Work Text:
This might just be the longest goddamn week of Shane’s life. Really and truly. These six days have been nothing but diffusively brutal; ceaseless action paired with an unending spiral of harsh, eroding practices, back to back interviews that felt like walking through a minefield with reporters who just care about getting a juicy soundbite to circulate in their newsfeed, and brand shoots with too few breaks in between the hours spent posing mechanically for cameras under blinding lights, listening to directors tell him how to move, to fix his smile, to stand straighter, to suck in a little more.
It just hasn’t stopped. He hasn’t stopped because there is no time for him to stop. There’s just been one thing after another this week, a taut schedule with no wiggle room, no space for him to sneak away and catch his breath. He wakes before the sun and is thrown into a busyness that chokes him like a noose around his neck, always moving, always doing something, always answering someone’s demands, and then he gets home at a time too late to be considered decent, bone-tired but drifting into a sleep that is less than restful, only to arise and do it all over again. It’s maddening. It’s draining. The constant barrage of emails and texts and memos he’s met with every time he picks up his phone slams into him like a wild player on the ice checking him into the boards, so much so that he’s half tempted to throw his phone across the room and hope it shatters.
He restrains himself, as he is ought to do. He instead answers robotically, professionally, politely, just like his Mom taught him to do, and tucks his phone back in his pocket like it isn’t a ticking timebomb.
He just wants a break. Just one hour, ten minutes, hell even just five minutes for him to disconnect from the reality that stipulates his every move and recharge until he feels like something a little more human, and a little less counterfeit.
And Ilya — god, it feels like they’ve barely been able to talk to each other these past few weeks. Their facetimes are few and far between, phone calls even sparser, and their texts have been reduced to fleeting heart emojis (and the occasional eggplant), a rare selfie, and good mornings and good nights to bookend their days. Sure, they’ve gone longer without contact, surviving the stretches apart solely on flirty messages and debauched banter before games, but now that it’s real? Now that he has Ilya all to himself? It’s nearly debilitating to go just a day without something. He feels like a junkie, waiting impatiently for Ilya to respond to his messages, to answer his facetime calls, to hear him whisper moy lyubimy and malysh possessively into the speaker, wishing that he was hearing them in person, in their bed, under their sheets.
It’s easier to stay in contact with Ilya on the Centaurs, but it’s not perfect. They take turns making the drive between Montreal and Ottawa whenever the opportunity arises and their schedules align, and when they don’t, bogged down with practices and sponsor commitments, Shane’s pretty much attached to his phone, texting Lily like it’s another competitive sport in his roster.
It’s distressingly difficult to keep up with each other the deeper they get into the season. Games pick up, the pressure from fans increases, and their responsibilities as Captains seem to outweigh everything else. This past week, fuck, maybe even this past month, is a testament to that, and Shane feels the deprivation intensely. His desperation to just have a moment of peace with his boyfriend, even if it’s through a screen, borders on pathetic. He knows they’re lucky to get what they have. He gets it, he does, but it doesn’t lessen the pangs of separation, nor does it smother the wanting that bubbles up every time Ilya sends him stupidly attractive pictures of him post-workout all sweaty and cheeks flushed and —
Shane just misses his boyfriend, all right? And it’s salt in the wound that the first weekend he has free in ages is also the same weekend that Ilya has to fly out to New York for a double commercial and photo shoot for some athleisure brand paying big bucks to get him to model their clothes. It’s been a taunting red icon on their shared google calendar, a constant reminder that Shane is going to be home, wandering like a ghost in his own quiet apartment, listless and lingering and lonely while his texts to Ilya remain unseen for hours because his boyfriend will be busy flitting between the makeup trailer and wardrobe, more mannequin than man under the director’s watch.
It’s these thoughts that plague him as he drives home from the rink after a grueling practice that ran way too long, and way too late, a consequence he feels deeply in his joints, his calves. The evening chill that seeps through the exterior of his jeep doesn’t help any, even though he’s got the heat on blast, vents all turned toward him. The dashboard displays a foreboding 4°C, a temperature that matches up with the grey horizon and blustery clouds obscuring the scattering of pinpoint stars across the view of his windshield.
He’s aching and cold and still feels a layer of grim over his skin despite showering after practice. He wants nothing more than to curl up in his bed, preferably with his weighted blanket and Ilya’s hoodie that doesn’t really smell like him anymore because of how often Shane wears it, but one he still reaches for because the fabric is comfortably worn-in, familiar, and reminds him embarrassingly of Ilya’s arms around him. Well, what he would really want is for Ilya’s arms to actually be around him, but he can’t have that because Ilya is on a plane right now to New York and Shane is driving despondently on a barren road to an empty apartment —
A cramp lances through his side, so sudden and sharp that Shane hisses through gritted teeth, nearly swerving into the opposite lane at the unexpected flare of pain. He just barely manages to correct himself with one hand on the wheel, his other instinctively moving to press his knuckles into the twisting muscles of his abdomen, though it does little to ease his discomfort. If anything it spreads further, the abductors and flexors of his hips contracting grievously as he shifts his foot between the pedals.
His body is in a state of objection, and has been for some time now. It started with the muscle cramps, innocuous aches that he told himself were from overuse paired with too-rough games and too-long practices. But then came the headaches that ibuprofen wouldn’t even put a dent in, a throbbing in his temples that stole away his sleep, followed by a bone-deep fatigue that lasted for too many daylight hours to be written off as simple overexertion. Each tremor that overtakes his hands, each violent spasm and uncontrollable twinge is a blaring reminder that it’s not hockey that led him here, but the fact that he is incredibly overdue for a shift.
He didn’t mean to delay it for so long. He never does, always starting his day with the intention of putting aside a couple of hours to shift, and yet — here he is again, feeling profoundly the consequences of denying his body the necessity of switching forms. The spiels of you have to take care of yourself, Shane and it’s not healthy to avoid shifting so often, Shane are familiar speeches at this point. He’s heard it from his parents, his coaches, trainers, doctors: all of them have hammered in the point that it’s crucial to find that balance between person and glider.
But in that same breath they tell him it would be beneficial to up his hours on the ice and in the gym, that he’s got inquiries from three different sports news networks looking to schedule interviews in three different timezones, and that he’s got an early morning call time for a photoshoot for some fuckass energy drink company that doesn’t even fit into his carefully curated diet. There are just not enough hours in a day for him to be both Shane Hollander, hockey player, and Shane Hollander, sugar glider, and when it comes down to it, he knows what he is going to pick every time.
Maybe tonight, if he’s lucky, he will be able to catch a couple of uninterrupted hours in his other form. This evening would be the perfect opportunity for him to do so, seeing as his night and weekend are empty of any obligations. Realistically, nothing should get in the way of him dozing in the tiered cat-tree that he misappropriated to use when he’s shifted. He bought it on a whim, a war of conflicting humiliation and want brewing in his mind as he added it to his online cart. He didn’t unpack it for weeks. The box collected dust in his living room as he ignored its presence, pushed to the corner until he felt brave enough to construct it.
Nothing should prevent him from curling up in the hammock hung between the perches, a fuzzy thing that seemed to swallow his little body whole in a way that soothed his anxious hindbrain, and finally granting himself the peace of rest. Nothing, except, well, he’ll be alone, and shifting while by himself has proven to be more detrimental than not shifting at all.
See, when he shifts, he’s small. Like, barely bigger than a hockey puck small. Like, unable to safely maneuver about his apartment on his own or feed himself a suitable meal, small. Small enough that he’s struck with a petrifying, arresting sense of fragility each and every time he melts into his other form. He’s used to being an athlete, to being muscular, durable, sturdy, but it’s the exact opposite as a glider. The disparate changes (bones like toothpicks, oversensitive ears and eyes, appendages smaller than a goddamn thumbnail, the encompassing and total vulnerability that comes with being fucking miniscule) are just not something Shane can tolerate, though not for lack of trying.
He’s attempted, perhaps foolishly, to brute force his way through a shift when he had no one with him, and the memory is still a smarting scar on his psyche all these years later. He remembers that night, freshly drafted and trying to prove something only to himself, in fearful flashes: the throw pillow he huddled behind, the fabric that felt like sandpaper against his fur, the shivering that he couldn’t parse if caused by cold or terror or both, the shameful chittering whines that escaped from his lips, the feeling of defenselessness that churned in his tiny stomach, roiling alongside a hunger he could not sate because his useless paws could not open fridges or cabinets or tupperware.
It was terrifying. It was mortifying. Everything was so much bigger than him. Bookshelves loomed, couches were treacherous mountains, and the distance between his living room and bedroom was a beast he could not fathom. Panic had lanced through him, unyielding and ferocious and so fundamentally wrong. Shifting was supposed to be calming. It was supposed to be a reprieve from the stressors of everyday life, a period of necessary recuperation for mind and body. To shift while in a state of internal calamity was dangerous and painful and not something he ever wanted to be subjected to again.
Suffice to say, Shane’s not sure he’ll be able to shift tonight, and it’s that bleak thought that hangs over his head as he pulls into the lot of his apartment building. He carries the heavy resignation with him through the lobby and up the stairs to his unit. There’s a burning ache spreading through his nape and into his traps as he hikes his duffel bag higher up on his slouching shoulders to unlock the door. He considers what he might be able to throw together for dinner, if he can even scrounge up an appetite at all, and —
He’s met with the enveloping scent of eucalyptus and lilies the moment he steps through the doorway. It’s aromatic, welcoming, and so unexpected that he freezes in place. He drops his duffel to the floor with a quiet thud, taking notice of the lights, the switched on lights, that he definitely remembers shutting off before he left that morning, as well as the enfolding warmth that permeates the air. It’s not a suffocating sort of heat, but the type that hails from burning candles and a fresh, oven-baked meal. Shane can already feel himself relaxing, jaw unclenching and breaths easing, despite the confusion that lingers around the edges.
There’s a muffled clatter from somewhere deeper in the apartment as he toes off his sneakers and unzips his coat, followed by the clinking of utensils and a patter of familiar footsteps across hardwood. He thinks about the short list of people who have keys to his place, about who could be cooking in his kitchen and lighting his aromatherapy candles, and a delicate hope blooms between his aching ribs. His parents are miles away in Ottawa, and he just left Hayden at practice, so that leaves only one who could be milling about in his home, even though all logic tells Shane that it’s impossible because he should be in New York, not Montreal, but there is a pair of Adidas shoes on the rack and a rumpled fleece that smells like cigarette smoke folded on the server in his entryway, and Shane hopes, and he wants, and that fuels him when he hesitantly calls out, “Ilya?”
And then the man himself walks out from around the kitchen island, his stupidly perfect cupid’s bow lips pulled into a satisfied, cat who ate the canary sort of grin at the sight of Shane’s shocked expression. “Suprise, moy lyubov.”
It’s embarrassing how quickly Shane closes the distance between them, drawn into Ilya’s orbit with a learned ease that only comes from years of ingrained routine, something that comes as naturally to him as maneuvering on the ice with a stick in hand and blades beneath his soles.
It’s a soft collision between the two as Ilya moves to meet him halfway, readily catching him as Shane all but tosses himself into Ilya’s open arms. He’s as warm as the apartment around them, Shane’s own personal solar flare that chases away the loitering chill that has followed Shane in from the outside as he wraps his arms solidly around Shane’s shoulders, his forearms pressing so intently that Shane swears he can feel each twitch of the corded muscles against the tense wall of his upper back. He brings his own arms up to circle Ilya’s waist until there’s no air left between them, unabashedly clutching at the loose fabric of the hoodie he wears. Shane’s hoodie, if the Reebok logo is any indication, but he bites back the teasing that’s on the tip of his tongue in favor of tucking his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck until all he knows is the scent of Ilya’s skin, Ilya’s curls brushing along his temple, the steady rap of Ilya’s pulse beating against the bridge of his nose.
He is shrouded. Surrounded. Wreathed so totally in Ilya that he lets himself sag against the man’s chest, shifting the weight of this ungodly week and his poorly, protesting body onto Ilya, who takes it all without complaint. He lets out instead a small hum, nuzzling his cheek into Shane’s hair and letting the comforting heft of his head rest atop Shane’s.
Fuck, Shane loves him. Shane loves this man so goddamn much and he’s here, rocking Shane in a gentle sway that makes involuntary and relieved tears well in his lashline. He’s spent all day thinking he would come home to a cold apartment, suffering the pangs of shift avoidance and turning in early to an empty bed with too many pillows, and the stun of that very much not happening still thrums through him, staticky and jagged but quickly dispersing under Ilya’s palms.
He doesn’t bother trying to hide his sniffles from Ilya. The man is too observant, too knowledgeable of all of Shane’s intricacies that he would snuff out any falsehoods Shane presents within moments. Instead, he allows himself to freely weep, his hitching breaths stifled by the bunched up fabric under his lips.
As predicted, Ilya clocks it immediately, his arms tightening like a vice. It’s a pressure that could be misconstrued as threatening if it were anyone else, but it’s not, it’s Ilya, and Shane melts under the firm touch.
“Oh, moy malen'kiy sakharok, why the tears, hmm? Why is my Shanya crying?” Ilya croons in his familiar medley of patronisation and concern, directly into the shell of Shane’s ear. Shane revels in it; a secret pleasure.
He huffs a lighthearted, watery noise, but croaks out in raw honesty. “I’m just really glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” Ilya says earnestly, and Shane feels like he could purr at the utter contentment in Ilya’s tone, despite not being in glider form.
And he is, too. Content, this is. He’s so fucking happy to see Ilya in person and not through the pixels of a screen, but the question of why still pokes around in the back of his head, and the need to know begins to outweigh his need to keep hiding in Ilya’s embrace, so he emerges from the nook he made for himself, searching for an explanation.
“How are you here? What about New York?” Shane prods, unclenching his fists to smooth out the hoodie under his hands, dragging his fingers up and down along the small of Ilya’s back, just because. Ilya smiles softly at his ministrations, leaning in to press a light kiss right on the plump of his cheek, where Shane knows his freckles stand out the most prominently.
“Director canceled shoot. Something about the space reserved being double booked. I don’t know, I stopped listening after I realized it meant I could be with you instead of doing stupid photoshoot.” Ilya’s hands move as he speaks, trailing up over the curve of Shane’s shoulders and neck. His callused palms cradle Shane’s jaw like he’s some sort of rare stone, thumbing away the tears that leak from the corners of his eyes. He finishes off his sentence with another kiss, this time to his opposite cheek, then a third to the tip of his nose that has Shane scrunching his face as it tickles.
It’s so endearing, so caring. He feels all mushy and soft and small at Ilya’s actions, an echo of how he should feel when he shifts. It makes his mind teeter further, the need to shift prickling underneath his skin. His glider, normally a placid sense coiling in the back of his mind, is twitching, fighting for freedom.
But then Ilya’s, well, he’s not quite frowning, but his grin fades. It’s slight, but evident enough to Shane, as close as he is. It’s taken over by something unsure, a vagueness where the gleeful peace just was. It unsettles Shane, especially when Ilya’s thumbs switch from their tender stroking to a firmer press along the apple of his cheek. His eyes explore Shane’s own, an unspoken question in his gaze and growing pinch between his brows.
“You are warm.” Ilya clicks his tongue worriedly. “And flushed. All red on your vesnushki.”
Shane grimaces. Low-grade fevers are just another bullet point on the list of entirely avoidable symptoms Shane’s experiencing, if he could just get his shit together and bring himself to shift. There’s a deflection in his throat, a reflexive instinct to deny, to insist that he’s perfectly fine, I promise, I can keep going, I can be normal, but chokes it down. Respite has never been something he was particularly skilled at, but it’s also something Ilya and he have been working on remedying.
“And so tense.” Ilya continues before he can formulate a response. His hands shift to dig into the tight muscles of Shane’s neck, the wound up trapezius that’s been bothering Shane for the better part of two days, and, oh — Ilya tucks his hands underneath Shane’s shirt collar to knead at his achy, sensitive skin, deftly massaging away the rigid knots, loosening his shoulders with confident movements. It’s a blissful relief that has Shane tilting his head back, a soft groan falling from his lips.
He’ll admit he goes a little brainless at the treatment, sinking into Ilya’s hands like putty, eyes fluttering shut as Ilya uses the opportunity to kiss his exposed chin. This time, the flush has nothing to do with his fever.
“Shane?” Ilya sing-songs, a smugness returning to his words as he moves upwards to grasp his nape, continuing his massage there, fingers tangling in the fine hair there, thumbs pressing into the hinge of his jaw. This must be how a pup feels to be scruffed. Shane doesn’t think he should like it so much, but also can’t bring himself to give a shit because it feels so goddamn good. “Are you still in there?”
“Sorry.” Shane murmurs, not apologetic in the slightest. “Feels good - Fucking shit.”
And then suddenly it’s not good, not good at all, because a severe cramp explodes through his lower back that has him heaving, nearly doubling over from the shock of jolting pain that shoots through his spine and down his thighs. It’s the worst yet, an acute contorting that overwhelms him and steals his ability to breathe without intensifying the throbbing of his limbs.
“Hey, hey, what, what’s happening? Shane?” Ilya’s voice has dropped into a thready panic, hands wrapping around Shane’s biceps to hold him up, an action Shane appreciates because it keeps him from eating his expensive hardwood flooring, knees turning to jelly, buckling under the sudden influx of pain.
“M‘back.” Shane manages to force out through gritted teeth, forehead pressing into Ilya’s collarbone. There’s sweat already breaking out on his temple, terrible tremors that he can feel all the way in his bones, his tendons, his gut. It’s swirling and volatile, and goes so much deeper than just a pulled muscle during practice. This is his very being rioting at being put to the wayside for too long, but that’s not exactly something he has the capacity to convey at the moment, so he just whimpers out, “Cramp.”
Ilya releases a steadying, but shaky, exhale into his ear. Shane latches onto the sound of Ilya’s breathing, a lifeline for his turbulent mind, as he white-knuckles the hoodie again, desperate for something to grip onto, for the pain to stop.
“Okay, okay,” Ilya rasps, adjusting his hold so that he can slip his hands beneath the hem of Shane’s shirt again, this time at his hips, big palms petting back and forth along the taut skin of his back and flank. It’s a counterpressure that Shane relishes in, and draws a series of hitched grunts from deep in his throat. “Shh, it will pass, malysh. Just breathe for me, just like that.”
Shane thinks of a lot of different curses he could spout out right now, if his body was working properly. But his back is still a mess of twinging knots and angry muscles, so he makes a conscious effort to narrow his focus onto Ilya, and only him; to let himself be distracted by Ilya’s racing heart under his cheek, his unflinching touch, his guiding voice whispering in an unending stream of reassurances, Is okay, I am here, milyy, vso khorosho, lyubimy, I have you.
It subsides in increments. Agonizing, horrible increments that last only minutes, but feels like hours. Instinct seizes him, sharp and tempting, to change, to shift, to make the pain go away, but he can’t. It’s not right. Prey impulse rears its ugly, helpless head. He’s too open, exposed on all sides in a too-big apartment. His pulse is too erratic in his veins and feet unsteady under his weight.
It’s a battleground in his head, and all Shane wants to do is wave his white flag.
Fortunately, Ilya does it for him.
“Come, let’s sit.” Ilya speaks lowly, urging Shane to move in small, shuffling footsteps towards the couch, an act Shane is grateful for as he’s not sure how much longer he would have been able to remain upright. He goes willingly, allowing Ilya to gently manhandle him onto the cushion, his secure grip on him never once wavering as he helps Shane to lean back against the arm of the couch. “Easy, easy… there we go. That’s better, right, malysh?”
Ilya’s right. It feels infinitely better to be off his feet and have his spasming back propped up on the plush throw pillows Ilya picked out last time he was in Montreal, claiming the ones his interior designer bought were too itchy Shane, I cannot fuck you in these conditions. His skin still feels like it’s thrumming, his bones rickety, like one wrong move will send him crumbling, but then Ilya is sitting beside him, bent knee pressing reassuringly into his thigh. His warm hands sooth up and down his biceps as he studies Shane, crystalline eyes watching him raptly. And maybe in the past he would have felt flayed, split open for an intrusive examination like an embalmed frog in a middle school science class, but all he feels now is inordinately loved.
Their breathing syncs in the comedown. It’s not quite peaceful, he still feels much too wrung out for that, but it’s inching its way there. The city skyline outside his windows is an expansive array of yellowed lights and thin clouds. Lilies still scent the air, sweet and potent, wafting from the flickering candle on the coffee table. The wax sits concave in the jar, wick as black as tar; it’s his favorite out of the pack of floral scented aromatherapy candles his Mom had gifted him for Christmas last year, and the familiar smell wraps around his senses like his weighted blanket. Shane finds that this is also when the humiliation seeps in. It feels like sludge in his throat, thick and suffocating, and he can’t help but to try to apologize, because he can’t imagine this is how Ilya was expecting their night to start. “I, um, I’m sorry - ”
“No.” Ilya interrupts him, shaking his head, curls ruffled with the force of it. He’s vehement when he speaks. “No sorries for what we cannot control. Isn’t that what you say?”
Fucking caring asshole boyfriend turning his own words against him. It warms Shane from the inside out, a crackling hearth in his ribcage, kindled by Ilya’s unabashed caretaking, and he feels the impressing urge to reciprocate. He wants to nuzzle into the crease of Ilya’s neck where he smells the strongest of Ilya until he’s awashed in their mixed scents, marked to other keen noses as taken. He wants to run his fingers through the golden ringlets that frame Ilya’s face, to peck his nose and the fine hair of his brows and the moles on his cheeks and the dip in his chin and the bow of his lips. He wants to shrink, to crawl across Ilya’s broad shoulders and perch on his biceps with the surety that Ilya will never let him tumble. He wants to chirp, to vocalize to Ilya his safety and appreciation through the soft chittering that he’s only capable of when changed.
But he doesn’t do any of that, because he’s not a glider right now. He just scoffs, lighthearted and fond and full of unspoken adoration. “I guess it is.”
Ilya just hums, then his hands return to Shane’s face, cupping his ruddy cheeks with spread fingers, thumbs moving in slow, comforting circles. It’s not a new sensation to Shane. One of Ilya’s favorite pastimes is counting and cataloguing his freckles (and kissing them, and licking, and biting — ), insisting that he has to get up close and personal to do so, and so Shane is accustomed to Ilya indulging in the free range he has of Shane’s face. He doesn’t flinch when Ilya’s fingers drag across his scalp, or when Ilya pinches his cheeks just to see the skin pinken. He doesn’t say anything beyond a contented exhale when Ilya takes him by the chin to tilt his head around, to see them at every angle, malysh, nor when he uses a single fingertip to trace the jut of his browbone, the slope of his nose, the curl of his lips. Touch, for the sake of touch.
So, no, it’s not a new sensation for Shane to have his skull held so delicately, but that doesn’t mean the wave of unadulterated veneration that crashes over him each time lessens any. It’s nearly blinding, to have Ilya’s sole focus placed on him, like he’s staring at the sun on a balmy day, or the rustorange embers of the Cottage’s firepit. Shane could burn happily, surrounded by Ilya’s radiance.
“Shane,” Ilya stretches his name out, accent lilting into a questioning tone. His eyes pin Shane in place, and Shane swallows nervously. The uneasiness is back, etched into Ilya’s features, and it makes Shane ache because he knows he put it there. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from whining when Ilya finally asks, “When was the last time you shifted?”
Fuck. Shane deflates, air scraping out his lungs like splinters. That was the question he was dreading because he won’t lie to Ilya, he won’t, but the answer he has will not be one that satisfies, because the last time he shifted was the last time he saw Ilya: two whole months ago. Almost three, really. Which, well, isn’t the healthiest of choices he’s made, evidently.
He was naively hoping that Ilya wouldn’t put the pieces together, that he wouldn’t connect the muscle cramps, the fever, and the general malaise he’s radiated since walking in the door to shifting avoidance, but Shane knows realistically that never would have happened. Ilya knows him too well. Shit, Ilya probably already had an inkling as to how long it’s been since Shane’s last shift, and was just waiting for Shane to admit it aloud. He’s tricky like that, pushing him, albeit gently because you are like olenyonok, Shane, baby deer running away to hide, into asking for help on his own.
Ilya’s hands on his face don’t let him hide now. His skin prickles with the heat of recognition. He’s suddenly very aware of his own body, sore and unmoored. He brings his hands up to ring Ilya’s wrists in a futile attempt to keep from squirming, grounding himself to the beat of Ilya’s pulsepoint under his fingertips.
“Shane.” Ilya repeats, somewhere between a plea and a warning. It goes through Shane’s composure like an iron spike.
“With you.” He blurts out, eyes slanting to land somewhere over Ilya’s shoulder. He squeezes Ilya’s wrists, palm tight on bone. “Last time I shifted, it was when I was with you last. In Ottawa.”
Ilya blinks, as if that wasn’t the answer he was expecting, and Shane winces. So maybe Ilya didn’t actually have an idea as to the extent Shane has been actively not shifting. It’s just, well — he’s recently come to the conclusion that Ilya may have a point when he jokes that he has ruined Shane for anyone else, because the thought of shifting without Ilya by his side is about as enticing as breaking his collarbone again.
“That is not healthy, moy lyubov.” Ilya finally says, voice unbearably tender. Shane swears he can feel each ridge of Ilya’s fingerprints burning into the contours of his face, imbuing the distressing totality of Ilya’s concern for him. “It is not good to go that long between shifts.”
“I know, I know, I just…” He’s not sure he has the words to articulate to Ilya the profundity that, somewhere through the years of their entanglement, his glider latched onto Ilya with a ferociousness that startled even him. His claws, tiny and curved, might as well have been talons with how they sunk into the stability that Ilya offered, stubbornly refusing to release. His instincts, usually tampered down by his own insecurity, flared safely in Ilya’s presence. He doesn’t know how to tell Ilya that his glider looks at him captivated, and sees mate. He lands on a more manageable explanation, though it still brings a flush of embarrassment to the tops of ears. “I just don’t feel safe anymore, doing it without you.”
Whatever reaction Shane thought Ilya would have doesn’t hold a candle to the mesmerizing display of awe that plays out across Ilya’s face. Ilya looks at him like Shane’s just handed him the moon, the stars, and all the ornate constellations in the night sky on a silver platter. His eyes glitter under the yellow lamplight like the Cottage’s lake beneath the sun’s rays, raw and enthralling. Shane could dive in and happily never surface again.
And then, oh, Ilya’s pulling him closer by the hold he has of his face and kissing him with such an intensity that Shane would think they have been separated for years, rather than months. Ilya’s lips are soft and insistent and taste like the blackberry chapstick Shane knows he favors over all others. Shane returns it in kind, savoring the gentle push and pull of the kiss. His hands drift up Ilya’s arms, fingers raking through the soft curls at his nape like its second nature. His toes curl into the seam of his socks, a pleasant thrum ringing through him, a balm to his frayed nerves.
When Ilya pulls back, face barely inches from Shane’s, he’s out of breath. Shane gazes at the spit that glistens at the corner of his lips, blush-pink and widening into a honeyed smile. He imagines he looks quite the same, and just about melts in the calm that permeates the air around him, feeling like sticky-sweet spun sugar under the sun’s beams. “Moy malen'kiy sakharok, milyy, moy Shanya.” Ilya purrs, endearments slipping out with exuberant abandon, little drops of Russian affection that Shane would bottle up and pocket if he could. Ilya bookends the words with kisses peppered across his cheeks, a relentless onslaught of pecks and exaggerated mwahs that has him giggling like a little boy again, fond and light and blissful.
Ilya pulls away when it seems he’s had his fill, and Shane can’t help the happy trill that escapes from somewhere deep in his vocal cords. The sound draws a responding noise from Ilya, punched-out and full of astonishment. “Shane,” Ilya’s voice trembles with something weighty and sincere, accent thick. “Is an honor, nyet, a privilege, to be trusted with this piece of you. I will not take lightly. Ya obeshchayu, I swear.”
He doesn’t doubt him. Not for a single moment. His glider is fucking preening, elation buzzing through him like he’s just downed a flute of champagne. He loves this man so fucking much, this sefless and caring and unremitting man who calls him the sweetest array of pet names that turn his knees to jelly, who bought multiple sets of the same flannel sheets just because Shane had commented once that they were a good texture, who keeps the big lights off and dimmer lamplight on because that’s what Shane prefers, who wears his hoodies backwards so Shane can burrow into the hood like it’s a marsupial’s pouch, carried around while Ilya goes about his day, who says nothing when Shane chews his sweater strings to shreds, who has decked out his Ottawa apartment with handbuilt perches and shelves for him to explore when a glider, who races him on hikes at the Cottage and gently cradles him after by the light of the firepit, who makes Shane feel extraordinarily, and exceptionally safe.
“Now change, please.” Ilya is sniffling when he withdraws from Shane’s personal space, releasing his hold on him to rub at his nose with the edge of his wrist, a feeble attempt at composing himself. Ilya plasters on a pout, dials up the begging in his eyes, and Shane wants to eat him whole. “I want my sugar.”
Fucking christ. It’s not the first time Ilya has referred to him as such, not by a long shot, but hearing the word roll off his tongue, pleading and petulant, doesn’t fail to make him blush a burning shade of rose. He ignores the flush, as well as the teasing tilt of Ilya’s lips at the sight of it, and instead heeds his direction to finally give in to the instincts that have been battling for dominance all evening.
But first, because the words are fighting against his incisors to be freed — “I love you.”
Ilya beams. “Ya tebya bol’she lyublyu.”
He steals one last kiss, a quick press of their lips to center himself, before inhaling a measured breath, eyelids fluttering shut.
It starts, as it always does, as a tugging somewhere deep in his core, followed by a humming in his bones. He leans into the pull, relishing in the fundamental reshaping of his nerves and synapses and tendons and sinew. It’s like his very marrow is effervescing. His ears pop. His muscles fold in on themselves. His spine shrinks with an audible crackling. His mind goes fuzzy on the fringes, complex thoughts simplifying into something primal. It’s an unspooling of his cells, the tightly bound thread of his being finally being let loose, and laced gingerly between Ilya’s capable digits.
When he opens his eyes again, the world around him is much bigger, and he is much smaller. It’s dizzying to have his center of gravity thrown off so monumentally. Shifting from a grown man to glider always leaves him rattled for a few moments, like a turbulence has taken hold of him, because suddenly he can smell everything — the traces of nicotine gum on Ilya’s teeth, the lemon of the furniture polish he uses on his coffee table, his laundry detergent woven into the fibers of the hoodie Ilya wears. His field of vision has expanded into a wider peripheral tinged in hues of grays and reds. His ears, sensitive even when not shifted, are another beast entirely when a glider. They’re thin, veins nearly visible through the fine covering of umber fur, and moving on a swivel as he absorbs the many sounds of his apartment: the hum of electricity echoing from his kitchen appliances, the muffled traffic from outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, Ilya’s even breathing across from him.
“There he is, my little sugar.” Ilya downright coos, gazing down at him with such a lovesick expression that Shane worries he’ll get a toothache just from association. “That feels much better, da?”
It really does. It feels inordinately right to be in this body, tail swishing back and forth, pink nose twitching, whiskers tracing the space around him, wide, dark eyes blinking up at Ilya. But he’s also acutely aware of the cool leather of his couch rubbing against his sensitive underbelly, sliding along his mottled, smokegray fur uncomfortably. He hates the way it feels, and hates even more the lack of traction between his paws and the leather, feeling worryingly unstable, as if he’ll slip right off the couch with one misplaced step. It draws a plaintive whine from him, squeaky gurgles unique to a glider’s vocal cords. Crabbing, it’s called: a sugar glider’s cry for aid when frightened.
“No, no more crying, malysh.” Ilya admonishes tenderly, reaching immediately to scoop Shane up into his cupped hands. The sudden move startles him briefly, another high-pitched chirp escaping him, but Ilya just shushes him, cradling him close to his chest, and Shane just about melts into Ilya’s palms like gooey caramel. His hands are so big and warm, nearly enveloping Shane’s little body whole in a hold that promises an impenetrable security, surrounded by Ilya's shower-fresh scent and resting in the crease of his lifeline, and god, how did he ever shift before Ilya? He can’t imagine ever depriving his glider of this, now that he’s had a taste of the peaceful intimacy of laving his tongue across the callouses and divots of Ilya’s digits, knows that he can freely and openly return his affection with gentle headbutts to Ilya’s thumb, rubbing his own scent along the spaces between his fingers.
“Aww, my sugar is so sweet, so good.” Ilya’s voice has dropped into a wonderstruck whisper, brushing down his spine with just the tip of his index finger. Shane shivers at the touch, the beginnings of an appreciative purr ringing between his ribs. His tail moves with a mind of its own, curling around the base of Ilya’ thumb, though he knows the man would never drop him. Ilya hums, and he’s close enough to Ilya that he can feel the echo of the rumble. It’s paired with Ilya’s steady heartbeat, Shane’s own personal white noise machine.
“Let’s get you your pouch and your lovey, hmm?” Ilya rises from the couch, but is clearly moving much slower than he normally would, and it makes Shane’s heart feel too big for his body, because that means Ilya remembers that moving too quickly with Shane in his grasp sends him into an addling dizzy spell, and is actively taking the steps to prevent that. He nuzzles further into the valleys of Ilya’s palm and grapples at his knuckles, emphasizing his gratitude.
Ilya glances at him, lips curling into a smile as he walks across the living room to kneel in front of the TV stand. The cubby space there is good storage for Shane’s growing candle collection, spare throw blankets, various sized heating pads, and, perhaps most importantly, the items he only dares to bring out when he shifts. Ilya has to adjust his hold to reach them, and though he expects it, he still squeaks at the jostling, and nips playfully at Ilya’s skin.
Ilya clicks his tongue, though without any heat. He looks more amused than anything else. “I know, forgive me, but I’ll be quick, soplyak.”
And he is, to be fair. Shane watches Ilya pull out first the pouch — it’s a sort of crossbody bag that sits high on Ilya’s chest when worn, right above his sternum, the closest thing Shane could get to crawling into his skin. It’s a simple gray fabric on the outside, but the inner lining is a cream-colored mink fleece material that feels absolutely wonderful against his fur, a perfect burrow for him to hide in and take refuge from the demands of his everyday life. Ilya places it atop the TV stand, and reaches his free hand back in the cubby for what he so fondly refers to as Shane’s lovey: a beanie baby that Ilya had presented to him sometime after their first stay at the Cottage. But it’s not just any beanie baby, no, it’s a Boston Raiders beanie baby: a classic teddy bear sewn of black fabric and embroidered with the tell-tale gold cannon and capital R on its front, and a 81 on its ear.
(Shane remembers seeing the ads for it all over social media when the collaboration announcement dropped. Hockey fans went wild for the limited edition collectible, so much so that the TY Toys website crashed from too many users at once. Ilya gifted him the bear with a proud, teasing grin that morphed into something heartwrenchingly endearing when he said, you cannot wear my jersey, but you can have my bear, that will have to do for now, yes? Shane kissed him with salt on his lips and a melancholic hope in his chest, hugging both the bear and Ilya close.)
It takes a bit of tricky maneuvering for Ilya to sling the pouch over his shoulders without putting Shane down, but he manages, and soon enough Ilya is depositing him into the pouch with a deliberate carefulness, hands hovering until he’s sure that he’s comfortable. Shane can’t stop the happy chirps that fall from his lips, filling the air like birdsong. He nestles into the fleece, rubbing his head along the silken surface just to be able to feel it run soothingly along his fur. The slow rise and fall of Ilya’s chest is a firm counterpressure; the curves and grooves of his pecs cushioned by the softness of the pouch, but still noticeable enough for Shane. A tangle of elation and warmth engulfs him with a totality that might have once sent him spiraling, but now just feels good. He’s purring again, twisting around in the confines of the pouch and luxuriating in the distinct sensations, stimming more freely as a glider than he ever has as a man.
“Feel good?” Ilya lets out an airy laugh and, thanks to their proximity, he can feel intimately the way his breath catches, heartbeat stuttering in his ribs. He chitters in response, poking his head out over the rim of the pouch to meet Ilya’s cotton-candy gaze. Ilya coos at him, a low and adoring sound, and uses just his thumb to gently pet along the curve of his skull between his ears. “My pretty boy.”
Fucking fuck, how did he ever get so goddamn lucky? He could just about burst with all the love he’s got thrumming in his teeny body. He’s squirming with it, and before he consciously realizes he’s doing it, kneading at the fleece with his tiny claws like he’s a kitten, rather than a glider. Ilya spots the movement quickly, and his eyes crinkle with the force of his grin.
“Ah, moy kotyonok, you want something to snuggle?” Ilya teases, because yes, obviously he wants something to snuggle, he always does when he’s shifted. Ilya knows this, this is why he has his lovey. He whines, unrepentant, and continues his tinny cries until Ilya yields.
“Hey, hey, what did I say about crying? You have to stop that, you know I do not handle your tears well.” Ilya rambles, but he’s moving, twisting around to grab the beanie baby and slotting it beside Shane. It’s a bit of tight fit to squeeze both him and the stuffed bear into the pouch, but it’s one that he doesn’t mind at all, because the closeness creates a wondrous bubble of comforting textures, soft compression, and the lingering spice of Ilya’s cologne — he swears Ilya spritzes a dash of it on the bear every time he is over, but has yet to catch him in the act.
See, it's difficult to translate his natural tactility with Ilya into something similar when a glider. He naturally, and often, drifts towards a heavy pressure; weighted blankets stacked with duvets when he sleeps with arms and legs folded up close to his middle, deep tissue massages from the Metros’ resident massage therapist that he feels the after effects for days after, and his absolute favourite: Ilya laying with his full body mass on top of him, flattening him into the mattress, large palms wandering up and down his sides without an endgame, just offering a firm, endless touch until all the tension just bleeds from his body, until Shane no longer feels like he’s floating away.
He can’t quite accomplish that same sense of release when a glider, seeing as he shrinks down to a creature no more than eight inches in length, and Ilya remains a bulked out, 6’3 hockey player that could squish him without breaking a sweat, so the beanie baby is a more than adequate compromise. Its beanbag bottom is weighty enough for him to curl up against, its limbs the perfect length and width for him to grip onto. He curls into it like he does with Ilya in their bed, tucking his head into the plush shoulder, tail winding around one of the legs, and continuing his self-soothing kneading on the Raiders’ logo. It’s nice to have something to hold onto, especially something that smells like Ilya, that Ilya gave him, that reminds him of Ilya’s care and affection.
“There we go, nice and cozy.” Ilya whispers, and Shane chirps because he is, he’s so warm, so safe, the very opposite of how he thought this night was gonna go. He’s in his pouch, with his lovey, his Ilya swaddling him securely, Ilya’s rasp blanketing him as he speaks. “Rest, milyy. I will take care of you tonight, hmm? I think you need.”
He’s noticed over the years that Ilya tends to temper his words when he’s a glider, like he’s padding each sentence with verbal insulation, cushioning his accent and speaking to Shane as if his adult mind doesn’t transfer over in the shift. It initially felt condescending, humiliation trickling down his spine like boiling water, but after an emotionally draining conversation (with levels of communication that would have sent a younger him and Ilya into shock), he learned Ilya genuinely meant no harm. He knew Shane needed soft, and he was giving him soft. Like right now, as Ilya cups the bottom of the pouch to keep it from swaying too much as he walks, humming a pop tune that goes over his head as he moves towards the kitchen.
“I bet you are hungry, hmm?” Ilya comments lightly, uncaring of Shane’s lack of response, and makes the decision for them both. “Yes, let’s get some food in you.”
It’s a giddy sort of bliss, being able to drift into an uncomplicated calm and just let Ilya be in charge for a while. He lays cradled in the pouch like an infant, carried as close to Ilya’s heart as his Mother’s crucifix is, as Ilya goes about the mundane motions of preparing something for them both to eat. His eyes flutter shut, letting Ilya’s gentle movements — the turns of his gait as he navigates Shane’s kitchen without hesitation, the stretch of his arms as he collects dishes from cabinets, utensils from drawers, and containers of fruit from the fridge (his glider approved diet consists of non-acidic fruit and leafy greens, options that he knows Ilya has long since memorized, same with his macrobiotic go-tos), the twist of his hips as he walks around the jut of the island counter — rock him into a loose doze. There are no demands on him right now. There are no expectations for him to meet, no goals to be made or plays to be planned. He can just relax. Unwind, with the reassurance that Ilya will take care of everything, of him, in the interim.
A snuffling sort of squeak falls from his snout, whiskers twitching against the golden embroidered R of his lovey (god, if his Mom knew about its existence, he’s sure she would have a conniption), as the last dredges of strain dissipates. Ilya must notice because suddenly the quiet is broken by his soft murmuring, voice verging on a coo he usually reserves for his teammates' babies.
“Moy Shanya, blyat, you are so fucking cute.” Ilya starts, a reverential echo to his tone. “I love you so fucking much. Zhdu ne dozhdus' togo dnya, kogda smogu skazat' vsemu miru, chto ty tol'ko moy.”
He doesn’t know enough Russian yet to translate what it is that Ilya was saying at the end there, but the possessive intonation is clear enough. Shane revels in it like he does the mink lining of the pouch, savoring the warmth that coils around his tiny heart at the sound of them. Ilya loves him, and he loves Ilya, and that’s all that really matters in this moment.
He drifts along, listening to the snap of tupperware and crinkle of tin foil as Ilya tidies up whatever meal he was in the middle of making before he shifted, and only allows himself to feel guilty for a brief, painful minute before ushering those gloomy thoughts away because he knows Ilya would not approve of him stewing in unwarranted shame. It could be reheated, whatever it was, he’s sure, and would make a good dinner for the two of them tomorrow evening. Instead, he hears the clatter of his wooden cutting board, the clink of a plate on his granite counter. Ilya narrates his actions soothingly, offering translations, apple is yabloko, okay? and these pears are grusha, and, oh, don’t worry, I’m taking skin off, I know you do not like feel of in your mouth, accompanied by the shink of a knife cutting the various fruits into pieces small enough for him.
Time passes in a fluid type of film that he’s only adjacently connected to. He gets lost in the vibrations of Ilya’s tenor, his easy breathing, the simple sounds of hands at work. He doesn’t even realize Ilya’s brought them back to the living room until Ilya is bending to sit on the couch, and the brief change in angle jostles both him and the bear. He vocalises his displeasure, pouting as best he can with a snout and lessened facial muscles.
(It’s been an uphill battle to get him to this point, to express himself as openly as he does as a glider. Ilya had reassured him with a ceaseless patience that he wants all of Shane’s reactions. He doesn’t care if they come from places of cheer or from the depths of his anxiety, he wants to know, always, the truth of how Shane is feeling, especially as a glider, so that he can respond accordingly. He still struggles, snapping shut like a bear trap. Ilya does the same, boarding up his cracks before Shane can peek through, but it’s something they’re working on together.)
Ilya clicks his tongue teasingly, mirth laced in the action. “Relax. I am just getting comfy, is that not allowed?”
He chitters, and hopes the noise conveys the fond, unspoken asshole. It must, as Ilya smiles down at him before shifting his attention to dig for the TV remote from between the pile of throw pillows.
“What to watch? Any ideas?” Ilya asks airily as Shane sits up a little, using the bear’s fluffy body as leverage to pop his head over the lip of the pouch. He does, in fact, have many opinions on what to put on, even if he isn't necessarily going to pay full attention, and levels a pointed glare at Ilya’s mischievous little smirk.
“Fussy, fussy sugar. I know the rules: no action movies, no thrillers, no explosions, no car chases. Trust me, I will find something good for both of us.” Ilya leans down to emphasize his promise with a light peck to his head, right between his ears, and Shane trills.
Ilya speaks like he’s put upon, but Shane easily detects the gravity hidden beneath the humor. Ilya knows how his sensitivity skyrockets when shifted, how everything seems dialed up to an infinitesimal level of sensory hell that leaves him only able to tolerate a mollified environment. Thus, Ilya’s usual preference of heart-racing, physics defying action flicks is a no-go unless he wants Shane distressingly overwhelmed — which, he doesn’t, ever, so he flips through the channels until he lands on HGTV. It’s clearly an older episode of some house hunting show with a plucky couple gushing about a patterned tile backsplash and a realtor with too much mascara clumped on, but it’s perfect for Shane. Perfect for both of them really, since he doesn’t have to worry about getting overstimulated, watching his guilty pleasure reality show, and Ilya can pick apart the ‘terrible opinions of straight people without taste’. It’s a win-win.
He settles himself against the beanie baby, propping his chin on the edge of the pouch to ensure a good view, and then is startled by something pale and sweet-smelling entering his vision abruptly. Ilya hushes him, apologetic, and holds the piece of food in front of his lips.
“Here, sweetheart, eat some apple for me?” Ilya requests, and Shane sinks his curved incisors into the fruit, the juice dripping along his gums and tongue. His paws come up to latch onto Ilya’s thumb, keeping him steady as he eats. He used to shy away from the handfeeding, feeling a shade too vulnerable at the action, but Ilya is nothing if not persistent (and stubborn, hardheaded, ridiculously determined), and gingerly pushed Shane into permitting the nurturing act. It’s now something he looks forward to, knowing that he doesn’t have to spend the hours leading up to his shift worrying about how he’s going to sustain himself as a tiny marsupial. Ilya has it all handled: chopping fruit into thin slices that he won’t choke on and presenting him with the pieces to nibble on until he’s had his fill.
That’s how the rest of the episode unfurls. Ilya holds up a piece of fruit for him, Shane latching onto his sticky digits to snack on the cubes of apples and pears, then cuts of mangoes and grapes. He’s careful not to get any on the bear, licking clean Ilya’s fingers while the droning voice of the realtor describes the many amenities of the next house. What the fuck Hollander, why do you not have a laundry chute? I want a laundry tunnel. Ilya sneaks some morsels of his own but it seems more like an afterthought to Shane, as if Ilya’s mind is trained entirely on Shane’s appetite over his own. He nudges the next couple of pieces up toward Ilya’s mouth. Ilya smiles at him like he’s offered him the Stanley Cup. “Spasibo, moy lyubov.” Ilya sweeps bent knuckles along his fuzzy jaw, and Shane rubs back in tandem.
The plate is cleared by the time the realtor secures a sale. He is sated, curled up against the plush hold of the bear, Ilya’s heartbeat in his ears. Ilya’s meticulously wiping the sticky, fruit juice residue from his fingers on a tissue he’s pulled from the box on the side table as the outro plays a jaunty tune. He’s struck by another bout of overwhelming affection for his boyfriend because he knows Ilya’s scrupulousness in the simple act of cleaning off his hands was solely for Shane’s benefit, as the thought of getting anything stuck or clumped into his fur makes his skin crawl miserably. It happened once before, a couple drops of raspberry juice leaked from the container and onto his back while Ilya was meal prepping with him in the pouch, and it was horrendous. Ilya spent close to the next hour diligently washing him, shushing him with Russian placations and gentle pets while he hissed and cried, holding him in the sink under a stream of warm water until he was squeaky clean and free of any red staining his fur.
Now, Ilya is careful to keep his hands immaculately tidy when handling Shane, and watching the act of cleansing feels a little like a religious experience, knowing Ilya is doing it only for him. Ilya tosses the crumpled tissue onto the empty plate, leaving it on the coffee table to be dealt with later, presumably. A part of Shane itches to deal with it now, but is quickly distracted by Ilya’s deft fingers, scratching behind his ears and caressing down his side. It works as a pretty sufficient distraction, Shane will give him that, because he barely registers Ilya’s next question, lost in the soothing sensations.
“Next episode, dorogoy?” Ilya asks, boarding on a croon, and Shane squints up at him. “Is your favourite, the weird married couple breaking and fixing houses.” He chirps, poking his head out again to see the screen because yes, that one is his favourite house flipping show, and he hates to miss it, even if he is a glider. Ilya chuckles, continuing in his ministrations with the same precision and care he exudes on the ice while reclining further onto the couch, stretching out his legs to rest his crossed ankles on the table.
Ilya’s touch is like a sedative, and he laps it up like it’s a precious oasis in miles of burning sand. He feels like he’s been rolling around in that sand, like something molten has taken residence in his brittle bones, a liquid gold roiling beneath the folds of his skin and fur. It’s an enmeshment of peace and pleasure and contentment, like sparkling starbursts across his nerves.
But —
He’s not sure exactly when it becomes not enough, but at some point between the couple buying a near derelict two-story house and the first week of renovation, a vexing sort of itch travels across his body, like briar thorns have replaced the cushion of the pouch, nettles wrestling in his veins. An urge for more, demanding and restless, surges in him like a torrential riptide.
It’s not enough. He’s not close enough, despite being pillowed on Ilya’s sternum, and craves something greater. He peers up at Ilya and is met with a perfect view of his stubbled chin, the angle of his jaw, his half-bleary eyes enraptured by a show he typically touts as boring real estate porn. He’s utterly lovestruck, disastrously and embarrassingly so, by this man, that it makes the decision to abandon his pouch an easy one.
It takes a moment of shifting around in the minky fluff to get his footing, but he manages. Using his little claws to grip onto the fabric like a real glider would the bark of a tree, he climbs out and crawls onto the planes of Ilya’s chest. He’s usually more careful with his claws, wary of putting holes in his or Ilya’s clothes, but he finds himself quite apathetic to his Reebok hoodie that Ilya is wearing because right now, it’s just another obstacle to his end goal.
Ilya clearly hadn’t been expecting Shane to be moving so suddenly, or to use him like a human trellis, as he startles, looking down at him with confused alarm plain on his face. “Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” His hands hover above him, a precautionary safety net that leaves him feeling uniquely impervious, because he trusts that Ilya wouldn’t let him fall — wouldn’t let anything happen to him, really.
He doesn’t bother responding to Ilya with anything more than a handful of chitters as he continues his determined trek up Ilya’s pec, over his collarbone, and up onto his shoulder. He plods around the nape of Ilya’s neck and collar of the hoodie, extremely mindful of his claws near Ilya’s skin and the baby hairs lining the area. Settling himself blithely on Ilya’s opposite shoulder, he nestles into the folds of the downturned hood, wrapping around the curve of Ilya’s neck like a fuzzy choker.
The tip of his tail grazes Ilya’s adam’s apple. The tops of his ears brush against Ilya’s earlobe. Ilya’s pulsepoint, the prettiest melody he thinks he’s ever heard, is a fixed beat at his side. The pouch and the beanie baby are good, but this is immeasurably better. He nuzzles indulgently, soaking up the warmth seeping from Ilya’s skin, inhaling his scent. He wants to memorize the cosy intimacy of the moment. Melt it down into his own talisman to hang around his neck and carry everywhere he goes.
“Ah, I see.” Ilya says, leaning back against the couch again, initial panic receding. Shane can hear the soft, pleased glee blatant in his voice. “You just wanted to be closer, hmm?”
Yes, he did, and he got exactly what he wanted. Doubling down, he snuggles closer into the junction of Ilya’s neck, pressing his damp nose to the mole beside his face in a facsimile of a kiss. He feels the flex of Ilya’s muscles as he swallows, followed by a delicate tremor in his chin, then a punched-out breath.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” Ilya professes. Shane doesn’t have to look up to know that Ilya’s become teary-eyed, but he does, and spots the watery tracks trailing down his cheeks. He can’t stop the whines he lets out at the sight, and without words to convey his resolute opposition to that statement, he licks away the tears as they teeter on Ilya’s jaw, punctuated by the barest of nips. He won’t break skin, but he needs Ilya to understand that no, he deserves everything good and wonderful and kind in the world, and just because he’s shifted doesn’t mean he’s just going to sit idly by and let Ilya speak ill of himself.
The message appears to get across since Ilya lets out a meek laugh, a fragile smile spreading across his lips. “Okay, okay, I get it. I will be nicer to me.” Clumsily, Ilya uses the jut of his wrist to scrub at the wet evidence of his insecurity beneath his eyes. He watches patiently as Ilya collects himself, nosing at the hinge of Ilya’s jaw, rubbing against the prickly stubble there, hoping he can instill in Ilya the same sense of safety and security that he fosters in Shane.
“Let’s agree on no more tears tonight, okay?” Ilya proposes with a subdued sort of humor, like a light flickering on in a soot-filled hearth. Shane trills because yes, he’d be quite happy to spend the rest of the night basking in the tender cosseting of Ilya’s hand, cherishing the few hours they have to rest, to recuperate, to not think about the pressures of the real world, together — and he does.
Curled in the soft notch between the hood and Ilya’s scruff, sheltered by his size, he lets himself go listless, allowing the fatigue that’s plagued him all day to drift to the forefront. A tell-tale gentle rumble starts up in his chest, unbidden and unfettered. Ilya’s chin ducks down, lips skimming the top of his little head. Indolently, he watches the renovators on the screen pick between different flooring options. Though he only places half his attention there, and the rest of it on drinking in the solace of Ilya’s presence and quiet commentary. And when sleep claims him for the night, it’s a smooth dissent into slumber, eased by the comforting knowledge that Ilya is there, looking after them both.