Work Text:
The house is too quiet when Ilya unlocks the door.
That’s the first thing he notices, a wrongness in the silence. Not the peaceful kind Shane usually prefers, but something brittle, stretched thin, like a wire pulled too tight.
“I’m back,” Ilya calls, nudging the door shut with his foot, grocery bags hanging from both hands.
No answer. He frowns, toeing off his shoes. “Shane?”
Still nothing. Then he hears it. A sharp, uneven sound from down the hall, something between a gasp and a choked cry. The bags slip from his fingers before he even registers the movement, oranges rolling across the floor as he is already running.
“Shane.”
He finds him in the bedroom.
The lights are off, curtains half drawn, the room dim in a way Shane usually likes. But right now it feels suffocating. Shane is on the floor beside the bed, knees pulled in tight, rocking hard enough that his shoulder knocks roughly against the frame in uneven intervals. His hands make Ilya’s chest tighten. Shane’s hands are tangled in his own hair, fingers clenched so tight there are strands wrapped around them, knuckles white. One side of his forearm is raw where he has been scratching, angry red lines stark against his skin, the worst ones starting to scab over. Ilya wonders how this managed to happen in the barely 90 minutes he was at the store.
“Hey, hey, sweetheart.”
No response. Shane does not even seem to hear him. His breathing is ragged, too fast, breaking apart into sharp, panicked sounds. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face twisted, like everything inside him is too loud, too much, spilling over.
Ilya drops to his knees a few feet away, forcing himself not to grab him immediately. Too fast will make it worse. He knows that.
“Shane,” he says again, softer now. “I’m here. It’s me. I’m home.”
Shane’s rocking stutters for half a second, just enough to show he hears something, but then it picks up again, faster, more desperate. His hands impossibly tighten more in his hair and he lets out a broken sound that makes something inside Ilya twist painfully.
Okay. Okay. Ilya breathes in slowly, grounding himself first. He cannot help if he panics too.
“You’re safe,” he says, steady, even. “You’re at home. I’m right here.”
No change. Shane’s head jerks slightly, like he is trying to escape something only he can feel. His fingers tug again, and Ilya sees more strands come loose.
That is enough.
“Hey, hey, no,” Ilya shifts closer, slow but deliberate. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
He reaches out carefully, hovering for a moment before placing his hands over Shane’s wrists. He does not pull, he just holds, firm, grounding pressure.
Shane reacts immediately. A sharp inhale, his body jolting, trying to pull away, but Ilya does not let go. He adjusts instead, tightening his grip just enough to stop the movement without hurting him. He slowly pulls Shane’s hands out of his hair, moving to press them against his chest.
“It’s me,” he repeats, his voice low and steady. “Ilya. You’re okay.”
Shane’s eyes crack open, unfocused, glassy. They do not quite land on him.
“I know,” Ilya murmurs. “It’s too much right now. I know.”
Shane makes a strangled noise, shaking his head, like he is trying to say something but cannot force the words out.
“It’s okay if you can’t talk,” Ilya says quickly. “You don’t have to. Just stay with me.”
Shane’s breathing is still too fast. His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, like he cannot get enough air. Ilya shifts closer, sliding one arm carefully around Shane’s back while keeping hold of his wrists in the other. He pulls him in, slow and steady, until Shane is pressed against him, arms pressed tightly between them, freeing his other hand to squeeze his arms fully around Shane. Deep pressure. It is what helps, usually.
“Okay,” Ilya whispers, more to himself than anything. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
For a moment, nothing changes. Shane’s body is still rigid, still fighting something invisible. His hands twitch in between their chests, like he wants to go back to pulling, scratching, anything to release the overwhelming pressure inside him. Ilya tightens his hold slightly, pressing Shane closer, one hand firm between his shoulder blades.
“Breathe with me,” he says, soft but insistent. “In, and out. Come on, moya lyubov. Stay with me.”
He exaggerates his own breathing, slow and deep, hoping Shane will match it.
At first, he does not.
The seconds stretch, heavy and uncertain, and a flicker of fear creeps in. What if this one is different? What if he cannot reach him this time?
“I’m here,” Ilya says again, quieter now, pressing his cheek against Shane’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone.”
Shane makes another broken sound, but it is different this time. Less sharp. Less panicked. His breathing stutters, then hesitates.
Ilya feels it. A tiny shift.
“That’s it,” he murmurs immediately. “Good. Just like that. You’re doing so well.”
He keeps the pressure steady, one hand splayed firmly across Shane’s lower back, the other rubbing firm lines up and down between his shoulder blades in time with his own breathing. Shane’s breaths are still uneven, but they are slowing, just a little.
In. Out. In, a hitch, out.
“I’ve got you,” Ilya repeats, softer each time, like a mantra. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”
It takes a long time. Longer than usual. Minutes stretch into something shapeless, measured only by the gradual slowing of Shane’s breathing, the way his body slowly stops fighting and starts, finally, collapsing into Ilya instead. The tension drains out of him in pieces.
His tightly wound hands relax between them, sinking further down into their laps.
“Ilya,” Shane manages finally, his voice hoarse and small.
Relief hits Ilya so hard it almost hurts.
“I’m here,” he says immediately, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m right here.”
Shane exhales, something fragile in the sound, and leans more heavily into him. They stay like that for a while, just breathing, just existing.
Eventually, Ilya shifts slightly, just enough to look at him properly. Shane’s eyes are open now, but tired, rimmed red. There is a distant look there still, like he has not fully come back yet. Ilya leans back slightly, taking Shane’s hands in his own and begins carefully unwinding the strands of hairs tangled around his fingers.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs as he works. “I’ve got it.”
Shane does not resist. By the time Ilya finishes, Shane is limp against him, trembling faintly, breaths still shaky but no longer panicked.
“That was a bad one,” Ilya says softly.
Shane nods faintly, then winces.
“Hey, easy,” Ilya murmurs. “Don’t push yourself.”
He glances down at Shane’s arms, and his chest tightens again. The scratches are not deep, but they are angry, irritated. His fingers are still slightly curled, like they remember the tension.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, yes?”
Shane hesitates, then gives a small, shaky nod.
“Okay.”
Ilya helps him up carefully, keeping one arm around him as they move to the bathroom. Shane leans into him more than usual, still unsteady, and Ilya adjusts without comment. He sits Shane on the edge of the tub, grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink.
“This might sting a little,” he warns gently.
Shane watches him, quiet, subdued. “I know,” he says softly.
Ilya cleans the scratches with careful hands, as gentle as he can manage. Shane flinches once or twice, but does not pull away.
“You did so well,” Ilya murmurs as he works. “I know it did not feel like it, but you did.”
Shane’s lips press together, like he is not sure he believes that.
“You stayed,” Ilya adds. “You came back to me.”
That gets a reaction, a small one, but real.
When he finishes, he wraps a light bandage around the worst of the scratches, then gently takes Shane’s hands in his own, checking for any lingering hair tangled around his fingers.
“All good,” he says softly.
Shane nods, exhaustion settling heavily into his expression.
“Come on,” Ilya says, offering his hand. “Let’s get you to bed.”
This time, Shane takes it immediately. When they lie down, Shane curls into him without hesitation, pressing close like he needs the contact to stay grounded.
Ilya wraps his arms around him, firm and steady, just like before.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into his hair.
Shane exhales, tension easing just a little more.
“I know,” he murmurs.
And this time, he really does.