Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, mentions of shane and svetlana

Additional Tags:

Suicide Attempt, Mental Health Issues, Depression, Angst with No Happy Ending, Hurt No Comfort

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-05 Words: 1,390 Chapters: 1/1

in light of the hour while you lay sleeping

Summary

The morning after Ilya Rozanov kills himself, he wakes up next to Shane in their shared bed in their shared house in their shared life, and Shane is still sleeping, so he doesn’t know what Ilya’s done yet.

Shane is breathing so softly, evenly, deeply. There’s a wrinkle at his forehead that makes him look concerned about something in his dreams. Unable to relax even in sleep. It’s so deeply Shane that Ilya wants to laugh a little. He reaches out to smooth a thumb over the wrinkle between his eyes, and Shane makes a soft little sound. It makes Ilya smile, just a little. 

He is both alive and not alive, right now. He is both dead and not dead. While Shane is still asleep, he doesn’t know that Ilya has killed himself, and so Ilya hasn’t done it in any way that matters yet. 

Ilya pulls himself out of bed. He is late to a phone call that he scheduled with Svetlana. It is not a phone call that would have changed things, probably, if it were to have happened earlier. It’s not one that he was worried about either, nor was he resistant to having it. If anything, he was excited to talk to her. But now it’s the morning after he killed himself and so he doesn’t answer the phone. 

Answer the phone, comes the text once the hour has passed. 

Ilyusha. I woke up early to talk to you. 

Whatever. I hope you’re getting your beauty sleep, asshole. We’ll reschedule when you’re up. Give Hollander my best.

Ilya doesn’t answer any of Svetlana’s texts. He wanders through the apartment mindlessly. Opens cabinets. Drops things. Closes doors. Lets Anya out and in and out and in. He lets his breath fog the bathroom mirror and then writes I WAS HERE in the stain. 

I was here. I was here. I was here. I was here. 

He is no longer here. But that isn’t the part that’s important right now. Shane isn’t awake yet, hasn’t found Ilya dead, and so Ilya can still write messages in the fog in the mirror and he can still go about this strange, strange morning. 

He makes coffee. He pours an excessive amount of creamer in it even though he doesn’t like creamer. He drinks it while it’s still boiling hot enough to hurt his tongue and his lips and the roof of his mouth. Despite all of that, it tastes bitter and cold. He swallows every drop anyway. 

The night before, he had ordered takeout Chinese food and it was kind of shitty and not greasy enough and yet also greasy enough to make him feel a little ill. He had eaten it despite that and Shane had admonished him for it the whole time. 

Are you trying to make yourself sick? Just eat something else. There’s some of my dinner on the stove still, you can have that.

Shane will probably have those leftovers that Ilya didn’t eat for lunch today. Or maybe he won’t eat anything. He tends to put off eating when he gets stressed, and probably finding Ilya dead will make him stressed. Hopefully, when it becomes real that Ilya is gone, someone will be around to make sure that Shane is still eating.

Probably Yuna and David will come by and stay with him for a while. Probably Harris will cook up a year’s worth of meals for him. Probably Troy will make sure he eats them. There will be people to take care of him, when he finally wakes up and Ilya doesn’t. 

His body aches where he has folded it up on the couch. He feels as if he is a paper doll, wrinkled and creased and torn up at the edges. He feels as if he is a single concrete brick, impossible to bend or snap or break. He cannot move with any precision. He cannot move without crumpling under the weight of himself. He moves anyway. 

He goes back to the bedroom after he’s grown tired of his coffee. He leaves behind him in the living room a half-full mug on a stained coaster. Shane will be annoyed about picking up his dishes, later. Or maybe he’ll just leave it there, as if maybe Ilya will be back for it one day. Maybe—

Shane—who loves Ilya; who will find him when he is dead; who will wake up without Ilya when he is gone for good; who will miss him probably, which is something Ilya knows because sometimes Shane misses him even when he is still there—

Shane moves in his sleep, shifting under the blankets. Ilya sits down on the bed next to him, leaning against the headboard but not getting under the covers. He looks over at Shane with a feeling that only people who have killed themselves are allowed to know. 

It’s love, but it’s also something bitter and tired and angry. It’s love, but it’s also something frustrating and fuming. It’s love, but it’s also something exhausted and worn down and pissed off. It’s love, but it’s also something absolutely point-blank terrified. 

How dare you make me feel guilty over this? How dare you make me want to regret it? How dare you not know what to say, how dare you know exactly what to say? How dare you make me want to get better? How dare you? How dare you? How dare you? 

Ilya hates Shane for it. He loves him for it. Or, really, he hates himself for it and he thinks Shane should hate him for it too. Shane doesn’t, of course, and that’s maybe the worst part. He doesn’t hate Ilya. He loves him. He sleeps in the bed next to Ilya and he splits his dinners with him and he does both of their dishes even when he cooked and he loves Ilya despite all of the above.

It’s all so goddamn stupid, but Ilya wakes up the morning after he kills himself because Shane hasn’t found him dead yet and so Ilya is not yet dead. But he will be. As soon as Shane opens his eyes and finds Ilya not awake and not asleep, the box will be opened. There will be no more pretending. 

Keep sleeping, please, please, please. Ilya isn’t ready yet. He doesn’t want Shane to know this yet. He doesn’t want it to be true yet. 

He regrets it already—how dare Shane make him regret this—he wants to keep sleeping for a little longer and he wants to wake up with Shane—how dare Ilya have woken up first—he wants to undo it all—how dare he have done it—how dare he have the audacity to wish he didn’t—how dare Shane make him feel all this about being found—how dare you, Shane Hollander—

Shane stirs a little in his sleep. Makes a soft noise. There’s a flash of shame and sorrow flooding through Ilya’s whole being. There is a kind of love that only people who have killed themselves know and it is entirely tainted by regret.

Keep sleeping, Shane. 

With the little strength that Ilya can find in himself, he drags his body out of bed again. He is late to a phone call with Svetlana. He is ignoring Svetlana’s texts. He is making coffee. He is leaving half-filled mugs on the coffee table.

He ends up in the bathroom again. He breathes out hot air onto the mirror. I WAS HERE. I WAS HERE. I WAS HERE. 

In the corner of his eye, there is a shadow behind the shower curtain. The curtain is drawn over the shower, covering anything that might be laying in the tub. 

The Ilya who made a bad decision wanted to do it in private. The Ilya who woke up afterwards wishes it were not so easy to ignore. The Ilya who will never wake up again wishes it were easier to ignore. Contradictions upon contradictions upon contradictions, all the way down. I WAS HERE. I WAS HERE. I WAS HERE. 

The fog on the mirror is fading. Dissipating. The words are disappearing with it. I WAS HERE. I WAS HERE.

The door to the bathroom is unlocked, so clearly the desire for privacy did not outweigh the desire to be stopped which in turn did not outweigh the fear of being found too late. But it doesn’t matter now. I WAS HERE.

Shane, wait—there might still be time to undo it—don’t wake up yet—don’t wake up—