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“Hey,” Ilya said gently, taking his eyes off the road to look at Shane in the passenger seat, “You will tell me if the words get too hard, yes?”
Shane whines in response. Actually, it’s less of a whine and more of a small whimper, the kind of noise that he makes when he’s getting really overwhelmed. Usually, when Shane is in his right mind, Ilya can calm him down a little by turning all the lights off and snuggling under a heavy blanket with him. But tonight isn’t one of those nights.
Shane isn’t entirely himself, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself, and Ilya has to keep driving. They've been on the road for an hour now, but they're less than halfway to the cottage, the weather making it impossible to make the journey any quicker.
Ilya doubts they’re going to make it before Shane goes non-verbal, and he needs Shane to warn him if he’s going to slip that far into a different headspace while they're driving. He needs to make sure Shane is safe in the car, especially in this weather.
“I know,” Ilya puts a hand on Shane’s thigh, rubbing softly just above the knee, the material of Shane’s soft sweatpants gathering under his thumb. “But it is important, Shane. You will tell me if you feel that small?”
“I don’t know how to tell you.”
“Shane,” Ilya sighs. “You’re brave, sweetheart. You can tell me anything. We've done this many times before, and we can do it again, yes?”
“It’s not-” Shane cuts himself off, trying to find the words. “It’s not you. I know I can tell you anything. It's not that.”
Ilya risks another glance at him, “What is it? Let me help. I try and say right thing so my boyfriend does not do that little whimper noise that kills me.”
“It’s me,” Shane says. Ilya can see the unshed tears clinging to his eyelashes, almost as stubborn as Shane, refusing to fall. “It’s like I can't fucking talk about any of this when I'm feeling this way.”
“Okay,” Ilya says, running his hands up and down the steering wheel, trying to gather his thoughts. “When you are feeling what way?”
“Young,” Shang bites. “I don't know, Ilya. I feel insane. I feel-”
“Sad? Angry? How do you say- Frustrated?” Ilya suggests. He thinks he's starting to understand.
“Yes. My stomach hurts.”
“You feel sick?” Ilya can pull the car over if Shane needs to stop.
“No,” Shane moans. “I feel like I have this knot in my stomach, and I can't relax it. Fuck.”
“You are teenager,” Ilya says simply. “You have been trying to stay big for long time. Lot of hard work for your brain, yes?”
“Yeah,” Shane admits. “I’ve been fighting it all day. All fucking day. I'm so tired.”
“So, makes sense, you are teenager,” Ilya says again. “You are slowly losing battle, Hollander.”
“Fuck,” Shane says, resting his head against the window. It's cold against his forehead; he can't see anything but large snowflakes falling in the darkness. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Okay, here is plan,” Ilya says, taking control of the situation. “I stop the car at the next rest stop and get your things out of the trunk.”
“What? No,” Shane groans. “I can wait until we’re at the cottage.”
“No,” Ilya disagrees. “You have been fighting too long, Shane. I stop the car at the next rest stop, I get your things out, and you stop fighting.”
Shane doesn't argue.
It’s not long before Ilya finds a good spot to pull over. He doesn't bother to put his coat and gloves on to grab Shane’s bag, but it's bitterly cold, and the wind bites at his skin.
“Here. Hold this a second,” Ilya says, passing Shane the bag as he practically falls back into the driver's seat. It's icy out, and the shoes he threw on after tonight's game are not the kind of shoes he would usually wear in a storm.
Ilya turns the heat up. He can see Shane shivering, despite the car door not having been open long.
“Your blanket and Pucky are in there,” Ilya says. He reaches over to grab and unzip the bag when it becomes clear that Shane isn’t going to, he needs a push. Ilya will always push if that’s what Shane needs from him.
He pulls out the soft fleece blanket from the bag. It's a huge, thick, weighted blanket that Shane loves. It’s sky blue with extra fluffy clouds that Shane likes to run his fingers through when he’s small.
“I tuck my boyfriend in, yes?” Ilya says softly, throwing the blanket over Shane's legs. “Relax under your clouds.”
Shane cracks the smallest smile at the softness Ilya is showing him, and it only encourages Ilya to keep going, to keep this up until Shane finally lets go and regresses.
“Someone wants to see you,” Ilya says, slowly pulling Pucky out of the bag, until he's peeking over the zip at Shane.
Pucky is Shane’s favourite soft toy. It’s a Jellycat hockey puck, with a face, and little legs, and Shane has never been the most imaginative when it comes to names.
Shane’s face crumples at the sight of his beloved plushie, and then he reaches out to grab, desperate for the little puck toy.
Ilya watches as Shane buries his face into Pucky, breathing deeply, his hands shaking where he’s holding the plushie tight.
“Is okay,” Ilya says softly, reaching over to put his hand on the back of Shane’s neck, stroking his fingers through the ends of Shane’s hair. “Is okay, you can let go.”
They have to keep driving; the weather is getting worse, and the sooner they get to the cottage, the easier this drop will be for Shane. Ilya wants to get him home.
“Do you want соска?” Ilya asks softly, rooting around in the bag for it. He always uses the Russian word for pacifier; it’s the only word that doesn't make Shane cringe and shut down from embarrassment.
Shane nods, avoiding Ilya’s gaze.
“Here,” Ilya holds out the pacifier, a few inches from Shane’s mouth. He knows it’ll be easier for Shane to accept if Ilya has done most of the work for him, if all Shane has to do is lean forward and take it. “Is okay. Take.”
It takes a few seconds, and Ilya playfully waggling his eyebrows at Shane, but eventually Shane takes the pacifier into his mouth.
“Good boy,” Ilya says gently, stroking his hand through Shane’s hair, ruffling it slightly. “You need anything before we drive?”
“No,” Shane mumbles, words slurred around the pacifier. His body has finally relaxed, and he is sagging back into the passenger seat, Pucky held tight against his chest.
Shane isn’t a small man, but he looks small like this. Delicate. It makes Ilya’s chest ache with the need to keep him safe.
"Let go now, Shane," Ilya says as he signals back onto the road. "Rest. You do not need your words now, okay?”