Chapter Text
Shane knew something was wrong when he woke up in a puddle of urine.
He’d begun to suspect something might be wrong well before then. Weeks back, when he’d woken up breathing like he’d just done bag skates, Ilya’s face pinched with worry above him, he’d suspected it was possible things might be off. There were also the moments in between then and now, where he’d catch himself zoning out, staring at some middle distance, thoughts fully detached from his body. Moments where it felt like waking from a hypnotist’s act, knowing something had just happened but having no memory of it, only a phantom ache of humiliation.
Now, sitting in his own piss, in the bed he shares with his husband, Shane thinks that perhaps something crucial was happening in those blips of time. Maybe, if he was paying attention, he’d understand why at his big thirty-five years of age he’s wetting the bed.
The feeling itself is making his skin crawl, has been since the moment he opened his eyes and registered the damp sensation beneath him, looking down at the white sheets to find a yellowish halo around his crotch. He’s cold, and he can feel every fiber of the fabric as it clings to his skin. He can smell the faint mineral of it as if the spoiled sheets are right under his nose.
He wants to get up. He wants to silently load the linens and his briefs into the washing machine, shower twice, and then pretend this never happened, but Ilya’s sleeping form is pinning the fabric down. Shane knows moving the sheets will wake him, and then he’d have to explain that he’d wet himself. The humiliation he feels at the prospect is paralyzing, which only makes the likelihood that Ilya will wake to find Shane compromised like this even greater.
As if summoned by the very thought, Shane feels more than sees Ilya wake. The bed jerks slightly, dipping as a body flips over. A hand gropes at Shane’s middle from behind as Ilya blearily groans with the effort to touch without fully opening his eyes.
If Shane were any more still he’d be dead. He’s barely breathing, air only passively entering and exiting his lungs. His eyes are wide and deer-like as he hopes beyond hope that Ilya will roll away, but the universe isn’t so kind this morning.
Ilya’s hand roams north for a moment, squeezing the flesh of Shane’s peck. The warmth of his palm burns Shane’s skin, which has gone near-trembling cold. Ilya doesn’t seem to notice as his hand detours south. Shane’s breathing becomes more and more shallow as he goes, eyes flinching closed like he’s bracing for a punch. Ilya only hums contentedly as his fingertips graze over Shane’s bellybutton, then the patch of hair peeking out over the waistband of his briefs, then ghosting over the garment itself before latching his palm over Shane’s bulge.
Shane also feels it when Ilya notices the dampness there, the way his husband’s body stills in surprise. The hand retreats and the bed shifts as the body next to him sits up and peers over at him through half-lidded eyes.
Shane can hear it when Ilya sees. It’s a sharp intake of breath, not quite a gasp, but it sends a shiver down Shane’s spine.
“Lyubimyy,” Ilya says, voice sleep-rumpled and sweet, “are you alright? What has happened?”
Shane bursts into tears.
“I don’t know.” He admits, unsure of which question he’s even answering.
Ilya reels back, like he’s touched a hot stove. “Okay, okay,” he whispers, and Shane can feel him shimmy off the other side of the mattress. Can hear Ilya’s quick steps pad around the bed frame until he’s suddenly crouched in front of him, palm cupping a wet cheek. “Shh shh shh,” he coos, thumb tracing under Shane’s eye.
“Here’s plan,” Ilya offers, “we get you out of this bed and into shower, I put pants and sheets in wash, and it will be okay, okay?”
Shane exhales and closes his eyes, but he nods. His desperation to get out of this situation is overriding his feelings of shame, and he’s practiced in handing over the reins of control to Ilya. He feels a press of lips to his forehead, then gentle fingers at the waistband of his briefs again, and the quick tug and slide of the damp fabric down his body. Suddenly he’s naked and shivering, but before he can settle into the discomfort, he feels a hand reach under his shoulders and then another reach under the crook of his knees, and then, just as suddenly he’s being bridal carried in Ilya’s arms.
Shane opens his eyes to look up at his husband and feels a flash of desire to protest, to remind the other man that he’s dirty, that he’ll only make him dirty too if he holds him like this. He expects to find disgust on Ilya’s face, but when their eyes meet there’s only bald love and compassion. It bowls Shane into further submission and he lets himself be carried to their en-suite. Ilya deposits him on the toilet lid and kisses his head before angling toward their shower. Shane watches as he turns the water on, setting the temperature to the exact level of heat he prefers.
Shane tracks Ilya’s movements all the while sniffling back tears and still shivering from how cold he feels, goose flesh prickling his arms. He watches Ilya test the water on his hand like a mother checking a bottle. Once he’s satisfied the temperature’s just right, he turns back to Shane.
“Okay,” Ilya says, placing another kiss to Shane’s head, “you take nice warm shower. I’m going to take care of the sheets, and then I’ll be right back. Okay?”
Shane’s lips twitch despite himself. He loves that Ilya always checks in, even with something as unsexy as this. It feels like a gift every time. Shane wants to give him one in return.
“Okay.” Shane replies, shaky but affirming.
He lets Ilya help him up to his feet and guide him under the waterfall showerhead. He feels its effect almost immediately, the heat spreading fast over his body, his toes almost burning as they go from frigid to warm.
Shane doesn’t notice Ilya slipping out of the bathroom, suddenly too focused on the task of taking a normal shower. He doesn’t want to think about the urine now dried to the skin of his thighs, matting together his pubic hair, making his crotch feel weird and foreign to his body. So, he starts by washing his hair. He lets his senses cloud with the scent of his shampoo, something woody and fresh but gentle, and settles into the rhythm of his fingers against his scalp.
His mind drifts and he vaguely gropes for a memory of what he dreamt last night, if he even dreamt at all, but comes up with nothing. He rinses out the remaining suds in his hair and replaces them with a matching conditioner. He typically likes to let the cream sit in his hair while he washes his body, and he debates which would be more distressing: having to touch the offending area of his body, or breaking with his routine.
Eventually, he reasons he’ll have to handle the piss stains at some point, might as well prevent his hair from becoming a casualty to this fucked up morning. He grabs the body wash but neglects the loofa handing on the shower wall. He doesn’t want to subject it to this. Squeezing some of the gel into his hand, a waft of bergamot settles over him before he brings it up to his chest. He builds a lather against the skin there, drags it over his shoulders and down his arms, before trepidatiously traveling south.
He doesn’t look as he touches the delicate skin between his thighs, and he barely feels it as the suds comb through the dark tangle of his pubes. When his hand ghosts over his dick, it feels like someone else’s hand. There’s a break in his synapses. He knows his hand is moving and he feels a hand on his dick but he can’t reconcile those two sensations. He chances a look down at his groin and knows immediately it’s a mistake. The sight of his big hand holding his soft cock gives him vertigo. Angry tears spring to his eyes and his head spins. His breath picks up.
Something bad is happening, he thinks.
He drags his eyes back to the shower wall, wobbles a bit where he stands as he grabs the shower gel again. He lathers the offending region of his body with an attempt at clinical precision. The rest of the shower goes quickly after that. He washes away most of the dread, though some of it lingers like the smell of sulfur in his nostrils. Then he returns to his hair. It’s almost clear of conditioner by the time Ilya walks back into the en-suite.
Shane quickly finishes his rinse before turning off the water and opening the glass door separating him from his husband. Ilya is waiting just outside it with a towel held up between his two hands, inviting Shane to walk into it. His eyes don’t betray his worry, they’re as soft and inviting as the towel he holds. Shane’s mouth twitches up as he walks over to be willingly caught in his cotton net.
“Turn.” Ilya gently commands, and Shane obediently shows him his back.
Ilya drapes the towel over Shane’s shoulders, dropping a kiss to where they meet the back of Shane’s neck.
“Turn,” he says again, and Shane does just as dutifully.
When they’re face to face again, Shane thinks Ilya might try to kiss him. Instead, his husband finishes his work cocooning him, doing some crazy towel origami to fully swaddle him, and Shane’s unsure how the towel is even big enough to accommodate this, but it works.
When he’s done, Ilya kisses the crown of Shane’s head, and reaches up to hold Shane’s jaw. A thumb traces over the freckles on his cheek.
It’s Shane who eventually leans in to steal Ilya’s lips. There’s no heat to it, but there’s thanks. When he pulls away, Ilya rubs his hands up and down Shane’s arms to warm them.
“Feel better?” he asks.
Shane hums in affirmation, plopping his cheek against the bare muscle of Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya takes this as an invitation to pull Shane closer, wrapping strong arms around his back.
“Want to lay down?” Ilya asks.
Shane nods, rubbing his still-wet cheek against Ilya’s warm skin, cat-like. “Yeah,” he replies.
Shane stays tucked into Ilya’s side the short walk from the en-suite to the main bedroom, leeching comfort from his sturdy presence. There are fresh sheets on the bed and a candle is lit on Ilya’s side table. Shane flushes at the reminder of why both are necessary, but he can’t dwell on it for long as Ilya maneuvers them around to his side of the bed, sitting up against the pillows. He smoothly pulls Shane into his lap, keeping his head propped against his chest.
Shane feels a little like a baby, still swaddled in the towel and tucked against Ilya, even though they are roughly the same size and bulk. He feels safe, like he imagines a baby would in Ilya’s arms whenever he indulges in thoughts about Ilya and babies.
They just rest for a while, content with the closeness. Eventually, though, the sharp needle of curiosity and concern stab at their little bubble.
“You want to talk about it?” Ilya asks, keeping his voice light.
Shane shifts a bit uncomfortably. His fingers pick at the fibers inside the towel.
“I don’t really know what to say.” Shane replies.
If he could move his arms more he would shrug. It makes him realize the comfort he felt at being bundled is starting to feel constricting in a panic-inducing way. He sits up abruptly, shimmying in place to undo the tight folds. Ilya, intuiting what Shane wants, brings his hands up to untuck the points securing towel in place. Once loose, Shane scrambles off the bed, stands, and the offending cotton drops into a puddle on the floor. Ilya, again anticipating what Shane might need, reaches over to where a neat stack of clothes is piled on the bed, handing them over wordlessly.
Shane wants to feel embarrassed by the care he’s receiving, but he can’t help but lean over to gratefully peck Ilya’s cheek as the bundle of clothes are pressed into his hands. He recognizes the soft sweatpants and hoodie, the fresh pair of briefs, and quickly pulls them on. He turns back to Ilya, whose legs are still parted in invitation, and crawls back into his lap.
“Hmmm,” Ilya hums, a playful lilt in his tone, “something must be wrong for you to leave a wet towel on the wood floor.”
It’s said so clearly as a joke. Shane wants to laugh. Wants to roll his eyes in mock-annoyance. He would give anything to just play along. But the words are so painfully true, they churn something ugly in Shane’s gut.
It must translate on his face, because Ilya immediately tries to walk it back.
“Sorry,” he says, soft and sad, “sorry. Bad joke.”
Shane only realizes tears have returned to his eyes when Ilya moves his thumb to wipe them away.
“No,” Shane says, shaking his head, “it’s ok. You’re just right, I think.”
Ilya nods in solemn understanding. “Did you have a bad dream?” He asks.
Shane shakes his head. “Not last night,” he replies, “but….” He exhales.
“But what, malysh?” Ilya asks gently.
Shane looks up at him through his lashes. “Do you remember a few weeks ago, when you had to wake me up?”
He’s putting it lightly, but the reality was more that Ilya had to shake him into consciousness, shouting his name around a vice of panic at his throat. As Ilya would tell him, Shane’d been thrashing in his sleep, screaming himself hoarse with garbled nonsense. When his eyes had snapped open they were the eyes of cornered prey, glazed with terror, but his breaths were stuttering and heaving like he was still running from something. Ilya had held him as he trembled, was probably trembling himself. Shane knew he’d wanted to ask about it then, but he didn’t force the issue when Shane declined the offer to listen. Instead, unable to go back to sleep, they held each other until the sun finally came up, blanketed by early morning quiet.
“Yes,” Ilya replies, cautious, “I remember.”
Shane nods in acknowledgment. “I don’t think it was just a bad dream,” he admits.
“What do you mean?” Ilya asks, brows knit close.
Shane suddenly needs to be even closer to Ilya, he needs to be as close as possible. He shifts in Ilya’s lap, swings his legs until they’re slot together, leans down until their chests are flush, his head in the crook of Ilya’s neck, cheek touching the pillow below. He needs to be close but he can’t look at Ilya or he won’t have the courage to say this out loud.
“In the… dream,” he begins, “I was in the training room, at the stadium, sitting on one of the medical benches. I was naked, I think? Um…” he swallows hard. Ilya’s fingers begin to card through his hair, encouraging.
“Then there was like, pressure?” he sounds unsure to his own ears. “I couldn’t see anyone but there was like, it felt like a hand on my throat? And then there was another on my chest, just like pressing. It hurt, um,” he swallows again, “and even though nobody was there I asked for it to stop. And then it moved, the pressure on my chest, it started moving down. I knew where it was going and I started to panic.”
Shane took a ragged inhale, the tears at his lashes begging to fall.
“I screamed.” He sobs, “I kept screaming ‘no,’ but the pressure kept moving, and then the one at my throat squeezed harder. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even scream anymore.”
“I felt so trapped,” Shane cries, “it hurt so much and it felt so real. Even when you woke me up I still felt it.”
Ilya holds him, one hand tangled in Shane’s hair and the other rubbing a soothing line up his back.
“You were so scared,” Ilya admits. What he doesn’t mention is that he was also half hard.
Shane shifts and turns his head so that he can face his husband. When he looks into his eyes they are so gentle, and full of love. He nods in agreement.
“What did you mean, that it wasn’t just a bad dream?” Ilya asks, knuckle brushing a line above Shane’s brow.
He trembles. “It felt so real,” he whispers. “It didn’t feel like a dream, it felt like something that was happening, or had happened…”
“Hmmm,” Ilya hummed in acknowledgment, considering, “and do you think it was connected to this morning?”
Shane thinks about the shower, the way his hand had temporarily become not his hand. He remembers the dream, the night terror, the pressure that hurt.
“Maybe,” he confides in a whisper. “I don’t know.”
Ilya nods, cradling Shane’s face in his big, gentle hands. He kisses the corner of Shane’s mouth.
“Is okay,” Ilya assures, “we can figure it out, yes? Together.”
Shane nods, doe-eyed. “I love you,” he says, just because he feels it.
“Ya tak sil'no tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says, pulling Shane closer again, “moy rebenok,” he drops a kiss to the scar on Shane’s shoulder, “takoy khrabryy.”
Shane lowers his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not sure for what. The mess he made of their bed? The drama of the morning?
Ilya shakes his head, tilting Shane’s chin up to search for his eyes. “We are married yes?” He asks.
“Of course,” Shane replies, slowly lifting his eyes to meet Ilya’s.
A sad smile curls on Ilya’s face in recognition of the effort in this gesture. Shane always tries so hard.
“Okay,” Ilya reasons, “so you were at our wedding, da?”
Shane’s eyes roll as he nods once, harshly. “Yes, Ilya, I was at our wedding.” he huffs, a flicker of amusement sparks at the corner of his lips.
Ilya relishes every micro expression as a victory. “So you heard my vows?” he needles again, eyebrows shooting almost off his forehead.
Shane grins. “Yes,” he nods, gently this time.
“Then you know,” Ilya says, as if it were obvious, “that I have promised to be with you in sickness and health, and that only death can part us.” He shrugs. “Do you think I lied about this?”
Shane’s eyes bug out. “No, no,” he rushes to assure, “of course not.”
“Okay,” Ilya soothes, “okay.” He cups Shane’s face again. “Then let me keep my promises.”
Shane leans down to kiss him. It’s short and sweet, but it’s better than any words he could muster. When he pulls away, his eyes bore into Ilya’s and he nods, okay.
As Ilya tilts up to kiss him again, Shane wants to believe the worst has passed, but he knows it hasn’t. As he sinks heavier onto Ilya’s body, his lips, Shane feels a pit beginning to open beneath him, widening, nearly ready to swallow him whole.