Work Text:
The argument starts over nothing.
At least that’s how it feels later.
At the time it feels like everything.
“You don’t get it,” Shane snaps, hands spread in frustration. “You just shut down whenever something gets hard.”
Ilya’s eyes flash. “That is rich coming from you, Hollander.”
Shane laughs bitterly. “Oh, so now we’re back to last names?”
“Maybe we should be.”
The air in the apartment turns brittle.
Shane presses his fingers to his temple. A dull throb has been building behind his eyes all evening, but the shouting is turning it sharp and pulsing.
“I’m not doing this,” Ilya mutters, grabbing his jacket.
“Yeah,” Shane says, voice tight. “You never do.”
The door slams hard enough to rattle the frame.
Silence crashes in behind it.
---
For a moment Shane just stands there breathing hard.
Then the headache spikes.
“Jesus—”
He squeezes his eyes shut as pain blooms behind them, sharp and hot. The room tilts slightly and his stomach flips.
Great. A migraine. Perfect timing.
He drags a hand over his face and heads for the bathroom, each step heavier than the last. The lights feel too bright. His vision swims.
He opens the medicine cabinet with shaking fingers and grabs the bottle of painkillers.
The label blurs for a second before he manages to focus.
He shakes three pills into his palm. More than usual, but the pain is bad—worse than it’s been in months.
“Whatever,” he mutters.
He swallows them dry, grimacing, and grips the sink while another wave of dizziness hits.
Okay. Bed. Just lie down.
He stumbles out of the bathroom, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. The bedroom is only a few steps away, but it feels like crossing a rink after a brutal shift.
The mattress is right there.
Just a little farther—
The floor lurches upward.
Shane’s knees buckle.
The last thing he registers is the carpet rushing toward him.
Then everything goes black.
---
Ilya regrets leaving the second he gets halfway down the street.
The cold air does nothing to cool the knot twisting in his chest.
He replays the argument over and over, each memory sharper than the last.
*Maybe we should be.*
God.
He scrubs a hand over his face.
“Idiot,” he mutters to himself.
Shane had looked tired. Pale.
And Ilya just… walked out.
After fifteen miserable minutes pacing the block, he finally turns back toward the apartment.
The lights are still on when he unlocks the door.
“Shane?” he calls.
No answer.
He frowns.
Usually Shane would respond immediately—some sarcastic comment, a tired sigh, something.
“I’m back,” Ilya says louder.
Silence.
A flicker of unease crawls up his spine.
He walks deeper into the apartment.
“Shane?”
Nothing.
His chest tightens.
He walks upstairs and sees the bedroom door is open.
And that’s when he sees him.
Shane lying on the floor.
Completely still.
A bottle of pills tipped over nearby.
For a second Ilya can’t move.
His brain refuses to process what he’s seeing.
Then the world shatters.
“No—”
The word tears out of him like something breaking.
He drops to his knees beside Shane so hard it hurts.
“Shane! Shane!”
No response.
Shane’s skin is pale. His body limp.
The pills.
The fight.
Ilya’s vision blurs instantly.
“No no no no—”
His hands shake violently as he grabs Shane’s shoulders.
“This is my fault,” he chokes. “Shane—please—please wake up—”
The memory crashes over him before he can stop it.
His mother.
The silence in the house.
The way she wouldn’t wake up.
The screaming.
Ilya’s breath fractures into sharp, panicked gasps.
“I pushed you—God, I pushed you—” he sobs, clutching Shane to his chest. “I’m so sorry, solnyshko, I’m so sorry—”
His voice breaks into hysterical, ragged cries.
“Please don’t leave me too—”
Shane groans.
Ilya freezes.
“…Shane?”
Shane’s eyelids flutter.
“What…?” His voice is hoarse and confused. “Ilya?”
Ilya stares at him like he’s seen a ghost.
“You—”
Shane squints up at him. “Why are you crying?”
The dam breaks.
Ilya lets out a choked, almost hysterical laugh that dissolves immediately back into sobbing. He pulls Shane upright, gripping him too tight.
“You scared me,” he gasps. “You were on floor—I thought—”
Shane blinks sluggishly.
“Thought what?”
Ilya looks at the spilled bottle with trembling hands.
“The pills,” he whispers. “How many did you take?”
“…Three?”
Ilya’s head snaps back toward him.
“Three?”
“Yeah.” Shane frowns, still foggy. “Migraine.”
The room tilts slightly and Shane presses a hand to his head again.
“Everything started spinning. Guess I passed out.”
Understanding hits Ilya all at once.
Relief crashes through him so violently his chest hurts.
And then guilt.
“I thought you…” His voice cracks. “I thought you did this because of me.”
Shane’s confusion softens into alarm.
“What? No. Hey—hey—”
Ilya’s breathing is getting too fast again.
His hands shake uncontrollably.
“I pushed you,” he whispers. “Just like—”
He can’t finish the sentence.
“Ilya,” Shane says gently, reaching up and cupping the back of his neck. “Hey. Look at me.”
Ilya’s eyes are wide, panicked.
“Breathe,” Shane murmurs. “With me.”
He demonstrates slowly despite the pounding in his skull.
“In… and out.”
It takes a minute.
Then another.
Eventually Ilya’s breaths start to match his.
The trembling eases slightly.
“I found her,” Ilya whispers after a moment, voice fragile. “My mother.”
Shane’s heart squeezes painfully.
“I thought… when I saw you…” Ilya swallows hard. “I thought it was same.”
Shane shifts carefully, pulling him closer despite his lingering dizziness.
“Ilya.”
Ilya won’t meet his eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Shane says quietly.
Ilya’s shoulders shake again.
“You promise?”
Shane presses their foreheads together.
“I promise.”
He squeezes Ilya’s hand.
“And if I ever *did* feel that bad? I’d tell you. I wouldn’t disappear like that.”
Ilya finally looks at him.
“You wouldn’t leave me?”
“Never.”
Something fragile settles between them.
Shane nudges him gently.
“Help me up, though? My head is still killing me.”
Ilya lets out a weak huff of laughter and carefully helps him onto the bed.
Once Shane lies down, Ilya crawls in beside him almost immediately, like he’s afraid letting go would make Shane vanish.
Shane wraps an arm around him.
For a long moment they just breathe together.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” Shane murmurs.
“I am sorry for leaving.”
They shift closer under the blankets.
Ilya presses his face into Shane’s shoulder.
“I was so scared.”
Shane strokes his hair slowly.
“I know.”
“I thought I lost you.”
Shane presses a soft kiss into his hair.
“You’re stuck with me.”
Ilya’s arms tighten around him.
“…Good.”
They lie there tangled together, whispering quiet reassurances into the darkness until the fear fades and only warmth remains.