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It doesn’t happen often—Shane’s usually a deep sleeper. He rarely finds himself as a twist and turner or waking up in the middle of the night. Ilya, he feels, is always shifting or out of bed for something—using the bathroom, a glass of water, getting that pillow just right, blanket on, blanket off, tucking Shane against his chest or turning and molding himself back against his boyfriend. Sometimes he has nightmares which come and go. Frequently, Shane’s noticed, during certain months of the year or when things become particularly stressful with the Centaurs or between the two of them when time or distance stretches them too far apart.
Shane knows what to do when Ilya has a nightmare; there’s a balance in giving him space to talk or just feel however he needs to. Sometimes Ilya will tell him everything, other times he will inch closer and breathe deeply and settle against the warmth of Shane’s body and the feel of his hands brushing through his curls and fall back asleep.
But Shane? Shane feels like he sleeps so soundly that he rarely remembers his dreams when he wakes up, let alone having nightmares that are vivid enough to pin him to the bed in the middle of the night.
Which is probably why he’s disoriented when it happens.
Shane jerks awake in a cold sweat, his fingers fumbling for—something, anything to grab onto. He doesn’t know what time it is; late, most likely. Late, late, late. It’s raining, he can hear the fat droplets slam against the windows, the rumbling of thunder in the distance. There’s a crack of lightning that somehow shakes the entire cottage or maybe that’s still him, equilibrium completely offkilter. The sound of the storm outside crashing and thrumming is banging against his eardrums, far too much like the breaking of ice—sudden, overwhelming, and he—he can’t breathe. Ilya slipped through the fractures far too fast, faster than he could grab him—too late—
Ilya. Ilya.
Shane thrusts himself forward with every intention of turning the bedside lamp on because he just—he needs to be able to see, but he overshoots and knocks it right off the nightstand. The clatter instantly wakes his boyfriend, who jolts awake. Ilya’s one hand comes down on Shane’s leg as the other struggles to turn the other bedside light on,
“What is happening?” Ilya’s voice is choked with sleep, accent thick from being woken up suddenly.
“Sorry,” Shane manages, his own voice tight as light spills into the room; a soft, warm glow compared to the rain outside. He opens his mouth to say something else, anything that’s not him just sitting far too still, but thunder cracks like a whip and he pictures ice underneath his skates disappearing all over again.
He’s never heard anything so deafening before, so absolute.
“Yebat',” Ilya mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. He blinks a few times, seemingly trying to wake himself up before he pulls himself out of bed. It’s not until he’s on Shane’s side of the mattress, picking up the fallen lamp, that he gets a good look at him. His eyebrows draw together and he slowly sits down next to Shane’s thighs, reaching out to gently clasp his fingers around his chin, “What’s wrong?”
Shane shakes his head, trying to backtrack, trying to get himself together because he…he refuses to fall apart over a nightmare. Over something that’s never even happened. Ilya’s here, right in front of him—warm and solid and real. That’s what matters.
“Nothing, I—the thunder woke me up.”
Ilya brushes his thumb over his jawline, “Don’t lie to me, Shane.” His voice is gentle, “You are shaking.”
Shane bites down on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t think he can say it. Ilya waits, patient, his other hand rubbing back and forth along Shane’s thigh. He’s grateful that Ilya eventually fills the silence again, right in-between the downpour of rain and the rolling of thunder,
“Bad dream?”
His chin tips down even though Ilya keeps him between his fingers, “It’s stupid.”
Ilya sighs out of his nose, shaking his head, “Tell me; I will not think it is stupid. Obeshchat'.”
Shane swallows, closing his eyes and dipping his nose and lips against the calloused skin of Ilya’s fingers. He knows there’s a logical explanation for this—nightmares are just waking concerns, they’re fears and worst-case scenarios and the feeling of something unknown. Something that can’t be planned or explained or organized; something that often doesn’t make sense, no matter how much you want it to.
“We were skating together,” Shane finally shares, his voice soft and almost fading into the rainfall, “But…we weren’t at a rink, we were on a lake that iced over.” He swallows, his gaze finding Ilya’s, “Not here,” He motions outside the cottage, though he’s not sure it matters. Not really. “We were holding hands and—and the ice cracked.”
It had felt so real. The trembling of the ice underneath his skates, how it threw him off balance, how he dropped Ilya’s hand—
He let go of Ilya’s hand. Too late, too late, too late.
Ilya hums softly but doesn’t speak, as if he can figure out where this is going.
“You disappeared, right under the ice, and I couldn’t—I couldn't find you, Ilya.” Shane lets out a long breath but when he goes to take oxygen back into his lungs, he hiccups. His voice wavers, his eyes misting over with unshed tears as he thinks about how cold he was, how he kept skating on broken ice, looking for him, shouting, throat going raw from yelling—
“You were gone, you were—” Shane draws in another sharp breath, his features crumbling as he tries to cover his face with his hand. None of it was fucking real and yet he still feels that ice settle into his bones, the kind of cold that stays with you. The kind that never leaves.
Ilya shakes his head quickly, inching closer to him on the bed. “Shh,” He whispers, “Shh, come here, moya lyubov'.” He wraps his one arm around Shane’s shoulders, folding him into his chest. Shane’s face tucks itself into Ilya’s shoulder, a shuddered sound leaving his lips that sounds far too much like a sob. Ilya’s other hand smoothes circles along his back, moving to thread into his hair, his thumb stroking back and forth along the back of his neck.
They’re quiet for a few moments, Ilya just holding onto Shane tightly, gently rocking him back and forth in place.
“You know,” Ilya says after a moment, pressing a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, “I did fall through ice once when I was a kid. My brother pulled me out,” He breathes out of his nose, “Was one of the only times I was happy to see him.”
Shane sniffles and Ilya only pulls back when Shane does. He wipes a hand over his cheek, Ilya taking over for him by brushing his thumb along the bone where his freckles are. He then leans over and presses a long kiss above his eyebrow,
“I do not think it would happen twice in my life, hmm?” Ilya offers a small smile, bumping their noses together. The corners of Shane’s mouth twitches, “Besides, you and I will hold onto one another, yes?”
Shane keeps Ilya’s gaze for a long moment before nodding, their foreheads coming to rest together before he presses a kiss to Ilya’s cheek, his jawline, the corner of his mouth and then finally his lips. Ilya hums lightly, lying back down in bed, pulling Shane to settle on top of him. He reaches for his bedside lamp and turns it off, letting Shane get comfortable, tucked between his legs and underneath his chin. Shane closes his eyes, pressing his nose against his pulsepoint, feeling the beat of his heart there and underneath his hand. Ilya’s fingers trail over his shoulder, shuffling blankets over top of him.
And that lingering ice in Shane’s veins eventually thaws and disappears.