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You know in the movies when the character gets bad news and it all goes muffled, just a long buzz or a throbbing heartbeat — ears that don’t stop ringing. Turns out it’s real, all the blood has rushed to Shane’s head and it’s real.
The pasta in his mouth makes him want to gag, the lights are too bright and Ilya — god his sweet Ilya, is talking but all he can hear is the fucking buzz of what-if’s in his head. His mom’s voice scrapes through his motions, followed by the word “change” in that Russian accent he knows too well. None of it matters though, because his heart is beating too fast, and even the nails digging into his palm only draw blood, not that sweet relief he needs.
What he needs is to breathe. He needs the lights off: he needs the quiet, he needs the world to just stop spinning for a second because the room is dancing too and it’s all, it’s all too much. He needs it to stop.
Shane’s eyes squint shut despite the way he can feel his dad’s glare, like there is a force pushing against him instead of just a benign look. He can’t care about that right now though because that feeling of your world being engulfed is real. Like ink meeting water.
His head meets his arm and it’s better there, he thinks. There’s no blinding sun but acid remains coating his throat and his lungs sting from holding his breath. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why can’t he breathe? It’s like - it’s like…the solar eclipse has decided that the pit is his. It’s like there is only Shane and everything he hates. Why does he hate so many things? It’s like the dam has been broken and all he’s got is one empty glass of water to scoop it up. It’s like-
“Shane.”
Softer. “Shane.” He exhales.
“I’m okay. I’m just freaking out. I’ll be okay in a second.” The words come out of his mouth, but he doesn’t remember saying them. Thinking them. Half of him expects to be reprimanded, to be slapped on the back and told to suck it up — I mean, he’s managed to for this long, how hard could it be? But a hand falls to his shoulder blade, dragging delicate strokes up his back. And Shane realises that this, that him: Ilya, is real too. “Hey, hey hey, hey.” Coos the boy, making Shane’s eyes loosen despite still being pressed against his now damp sleeve. “We’re good here.” Are we? He wants to interrupt, question it because he doesn’t feel good. Not yet. Ilya persists, “Your family is here. Your boyfriend is here. You’re good here, okay?”
Maybe it’s the hand scruffing his neck with such familiarity that Shane can’t help but lean into it, or maybe it’s the fact that Ilya Rozonov who can tower above someone with words like venom. Rozanov who usually punctuates his words with foreign scowls and an asshole bite is speaking to him like that. Like Shane is everything, as if he can see something in his boyfriend that Shane can’t possibly see. Wait boyfriend?
Gingerly, he lifts his head. “My boyfriend?” The light is still real, still sharp and piercing. His breaths still too little, too weak. But Ilya is looking back at him, with wide eyes and a tilted head. The same look Shane is met with when he wakes up, and that, that’s real too. “I mean, yes.” Ilya nods. “I think so, probably.” Of course, Shane nods back whilst another scruff meets his neck sending tingles down his spine. His eyes flit to Ilya’s lips, asking, pleading. Then there is a hand to his jaw, lifting it further from the table, from that unholy place his mind dragged him too.
One very real pair of lips meet his, then pulls away. At last, Shane breathes.