Chapter Text
Ilya doesn’t expect the evening to matter.
It’s early, still awkward in the way first-not-first meetings are—too much familiarity to call it casual, not enough certainty to call it anything else. Shane shows up with that same contained energy he always has, coiled tight under his skin, eyes alert like he’s already bracing for something.
“Hey,” Ilya says, easy. “You made it.”
Shane nods, drops his bag by the door a little harder than necessary. “Yeah.”
That’s it. No elaboration.
Ilya clocks the tension immediately. The pacing. The way Shane keeps his hands busy like stillness might be dangerous. Ilya’s instinct, at this stage, is still blunt-force practicality.
“You’re wearing a hole in my floor,” he says. “Sit down.”
He expects pushback. A look. A quip.
Instead—
Shane stops.
It’s not dramatic. Just a pause that lasts half a beat longer than normal. Shane’s gaze flicks to Ilya, unfocused, like the words took a second to land. Then he turns and sits.
Ilya blinks.
Shane settles on the couch, posture still tense but no longer moving. His hands rest on his thighs, fingers flexing once before going still. His breathing slows, not all the way, but enough that Ilya notices.
Huh.
Ilya stays where he is, suddenly very aware that whatever just happened was… something.
“You okay?” he asks, quieter than before.
Shane nods. “Yeah.”
It’s not defensive. It’s not reflexive. It’s like the word came from somewhere deeper.
Ilya feels a flicker of uncertainty. He hadn’t meant to do anything. He’d just wanted Shane to stop pacing. But Shane looks—calmer. Less sharp around the edges.
So Ilya slows down.
He grabs a glass, fills it with water, sets it on the table within Shane’s reach. “Drink.”
Shane does. No comment. No hesitation.
Okay. That’s new.
Ilya sits at the other end of the couch, careful not to crowd him. He doesn’t talk. He lets the room be quiet, lets Shane’s breathing set the pace. After a minute, Shane leans—barely—toward him, like gravity has shifted.
Ilya doesn’t move.
He’s suddenly very aware of his voice. Of his posture. Of how easily Shane seems to follow the smallest cues. It’s surprising. A little unsettling. And—if he’s honest—something he wants to handle right.
“Hey,” Ilya says softly. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… stay there.”
Shane’s shoulders drop another fraction.
Ilya exhales. Relief, maybe.
He stands, slowly. “I’m gonna make something to eat. You want some?”
Shane nods again. “Okay.”
In the kitchen, Ilya keeps his movements deliberate, unhurried. He talks a little—nothing important. Just enough to anchor the space. When he brings the food back, he places it in front of Shane, presses a fork into his hand.
“Eat.”
Shane does.
Ilya watches him, the way the tension continues to bleed out of him, the way his focus narrows to what’s directly in front of him. There’s a quiet trust there that Ilya didn’t ask for and doesn’t quite know what to do with—but he knows better than to rush it.
Later, when Shane leans fully against him, Ilya freezes for half a second before carefully settling an arm around his shoulders.
“Still okay?” he asks.
Shane hums. “Yeah. This is… good.”
That settles something in Ilya’s chest.
He stays exactly like that—steady, calm, paying attention—figuring it out one moment at a time. He doesn’t label it. He doesn’t plan ahead.
He just knows one thing for certain:
Whatever this is, he’s going to be careful with it.
Ilya doesn’t move right away when Shane starts to sag against him. He lets it happen, lets the weight settle, recalibrates his own balance so Shane doesn’t have to.
The show murmurs on, forgotten. Shane’s breathing evens out, long and deep, like he’s finally remembered how. Ilya notices the exact moment the tension drains—Shane’s fingers loosen in his shirt, his forehead presses more firmly into Ilya’s chest, seeking something solid.
It surprises him. Not that Shane trusts him—there’s already something unspoken between them—but how complete it is. How Shane stops holding himself up the second he doesn’t have to.
“Hey,” Ilya murmurs, low. “We should get you to bed.”
There’s no immediate response. Shane doesn’t tense, doesn’t pull away. He only exhales, slow and warm, like the word didn’t quite register.
Ilya hesitates. He’s not gentle by instinct. His first impulse is to jostle, tease, say something stupid just to get a reaction. Instead, he tries something else.
“Shane,” he says again, steady. “Stand up.”
It’s not sharp. It’s not demanding. It’s just… there.
Shane moves.
Not fast. Not clumsy either. He straightens like the instruction slid neatly into place, feet finding the floor without him really looking. His eyes are open but unfocused, tracking Ilya more by presence than sight.
Ilya’s stomach flips.
Huh, he thinks. That works.
He stays close as they walk down the hall, one hand hovering at Shane’s back, not touching unless Shane drifts too far to one side. Shane follows without question, steps syncing automatically, like he’s done this before—even though Ilya knows he hasn’t.
In the bedroom, the light stays low. Ilya gestures to the bed. “Sit.”
Shane does.
“Okay,” Ilya says, slower now, testing the edges of this. “Shoes off.”
Again, immediate. Calm. Shane bends, unties them with careful fingers, sets them neatly side by side like he always does. Some habits run deeper than exhaustion.
Ilya watches him like he’s handling something fragile he didn’t expect to be trusted with.
“You’re doing good,” he says without thinking.
Shane doesn’t answer—but his shoulders drop another fraction, the last tight line in his posture finally easing.
Ilya swallows. Adjusts.
“Lay down,” he says, softer. “I’ve got you.”
Shane stretches out on the bed, curling instinctively onto his side. Ilya pulls the blanket up, tucks it around him with more care than he’d ever admit to anyone. When he sits beside him, Shane rolls closer immediately, forehead pressing into Ilya’s ribs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
There’s no apology. No embarrassment.
Just trust.
Shane’s hand curls lightly into Ilya’s shirt, fingers warm and slack. His breathing slows, then deepens, each exhale sinking heavier into the mattress. Within minutes, he’s asleep—fully, properly asleep—like his body finally believes it’s allowed to be.
Ilya stays still, listening, making sure nothing startles him back out of it.
It hits him then—not all at once, but steadily—that Shane didn’t ask for this. Didn’t negotiate it or explain it or try to stay in control.
He just… leaned.
Carefully, like it’s something he wants to get right, Ilya settles in and lets himself be the thing Shane sleeps against.
Morning comes slowly.
Shane wakes to warmth first—sheets, a solid presence at his back, an arm draped over his waist like it’s been there forever. For one disoriented second, he doesn’t question it.
Then memory trickles in.
The flight. The couch. The quiet. The way he followed without thinking.
Oh god.
Shane goes rigid.
He stares at the wall, heart racing now that his brain is fully online, cataloging everything with brutal clarity. He’d barely spoken. He’d done what he was told. He’d fallen asleep curled into—
He swallows.
Carefully, like any sudden movement might detonate the moment, Shane shifts just enough to check.
Ilya is awake.
Not staring. Not smirking outright. Just lying there on his side, propped slightly on one elbow, watching Shane with an expression that’s far too gentle to be legal.
Shane’s face goes nuclear.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “I—Jesus. I’m so sorry. I don’t—what the hell was that. I don’t usually— I mean, I wasn’t—”
He pushes himself upright, tangling briefly in the sheets, mortification rolling off him in waves. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be—whatever that was. I was just tired. Really tired. I didn’t mean to—”
“Shane.” Ilya cuts in, voice warm, amused. Not sharp. Not teasing—yet. “Breathe.”
That only makes it worse.
Shane drags a hand down his face. “You’re not weirded out?”
Ilya snorts softly and rolls onto his back, hands folding behind his head like this is the most normal morning in the world. “Please. I have seen you scream at referees over a toe offside. This barely registers.”
Shane huffs despite himself. Then immediately groans. “That’s not helping.”
Ilya turns his head, eyes bright now, the familiar spark back in place. “Okay, okay. I won’t joke.” A beat. Then, fondly, “Much.”
Shane risks a glance. Ilya’s expression has shifted—still playful, but careful too, like he’s deliberately matching Shane’s energy instead of steamrolling it.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Ilya says, more quietly. “You were exhausted. You came home. You slept. Very scandalous behavior.”
Shane presses his lips together. “I just… don’t let people do that. Take over, I mean.”
“I noticed,” Ilya says easily. Then, softer, “I didn’t mind.”
That makes Shane freeze.
“You didn’t… think less of me?” he asks, almost against his will.
Ilya looks at him like the question genuinely surprises him. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know,” Shane admits. “I like being in control. I like being responsible. And last night I was just—” He gestures vaguely, frustrated. “Gone.”
Ilya sits up then, fully, sheets pooling at his waist. He bumps Shane’s knee lightly with his own. Casual. Familiar. Normal.
“You’re allowed to be tired,” he says. “Even you.”
Shane lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
They sit there for a moment, the awkwardness slowly melting into something easier. Ilya reaches over and steals the blanket back around Shane’s shoulders when he notices him shiver, like it’s instinct now. Shane pretends not to notice. Pretends he doesn’t lean into it.
“So,” Ilya says, smirk returning. “Coffee first, or do you need five minutes to die of embarrassment?”
Shane groans and drops back onto the mattress. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Shane pauses. Then, quieter, “No. I don’t.”
Ilya’s smile softens—not triumphant, just pleased. He stands, stretching, entirely at ease. “Coffee. Then food. Then you can overthink this later if you want.”
Shane watches him go, chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
When Ilya glances back from the doorway, he adds lightly, “And for the record? You slept like a rock. Didn’t snore. Very impressive.”
Shane throws a pillow at him.
Ilya laughs, catching it easily.
The day feels manageable again.