Work Text:
i’ll place it on the tip of my tongue
wait a minute while it bursts again
it makes me young
i could drown myself in this, this bliss
you scrub your skin, it can’t be kissed
each piece requires a different lip
let me see what happens next
— blaenavon, let me see what happens next
After the first time Ilya lies on top of Shane, pressing the full weight of himself down onto his husband, Shane comments that Ilya would probably like the feeling too. As usual when it comes to these things, Shane had been right.
When Shane blankets Ilya in his warmth, it feels almost like an indulgence each time. Something Ilya should savor, should tuck away for special occasions, what with the way it takes him so far out of his own head. That being said, it doesn’t happen all that often—typically reserved for when one of them is feeling particularly overwhelmed or struggling with the pressures of the outside world. It’s comforting—a relief in many ways—and Ilya doesn’t know how he’d ever gone without.
Because what better way to anchor Ilya to the present, to find safety in that darkness which overcomes him so viscerally, than the feeling of Shane’s touch? Ilya isn’t even sure why he loves it so much, why it makes his brain feel like TV static, but he’s positive it affects Shane in the same way.
Ilya hadn’t always been able to anticipate when he’d need it, Shane acting as his personal weighted blanket, but he slowly starts to identify his oncoming frustration and panic. Though, predicting the heaviness in his bones doesn’t make asking for help any easier.
It’s a quiet afternoon, one spent resting on the couch and enjoying each other’s company. Shane has a book of puzzles in hand and Ilya’s attention should be fixed on the shitty reality show playing out before him—Why do people not know Chrishell’s partner’s pronouns? This has been directly explained. Do people on this show have hearing problems?—but he’s having trouble focusing.
Ilya fidgets with his mother’s cross around his neck, and he can suddenly feel the tag of his shirt where it rubs uncomfortably against his skin. He tries to center himself, readjusts so one of his legs extends into Shane’s lap and the other hangs over the edge of the couch. Shane accepts the intruding foot without missing a beat, just lifts his book and rests a palm on Ilya’s shin over his sweats.
Much to Shane’s insistence and to Ilya’s disappointment, Anya naps quietly on the floor where his foot now rests. Her coat is a mix of pale browns, grays, and white, and Ilya uses his foot to lightly pet along her back just to feel the soft fur against his skin. Anya keens quietly in her sleep, and Ilya’s heart pangs with how endearing it is, wants to gather her up in his arms and bring her onto the couch. He won’t do that though—all too familiar with the withering look he knows Shane would send his way.
Ilya’s gaze travels from Anya over to Shane, trying to make sense of how this reality could belong to him. He wants this forever.
He feels the fog where it lingers in a dark corner of his mind, its tendrils peeking out from the box he’d filed it away in. It’s never gone for too long, but he’d hoped today would be a nice day spent with Shane. Ilya realizes it’s coming, that the darkness will soon rear its ugly head, but he’s not entirely sure how to bring it up.
“Hey,” Shane says softly from the other side of the couch.
“Hm?” Ilya hums, dropping the cross he’d still been fidgeting with.
“Everything okay?” Shane’s voice is kind as he asks.
Ilya just looks at him for a moment, fully prepared to brush off the heaviness in his chest; ready to shove his feelings back into that box sitting in the corner of his mind. But then Shane is there, sees the look in Ilya’s eyes, and understands exactly what he needs.
Because, of course, Shane knows every tell of Ilya’s body after all these years.
“Baby,” he murmurs and it’s like the breaking of a dam.
Ilya can’t help it, can’t stop the corners of his mouth from curling down. He’s embarrassed by the need pounding behind his ribs, but also comforted by the warmth in Shane’s eyes.
Shane’s fingers encircle Ilya’s ankle, palm finding the bone where it juts out and pressing their skin together. Ilya shivers at the touch. Shane’s hands are big and strong as they inch up the leg of his sweats and to his calf, grounding Ilya with each circle that’s rubbed into his skin—not sexual, just gentle and loving.
Ilya feels his lashes getting damp and tries to blink away the tears, suddenly overcome with how much he loves this man. Shane immediately notices, cooing and reaching out to gather Ilya in his arms.
“Oh, baby,” Shane repeats again, just as softly as before.
“I don’t—” Ilya starts. “I am fine, I don’t even know why—” but the words get caught in his throat and he can’t finish the sentence.
Ilya knows what he wants, recalls the phantom press of Shane’s body against his own in the way he needs, but he doesn’t want to be an inconvenience. If Shane had heard that thought, Ilya imagines he would say something akin to Don’t you dare call my husband an inconvenience. So Ilya just winds his arms around Shane in turn and buries his nose in his husband’s neck. The scent there is clean and reassuring in its familiarity.
“Let’s go to bed, hm?” Shane suggests.
It’s barely past 4pm, but Ilya nods in agreement—knows what Shane is actually offering him. Ilya finds it hard to move though, his body weighed down like he has bones made of lead. He squeezes his eyes shut and slowly lets the air out of his lungs; he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath all this time.
Shane rests a a large palm over Ilya’s heart like feeling it beat is a comfort of its own. Even that gesture alone unravels some of the knots that twist in Ilya’s chest.
After a moment, Shane extricates himself from Ilya’s hold and stands from the couch.
“Okay, come,” he says, leaving no room to argue.
It’s no secret that Ilya loves this side of Shane too; demanding and firm, but only in a way that suggests he wants to take care of Ilya for a change.
Ilya complies, taking Shane’s outstretched hands and following behind like a lost puppy. He glances back for a moment, just long enough to see Anya still sleeping soundly by the couch. Then he wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, nose buried in his dark hair, and waddles along into their bedroom.
Once they make it past the threshold, Shane makes sure their duvet is topped with a soft throw for them to lie down on. Ilya nearly lets out a disappointed whine when Shane pulls away, but he quickly slides back into Ilya’s embrace. They stand there for another moment, chests pressed close together, until their breathing syncs.
“Let’s get you what you need,” Shane says into his cheek, and Ilya can only nod in response.
Shane slowly turns them around so he can guide Ilya down onto the bed. He goes willingly, sitting down on the plush blanket as he watches Shane strip out of his shirt and sweatpants. He leaves his briefs on though, and Ilya’s first instinct is to make a grumpy retort, to complain about Shane holding out on him, but that’s not what this is about.
Shane reaches for the hem of Ilya’s shirt before, “Up.”
Ilya lifts his arms and allows himself to be stripped down in the same way. It’s normally Ilya who does this for Shane, creates an atmosphere where Shane can be taken care of—whether it’s with rough or gentle hands, Ilya is almost always in control. But this is lovely, and soft, and Ilya thinks he might be glowing under Shane’s undivided attention.
Once they’re both down to their briefs, Ilya moves back to rest against their pillows. Everything around him seems hazy and inviting, bathed in the golden afternoon light that pours in through the window—Shane included.
He’s massive, muscles rippling beneath tanned and freckled skin, with big brown eyes that never seem to leave Ilya’s face. Ilya wants to press up against him as closely as he can; he wants to carve a home into Shane’s chest and live inside.
Shane crawls onto the bed and doesn’t stop until he’s hovering directly over him. He holds his weight up with hands on either side of Ilya’s shoulders, face close enough for Ilya to count the freckles along his cheeks. Then he’s lowering himself gently until every part of Shane touches every part of him, skin kissing sweetly in the middle where they meet.
Shane is heavy, the hulking hockey player that he is, and Ilya should absolutely feel suffocated. It should be overstimulating and make Ilya want to run, but it only makes his head go quiet. It narrows the world down to just the two of them together, splayed out on the bed and wrapped in each other’s arms. Ilya feels soft in a way he doesn’t usually allow himself to; loved in a way he never thought he would deserve.
It’s nice.
Shane’s face is turned into Ilya’s neck, hands trailing up his sides and under his arms. They curl beneath Ilya’s shoulders so his fingertips can massage away the tension they find there. One hand makes a home in Ilya’s curls and he groans as Shane lightly scratches along his scalp.
“There,” Shane muses. “That’s nice, see? Just—we take it a day at a time, right?”
Ilya hums in acknowledgment, brain already going fuzzy.
“And then,” Shane continues quietly, like it’s a secret for them alone, “if that’s too much, we just take it minute by minute, okay?”
Ilya nods again as his eyes fall closed, arms enveloping Shane with the flats of his hands pressed into his spine. It’s as if his body yearns to somehow pull Shane even closer.
Minute by minute.
It takes a few moments before Ilya realizes the faint humming that he hears is actually his own chest rumbling softly with every exhale. Shane breathes out a small laugh at the way Ilya is practically purring, but neither of them speak, simply welcoming the silence as it continues to sit with them.
Ilya thinks that maybe he was never meant to hold anyone else like this—and never meant to be held by any other.
As the minutes go by, the heavier Shane feels and the lighter Ilya’s chest gets. Knowing Shane cares enough about him to give him this, to press him down until he can breathe again, reminds Ilya of just how loved he is. He tries to stay awake, to force his eyes open each time he feels himself drifting off. Ilya doesn’t want to fall asleep—afraid to miss even a moment of this quiet bliss—but he can’t help the way his eyes flutter closed once again.
When Ilya wakes, he’s not sure how much time has passed, but he feels lighter than he has in days. He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d needed this—or for how long.
Through the window, the sun hasn’t fully set, so they can’t have been lying together for too long. Ilya blinks the sleep from his eyes, all too aware of the weight of Shane where he still rests on Ilya’s chest. Shane runs warm like a furnace, and Ilya realizes that he must have dozed off too.
Ilya brings his fingers up to his nape to gently card through his hair, and Shane snuffles into Ilya’s neck at the touch. He lifts his head, bangs sitting askew against his forehead, and squints up at Ilya.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hi,” Ilya responds.
There is just enough light filtering in through the window to fill the room around them. Ilya takes the opportunity to study Shane’s face, the freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, and notices the way his brown eyes have softened to a lighter shade of hazel.
One of Shane’s hands comes up to palm Ilya’s jaw, breaking the spell.
“Feeling better?” he asks, tapping a finger against Ilya’s temple.
Ilya smiles. “Yes, it is better.”
Shane grins and rests his forehead against Ilya’s chin, thumb massaging the skin under Ilya’s left eye.
“Good,” he says and then sighs contentedly. “Love it like this, wish we never had to move.”
Ilya’s strong arms envelop Shane, palms smoothing over his spine.
“Yes, I love this too. Love my big strong husband when he holds me down.”
He feels the smile that Shane presses into his skin before he smacks Ilya’s chest halfheartedly.
“Too bad he is not strong enough to hold me down forever,” Ilya baits. “I could just flip him over so easily—he is so weak, you see.”
Shane lifts his head again, eyes filling with mirth as he laughs at the affront.
“Fuck you, I’m just as strong as you are,” he says. “Probably stronger.”
Ilya hums and rolls his eyes affectionately, and Shane takes that as a challenge just as Ilya hoped he would.
Shane struggles to rise onto his knees, balance thrown off for a moment before he rights himself again and straddles Ilya. Ilya’s hands reach up to rest on Shane’s waist and he appreciates the view.
“Hm, yes, I like you like this too, Hollander.”
Shane laughs again before leaning forward and pressing both hands down onto Ilya’s chest, holding him in place.
“Yeah, Rozanov? Or are you just saying that ‘cause you can’t flip me over like you said you could?”
Ilya bites his bottom lip to suppress a smile at the teasing, hips bucking beneath Shane to try and throw him off kilter again. But Shane stays upright, powerful thighs locked around Ilya’s hips and a wicked grin tugging the corners of his mouth.
“I told you,” Shane starts, “I’m stronger—”
Ilya cuts him off by surging up, wrapping both arms around Shane’s back, and twisting until Shane flops onto the bed below him. Shane’s breath leaves his lungs in a huff and their hands fumble against each other, only stopping once Ilya finally pins Shane’s wrists to the bed.
“You—you cheated,” Shane sputters, and Ilya lets out an exaggerated gasp in response.
“I am no cheater, Shane Hollander. I am opportunist.”
Shane wriggles beneath Ilya, but he knows Shane has no real desire to escape. Shane is right; he has every bit of strength that Ilya does and can go head-to-head with him at any time. But the part of Ilya that likes to be held down lives within Shane as well—albeit, a much larger part—so Shane is right where he wants to be.
Ilya appreciates the way they can fall back into this so easily.
He doesn’t like when the dark moments color the rest of his day, and especially hates when they affect the people around him. It can be hard to find a balance, to shoulder the burden without letting it become him. This dominant, playful side of Ilya is one that has always been more present in their relationship, but he’s learned that it doesn’t mean both versions of himself can’t co-exist. With Shane, he doesn’t always have to be okay; he has the space he needs to feel as deeply as he does, but with someone waiting for him on the other side to guide him back home.
So this—roughhousing with his husband and their playful banter—it’s just one more thing that helps to clear the fog.
Minute by minute.
“Daydreaming about me, Rozanov?”
The sound of Shane’s taunting shakes Ilya from his thoughts, and he can’t help but grin down at the man beneath him.
“I am always daydreaming about you,” he says. “And you are always doing this too, yes? About how much bigger and stronger I am?”
“Asshole,” Shane scoffs but there’s a smile hiding in his voice.
Ilya leans down to scrape his teeth over Shane’s jaw, earning him a soft gasp in return.
“Hm, I think you like this asshole,” he says wolfishly.
Shane rolls his eyes, heaving out an exasperated breath. But he just brings a hand up to Ilya’s face and earnestly says, “You know I do.”
The grin falls from Ilya’s mouth and he leans his cheek further into Shane’s palm. He doesn’t give a response, just bends down to press their mouths together sweetly. Shane accepts the kiss immediately but it’s chaste, and when Ilya pulls back to look at Shane, his gaze softens.
“Love you,” Ilya murmurs, releasing one of Shane’s wrists so he can rub the pads of his fingers into Shane’s jaw. He closes his eyes at the touch, nodding his head and returning the sentiment.
Ilya rolls them onto their sides, keeping them pressed close together. Shane goes pliant, just accepts where Ilya moves him, and pillows his head on Ilya’s bicep once they settle. He moves to press his forehead against Shane’s, rubbing their noses together until Shane’s scrunches up in mock annoyance. They watch each other for a moment, allowing their hands to trail over each other’s skin, and there is nothing that needs to be said.
Ilya’s gaze flicks between Shane’s eyes and his lips before slotting their mouths together again. He licks into Shane slowly, but they both know it won’t lead to more. Kissing for the sake of kissing is one of Ilya’s favorite pastimes, something they indulge in on quiet days like this. It’s lazy and tender, and Ilya can almost convince himself he’s dreaming.
Ilya is content, and he’s loved, and—despite the darkness that is bound to reappear—he will never give this up. Ilya thinks there’s no world in which he could.