Chapter Text
Shane woke up surrounded by a comfortable halo of warmth. For a moment, he lay there with his eyes closed, basking in the protective heat from the surprisingly soft wall behind him. He scooted back, tucking himself further into the body at his back. Then, very quickly, the events of his morning came rushing back into his mind, and he realized, very late, that the arms tightening themselves around his waist should definitely not be there. Shane sat up quickly, jerking himself from the arms caged around him, falling to the floor in a disgruntled heap, trapped in his blankets. Pitifully, he feels tears gather in his eyelashes as the first two fingers on his right hand make their way into his mouth.
This was supposed to be Shane’s day with nobody from the real world to see, and now Ilya was there, looking at him with surprise as he took in Shane’s soft blue Snoopy sweater, monster socks, and sleep pants. And the worst thing is, Shane still didn’t have words because it was Sunday, and Sundays mean Shane doesn’t have to talk and so now he can’t talk. He opens his mouth to try to offer an explanation, an excuse or anything, but the only sound that comes out is increasingly distressed whines in between his panicked breaths. Ilya was not supposed to be there, and now he is and he must think Shane is a dumb baby. He pulls the blankets tangled around his waist up over his shoulders, trying to hide his red face and his clothes.
“No, moya lyubov, don’t hide from me,” Ilya chided from his spot on the couch. He gently reached down, grasping Shane's trembling chin in his strong fingers. Though his wet eyes were still cast away, Ilya could now see Shane’s face fully. He took in his full appearance, his adorable pajamas tucked under his soft fleece blanket, his first two fingers wedged firmly in his mouth. His face was flushed red from crying, his freckles standing out in stark contrast on his cheeks. He looked so small. Ilya had never seen his boy look so vulnerable, so scared. It made him want to swaddle Shane in a blanket and keep him safe in his arms. “Solnyshko, what is the matter,” Ilya asked softly, trying and failing to get Shane to talk to him.
~▪~
Ilya was familiar with Shane’s more quiet moods. After overwhelming days filled with too many tasks and too much noise, Shane sometimes retreated into himself, words escaping him as he attempted to self regulate. On particularly bad days, Ilya could find him curled up in the bed in the darkness of one of the guest bedrooms in the house, when sometimes even the confines of his own bedroom felt too “open.” When Ilya found him like that, the only thing he could do was give him time to come back to himself. He always hovered closely in those moments, in case Shane needed him to lie on top of him and provide a grounding weight for Shane to seek solace in. Sometimes touching was just too much, so Ilya sat on the floor by the door watching over his boy. Yes, Ilya was familiar with Shane’s quiet moments of overstimulation. What Ilya was not familiar with was Shane as he is now, in his current state. Visibly, he is still his confident, handsome, cheeky boyfriend, but something about him felt so young, as if he had turned back time in his mind to when he was very small and safe from the outside world.
“Solnyshko, what is the matter?” Ilya removed his grip from Shane's chin and instead moved his fingers to wipe the tears from under his eyes, fingers tracing the line of freckles under his left eye. Shane just whined and shook his head, leaning forward to tuck his face into Ilya’s stomach, his shirt growing wetter and wetter with Shane’s tears. “No, moya lyubov, none of this,” Ilya whispered softly, reaching down to gather Shane and his blankets into his lap. He gently rocked the crying boy in his arms until Shane’s sobs and panicked gasps slowed, his body trembling. Shane shifted in his lap, pulling his face back from where it had been tucked into Ilya’s neck.
With his eyes fixed somewhere around Ilya’s chin, Shane finally spoke for the first time that day. “How long you been here, ‘Lya?” Even his words sounded tiny. Ilya was in deep, unfamiliar territory, but he knew he had to tread very carefully with Shane, lest he send him into another fit of tears.
“Not long, sweetheart. You were sleeping so peacefully, and I did not want to disturb you. Forgive me, Solnyshko.” As he spoke, Ilya brushed his fingers gently across Shane’s cheeks, gathering the remaining tears on his face. He placed a soft kiss under each of Shane's eyes, pushing his hair back from where it was falling into his eyes.
“You gon’a make fun of me?” Shane asked quietly, words slurring around the fingers still tucked in his mouth. He was still refusing to raise his eyes to meet Ilya’s. He could feel rather than see Ilya’s response, his head shaking so earnestly it seemed to move his entire body.
“Of course not, my sweetheart,” Ilya promised. Teasing Shane was one of his favorite things to do. He loved seeing his nose wrinkle and his brows scrunch down into his angry kitten face, loved how pouty he got when Ilya teased him relentlessly. But he would never, ever tease Shane when he was so vulnerable, not when he looked so adorable and so sad.
“You gon’a leave me?” he asked, even quieter this time, and Ilya’s heart was breaking with each word. He may not fully understand how tiny Shane was acting right now, but he certainly wouldn’t leave him when he seemed to need Ilya so much. “Do you want me to leave?” Ilya asked, searching Shane’s face intently.
Shane was pouting and tucking himself deeper into Ilya’s lap before the question was even fully out. “Please don’ leave,” he whined, his wet fingers falling from his mouth to grip Ilya’s shirt in his fist. Ilya shushed him gently, moving his hands to grip the hairs at the base of Shane’s neck and pull his face up again.
“I will not leave, moya lyubov,” Ilya promised. “Let us continue your show with the cartoon dogs and we will have lunch after, da? No more crying.” Shane nodded his agreement, wiping his drippy nose on the back of his hands. Ilya watches the whole thing with a grimace, silently promising to coax Shane up in a bit so he can clean his face. He wasn’t a fan of the way Shane’s surely germy fingers kept finding their way into his mouth either, but Ilya held off on commenting so as not to upset his baby further.
Ilya tries to move Shane off his lap to grab for the remote, but Shane just clings tighter to his shirt like a needy sloth. Ilya huffs out a bewildered laugh and goes to pull up the remote on his phone instead. He may not fully understand what is going on, but he cannot deny how downright adorable his boy was when he was so clingy. Shane, to his credit, just turns himself in Ilya’s lap with his back to his chest, tucking his head tighter beneath Ilya’s chin, content in the safety of his arms. He seemed happy to spend the rest of his day stuck firmly to Ilya’s side like a barnacle. His face even took on the soft smile he saved only for when he spent his summers with Ilya at the cottage, safe and happy.
Sunday, Shane decided, was still the bestest day ever.