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Shane’s doesn’t look much like himself in the mirror.
He’s been staring at his reflection since he got out of the shower, some odd, distant number of minutes ago. The glass is still foggy. There’s not much clarity to his reflection; a tan outline of himself, detail-less besides the dark of his hair and warped by the steam. Still, he stares at the faceless figure in front of him intensely. Doesn’t know what he’s looking for.
He’s never really liked looking in the mirror. Always spends too much time picking apart the reflection piece by piece, noticing the things about it he’d rather stay oblivious to. His eyes are too close together, he sometimes thinks. His nose and teeth are crooked. His hair doesn’t fall well over his forehead.
Shane thinks of all the thousands of times he’s hovered in front of his reflection practicing his smiles. Trying to make them just right. Not too wide, not too thin, not too over the top. It’s always something on his mind when he’s in public. When he’s talking to sponsors, coaches, and fans. Being interviewed. In the back of his mind is always the awareness of his face and what it’s doing in the moment. If he’s moving it properly. If his smile looks nice but just unphased enough to not make the wrong impression.
No matter how much he practices though, he never feels like he’s doing it right.
There’s a brief thought of how easy his smiles are when he’s with Ilya, but it’s quickly replaced by something he’s been trying not to think of for the past few hours.
There’ll be a knife missing from the kitchen when Ilya gets home.
Shane’s shoulders fall forward along with his head. His hands grip tightly onto the edge of the sink counter to keep himself from crumpling.
It’s everything and nothing he’s been thinking about. Since he woke up this morning. For the entirety of the past week, actually. Always brewing down somewhere in the back of his mind, in one of the unlabeled draws he tries to pretend aren’t there and aren’t completely filled to the brim.
But now it’s right there in center frame, demanding his attention.
There’ll be a knife missing from the kitchen when Ilya gets home.
Fuck.
He’s tried. He’s really tried with all his might to stop. To forget it. To pretend that the decision isn’t finite and that it’s not a matter of when.
Because it is. Maybe it wasn’t, a week ago. A few days ago. Last night. But it is now. Now that Shane is home by himself and the thoughts that have been echoing on repeat in his head don’t have anywhere to go.
“Did you?”
Those moments from exactly a week ago won’t stop replaying. The looks on his teammate’s faces. The feeling of his chest going tight and his empty stomach churning the thick bile settling in the bottom. He’d felt his hands beginning to shake as soon as it happened. He’d wanted to cry. He’d wanted to scream. Those moments wouldn’t have allowed it though. He’d already been on the slab, waiting for the lights to all go black, and trying any harder to get up and save himself would’ve made the blade come down quicker.
Everything. He’d given them everything. Fucking everything. And all it took was one fucking trip for them to throw it all back in his face and walk away. To leave him standing there, all alone, grasping at their ghosts with desperate hands.
It’s all he’s thought about. All he’s able to think about. The looks. The accusation. The crumbling of something Shane has been building for more than half of his life and his inability to do anything about it.
There’ll be a knife missing from the kitchen when Ilya gets home.
Squeezing the counter one last time, hoping for it to give him the strength to finally move, Shane stands up straight. He looks into his fuzzy reflection one last time before turning away and walking out of the bathroom. He doesn’t even bother to put on his towel.
The walk to the kitchen feels like it takes years. Like Shane’s feet are forty pounds heavier and every step takes a million times the effort it usually does.
The city lights are the only thing keeping his path illuminated. He hadn’t turned on any of the lights today, so the light in the apartment slowly faded with the passing hours of the day. Shane has spent most of it in bed, staring at the ceiling. His arms stayed folded over his stomach, completely still besides the occasional motion of running his thumb across his left wrist. His mind has stayed on the repetitive question: how much would it hurt?
He couldn’t look it up like he did with everything else. Wanted to, but how could he? How could he have managed the note he would’ve been given by the search engine reminding him of the digits he’d call to connect to the suicide hotline?
So he kept asking it to himself, trying to decide what answer he wanted. He still doesn’t know.
And then he’s there. Standing at the kitchen counter in front of the knife block, staring at it. His hands hang at his sides. He feels cold. Clothes would fix that, probably, but he doesn’t want to go back to the bedroom and get dressed now. Doesn’t want to give himself an out that he knows he’ll take.
He reaches for it. One of the knives that doesn’t get used very often. He’s known it had to be this one. It wouldn’t cause as much of an inconvenience if he used this one. Ilya would still have the rest of the block to use. He wouldn’t even noticed this one is gone.
The handle is smooth, black wood. It’s also cold. A shiver runs down Shane’s spine as he exchanges it between hands a couple times, as he flicks his thumb against the sharp edge. It makes a soft sound that Shane nearly jumps at.
How much would it hurt?
Shane only just barely notices that he’s shaking. His chest is tight, like it was in locker room, and his knees feel like buckling. He orders them to wait. Just wait a little bit, until he’s in the bathroom and can crumble onto the floor of the shower.
He’d briefly thought about staying in the bedroom for it, on the bed where he’d be warmer and more comfortable. Only briefly though. Doing it here, in the apartment, is bad enough, and doing in on the bed—their bed—is an even worse idea.
So, fighting against his heavy legs, Shane walks to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at the bed when he passes it, but memories still go through his mind anyway. Him and Ilya lounging under the covers for hours, their feet tapping together, their hands laced, and their shoulders side by side. The night they first had sex all those years ago and the soaring feeling in his chest with every check-in an assurance Ilya had cooed to him as he pressed inside. Shane almost smiles. It’s a nice memory. One of the many he thinks will replay again in his mind in a few minutes.
The tile of the bathroom is nearly freezing. Shane looks down at his feet and sees that they’re starting to go purple at the tips. He remembers he hadn’t turned on the heater today, either. Maybe that’s why he’s been so cold.
There’s still water at the bottom of the shower. Shane is careful not to slip. He guides himself down to the floor, leaning back against the damp shower wall. The knife feels heavy in his hand, and he thinks he might drop it before he gets a chance to use it.
Fuck. He’s actually going to use it.
His mind starts racing, as if it hadn’t been already. All of the sudden Shane is scrambling at his thoughts and trying to organize them. One after the other, he’s grabbing them and stuffing them away into their respective drawers. This one here. Those one’s there. These go right next to that.
And then, there’s one of Ilya. Then another. Another. Unavoidable. Shane has been really trying to not think of Ilya too much. He knows the more he thinks about Ilya, the less he’ll want to do it. But these thoughts just keep coming, and Shane lets them despite himself.
Ilya’s eyes.
Ilya’s hands.
Ilya’s laugh.
Ilya’s voice when he tells Shane he loves him.
Shane sighs. His eyes fall shut.
There’ll be a knife missing from the kitchen when Ilya gets home, and Shane won’t be there to explain.
He thinks of his phone on the bathroom counter. Ilya’s contact—still labeled Lily even after all this time, more as an inside joke than anything else now—perfectly, terrifyingly available.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Just one call, Shane tells himself as he stands up carefully, sitting the knife down on the shower floor. Just one last I love you in Ilya’s beautiful voice for Shane to hold on to.
He’s at the gym right now. Had a full day of practice to prepare for the game this weekend, and yet he still wanted to go to the gym. Shane smiles at that thought as he picks up his phone, weirdly. He hasn’t smiled all day, and that’s somehow the thought that finally gets one to appear.
His fingers hesitate before he calls. Just a little. A lot. He’s not sure he even actually wants to call, but then he’s lifting the phone up to his ear and waiting, walking back into the shower and sitting down as it rings.
“Phone sex at gym. Very naughty,” are the first word Shane hears, a smile lacing around the syllables. His own smile goes wider. His chest swells.
“You wish,” he replies. Is pretty sure he sounds normal enough. “Just… I wanted to see when you’re getting home.”
There’s a short pause. The sound of a machine whirring in the background slows. “Very soon. One set left.”
Shane calculates the time. Another ten minutes for Ilya’s set, five for him to shower, another twenty for the drive back home, then five and a half for Ilya to make it up the stairs and through the front door.
“Okay, good,” Shane says, nodding. “Don’t rush yourself and pull something. You’ve got a game to win on Saturday.”
Ilya hums. The machine stops completely. There’s the faint sound of Ilya’s sneakers landing on the gym floor. “You want take-out tonight? I do not feel like cooking.”
Adds another fifteen if Ilya gets food. Shane adds that to his calculation.
“You get some. I ate already.”
A lie. Shane is praying his stomach stays quiet for the remainder of the call.
“Okay,” Ilya says. He’s quiet for a few moments. Shane keeps his phone pressed tight to his ear and his hand even tighter around it.
“Are you okay?”
Shane hates how often Ilya has been asking him that lately. Hates that he always wants to answer honestly, even though he never does.
“Yeah,” he says, much too quickly as something sharp and tight rushes through his chest. “No, I’m alright. Don’t worry. Just tired.”
Ilya hums again. This time it sounds less casual. “I can be home sooner, yes? If you want. Set not so important.”
“No, you should finish. I won’t wait up.”
The words feel strange. He really won’t be waiting up, will he? Won’t ever be waiting up again…
“Shane,” soft and hesitant, “you need me to come home?”
Need, this time. Ilya sounds like he’s really trying to draw out a better answer. His voice is going quieter with every sentence. Shane hates that Ilya always knows when he has to keep asking. Hates himself for always giving him a reason to.
“No, I’m okay.”
He tries to exhale quietly. It ends up making his whole body tremble.
“I’ll see you later, okay? We can watch Cash Cab or something when you get home.”
“Shane—”
“I love you,” Shane says. He wishes he was able to kiss Ilya through the phone.
“I love you,” Ilya says back. Shane holds onto the sweet sound of it and tries to let go of the concern laced between the words. “See you soon, okay?”
“Bye Ilya.”
He hangs up before any more can happen. He doesn’t want to know what it would sound like to hear Ilya say goodbye.
And then, for a minute or two, he just stands there thinking about how simple the conversation was. How normal. How it might’ve been able to be any other conversation they’ve had over the phone.
But it wasn’t. That was…
That was it.
Shane bites his lip. Digs his nails into his palms. One last exhale. One last inhale. One last exhale. One last—
He goes back to the shower. Falls down this time. His head falls back against the tile. His back is cold against the wet wall. His thighs are digging into the lines of the tile floor. The knife is back in his hand. It’s heavier.
The mess will be easy to clean up.
There’s a hard prickle behind his eyes. His lip wobbles. Fuck.
It’s simple. A simple movement, and then he’s done. Just one fucking movement and he’ll be done, and he won’t have to think about it anymore. Won’t have to think about the stumble on the ice. The team. Won’t have to think about all of the gossip and the speculating articles being published on the daily. About the sneers he gets. About to accusations. The dispute about his success.
Won’t have to think about what this is going to do. To his parents. To Hayden and Jacki.
To Ilya.
Shane thinks about how pathetic this is. He runs a charity for suicide prevention. He runs a charity for suicide prevention name after Ilya’s mother. What the hell is wrong with him? What the fuck is he doing? How much more selfish can he fucking be? Leaving a mess like this for Ilya to have to fix. You don’t fucking do this to people you love.
He thinks about all of the articles. The amount of damage control that’ll need to be formulated after this. He wonders if his mom will help Ilya with it. Hopes that she and his dad will be there to cushion Ilya while he tries to explain to the tabloids how the head of a mental health charity couldn’t be damned to take the advice he advocates for on a daily basis.
He’s sitting there for too long. Way too fucking long. This is his decision, for fucks sake. He chose this, and he can’t even work up the guts to actually do it.
Hands shaking, chest heaving, Shane tightens his grip on the knife. He lays out his left arm on his knee, wrist-up. He stares at it. The inside of his arm is paler than the rest. The veins bulge, faintly blue underneath the skin.
The mess will be easy to clean up.
His mom and dad will be okay.
Hayden and Jacki and the kids will be okay.
Ilya will be okay.
He’ll be okay.
The mess will be easy to clean up.
Shane thinks he might hear the sound of the front door as the quiet sting grows into a roar of pain shooting up to his chest.
He hates the color of blood.