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    Summary

    It’s surprisingly easy, natural even, to crawl into Rozanov’s lap. To cradle his blonde head between his palms and weave his fingers through Rozanov’s thick curls; to rub his thumb over Rozanov’s earlobe and gently rock them back and forth at the edge of the mattress.

    The shape of Rozanov--Ilya, he reminds himself, Ilya--is solid beneath him. He’s warm and sniffly, his face pressed into Shane’s pec right by his armpit, his tears soaking through the fabric of Shane’s nice, new shirt but he finds he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind even a little bit when Ilya breathes shakily and rubs his nose over the sleeve of Shane’s shirt, probably leaving behind a trail of snot. In fact, something in him warms and unfurls and spreads all throughout his body at the action. At the vulnerability in it. He wants to tuck Ilya into his chest and keep him there. Maybe forever.

    That particular thought makes Shane’s stomach twist itself into an uncomfortable knot.

    I would never be able to go back home again. Do you get that?

    OR: Another fic about the missing Tampa scene, this time blending book and show canon.

    Language:
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