy and stubborn. He needed a moment before facing his boyfriend. Exhaling sharply and long through his mouth, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and trudged to the bathroom to wash up.
He didn't dare look in the mirror, the memory of the dream still too fresh in his mind for him to bear the sight of his mother's eyes on his father's face. He kept his head down and tried to organize his thoughts to the mindless rhythm of his toothbrush, letting the sting of the mint bring him awake. He hand-combed his hair, swiped some deodorant on, and went downstairs, feeling fresher than before.
"Good morning, baby," Shane's voice washed over him like a blanket of the purest sunshine. "I made you a smoothie, and yes, there is spinach and chia seeds, but no, you can't even taste it. I even made you your greasy bacon and just put some hashbrowns in the oven. The ones with the cheese on top are yours and the one--"
"Mmm, good morning to you too," Ilya kissed it into his mouth, inhaling through his nose like he needed Shane to breathe. His hands lay possessively on Shane's waist, tightening and relaxing with every swipe of his tongue. Shane, never one to back off, gave him back just as much, looping his arms around Ilya's neck and grabbing at his hair. Ilya walked Shane to the counter, their steps never faltering, and kissed Shane till they were dizzy.
"You're in a mood this morning," Shane huffed when they separated for air, but his words don't match the way he's grinding against Ilya's thigh. Ilya reached down and grabbed the back of Shane's thigh, and that was enough incentive for Shane to jump up and wrap his legs around Ilya's waist. Ilya has never been as grateful for an open plan kitchen as he was at this moment, when he can just turn around and walk a couple of steps to deposit Shane on the wide, cushioned sectional couch they chose together. Everything in his new Ottawa house is a reminder of the love and family he now has.
"I always want you." I always need you. His mind whispered. He quieted it with another taste of Shane’s skin. His teeth sink into his bare chest, soothing the marks with his tongue. His hips rolled down to meet Shane’s, where he was thrusting up for any contact. He didn’t leave any marks, though; he knew better than to leave hickeys on his boyfriend in the middle of the season.
“Hurry up, please.” Shane was always so damn beautiful when he begged.
Ilya wouldn’t call himself a good boyfriend if he weren’t a good listener. Their clothes fell to the floor somewhere between Ilya’s path down Shane’s chest to his dick. He swallowed down every bit of Shane’s moans and gasps as his own personal medal. No one can make Shane feel like this except Ilya.
He said so as much, breathing Shane’s name as he pushed into him. Shane could say nothing but please as he gave his body up to Ilya. And Ilya took, and took, and took. He consumed Shane as a starving man would a river of water.
He was zoning out again, lying on Shane’s chest-- warm, loose, safe-- listening to him breathe, when frantic slaps on his shoulder brought him back. “Shit, fuck, Ilya, I’m gonna be late. Move, and can you put my breakfast in a to-go box?” Shane had already pushed Ilya off the couch and hurriedly ran to their room to grab his bags.
Ilya made a sound somewhere between a groan and a chuckle as he packed his boyfriend's breakfast for the ride back to Montreal. He made sure to use the takeout boxes with the dividers in between to keep Shane’s from touching each other, just the way he likes it.
Shane came out fully dressed, carrying his duffel in one hand, shoving his other hand into a sweater. Ilya met him at the door, holding out his winter jacket so Shane could slip into it. He grabbed Shane’s jacket-clad hand and pulled him into a slow kiss. Shane melted against him, tension leaving his body. “It’s snowing outside, be careful. Text me when you get there.”
“I will, I love you.” Shane was putting his boots on.
“We’ll see each other soon. I love you.” Ilya said that like a promise, the shadows in his head retreated at his resolve.
“Yes, yes, we will.” With one parting kiss, Shane was out the door, sliding into his car, and pulling away.
Ilya stood at the door till the SUV disappeared, and he became numb to the cold.
---
That afternoon, Ilya dropped by Dr. Galina’s office before he headed to practice. He had been seeing her since he came to Ottawa, since his dreams started following him into the real world, and days without Shane were starting to become scary.
“I had a dream.” He says when he’s settled down across her on her couch. “I saw my mother again. This time, she was waking me up from sleep. Shane was next to me, so I tried to introduce them, but he just wouldn’t wake up, and she kept walking away.” Ilya felt the frustration rise within him as he recalled the vivid dream from last night. He knew it wasn’t fair to get upset at Shane and his dead mother, but then he would have no one else to be upset at, and he did not know how to deal with that. Because if someone wasn’t hurting him, why was he in pain all the time?
He shook that thought away as soon as it appeared, “I tried to talk to her, but all she did was stand in the hallway and stare at me. She looked sad, like she always used to. Why is she calling for me, doc? Am I going insane?” Ilya’s voice cracked as he said it.
Dr. Galina crossed her long legs and looked directly in his eyes, “You’re not going insane. You are hurting, Ilya, and your brain is desperately trying to heal. But it’s going to be a long and slow process. Have you told your boyfriend about your depression yet? Or maybe any of your friends or teammates?”
“No,” Ilya almost yelled it, “I come here so I don’t have to burden him with this. He does not need me to be depressed right now. We are happy, and we are together. I love him, so I need you to fix me.”
“Would he really think of you as a burden?” Dr. Galina asked him gently. For a Russian, she was surprisingly good at getting him to talk about his feelings just by talking to him softly. Maybe she was a witch, he thought bitterly.
“That’s not the point. Nothing you said is working. I’m doing more exercise than ever, I talk to you once a week, and I even started cooking and baking as a hobby. Why am I not getting fixed?” Ilya’s voice was edging into desperation.
“You are not something broken to be fixed, Ilya. You are just under a lot of pressure while balancing a tremendous amount of responsibilities. You are playing a physically taxing and dangerous sport for a living. You are hiding a very big secret while also living in the spotlight. You are in love with a man you aren’t allowed to be in love with. You are carrying trauma from your childhood that you’ve never allowed yourself to process properly. And also, you feel things very deeply. Deeper than maybe anyone realizes.” Dr. Galina just laid out his life like she was reading her grocery list.1
Ilya blinked. “So, what now?”
“I think we should try some medications.” Ilya tried to cut her off, but she continued ahead, “There are ways to do this without making you anxious. I would ideally like it if you could go to a clinic for regular nasal treatments, but I’m not sure how that would work with your team doctor. There are topical treatments we can try as well. But, personally, I think pills would be the most efficient SSRIs for you.”
Ilya nodded along to all of this, trying not to feel broken as she listed off ways to fix him. “I don’t want any drugs. But I want to get better. Can we try the other methods before we try the pills?” Ilya looked at her with what he hoped were his convincing eyes, but probably looked more like he was pleading.
“Of course, with your permission, I would like to talk to your team doctor to see how best to proceed with this. You’re not alone in this, Ilya.”
Ilya desperately wanted to cry at this moment.
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- Directly quoted from Rachel Reid’s The Long Game (2022)