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Shane is shaken out of stage three sleep by rough hands around his face and Ilya’s voice tripping over itself as he says, “Shane, Shane – Пожалуйста, проснись, please wake up, Не покидай меня, пожалуйста, please –”
Shane knows he’d been in stage three because waking feels like pulling his brain out of taffy, eyelids too heavy to lift and for an unsettling moment, he’s semi-conscious but unable to move. He feels his head loll against the pillows as Ilya’s hands grip his shoulders instead, shaking him. “Shane!”
“Wh – I’m awake, I’m awake,” Shane manages, trying to figure out whose limbs are whose so he can roll over and switch on the bedside lamp. Somehow, this just seems to make things worse; Ilya’s fingers dig in with startling force and he chokes out, “Нет, не оставляй меня –”
Shane finds the switch with a flailing hand and sits up, squinting in the sudden light. Ilya blinks from where he’s leaning over Shane, and he’s awake but his gaze is feverish, hands fumbling over Shane’s chest before rising to his pulse point and pressing down, fingers heavy at the base of Shane’s throat.
“Hey,” Shane says, getting a hand around Ilya's wrist. His tongue is still thick with sleep, but the look on Ilya's face is clearing the wooziness from his head pretty damn quick. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m awake now. What’s going on?”
“You –” Ilya starts, and then finally seems to focus properly, fingers flexing and then withdrawing as he sits back, mouth tight. “You were not… You weren’t waking up.” He rubs at his face. “Or maybe you were, but I thought – I saw you…”
His exhale skitters out of his lungs, and when Shane looks closer, he can see the fine tremor running through Ilya’s torso. He reaches out, telegraphing the move, and runs a slow hand up Ilya's arm. Ilya is clammy to the touch, and when Shane pulls him in, he can feel Ilya’s heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
“Bad dream?” Shane asks into Ilya's hair, just to be a hundred percent sure. Ilya shrugs a shoulder.
“I guess,” he says. His accent is as thick as Shane has ever heard it, untempered in the privacy of Shane’s bedroom in Montreal. Their bedroom. Their bedroom now. “It was real thirty seconds ago.”
“I know what you mean,” Shane replies. “Was it, uh. Me in hospital again?”
There’s a long pause.
“Worse,” Ilya says finally, and his voice has gone flat, in that way that means he’s clamping down with all his might. “Hospital, yes. There is no one around, and nobody will tell me if you’re okay. So I open the door.” His hand forms a fist in the sheets, fabric bunching. Shane puts his own hand over Ilya’s and Ilya stares down at their interlocked fingers and finishes, “I find you. There is…empty bottle of pills on the floor. You won’t wake up.”
All the air leaves the room. For a moment, Shane can’t remember how to breathe, let alone speak, until Ilya shifts against him and he jerks back into action, gathering Ilya up and squeezing him tight. “God,” he says, inadequate but about all he can manage. “Fuck, Ilya, I’m sorry.”
Ilya sighs and presses his face against Shane’s chest. All that frantic energy with suddenly nowhere to go – Shane is familiar with that particular brand of nausea. He moderates his breathing and feels Ilya working to match him: controlled inhales and extended exhales, one after the other. Shane is just about to offer water when Ilya lifts his head and says, “Mama died this weekend. I’m always bad, this time of year.”
Shane feels like he’s been suckerpunched again. “It’s – it’s the anniversary this weekend?”
“да,” Ilya says, lying back now. His mouth holds all of his fake nonchalance; the truth is in his eyes. “Anniversary. Tomorrow.” He nudges Shane with his foot. “Stop with that face, you couldn’t have known. I was going to tell you tomorrow.” He taps his temple. “Brain just…ahead of game.”
Shane leans over and kisses that same temple. “That makes sense. It’s front of mind.”
“Stupid mind,” Ilya mutters, and lets Shane tilt his chin up for a kiss.
“A human mind,” Shane rebuts gently. “One that cares very much.”
Ilya makes a face but doesn’t argue. He knows what that reframe means to Shane for his own mind, and thus will never dismiss it when Shane applies it to him too. A win-win, by Shane’s count.
After a long stretch of comfortable silence, Ilya strokes a hand down Shane’s side and says, “This year already easier, you know. Knowing I had you. That I wouldn’t have to…remember her. Alone.”
“You’ll never have to again,” Shane says, turning to him. “I promise.”
“You promise me a lot of things, Hollander.”
“So do you, Rozanov.”
They keep their sardonic faces on until Ilya cracks, mouth curling up, and Shane laughs, laying his head down. He’s amazed, even now, by what Ilya has the courage to show and say. Ilya tells Shane he is brave, but Shane can only say he has a good role model for it.
He thinks over their schedule for the weekend and says, “My parents are still due to come over tomorrow for lunch. Would you rather they didn’t –”
“No, no,” Ilya says quickly, shaking his head. “I look forward to that. Your father text me about new recipe.”
“I am disturbed by how much you text my parents.”
“I don’t text your mother that much,” Ilya says, “she is too busy and important. Your father though, he needs entertainment. I caught him doing that silly number game last time. A whole book of them! Poor man.”
“Shut up, sudokus are a perfectly valid hobby. I like them.”
“I rest my case – ow!”
They devolve into a mini grapple battle until Shane gets a leg free and pins him, pressing Ilya into the mattress. Ilya smiles up at him and goes lax, hooking his ankles over Shane’s. “Sleeping is dangerous,” he says. “We should do something else.”
“We already did,” Shane, but does lean down for a kiss. When Ilya tries to rock his hips up though, Shane sits back, one hand on Ilya’s chest. “Ilya. It’s late, and we’re both recovering from back to backs. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”
“Regret it?” Ilya says, both eyebrows raising. “Do you even know me?”
“In the morning,” Shane says, laughing. “Sleep now, okay?”
Ilya pouts. Shane consoles him with a kiss and then several more as they settle down, shuffling around until they are comfortable again. When Shane turns off the light, Ilya’s breath hitches before he lets it out again, slow and deliberate. He finds Shane’s hand in the dark and squeezes tight.
“Sorry I woke you,” he says, barely a whisper.
“Don’t be,” Shane replies, squeezing back. “Wake me anytime. I’ll be here.”
“Я тебя люблю, Shane.”
“I love you too, Ilya.”
They sleep.
~*~