Work Text:
If you were to ask the media about having a conversation with Shane Hollander, they would say that he's not the most sociable. He’s the type of guy to go to a party and stand silently sipping his ginger-ale in a lonely corner as far away from people as possible. He’s tight lipped, a man of few words. Don’t be offended if you receive a one-word answer. Or even an awkward smile in place of a verbal response. In other words, he’s not much of a talker.
With Ilya, though, he’s a chatterbox. The only reason he’s even know how much he talks to Ilya is because his mom pointed out that Ilya is the only person Shane’s able to maintain long conversations with outside of his parents; but, even then, Ilya has them spectacularly beat. When Shane really thinks about it, he does talk to Ilya the most out of anyone else. They can talk for hours on end, and Shane doesn’t experience his usual social burnout. To Shane, Ilya is just so easy to talk to. It’s like he completely understands Shane and is the safest place for Shane to be his fully authentic self. No masking, no pretending, no putting on a persona. Just Shane and Ilya.
Which is why he hasn’t noticed how long he’s been talking about the latest book he’s been reading until Ilya says something.
“Moy lyubimyy, I have never met anyone who can talk about nothing for such a long time the way you can. The media always says it is hard to get you to talk, but when you are talking with me, I cannot get you to stop, even when you are talking about most boring things like hockey book.”
He sounds fond, but Shane still frowns.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No, no. Is cute.”
“Okay,” Shane says hesitantly.
They stay on the phone for another hour, but Shane stays keenly aware of how much he says, careful not to ramble.
“What about your book?” Ilya asks near the end of the call.
“Hmm?”
“You never finished telling me about your boring hockey book.”
“Oh. Yeah, uh, I finished it.”
“Did you like it?”
Shane nods to keep quiet then remembers Ilya can’t see him. “Yes.”
“Good. Maybe one day you will convince me to read it.”
“Yeah,” Shane sort of laughs, still feeling odd. “Maybe.”
After they’ve hung up, Shane thinks about what Ilya said for a long time.
***
Then Ilya makes another comment about Shane’s talking.
They’re cuddled on Ilya’s couch watching some new action-thriller Ilya wanted to see. Shane thinks it doesn’t make sense and says as much.
“I’ve never understood why they make the men wear suits during fight scenes,” Shane says. “It’s not realistic. Suits aren’t flexible. If someone were to try doing some sort of intense kickbox move in an actual suit, they would split their pants. Don’t you think it’s ridiculous for—"
“Sweetheart, we are trying to watch a movie,” Ilya interrupts, an adoring but weary look on his face. “You are always talking. Talk, talk, talk. Is like you never stop.”
Shane blinks rapidly. “Sorry.”
“Is okay. But now we watch the movie, yes?”
Nodding, Shane doesn’t say anything. He makes it a point not to say anything throughout the duration of the rest of the movie. He notices Ilya glancing at him occasionally, almost as if he’s waiting for Shane to say something, like it was inevitable. Shane’s body threatens to overflow with guilt. Last time Ilya said something about him talking a lot, he said it was cute. He doesn’t seem to have found it as cute this time. If anything, he thinks Ilya was exasperated with him. Maybe even annoyed. Anxiety blooms within him. Does Ilya often think Shane talks too much? How often? Is it all the time or only in certain situations?
The movie plays on, but Shane retains none of it, his mind bogged down with paranoia. The credits are rolling before he knows it. He stares blankly at them. Lips land on his temple.
“Where did you go?”
Shane stands up from the couch and tries to act normal. “What?”
“I lost you during the movie,” Ilya follows him and taps Shane on the forehead. “In here.”
“I was just... thinking.”
Ilya quirks an eyebrow. “About what?”
Shane platters his best fake smile on and shrugs but, as soon as he turns his back to Ilya, his face falls.
Strong arms wrap around his waist and don’t let him go far. “Moy lyubov. Are you okay?”
“Mhm.”
Kisses start behind his ear and trail down his neck. “Is something wrong?”
Eyes fluttering closed, Shane leans into Ilya’s chest and bares his neck, happy to have his focus diverted from the dark thoughts swirling in his head.
“Shane.”
“What?” He asks distractedly.
“Is something wrong?”
Shane forces his apprehension down. “No.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Ilya smiles, spinning Shane in his arms to kiss him. “Good.”
“Yep,” Shane agrees even though he feels like he’s swallowing nails. He hopes tonight is the final time Ilya will say anything about Shane’s speaking habits with him. “Good.”
***
But it happens again.
They’re on FaceTime. Shane is in Montreal, Ilya is in Chicago. Ottawa lost big time.
Shane figures he should distract his boyfriend who he can tell is mildly tense and definitely exhausted.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asks as Ilya lounges back on the hotel pillows.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s almost summer time,” Shane says. “We can go to the cottage if you want.”
That brings a small smile to the blonde’s lips. “Yes. I want.”
“What about Russia?”
Ilya’s face goes completely blank. “What about it?”
“Have you thought about if you ever want to go to Russia again?”
“No,” Ilya replies shortly.
“Well...” Shane hesitates, wondering if he’s doing something wrong. “Is it something you’re interested in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Svetlana could go with you, right? I mean, if you didn’t want to go alone.”
“Maybe.”
“You wouldn’t have to your brother, would you?”
On the screen, Ilya scowls and holds up his hands. “Please, Shane. Enough. Stop asking so many questions. You talk so much. I am tired. I just want to relax now. Okay?”
Shane is barely able to hold back a wince. “I’m sorry.”
Ilya rubs at his forehead. “Is okay. Just, maybe we talk less now, yes?”
Nodding, Shane stays silent.
Making up a lame excuse about his mom calling him, Shane ends the FaceTime not long after. He staves off the tears that have collected in his waterline, refusing to let them fall. He hadn’t meant to talk too much. He’s actively been careful not to say too much since Ilya’s recent comments. Obviously, he’s failing. He wonders how irritated Ilya is with him. He had looked and sounded frustrated. He even seemed kind of mad. Ilya hadn’t said anything when Shane was hanging up, but he had frowned slightly, like he knew Shane was lying, but nodded and bid him goodbye with a quick “I love you.”
Unease hammers in Shane’s heart. Apprehension shivers in his blood. Insecurity reverberates through him like an earthquake, carelessly tossing him sideways and shaking up his world. He hates doing something wrong. Especially, when it comes to Ilya. Maybe he’s jumping the gun, but in a way, it feels like their relationship may be in trouble. Something feels frail, unstable. Because of Shane. Because he talks too much.
But Ilya has told Shane that he makes him a better communicator, so Shane also wants to be a better communicator for Ilya. He won’t let himself rattle on and on about everything and nothing. He won’t let there be another occurrence that incentivizes a comment from Ilya. He’ll stop talking so much.
A single, rebellious tear sneaks down his cheek. It feels like an omen.
***
Apparently, even when having sex, Shane doesn’t know how to not run his mouth.
“Ah, Ilya! Please. Right there. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—"
“Even when we are making love, you still talk so much.”
Something in Shane’s heart shatters. Ilya’s tone, body language, and expression convey nothing but affection, yet it feels like he’s trying to imply something. Like Shane should be quiet.
He bites the pillow to muffle his noises. Based on the way Ilya speeds up and fucks him harder, Shane thinks his silence is spurring Ilya on. When he comes, Shane huffs heavily through his nose, trying to keep his whimpers to a minimum, burying the ones that do escape deep into the pillow. He hopes Ilya isn’t able to hear him. Above him, Ilya groans as loudly as he always does when he finishes inside of Shane.
Turning onto his back, Shane pants, coming down from his orgasmic high.
Ilya joins him, but there’s a furrow in his boyfriend’s brow. “Hey,” he cuddles up to Shane, one, large hand rubbing across the expanse of Shane’s stomach. “Was good for you?”
Shane nods.
“Usually, you are louder for me.”
Thinking fast, Shane kisses him, attempting to eliminate the need for words. It seems to do the trick. Once they’ve pulled apart, that upbeat, carefree, boyish look has returned to Ilya’s face.
“I guess I fucked the words out of you.”
Tears rapidly begin to pool in Shane’s waterline. He tucks his face against Ilya’s chest to hide his crumbled expression. Shane knows Ilya didn’t mean like that – to be hurtful or rub salt in Shane’s wound that he talks too much. Regardless, it still stings. A kiss is pressed to the top of his head as Ilya maneuvers them into the little spoon-big spoon positions, making happy, contented sounds all the while.
Face buried in Shane’s neck, Ilya falls asleep soon after.
Shane lays awake staring at nothing. He feels like shit. He did it again. He talked too much.
Self-consciousness runs rampant through his veins. There’s a pain in his chest. It’s hurt and embarrassment and insecurity. And it’s fear. It’s a lot of fear. Fear of ruining this with Ilya, of driving his boyfriend away. His mind spirals. How long has Ilya felt this way? Has he always thought Shane talks too much? Has he secretly been bothered all these years? Is he only saying something now because they’re together and it’s something that Ilya constantly has to deal with? Is Shane’s talking annoying enough for Ilya to want to break up?
Shane doesn’t want to annoy Ilya. The last thing he wants is for Ilya to stop liking him and break up with him because he can't shut up. He’s always been a pretty reserved guy, but the reality is, though, that Shane never actually talks much to anyone, not even his parents. He just feels so comfortable with Ilya, feels safe, like he can just blabber off every thought that passes through his brain and Ilya won’t mind.
Except, Ilya does seem to mind.
Hurt curls in his gut. Guilt smacks him violently across the face. Shame slithers down his throat. Insecurity coils around his lungs in an unforgiving grip. Embarrassment sears over his skin like he’s being burned alive. Unfairly, Shane feels a bit rejected. The open, uncensored rambling he does around Ilya is a vulnerability that he doesn’t share with anyone else. He loves all of Ilya, and he wants Ilya to love all of him.
But maybe Ilya likes the quiet version of him. Maybe he likes the near silent person Shane becomes when being interviewed. Perhaps that’s what Ilya wants: for Shane to speak as little as possible or just not at all. That thought triggers an avalanche of agony thundering through Shane’s soul. But he wants to be better. So, he’ll just stop talking. He can do it. He knows he can. He’ll be better, he tells himself. He’ll be better. For Ilya.
That next morning as Ilya gets ready to head back to Ottawa, Shane makes it a point to keep his lips pressed together, only speaking when spoken to and, even then, he keeps his answers as short as possible.
Ilya, ever perceptive when it comes to Shane, repeatedly asks if he’s alright.
Shane nods silently.
A hand is pressed to his forehead. “Are you feeling sick?”
Shane shakes him off and turns away and mumbles, “Just tired.”
Ilya’s palms find his cheeks and guide his face back. Like he’s done so many times before, Ilya places a gentle hand on Shane’s chin and tilts his head up. Tired brown eyes meet worried blue ones. “Are you sure? You have been quiet all morning.”
Flashing him a closed mouth smile that mostly definitely doesn’t reach his eyes, Shane nods again.
Ilya looks entirely unconvinced but doesn’t push the matter any further.
Shane is grateful. Any more concerned questions and he thinks he would have started crying.
“Ya lyublyu tebya!” Ilya yells as he’s getting in his car.
“I love you, too,” Shane whispers, the words coming out on autopilot.
Apparently having read his lips, Ilya beams at him. Then he puts his Porsche in ‘Drive’ and is off, leaving a trembling Shane in his wake.
Because, for or the first time since saying I love you to each other, Shane was afraid Ilya wouldn’t want to hear him say it back.
***
It happens late Thursday evening.
His phone starts buzzing. It’s an incoming call from Ilya. Shane has been worried about this. Dreading it. Ever since Ilya drove back to Ottawa four days ago, Shane has somehow managed to keep their communication to text only. But, even texting, Shane has been extremely careful not to say too much, utilizing the thumbs up and heart reactions to avoid using words. A flash of panic has Shane wondering if Ilya is calling to break up with him.
Reluctantly, he answers the call with a small, “Hi.”
“Hello, my sweetheart,” Ilya’s voice croons over the line, and Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “How are you?”
Shane fidgets. He swallows. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Shane?”
“Good,” he decides on. Best to stick to one-word answers, the less syllables the better.
“How was your day?”
Shane wipes metaphorical sweat from his brow. “Good.”
Silence settles over them. Shane feels like he’s standing barefoot on pins and needles. Fear creeps in like an unwelcome nightmare. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, his knees wobble, tears are already pooling in the corners of his eyes. He waits.
“Well?” Ilya asks.
“What?” Shane counters.
“Aren’t you going to tell me about your boring day?”
Immense confusion and uncertainty has Shane rocking back and forth on his heels. He considers his answer carefully, mind racing to find the answer to Ilya’s question that involves the least amount of talking.
“No,” he finally settles on.
A confused grunt sounds over the line. “Why not? I want to hear about disgusting, healthy smoothie you made for breakfast. What were the boring flavors for today?”
Shane hesitates again. He doesn’t understand. “Usual.”
“Blueberry, banana, and flaxseed?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! Very boring. And sexy. Only you can make flaxseed smoothie sexy, moy lyubov.”
Having no idea how to respond, Shane stays quiet.
“Shane?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you alright?”
“Mhm.”
“Okay, I am tired of this,” Ilya sighs heavily through the phone.
Shane’s heart sinks. This is it. This is the part where Ilya breaks up with him.
“Tell me what is wrong.”
Shane bites his lip and whispers a desperate, “Nothing.”
But Ilya isn’t letting up. “Did something happen? What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“That is a lie. You have been acting strange since I left on Sunday. Please just tell me what is wrong.”
“Nothing,” Shane whispers more hotly this time.
A frustrated huff. “Shane. I am trying to be good communicator, yes? For you. With you. But I cannot fix if I do not know what is wrong. Tell me.”
“Nothing.”
“Shane. I am being serious, and I am getting annoyed. I do not want to play this game. Just tell me what is the matter.”
Now Shane is getting irritated as well. He spits out a fiery, “Nothing.”
“Fuck, Hollander!” And now Shane knows he’s done it. He’s managed to piss Ilya off even just saying the barest of barest minimums. “Fine! You want to act like brat, fine! Don’t tell me. Sit and pout and then call me and tell me what is wrong when you are ready. That is what you want?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Shane grounds out.
“There is! You will not talk to me! I do not know why—"
“Because it’s what you want!” Shane explodes.
“No, I— Shane, what do you mean is what I want? Why would I want you to stop talking?”
“Because you say it to me all the time! You tell me, “For someone so boring, you talk a lot. You know, people always say that you don’t talk much, but when you are with me, I can’t get you to shut up. You are talking too much. Please stop talking.” You say things like that to me all the fucking time, Ilya! So, I’m just trying to do what you want, but apparently, I can’t do that right either!”
It's silent between them for a time. Neither of them say anything. The longer Ilya stays mute, the harder it is for Shane to keep up his resolve. He’s been holding his breath ever since he stopped shouting, but now he can’t hold it in any longer. An icy realization drips down the back of his neck. Shit. He’s said too much. Again.
A strangled sob erupts from his throat the second he opens his mouth to suck in a desperate breath. “I’m sorry,” he blubbers.
“No!” Ilya practically yells, the word sounding like it was punched out of the depths of his chest. “No, moy lyubov—”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no, no! That’s not— I didn’t— sweetheart—”
“I have to go,” Shane murmurs wetly.
“Shane, wait. Do not—”
He hangs up and tosses his phone onto the couch like it’s burned him. It lights up a second later, Ilya’s contact popping up on the screen. Shane stares at his phone and lets it ring. Another call immediately follows. And then another, and another, and another—
Dread curls around Shane’s throat like a noose. God, he’s really done it now, hasn’t he? Feet tripping over each other, he stumbles from the living room into his bedroom and somehow ends up in the closet. He plants himself in the farthest, darkest corner of his closet, with the door closed, light off. He huddles into a ball, rocking back and forth. His body trembles. An uncontrollable river of tears gush down his cheeks. His chest screams with misery. He’s messed up so bad, so, so bad.
Ilya must be so mad. Shane yelled at him. He’s never yelled at Ilya before. Now Ilya is going to break-up with him. He’s ruined everything because he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut. God, what is wrong with him? And he made it sound like this whole thing is Ilya’s fault. Maybe he should have been up-front with Ilya and said ‘Okay, I’ll stop talking so much.’ Maybe then, Ilya wouldn’t have asked him about being quiet and Shane wouldn’t have put his foot in his mouth. Maybe then, Shane wouldn’t have ruined their relationship.
Sobs bubble up and out of Shane’s mouth before he has a chance to stop them. His mind glitches, thoughts blurring. Everything becomes muffled and muted. A metaphorical sinkhole opens beneath him. It starts to feel like he’s drowning. Veins flooded with distress, Shane can do nothing but clench his eyes shut and bury his face in his knees. Somewhere along the line, he loses himself to the cold, dark, lonely place in the back of his mind.
***
Even with all of the anxiety and despair threatening to drown him, it’s been eerily silent. Until it’s not.
“—ane? Can you hear me?”
He knows that voice.
“Shane?”
Dragging his face out of his knees, Shane blinks. He blinks again. His vision swims, eyes struggling to adjust after being closed for so long. For a few seconds, he thinks he’s seeing things. But no. Ilya is crouched in front of him. Forehead scrunched, eyes watery, skin pale. He looks awful. He looks terrified. He looks desperate.
“Shane? Moy lyubov, please, can I touch you?”
He peers at Ilya’s outstretched hands silently. He still can’t believe what he’s seeing. Ilya. Here. Eventually, the hands drop heavily to Ilya’s thighs, the Russian’s expression in tatters. Shane keeps staring at him with bleary eyes. He sluggishly sifts through the heavy fuzz in his mind, trying to trudge his way back to the present. Still feeling hollow, he nearly losses himself again, except Ilya’s voice is there to pull him out and guide him to safety.
“Let go, Shane” Ilya murmurs softly but sternly. “You need to let go of your legs. You are hurting yourself, sweetheart.”
One finger at a time, Shane releases the death grip he’s had on his calves since he curled in on himself like an armadillo. He hadn’t even realized he’d been digging his nails into his legs, but small crescents burn bright red and drip with blood.
Ilya looks distraught at the sight of them. “Moy lyubimyy. My Shane. I am sorry, so, so sorry. I—I—fuck! I will do anything. Please let me make it better.”
Blinking through the brain fog, Shane slowly begins to unfurl himself, one limb at a time. Arms and legs stiff from holding his position for so long, it’s an arduous process. His body feels dull and cumbersome, like sludge. His mind empty, senses muddled. There’s still a deep ache in his chest, his heart choking with sadness. Once he’s no longer contorted in a huddled lump, he blinks tiredly at Ilya.
“Shane?” Ilya looks like a man whose been through hell back. His face streaked with tears, his voice tiny and unsure. “Please. Please, can I—”
Shane lifts one hand in invitation.
Ilya flings himself at Shane. He gathers Shane in his arms, grip solid and unmovable. He cradles Shane against him like he’s a baby, like he’s small and delicate and not a two-hundred-pound, nearly six-foot-tall hockey player. The actions help fill the desolate cavity that had opened in Shane’s chest. Ilya grasps him tight around the waist with one arm while the other goes up and threads through his short, dark hair. He’s pressing the Canadian against him so hard it’s like he’s trying to push Shane into his soul.
“Spasibo,” he keeps whispering into Shane’s hair. “Spasibo, spasibo, spasibo.” Thank you.
Shane feels like he should be the one saying thank you. He’s been terrified of Ilya leaving him, but here he is, embracing Shane and rocking him like he wants nothing more than to put Shane’s broken heart back together.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs against his head, voice wet and trembling. “I’m sorry. Please. I am so sorry. I did not mean it. Never. I will never say to you again.”
Grabbing a fistful of Ilya’s t-shirt, Shane anchors himself. He breathes rhythmically. Deep inhales, slow exhales. The familiar scent of Ilya’s musky cologne aids in settling him. The strong arms enveloping him ground him and feel like a shield protecting him from harm. Ilya’s outpouring of apologies continues.
“I’m so sorry, moy lyubov, so sorry. I didn’t not realize. I—I should have. I am so sorry, Shane. Please forgive me.”
Unable to verbally respond, Shane just leans heavily against him, all energy gone, words lost to him. He’s still trying to claw his way out of that numb, barren place in his mind.
Eventually, Ilya mumbles something about relocating them. “We move to the bed, yes? You have been here long time. Is not comfortable.”
He lifts Shane bridal style, cradling him close. Ilya’s holding Shane like he's still something precious to him, which fills the Canadian with a hope that maybe they aren’t going to break-up. He deposits Shane on the bed with the utmost care, even adjusting the pillows behind the dark-haired man. Then he stands there, staring at Shane, a frantic expression cast over his face. His fingers curl and uncurl, hand darting towards Shane before retreating back as he rocks on his heels. He almost looks like he’s vibrating.
“You need drink, to hydrate. I get you ginger-ale.”
He’s gone and back before Shane can even comprehend what he said. Ilya practically shoves the can at him.
Shane takes it and downs half.
Ilya watches him intently. Once the can has been placed on the nightstand, the Russian moves closer, he’s eyes full of cautious hope. “Can I hold you?”
Shane has just enough in him to nod his head yes.
They’re cuddling within seconds. Ilya arranges them with Shane seated between his legs, angling him so his back is to Ilya’s chest but turned slightly so his head rests against Ilya’s shoulder. Both of the blonde’s arms lock across his stomach. Chaste, lingering kisses are nuzzled into his temple. His hands rub slow circles on Shane’s abdomen. The loving touches soothe Shane’s soul like a pain-relieving balm. The tenseness that had made itself at home in his muscles begins a slow retreat. The words whispered against his head are like a strong wind that blow away the thick fog clouding his mind.
“You are my world. You are my everything. I exist to love you. Please forgive me. I do not deserve, but please. Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu tebya. Please don’t ever stop talking to me. I will die if you stop talking to me.”
Body heavy with exhaustion and a myriad of bad feelings about himself, Shane finally relaxes against Ilya. The Russian clings to him. Both silent, they stay that way for a long while. After some time, with one, final, massive inhale-exhale, Shane finally comes back to himself. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck. Like he’s been emotionally pulverized. The events leading up to this moment play like a movie in his mind. Suddenly, he feels like a dumbass. What had he been thinking trying to stop talking to Ilya all together? He should have just been up front about how he’s been feeling. He scoffs at himself.
A warm hand, excruciatingly gentle, cups his cheek. “Shane?”
Shane’s lifts his gaze to finds Ilya staring at him, eyes practically boring holes into his head.
“M sorry,” Shane says.
Anguish colors Ilya’s face. “No. No, please, no.”
“But—”
“No. Hush. Enough.”
Shane snaps his mouth shut immediately.
Ilya has a physically adverse reaction to this. His body jolts and he winces as though he’s been slapped. His hold on Shane tightens almost painfully. “No, I— Shane. Moy lyubimyy. I am sorry,” he sounds utterly heartbroken. “I did not mean it like that. I did not. I promise. I just meant you have nothing to apologize for. I did not mean it like that, sweetheart, I promise.”
Uncertainty prickles across Shane’s skin. Keeping his gaze down, he fiddles with the blanket to give his still quivering hands something to do, something to ground them. He stiffens in Ilya’s lap, not sure how to proceed.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya’s forehead comes to rest on Shane’s shoulder. He whispers miserably into the Canadian’s ear, “I did not mean it. Please talk to me.”
Shane sniffles and places his hands over Ilya’s. “What time is it?” He asks, voice hoarse from crying and disuse.
“10:45,” Ilya replies softly, interlacing their fingers.
It had been just after nine when Ilya called him. He must have driven here right after Shane hung up on him. But it’s a two-hour drive from Ottawa to Montreal, and they’ve been lounging on the bed for a while, not to mention however long they spent on the floor in Shane’s closet. Guilt lumps in Shane’s throat as realization dawns on him.
“How many traffic laws did you break to get here?”
“Mm. Very many.”
“M sorry,” Shane mumbles again.
“Shane—"
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you or hung up on you and ignored your calls. And I should have communicated how I was feeling about... you know. I’m sorry.”
Ilya is shaking his head, a vibrant pain burning in his eyes. “No. Please do not apologize. I cannot take it. Was my fault.”
“It wasn’t,” Shane counters. “I just shut down. You kept asking what was wrong and I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Moy lyubimyy—”
“I’m at fault, too,” Shane states resolutely. “I went from talking too much to not talking at all.”
The arms around his waist tighten again. “Why wouldn’t you tell me you were upset?”
“I just... got scared. I’m sorry.”
“Scared?” Wide-eyed, Ilya looks crushed. “Sweetheart—"
“Not scared of telling you,” Shane clarifies. “Scared of you not wanting me anymore. Because I thought you making comments meant you were getting annoyed with me. Like—like you’re getting tired of me. And I don’t ever want you to get tired of me. But you will, eventually, if I bother you by talking too much. And—and—” he sniffles pitifully. “I don’t want to break up.”
Ilya seems astounded in the worst way. “Shane. Listen to me. I will never, ever get tired of you. You do not annoy me. Ever. You don’t ever talk too much. And you and I will never, ever, ever break up.”
“But, you said—”
Ilya doesn’t let him finish. He looks anguished. “I know what I said,” he mumbles sadly. “And I will forever regret them. I will forever regret making you feel bad.”
“But if I really do talk too much—"
“You have never talked too much,” Ilya cuts him off. “I did not mean what I said. I was stupid. I was asshole. And I need you to know that I never said what I did to hurt you. Please, Shane. I swear that to you. Please, moy lyubov, do not ever stop talking to me.”
A calmness settles within Shane at the sincerity of his words. “I still should have told you how I was feeling.”
“Yes, but you only had those feelings because I hurt you.” Shane tries to shake his head no, but Ilya doesn’t let him. “Is true. You are not at fault for your feelings.”
“Neither are you. You aren’t responsible for my feelings or actions. And I am at fault for talking too much.”
“No. Shane—”
“It’s alright, Ilya. The more comments that you made, the more I realized that you’re right. But I—I don’t mean to,” he mumbles weakly. “I just feel comfortable with you, so I just say whatever comes to my mind. But I should have realized that it was bothersome to you. I’m sorry.”
“Please. We are getting nowhere. No more sorries from you. Was my fault, Shane. Okay? Was my fault. Yes, you should have told me what was wrong. But you need to tell if I hurt you as soon as I hurt you. Do you understand? You should have told me that what I said hurt you as soon as I said it.”
Shane’s face creases in a mixture of confusion and denial. “But you’re allowed to say how you feel. Even if you say something that upsets me, you’re still allowed to feel that way. And—and I want you to tell me. Especially if I’m doing something that bothers you. I know I’m sensitive, but I can take it. I want to be good for you.”
A distressed groan creaks out of Ilya. “Sweetheart, you are not understanding. You are good. You are so good. Please do not ever think otherwise. And do not be scared to tell me when are feeling bad, especially if I have made you feel bad. I should have never said those things—"
“But you wouldn’t have said anything if it didn’t bother you.”
“It does not bother me!” Ilya protests, voice rough with emotion. “I like when you talk a lot! It is cute! I say something because it is cute! It is you being you, and I love that about you! Yes, sometimes I snap at you because you are talking while I am tired or in bad mood. But that is my fault, Shane. My fault. Not yours. And it does not mean I want you to stop talking to me. I never want you to stop talking to me. Never. I promise.”
Kisses are pressed to Shane’s eyelids, the tip of his nose, the corners of his mouth, the bridge of freckles across his cheeks, the tears that are falling on their own behest. Each one feels like a ‘sorry.’
“I love how much you talk to me, Shane,” Ilya declares as another kiss caresses Shane’s forehead. “Is a gift. The beat of my heart is to the sound of your voice. I love to hear about your day, about your thoughts. When you laugh, is like sunshine to my ears. Your voice is my guiding light out of the dark place in my mind. The tone of your voice feels like home. Makes me feel safe. And loved. Always. Your voice is best sound in the entire world.”
Shane is full on crying now. The sounds that tumble out of his mouth are rough and ugly, but Ilya’s words have wrapped around him like warm hug. All of his previous pain, anxiety, and fear have been erased and replaced with peace. All he needed was Ilya’s reassurance, and he got that tenfold.
“And I am so sorry,” Ilya continues. “I will never say any of those things again. I never want to make you feel bad or like you are doing something wrong. From now on, I will be better communicator and tell you if I am in bad mood or not feeling well. Okay? And you will tell me when I say something that hurts you as soon as it hurts you. Yes?”
“Yes,” Shane nods, tears of relief dripping down his cheeks. Ilya’s thumb is there to wipe them away.
“Yes. Okay. Thank you. And I’m sorry, Shane. I should have realized how saying those things would make you feel. I mean... I know there were those times you would get quiet but I didn’t... But you did that every time I said...” Ilya trails off with an expression that transforms from alarm to realization to grief. “Oh, sweetheart. I am so sorry. Can you forgive me?”
Shane nods rapidly. “Of course, I forgive you.”
Shoulders dropping like a string has been cut, Ilya looks beyond relieved. “Thank you, moy lyubimyy. Spasibo. Thank you.”
“Do you forgive me?” Shane asks quietly.
Sounding bewildered, Ilya asks, “For what?”
“For not communicating with you and yelling at you and—”
Two hands frame his face and guide his eyes to meet Ilya’s. “Shane. You have no need to apologize, but if it makes you feel better, then, yes. I forgive you.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Oh, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya smiles adoringly and cradles Shane’s face with a reverence. “There is no one else in the world like you. I love you.”
Shane beams back at him. “I love you, too.”
“We will be better communicators for each other from now on, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So,” Ilya says somewhat hesitantly. “We are all good now?”
Fondness explodes in Shane’s heart. “Yes, Ilya, we’re all good now.”
“Thank god. Now, tell me all about your day. I want to know every single boring detail. Don’t you dare leave anything out.”
So, Shane talks and talks without a single reservation, Ilya attentively listening and grinning at him with heart eyes all the while.