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When Ilya was young, he was plagued by a constant feeling that he would never be enough. That he could never be enough for his father. Growing up did nothing to help that feeling. If anything, it only made it worse, turning it into something heavier, something closer to utter loneliness. So when Ilya was diagnosed with depression, it made sense to him. It wasn’t a shock. Not really.
To be honest, Ilya had always known something was off. Not wrong, exactly. Just different. Different from how other people seemed to feel. And he never quite understood it. He had everything. He had his career, the fame, the money. He even had Shane. How he managed that still didn’t fully make sense to him, but he was grateful for it all the same.
And yet, he still felt so utterly alone.
No matter what he did, no matter how many times he told himself his life was good, that he should be happy, he could never quite escape the cold grip of loneliness. He had meant to tell Shane. He should have told Shane. Especially after what happened to his mother when she tried to handle her depression on her own.
He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Shane already had enough going on in his life. He didn’t need to be weighed down by Ilya’s stupid worries. He didn’t need to know. It wasn’t necessary.
—
Two months later, Ilya regretted that decision.
Maybe he should have told Shane. No, he definitely should have told Shane.
Ever since Ilya moved to Ottawa to play for the Centaurs, everything had gotten worse. Yes, he was closer to Shane now, but Boston had been home since the beginning of his career. It was familiar. The rink, the city, the routines. Even his teammates, who were never quite friends, had been constant. Here, everything felt hollow. Too quiet. Too new. Even the silence felt unfamiliar.
The only person he really had was Shane. And that should have been enough. It should have been.
It just wasn’t.
Ilya had the day off. No game. Meanwhile, Shane was back in Boston, playing against his former team. Ilya should have gone with him. He knew that now. The empty apartment felt louder with every passing hour. Why hadn’t he gone? That was his mistake. No, his first mistake had been staying quiet. Not telling Shane about the diagnosis. Not telling him what his own mind had been doing to him.
Ilya knew Shane loved him. He knew Shane would not judge him, would try, genuinely, to understand. But loving Shane meant not making his life harder. It meant swallowing things down, carrying them alone. Ilya had always been good at that.
Too good.
By the time he found himself sitting on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, everything felt blurred around the edges. His thoughts circled the same questions, over and over, like they always did. Why was this still happening? Why was nothing ever enough? Why did the ache never go away, no matter what he did or who he loved?
There had to be a way to make it stop.
The thought scared him the second it fully formed. His chest tightened, breath coming shallow as reality pressed in. Shane’s face flashed through his mind. Hollander. The love of his life. The man who laughed too loud and cared too deeply and deserved so much better than this.
He couldn’t hurt him. He would never forgive himself if he did.
But then the doubt crept in, quiet and poisonous. Did Shane care the same way? Did Shane love him enough to make this bearable? Ilya hated himself for even thinking it, but the question had been haunting him for months now, refusing to leave him alone.
Love, no matter how real, could not erase a lifetime of pain.
Ilya pressed his forehead to his knees, hands shaking as the weight of it all finally collapsed inward. He tried to think of another ending. Any ending that did not end with Shane breaking apart because of him.
His phone buzzed suddenly against the tile.
The sound startled him, sharp and jarring in the silence. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then it buzzed again.
Shane.
Ilya stared at the screen, vision swimming. His thumb hovered, unmoving. Saying nothing had gotten him here. Silence had never saved him before.
With a shaky breath, he answered.
“Hello?” Ilya answered.
“Ilya! We won! Oh my god, Ilya, I wish you could’ve been here to see it. The game was insane, you would have loved it.”
“That is very good, Hollander,” Ilya said quietly. “I am proud of you.”
Shane laughed, bright and breathless, thanking him before immediately launching into the details. He talked about the play with Hayden, how everything opened up just right, how he barely had time to think before the puck was on his stick. He talked about the goal, about the crowd, about how badly he wished Ilya had been there to see it all.
Ilya listened. He always listened.
He leaned back against the bathroom wall, eyes closed, letting Shane’s voice fill the space. He pictured the ice, the noise, the way Shane must have looked afterward, flushed and smiling and electric with adrenaline. He wished he could have been there. Wished he could be sitting next to him now, listening to this in person instead of through a phone.
The distance hurt more than he wanted to admit.
“Ilya?” Shane said suddenly. “You still there?”
“Da. I am here.”
There was a brief pause.
“Everything okay?” Shane asked. “You’re kinda quiet.”
“Is fine,” Ilya said quickly. “I am just thinking.”
“About what?”
Ilya hesitated, then said, “If I was still on Boston team, you would not win this game.”
Shane laughed. “Wow. Okay, rude.”
“Is truth,” Ilya replied, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little. “You are lucky I leave.”
Another pause. This one felt heavier.
“That’s not what I meant,” Shane said. “You sound… not like yourself.”
Ilya swallowed, fingers tightening around the phone.
“I am tired,” he said. “Day was long.”
Shane didn’t answer right away, and the silence pressed in.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” Shane said finally, voice lower now. “About anything.”
“I know,” Ilya said softly. “I do.”
“Okay,” Shane replied, not fully convinced. “Just tell me you’re okay.”
Ilya stared at the tile in front of him, at the small crack running through it like a fault line.
“I am okay,” he said.
The words sat heavy in his mouth.
“I will talk to you later,” Ilya said quietly. “I am going to sleep soon. I love you, Shane.”
He ended the call before Shane could respond.
That was his final mistake. Now Shane definitely knew something was wrong.
Ilya stared at the bathroom tile where the bottle sat, unmoving, like it had been waiting for him. He pressed his palms against the sink, breathing slow, deliberate, begging himself not to reach for it. Not to do this.
But he did not see another way out. Every path in his mind led back to the same place. He was so tired. So tired of feeling this way. He could make it all stop. Just like that. The pain would be gone.
He picked up the bottle, hands trembling, and stood in front of the sink. His reflection stared back at him, pale and distant, eyes empty in a way that scared him.
“This should not be so hard,” he muttered. “I was fine before. Why is it not enough now?”
He swallowed hard, throat tight, thoughts spiraling faster.
“Shane does not deserve this,” he whispered. “He deserves better than me.”
The words hurt more than anything else.
His phone rang.
The sound cut through the room sharply, making him flinch. His heart slammed against his ribs as the ringing echoed off the tile. He stared at the screen, breath caught in his chest.
Shane.
Ilya sank down against the cabinet, pressing his forehead to his knees.
“Please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not now.”
The phone kept ringing.
—
As soon as Ilya cut the call, Shane knew something wasn’t right.
He stood alone in his hotel room, phone still warm in his hand. The room was painfully ordinary. Neutral walls. A neatly made bed. His duffel still zipped shut by the door, untouched. No gear, no sticks, no reminders of the game he’d just played and won.
The quiet felt wrong.
Ilya never hung up first. Not like that. Not without waiting for Shane to say it back.
Shane replayed the call in his head, every pause, every clipped answer. The way Ilya’s voice had sounded flat, almost hollow. Too controlled. Like he was holding something back.
“Day was long.”
Bullshit.
Shane shoved his phone into his pocket, then immediately pulled it back out again. His fingers hovered over Ilya’s name. He told himself not to overreact. Ilya was private. He always had been. If something was wrong, he would say something. Eventually.
But the feeling in Shane’s chest wouldn’t go away. It sat there, heavy and insistent, twisting tighter with every passing second.
He remembered the way Ilya had said, I am going to sleep soon. The timing of it. The finality.
Shane exhaled sharply and hit call.
Straight to voicemail.
“Okay,” Shane muttered under his breath. “Okay, that’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine.
He called again.
Still nothing.
Shane leaned against the wall, phone pressed hard to his ear, willing it to ring on the other end. His mind started filling in the gaps, jumping to places he didn’t want to go.
He said he was tired.
He sounded wrong.
He hung up.
“Come on, Ilya,” Shane whispered. “Please.”
Shane tried again. And again.
By the fourth call, his hands were shaking.
He thought back over the last few months. The move to Ottawa. The way Ilya had gotten quieter. The way he brushed things off, changed subjects, smiled when Shane knew he shouldn’t be smiling. Shane had noticed. Of course he had. He just hadn’t pushed. He told himself it was fine. That Ilya needed space.
That maybe space was the wrong thing to give him.
When his phone finally buzzed in his hand, Shane nearly dropped it. His breath hitched when he saw Ilya’s name on the screen.
He answered immediately.
“Ilya,” Shane said, too fast, too sharp. “Hey. Hey, I’m here.”
There was silence on the other end.
Shane sat down on the bed, heart pounding, lowering his voice without even thinking about it.
“Talk to me,” he said gently. “Please. Something’s wrong. I can hear it.”
—
Ilya gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, his phone face up on the counter, Shane’s voice coming through the speaker.
His breathing was uneven, chest hitching as tears ran freely down his face. He could not do this anymore. He could not keep carrying it alone. He needed Shane. He needed to say it out loud before it swallowed him whole.
“Shane, I—” Ilya started, the words breaking apart as they left his mouth.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep going.
“I cannot do this anymore,” he said, voice shaking. “Inside me… there is nothing. I feel empty. Like everything is gone.”
He dragged in a breath, hands trembling against the porcelain.
“I am scared, Shane,” he admitted quietly. “I am scared of myself. I do not trust what my head is telling me.”
His voice cracked.
“Please,” he whispered. “I need help. I cannot do this alone.”
Ilya sucked in a sharp breath, but it only made his chest ache more. The words kept spilling out anyway, tumbling over each other, messy and unfiltered.
“I try to stop it,” he said, voice cracking badly. “I try tell myself is stupid, is nothing, I have good life. I have you. But it does not stop. It never stop.”
His grip on the sink tightened until his knuckles burned.
“It is loud in my head, Shane,” he choked. “Always loud. I wake up tired. I go sleep tired. I feel like I am pretending all the time, like I am wearing mask and if I take it off… there is nothing under.”
He broke off with a shaky sob, dragging his sleeve across his face even though it did nothing to stop the tears.
“I do not feel real,” he whispered. “Sometimes I look at my hands and think, this is not me. This is not my life. I should be happy and I am not and I do not understand why.”
His breathing turned uneven, words coming faster now, less controlled.
“I think maybe I am broken,” he said quietly. “Maybe something is wrong with me and it cannot be fixed. I try so hard, Shane. I try be strong. I try not make problems for you.”
A strangled sound left his throat.
“But I am so tired,” he admitted. “I am tired of fighting my own head every day. I am tired of being alone even when I am not alone.”
He pressed his forehead against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut.
“I am scared,” he repeated, voice barely audible now. “I am scared what happen if I stay like this. I do not want to hurt you. I do not want to leave you. I just… I do not know how to make it stop.”
His voice dissolved into sobs, words breaking apart completely.
“Please, Shane,” he whispered. “Please do not leave me with this. I need you. I really need you.”
Ilya barely heard his own breathing over the pounding in his ears. His hands were shaking so badly he had to sit down on the bathroom floor, back against the cabinet, phone clutched tight in his fist like it was the only solid thing left.
Then Shane spoke.
“Ilya.”
His name, said like that, cut through everything. Not sharp. Steady. Certain.
“Hey,” Shane said, calm in a way that felt almost unreal. “Listen to me, okay?”
Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. He nodded even though Shane couldn’t see him.
“I’m here,” Shane continued. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in Ilya’s chest cracked open at that. A sound left his throat, broken and small, and he pressed his free hand over his mouth, trying to keep it in.
“I’m getting on the next flight to Ottawa,” Shane said. “Tonight. As soon as I hang up, I’m booking it. I don’t care how late it is. I’m coming to you.”
Ilya’s breath hitched painfully. His mind struggled to keep up.
“You… you do not have to—” he tried, but Shane didn’t let him finish.
“We’re going to figure this out,” Shane said, firm now. “Together. Not you alone. Not you carrying this by yourself.”
The word together echoed in Ilya’s head, over and over, like he was afraid it might disappear if he didn’t hold onto it tightly enough.
“You are not alone, Ilya,” Shane said. Slow. Intentional. Like he needed Ilya to hear every syllable. “You’ve never been alone. I should have said it sooner, but I’m saying it now.”
Ilya dragged a shaky breath into his lungs. His chest still hurt, but it hurt differently now. Less like it was caving in. More like it was trying to stay open.
“I need you to hang on,” Shane said gently. “Just hang on for me. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to fix anything tonight. You just have to stay.”
Stay.
Ilya pressed his forehead to his knees, tears soaking into the fabric of his pants.
“I’m coming to you,” Shane repeated. “I will be there soon. And until then, you stay on the phone with me, okay?”
The room felt less empty with Shane’s voice filling it. Ilya clung to it, like a lifeline, like something real.
“O… okay,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I stay.”
He swallowed hard, forcing the words out.
“Please,” he added quietly. “Do not hang up.”
“I won’t,” Shane said immediately. “I promise.”
And for the first time all night, Ilya believed him.
—
Time moved strangely after that. It stretched and folded in on itself, measured only by Shane’s voice in his ear and the sound of his own breathing slowly evening out. Ilya stayed on the bathroom floor until his legs went numb, then moved to the couch because Shane asked him to. Because Shane kept asking him things that anchored him. Small things. Simple things.
Tell me what you can see.
Tell me what you can hear.
Stay with me.
The last thing Shane said before the call ended was, “I’m boarding now. I’ll be there as fast as I can. You stay where you are. I will come to you.”
Then the line went dead.
Ilya sat very still after that.
The apartment felt different without Shane’s voice filling it. Too quiet again. Too open. He kept his phone in his hand, screen dark, like it might light up if he stared at it hard enough. He told himself this was different. This silence was not abandonment. Shane had told him where he was going. Shane was coming.
He repeated it to himself over and over.
Shane is coming. Shane is coming.
Time crawled. Minutes stretched into something unbearable. Ilya tried sitting, then standing, then pacing the length of the living room. He drank water because Shane had told him to. He wrapped himself in a blanket because his hands would not stop shaking. Every so often, the fear crept back in, whispering that he was alone again, that he had imagined Shane’s certainty.
He fought it the only way he knew how.
By waiting.
When his phone finally buzzed, the sound startled him so badly he nearly dropped it. His heart slammed painfully in his chest as he looked down at the screen.
Landed. On my way.
Ilya’s breath left him in a shaky rush. He slid down onto the couch, pressing the heel of his hand against his sternum like he could hold himself together that way.
Okay, he typed back, fingers clumsy. I am here.
He watched the door after that. Every sound in the hallway made him flinch. Footsteps. Voices. An elevator ding somewhere down the corridor. His whole body felt wound too tight, like if this didn’t happen soon he might come apart again.
Then the lock turned.
The sound was unmistakable.
“Ilya?” Shane called softly through the door.
Ilya stood up too fast, dizzy, his knees threatening to give out beneath him. He didn’t trust his voice to answer.
The door opened.
Shane was there. Hair still damp from a rushed shower, jacket half-zipped, eyes tired and frantic and fixed entirely on him.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Shane dropped his bag and crossed the room in three long strides.
Ilya barely had time to breathe before Shane’s arms were around him, solid and warm and real. The smell of soap and airport and something familiar overwhelmed him, and his body finally gave up the fight.
He sagged into Shane’s chest, sob breaking free without permission.
“I’m here,” Shane said immediately, voice thick. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
He held Ilya like he meant it, like he wasn’t going anywhere. One hand cradled the back of his head, the other pressed firm and steady between his shoulder blades.
“You did exactly right,” Shane murmured. “You waited. You stayed. You let me come.”
Ilya nodded weakly against his chest.
“I did not think I could,” he admitted. “But I did.”
Shane pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes shining.
“I know,” he said softly. “And I am so proud of you.”
Ilya closed his eyes and leaned into him again, exhaustion washing over him now that the fear had somewhere to go.
He wasn’t alone.
Shane was here.
And this time, he knew he didn’t have to survive the waiting by himself ever again.
Shane stayed exactly where he was, one arm wrapped around Ilya’s back, the other resting warm and steady between his shoulders. Ilya focused on that point of contact, on the rise and fall of Shane’s chest beneath his cheek. He matched his breathing to it without thinking, slow and uneven at first, then steadier.
The apartment was still the same. Same walls. Same quiet. But it felt different now, like something had shifted just enough to let the air back in.
Ilya didn’t feel better. Not really. But he felt here. Held. And for the first time in a long while, that felt like something he could build from.
Shane’s hand pressed gently against his back, solid and sure.
Ilya closed his eyes and let himself stay.