Chapter Text
When Shane came to, he was fraught with people. There were way too many hands clutching at his sweat-soaked skin, and not enough light for him to figure out who was whose.
“Ilya.” His own voice slightly far away, a boat horn lost to the crashing waves swarming the horizon. “Back off.” As usual, the Russians hoarse voice commanded the attention of whoever was crowding around them. Shane felt all but one hand fall away. “Ilya.” Repeated the man. “I’m here, Любовь моя.” His fingers tugged on Shane’s, pressing into the curve of his knuckles as if they were made to slot together. “Do not fret.”
“Fret?” He gasped, “when did you learn fret?” The words fell heavy off his tongue, slurring more than Shane would’ve liked them too. Ironically, he was pretty sure his pronunciation was less coherent than his husband’s.
“Around the same time I learnt ‘Or-tho-static intolerance.’” Something about the way Ilya paused to drag through syllables made Shane smile. Through his own fog ridden body he felt his lips creep into a smirk. When Ilya moved his hand from Shane’s, to the newly carved dimples on his cheeks, Shane flinched. “Can I check your heart rate please.”
“Mhmmm.”
“One-eighty, going down. Gatorade: salt, and let’s strip off ur shirt once we’re outta here. Da?”
“Yes.”
“Oki.” Then a little louder. “Bood, come here.” As easily as a well trained dog, the alternate arrived at his captains side; from Shane’s very unfortunate position on the floor, he could slightly capture his tattooed sleeve and make out what seemed to be a concerned frown. “At your service cap!” Shane’s eighty percent sure there was a salute that followed. “You okay hollzy?”
“Never better.”
“Maybe we should call an ambulance or something. You aren’t looking too great.”
“No don’t worry it’s nor-
I must’ve not eaten enough before practice, that’s all.”
Bood’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “How can I help?”
“Could you get him something sugary from the bar?”
“On it.” His footsteps lost themselves to the music.
By the time Zane had found them slipped away in a new, quieter booth, Shane’s head was dropped into his husband lap as he spread his body on the slightly sticky leather chair. “Is this okay?” A cold can of coke was passed into his hand, the remnants of adrenaline still quaking his body, shaking the can alongside it. Aftershocks. “Yeah, thank you. I’m sorry.”
“Ah too Canadian, you apologise too much.”
“No one faints on purpose bud, don’t worry about it. Once you drink this we’ll get you home, yeah? Troy’s sober if you need a designated driver.”
Something about the condensation in his palm paired with the muzzy mustering beneath his skin pulled him away from the conversation. All he could feel was the tingling of tender fingers stroking through his drenched jet-black hair, the thick placid thighs beneath the curve of his spin, the serene presence of his lifeline. Explaining the fact Ilya was so integrated into Shane’s life — that he had become nothing and everything — was such an unattainable task. But it was true. Ilya was the childhood toy you don’t remember being given. Ilya was routine, and he was chaos, Ilya was there. Always there. Yet Shane never had to exist differently because of that, he never had to acknowledge his Loves existence in a way that altered who he was. Not because he wouldn’t, if that’s what Ilya wanted, but because Ilya loved all of Shane because of who he was and not in spite of it.
At some point the fingers in his hair had stilled. “Drink Моя любовь.”
So he did. By the time he was halfway through the can, his eyes flagging with post-syncopal fatigue, Troy Barrett had gravitated beside them. His usual borderline-creepy stare had softened to something that made creases catch in the dip of his cheek bones. “I said I’d take a nap, I didn’t think you’d try to join me.” He muttered, giving his best friend, and coincidentally Shane’s partner, an eyebrow raise. “Can I give you guys a ride home?”
“We were just gonna get an Uber, it’s fine really.”
“I’m sober.” Which obviously Shane knew, and Ilya knew and Troy knew but the way he said it was as if it completely blew Shane’s proposition out the window. Both Barrett and Rozanov shared the trait of demanding things in some sort of love bearing way. “Okay then.” Rozanov smiled.
“Okay.” Repeated Troy. Shane all but grumbled.
Have you ever felt so out of control, you lose the ability to be present? How can someone who needs to control everything, lose everything the moment his body calls it quits. It’s a dull thunk at the back of Shane’s skull, as he’s dropped into the back seat with fluid bones. “Shane?”
It’s the impending release of symptoms he wished he could’ve predicted. “Shane, Детка, outta your head please.” As his husband shuffled into the car seat next to him, starting some monologue in Russian. “Разве не смешно, что Трой Барретт - это тот, у кого крошечная машина цвета яблока, а не его парень?”
“I suppose.” Mumbled Shane, his head finally sagging onto his husband’s settled shoulder.
At some point Troy clicked on the radio, a relaxed hum of something he can’t quite name smoothing over them, vibrating the car door via the speaker. Then Ilya rolls the windows down, and tucks Shane close — tipping salt on his tongue. Wind cuts through the remaining fever trapped on his newly pale skin and dosing Shane in a flush of relief.
His husband: His friend; A pack of ice on an everblooming bruise. “I’m okay.” So quietly whispered Ilya barely caught the words. “I know. Я знаю.” But it was ephemeral, all good things come to an end.
“You’re lying.” Barrett’s voice tore over them, over that.