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The black eye is the first thing Shane notices.
Ilya doesn’t slam the door when he comes in. He doesn’t even close it all the way. He just stands there for a moment, coat still on, shoulders stiff, like he’s bracing for impact.
Shane’s stomach drops.
“Ilya?” He’s on his feet before he realizes it. “What happened?”
Ilya turns his face slightly away, as if that will hide the deep purple swelling beneath his eye. He shrugs, too casual, too rehearsed.
“It’s nothing.”
Shane takes a step closer. Then another. “That’s not nothing.”
Ilya exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
There it is. The wall.
Shane stops pushing forward, but he doesn’t back away either. He lowers his voice. “Okay. We don’t have to talk. But you look like you’re barely holding it together.”
Ilya’s hands curl into fists at his sides. His shoulders shake once—just once—and then his eyes betray him. They fill too fast, lashes clumping together as he blinks hard, like he can force the tears back by sheer will.
Shane closes the distance and wraps his arms around him.
For a split second, Ilya stays rigid. Then he collapses into Shane’s chest like he’s been waiting for permission. His breath stutters, and suddenly he’s crying—quiet at first, then harder, his fingers clutching the back of Shane’s hoodie like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Shane holds him without hesitation.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, over and over. “I’ve got you. You’re here. You’re safe.”
They sink down onto the couch together, tangled up in grief and warmth. Shane keeps one hand steady between Ilya’s shoulder blades, grounding him, letting the tears come without asking them to stop.
When the sobs finally ease, Ilya’s breathing is still uneven. His face is red, the bruise darker now, ugly against pale skin.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says hoarsely.
Shane shakes his head. “You didn’t. You just came home.”
That earns him a sharp inhale, but Ilya doesn’t pull away.
After a long stretch of silence, Ilya speaks again.
“It was my brother,” he says quietly. “At the funeral.”
Shane listens.
“He said I shouldn’t have come,” Ilya continues. “Said I left them behind. Said I thought I was better than them.” His voice tightens. “Then he said things about Svetlana. Things he knew would hurt.”
Shane’s chest aches.
“I told him to stop,” Ilya says. “He didn’t. So I hit him.”
He laughs once, bitter and exhausted. “He hit back.”
Shane cups Ilya’s face carefully, thumbs brushing beneath tired eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t ever want to go back,” Ilya whispers. “Not to Russia. Not to that house. Every time I’m there, it feels like I’m twelve years old again and everything is my fault.”
“You don’t have to go back,” Shane says without hesitation. “You’re not stuck there anymore.”
Ilya closes his eyes, leaning into the touch like he needs to hear it twice.
~~~
Later, the apartment fills with noise.
Shane’s parents arrive for dinner, arms full of food and questions and concern. His mother fusses over Ilya immediately—about the bruise, about whether he’s eaten, about sitting down and resting. No judgment. No pressure.
Just care.
Someone presses a plate into Ilya’s hands. Someone drapes a blanket over his shoulders. Shane sits beside him, solid and steady, their knees touching under the table.
For the first time all day, Ilya doesn’t feel like he’s holding his breath.
Shane’s mother squeezes his hand gently and says, “You’re always welcome here.”
Ilya believes her.
Surrounded by warmth and quiet laughter, by people who choose him without asking for anything in return, the ache in his chest softens.
For once, he feels like he belongs.