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The crickets outside are louder than they’ve ever been. Often, Shane finds their chirping soothing, a natural sleep aid that lulls him off to dreamland. Tonight, though, their chirping sounds more like a death march, one that’s closing in and surrounding him. It’s driving him insane. Each chirp grates at his nerves, leaving behind one cut after another until it starts to feel as though the protective barrier of his skin is being cruelly stripped away, leaving him completely vulnerable and exposed.
Otherwise, it’s silent.
That silence is so loud it’s nearly overbearing. Perhaps the silence is quieter in the living room where had Shane offered to sleep on the couch.
The look Ilya had thrown him in response to that suggestion was a perfect intertwinement of “Are you fucking kidding me? Be fucking serious,” and “No, moya lyubov, please do not make me sleep alone.”
So, Shane stayed, thus making tonight the most awkward their marital bed has ever been. Sure, they’ve had their fair share of little spats and normal couple fights and only a couple of major blow ups, but none of those instances ever occurred in or about their actual bed before. Until now.
It’s strange laying on his side, facing away from his husband. His heart aches with the knowledge that Ilya is doing the same. The inches between their backs might as well be a canyon with Shane standing on one side, Ilya on the other, the distance between them uncrossable.
All instigated by Shane.
It really was such a stupid fight - Shane losing it over Ilya eating chips in bed, Ilya getting annoyed and reassuring him there aren’t any crumbs, so it’s no big deal.
It really wasn’t a big deal, but Shane’s mind wouldn’t let him listen to Ilya, to really hear him and take a moment to have patience and belief in his husband.
Instead, he’d overreacted.
He accused Ilya of being a slob, blatantly disregarding Shane’s wishes and not listening to him, when, in that moment, it was Shane who hadn’t been listening.
“Shane, I have been careful. There are no crumbs.”
“I just don’t understand why you would do this when we both know that you’re messy and always get food everywhere,” Shane had snapped. “I’ve specifically asked you not to eat in bed because you know that I hate when the sheets are dirty.”
Expression steaming with frustration, Ilya had then made a big show of swiping away any crumbs off the bed before sardonically asking, “Happy now, your highness?”
Truth be told, Shane actually hadn’t seen any crumbs. What he did see, though, was the flash of hurt that had passed over the blonde’s face as Shane listed the crimes he’d deemed Ilya guilty of.
But, similarly hurt by Ilya’s dramatics and disregard of his preferences, as well as acknowledging his own anxiety as spiked sky-high, Shane proposed he sleep on the couch before recoiling in on himself at the half scathing-half pleading look he’d received in return. Unsure of how to proceed, he’d silently crawled into bed, tucking himself carefully along the edge, turned away from his husband.
He'd heard Ilya mutter something in dark Russian as he too laid along the far edge of his side of the bed. Shane’s pretty sure he picked up on the Russian word for “ridiculous.”
Staring into the darkness, the dreadful drone of the crickets sawing at his sanity, Shane reflects on the situation. It’s not long before the heat of regret flames over his cheeks as his mind replays the argument. Visions of how this evening could’ve ended differently viciously dance across his mind like some sort of vindictive recital, intent on making him realize his mistakes. He imagines a happy ending, of him actually being able to communicate properly rather than allowing the pickiness and anxieties that live in his mind to control his urges and impulses. He imagines him and Ilya resolving things easily, of them kissing and snuggling together in bed always they always do because everything between them is fine.
But the reality of how everything actually played out crushes down on his chest like a slab of concrete. His mouth prickles and burns with embarrassment and regret.
Ilya was eating in bed, so what? Why wasn’t Shane patient with him? Why was he so quick to assume the worst? Why was he not trusting? Why the fuck did he let it bother him so much?
A hiccup of guilt explodes in Shane’s throat and slithers down his esophagus, spreading into his gut and making it curl in hot, sticky self-loathing. The thundering of his heart booms in his ears and drowns out the relentless chirps of the crickets. The winds of shame blow in without mercy, whipping away all rational thoughts from his brain and tornadoing everything he’s ever nitpicked Ilya about around in his mind all at once. His eyes sting with tears. Discomfort rattles within his ribcage, tangling his stomach into knots as his lungs shrivel under the pressure of all of his self-perceived failures.
He turned something so simple into a full-blown argument. Ilya was eating in bed because he can; because it’s Ilya’s bed, too. It is their shared bed, not just Shane’s. So, Shane can’t expect Ilya to just fall in line like some perfect soldier who follows Shane’s every demand, like no eating in bed. How fucking pretentious of Shane. He’s so upset with himself, because why did he do that? Compromise is a major part of a relationship, but they shouldn’t have to compromise over Ilya eating in bed because he should just be allowed to do that if he so pleases. Shane should just be okay with it. He doesn’t want to be bossy or controlling or some kind of fault-finding pest in Ilya’s life. He wants to be supportive and a safe space for his husband.
Fuck, when did he become such a nagger? Is his nagging getting on Ilyas nerves? How does his nagging make Ilya feel? Does it make Ilya feel as physiologically wrecked as it is Shane right now? Does the nagging make Ilya feel lesser than, like Shane is implying he’s better than Ilya? Is Shane the problem? Is he just as bad as Ilya’s father had been, constantly critiquing and nitpicking Ilya over every little thing that he does?
Self-reproach injects itself into Shane’s nervous system, each of his limbs becoming tight and heavy with tension. An anxious sweat heats the back of his neck and drips down his spine as humiliation and contempt weave together to form a restrictive chain around his neck, making him their prisoner. Remorse spreads through his veins like wildfire, exposing and igniting every nerve without hesitance or mercy. He feels like such a snob: so bossy and demanding and expectant. How the fuck could he allow himself to act like that? And to Ilya of all people, who’s probably the most patient person with Shane on the entire fucking planet?
All of Shane’s rules, his expectations, his obsessive controlling behaviors, his demand of perfection because he wants things done a very certain way because no other way will do, ordering Ilya to do this but not that – well, that makes Shane just as bad as Ilya’s father, doesn’t it? And if Shane doesn’t change... will he drive Ilya to the same place Ilya’s father drove Irina?
The realization that his worst nightmare could become a reality slams against Shane’s heart like a sledgehammer, shattering it into a million little pieces of pure heart-breaking shame.
Suddenly, everything becomes too much. Every single hair on Shane’s body stands to attention as a maddening buzz thrums throughout his entire being, even feeling as though it’s shaking his soul and demanding that he do Something. To. Fix. This. Now.
He bolts into an upright sitting position on the bed, clutching at his chest. He needs to apologize. He needs to make everything better immediately. He won’t be able to relax until he fixes it. He—he—
The horrible silence is broken by a sob tumbling out of Shane’s throat. Another one quickly follows it, and then another and another and another until he’s having a full anxiety breakdown. Visions of an Ilya-less life flash in every corner of his mind as a blackhole opens in his chest, and Shane finds himself slipping into nothingness, falling down, down, down—
Two large hands frame his face and pull him back up from the dark abyss he nearly sunk into. “Sweetheart.”
Blinking through the torrential downpour of his tears, Shane comes face-to-face with his husband who looks absolutely devastated. “I’m so s-sorry,” he cries.
“Hey, hey, shh...” Ilya soothes. “Is okay. Breathe, moya lyubov.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Shane heaves in a frantic, repeated mantra.
“Shh...”
“I don’t want to fight. I’m so sorry. It was all my fault. You weren’t doing anything wrong, I never should have gotten upset.”
Shaking his head, Ilya frowns deeply. “No, no, Shane. Listen to me, please. I am sorry.”
“W-why are y-you sorry?”
“Because this whole thing was stupid. Is not worth this.”
Brain soaked with panic, Shane immediately thinks the worst. “You—we aren’t w-worth it?”
Ilya answering expression is nothing short of stricken. “No! Moya lyubov, no! Stupid chips are not worth fighting over. Making you cry is never worth it. Sleeping apart even when we are in same bed together is not worth it.”
But Shane’s anxiety is too far gone for him to find peace in Ilya’s reassurances. His body trembles, tears continue to glide seamlessly out of eyes as he grasps desperately at his husband. “I didn’t mean it,” he blabbers. “Of course, you can eat chips in bed. You can eat whatever you want in bed.”
“Shane—"
“I trust you. I know you’re careful and won’t leave crumbs. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I didn’t believe you.”
“Shane—”
“I don’t mean to nag you. I’m so sorry that I did. I promise I won’t nag you anymore, about anything!”
“Shane—”
“I—I can sleep on the couch, if you want. If—if you don’t want me here because I was—I was mean.”
The hands on his face swipe at his wet, freckled cheeks and a kiss lands on his nose. “Sweetheart. Come here.”
“But—”
“Come here. Please, moya lyubov.”
Still hiccupping sobs, Shane allows Ilya to gently tug and maneuver him into the Russian’s lap like a child, one thick arm wrapped tight around the brunette’s back, the other threaded in his silky hair. Chests pressed together, Shane can feel the big, exaggerated breathes Ilya is inhaling and exhaling. Releasing a shuddering, wet breath, Shane graciously accepts the help and follows Ilya’s lead.
Together, they breathe.
“I’m here,” Ilya whispers against Shane’s head once the Canadian’s stuttered breaths finally begin to even out. “I’m not going anywhere. You think I would ever believe we are not worth it? That you are not worth it? You are worth everything.”
Shane buries his face in Ilya’s neck, his koala like grip tightening as his husband continues.
“You think I ever want you to sleep on the couch? You think it would be easy for me to sleep without you? Even though you are blanket stealer and shove cold toes against my leg and drool on my shoulder, you think I could sleep without those things? I need all of those to sleep, moya lyubov. I need you.”
“I don’t drool on your shoulder,” Shane mutters.
“Mm. Yes, you do. Is okay, is very cute. Like you are marking your territory with spit.”
“Shut up.”
Shane can feel Ilya’s smile against his temple as a kiss is pressed there.
“But, to sleep, I need to hold you. I need to know you are comfortable, I need to wake up to your beautiful freckles. You are first thing I want to see in the morning, not empty side of bed because something about the bed has bothered you. Do you understand, sweetheart? Waking up without you is not worth anything.”
The quaking of Shane’s nerves slowly reduces until all that’s left is tranquility. He leans against Ilya, his body heavy with exhaustion.
“I’m so sorry about earlier. I never meant to hurt your feelings,” he mumbles into Ilya’s shoulder. “I got so upset for no reason.”
“Was not for no reason. I should not have eaten chips in bed. I know you do not like crumbs.”
“But that’s wrong of me because—”
“No. We compromise. You do not like, so I do not do.”
“That’s not fair to you,” Shane frowns.
“Moya lyubov, we share bed, so—"
“Exactly. It’s our bed, not just my bed. You should be able to do what you want in our bed.”
“But is not respectful to you if I do something you do not like.”
“And I’m not being respectful of you if I have all these guidelines that you have to follow in a place where you should be relaxed,” Shane stresses. “That isn’t fair to you, Ilya, it’s just not. And I’m so, so sorry.”
Ilya presses their foreheads together. “It’s alright, moya lyubov.”
“It isn’t. I should have realized so much sooner, but my mind is bro—”
“Beautiful,” Ilya interrupts. “Is brilliant. Is perfectly imperfect just like every other mind.”
In full denial, Shane shakes his head and looks down towards his lap. “No. There’s something wrong with me. I’m so picky and particular. I always want things to be a certain way, then I get stressed if they aren’t and I start nagging. But I don’t want to be a nagger. I don’t want to you to feel like you’re constantly being criticized and made to feel like you can’t do anything right. I—I don’t want to be like your dad.”
Ilya’s expression morphs into intense confusion. “What? Sweetheart, you are not a, what you are calling, a nagger, and you are nothing like my father.”
“But—”
“No. That is not a comparison I will ever allow you to make. You are not like him and you never will be.”
Shane chews harshly at his bottom lip, entirely unconvinced.
Like he has so many times before, Ilya carefully grips Shane’s jaw in his hand and forces them to make eye contact, his thumb swiping up to free Shane’s lip from its abuse. “Hey. Listen to me. What you are calling nagging helps make me a better person. I know I should not eat in bed, is bad habit.”
“But I know I nag you about other things,” Shane counters. “Like putting your dirty clothes in the hamper—”
“Because that is normal thing to do.”
“—and I get on to you when you leave lights on—”
“I need to respect Canadian environment.”
“—and I get huffy when you put dishes back in the wrong cabinet—”
“Organization is important.”
“—and I just nag you about almost everything that you do, when, in reality, none of it is a big deal, but my mind makes it a big deal and then I take it out on you, and that’s so unfair.”
Ilya sighs heavily, but the look on his face screams nothing but devout fondness. “Shane, moya, lyubov, you do not nag me. I promise you. You give me reminders, that is all. Is not nagging or whatever bad thing your brain is telling you. You are always fair to me, okay? Is all good.”
“But—"
“We are okay, sweetheart. Yes, we had fight, but we talked about it, and is over now. Everything is okay. Marriage is compromise, so we compromise.”
“No,” Shane shakes his head seriously, intent on improving himself for Ilya and their relationship. “Let’s make a new compromise. We can get some trays, or something, you know, like those trays they show in movies when someone serves someone else breakfast in bed. You can put that in your lap and eat in bed.”
“Shane, I promise you, it is okay. We don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I still want to fix this. I want us to meet in the middle about things. Okay? And that applies to everything, not just eating in bed. I don’t want you to always be the one compromising to my needs or wants or feeling as though you’re living under a strict set of rules set in place by me. This is a marriage, not a dictatorship. So, if I’m overstepping or being too overbearing or anything, you have to tell me. Okay? Please?”
“Moya lyubov—"
Shane sticks out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Ilya looks adoringly at him for a long moment before taking Shane’s hand and shaking it. “Okay, sweetheart. We have a deal. We will meet in the middle about things. Now come cuddle with me. I need your drool on my shoulder so I can fall asleep and have good, wet dreams of you drooling on my dick.”
***
Three weeks later, Shane and Ilya are lounging in bed together watching a movie. Bed tray in his lap, Ilya is eating out of a giant bag of Cheetos.
Nonchalantly, Shane leans over his side of the bed and retrieves his own tray that he stashed away earlier when Ilya was in the shower. He also grabs the bag of almonds he hid for this exact moment.
Arranging his tray safely over his lap and popping open his almonds, Shane deliberately avoids looking at Ilya as he tosses some nuts into his mouth.
It’s only a few seconds before he hears, “Shane?”
“Hmm?” Chewing, he glances over at his husband.
Ilya stares at him wide-eyed. “What are you doing?”
“Eating,” Shane replies casually, holding out his bag of almonds. “You want some?”
A mishmash of gratuity, affection, warmth, and pure and utter love crosses over Ilya’s face. “You don’t have to,” he whispers, hearts glittering in his eyes.
Careful of their trays, Shane leans over and presses his lips to Ilya’s. “I want to.”
“Thank you, moya lyubov.”
“I love you.”
“Ya lyublu tebya.”
Shane smiles brightly and pops some more almonds in his mouth. Not that he’ll ever admit this to Ilya, but eating in bed is kind of fun.
Only as long has they’re using their trays.
Fin.