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shane has a scar on his arm he regrets.
it sits there alone, the ones around it long since faded and blended back into the supple skin of his inner forearm, but this one stands out.
it's ugly and keloid after all these years, dead center in the middle, standing tall but not proud. a constant reminder of a shane hollander that died lifetimes ago.
he remembers being fourteen and desperate for an outlet, a friend of a friend who knew ways to silence the screaming in his head, to calm the buzzing that sits in the fat of his body. he remembers that distant friend slipping a box cutter blade into his hands before school on some random day, with the promise that it would help.
he had used it the next morning, when his thoughts were ear shattering and his body buzzed with the sting of a thousand hornets.
the first ones had been pathetic, barely passable as cat scratches. he remebered being so angry that of course something else didn't work, that he needed this to work or else he would look just as pathetic as he had always believed he was.
he had channeled that anger into the swipe that he now hates ever doing.
it hadn't hurt at first, not really, it had been a faint numb that washed itself over the sliced skin, spreading over his entire body.
it hadn't bled immediately, not the quick pinpricks of crimson that came from his pitiful cat scratches, it shimmered white at first. it made him kinda sick to look at, but he couldn't tear his eyes away, shocked at himself and a little awestruck at how free he finally felt.
the blood came eventually, a slow replacement over the white exposed under layer of skin that shane knows shouldn't see the light of day. he watched in fascination until the droplets became a running faucet.
he remembered the shock of watching his arm bleed and bleed and bleed without abandon, a ruby river filled with the static of his mind. there was no panic though, just the thought of i understand why people do this.
however, shane knew even then that this habit couldn't stick around.
he threw the blade out after that, and had the most stressful month of his life keeping his parents from ever knowing until after it healed, so at least he could say he never did it again and say something truthful.
his mind craved for the relief of cold metal against his skin, for the intimate feeling of the layers of his body being sliced open, for the numbness and calm that would replace the rapid thumpthumpthump of his anxious heart.
the first time his parents saw the scar, still surrounded by the fainter scarring of pitiful shallow cuts that amounted to nothing, months after it had healed, his mom had cried. she sobbed apologies into his hair as she held him. his dad had a sadness in his eyes that shane had never seen before. that was the day his hatred and regret had set in. how could he have done something so cowardly? how could he, someone with loving parents and everything he could want, still find something to be upset about?
despite knowing how distraught his self-destruction made his parents, it didn't stop the consistent humming that lurked below the surface of quiet, polite child prodigy, Shane Hollander, it didn't stop the desperate silent desire for blood and sliced open skin that followed him like a looming shadow.
but he was used to pushing his feelings so far down into the dark recesses of his heart that he could manage without.
(if he looked at the scar every night and imagined the feeling of the deep slicing of his flesh, the smell of a metallic rust polluting the air around him, and let himself feel the reminders of his anger and his failures and his anxiety, then that was only for him to know.)
when everything that was Ilya Rozanov had charmed his way into shane's life (and his bed), the russian man had never asked about it. shane had seen those hazel eyes drink in every inch of his body and commit it to memory, so he knew Ilya knew about his visible regret, but shane had learned over the years that Ilya was a gentleman at heart. he wouldn't say a word unless shane spoke about it first.
and shane wanted to. he wanted to open up to Ilya so badly, his heart ached after so many years of holding his burdens alone. yet, he couldn't bring himself to. how could he? how could he when he knows he would sound like nothing more than a spoiled brat? he had everything that ilya dreamed of growing up, how would he be able to look Ilya in the eyes and tell him that wasn't enough to stop his pitiful self-destruction?
"You know, you are thinking very loudly over here?" a deep accented voice rumbled in his ear.
shane jumped, and whipped his head up to see Ilya smiling at him on the other end of the couch, only his speckled hazel eyes gave away his concern.
the two were sitting on opposite ends of the couch in their ottawa home, socked feet pressed together, anya cuddled up on Ilya's lap, peacefully asleep.
they had been enjoying a peaceful few days off from practice, before having to prepare for a long stretch of travel for away games. the season had looked good for ottawa so far, and shane was hesitantly hopeful, the only thing truly motivating him was the desire to win another cup side by side with his husband.
husband. even now the word sent a rush of emotion through shane's body. he never thought he would get to have something like this, someone like Ilya. he got to play the sport he loved with the man he loved in the city that nurtured him and loved him ferociously. his parents loved Ilya, were so happy and supportive of everything in shane's life. he had an incredible team and incredible friends and so much good in his life.
so why was he constantly feeling like he was failing?
"Shaaaaane," Ilya drawled, and shane startled out of his thoughts again, looking just slightly to the left of Ilya's eyes, feigning eye contact. he quickly studied the russian's face, and saw the worry slowly seep into the man's rugged features. "What has your... what is the expression? Head in clouds?"
"head in the clouds, yeah," shane murmured in agreement, before his eyes dropped back down to his lap, not before briefly catching Ilya's expression that indicated him to continue. he opened his mouth to speak again, to finally will these words, his past, the rotting ugly thing that still lurks in the corner of his vision that beckons him towards his demise to be spoken to the only human alive he could ever trust. he hated how his voice never came to him.
Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. sweet, gentle, loving, Ilya. beautiful, handsome, divine, Ilya. shane loved him with his entire soul, and he knew that Ilya loved him just as much. he had seen Ilya at his worst, the hellish depths of depression that threatened to take Ilya away from this earth like it had his mother. he had seen Ilya at his best, surrounded by a loving team as they proudly held their first stanley cup as a married couple.
Ilya had seen shane at his best, shane always made sure of that fact. he always made sure his behavior was perfect, his body was perfect, his hockey was perfect. sometimes the bad days became a little overwhelming and he would slip up in front of Ilya, but he always made sure that Ilya would never see him at his worst.
(it kept shane awake at night, sometimes. when the comfort of Ilya's warm body next to his didn't manage to break through the chill in his heart, when the loving murmurs whispered in his ear seemed to travel back out immediately, never quite cementing themselves in shane's disgusting, diseased, molding mind. it would wander, his mind conjuring up what his worst could look like. he's had thirty years to figure out all the ways he can break, all the ways he had broken.
images of sliced skin exposing grotesque yellow fat that billows below his skin. arms and legs covered in blood as his body filled with that sweet, sweet numb he wished he could feel again. what would it feel like if he let himself lose his control?
he wondered what the fibers of his muscles looked like.)
a gentle hand on his chin rips shane out of his thoughts once more, as it guides his head to face Ilya's. shane can't help but stare and stare and lose himself in the beautiful swirl of color in Ilya's eyes. they always felt like honey, his body seemingly turning pliant and loose whenever those eyes were trained on him. he could see the way they were filled with concern, worry dancing in the rings of his irises, and causing his brow to pinch slightly.
Ilya stays silent, and shane's heart melts with love because he knows Ilya wants to push and prod and fix whatever's wrong, but he stayed patient and silent as shane got his bearings.
a gentle quiet washed over the room for some time, only interrupted by the soft sounds of anya snoring. Ilya kept his hand on shane's chin, their eyes connected in a silent conversation. and shane wants. he wants to finally lighten this burden, share his regret, finally let his mask slip - even for a moment - and breathe.
he doesn't remember the last time he was truly relaxed.
he forced himself to look away from Ilya's (sweet Ilya, incredible Ilya, amazing Ilya, beloved Ilya, my Ilya, mine, mine, mineminemine-) eyes, not wanting to meet them and see how his husband's heart breaks. how he breaks his husband's heart.
in lieu of words, still unable to be forced out of his throat as his anxiety strangles him, he simply moves his arms, forearms out and exposed and visible in a way he always hates. and his regret stares back out, vying for attention, for the mockery that shane knows he deserves, the mockery that shane has heard since his shame took physical form on his body.
he hates it. this thing that visualizes how pathetic he is. how absolutely disgusting and selfish he is. he hates the pity, the misplaced empathy, the "if you need to talk, i'm here for you" that always felt so shallow and rehearsed. he hates the jokes, the mockery, the "aw, gonna cut yourself over it?" if his eyes got too misty after a "joke".
but he knows Ilya. he knows that Ilya is a true soft-loverboy-gentleman at heart, still soft and squishy underneath the charismatic playboy persona he upkept for years for the media - the armor that protected him and kept him safe from everything, even himself. Ilya wouldn't pity him, Ilya wouldn't mock him, Ilya wouldn't be anything else other than perfect.
shane didn't want to give Ilya anything less than perfect. this was definitely less than perfect.
"Любимый?" Ilya prompted him again, his voice ever so gentle and caring and it makes shane's heart shatter in his chest. the pieces of it cut into his lungs and leaves him breathless with devotion and love.
"um..." shane was never very eloquent with his words. thank god for media training and pr management, otherwise he would be a mess in interviews. but outside of that structure, the routine, the script, he could never pull the words that were laid out so nice and neatly in his head through his teeth.
his mind could structure his thoughts well enough. he could think of dozens of ways to start this conversation.
i had cut myself, i know you've seen the scars.
i had cut myself. and i had loved it, because i'm some disgusting, selfish freak.
how come you've never asked me about it?
does it disgust you as much as it disgusts me?
will you hate me after i show you how fucking absolutely ruined and damaged i truly am?
will you leave me because of this?
of course not. of course he wouldn't. Ilya is perfect and he would understand because he understood mental health and struggles. he wouldn't think shane was some kind of basket case, or a weirdo freak, or disgustingly selfish because whywhywhy did shane ever do this to himself? he marred his body permanently because he was anxious? he always needed to throw himself a pity party and make himself the victim and this was what it drove him to, and of course of course his rotted mind loved the feeling of it. had adored that numb and wanted to chase it ever since and that scared him because now that feeling has been bottled up for over fifteen years and he feels like a rubber band ready to snap, his mind is so frayed and brittle and-
"Shane. Любовь. Please breathe," Ilya's voice, strained with worry, broke him out of his thoughts. when had shane stopped breathing? when had he closed his eyes? it felt like a mistake to open his eyes, the world gray and blurry around the edges as his lungs struggled for air. the only grounding thing he could focus on was Ilya. his Ilya.
he had moved closer during shane's mental spiral, his hands floating above his shoulders, wanting to touch but not wanting to startle shane. if shane focused his eyes enough, he could see the way Ilya's face was so pinched with concern, and he hated it. he hated being the reason that expression ever crossed Ilya's beautiful face, that he upset Ilya in any minuscule way.
he forced himself to breathe. he could feel the faint tremors in his hands as the crescendo of his panic drops, and he moves them to Ilya's chest, hands splayed out and selfishly tarnishing the beautiful gold that Ilya was molded from in order to ground himself. he felt the steady rhythm of Ilya's heart and subconsciously noticed how his heart instantly matched the beat. he felt the intentional deep breaths from Ilya as his chest moved, and slowly but surely matched his breathing to Ilya's pace.
god, he already was so tired and wrung out, and he hadn't even said anything yet. fuck, why did he have to be so pathetic all of the time? he couldn't even sit in the comfort of his own home and have a conversation with his fucking husband.
(it's more than that, shane knows, logically in the clean and still somehow undamaged corner of his mind, he knows that this conversation is serious, is something that he rightfully can be anxious and worried about having.)
but he had to talk eventually. especially with his husband watching him come down from a panic attack that spawned from nowhere (because Ilya, perfect as he is, wasn't a mind reader and couldn't tell shane was spiraling as hard as he was) and staring at his arms like a crazy person.
he had prolonged this discussion enough. he didn't feel ready. he had to be. Ilya had been so open and vulnerable with him about his struggles, and always told shane that he could open up too, that it would be good for him, for their relationship. maybe Ilya just couldn't see that it was different if shane displayed any hint of vulnerability, that shane wasn't allowed to open up like that. everywhere he went, he had a brand to represent. he was Shane Hollander, Hockey Star for so long that he had forgotten how to just be shane.
he couldn't open up about his self-harm, it didn't fit into the image of successful, famous, handsome athlete. he couldn't open up about his issues with food because it didn't fit into the image of muscular, fit, healthy jock. he couldn't open up about the racism he's faced or about the longing for closeness to his japanese heritage because the image of Shane Hollander is just a token to be displayed and not someone to listen to.
with the way Ilya looked at him, though, he felt like he could maybe allow himself a moment of vulnerability. he could let Ilya in, he would listen. shane just had to get the words out.
get it out. do it.
do it. it isn't that hard to speak.
"i cut myself."
silence. he didn't move. Ilya didn't move. shane refused to meet Ilya's eye, gaze locked down towards the floor. he couldn't look at Ilya. he didn't want Ilya to look at him as he confessed his sins.
"it was a long time ago, obviously- obviously i haven't since but just..." shane rambled, voice shaky and fragile and so god damn tired. "i don't know. it was only one time but it-"
and he was crying now, of course he was crying, the swell of emotions that exploded in his chest too overwhelming to endure through. now that he was talking it felt like he couldn't stop the word vomit that poured out. even as the words became garbled and borderline unintelligible through his sobs, he couldn't stop.
"it changed me. i wake up and i think about it. i go to sleep and i think about it. every single moment of every single day, it never leaves me alone and i hate it i hate it i hate feeling like this." his lips brushed against warm skin as he spoke. shane didn't even notice when he ended up pressed against Ilya, with gentle hands that guided his head into the crook of Ilya's neck.
he just barely listened as Ilya's gentle voice comforted him, shushing and cooing softly, whispered praises floating through the air in deep accented english, sweet russian nicknames that other times would make shane blush a beautiful red. now the words just make shane cry harder.
he's so fucking ungrateful, so disgustingly vain and pathetic. he's the worst husband ever. he is everything that is too much and not enough at the same time. he is so so fucking awful and he needs to die because maybe it'll finally cleanse the rotting corpse of his sanity so he could at least be buried pure.
"and- and i hate that i still feel like i need it. i hate it because i can't stop and i don't know if i can keep living if i feel like this every single day-" his voice had grown hysterical, his arms wrapped so tightly around Ilya as if he was scared Ilya would leave at his confession. he was.
shane wouldn't consider what he felt to be passive suicidal ideation. it just was. it was so commonplace in his life that it became as regular as breathing. he would wake up in the morning, upset he didn't die in his sleep. he would go through his routine and hoped he would choke and die on his breakfast. he would go to the rink for practice or a game and hope, pray, for a freak accident or a particularly hard check that gave him such severe brain damage he wouldn't recover from so he would have no choice but to die.
he would go home, and for a brief moment when he was with Ilya, when he was playing house-husband or when he was mind and body and soul connected to Ilya in their bed, the thoughts would stop. but the spell would break, and shane would be in the mixture of hoping again as he would fall asleep next to Ilya, with the hope for a peaceful death in his sleep.
(it would be nice, dying with Ilya next to him, surrounded by his warmth and love as he was guided to the other side. calm, nice, loving, everything he didn't deserve.
how fucking selfish of him.)
Ilya's gentle voice in his ear acted like a balm as the highs of his emotions slowly came down. he sat bawling in Ilya's embrace for what felt like seconds and hours simultaneously. there were soothing hands rubbing grounding circles on his back. he was being rocked back and forth. he could feel the press of Ilya's necklace chain on his nose. he was entirely surrounded by Ilya.
it felt like too much. it felt like not enough. it never would be enough, because shane was greedy and all he knew how to do was take, and take, and take.
"Shane." Ilya's hand came up to gently move his face away from the crook of his neck, coaxing their eyes to meet again. Ilya's beautiful hazel eyes were red rimmed and shimmery with unshed tears, and it broke shane's heart. a fresh wave of tears silently rolled down his face, and Ilya wiped them away with a gentle swipe of his thumb.
"Малыш, please listen to me," Ilya spoke gently. it was a gentleness that felt undeserved.
"I am so proud of you for telling me, you are so brave. So brave for coming to me, for sharing your hurt with me. I know it can be hard for you." Ilya slid his other hand away from his back, making gentle movements on his scarred arm. his fingers traced the scar (regretdirtydisgusting Ilya shouldn't have to disgrace himself by touching it) delicately. "This is not okay, but you are okay. You are so good, and this- this does not define you."
shane sniffled softly, and Ilya's words danced in every corner of his mind. a hesitant relief flooded through him. not enough to retie the edges of his frayed and damaged brain, but enough to give him hope that the edges could be melted together. not a perfect solution, but enough.
"You are so much more than one bad moment, and this, or anything, will ever make me leave you. I am always here for you, Моя любовь." Ilya's voice broke towards the end, his face now wet with his own tears. he cradled shane to his chest again, and held him ever closer.
they spent the night in each others embrace, whispered praises and precious, fragile love seeped into every comforting touch. shan couldn't tell if maybe the graveyard fog in his mind had started to clear or if he was just drunk on the love Ilya was showering on him. the love shower did feel nice though, it made him dizzy. he usually only associated dizziness with hunger and concussions.
what does the dizziness from blood loss feel like?
"What if..." Ilya starts gently into the softness of the night. his voice was low and heavy, exhaustion making his accent thicker, "What if you maybe talked to someone about this? Maybe professional, that could help you too?"
how ironic.
shane only hummed a vague acknowledgment, before pressing himself deeper into Ilya. he didn't need therapy, he wouldn't take up a patient slot on a therapist's list when there were other people who could benefit from it more. people who could be saved. people who actually deserved to be saved.
that and, therapy wasn't necessary when Ilya was all he needed. he knew it was selfish to put the weight of his burden solely on Ilya, but there didn't need to be anything else in his life so long as he had Ilya (and hockey, but the older he got, the more he cravedwantedneeded prioritized his relationship with Ilya).
Ilya fell silent again, and shane kept himself pressed up against his chest. he stayed there until Ilya's breathing finally steadied out into the consistency of sleep. he was so warm, and maybe shane's inner ice block had thawed out slightly from the intensity.
he relaxed more, emotional exhaustion weighing his eyelids down.
he was completely embraced and surrounded by his incredible husband. he was in their beautiful home that held so many memories. he was okay. he could even describe himself as hesitantly content. yet the one thought that crossed his mind before he finally let sleep take him away was:
i hope i don't wake up tomorrow.