Work Text:
The world is quiet when Ilya wakes up.
Quiet, except for the hummingbird tittering restlessly beyond their bedroom window. Quiet, except for the steady metronome of the analog clock across the room. The dim, persistent hum of the heater. The soft snuffles that Anya is making at the foot of their bed.
None of these sounds register in Ilya’s brain. All his senses are occupied by one thing. As they always are, each and every morning.
Ilya takes in the sight before him, his breath hitching in his throat.
He thinks Shane is the most beautiful like this, dead to the world. Eyelashes fanned against his cheeks, his lips parted ever so slightly. The slow rise of his chest, meeting breath after breath.
There’s a sliver of morning sun that filters into their cocoon, slipping through the wall and the blackout blinds that Shane had insisted on buying last spring. The interrupting ray of light lands on Shane’s cheek, kissing each freckle like a greedy lover.
Ilya knows the feeling. He’s never understood art, why some people would spend their entire day shuffling through a museum to look at framed paintings on walls. He’s never understood the appeal.
But looking at Shane, illuminated by the early golden glow, he finally thinks he does.
Lifting a hand, he grazes a gentle thumb over Shane’s cheekbone. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of this view. Doesn’t think he’ll ever stop marveling at how this view is his, for as long as Shane will let him have it.
Beside him, Shane lets out a small snuffle. Almost imperceptibly, his cheek tilts toward Ilya’s touch, as if his subconscious is saying hello.
Endeared, a warmth blooms in Ilya’s chest. He can’t stop his lips from curving upwards. He hopes that Shane’s happy wherever he is, in his little dream realm. He hopes that he’s there with him.
It takes all of Ilya for him to draw his hand away. He wants to let Shane stay asleep a little longer.
He knows that Shane will join him soon.