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There are moments in which Shane knows those inner voices are lying to him. He’s heard variations of them his entire life, whispering in the back of his mind that he’s somehow not good enough. It’s applied to everything—not a good enough son, or hockey player, or boyfriend, or husband, or father. He knows those things aren’t true, that he’s got plenty of people to lift him up, to tell him that he is in fact, good enough. Shane has strived his entire life to perfect skills and craft and be the best version of himself no matter what obstacle or challenge that has been set in front of him.
He knows he’s good at things, even when they don’t come easy. But he’s not going to pretend that he doesn’t sometimes need those comforting reminders.
Rowan won’t stop crying. Shane knows from talking to his parents and Hayden that sometimes babies just need to do that. His son is coming up on turning one and being a father has been one of the best yet stressful experiences Shane’s ever had. His dad tells him that it’s okay to feel like that and so many other emotions all at once—that two things can be true at the same time. That Shane can be happy yet overwhelmed and it doesn’t make him a bad father.
It just…it feels like, sometimes, Rowan only really lights up when Ilya is around. He’s done so much reading (to the point where he’s probably overdoing it) on the fact that sometimes babies and toddlers favor one parent over the other. That it’s common. And Shane…he would never make Ilya feel bad for their son preferring him. Because of how much Shane loves Ilya, he completely understands that inclination.
But it doesn’t help him feel any less stressed, any less worthless, any less not good enough when Ilya does something as simple as leave the house to go on a run and Rowan has been screaming his head off since the front door’s closed.
Shane has been patient, he’s been soothing, he’s been as comforting as he can be. But he—he can feel himself start to unravel along the edges, can feel himself begin to feel worked up and overstimulated and that stupid voice is whispering in the back of his head telling him he can’t do this.
He gently bounces Rowan against his chest, closing his eyes as he walks back and forth in front of the living room windows, his heart ricocheting in his ribcage when he hears the front door open. Ilya toes off his sneakers, a little sweaty in his navy blue tank top and matching running shorts. His curls are a bit damp and he smells like musk and remnants of body wash, laundry detergent and home when he steps closer.
“Oh solnechnyy svet, big tears,” He says; sunshine. Ilya alternates between that nickname and one other one—he tends to call Rowan ‘sunshine’ when he’s crying and ‘little beetle’, malen'kiy zhuchok, when he’s not.
“He won’t stop.” Shane whispers.
Ilya pauses, his hand moving to touch the top of his shoulders. Shane can tell that he wasn’t going to take Rowan from him because he needs to shower, but now he steps closer based on Shane’s demeanor. One arm is around his husband while the other brushes over the back of their son’s head.
“It’s okay,” Ilya whispers back.
“No, it’s not.” Shane snaps, his voice quiet but firm. Frustration boils to the surface, creating a lump in the back of his throat. He hates that his eyes are misting over. He rips his gaze away from Ilya, sniffling, letting out a slow breath as Rowan begins to calm down with Ilya’s proximity.
Shane shakes his head, fuck.
“I’m sorry,” He says a moment later. He doesn’t want to take his disappointment out on Ilya. It’s not his fault and he doesn’t blame anyone for their son’s clear affection for him. “I’m just…I’m tired and—”
Ilya presses a kiss to his temple, gently shushing him. His hand moves up and down his back in firm strokes, “I know.” He then reaches for Shane’s chin, his fingers gently moving his face until brown eyes find blue, “You are good at this.”
Shane swallows, his lower lip wobbling, “It doesn’t…” It doesn’t feel like it, is what he wants to say but he can’t get the words out. Ilya always sees his most vulnerable parts, the spaces in which he’s the most raw. He sees them and doesn’t turn away.
Ilya draws Shane into his chest, gently holding onto him and stroking Rowan’s back as well. Their son has quieted down, drying tear tracks on his chubby cheeks, babbling softly as he reaches to touch Ilya’s curls. He plays with a few of them between his fingers.
Shane knows that he should pull back to let Ilya get on with showering and to just…take a few deep breaths, calm down, push the hysteria down underneath a layer of control that he’s worked hard to keep. But Ilya keeps him close, a few kisses pressed to his jawline and shoulder, only allowing Shane to take a step back when he feels like he’s actually okay.
Ilya tugs his tank top off, tossing it aside. His skin is slightly flushed from running, highlighting all his pretty moles. He doesn’t take Rowan from Shane’s embrace but he presses himself closer again, skin to skin, smiling as Rowan’s body lines up against his shoulder. He plants a kiss to his cheek,
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” He sings quietly, “You make me happy, when skies are gray.” He rubs a thumb over Rowan’s cheek, removing tear tracks, “You'll never know, dear, how much I love you,” He glances at Shane, leaning over to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Please don't take my sunshine away.”
This isn’t the first nor the last time Ilya will sing that lullaby; he has plenty of others that he shares with Rowan, some in English, others in Russian. The familiarity of it all has Shane feeling less off-kilter and shaky, more solidified in this life they’re building together.
Shane lets out a long sigh from his nose, Rowan’s head tipping to rest on his shoulder; sleepy from crying and Ilya’s singing, “I’ll put him down,” He strokes a hand over his son’s back, “Go shower.”
Ilya hums lightly, nodding as he picks up his tank top from where he dropped it on the floor and heads in the direction of their bedroom. Once Shane successfully puts Rowan into his crib and turns on the baby monitor, he wanders into the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat. He just…waits—enjoys the silence of being close to his husband without any words or pretenses.
Shane takes a deep breath, inhaling soap and humidity and the scent of Ilya’s bodywash. He runs his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. The water turns off and the shower door opens, he can hear Ilya step out and grab a towel to dry himself off. When he pulls his hands from his face and looks up, Ilya is watching him, a fond smile on his face, using a second towel to dry his curls. Shane reaches for him, wrapping his fingers around his hip, tugging until Ilya is standing between his legs. He presses his face to his abdomen, nose and lips resting at his navel. He’s not hinting at anything sexual, he just…he needs to feel grounded.
Ilya is quiet and patient, tossing the towel aside and threading his fingers through Shane’s hair, massaging the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry you came home to such a mess.” He mumbles.
Ilya squeezes the muscle underneath his hairline, “Stop. You are not a mess.”
Shane nods and then pulls back to look up at him. He swallows over a raw emotion in his throat, jumping topics, “Rowan really loves when you sing.”
Ilya smiles, shaking his head, holding Shane’s gaze for a moment as if he’s missed something vital, “I wasn’t singing to him,” He says, cupping Shane’s cheek. His thumb traces over his freckles, back and forth, “I was singing to you. That’s what you are to me, hmm? Sun.”
He hears the hidden message there even though Ilya doesn’t say it—That’s what you are to our son, too.
Shane stands and wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist, mapping his mouth out against his in a firm kiss. When he pulls at his towel and it flutters to the floor, Shane can feel Ilya smile before he kisses him again.