Shane wakes gasping, disoriented but alert, with a surge of adrenaline that feels like falling. He opens his eyes and it’s blackness, just nothing, shadows of shadows. One of the shadows comes up close to him, whispers, “Shhhh,” in his ear, and lays a soft kiss on his lips. “Hello, my love,” Ilya murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”
Now Shane can feel his own bed solid beneath him, recognizes the shadow of Ilya quietly moving around his room. “Time is it?” he asks, his voice thick and croaking.
“Late,” Ilya replies. The bed creaks as he climbs into it, and Shane lets his gravity pull him in close. “Early,” Ilya adds.
Shane burrows in and inhales, takes a deep breath of sweat mixed with yesterday’s deodorant and this morning’s hasty toothpaste. He stretches out along the length of him, his sleep-clammy skin pressed up against Ilya’s warmth, and lets his presence seep into his bones. “Your heart,” Ilya says. “Did you have a bad dream?”
Shane’s heart’s still rabbit-kicking in his chest, but it’s already getting better. “Think so,” Shane replies. “Can’t remember.”
“Don’t think about it,” Ilya says. “I’m here now.” He puts his arms around Shane and rolls him onto his back. He lays half on top of him, and as his weight settles in, Shane feels all the other weight lift off him. The million little worries, the handful of fucking huge ones. He feels Ilya’s heart beating, metronome-steady, and feels his own slow to match it. Ilya plants a kiss on his chest and murmurs again, “Go to sleep.”
He feels like he’s falling again, but now the landing is soft. “Love you,” he thinks he manages to articulate before he’s fast asleep again.