Chapter Text
The first cigarette tasted exactly how he remembered.
Shane sat in the driver's seat with the window cracked. His hands shook as he pulled the cigarette from the pack.
The first drag filled his lungs. The second settled deep inside him. By the third, the noise in his head had gone quiet. Not completely, but enough. Enough that his shoulders loosened and the edge he'd been carrying for weeks dulled. That terrified him, because the relief felt like coming home.
"Oh, God."
The words slipped out. The cigarette trembled between his fingers. Katya's face appeared in his mind immediately. Then Ilya’s. The relief vanished quickly, and he started crying.
Thirty-nine years old. Stanley Cup champion. Former NHL captain. Husband. Father. Sitting alone in a grocery store parking lot with a cigarette burning between his fingers.
Pathetic.
Weak.
The words came easily. They always had. Underneath them was the certainty that he could do this again tomorrow. And the day after that. Because he needed this.
He smoked the rest of the cigarette and drove home.
—
Ilya was in the nursery with Katya asleep against his chest when Shane came in. He looked up and smiled, but then concern washed over his face. “Shane?”
Shane swallowed hard, “I need to tell you something,” and Ilya’s face changed to fear.
Ilya placed Katya into her crib and followed him into the kitchen. They stood there for a moment without speaking. Shane finally said, “I bought a pack, Ilya. I smoked one.”
Ilya closed his eyes. There was no anger in his face, no surprise either, just exhaustion, and that was what cut deepest, because Shane knew it came from years of him breaking promises and Ilya trying to carry the aftermath. “I’m sorry,” Shane said, because he meant. He always meant it, even though it didn’t change anything.
Ilya nodded once and said only, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Shane echoed.
“What do you want me to say, Shane?” Shane wanted to disappear inside of himself, but Ilya stepped forward and pulled him into his chest, steadying them both.
“What happened?” Ilya asked quietly.
“I was tired,” Shane said, “overwhelmed. I wanted relief. It was good. I forgot how good it was.”
Ilya’s expression tightened as Shane kept going. “I wanted it to be awful. I wanted it to make me sick, but it didn’t. I hate myself. We waited to have a child until I quit. You trusted me. Four months after bringing Katya home and I already screwed it up.”
“You smoked one cigarette,” Ilya said. He paused. “Do you want another?”
“I don’t want to smoke,” Shane admitted.
“But?” Ilya asked.
“But I wanted it today,” Shane said, the words scraping out of him. “I wanted it all day. I drove past three different stores before I finally stopped. I knew what I was doing. I made the decision.”
“Okay,” Ilya said again.
“Can you stop saying okay?” Shane asked, and that earned the faintest shift in Ilya’s mouth.
“No,” Ilya said.
“Ilya—”
“You smoked a cigarette. One, moy lyubimiy.” Ilya said calmly.
Shane’s jaw tightened. “I don’t understand why you’re not angry.”
“I am,” Ilya said simply. “I hate this. I hate what it does to you. I hate how much you hate yourself right now.”
Neither of them spoke for a while after that.
Finally, Ilya stepped in close and rested his hand at the back of Shane’s neck. “We’ll figure this out together.”
—
Three days later Shane smoked another cigarette. Within a few weeks, he was smoking three to four a day. He stopped calling them slips. Ilya stopped calling them slips too. This was now a habit. Shane had relapsed.
—
Katya was asleep upstairs when they sat outside on the deck, the baby monitor between them on the table. The cigarette in Shane’s hand glowed orange as he took a drag.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Dangerous,” Ilya replied, and Shane let out a small, tired smile.
After a pause he added, “I came up with some rules.”
Ilya turned slightly toward him. “What kind of rules?”
“I know I’m smoking again. I know this isn’t temporary. And I know you know that too.”
“I do,” Ilya said.
Shane nodded once, the honesty landing heavier than he expected. He took another drag, held it, and let it out slowly. “I can’t promise I’m quitting tomorrow.”
“No,” Ilya said.
“I can’t promise next month either.”
“I know.”
The cigarette trembled slightly between Shane’s fingers. “But I can promise some things.”
Ilya waited.
“First,” Shane said, clearing his throat, “I only smoke outside.” A small nod. “You’ve always done that,” Ilya said. “I know,” Shane answered, “but I need to say it.” Then again, firmer, “Rule 1: I only smoke outside.”
“Rule 2,” Shane continued. “I will never smoke around Katya. Ever. If she’s awake and we’re together and she can see me—reach me—I’m not smoking. Never. This is non-negotiable. When I come back inside, I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and change my shirt. And I don’t touch her until I’ve done all of it. I don’t want her growing up with it in her space, even just as something she sees.”
“Rule 3: When she asks about my smoking, about addiction, we answer in age-appropriate ways. We tell her I smoke. We tell her it’s an addiction. We tell her I wish I didn’t.” His voice cracked slightly. “We never lie to her.”
Ilya looked away toward the lake, and when he finally spoke his voice was quieter than before. “Okay.”
Shane frowned. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” Ilya asked.
“I don’t know,” Shane admitted.
Ilya looked at his husband. “I hate that you’re smoking. I hate that you’re hurting yourself. I hate that you worked so hard to quit. But she’s going to know who her father is,” Ilya said, “whether you smoke or not.”
Shane couldn’t answer right away.
Ilya reached over and took his husband's hand. “We won’t lie to her.” “We won’t,” Ilya said again, squeezing tight.
Shane looked out at the lake as the cigarette kept burning down between his fingers. He held Ilya’s hand and the dread eased for a moment.