Archive of Our Own

The ceiling pools into Shane’s vision like a dark blotch, nonsensical and distant though definitely there. His memory forms shapes and color before the dim light of the TV down the hall gets the chance to, a blind instinct that maps out the entirety of Shane’s bedroom. What time is it? He thinks, blearily. His heart patters as though something is wrong, unsettled despite all being fine. Shane’s waking mind clumsily skims over a checklist;

Shane is in bed. He went to bed early, tired from his meetings, breaking his bedtime routine by thirty minutes. The air outside the cozy warmth of his blankets is crisp, cool and air conditioned. His heart still races, what is wrong? 

Ilya is not in bed. Where is he ? Down the hall, the tv is still on. Either Shane hadn’t been asleep for very long, or Ilya fell asleep on the couch accidentally. Okay, but he’s still nervous.

Sonya is home. She was watching TV with her papa when Shane went to bed. “Night,” she said, mumbled, in her teenager way. She was upset with Shane for not letting her sleepover Ava's tonight. Too late, school night. Shane felt a little guilty about it, but... He’s a bit of a helicopter, sure. That’s what Ilya lovingly calls him, anyway. But as his parenting books say; guard rails get dinged up. But if they work well, they preserve the young lives that run up against them.

Shane rubs his eyes. He readily blames the pitter of his heart on some fluke while he was sleeping. Maybe he was dreaming, a dream he can’t remember. He stares at the dark ceiling overhead, and considers getting up. He wants Ilya in bed. Wants to feel his warmth on his back, hear the sleepy rumble of his voice. It’s just not quite right without him. 

Right before Shane starts to will his body to move,his phone vibrates on the nightstand.

 It’s such a small, ordinary sound. Once, before he had a daughter, and before Ilya,  Shane’s phone would get tucked away into a designated drawer before he went to bed. He believed there was very little that anything on his phone was more important than maintaining a good, healthy sleep cycle. Obviously, being a partner and a father greatly arranged his priorities.

 (Sometimes, what-ifs swarmed Shane’s mind. What if Ilya’s plane really had gone down? What if he missed his texts but never got to hold Ilya again, or never got to tell him how much he loved him? Even though it’s been years, Shane still thinks of Ilya, scared and alone and a mile in the sky, and aches. He’ll never let that happen again. And then there was Sonya, of course, and from the moment Sonya was placed in his arms, something in Shane had completely recalibrated. The baseline of his entire fucking existence shifted. Every room developed corners that could hurt her,  a chewing, nagging feeling underlining almost every second of every day. Like he was never done holding his breath, like she’d explode the moment he looked away from her.) 

Shane sighs, shifting, something spinning around in his stomach as he fumbles for his phone. The pale light of his lockscreen blinds him, his eyes wrinkling in a deep recoil. Before he can force his eyes to adjust to the harsh glare, his phone starts buzzing in his hand again. Repeated little hums, signalling a phone-call, not just a text. And, when Shane finally does peel his eyes open, he sees two things: 

It’s eleven-forty-seven. Sonya is calling him. That’s not right. 

She’s home, why is she calling him? Shane only allows himself the time it takes to swipe open her call to think about it. His thoughts cut off as he hands himself wholly to his daughter, leaning into the heat of his phonescreen. “M’ello?” He says, confused and groggy. 

There’s a rush of air on the other end. Wind, maybe. Or breathing, hard to tell. “Dad?” She says. No, she cries. She’s crying. Her voice is all thick and throaty. It’s readily apparent she isn’t home. 

The room feels like it’s spinning. “Where are you?” Shane says, suddenly very awake. 

Sonya tries to get some word out, but the first syllables that croak through Shane’s speakers shift into crying, hiccuping into the phone as she tries to catch her breath. It’s terrifying, a thousand instances and problems flash through Shane’s head all at once, too dizzying to keep up with but each terrifying enough to leave him reeling. They all blur together until it’s pulling him back, back into a memory of something softer, more manageable:

The sound of the memory comes first, crying. His little girl, crying, like she is now. But she was even more little than. And it wasn’t that fussy cry she’d do when she’d throw a fit, but something scared and pained.

-

Shane had been at the sink, sleeves pushed up, hands submerged in soapy water. The window above the counter was fogged over from the heat inside, muting the world outside into soft gray. He could see vague movement—snow falling in slow drifts, Ilya’s dark shape near the back path, the steady rhythm of a shovel biting into packed snow. 

Sonya had only been walking a few months then, still wide-eyed about the miracle of being upright. They’d bundled her so thoroughly she’d looked spherical—baby-blue coat, knitted hat with a pom-pom that kept flopping into her eyes, tiny boots with Velcro straps. Shane had watched them play outside for a long while, overcome by the sight of his tiny, precious family. Sonya was helping her papa by using a plastic sand shovel, one meant for the beach. 

Shane eventually retreated further into the cottage to wash the dishes, and had been doing so for a long while when he heard the crying. The back door burst open with a blast of cold air and swirling snow. Ilya stumbled inside, breathing hard, snow melting instantly into dark patches on his coat. 

“She—Shane—” Sounding so afraid was very unlike Ilya. Sonya was in his arms, held awkwardly under her armpits like he had no idea what to do with her, which is also very unlike him. Her cute boots were gone, she was missing one sock, and her tiny feet were pale and raw, toes an alarming shade between white and pink, snow clinging in melting crystals along the bottoms of her snowpants. 

“What happened?” Shane was already moving, hands wet and dripping as he reached for her.

“She— I looked away for one minute,” Ilya said, voice tight and climbing. “She was next to me and then she wasn’t and I—her boots, they must’ve got stuck and she maybe pulled her feet out— I didn’t see—” Ilya’s words are lined by Sonya’s hysteric crying as it turned into hiccuped, sharp little gasps. She tried to curl her legs up toward her body, but Ilya was still holding her upright, panicked and unsure.

“Okay, okay.” Shane forced his voice down, steady even as his pulse slammed against his ribs. “Give her to me.” Ilya hesitated half a second, like handing her over felt like admitting fault, but still transferred her carefully into Shane’s arms. Shane had wrung one big hand around her feet, to warm her up and to gadge just how cold she was— but he’s met with her flinching, curling her little legs inward, crying from what Shane thought must be frostnip needling at her. “Oh, baby, it’s okay,” Shane shushed, alarmed by just how cold she was, how pink her skin. 

“I didn’t— I was right there,” Ilya said again, tugging off his gloves, throwing them to the floor. His cheeks are red and wind-whipped, making him look as though he were crying. Maybe he was. “I didn’t think she could get that far. She’s so fast now..” 

“It’s okay,” Shane interrupts him, really unable to handle both Sonya and Ilya, but feels for both. He’s definitely not mad, just, fuck, he’s scared. It’s the first time anything like this has happened, that Sonya’s gotten hurt outside of a tumble or a bump, and wondering if he should race to the fucking hospital. That feels silly, for cold feet. Frostbite, this isn’t frostbite, right? Doesn’t look it, but, regardless— “Could you soak a towel with warm water for me?” Shane asks, giving Ilya a task to keep both of their heads screwed on tight.

Ilya did as Shane asked, trailing wet slush from his boots all the way into the kitchen. Shane settles on the couch and stripped off Sonya’s coat and damp leggings, hands careful but quick. Her crying softened into distressed whimpers when the warm air hit her skin, little hiccuping gasps. “Ouch,” she said, when Shane went to rub her feet between a hand again, trying to seep some of his warmth into her skin. 

“It’s okay,” Shane said again, feeling a little calmer now that he had Sonya in his arms, that she was calm, that her feet weren’t so red anymore. “Just got a little cold.” 

“Cold,” She repeated in a sad sound, sniffling. Her blonde curls splayed against Shane’s chest, damp and sweaty from her hat. 

Ilya returned just then , rounding the corner to kneel by Shane’s leg. He still had his coat on, and there were snowflakes caught in his blonde eyelashes. The fear hadn’t left his expression yet either, and he looked so incredibly guilty. He reminded Shane a bit of Anya when the dog got scolded for misbehaving, whale-eyed and nose tipped to the floor. He wrapped the towel Shane requested of him, damp with warm water, carefully around Sonya’s feet. “Papa is sorry,” He said, “So sorry, Солнышко .” 

Sonya had huffed, sighing big enough to make her whole body shutter. “Boots,” She said, it made Shane smile, because it was sort of funny. Just cute, just amusing enough to illicit a sharp exhale out his nose, humor and relief edging up the corners of his lips into a still tight grin. Ilya, in comparison, was not so amused. Which was unlike him, seeing as he was very easily endeared by almost anything his daughter said or did. 

“I will find them,” Ilya promised her, looking miserable. And there, beyond the wet shimmer of his eyes, was a sad understanding of something untrue. Shane knew he could be dense, but his heartstrings were tied to Ilya’s own long ago, his love tuned specifically for him. A part of Ilya was slipping back somewhere dark and scary, and Shane reached to pull him back out; fingers in his curls, thumb tracing along his hairline. 

“Come here,” Shane said, and Ilya took that as permission to sit on the couch with them. Sonya’s crying slowly ceased, her hand wrapped around one of her papa’s fingers. Ilya rested his head on Shane’s shoulder, and Shane blamed the wetness that began to gather there on the melting snow in Ilya’s hair. 

When Sonya finally went down for her nap later that day, Shane talked Ilya through what he was feeling. 

“What if she wandered to the lake? I am so stupid,” Ilya said, head in his hands, ashamed to meet Shane’s gaze, “What if I killed her?” 

“You didn’t, Ilya. None of that... It’s not real. You can’t get caught up in that.” Shane said, taking Ilya’s hand into his lap, tracing his strong knuckles. “We’re all okay. That’s what’s important, yea?” 

Ilya hesitated, long enough to make Shane worry. “Yes,” He finally agreed, “I am just so sorry.”

“Accidents happen,” Shane reassured him. “They happen.” 

-

Then Shane is back in the present. 

“Dad,” Sonya chokes out, “There was— I was, it’s, an accident.” 

An accident. It paints a quick picture in Shane’s mind; a street Sonya was not supposed to be out on, blurry headlights and that screeching, rolling of metal. Shane’s chest goes tight and he’s terrified, sitting up so fast that the sheets tangle in his legs and he’s rolling, grasping for the edge of the bed while his blood turns icy cold. Terror and some bottled-up protective rage gathers itself tight in his coiled spine. 

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, “Hurt— are you hurt?” 

“No,” Sonya cries, sniffling. Shane can hear the garbled rustle of fabric, tinny on the other end. He can hear a police siren, equal distorted, behind Sonya’s voice. “I’m okay, I’m—” Sonya starts hiccuping, and Shane’s belly squeezes with a sickening, crushing worry. 

“It’s okay,” Shane reassures, although he doesn’t exactly know what’s wrong yet, “Take a deep breath for me, okay?” Shane tries to take his own advice too, parroting the sound of Sonya’s shaky, trembling huff of a sigh.

“Okay,” Sonya says, still huffing and gasping through her words, likely trying to breathe around the knot in her throat. She sounds so small, so little. “It- I went out. Papa, he said I could, but I was just supposed to go to Ava’s, and— and I didn’t—!” She starts crying again, “Please don’t be mad!” 

Shane stands, the room tilting slightly as adrenaline floods his system. “Hey, hey, I’m not mad,” he still somehow manages. “C’mon, keep talking to me. I’m here.” 

There’s a metallic clatter in the background. A car door slamming, Sonya’s sniveling and crying pulling together until she can speak again. “We were going to a party—” That’s unlike her. That’s something that would’ve made Shane absolutely furious if circumstances were different. Sonya went behind his back to ask Ilya something he already said no to, and she had also lied to Ilya; she lied and snuck out. Lying and sneaking out feels very unimportant compared to this, though.  “—And someone hit our car. It, it flipped, and I’m not hurt but I think Ava is, and I’m— I’m so scared, dad.” 

“I’ll come get you,” Shane says immediately, already moving, putting on pants. “You’re safe? There’s police there?” Sonya hums a shaky, affirmative sound. “Good. I’m coming, just hang on, okay? Send me your location.” 

“Papa’s gonna hate me,” Sonya whimpers instead of answering.

Shane makes some breathy, disbelieved sound. “He would never, Sonya.” 

There’s chatter on the other line. Sonya’s talking to someone else, but her poor cell-service makes her words impossible to parse when they’re not right up against the receiver. “I gotta talk to the police,” Sonya says after a moment, voice all croaky.

“Okay,” Shane says, but the last thing he wants to do is hang up, “I’m on my way,” he reassures her. 

“Okay, yea, sorry-” Sonya murmurs to someone else, her voice growing distant. Then, the line clicks dead. For half a second Shane just sits there in the dark, phone pressed to his ear, like if he holds it long enough she’ll still be on the other side of it.

Then his screen lights up; her shared location. She’s about thirty minutes out— she went so far. His heart slams hard enough it makes him feel sick. 

Shane stumbles out of their bedroom in shorts and one of Ilya’s old shirts. He’s halfway down the hall before he fully registers the low murmur of the television.

Ilya is still on the couch, one arm hooked behind his head, eyes fixed lazily on whatever reality-show nonsense is playing. He looks up at the sound of Shane’s footsteps, confused by the urgency in them. “Shane?” He says, his eyes peeking over the back of the couch, entirely too boyish and sweet for the terrible moment at hand. It doesn’t disarm Shane like it normally would, his spiral to get to his daughter far too fierce. “What?” Ilya then says, sounding scared, because Shane probably looks a fucking mess right now.

Shane grips his phone, and just kind of shakes it, like an explanation will tumble out of it. He’s so mad at Ilya. He’s so mad at everything. He’s so scared and worried.

“Sonya,” he manages.

Ilya frowns. “What about her?” And before Shane can answer, Ilya continues. “I said she could go sleepover Ava’s. I thought it, you know, would be okay. She said she’d go to bed early and go to school on time, I was going to tell you in the morning—” Ilya’s voice gets smaller and smaller before Shane just outright cuts him off.

“She got into an accident, Ilya!” Shane huffs, wanting to tear Ilya’s head off— or maybe just his own. 

Ilya goes completely still. “What?” His face drains of all it’s color.

“She’s okay,” Shane rushes to add, because even though he’s beyond mad, he would never want to make Ilya think Sonya wasn’t okay. “She says she’s okay. But there’s police, and an ambulance, and she’s scared and—” Shane’s voice is trembling, the knot in his throat chokes him out. He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’m going to pick her up.” 

Shane stomps off. He wipes his hands over his face and goes to grab his keys. He hears Ilya fumbling, likely near-falling off the couch. “Wait, Shane, I’m coming,” He sputters, frantic, “I need to get her.” Shane’s heart aches, he won’t deny Ilya that. He could never. 

Shane pushes out the front door. Summer bugs are humming, and the wet condensation of humidity sticks to his legs. Ilya’s following quickly after him, barefoot, and Shane can’t bear to look at the expression of sickening horror and guilt on Ilya’s face. It’s too much, it’s all too much. Shane throws himself in the car, jabs the keys in the ignition, and waits for Ilya to get inside too. The jeep rattles with Ilya’s weight, shifting as he gets inside. Shane puts Sonya’s location in his GPS with clumsy hands, fat-fingering the maps app. 

“Do you want me to—?” Ilya hardly murmurs, like he’s afraid to offer, to speak, to do anything else.

“No,” Shane says.

Ilya nods. He grips his knees with his hands. Shane finally gets the location in, and mounts his phone. 

“That isn’t near Ava’s house,” Ilya says, again sounding very cautious. “Is very far.”

“Yea.” Shane squeezes the word out between his grit teeth. He peels out of the driveway. 

Ilya is silent until Shane throws his car into drive and they lurch down the road. Ilya looks puzzled, like he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Sonya lied. That Sonya is only fifteen, and still needs her parents to look out for her, still needs them to make decisions for her and keep her fucking safe. Then , Ilya has the fucking nerve, to softly say; “She told me she was just going to Ava’s..” 

Shane feels something overwhelmed snap inside him, an anger that was only saved for those he felt safe with. “I said no, Ilya!” Shane shouts, sounding far more desperate than angry, which wasn’t really the intention. “I said no, that’s final!” 

“Shane—” Ilya says, so gently, like he’s pleading. Shane feels terrible, he doesn’t even know why he’s yelling. But he can’t stop himself, all torn up and scared inside.

“We’re supposed to be a team, Ilya! Don’t ever fucking go behind my back again! Fuck!” Shane hates himself for this outburst, he hates the way Ilya’s probably sinking in his seat, not even fighting back because Shane is right. It doesn’t mean he has to yell at Ilya like this, he’s being too cruel, too harsh— but, fuck. The floodgates opened, and Shane can’t close them. 

No further words come to Shane’s mind. He exhales, shaky and hot, like the anger in his head has finally run out of fuel. 

“I am sorry.” Ilya murmurs, after a fucking lifetime of silence. He sounds like he means it. He goes quiet after that, perhaps knowing Shane needed time to think. Nothing Ilya could say would fix this, not now, at least. Things settle back into that silence, this one far worse and far longer. 

Shane keeps the radio off and drives. He’s speeding, maybe for the first time in his life, but the roads are empty so it doesn’t matter. The road ahead is just a stretch of trees, dense and dark, branches arching overhead like ribs. It feels endless, endlessly dark. The headlights carve out a narrow tunnel in front of them, everything beyond it swallowed whole. He thinks, unwillingly but expectedly, of Sonya. Standing in the dark, very far from home and very scared, surrounded by these big, dark pines. Shane’s hands are locked around the steering wheel. He’s aware of how tight his grip is because his knuckles ache, but he can’t seem to loosen it.

Beside him, Ilya sits rigid, both hands still braces on his knees. Shane won’t look at him, because he thinks whatever expression Ilya is wearing will break his heart even further. 

The trees blur past. Shane keeps picturing Sonya,  standing out in the dark. She was so afraid of the dark when she was small, and still is even though she denies it. She still uses the same little aquarium nightlight, one she hides when her friends come over.

The trees thin, and then Shane sees it. 

Red and blue lights flashing against the trunks, painting the forest in violent color. The scene comes into view all at once; two cars pulled crooked across the intersection. 

One of them is Ava’s. Sonya just went to her sixteenth birthday party. She immediately got her permit, and was given a busted, used car from her parents— it had a dent in the bumper, was an ugly red color, and had a moose sticker on the rear windshield.

Currently, the front end of the little car is crushed inward, hood buckled like paper. The windshield is spiderwebbed, and the airbags hang limp and deflated through shattered glass.

Ilya mutters something in Russian, something upset, but it’s too broken for Shane to hear it properly. Shane feels something cold slide down his spine.  He prays to whoever may be listening that Sonya does not lose her best friend tonight. 

A police cruiser is parked sideways, lights spinning. Another squad car idles near the shoulder. There’s another car, not so far away, with a teenage boy and who Shane assumes are his parents standing by. Most concerning, there’s two ambulances, both with their back doors open. One is empty, while the other has EMTs crowding around inside.

A sedan sits at an angle in the middle of the road, front end mangled. A man is being guided—no, pulled—toward the back of a police car. His movements are loose, resistant. Very drunk. Even from here, Shane can see it clearly in the way he sways.

Rage flares hot and fast in his chest. Angrier than he’s ever been in his life, he thinks. Shane doesn’t remember putting the car in park, but he must’ve, because he’s standing outside the car and looking for Sonya. 

The smell of burnt rubber and something chemical hangs in the damp air. Shane doesn’t see her, but he's not sure he’s seeing anything, really. The police lights all swarm around in his vision, in his mind, blurring him up as his heart pounds so fast that he fears it may give out. Shane can’t find her. Maybe she’s not here at all. Maybe she really was hurt, and she didn’t know it, and she died before Shane could get to her—

“Shane, there,” Ilya is suddenly next to him, nudging his shoulder, pointing with his other hand. Shane is so grateful for it, Ilya provides something to center himself on through all this chaos. Shane follows Ilya’s point, and his eyes finally land on Sonya.

She’s sitting on one of the ambulances, between it’s open doors. Her hair is messy; her pretty, blonde curls tangled around her shoulders, her party makeup all smudged. There’s little bandaids on her face, bandages that are so small but still make Shane’s heart fly into his throat. Her arms are folded tight across her chest like she’s holding herself together, and her sneakers don’t even touch the ground where her legs dangle. 

She’s wrapped in one of those silver emergency blankets. For one disorienting second, It brings Shane right back to a chubby, three-year-old Sonya, wrapped up in a blanket after walking around barefoot in the snow. She looks just as small now, so scared and alone. Surrounded by big cars, and big trees, and big lights.

Shane is so swept by relief his knees go weak. “Fuck,” He wheezes. Ilya squeezes his shoulder and bolts across the road to her. “Careful, Ilya,” Shane calls to him, voice shaking, because Ilya is barefoot and Shane doesn’t want him to cut himself. But, Shane knows nothing could keep Ilya from his daughter.

“Sonya!” He calls to her, his voice knotted up.

Her head snaps forward at the sound of his voice. The relief that floods her face is immediate, and it’s followed up by a sour, grimacing look as she’s overcome with helpless tears. “Papa,” she sobs, reaching for her papa, like she was still just a little girl. And she is, really. 

Ilya gathers her gently. His hands— so large, especially in comparison to her— frame her face first, scanning, fluttering around nervous and not so sure where to settle. It looks like he wants to cup her in his palms, enclose her in his hands so nothing may hurt her again. He brushes hair back from her forehead, checking for blood, for swelling. “Are you hurt?”

Sonya cries, but she’s trying not to. She wheezes these trembled little breaths, exhaling on whimpering sobs that make her lips quiver. She shakes her head.

“Doctors checked on you, yes?” Ilya asks, and Sonya nods this time. “Oh, мышка, what is this?” He sounds absolutely gutted as his fingers hover over the little bandages on her face. 

“It’s nuh-nothing,” Sonya hiccups, “It’s fine.” 

Ilya exhales, and the sound is almost a sob he swallows down at the last second. He pulls her face in and gives her a big kiss on the forehead. 

By the time Shane reaches them, he can’t stand another second of not holding her. He opens his arms without saying anything, and Sonya pushes off the ambulance step and stumbles straight into him. Shane wraps her up, silver blanket and all, pulling her tight against his chest. She fits there like she always has, like she did when she was just a baby who couldn’t sleep through the night without listening to her dad’s heartbeat. It makes him ache all over, his throat going tight, tears brimming his eyes as she starts to cry, really cry.

The first sob that tears out of her is small and choked, like she’s embarrassed by it, but it shakes her whole body. She presses her face into his shoulder and clutches fistfuls of his T-shirt, trying to keep quiet as she weeps against him. 

“I know,” Shane murmurs, “I know. I’ve got you.” He presses his cheek against the top of her head. She smells like smoke and cold air and something chemical from the airbags. Under it, faintly, her shampoo. Sonya tries to muffle her crying, but it’s not working. The tears soak hot into Shane’s shoulder, and her breath comes in uneven pulls, hitching over itself. “S’okay.” 

Ilya steps in close, one hand coming to her back, rubbing steady circles between her shoulder blades. Shane keeps cooing soothing nonsense to her, like she really was five, and he’s not so sure she’s appreciating or listening to it. He’s so absorbed in both comforting Sonya and himself with the sheer force of her presence against him, that he does not notice the way Ilya is looking off elsewhere— at least, not right away. It takes him a moment, but once he sees the anger in Ilya’s eyes, trailing off down the road, Shane can’t look away. 

Shane follows his line of sight down the road. Two officers are guiding the other driver toward the back of a squad car. The man is swaying slightly, protesting loudly, words slurring together. One officer keeps a firm hand on his arm while the other opens the cruiser door. Shane understands, all at once, that is the man that could’ve killed his daughter. Shane’s arms tighten reflexively around Sonya.

Ilya’s expression shifts again—harder now, something terrible flickering behind his eyes. Shane has seen him competitive, frustrated, even protective. He’s seen him furious on the ice, and he’s gotten viciously protective over Shane and Sonya both. The time some guy got handsy with Shane at a club and Ilya almost ripped his head off, or the time a boy pushed Sonya off her bike when she was learning to ride.  But, Shane has never seen Ilya look like quite this. He’s homicidal, Shane thinks, Ilya would’ve killed that man if not for the fact the situation was already readily handled. 

“Dad,” Sonya pipes up, sounding raspy and weak. Ilya’s anger doesn’t disappear, but it folds in on itself. He swallows it down, presses it into something manageable. “Can we go home?” She asks.

Before Shane can answer, a police officer approaches them gently. “Are you her parents?”

“Yes,” Shane and Ilya answer at the same time.

The officer nods. “We’ll need to speak with one of you. Just to get statements.”

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.” Shane looks at him, raising an eyebrow at him. Ilya looks exhausted; Shane was surprised Ilya wasn’t collapsed onto the pavement, crying himself hoarse. He was equally surprised Ilya hadn’t killed someone yet. “You stay with her.” He says to Shane, very gently. 

It’s not really a question, but it’s spoken softly enough to not feel like a demand. Shane doesn’t think he could properly speak to the police right now anyway, he’s grateful Ilya is sacrificing himself for the task. Shane nods.

Ilya leans down, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Sonya’s head. “I’ll be right there, okay?” Ilya murmurs into her hair. She nods against Shane’s chest, not lifting her face.

Then , Ilya steps away with the officer. Shane feels the absence immediately. “Come on,” he murmurs to Sonya. “Let’s get you in the car.”

Sonya lets Shane guide her, still wrapped in the silver blanket. He keeps an arm around her shoulders as they walk, shielding her from the sight of the wreckage as much as he can. He doesn’t want her looking at it again. He doesn’t want himself looking at it again. 

Sonya slumps into the backseat. Shane sits back up in the drivers seat, flexing his hands repeatedly on the wheel, staring out at nothing while he tries to work the stress out of his fingers. His body still hasn’t figured out that everything is fine, and although he’s exhausted now, his heart still stubbornly throbs. It aches, battering against his ribcage. Shane glances at Sonya in the rearview mirror, as if he’s checking to make sure she wasn’t some apparition his crazed, panicked mind cooked up. And, no, she’s very real, thankfully. She looks exhausted and miserable, her mascara running down her face. She’s staring into her lap, sniffling still.

She’s breathing and whole. Underneath all his relief, tangled up tight, is something else. Adrenaline, anger, fear that hasn’t had anywhere to go yet. A process of what led them here; Sonya did not take Shane’s no for an answer, and she lied to Ilya. Shane doesn’t know what could’ve possessed her to even want to go to a party, she’s never been the type. She’s a soft spoken girl, who’s idea of a fun time was getting out on the ice, or playing a board game, or going on hikes with her friends. She loves birds and knows all of the noises they make, she loves drawing, she loves routine. 

Maybe, maybe this is what being a teenager is? Shane was never like that, he never had interest in anything like parties. But he didn’t have many friends, mostly because hockey was his best friend. Shane wasn’t like other kids his age, though. He’s never been like other people.

Sonya took after him in a lot of ways, but she also had her papa’s charm, and had tons of friends. Still, Shane wouldn’t have expected her to want to go to a party so late, so far from home— especially not bad enough to lie.

She lied to Ilya. That truth sits ugly and firm in his heart, given space now that some of his fear has subsided. Ilya was always so willing to hear her out— so terrified that he would grow into the only father he had ever known. He was so gentle with her, so sweet, always patient and loving. He almost never says no to her. She knew Ilya would break for her begging easily, surely. 

He turns slightly in his seat to look at her.

“Sofiya.”

She doesn’t look at him. Just nods faintly, her blonde eyelashes casting shadow over her eyes.

“You... scared us,” he says, because he’s not sure what else to say. He doesn’t know how to navigate this. He’s tired, mentally and physically, and he’s afraid he’ll say the wrong thing. He doesn’t want to shout at her, he already fucked all that up with Ilya, but anger still trembles tightens up his voice . “I told you no, and you lied to papa, that wasn’t okay.” Her shoulders shrink in on themselves. “You can’t do that to us.” 

“I know,” she whispers, her voice so small it’s almost not even there. The words are mumbled, hummed between her lips. Her hair is falling infront of her face. 

Shane exhales through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his face. He hates that this is coming out now, hates how mad and sad and relieved he is. Hates how he’s still so afraid, he feels sick to his stomach. “Don’t ever scare us like that again,” he says, not firm, not soft, not anything. Just hollowed out and eager to be back in bed, all while knowing Sonya was safe in hers. 

Sonya does not reply. She shifts to press her head against the glass. “We can talk about this tomorrow,” Shane says, and he reaches back to squeeze her knee. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Sonya, again, does not say anything. Shane feels the knot in his throat tighten. “I love you.” He says, in case she’s somehow forgotten.

“I love you too,” She says, but it comes out in a garbled, choked-up mess as she tries to keep herself from crying again. She takes a big, gasping breath, and then goes quiet. Shane does too. They sit in silence. Shane retracts his hand, and he leans his whole body over the wheel. His forehead presses to the cold leather, and he closes his eyes. Even shut, he can still see the police lights. 

Eventually, the passenger door opens quietly. Shane doesn’t look up, because he knows it’s Ilya. Who else would it be? And, Shane knows the feel of him, even in the air, the way his body instantly unwinds when Ilya is near.  Ilya slides into the seat, closing the door with deliberate care, like even the sound might be too much. For a second he just sits there, breathing out slowly, hands resting on his thighs.

“They said, um,” Ilya pipes up, very quietly, “She is okay. The cuts are pretty superficial. We’ll need to keep a look out for whiplash.” Shane nods once, his forehead still resting firmly on the wheel. “The other driver blew well over the limit,” Ilya adds, voice mostly flat now. “They’re charging him. With something. I don’t know. They said they’d call.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then, gently, Ilya reaches across the center console. His fingers touch the back of Shane’s neck first—tentative. Like he’s not sure if Shane will pull away. Shane doesn’t, of course. Ilya’s hand settles there properly, thumb brushing along the tight muscle just below his hairline. It’s warm and so familiar, the only home Shane’s ever known, the only comfort he’s ever needed. He wheezes, so easily coming undone beneath Ilya’s touch, but he needs to pull it together for just a while longer. 

“Shane?” Ilya nearly whispers, a breath of concern. “Are you having panic attack?”

Shane shakes his head. “S’okay.” He finally wheezes. Ilya gently tugs at his earlobe, a sweet, almost playful gesture. Ilya’s hand falls away, and Shane lifts his head. He starts the car. 

The drive home is quieter than the one there, but far less scary. Sonya sits in the backseat, still wrapped in the silver blanket. For a while she stares out the window, silent. Shane keeps a careful eye on her, his gaze flicking up to his rearview every few seconds. He watches her head tips against the glass, then against the seat. Within minutes, she’s asleep. Her face in sleep is younger, even softer, and the tension gone from her brow. 

The forest doesn’t look quite as menacing now, but it’s still so dark. The headlights sweep across the trees and vanish again. When they pull into the driveway, Shane turns the engine off and just sits there for a second.

“I’ll get her,” Ilya says quietly. Shane nods as the car shutters off, and he glances to Ilya, who looks exhausted. He just seems sullen now, miserable. Back in a dark place, a dark place Shane rarely sees him in anymore. A worried pang rustles up his sore heart, and Shane leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek, right over his most prominent mole. A silent I love you, I’m sorry, you’re so good to me, to us. Shane doesn’t have the words yet, he can barely think let alone talk.

Ilya makes some abandoned little sound in the back of his throat. He takes Shane’s kiss as further permission to touch him, and he reaches to squeeze Shane’s hand where it rests on the gear shift. “Take your time, okay? I will take care of everything.” He purses his lips, just a little, like he wants a kiss. He perhaps thinks better of it. “You did so good, Shane.” 

Shane looks elsewhere. His eyes sting. He nods, not able to say anything. He fears the second he opens his mouth, he’ll start crying. Shane packs it in. He squeezes Ilya’s hand back, a silent thank you. 

Ilya nods once, and unbuckles.

“Давай, соня,” Ilya says as he opens the backseat, gently gathering Sonya into his arms. Come on, sleepyhead. It’s especially silly, knowing what Sonya’s name meant. 

( “We named our baby sleepyhead,” Ilya had said, with Sonya asleep on his chest, “And all she does is sleep. We cursed her.”

“I think it’s a good thing.” Shane had replied, glad that Sonya slept through most nights.)

 Ilya slides one arm behind Sonya’s back and the other under her knees. He’s so instinctively sweet, Shane wishes Ilya could see himself in this way— just how kind he is, how naturally it comes. He's the sweetest man Shane’s ever known, Shane hates that Ilya still has such a bad reputation. But, Shane can appreciate that, too. Ilya’s sweetness is just for him, and just for Sonya.

Sonya stirs faintly, brow creasing. “Mm?”

“We’re home.”

She rouses just enough to loop her arms weakly around his neck. “Papa,” she mumbles. 

“I’m here,” he whispers. He lifts her out of the car like she weighs nothing, and Shane watches from the driver’s seat.

The porch light casts a warm glow over them as Ilya walks toward the cottage, Sonya tucked securely against his chest, her head resting against his shoulder. The silver blanket slips slightly, catching the light. Ilya adjusts it automatically. 

He watches Ilya carry their daughter down the very same path him and Shane stumbled through years and years ago, Shane carrying Ilya’s bags to save his aching, busted ribs; both of them knew they were something special, the secret tucked away so tightly Shane feared it would never loosen. Something in Shane splinters open, and he finally starts crying. 

His throat burns. He presses his lips together, but it doesn’t stop the tears that gather anyway. They spill over quickly, hot and embarrassing and horrifyingly unstoppable. Shane bows his head and lets himself cry for exactly ten seconds. Then he scrubs his face hard with the heel of his palm, inhales deeply, and forces himself steady.

Everything is fine now. “Fuck,” Shane whispers to himself. He steps out of the car and locks it behind him.

The cottage is quiet when he walks in, but all feels right. It’s still dark, the light of the TV being the only thing illuminating his path. This home protected him and Ilya’s most tender secret, so Shane can trust it with his daughter.

Alongside the light hum of the TV, Shane can hear voices down the hall. Soft and murmuring, still tight with sadness. 

Shane really shouldn’t eavesdrop. He should give space to let Ilya talk to Sonya, to say whatever it was he wanted to say to her before Shane dragged him off to bed. But, he listens in anyway. 

Sonya’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling into the hallway. Ilya’s voice drifts out, low and gentle. Shane leans on the wall, angled just well enough to see a sliver inside of Sonya’s room. 

Her lowlights are on and a soft, hazy golden. Ilya sits crosslegged on her bed, and Sonya leans up against her headboard. She’s in her pajamas now— an old shirt with a wolf on it and shorts— face wiped clean of makeup. She still cries, but she seems tired and frustrated over it. She’s a lot like Shane, in that regard. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen her cry so much. She must be really, really upset. Shane doesn’t blame her.

“We are both in dog house,” Ilya says, and Shane frowns. He still somehow has it in him to roll his eyes, although he finds it slightly, slightly amusing.

Sonya, however, does not. “Dad is so mad,” She whimpers into her hands.

“No, no, he is...” Ilya winces, trailing off. “Yes, okay. He is mad, for good reason. But he was also scared.” Oh. Shane closes his eyes briefly, leaning further against the wall, wishing he could take how cold he was back. Guilt presses warm and heavy in his chest. “So was I,” Ilya says.

“I’m sorry,” Sonya murmurs, sniffling.

“I know,” Ilya replies immediately. “You are only fifteen. Fifteen-year-olds make choices, and sometimes not very clever ones.” There’s the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “I went to many parties when I was your age,” he continues. “Lots more than I should have.”

Sonya leans forward. “Yea?” She says, sounding relieved, and possibly distracted from her own sadness and shame. Ilya is good at that.

“They were not fun. They were bad, and loud, and shitty. And I did lots of things I shouldn’t have.”

“Like what?” Sonya murmurs, voice small, twinkling with hope. She’s probably excited Ilya is giving her a look into his very secretive history, a history he always considered too dark to really explain to his young daughter.

Ilya noisily kisses his teeth. “Like... Oh, you’re fifteen, you know. Drinking, and drugs, and sex.”

“Papa,” Sonya scrunches her nose, in the same way Ilya says Shane does. 

“You asked!” He laughs, but it sounds a little broken at the edges. “Anyway, my point—” Ilya is keeping his tone light and a little silly, however Shane knows his walls well enough, he knows he’s being strong for Sonya. Trying to cheer her up, make the situation lighter than it is. It’s working.

 “I did not have a parent looking out for me,” Ilya says, softer now.

Even from out in the hall, Shane’s throat gets tight again. Oh, Ilya.

“So when dad and I say no to something, we are just trying to keep you safe, yes? That’s all. And we may not always be right, but we are always on your team.” Ilya tucks his legs up, scooting on Sonya’s bed to get closer to her. Shane watches Sonya’s gaze flip away, ashamed and embarrassed and guilty. “You understand this, yes? We love you so much.” 

Sonya nods very quickly, as if she doesn’t want Ilya to think for a second that she doubted that. “I know,” She says, and wipes her nose with her arm. Ilya reaches for the tissue box on her nightstand, handing it to her.

“Sofochka,” Ilya says, fighting to keep her eyes on his. “Do not lie to me again, okay? Please. It hurt my heart.” 

All the work Sonya had done calming herself down and wiping her face is for naught. She bursts into tears again, her blotchy cheeks streaking with tears as her face sours. Silent sobs wrack her body once more, and Ilya coos nothingness to her as he pulls her into his arms again. He hugs her tight, tucking her head beneath his chin, rocking them back and forth. “Is okay, Sofochka. Don’t cry.” Very suddenly, Ilya sounds like he’s going to cry.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sonya murmurs, very quietly, choked out between the knot in her throat.

“Is okay, I know. It’s okay.” 

Ilya cradles her, holding her for a long while, endlessly. Shane shifts, leaning his back against the wall, rubbing his fingers against the wood to get out the urge to be there too, to comfort her. He wants to step inside and hug both of them, his perfect little family. But Ilya has this. They’re a team, after all.

“I was so scared,” Sonya says, “I really thought I might— I, I might—”

“Shh, Is okay, you’re safe.”

“I feel so stupid.”

“You are not stupid, Солнышко. You just made a mistake, that’s all.” 

Shane has no idea how long it goes on for. It could’ve been minutes, maybe hours. Eventually, Sonya softly pipes up. Her words are slurred and mumbled, tired but decidedly not crying anymore. “How did you get out of it?” She murmurs.

“Hm?” Ilya hums.

“Like...” She trails off, and sniffles again. “Out of the partying stuff. You’re so boring now.” Ilya laughs, the sound is wet. Like he’s barely fucking holding on, but he’s doing a good job hiding it. Shane just knows him too well. “Was it dad?” Sonya asks.

Ilya takes a big breath in, a shaking sound, some steadying breathing technique Shane taught him. “Yes, it was dad.” He says, “He is my best friend in the whole world.”

Shane presses the back of his head against the wall, his heart aching, hurting with it’s softness. It’s like a beaten up apple, bruised and mushy, now overly sugary and oozing sap. He feels suddenly, overwhelmingly in love with his husband. It hurts how much he loves him. His best friend.

“And, I know him better than anyone,” Ilya continues, and that is very true, “So when I tell you that tomorrow will be okay, I mean it, yes?” Shane hears the sound of Ilya kissing Sonya, likely on her head. “He will be fine. And so will you.” 

“And...” Sonya says, a little stilted and awkward despite how sleepy she is, “You’ll also be okay.”

Ilya sighs. “Yes.” He agrees, “I will be okay too.” 

“Do you think Ava will be alright?” Sonya adds softly, a reasonable question considering what just happened.

“Ah, yes, of course. Ava is a strong girl. The police said she was alert and talking, so I think she will be just fine. Let's call her in the morning, yes?” Ilya is so good at reassuring her, reassuring anyone really. He doesn’t leave much room for argument, yet he’s so steady and caring that it’s so easy to believe him. Sonya hums out an affirmative sound.

Shane listens to the sound of blankets shuffling, of the bed creaking. He stares into the dark house, painting a soft picture in his mind. Although he could look again, he doesn’t want to get caught, nor does he think his heart could take what is happening within Sonya’s room; Sonya getting ready to sleep, Ilya helping her settle.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Ilya says, and then he shifts into something lighter. Shane can hear the smile in his voice, as weak and shaken as it may be. “Let papa tuck you in, hm? Come on, let me—” Sonya is laughing, a twinkling little sound. Alongside it is the sharp ruffle of sheets, and Shane imagines Ilya is probably tucking her in far too tight, shoving the blankets under her body to make her laugh. “And I give you kiss.” He emphasizes his words by giving her a big, noisy kiss, probably on her forehead. “Muu-ah!” 

“Papa,” She groans, sounding happy and sleepy despite it. 

“Come get me or dad if you need anything, yes?” Ilya says. Sonya must nod. “If you get scared or sad, we are right here.” 

“Thanks,” Sonya’s voice is so small, Shane barely catches it. “Please tell dad I’m sorry, and I love him. And, and that I’m really glad you came to get me.”

Ilya huffs a soft, incredulous laugh. “There is nowhere on this earth we would not go for you.” Shane has to swallow hard against that one. “Goodnight, Sofochka. Я тебя люблю.”

“Я тебя люблю,” Sonya echoes, a whisper against her sheets, a flicker in the hall. 

Shane hears the cottage creak, ever so slightly, with Ilya’s weight as he starts to exit Sonya’s room. Shane bolts, instantly feeling guilty for having listened to them talk, because he probably should’ve given Ilya and Sonya privacy. Shane probably wasn’t meant to hear any of that. Shane doesn’t regret listening in, of course. Ilya calling him his best friend will live forever in his mind; even years from now, when he’s laying on his death bed, he’ll be thinking just how lucky he was to be Ilya’s. 

Shane slips farther down the hallway. It’s ridiculous—he’s a grown man, in his own house, peering behind a wall. He’ll just skitter off to bed, pretend he’s been there the whole time. Give Ilya a minute, and act very normal. Shane risks leaning out just enough to see. 

Ilya steps out into the hall and closes Sonya’s door fully with a quiet snick.

There’s silence. Ilya is standing in the middle of the hallway, with his eyes a million miles away, looking at nothing. His face crumples, and — oh, oh Ilya.

Ilya’s mouth twists hard to one side and his eyes squeeze shut. Tears immediately press out of them, pouring down his face, his cheeks blotching red. His hands come up, both of them, clamping over his mouth as if to trap the sound inside. It works, he’s silent, trembling without a sound in the hallway. He folds in on himself, shoulders curling forward, head bowed. His back trembles.

Okay. Yea, fuck. “Ilya.” Shane steps out, coming out from his shitty ‘hiding’ spot. 

Ilya looks up at the sound of his name, eyes already wet and wide and wrecked. For a split second he looks embarrassed—like he didn’t mean to be seen like this.

“Ilyushka,” Shane repeats, cooing it in a soft whisper, as not to disturb their daughter, or startle his beloved. Ilya’s slight, panicked composure drops instantly, and his face sours up again with tears. He crosses the small space between them in two stumbling steps, and collapses into Shane. The force of it nearly knocks Shane backwards.

 But Shane holds on, wrapping both arms tight around him. Ilya buries his face against Shane’s shoulder, hands fisting into the back of his T-shirt just like Sonya did earlier. “Прости,” Ilya weeps, guttural and muffled against Shane’s body, his warm breath making Shane’s shirt even damper, “извини меня, пожалуйста.” Forgive me, please. He’s begging, pleading with Shane between little broken sounds.  “Прости.” 

Shane’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Ilya’s head, fingers sinking into his thick curls. “Я прощаю тебя,” Shane promises to him. I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you.

Ilya shakes against him. He’s such a crier, sometimes. It’s one of the things Shane loves most about him, even if it sounds strange to admit that. All of this sweetness pouring right out of him, unafraid and gutted, all for Shane. He’s so glad Ilya isn’t ashamed of all of this, that he’s safe to be this way now. Shane closes his eyes and presses his cheek against Ilya’s hair. “Shh,” Shane hushes, “It’s okay, Ilya.” They stand there in the dim hallway, and Shane pets his husband’s hair like he’s something very fragile. To Shane, he is. 

“I could’ve killed her,” Ilya says, his voice thick and accent strangely rounded, likely thanks to the knot lodged up in his vocal chords. “It’s all my fault. I am, I am bad—”

Shane doesn’t know what word is about to come out of Ilya’s mouth. It could be anything. Bad father, bad husband, bad teammate. Shane won’t allow Ilya to voice any of it, to make any of it seem like anything that’s real. 

“No, Ilya, hey,” Shane says, whispering it as firm but as gentle as he can. He pulls Ilya’s curls, a little rough in a way he knows Ilya likes, just so he can get a look at his face. Ilya doesn’t like that part so much. “You’re so good, Ilya. So good.” Ilya’s eyes crinkle with tears, his pretty pale blues all watery and red. He’s trying to straighten out his expression, but his lips keep quivering. “I’m so lucky, we’re all so lucky to have you. You know that.” Shane caresses Ilya’s cheeks, swiping away his tears with strokes of his thumbs. It’s a little cutie, his face is already so sticky, messy with wetness. “You’re so good to her, so good to me. Amazing to me. C’mon, baby, you know that.” 

“I—” Ilya chokes out, his voice very tight. He looks like he’s about to argue, but swiftly relinquishes this fight. “Okay,” he croaks out. It’s enough of an acceptance for Shane, and he pulls Ilya back into his arms. Ilya nuzzles up against Shane’s throat with his cold, wet nose. 

Shane tips his head slightly so he can press a kiss into Ilya’s temple. “You did good,” he rubs between Ilya’s shoulder blades, “Accidents happen,” Shane insists, feeling a bit of deja vu, “They happen.”

Ilya nods slowly against Shane, his curls tickling Shane’s face. He’s getting heavier, and his arms aren’t constricting him quite as tightly anymore— so, he’s calming down. Shane waits for Ilya’s breathing to draw longer, and then decides it’s a good time to bring up his own apology. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Ilya groans, quietly, almost sounding petulant. “No, Shane, it...” He grumbles, “I deserved that.”

Shane makes a face. He thinks, unwillingly, of Irina Rozanov. How she might’ve been treated in that loveless home, and how Ilya might’ve seen that very treatment as love. 

“You never deserve to get yelled at,” Shane reassures. They’ve gotten into plenty of fights, sure. But fighting was usually a two-way street, Shane was just fucking punching down at Ilya this time. He feels really bad about it, even if he still stands by the motivating thought. “Never, okay? It wasn’t fair. I was just...”

“Scared, yes?” Ilya answers for him, understanding as usual. He drags a hand up to trace a finger tip up and down along the bridge of Shane’s nose a handful of times. The gesture makes Shane smile. 

“Yea. Scared,” Shane agrees. “I didn’t handle it well. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, um...” Shane chews lightly on the inside of his cheek. “I just need you to back me up. Not that... I mean, you normally do, just... Ugh,” Shane groans, clapping a hand over Ilya’s left shoulderblade. The noise is way too loud in the quiet, dark hallway. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.” Shane’s too tired to wrap his head around a proper conversation. 

 Ilya nods eagerly, still pressed tight to Shane. His safe space, buried in Shane’s shoulder. No one could get to him there. “I think we are on the same page, anyway.”

Yea, Shane thinks so too. They’re just too tired right now, no proper words to convey it. Shane shouldn’t have yelled, and Ilya shouldn’t have let Sonya out after Shane said no. It’s pretty simple. Shane nods sagely, scrunching his fingers through Ilya’s springy curls. He knows Ilya likes the pressure, the pin-prick of a slight pull. If Ilya starts balding, it’s going to be Shane’s fault. 

Shane and Ilya both let out big, deep sighs, completely in sync. The timing of it makes them both chuckle, and for the first time all night Shane feels completely, and totally at peace.

“We’re all okay,” Shane says, both to himself and Ilya, the words coming out in a relieved breath. “Now I just wanna hold my baby.” 

That gets the faintest, wet laugh out of Ilya. “I’m still your baby?”

“Always,” Shane coos, “You’ll always be my baby.”

Soon enough, they’re both in bed. The air conditioning kicks on with a low, steady rush, cooling the room until the sheets feel crisp and clean against their skin. The world outside ceases to exist, because Shane’s whole world is confined safely within the walls of the cottage.

Ilya settles fully on top of him, cheek pressed over Shane’s heart.

The blankets cocoon them, warm and heavy. The room is cool, but under the covers it’s soft heat and shared breath.Shane slides one hand up into Ilya’s hair, combing his fingers through it slowly. The strands are still a little messy from the night, silk slipping between his fingers. With his other hand, he traces the familiar map of Ilya’s back. He draws lines between the faint, raised moles scattered there—small constellations. He drags his fingertips lightly over them, one by one, slow and absentminded. 

Ilya exhales. His breathing has finally started to deepen, the earlier tremor completely gone from it and replaced by the slow pull of lethargy. After a moment, Ilya presses a soft kiss over Shane’s sternum. Then another, just slightly to the left, over his heart. Ilya looks devastatingly handsome, his tired, fluttering eyes all red and glassy, his heart-shaped lips just a little swollen.

Shane presses his lips to the crown of Ilya’s head. “You okay?” he whispers, checking in one final time.

A quiet hum against his chest. “Mm.”

Shane’s fingers continue their slow path through his hair, over his back. He feels the steady thud of his own heartbeat beneath Ilya’s cheek. Ilya’s breathing evens out first, and a puddle of drool starts to wet Shane’s bare chest— not that he minds.

Shane starts to match Ilya’s breathing  without realizing, his chest rising and falling in sync with the weight resting on him. The tension he’s been carrying all night unwinds gradually, from his head to his toes, muscle by muscle.

In the other room, their daughter sleeps, safe and sound, tucked in cozy by her papa. Ilya is draped ontop of him. We’re good here.

Shane finally, finally, goes to sleep. 

𓅰 𓅬 𓅭 𓅮 𓅯

Five days later, the world feels ordinary again. Sonya’s grounding ends at midnight... Not that Sonya’s been counting. Not obviously, at least. She’s taken it in stride— she surrendered her phone without much argument, went to bed early each and every night. She’s much like Shane and Ilya both in that regard, eager to prove herself worthy, to be the best. Shane doesn’t know exactly how that trait of her’s came to be— him and Ilya always pressed that Sonya never had to work for their love. Maybe it was just genetic.

The bruise from the seatbelt has already faded to yellow. Ava is back in school now, Sonya said she’s got a cast that everyone can’t stop drawing on. Summer is right around the corner, and Shane thinks this will all be a distant memory by the time it arrives.

The fireplace crackles, warm enough to push back the cool edge of evening. The sky bleeds gold into violet across the lake, trees silhouetted dark and still, but not so scary anymore. Shane sits on the patio’s couch, and Ilya sits next to him, a heavy arm slung around his shoulders. Out on the lawn, Sonya runs around with Anya, laughing as she darts away from her grasp. Her hair catches the last light of the day, bright and loose behind her. She looks like herself again. 

“Soo,” Ilya starts, talking with his lips pressed to his mug, “We give her phone tonight?” 

“Tomorrow,” Shane says.

“Ah, tomorrow.” Ilya nods thoughtfully, “She is in no hurry, anyway.” 

Out on the water, a loon calls. The sound is long and echoing, that little wolf howl. It carries clean over the lake, rising through the dusk.

Sonya freezes mid-step, and Anya nearly barrels into her legs. She pauses, just briefly, maybe listening for another. After nothing comes, she cups her hands around her mouth and calls back. A very good impression of a hoot; a call that signifies the wish to communicate, chick to parent. 

“I teach her russian, and you teach her—” Ilya gestures with his hand, “— Fucking bird.”

Shane smiles stupidly. “And French.” 

“Ohh, and French.” Ilya mocks sarcastically. 

An amused huff of air pushes out of Shane’s nose. I’m happy we’re here, Shane thinks, that I get to be a father, that I get to share this with my best friend, my Ilya. Shane leans sideways, resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s knuckles rub briefly against his jaw, affectionate and sweet. 

The loon, somewhere far away and unseen on the water, calls back. Sonya grins and does it again, louder this time.