Thinking about Shane learning the Russian words for ‘my little bear’ because Ilya’s so large and imposing but so soft and his hair is so fluffy- but he also delights in knowing he can use it on Ilya to needle at him and sweetly annoy him. He can imagine Ilya’s faux-irritated brow crease, followed by wrestling Shane into the couch to prove he’s no little bear- he’s a grizzly bear who’s going to eat Shane for breakfast…
So he works to get the pronunciation down, and finally springs it on him one day when Ilya’s just come in from the lake, hair air dried and floofy and he’s all open limbs and soft edges.
The moment the words fill the space, Ilya goes silent, and tears start to fall. Shane panics, and closes the gap between them to hold his husband close with a crushing grip.
‘What’s wrong? Did I not do it right? Did I say something bad?’
Ilya stays quiet for a moment, trying to control the inevitable break in his voice when he speaks. When it comes out, it’s wet, and wounded, like blood seeping out the mouth of an injured animal.
‘No, no. It’s ok- my mama, she-’ another small sob. ‘She used to call me that. I have not heard it in a very long time.’
Shane knows he doesn’t need to reply, or to fill the following lull.
He just needs to stand there. Solid and unyielding.
Arms a vice around Ilya’s torso, large hands stroking down the damp skin of his back. Soothing kisses pressed like a comforting brand to his temple, his cheeks, his eyes. Urging the tears to flow because they need to. Loving his man exactly how he needs to be loved.
