AngelForTheDamned
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Shane and Ilya attend Jackie's birthday dinner. Before they arrive, Shane reminds Ilya to behave. What Shane doesn't realize is that some part of Ilya still remembers exactly what "behave" used to mean. When Jackie serves a homemade Russian meal, a simple dinner becomes a painful walk through memories of his mother, his father, and a childhood he'd rather forget.
Did Ruby like the Solyanka? Did she prefer something else? Did Hayden and Jackie know her favorite food? Probably. They seemed like the kind of parents who remembered things like that. Would they get angry if the twins misbehaved at the table? Would they yell? Would they slam their hands against the table? Did Hayden ever—
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Ilya wakes from a nightmare so vivid that, for a few terrifying seconds, he can't tell where the dream ends and reality begins. In the nightmare, Shane is lying motionless on the ice after his accident with Marleau. When he finally wakes up, the panic doesn't disappear. what make it worse Shane's side of the bed is empty.
What Ilya doesn't know is that Shane had only stepped outside to take a call from Hayden. When Shane returns, he finds Ilya standing on the porch, barefoot, shaking, and crying. He talks Ilya through the panic, helps him breathe, wraps him in his arms, and reminds him that he's safe.
When Ilya admits he's afraid to go back to sleep, Shane doesn't hesitate to abandon his carefully planned morning routine. He climbs back into bed, holds him close, and promises to stay right there until he wakes up. Whatever the nightmare takes from him, Shane is determined to give back a sense of safety.
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A fight with his brother leaves Ilya bleeding out on his own floor.
Shane is the one who finds him.
Somewhere between pain, memory, and everything he never thought he deserved, Ilya has to decide if love is enough to keep him here.Shane… is that you? Or is this just another tricks my head is playing on me?
Everything burns. Everything blurs. There’s blood in my eyes, in my mouth, in my throat. I can’t tell what’s real anymore. Maybe you’re not even here. Maybe I just need you so badly that I made you up.
You hate me now, don’t you? Of course you do. You must look at me and see it clearly now—how weak I am, how pathetic. Always falling apart. I couldn’t even answer your calls. I couldn’t even do that right.
I’m so tired.
Shane…
If this is real, don’t look at me like this. Don’t see me like this.
Moy lyubimyy…
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Summary
“I can’t handle watching you get hurt,” Shane said, voice breaking through clenched teeth. “Or being used. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
Ilya stared at him, trying to keep up. The English was coming too fast. Too sharp. “Used…?” he echoed.
"Yes!” Shane snapped. “Pulled at. Touched. Treated like something anyone can grab.” Tears spilled down his face now—real, uncontrolled. “She was touching you and…” His hands shook at his sides. “And that guy—fuck, Ilya,” Shane said hoarsely. “Was he touching you too? Were his hands on you?”
Ilya wasn’t the kind of person who got like this. Drunk? Sure. Loose, laughing, reckless in a controlled way. But too drunk? Rare. Almost never. Ilya always knew when to stop. Always knew his limits. He’d been around alcohol his whole life—knew how to handle it.
Maybe he drank because he wanted to forget, Shane admitted quietly to himself. Forget that they can’t be together out in the open. Forget that loving Shane hurts. Maybe it hurts him just as much as it hurts Shane. They were crazy about each other. Shane knew that. Had always known that.
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Summary
Another red light.
“Ilya?” Shane leans closer this time, brushing his knuckles lightly against Ilya’s jaw.
“Where does it hurt?” His voice is tight, urgent. “Talk to me.”
No answer.
Ilya’s head has tipped toward the window again. His lashes rest against fever-flushed skin, cheeks burning red under the passing streetlights. His breathing is too shallow — each inhale catching faintly at the end like it hurts to pull air in.
“Ilya?” Shane presses. “Hey. Tell me where it hurts.”
Nothing. The silence slams into him.
“Fuck—” His hand tightens on Ilya’s thigh. He gives it a firmer shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. Ilya. Hey.”Ilya doesn’t get sick often.
But when he does, it’s never small.
Fever is the one thing that can kill him.
He knows it. The doctors know it. The ER staff knows it.
Shane doesn’t.
And Ilya would like to keep it that way.