Work Text:
Ilya doesn’t wake up screaming anymore.
It was beaten out of him quite a while ago (mostly figuratively). It was beaten out of him by Andrei throwing pillows at him and telling him to shut up, by his father squeezing his arms hard enough to leave bruises and asking why he was such a coward. It was beaten out of him by stony silences in the morning, passive-aggressive comments about how they didn’t sleep well and the bone-deep feeling that everything that went wrong in the world was all Ilya’s fault.
So no, he stopped waking up screaming years ago.
He still wakes up crying. Not the soft, muted trickle that his father wanted; he wakes with burning eyes and a strangled gasp, heaving chest and shaking limbs tangled in sheets. There is a moment where he is sure he sees her, colder than ice on the bedroom floor.
She disappears as the room comes into focus, and Ilya can’t say he’s relieved.
Still shaking, Ilya forces himself to lie against the pillows. His heart is pounding, hit after hit against his ribcage, his ears are ring as if a gunshot just went off.
“Ilya?” Shane’s voice is soft and heavy with sleep. Sheets rustle as he turns and Ilya tries to move, but he can’t make his brain reach his limbs. He has to watch as Shane’s hand comes around his and try to act like he’s asleep.
As if it’s possible to lie to Shane Hollander.
“Ilya?” he asks again, more awake this time. Ilya bites his tongue, fresh tears prickling at his eyes. “Baby, you’re soaking wet.”
I’m fine. The words don’t come. Instead, he gives a feeble, broken croak, twin tears running down his cheeks.
He doesn’t want to cry. He wants to bite his tongue until it bleeds and tears off, he wants to rip apart the sheets and mattress and keep digging until he escapes this world entirely. He wants to be anywhere but on this Earth.
“Hey, hey,” Shane whispers softly. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Warm hands are on his shoulders and around his waist and soon Ilya is being propped up against the headboard. He doesn’t fight it, he doesn’t have the strength to. He has to let Shane brush the hair away from his face, cup his cheek, mutter “you’re okay” over and over again.
Eventually, somehow, the wire holding Ilya’s body together begins to loosen. He feels himself fall forward into Shane’s embrace, his shoulders drop and his fingers curl around the sheets. He even manages to wrap his arms around Shane’s midsection, pressing his cold, cold body against his and letting the warmth seep into him.
Breathe, Ilya. Breathe.
Shane’s hand rubs circles on his back, untying each knot he comes across.
“Nightmare?”
Ilya just nods. Words are still too much right now.
Shane doesn’t need them, though. He just nods and keeps rubbing his back, pressing little kitten kisses to Ilya’s shoulder. None of it comes with expectation, just quiet, careful support that gently pulls Ilya’s spirit down to his body.
Fuck, he wants to cry. Fuck, he’s crying.
‘And now you start crying,’ his father tuts.
‘Absolute waste,’ Andrei adds. ‘I thought you were meant to be a man, Ilya.’
“Ilya.” Shane’s hand is on his cheek, voice soft and warm breath tickling Ilya’s skin. His thumb runs careful curves beneath his eye, pulling Ilya back through the cracks he slipped between.
His vision clears. Shane’s face solidifies, brown skin almost golden in the lamplight. His hair is messy from sleeping (and from Ilya running his hand through it), freckles shining like tiny stars.
And he’s looking at Ilya, shaking, silent, sobbing Ilya, like he’s the most precious thing there is.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s go make waffles.”
Ilya laughed when Shane showed him that waffle-maker. He’d called it silly and Canadian and asked Shane if he was going to cover them in maple syrup. Shane had pulled a face, and Ilya had pushed him against the counter and muttered something about how they’ll never use it.
Well, look at him now.
Shane is standing at the counter, muttering to himself as he measures out flour and milk with perfect precision. He still talks to Ilya as he does so, asking if he wants syrup on his or “I know we should go for the high-protein version, but it takes too long and I want a cheat day. Well, cheat night”.
Ilya isn’t really up for conversation. He’s sitting on the counter, propped up against the window and clad in Shane’s hoodie. It wasn’t planned, but well, he was cold and it was there. He didn’t ask. Words are still hard, trapped beneath the cotton stuffed in his mouth.
Shane doesn’t press. His words fall away as he whisks eggs and milk, only breaking his concentration to glance at Ilya. He sees it. The worry in his eye, the questions he won’t ask until tomorrow. It’s all taken, accounted for, then folded up and put away again.
Ilya turns away. Outside, the woods around the cottage are pitch-black, silhouetted against an inky skyline. City lights flicker in the distance, worlds away from where they are now. They could be the only two people in the world right now.
The window is cold when Ilya rests his head against it.
Mama was cold too.
The door creaks as it opens, Ilya creeps on the balls of his feet. There is something in the air, a feeling he can’t name yet, pressing down on his shoulders and neck and spine. Something is very, very, very wrong here.
He almost trips over her. A small squeal escapes him, because for a second there was nothing but the darkness and the lack of floor beneath him. He stumbles into the bedframe, dull pain blooms across his back.
A sliver of morning sunlight through the curtain, and he sees her-
“Hey,” someone says. The voice is garbled, a radio steadily losing signal, but there’s something solid in it that he holds onto. His cheek is suddenly warm again, pulled away from the window and held by something rough and warm and trembling just slightly.
Calloused fingers trace the outline of his lips, jaw, cheeks, each stroke bringing him closer and closer to home.
Eventually, there’s a surface beneath him, a wall at his back. Shane stands beside him, freckles dusted across his face and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His fingers curl into Ilya’s hair and he inhales, holds it. Holds onto this moment, then exhales.
“Where’d you go?” Shane asks, his light voice cracking on the last word.
Ilya shakes his head, his hand curls around Shane’s. There, in that quiet, still second, he feels Shane’s pulse beneath his fingertips, beating in time with his own.
He’s still here. They both are.
“Nowhere,” he says. His throat feels covered in rust. “I’m right here.”
Shane smiles, really smiles, relief washing over his features like a rainstorm. Ilya can’t manage it yet, but as Shane tucks his head into the crook of his neck, it doesn’t feel impossibleeither.