Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Troy Barrett/Harris Drover

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Suicide Attempt, Mental Health Issues, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Protective Yuna Hollander, Alcohol, Self-Harm, Takes place during the long game, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-17 Completed: 2026-02-20 Words: 6,345 Chapters: 2/2

this river is wild

Summary

Ilya Rozanov does not make it two weeks on Zoloft before the worst side effect hits hard and fast.

or,

“Barrett, I fucked up,” he says.

“Roz?” Barrett sounds dazed.

“I fucked up,” he repeats, and he realizes how drunk he sounds. He’s in so much trouble he almost hangs up.

“Roz, what's going on,” Barrett says.

Bozhe, he’s going to have to say the words.

Now with part two, featuring buckwheat pancakes, psychiatry for millionaires, important conversations, and Troy and Ilya’s worst “your mom” joke.

Notes

Okay so. I have become convinced by tumblr that 1) the plane malfunction in TLG should have been a suicide attempt, so I wrote one. and 2) Ilya has more than depression. I am open to any combo of cptsd, bipolar, and adhd. I just thought it would be interesting to put him on ssri's and have that go deeply poorly.

This contains moderately graphic descriptions of cut wounds. I don't think it warranted a tag, but YMMV.

I wrote this fic on varying levels of cold medicine. apologies in advance.

Chapter 1: night of

Chapter Notes

Ilya’s skin is buzzing. He’s been on the stupid pills for two weeks. It not helping. 

“Give it a month,” the doctor said. Galina recommended her. “Call if it makes you want to kill yourself.” She was a nice lady and Ilya wondered if she had ever wanted to kill herself. 

He doesn’t want to. He just keeps thinking about it. His skin is buzzing. In Boston, he’d go to a club, get drunk, have sex. It would fix it. It would carry him through. He lives in boring Ottawa. He only has sex with Shane. He is like a zoo animal. 

There’s good vodka in the freezer. 

The first shot goes down rougher than he wants. The second is easier. The third is smooth. He turns on Shane's game. His lover is playing well. Montreal is playing well. Minnesota doesn’t stand a chance, even if they beat Ottawa last month. 

His skin is still buzzing, after the second commercial break, he downs another two shots. He’s dizzy in a way that reminds him he didn’t eat dinner. Shane will be mad. Thinking about Shane makes shame lick his stomach. 

He brings the bottle back to the couch, and finishes the game. He’s so warm and the vodka cuts a cold river through him. He keeps drinking. 

Then the game is over. The bottle is empty. Then the night is quiet. Ilya is empty and his house is empty and his life is empty and it’s like running out of gas on the highway and there’s nothing that can fix this. There’s nothing that can fix him. 

The buzzing in his skin is so loud. He just wants it to stop. 

The lights in his bathroom are so bright and so loud but the first cut hurts enough to shut it down. Then he keeps going. The pain is sharper than anything, but he feels the relief in his heart. 

He switches to his right wrist, but his left hand is awkward. He switches back. His body knows what to do. How to flick his wrist and how to take pain. 

There’s a lot of blood. 

There’s too much blood. 

He’s too drunk to sober up at the sight, but the pain is bringing in a sharper focus. The pain from his mama claws into his heart, and he chokes on his breath. He chokes on a sob. He doesn’t want to hurt Shane like this. He doesn’t want to die, not like this, not tonight. The bathroom towel gets stained while he wipes his hand, and he looks at his phone. 

He won’t call 911, he can’t have an ambulance at his house. He can’t call Shane, he can’t do this to Yuna or David. If there’s anyone who will understand making stupid choices, he knows who to call. 

Troy picks up on the second ring. 

“Barrett, I fucked up,” he says. 

“Roz?” Barrett sounds dazed. 

“I fucked up,” he repeats, and he realizes how drunk he sounds. He’s in so much trouble he almost hangs up. 

“Roz, what's going on,” Barrett says. 

Bozhe, he’s going to have to say the words.

“I tried to kill myself.”

There’s a loud rustling, Barrett says fuck at least six times, says okay another four. 

“Where are you?”Barrett asks.

“My house,” Ilya says. He sounds calm, he thinks. 

Barrett is not calm. “Do you need an ambulance?”

“If I needed ambulance I would not call you,” he says, which is not what he means. 

“Motherfucker, I’m going to be there in ten minutes. Do not get off the phone or I’m calling 911.” 

“Understood.”

There's silence. He thinks he can hear a car blinker. 

“What did you do?” Barrett sounds very sad. Ilya thinks about hanging up, but he doesn’t want to deal with paramedics. 

“I am very drunk. I cut my wrists.” 

“Put pressure on them. Whichever one is worse.”

“Okay,” he says. Calling Barrett was like diving into a fast river. He is not in control anymore. He holds his phone like a life line. 

“Roz, why?” Barrett's voice cracks, and the guilt threatens to drown Ilya. “Sorry. We can talk later. Harris says to unlock your front door.”

“Why is Harris there?”

“Live through this and I’ll tell you.” Barrett says, sounding like an asshole again. It helps. “Unlock your door.”

“Okay.” Barrett is still talking, but Ilya is focused on walking to the front door, dizzy. He wonders if he’s bleeding everywhere. He doesn’t look back to check. He unlocks the front door. He sits. Simple sentences. Noun verb. Like learning English all over again. 

“The door is unlocked. I am here.” 

Barrett’s voice is shaky. “We’ll be there in two minutes.”

“I am tired.” 

“Don’t fall asleep.” 

“Okay.”

“I fucking mean it Roz. You stop responding, I am calling 911.” 

“I said okay.” he’s pretty sure there’s something flawed in Barrett’s threat, but he isn’t sure what. 

Finally, “Do you have shoes on?” 

“What?”

“It's January. Put your boots on.” Ilya should make a joke about how Ottawa winters are nothing. He’s too tired. 

He slides his feet into his boots, stupid snow boots Shane bought him. 

“Ottawa is not that cold,” he says.  He hears his voice doubled, wondering if he’s going down. His front door opens. Barrett is there, and so is Harris. 

“Why is Harris here?” He asks. 

“You stupid asshole,” Barrett says, and then Barrett is helping him to a truck. Barrett gets in the driver's seat and Harris comes in the back with him, does up his seatbelt. The car moves and Ilya isn’t sure if he’s going to puke. 

“I fucked up,” he says, because he can’t manage sorry. 

“Yes,” Barrett says from the front. 

“Ilya, it's going to be okay. Did you take anything?” Harris asks. 

“You’re gonna narcan him?” Barrett asks. 

“Baby, its your turn to drive,” Harris says. “You get us to Montcalm safely, I do first aid.” 

“Net, no, just vodka and - “ he looks at his arms, the left bleeding through his bathroom towel. “Stupid.”

“That's great. I'm going to wrap your arms and put pressure on them.” Harris does just that. He’s stronger than he looks, or Ilya’s been doing a shit job, because it hurts.

“Ow,” he says. 

Barrett sounds near tears. “Roz if you didn't want your arms to hurt you shouldn't-”

Harris sounds stressed. Also his fault. “Troy-”

“No, he is right,” Ilya says. 

“I’m glad you called, okay,” Barrett says. Ilya doesn’t say if he agrees. It’s all so much more real now that other people know. 

“I don’t want to die,” he says. “I don’t know what happened.” 

“You’re going to get through this,” Harris says. 

And then Barrett pulls into the hospital parking lot. Harris gives instructions, and then he’s being helped out of the truck. The lights and the noise are awful, and he wants to throw up. 

“Triage,” Harris tells him. This is not a word he knows, but Harris guides him to a nurse station labelled triage. Fair enough. 

He sits, and the nurse takes his temperature and types into a computer. She unwraps his arm; it's worse, worse under the lights and with other people. She bandages his right arm, which looks like he didn’t even try in comparison.

“Do you have a health care card?” She asks. Ilya is really trying to process, but the hospital is so loud and he wants it all to stop. He looks helplessly at them both. 

“Wheres your wallet?” Harris asks, and then takes it from his jacket when Ilya taps it. Harris hands the green card to the nurse. There’s some sort of relief that he doesn’t have to explain this to management like he would have in Boston. 

 She puts a little bracelet around his right wrist. He squints to read it. Decides it’s not important. Tries to focus. 

“Do you take any medications?” The nurse asks. Harris can’t help him here. 

“Da,” he replies. “Yes. Starts with Z -. Started two weeks ago. For Depression.” He’s never had to say it in English before. He doesn’t like it in either language. 

The typing stops. “Zoloft?” 

“That’s it,” he says. He doesn’t look at Harris or the nurse. 

“We’re going to take you back to a room, Ilya. Can you walk?” 

He must answer correctly, because they led him back to a little room. It’s darker. There are large plastic orange chairs. A new nurse comes in and starts an IV. “Fluids,” they tell Harris, because Harris asks. 

It’s cold entering his vein. He shivers. 

Ilya doesn’t think he has anything else to say. He’s sobering up to realize how fucking stupid it is. He wants to restart tonight. He wants to go back and take it all back. 

Barrett is back, in his little room, while they wait for the doctor to come stitch him up. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells both men. He doesn’t sound as drunk as he did. 

“It’s okay,” Harris says, quickly. Troy is quiet. Not angry quiet, some other type Ilya doesn’t know, which is worse. 

“What happened?” Troy asks. He’s not accusing him. “I know the team sucks but-” 

“Not the team. Team is fine. It was too much,” he tries. It chokes through his teeth. It’s shockingly honest. 

That’s when a doctor comes in. She’s young and has her black hair tied up. 

“Mr. Rozanov, my name is Dr. Nguyen. I’m going to be giving you stitches.” The numbing thing she injects burns, and he winces but tries not to move. He takes one last look at the stuff inside him. He doesn’t look as she sews up his stupid choices. 

“Will it scar?” he asks. 

“You can reduce scarring with silicon cream, once the stitches come out.” Her words are professional. The stitches tug. If he were any drunker, he’d throw up. 

“It will scar?” He says. 

“Mr. Rozanov-” she starts. There’s too much of something in her voice. 

“I am. Vain.” he says. “It was a mistake.” He thinks he’s telling the truth. He regrets it. She studies him. Completes another few stitches. 

“Do you smoke?” she asks. 

“Depends,” he says. 

She doesn’t find it funny, but doesn’t argue with him. Canadian doctors are too nice.  “It will heal better if you do not smoke.” 

“I will not smoke,” he tells her. He’ll buy some damn nicotine patches if it comes to it. Shane would like that. Then he remembers Shane doesn’t know, and for a second, wishes he had died so he doesn’t have to have that conversation. 

The tugging stops. She spreads something cold over his arm. He looks again. It looks tidy. The longest one is unmistakable. Fuck. 

“-We’re going to keep you overnight, we can’t discharge you until you talk with our psychiatrist. They’ll be in at eight.” 

“I have practice,” he says, looking helplessly at Harris and Troy. “It was an accident.” The doctor just narrows her lips. She wraps bandages around his left arm. His arms match. He must look crazy. There’s still blood under his nails. He closes his eyes. 

“This is stupid,” he says. 

“I’m sorry, Roz,” Barrett says. “You shouldn’t go to practice this hungover. One miss won’t kill-” And then Barrett stops talking. His voice catches. Ilya is suddenly aware that he is the worst person on earth. 

Barrett doesn’t cry. Ilya doesn’t look to check. 

“Do you have my phone?” he asks. Harris hands it over. 

“Who are you going to call?” Barrett asks. 

“Shane,” Ilya says. 

“Hollander?” Barrett replies. “You’re calling the guy you run a mental health charity with?” The absurdity of it chokes a dark laugh out of him. 

It doesn’t take him longer than a second to decide that the men in front of him know the worst thing about him, and they might as well know the best. 

“Shane. He is my boyfriend.” 

“Oh shit.” 

“Do you want some privacy?” Harris asks. Ilya no longer cares. 

When he opens his phone, it’s almost two in the morning. 

Jane: Call in an hour?

Jane: Miss you

Jane: Forgot about your early practice. Ya tebya lyublyu

He just stares at the messages. Turns his phone off. Screen down so he doesn’t have to look at himself. 

“What did you say?” Barrett asks. 

“Nothing,” he says. “He does not need this.” He cannot look at them. “Stupid mistake.” 

“He’s going to find out,” Barrett says, looking at Ilya’s arms. “Do you want to hurt him now, or hurt him more later?” 

“Fuck,” he says. 

He hits call on Shane’s contact. Hits the button to break do not disturb. Doesn’t hang up. “Prosti, pozhaluysta,” he says, mostly to himself. Then Shane picks up. 

“Ilya, what’s going on?” Shane sounds sleepy, like he does when Ilya wakes him with little kisses in the summer. Guilt threatens to choke him. 

“Prosti, pozhaluysta,” he says, again, and now there are tears in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it. Was stupid -”

“It’s okay. Ilya. It’s okay. What happened?” 

“Was stupid. Was drinking. I cut my wrists,” he tries to keep to the facts. “I didn’t mean it.” 

Shane makes a noise Ilya has never heard before. Ilya wishes it was for any other reason. “Where are you?” 

“Montfort Hospital. I’m okay.” 

“You are not okay. You tried to kill yourself.” Shane says it like he wants it to not be true. Ilya does not know what to say. 

“Oh my god, you tried to kill yourself,” Shane says again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to.” 

It hits like a truck that this is not an awful nightmare. Knocks the air from his lungs like a hard fall and his eyes sting and his arms ache. Shane is still talking. 

“I’m coming to see you. I’m calling my parents. I’m -” Ilya closes his eyes. 

His phone is lifted off his chest, and Harris is speaking. 

“Hey Hollander. This is Harris. Me and Barrett brought him to the hospital. He got stitches. It’s okay. He’s okay. I’m going to put you on speakerphone now.” 

“Ilya, I’m so sorry,” Shane says. 

“You did not do the stupid thing,” Ilya says. He hears Shane’s car start. 

“You are coming?” he asks. 

“I need you,” Shane says. 

“I will be here.” He says it like a promise. “I’m so tired.” He tells Shane, like it’s a secret. 

“Sleep. I will be there soon. Don’t. Don’t do anything.” 

“Anything?” he tries to put something into his voice. He fails. 

“I love you,” Shane says again. 

“Drive safe, lyubimyy,” he says. Someone picks his phone back up. He no longer cares. 

He does not sleep. He drifts. 

“Ilya, do you know a Yuna and David?” Harris asks. “We can get rid of them,” Barrett offers. 

“No, I. They are Shane’s parents. They can come.”

“Right. Okay.” 

Ilya closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have see them. He cannot wake from this nightmare. 

“Oh kid,” says David Hollander. Ilya squeezes his eyes tighter, like a child. 

“Hi,” Harris says. “I’m Harris, this is Troy. We brought him in. Ilya, can we tell them what’s happened?” 

“Yeah,” he says, because he doesn't want to say he doesn’t care, and because he will not be getting out of this river alone. 

“Ilya, look at me please,” Yuna says. Ilya forces himself to make eye contact. Yuna does not look angry. She barely looks sad. Okay. He can look at her. “What do you need?” She asks. 

“I want to go home. I didn’t mean to,” he tells her. He’s too tired to decide if she believes him. 

“Okay, baby. I’m going to talk to some people and we’ll make a plan.” He closes his eyes. He trusts Yuna with a lot. Trusting her with this seems like his least bad choice. 

“Let’s talk in the hall,” Yuna says, and Harris follows her. 

“What happened?” David asks, and Ilya is already sick of the question. 

“Got drunk. Got stupid,” he replies. David sighs, and sits heavily. 

“Then you called me,” Troy says. He sounds gentle. “Not stupid.” 

“I don’t want to die,” he says. “It was too much. I was weak-” And then his voice breaks and he’s crying again. He’s too sober to be crying this hard. It’s awful. 

“You made a mistake,” David says, gently. “Then you asked for help. We’re going to get you through this son.” 

“Okay,” Ilya says, because it doesn’t seem like there’s anything else to say. “I am very tired.” 

“Sleep then.” David holds his hand, and he’s very warm. David talks to Barrett, about taking over, about Barrett getting some rest. 

“Don’t do any other stupid things and I’ll score for you tomorrow,” Barrett says, maybe, but Ilya is only barely processing. 

Shane beats the psychiatrist. 

“Malysh,” Shane says, before grabbing hold of Ilya’s hands and kissing his forehead. “I’m sorry, I love you, I-”

“Why are you sorry,” Ilya asks. 

“You’re hurt,” Shane says. 

“Not that bad,” Ilya says. 

“Then why didn’t you fucking tell me?” 

“You are angry,” Ilya says. 

“Yeah, I’m fucking-” Ilya flinches, which he knows Shane can feel. “I was angry until the turn off. I’m angry you told me you were okay.”

“I was dealing with it. I was trying to deal with it,” he corrects. “It was okay. Then it was not okay. It happened too fast.” 

“I was so scared,” Shane says, like it’s the easiest thing to admit.

“I am scared too,” Ilya admits. “I didn’t mean to.” Shane is sitting now, curled as close as he can to Ilya’s side, having dragged the chair almost under his bed.  

“Okay. What does that mean?” Shane asks, from the crook of Ilya’s neck. 

It’s easier to speak without looking at him. It’s easier to speak with Shane’s comforting weight where it belongs, even with the smell and lights and noises of the hospital. 

“It was too much. In my brain. And I tried to make it stop. I started drinking. It did not stop. Then I was in the bathroom. I decided I did not want to die. So I called Barrett.” 

Shane takes several deep breaths. “Okay.” He says. He no longer looks angry. 

“Ilya, how long have you been on Zoloft?” Yuna asks. 

“Two weeks,” he says. 

“Is this the only side effect?” She asks. He knows side effect. 

“No. I feel bad. Shaky. Crazy.” Yuna doesn’t ask what crazy means to him, which is nice, under the circumstances.

“Who prescribed them to you?” 

“Psychiatrist. Dr. Williams.” Yuna is on her phone. 

“Stephanie Williams?” 

Ilya is pretty sure. “Yeah.”

“Do you like her?” 

“She’s fine.” 

“Mom,” Shane starts. Yuna is problem solving, and normally Shane matches her. He sounds tired. He was in Montreal three hours ago. 

“Shane honey, I’m trying to get Ilya home with us now. Ilya, will you come stay with me and David for the day, and then we stay with you until things are better?” 

He wants to cry with relief. “Yes. I want to go home.” 

“You still aren’t going to practice today,”  Yuna says. Ilya no longer wants to. Pretending things are normal feels out of his reach. 

“Okay,” he says. 

A lot of things happen very quickly. Yuna talks to Dr. Ngyun, presents the case. Says Ilya will be seeing his psychiatrist immediately. Ilya signs a form that looks scary. He’s loaded into Yuna and David’s SUV, and David drives Shane’s car. 

Shane sits on the uncomfortable middle seat and holds him. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

They arrive at Yuna and David’s. Someone slides his boots off. He isn’t wearing socks. Shane carries him to his room. Slides of Ilya’s joggers. He wraps himself around Ilya. Places his head over Ilya’s heart. Ilya can feel it beating. He’s grateful he isn’t alone. The feeling that everyone is overreacting is fading. His arms ache. Suddenly, he is scared, scared of being trapped in his brain. 

“I don’t know why I did it,” he tells Shane, desperately. He knows suddenly, impossibly, that he doesn’t want to do it again. He never wants a repeat of this night. He does not know how to avoid it. 

“You aren’t allowed to try again. We aren’t going to let you. So we have time to figure it out.” Shane sounds so certain for the earliest hours of the morning. “I love you.” Shane presses a kiss to his lips. It’s not half faded, not half underwater. He’s been pulled from the river. 

“I love you too,” he says. Finally, he manages to sleep. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading!!

I have some ideas for what happens next, but I really liked this as an ending.

1) Harris is 100% my self insert here. Homeboy is gay and out and disabled, he knows how to navigate the hospital system, has narcan and a first aid kit in his truck. This is not his first time bringing someone to the emergency room. Him and Harris were on a date when Ilya called.

2) I am 95% sure Ilya qualifies for Ontario Health care, especially bc he's in the process of working toward citizenship.

3) Montcalm does have a section of their emergency room dedicated to mental health emergencies, complete with these crazy orange chairs.

4) Yuna paid next day cleaners to get Ilya's place cleaned. She loves him so much.

Chapter 2: morning after

Chapter Notes

I was so blown away by the response to this fic, and decided I had more to say.

Ilya wakes up to Shane’s alarm. His own will go off in twenty minutes. Shane makes the noise stop. It’s dark. It takes him a moment to figure out where he is. Then the memories of the last half day all rush in. 

Fuck. His left arm aches. He tried to kill himself. Fuck. He groans. 

Shane is there. “Morning,” he says. “I’m going to kiss you.” 

“We haven’t-”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Shane says, and presses their lips together. It’s not quite gentle. Determined, maybe. 

“I could have lost you, and I would have been in fucking Montreal,” Shane says, when Ilya breaks away to breathe. “I could have lost you. My heart would have died and no one would have known.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya tries, because he really is.  There's shame in his throat and everything.

“I know. I’m sorry too,” Shane says. Then he presses another kiss to Ilya’s cheeks, his mouth, and finally, on his hands. “Are you sore?”

“A bit. Not so bad,” Ilya tries. 

“Can you let me take care of you? For a day?” 

Shane's right eye has a burst blood vessel. From driving two hours in the middle of the night, from the stress Ilya put him through, from the few hours of sleep they've managed.

Ilya loves doting on Shane. Loves it enough to use Hayden Pikes stupid word, doting. The reverse feels claustrophobic, sometimes.

But Shane needs to make things okay. And Ilya is the thing that is not okay. Something rots in his chest knowing Shane will eventually find out that there's something broken inside him. But Ilya can hide that rotten thing for a day, for Shane.

“For eight hours, yes.”

“A day is 24 hours, Ilya." 

“I cannot support unsafe work conditions. 12, maximum.” 

“Until we go to bed tonight.” 

“You are trying to trick me to go to sleep early.”

“Is it working?” 

Shane's eyes and little grin are right there. What is he going to do? “Yes. Today it works.” 

Yuna greats them with a table in full swing, coffee in the dark blue le creuset mugs. “Morning, boys. You get ice and Tylenol and no Zoloft. We’re seeing Dr. Williams at 2,” Yuna tells him. “David made buckwheat pancakes.” Ilya lets her words wash over him. He has not had buckwheat pancakes since the summer prior, where he made them for “family brunch”.  The ice helps. He swallows the Tylenol with coffee. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

Shane makes himself a smoothie, grumbles about his parents not having skim milk, but takes a bite of Ilya’s pancake when offered. It’s quiet. They sit and eat, even with the stark bandages on Ilya’s arms. Looking past breakfast seems impossible, but Ilya could live in this moment. 

Davids puts another pancake on his plate. “Did I do them justice?” he asks. 

“Da,” Ilya tells him, and David smiles. 

The buckwheat melds with the real maple syrup the Hollanders buy. It feels important that his old comforts fit with his new life. He eats and breaths. 

“Okay,” Shane starts, in planning mode. “I’m not making it to practice today, and Metros have an afternoon game tomorrow,” Shane says, while alternating between sips of coffee and green smoothie. “So I don’t have to be on the road until 10 am tomorrow.” 

“What are you going to tell them?” Ilya asks. 

“Family emergency,” Shane says. 

“Of course.” 

“What are you going to say?” Shane asks, gently. Ilya can’t decide if he dreads the shame of telling Wiebe, or the possibility it would make the man sad. The man is steady in a way Ilya would feel bad about rocking. 

“You had a reaction to a new medication,” Yuna suggests. “Your doctor is managing it.” 

“He will want more than that,” Ilya starts. “I can’t exactly hide these.” The lack of ice pack makes itself known immediately when he gestures. No one looks him in the eye for a moment. 

Then. “We could hide it. If that’s what you want,” Yuna says, eyes hard. Ilya wonders if she’s slept. 

Ilya is very good at knowing when people are fucking with him. Lack of sleep makes the skill sharper. Yuna is not fucking with him. 

“I don’t think I want to hide from Wiebe,” Ilya sighs. “Others, yes. I will start with the medication line.” 

They are quiet. It’s not a too still quiet. Shane finishes the smoothie. Ilya eats another bite of pancake and nothing bad happens. “Proud of you,” David says. Ilya doesn’t laugh, which feels big of him. 

“I should call him now,” Ilya manages, once his plate is clear. He can feel time ticking. He wonders if Wiebe is in his office, or driving to the practice rink, or maybe also sitting with coffee. Ilya stands, and the three Hollanders all look at him with open concern and some suspicion. 

“May I be excused?” He asks. No one answers. “I cannot have privacy?” he asks, trying desperately to put some humour in it. 

“Are you going to be okay alone?” Shane asks. 

Ilya does not look to see if Yuna and David also have this question. 

“I will not do anything stupid in this home,” he promises. 

Shane looks uncertain. Shane looks like he is going to say no. Ilya wants to be angry, but being angry would require energy, and he's all out. 

“There is nothing you can hurt yourself with in the family room,” Yuna says. Ilya scans the lower room behind the kitchen; it is not fully private, but he can have space. He tells his brain to shut the fuck up when it starts making suggestions to prove Yuna wrong. 

Practice starts soon. Ilya is on a countdown clock, has to make one of the most humiliating phone calls of his life, and is being delayed by a different humiliating conversation. “Okay,” Shane says. He doesn’t look happy. Ilya isn’t happy either. 

He walks into the family room. Ilya is alone for the first time since he called Barrett. He feels like a child. “Do not fuck this up,” he whispers himself. 

Wiebe picks up right away. On another team, Ilya would consider it a Captain privilege and maybe a rookie expectation, but with Wiebe he is unsure.

“I cannot come to practice,” he says, instead of hello, because the words won’t come out if he does not force them. 

“What, why?” Wiebe asks. 

Ilya breaths. “Stupid reason,” he says, like an asshole. 

“You can't actually say ‘stupid reason’, this isn't mad libs, kid.” 

“I do not know mad libs,” Ilya doesn't like using “no english” excuse, but sometimes all you have is a hammer. He does not say anything else. 

“Okay. Have you been arrested? Is there gonna be a headline we have to get ahead of?”

Ilya tries to remember the Canadian version of HIPAA. It’s a less catchy acronym. “No.”

“Are you okay?” And isn’t that the question. 

“Eventually, yes.” He decides on. He wants it to be true. 

“Okay. Are you hurt?” Wiebe asks, pressing gently. Ilya’s U11 coach tested for broken bones by pressing on bruises hard. 

“I will be able to play tomorrow.” Technically, he doesn't know this for a fact, but he also can't stand the idea of ESPN putting a little “IR, unknown” by his name. 

Wiebe sighs, and Ilya starts making his escape plan from this conversation. Then he thinks of Barrett, trying to pretend everything is normal. The secrets Ilya force fed him last night. 

“I don't want to tell you this. I do not want to talk about it again. I tried to kill myself last night. Barrett took me to the hospital. I am okay. I see my doctor later. Medication worked badly. We will fix-”

He cant decide on me or it. He sounds like a fucking caveman by the end. It's too much work to remember all of the English articles and not cry at the same time.

Wiebe is silent. Ilya wonders if he's about to get fired. 

Wiebe's voice is efficient, neutral. Explaining line changes. “Heard and understood. I'd like more medical information once things are settled. Come early tomorrow so we can clear you to play privately.” There's a pause. Some small amount more emotion. Maybe a teaspoon. “Glad you're here, Roz.” 

He doesn't have words. 

“See you tomorrow,” he says. 

“Holding you to it,” Wiebe says, and then the conversation is mercifully over. He sits on the very comfortable couch, and runs his fingers on the seam. 

While he is still managing things, and because he can’t bring himself to get up, he opens his texts to Barrett. The last text is from before their phone call. Ilya would still like to rewind the time, and it is still not an option.

Roz: Told Wiebe about last night. Told him about your help 

Barrett: thnks

Barrett: was trying to figure out how to be normal at practice 

Roz: you have never been normal at practice. would be much more suspicious 

Barrett: fuck you

Roz: I can think of 2 ppl who have issues with that suggestion

Barrett: like your mom?

Barrett: wait shit

Roz: irinafoundation.ca/our-story

Barrett: FUCK

Barrett: thats fucked up roz

Roz: yes <3 

Roz: have a good practice. give bood kiss from me. 

He's been quiet long enough that Shane wanders in. 

“Hello, morkov,” he says. 

“Carrot?”

“Your hair is sticking up. Like carrot leaves” 

“Do you still want privacy?” 

Not as much as he wants to touch Shane.  “Come here.” 

Shane comes and sits on Ilya’s lap, pressing their chests together. Shane wraps his arms around him. Like he wants to be as close as possible. Ilya holds him in return. He hopes Shane cannot feel the bandages through his crew neck. 

They do not speak. Ilya does not feel all that different than he did yesterday. It scares him. He wants to live a thousand years with Shane in his arms. He doesn't want to die right now. But how long alone would it take that to change? Is it a switch? Is it an ocean tide coming in? 

“I think there is something broken in me,” he whispers. 

“I don't care.” Shane sounds so sure. 

“You will care if you can't fix it.” Ilya is sure that Shane loves him. He is also sure that Shane would bail water from a boat half submerged. 

“Probably,” Shane admits. “But I don't love you like a puzzle. I love doing puzzles with you.” 

Ilya does not hate the metaphor. But he cannot settle at that. “What if the puzzle is too hard? What if I am too bad at solving puzzles?”

Shane sighs, and Ilya feels it all the way to Shane’s stomach. Shane is exhausted. “Well, don't kill yourself and then we can do something else.” 

“Like what?”

“Right now? We should go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” he says. Neither of them move. 

“This is a very nice couch,” Ilya says, after neither of them even try to stand up. 

“My bed is nicer.” 

“Your Montreal bed is nicer. My bed in Ottawa is a king.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says. 

“No, you wanted to sleep. Sleeping time.” 

Shane sighs, heavy against him

“I don't want to let go of you,” he says. There's fear in his voice. Ilya hates himself for putting it there. 

“Hold on then," Ilya says, and Shane locks his legs around his hips. Ilya stands carefully. He can't lift Shane himself, not with his arms, but his body is strong enough, even like this. 

Shane is like a koala. The walk to his bedroom is down a single hall. Ilya wouldn't have wanted to do stairs today. 

He flops onto the queen bed. Shane repositions himself, touching constantly. He puts his hands under Ilya's shirt and feels for his muscles, for his heart. Ilya gives it over. His fingers start cold, but are warm by the time they sit over Ilya's beating heart.

“Do not kill the man I’m going to marry,” Shane says, his voice thick. 

“You’re going to marry me?” Ilya asks, because he can only deal with half that sentence at a time.

“Yes.” Shane says it like a fact. 

“Since when?”

“I don't know. 2009. Yesterday.”

“I want to marry you too.” Ilya says. 

“Good,” Shane says. “I don't want to keep hiding. If you had died yesterday. It would have destroyed me to have no one what you mean to me. I want a full life with you.” 

“It’s yours,” Ilya says. 

They sleep another four hours. Ilya wakes briefly when Shane’s shoulders shake and his fingers tighten. Ilya keeps his eyes closed and counts to thirty. Sometimes Shane needs him, and sometimes Shane needs a moment. Shane takes one shuddering breath, then another one much more steadily, and finally, relaxes. He is dragged back into sleep. 

After a long nap, they eat streak sandwiches, (“Red meat replenishes iron,” Shane says, approvingly.) put on toques and Shane wears David’s normal puffer because he drove to Ottawa in a ten thousand dollar wool coat and there’s wet snow falling. 

Dr. Williams starts with “I understand Zoloft wasn't a good fit.”

Ilya barks out a laugh. “No.”

“Can you tell me about how you were feeling?” Translating feelings from his frozen lungs and hot hands into English words like “anxious” is a test he never passes. 

“Crazy. Bad crazy. My brain was loud. It was like ants under my skin,” he shrugs, hoping he hasn’t said too much. 

“I have more questions for you. Have you felt that sort of ‘crazy’ before?” The doctor's voice is steady. 

All the possible answers are bad. “Yes.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

It is hard to explain. “I used to go out. Drink. Smoke. Have sex. Party.” He is certain he used to say those things in a way that sounded sexy. Now it sounds like confessing an embarrassing childhood story.  

“Did that help?” 

“Sometimes,” he shrugs. He folds his hands into each other. It’s both true and falling short of what she wants. Ilya does not know what she wants. 

“What about it helped?” 

“It matched. Inside me to things around me.” 

She writes something down. “I think you have more going on than depression.”

“Oh good.”

“It’s not diagnostic, but such a negative reaction to Zoloft, combined with your description, throws up red flags for bipolar disorder. I’d like to keep an eye on it.”

“Ah. Fuck.” Bipolar is one of the bad ones. All of them are the bad ones. Bipolar kills almost as many people as eating disorders - he saw a pamphlet and a grant request. 

“I am not diagnosing you today. I'm simply trying to figure out the best path for you.” 

Given that the past day had solidified that he could not go back to have a life less insane, Ilya decided he could work with the best path. “I do not want last night to ever happen again.”

“I agree. If you do have bipolar, we run a risk of triggering an episode. We have a lot of options.”

“Can an option be no medication? I never take medication, I do not kill myself. I try, I try.” Ilya would not be mentioning his dick in the same conversation about killing himself with this doctor, but those side effects had been unideal. 

“Yes. No medication is an option. I still want to see you. I want to monitor your mood.” She is quiet for another moment. 

There's so many choices. He does not know what a good choice would look like.

“If I was in hospital right now, what would you do?”

“I'd start you on a new ssri. We could monitor for changes closely. If you had an episode, we'd catch it quickly. If the medication was helping your depression, I'd add a mood stabilizer, probably lithium. If the ssri wasn't helping, I'd just do lithium. If you have bipolar.”

“That is exhausting,” Ilya says. 

The doctor matches his shrug. “It might be. Would it be worth the possible improvement?  I don't want you to have to white knuckles your way through this if there's an option to give you some relief.”

Ilya thinks about Shane. He thinks about hiding. “I cannot do last night again. I won’t risk that.” 

“Okay.”

“What is middle ground?” he asks. 

“If you don’t want to try a new medication right now, I would want to keep monitoring you. You continue therapy. If you are improving in a few months, we don’t worry about medication. If things aren’t getting easier, we revisit it.” 

“With a hospital?”

“Possibly. There’s private options, especially if it’s voluntary. I don’t want to assume- ”

“I can afford it.” 

The doctor lets him think. Finally, he manages, “I don’t hate this plan.” 

He wishes people around him would stop sounding sad. Even Dr. Williams has a tone, as she says, “It’s a lot of work on you.”

“I am not lazy.” 

“I’m certain of that.” The sadness is gone. He wonders what she sees behind his eyes. 

He nods. “Okay. We try this plan.” 

“Great. Bring your old Zoloft to the pharmacy. Don’t flush it, it’s bad for the fish.” 

Shane does not understand why Ilya walks out of a psychiatrists office giggling about fish drugs, but it’s a real laugh, soft and high in Ilya’s cheekbones. So he places a kiss on his future husband's face, hoping it will keep that light where it belongs. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to everyone who has read this fic and extra thank u to all the wonderful comments. one billion thank u to @mxmushroom, who shares my insanity

1) I still have not decided about the other mental illness ilya is experiencing. call this bipolar!ilya agnostic

2) the acronym Ilya can't remember about canadian health privacy is PIPEDA

3) I am not a psychiatrist, so Ilya's psychiatrist is my best attempt at remembering my neuropsych classes on medications from 2021.