Chapter Text
Shane is sitting across from him at the table, elbows braced, hands folded like he’s waiting for instructions. He looks relaxed, technically. His face open in that way that usually means everything is fine.
It does not mean that today.
“Sooo.” Ilya says, dragging the word out, testing it. “Your father. He always wake up at five, or this just because you?”
“What?” Shane blinks.
“See?” Ilya bites back a smile. “You are gone. I am talking, and you are in brain somewhere else. Where?”
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Nothing important.” Ilya shrugs. “Just your family.”
That gets a real reaction. Shane exhales and scrubs a hand over his face. He leans back in the chair, which creaks in protest.
“They were fine.” Shane says. “My parents. They’re—fine.”
Ilya hums. He has learned this word. Fine is a trap.
Shane’s knee bounces under the table. There it is. Ilya reaches out without thinking and stills it with his foot, toe pressing lightly against Shane’s ankle.
“They hugged you.” Ilya says. “They said they love you. They asked me about Russia. Your mother gave me food.”
“She does that,” Shane says automatically. “Yeah.”
Shane presses his fingers to his temple like he’s trying to keep something from leaking out. It’s subtle, the way he does it,quick,but Ilya sees it anyway.
“Head hurts?” Ilya asks.
“It’s nothing.”
“You always say this. Then later you are lying down like Victorian child.”
That earns him a weak smile. Shane drops his hand, but his eyes have gone unfocused again, the edges of him fraying.
“How long?” Ilya asks.
“Since this morning.” Shane shrugged. “Maybe earlier.”
“Okay. We go upstairs. You take nap.”
“I don’t-“
“No arguing,” Ilya says, already reaching for Shane’s wrist. He doesn’t pull, just holds. “This is not debate. This is care.”
“I don’t need—”
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“Okay.” Shane gives up.
Upstairs, the bedroom smells like clean sheets the windows cracked just enough to let the breeze off the lake creep in. Ilya sits Shane down on the edge of the bed and toes off his own shoes.
“I hate headaches.” Shane mutters.
“I know.” Ilya nudges him gently. “Lie down.”
Shane does, stiff at first, like he’s worried there’s a correct way to rest and he’s about to do it wrong. Ilya pulls the blanket up anyway, tucking it around Shane’s shoulders with an ease that feels dangerously domestic.
“Do you want pills?” Ilya asks. “Water?”
“I already took something,” Shane says. His eyes are closed now. “Just… tired.”
Ilya climbs onto the bed carefully, stretching out beside him.Shane turns without opening his eyes, fitting himself into Ilya’s space like it’s muscle memory. His forehead presses into Ilya’s shoulder, warm and heavy.
“Sorry.” Shane murmurs.
“For what?” Ilya asks.
“For being… not here.”
“You are here.” Ilya slides a hand into Shane’s hair. “Your brain is just loud today.”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh before he goes still. His breathing evens out, the tension in his shoulders easing by degrees. Ilya doesn’t move for a second, watching the rise and fall of Shane’s chest. He presses his cheek to the top of Shane’s head and closes his eyes.
They can nap. The rest can wait.
—-
Ilya wakes to the sound of retching.
For a second his brain struggles to understand what’s happening. The room is dim, afternoon light gone soft and gray, Shane’s side of the bed is empty but still warm. Then the noise comes again, louder this time
“Shane?” Ilya says, already sitting up and reaching for the light switch.
The bathroom door is half-open. The light is on. Ilya’s heart kicks hard as he crosses the room. He pauses only long enough to register Shane on his knees, one hand braced against the toilet, the other gripping the porcelain like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders shake with the effort of it.
“Hey,” Ilya says quietly, crouching beside him. “Okay. Okay. I am here.”
Shane doesn’t look up.
He vomits again and Ilya feels useless in that specific way that claws at him. Like there should be something obvious to do and he’s missing it. He reaches out anyway, steadying Shane’s back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
“Easy.” Ilya murmurs. “Breathe.”
When it passes, Shane slumps forward, forehead nearly resting on the rim. His breathing is wrong. Too fast. Ilya shifts closer, careful not to crowd him, grabs a washcloth from the sink and wets it with shaking hands.
“Shane.” He says again. “Look at me.”
Shane lifts his head. His eyes slide past Ilya, unfocused in a way that makes Ilya’s stomach drop. He blinks once. Twice.
“Where—” Shane starts, then stops. His brow furrows. “Where am I?”
Ilya’s breath catches. Just for a second. Long enough for something cold and sharp to bloom behind his ribs.
“You are at cottage.” Ilya says, steady even as everything inside him goes tight. “Bathroom. We were sleeping.”
Shane’s gaze flicks to the door, then the mirror and finally the light as if he’s trying to piece together a map. His hand comes up, pressing clumsily to his temple.
“I don’t…” His voice wobbles. “I don’t feel good.”
“I know.” Ilya says. He brings the cloth to Shane’s forehead. “You had headache. Remember?”
Shane’s eyes find him then. They narrow, searching. For one awful heartbeat, there’s nothing there. No recognition. Just fear.
“Who…” Shane says, breath hitching. “Who are you?”
The world tilts.
“It’s me,” Ilya swallows hard. “Ilya. You are okay. Just look at me.”
Shane stares. His face tightens, then softens, like something clicks into place with an audible snap.
“Ilya.” He says, relief flooding his voice so suddenly it almost hurts to hear. “Jesus. I— I know you. Sorry. I just—”
“It’s okay.” Ilya says immediately. He cups Shane’s cheek without thinking, thumb warm against skin gone clammy. “You scared me a little, but it is okay.”
Shane leans into the touch like it’s instinct, eyes fluttering shut. His shoulders sag.
“My head.” He whispers. “It’s worse.”
“I know,” Ilya says. He helps Shane sit back against the tub. “We stay here for moment. You breathe. Then we decide next.”
Shane nods weakly. His eyes open again, tracking Ilya now, holding on.
“I’m here.” Ilya repeats, more for himself than anything else. “I am not going anywhere.”
“Okay,” Shane murmurs. “Okay.”
It takes longer than Ilya wants to get Shane back to bed.
Shane insists he can walk on his own, which lasts approximately three steps before his knees wobble and Ilya has to catch him anyway. He doesn’t say I told you so. He just tightens his grip, Shane’s arm slung heavy over his shoulders.
“Slow.” Ilya murmurs. “We have time.”
“I’m okay,” Shane says, automatically. His voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel.
“I know.” Ilya lies.
He eases Shane down onto the mattress, sits him first, then helps him swing his legs up. Shane winces as he settles, hand going to his forehead again, fingers digging in like pressure might hold everything together.
“Lights?” Shane asks, squinting.
Ilya turns them off immediately. He grabs the water from the bedside table, holds it steady while Shane takes a careful sip.
“Good.” Ilya says. “That’s good.”
Shane lies back. The colour hasn’t quite come back to his face, but his breathing is slowing, evening out. Ilya pulls the blanket up to his chest, pauses, then tucks it in around him again.
“I’m sorry.” Shane murmurs, words blurring together. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You did not plan it.” Ilya says. “It does not count.”
Shane’s mouth curves weakly. His eyes drift shut, then open again, like he’s afraid to let go.
“You’re here?” He asks.
“Yes,” Ilya says immediately. “I am here.”
“Okay,” Shane whispers, and this time, he lets himself fall asleep.
Ilya doesn’t.
He sits on the edge of the bed at first, counting Shane’s breaths like they’re something he could lose if he stops paying attention. In. Out. In. Out.
When nothing happens, when Shane stays asleep, Ilya finally shifts, careful not to jostle him. He stretches out beside him, one arm draped lightly across Shane’s middle, not pinning him down, just there.
Ilya doesn’t close his eyes. He watches Shane’s face soften in sleep, the lines of tension smoothing out, his mouth slack. This is the Shane no one else sees. Not the captain. Not the hockey player. Just a man, exhausted and human and breakable.
Ilya thinks about the moment in the bathroom, the empty look in Shane’s eyes, the way his own name had brought him back. The memory makes something twist hard in his chest. He presses a kiss to Shane’s hair, barely there.
“Sleep.” He whispers, even though Shane already is. “I am watching.”