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he didn't even remember how the fight started.
all he remembered was the static that invaded his head when he got overstimulated, the sting in his throat when he ended up raising his voice at ilya after too much prodding, the coldness in ilya's eyes as he finally backed off but backed off too much and left shane alone to deal with the chilly tension of their home.
shane hates when ilya looks at him like that, like he's putting his walls back up again. guarding his heart, if only for a fleeting moment until things smooth back over. he hates it even more when the russian leaves though, hates the sinking feeling it plants deep inside his chest.
he could handle being yelled at. he couldn't handle the passiveness, the implications that he was being dismissed, even if he logically knew he wasn't.
shane let himself sit, continuing to stare at the door ilya left from, the engine of his car still lightly ringing in his ears.
the house didn't move, it didn't shudder, but shane could feel every dust particle floating through the air. his body trembled and shook and it felt like everything else was trembling around him and when was the last time he took a breath?
he gasped loudly, the burn in his lungs finally reminding him to breathe but then he couldn't stop. the sounds of his hyperventilating filled the room, a ringing forming in his ears that sent tremors of pain through his skull.
a light whimper escaped his throat.
the itch started, creeping through his body slowly.
...
...
...
he could remember it vividly, the first time the itch greeted him.
he was thirteen years old, and he had almost nothing to show for it.
he had his parents, and hockey, but no more than that. no friends, no other hobbies to make him sound more interesting than just being the only asian kid on a hockey team full of white kids who love to remind shane that he isn't like them.
as if he didn't already know.
the itch had started after he scratched too hard during a panic attack he doesn't remember the trigger of.
he remembers the sting, the faint pinpricks of blood that blossomed from the red tracks of broken skin on his wrist.
he remembers how quiet his mind became after, if only for a moment.
the itch followed him everywhere after that.
if shane looked hard enough, he could see the remnants of that past, of a shane hollander that's been forced under a lock and key.
it had transformed from just scratching quickly, he can remember the day everything changed so vividly.
fourteen years old, both of his parents gone away on business trips that coincided on a day shane should have been celebrating.
but of course the universe had to laugh at him, on his birthday of all days. no friends to celebrate with, no parents to even have around.
his mind had run with the fodder and it hit his self deprecation like kindle to a fire.
he kept the memory of a razor blade in his mom's sewing kit, too many for her to not miss just one.
he remembers grabbing the blade, he remembers steeling himself in the bathroom for twenty minutes before making the first swipe.
he remembers the after, the overwhelming sense of quiet and calm that washed over him like the rays of sun on the first day of spring.
that blade became his friend, and the itch stuck around.
he quit not too long after his eighteenth birthday, having been preparing to enter the big leagues and not wanting to have... something like that tarnish his already growing reputation.
and then ilya rozanov came around and having someone who looks at his body was enough to curb the itch.
he loved ilya, he truly did. he loved everything about him, but he would never tell his boyfriend about this, his shame.
shane was pulled from his thoughts as his skin prickled just below the surface, loud and obtrusive on his already overwhelmed and panicked mind.
he always likened the itch to the feeling of bugs, thousands of mosquito bites that litter the under layers of skin, the fat that stays below the surface.
sometimes it feels like the itch is in his bones, too deep to scratch just right. he knows what it means when his bones hold the itch, but it's something he always refused to think about.
he looks to his arms, wrists out and glaring right back at him. the skin is almost unblemised, years of maintaining his clean streak leaving his skin almost normal. but the shine of scar tissue is noticeable still sometimes, if it picks the light just right.
a constant reminder.
if he looks hard enough, he can see the blood rushing too quick through his blue-green veins, pumping too quick to the beat of his too quick heart.
his ears are still ringing, blood thumping behind his ear drums and creating a mind breaking orchestra that makes him dizzy.
he doesn't remember standing up, his body moving on its own as his mind rushes a mile a minute.
he doesn't remember grabbing one of his shaving razors, a fresh one from the pack of blades.
he studies the blade for a moment, feeling the cool metal that lay in the palm of his hand. he comes back to himself for a second, his mind reeling with the question of am i really gonna do this?
his body answers for him when the itch becomes unbearable, sitting just below the surface of his wrists. its shallow enough that he knows he can scratch it.
he breathes in. his eyes close when he presses the sharp corner of the metal to his skin.
time stops, he loses himself in the sensation.
a quick swipe of metal against tan skin.
the painful sting that finally shuts up his rushing thoughts.
the splitting of his skin that scratches the itch just right.
the tickling sensation of blood drops forming in pinpricks that create crimson rivers on his body.
one swipe became two, became three, became ten lines of flowing red reminders of pathetic regression on his skin. red droplets running free and spilling off the edge of his arm into the awaiting porcelain sink below, creating watercolor drops of blood that stain the white surface.
he basks in the calmness of his mind, the stillness that comes after the bloodletting of his static filled mind.
his heart beats once, then twice, and then his mind starts panicking again. for a different reason.
ilya.
he can't know.
he will find out.
because shane knows how this will end, he can already picture it vividly.
ilya will come home, having calmed down and they will have a heart to heart, apologize, and then ilya will promptly fuck the brattiness out of him and remind him that he loves him after.
he can't have that. at least, not the sex part.
shane looks up for the first time and takes stock of himself in the mirror and wow i look like shit.
his eyes are red rimmed and puffy, the light gleams of gold in his brown eyes drowned out. his face is slightly pale, making the freckles dancing along his face look almost too dark. he looks wrong.
a sigh escapes him, before he finally looks over the damage on his arm. the blood has stopped for the most part, moving sluggish and slow. the trails of red have cooled down to his skin and started crusting over, droplets that hadn't been heavy enough to fall become coagulated on the other side of his arm.
he wipes them away with a damp cloth, eyes unfocused as his body still moves on muscle memory, years unused rituals coming back to him fleetingly, for this instance.
he ignores the sting of the cuts when he washes away the stains of crimson, water flushing away the crime scene he committed on himself in a trail of rusted shame.
shane moves to grab the first aid kit that he and ilya kept below the sink, hoping to any god that existed that ilya never kept track of what was and wasn't used, before pulling out a square of gauze and bandage tape.
aftercare was something he always took seriously, he never wanted to risk an infection and have someone find out. it had been harder when he was younger, trying to dance around his parents and their noticing of how their first aid kid had always seemed to run out. never suspiciously fast, but enough that it drew a question or two every so often.
he moved quickly and efficiently with wrapping up his regret, feeling the cold drips of usual shame and embarrassment that came after he committed to an incorrect impulse.
no matter how tightly he wrapped his wrist, the bandaging would sit bulky under anything he wore that was his. he sighed again, forcing himself to push down the twinges of regret that tug at his heart and instead make quick work of cleaning the sink of the blood.
he takes a final look at himself in the mirror, before sighing again and finally leaving the bathroom.
he decides to grab one of ilya's sweaters for comfort.
a worn, old, and oversized even for ilya, boston raiders sweatshirt. the black cotton having become slightly washed out, the printed design cracking along the edges. it smelled of ilya, of his expensive cologne and cigarettes and a faint musk that was always so intoxicating.
it made his eyes water.
he slipped the t-shirt he was wearing off in favor of the sweatshirt, enveloping himself in ilya's scent. the sleeves covered his entire hand, the hem went down to his mid thighs.
he smiled to himself slightly.
if shane closed his eyes tight enough, he could imagine ilya hugging him from behind, that the scent wafting around him was coming from the russian man himself as opposed to just his clothing.
if shane strained his ears enough, he could hear ilya speaking to him in his gentle rumble, his voice washing over his entire being. my love, my beloved, my darling.
the bed was cold without ilya being there to press up against.
shane wasn't even sure when he ended up in bed. but he was in bed. alone.
he let a tear escape him. he missed ilya.
it was like him after all, shane always had a way of ruining the good things in his life.
the sunlight fell, moonlight streamed through the windows, and shane still continued to lay awake, eyes trained on the outside. the way the trees swayed in the gentle breeze, the stars that glimmer and shine from so far away.
he finally hears ilya return after a time, but the sound feels distant and muddy, like it has traveled through rippling water.
a gentle wash of light travels through the opening door of the bedroom, soft footsteps wading their way through the room until the other end of the bed dips.
he can smell the alcohol, the cigarettes, the russian brand of cologne that ilya swears by.
tears spring to his eyes uninvited. he lets them silently fall anyways.
"i'm sorry."
it's said like a confession. it's said like a prayer. it's said like it holds more weight than a simple argument.
"i forgive you."
he lets his tears fall faster.