Chapter Text
Sure enough, when they pull into the parking lot, Ash's car is nowhere to be seen. Shane lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his lungs burning on the exhale.
"We make this quick, okay?" Ilya says. "Just to be careful."
Shane nods. He takes a breath, and goes to open the door. A hand on his shoulder stops him.
Shane tenses, his body somehow forgetting it's only Ilya in the car with him. Ilya retracts his hand, a silent apology in his eyes. He looks concerned— maybe even a little distressed.
Shane has all the patience in the world as he waits for Ilya to speak.
"I do not like this, Shanya." He says.
Shane frowns, hating to see Ilya so worried. Especially because he has no reason to be.
"It's okay." Shane says lightly, looking to comfort him. "He's not home. He won't be till six. I'll be fast, I promise."
"Let me come with."
"No," Shane says, because there's no reason. His place is a bit of a shithole anyway— not nearly as put together as Ilya's. He doesn't need to see that. Anyway, Shane will be fine. "Just stay. My apartment is right there."
Ilya bites his lip, eyes flitting between Shane's as if to double, triple check that what Shane is saying is true.
"Ten minutes." Ilya relents. "If you are not back, I am coming to get you."
Shane's heart softens tenfold, something like love coursing through his veins, even if Ilya is being ridiculous. Still, for his comfort, Shane obliges. He supposes it's a reasonable enough request.
"Alright." Shane nods, trying for a smile. Ilya still looks on edge, but Shane can't dwell on it. He wants to get this over with.
Getting out of the car, Shane jogs to the complex across the street. He climbs a small set of stairs, pulling out his key, promptly ignoring the tremble of his hand and the way it causes him to take a little bit longer to insert it into the lock than it probably should.
The air of the apartment feels heavier than usual as Shane enters and closes the door behind him, as if it knew this was the last time Shane would ever come through it again.
The place is only lit by the open curtains, and it's quiet, just how Shane left it. He feels strangely numb when he looks around briefly, trying to remember what he even came here for.
It wasn't like he owned a lot of personal belongings— he just needed what was essential. There's spare cash in a drawer in the kitchen he grabs first, stuffing it into his pocket. He'll need his phone, his charger, probably, some clothes, he'll grab his toothbrush. His favorite jacket, his softest socks— the ones that don't make him want to claw at his skin where they hugged his ankles. There's a box Shane had hidden under the bed of old photographs he liked to look at when he was alone; ones of him with his family when he was younger, his parents, some of his old friends he no longer talks to— like the one with Hayden and his twins, Emma and Ruby, who loved to call Shane their uncle.
He can't think of anything else, really. Maybe he'll leave a note for Ash when he gets home— a final goodbye, or something, so he'll stop feeling so guilty. Or maybe he won't. He didn't want to take too long and make Ilya even more stressed.
He takes off the jacket he has on, reaching into the hallway closet and taking out the one he likes, continuing to list off things in his head so he doesn't forget. Quickly, he makes his way to the bedroom, thoughtlessly grabbing the handle and pushing it open.
Immediately, Shane stops in his tracks. Because there, sitting on the bed in front of him, is Ash.
The shock of it is like a slap to the face. Because— no, no, that doesn't make sense. Ash wasn't supposed to be here. His car wasn't here. He was supposed to be at work, not— not here—
"Close the door." Ash says. Shane swallows, feeling sick to his stomach. He can't move. Not until Ash raises his voice. "Close the door."
Shane, feeling like the ground is falling out from under him, stumbles to close the door, not taking his eyes off Ash. His breathing is already picking up, fear already washing over him as he presses himself into the wood, instinctively trying to keep as much space between them as possible.
It's only then that he notices the knife in Ash's right hand, and Shane's lungs stutter violently in his chest.
It's only a kitchen pairing knife— the blade nothing necessarily big, but a sharp, steel knife nonetheless. Ash's knuckles are white where he grips the handle of it on the bed beside his leg. He looks like his blood is boiling under his skin.
"Ash..." Shane thinks he says, but his voice is so small. The fear melts into terror, eating Shane alive when the bedroom light hits the silver blade, as if it is winking at Shane.
"I've been sitting here for hours," Ash says, his gaze anywhere but on Shane, "Thinking of what to say."
Shane may as well be a statue with the way he just can't move.
"Where were you?" Ash asks, brows furrowing as if he really is curious, but his tone leaks something else— something sickly dangerous. When Shane doesn't answer immediately, Ash meets his gaze, and Shane just can't look away. He is frozen in place, frozen in time. Ash wasn't supposed to be here.
Ash scoffs, something like a laugh that lacks any trace of humor. Nothing is funny, and they both know it.
"You know what?" Ash speaks, resting the hand he holds the knife in on his thigh. "You don't have to tell me."
He reaches behind him, and holds up Shane's phone. Shane can practically feel the color drain from his face. He doesn't want to believe it.
He knows. Fuck— fuck— he knows— he has a knife and he fucking knows—
Ash tosses it to the carpeted floor between them with a thud, and even though it's nowhere near Shane, he flinches violently, staring down at the thing. His eyes well up with tears. He thinks he might actually throw up.
"Really? 'Mom'?" Ash scoffs. "You are so, so fucking stupid, Shane."
Shane bites the inside of his cheek, so hard that he tastes blood.
"Nothing to say for yourself?" Ash asks. Shane can't take his eyes off the knife.
Ash goes quiet for a moment and then then lets out a brief huff, as if mulling something over.
"I was really confused when I saw the texts, you know?" Ash's voice is practically monotone, and yet, he also sounds sort of wrecked— exactly what Shane feared he might be. "But then I found this."
He holds up the note. The one that Ilya had given Shane, the one with his phone number and name on it.
Ash crumples it in one hand, tossing it too— it's worthless to him. Shane's gaze falls away when he sees Ash's eyes go glossy. He seems.. out of it. Something is very, very wrong.
"You cheated, Shane." Ash says, something dark in his tone. Hearing the words aloud feels like a javelin going through Shane's heart, the guilt really setting in, drowning him, making his lungs seize up. "Why?"
Shane shakes his head, closing his eyes, praying that this is all just one big nightmare.
"No?" Ash says. "No?"
Shake chokes down a sob, his eyes welling up. He's mostly afraid, overwhelmed, shocked. He wasn't prepared for even seeing Ash, let alone this.
"Why are you crying?" Ash suddenly stands up, waving his arms around— including the knife. "You're not the one that got fucking cheated on!" He shouts.
Shane recoils, wincing when he hits his head against the door.
"Am I that bad, Shane?" Ash asks, but it's all rhetorical. "I— I love you, Shane. You're everything to me. Anything I've ever done for you has been for your own good. But you never fucking learn."
Ash, because Shane is cornered, has no trouble getting to him, grabbing his shirt and throwing him to the ground. Shane gasps when the wind is knocked out of him as he hits the floor. He tries to get up, tries to scramble away, but by the time he gets his elbows under himself Ash is already straddling Shane's diaphragm.
The scent of alcohol hits Shane like a punch to the face, and, really, he should've known Ash had been drinking. He realizes this at nearly the same time he remembers Ilya— Ilya's words—
Ten minutes, he said, if you are not back, I am coming to get you.
Shane had no clue how long he had been in here— he wasn't paying attention. All he could do as Ash pinned Shane's arms under his knees was cry and squirm and silently pray that Ilya was being serious. That he hadn't lied— that those ten minutes had just passed and he was coming, he'd be here any second, he'd get here before Ash murders him. That’s what this was, right?
"You think you can just leave, Shane?" Ash asks him, holding the knife closer to Shane's face. He's losing himself, dissasociating, reverting back to the thing Ash made him into, freezing where he lays when Ash tells him to stop fucking moving, Shane.
"Ash—" Shane cries, his voice breaking. "Stop! This— this is fucking insane—"
His words fall on deaf ears.
"You think you can just— just fuck off and forget about me?"
Shane's heart hurts from how quickly it's beating— adrenaline rushing through his body. He needs help. He doesn't want to die— he's not ready. He needs Ilya. Ilya— where is Ilya?
"Stop!" Shane shouts, tears streaming down his face. "Get— get off me!" Ash covers his mouth with one hand.
"Think otherwise, sunshine." he says, leaning down, putting the tip of the knife to Shane's face.
It happens so fast that Shane doesn't even realize it until the searing pain rushes his nerves— in one quick, fluid motion, Ash slices the skin of his cheek open.
Shane screams, cries, growls out a fuck you as he tries like hell to fight Ash off him. It's useless. The cut pierces through the fog clouding his brain, forcing him to feel the deep sting of it.
He's positive this is it for him. Ash can do whatever he wants— torture Shane, put him through hell, and then kill him. He'll leave Shane to bleed out, and decompose right here on their bedroom floor.
Even worse, Ilya will find him, and it will be the last he ever sees of Shane again.
"Every time you look in a mirror, you'll think of me." Ash snarls, holding Shane's face in a tight grip. Everything starts to go blurry. "He will never fucking love you."
Just to break Shane's ribs so he can get straight to Shane's heart, Ash adds on—
"Nobody will."
Ash touches the blade to Shane's face again.
Ilya
Ilya's leg starts bouncing the moment Shane closes the car door.
He's anxious, for some reason. They both know Shane's— well— now ex, Ilya hopes, is nowhere to be seen. So Shane is right, Ilya has no realistic reason to he afraid for him.
Maybe it was because Ilya had just grown so silently protective of Shane. Maybe it was the fact that Shane had broken down in his arms— split open for Ilya to witness all his vulnerabilities— that he now knew all the torment and agony Ash had put him through.
Ilya had seen the bruises around Shane's neck, and now was correlating the image of them behind his eyelids with the place he now was watching Shane walk to. And, even if Shane was alone, it sent a violent shiver down Ilya's spine.
Ilya couldn't let himself dwell too much, not right now. He needed to hold himself together, somehow put aside all the pain Shane showed him, and stave off the prying he wanted to do about what else he had been put through.
Ilya forced his mind blank, and stared forward as he watched Shane quickly climb a stair case, unlocking his door and disappearing inside.
It was just Shane's apartment. Nobody was home. It was empty. There was no danger to him there. He didn't need to be there with Shane. He didn't need protecting. He was fine.
Ten minutes, Ilya had said, and he meant it.
Ilya still couldn't help but impatiently watch the clock on his phone. Three minutes in, his stomach starts to hurt. He's desperately trying to keep his breathing steady, for some reason, as if something is wrong even though everything is fine. He's nervous because his brain and body are being stupid.
Still, it doesn't take long before Ilya starts to recognize the wretched feeling in his gut—a nasty ache that lit his nerves alight, as if an anticipation for something that Ilya was clueless about was arising somewhere he couldn't see.
Without realizing it, Ilya tumbles back into a memory.
He's doesn't remember a lot from that day— the day he found his Mama. He thinks his brain had blocked most of it out for his own good. But there are things here and there, some days, that hit Ilya's senses in just the right moments and force him back into his twelve year old body; the smell of cigars, the sight of his own bright blue eyes when they're glassy in a fogged mirror, the touch of anybody's firm hand on his shoulder.
He remembers stepping inside of his house that day after he came home from practice. He had scored his first snap shot in a scrimmage. Ilya was practically bouncing on his feet, changed into a jersey and holding his stick. All he could think was I need to tell Mama, I need to tell Mama, she will be so excited—
He rounded the corner into the hallway, finding the master bedroom door cracked open. "Mama?" Ilya had said, hesitating. Carefully, he puts his free hand to the wood, pushing the door open the rest of the way.
And that's when he saw her.
Because he was a child, he ran to her body lying on the bed, thinking she was asleep. And that was when he really saw her.
Her hand was hanging off the bed limply. The pill bottles laid around her body, and her eyes were closed. Ilya's brows furrowed, confused, as he reached out to shake her.
She would never know about Ilya's scrimmage or his first snap shot. It was too late— her eyes were closed, and there was foam leaking from the side of her mouth as if she had gone rabid. Later, he would find out it was because she had a seizure from the overdose.
He thinks that even before he stepped through the front door, little Ilya distantly knew something was wrong. He didn't have a word for it then, but it was something primal— something dressed as intuition. It was something in the air that just felt... off. As if something wasn't right. In retrospect, Ilya thinks he knew something very bad had happened, even when he hadn't even walked into the foyer yet.
That was the feeling Ilya was getting as he sat in his car, waiting for Shane— a random anticipation choking him up, as if his body was trying to tell him something that his head had no rational reason to believe.
Four minutes pass, and then five. Ilya tries to play Clash of Clans on his phone to distract himself as he waits patiently— because Ilya is patient. But it doesn't work. He just ends up closing out the app, checking the time again. Seven minutes had passed.
Fuck, why was he freaking out so bad? Everything was literally fine. Shane would emerge from the apartment door any second now wearing a backpack or something, and Ilya would see his beautiful face again. Everything was fucking fine.
At nine minutes, Ilya lays his head against the steering wheel. He really does not want to embarrass himself by going into Shane's space and trying to get him to leave faster than he's ready to. But Ilya just— he doesn't like any of this. He doesn't like Shane being here. He wasn't lying when he said he wants Shane safe— he needs Shane safe. And, for some reason, this just didn't feel that way.
The ten minute mark hits.
Ilya forces himself to stay in his seat. So that he doesn't seem too clingy or obsessive, he tells himself he'll just wait a couple more minutes. Even if it's absolutely torturous.
At thirteen minutes, Ilya is too antsy. There's no reason Shane shouldn't have been back after more than five minutes— was there? All he needed to do was grab his things. Maybe he had a lot of things he wanted, Ilya's mind scrambles to reason, maybe he's looking for something specific he can't find. Ilya has been there before. He's gets it. Shane is just taking a little bit longer than he expected.
And then the fifteen minute mark hits. Ilya no longer cared if he seems crazy, or clingy or if he doesn't actually have some sort of weird sixth sense. He gets out of the car.
In hindsight, Ilya should've done so not one second after the ten minutes was up. Hell, he should've pushed harder to go with Shane. He never, ever, should have let Shane go into that apartment by himself.
Sensibly, he figures he'll go up the stairs, open the door and Shane will be there. Maybe he'll still be in the middle of packing a bag, or he'll run right into Ilya because he was just on his way out. Ilya will light-heartedly scold Shane for taking so long and making him worry, and then he'll take Shane's bag for him when they walk back to the car, even when Shane insists Ilya doesn't have to. Ilya will drive them back ho— to his place, holding Shane's hand on the way just because he can. And Ilya will never have to worry about Shane, because Shane will be with him, and he won't ever have to return to the misery Ilya used to be just as intimate with.
But then, after he had crossed the street and climbed the stairs, Ilya taps at the door twice with the knuckles of his fingers and hears nothing in response.
All his rationality flies out the window. Ilya suddenly feels like he's twelve again. Maybe he is, he thinks, as he opens the door and still gets no response.
"Shane?" Ilya asks at a regular volume, trying to keep his cool and scanning the place. From the doorway he can see the living room and the kitchen, but it's empty. He steps in, closing the door behind him softly. A striking sense of dejá vu hits him, making him feel a little dizzy.
Something is wrong. Call him crazy, but Ilya just knows it, even before—
"Stop fucking moving." Ilya hears, somehow both muffled and clear as day.
Ilya doesn't think, he just moves.
There's a small hallway to Ilya's left. He hears a muffled scream— undeniably Shane— and pushes open the first door he sees. It's a bathroom. Ilya's heart is on the verge of exploding in his chest, he thinks, as panic and terror both fracture through him in seamless tandem.
Shane— Shanya— Ilya's Shanya, is somewhere in this apartment, and he's begging and screaming for help.
The next door is thinner— probably a closet. Ilya quickly rushes to the door at the end of the hall, all but grabbing the handle and bodying it.
When Ilya finds his footing he is met with a detrimental scene; something straight out of a horror movie.
There, on the floor, is Shane, sobbing in fear. Straddling him and constricting his arms with his legs is another man. He needs no introduction. Ilya knows exactly who he is.
Ash, Shane had called him. Ilya evaluates the situation in seconds.
Shane, pale, sobbing, looking like he's on the verge of passing out. He's struggling for freedom and failing miserably— making muffled, gut wrenching noises while Ash, on top of him, has one hand covering Shane's mouth.
As soon as Ilya barges in, the man's head snaps to him. His expression is nothing short of animalistic, hypnotized by violence.
That's when Ilya sees the blood on Ash's hand, the blood on Shane’s face, and on his clothes.
And then he sees the knife.
"Don't come closer." Ash says, his eyes wild and manic, letting go of Shane's face to put a hand on his shoulder, and the blade up to Shane's neck.
Shane whimpers, turning his head just enough to look Ilya in the eyes.
He simultaneously looks starkly aware and yet so out of it, lost to the world because of how terrified he is. It makes Ilya want to vomit.
Ilya had never seen a human so petrified, not until seeing Shane just then, only a few feet in front of him.
"I— Ilya—" Shane whimpers, and Ash grabs his face again roughly. Ilya sees red— the same color of the lacerations across Shane's left cheek. He's ready to murder Ash, ready to find a way to physically torture him before snuffing him out completely, but the blade is nearly touching Shane's throat. And the injuries on Shane's face prove that Ash isn't fucking around when he presses the tip of the knife to Shane's chin.
"Shut up!" Ash shouts. He looks possessed; the type of insane that even Ilya’s father's anger didn't light a candle to.
Shane flinches beneath him, whimpering, sobbing, bleeding.
Ilya could explode, he thinks, with the amount of pressure building up inside him. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He has no choice but to stand where he is, watching the person Ilya adores the most literally fearing for his life. Shane doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this— he's the last person on earth to. And yet, the universe deems it justified to put Shane through hell. And for what? Why him? What has he done to deserve taking a blade to the throat?
"Get the fuck," Ilya growls, shaking with complete, unadulterated rage, "off of him."
Ash scoffs, still holding the knife. "Or what?"
Shane is straining his neck to create impossible distance between his skin and the blade, tears streaming down the side of his face. Ilya's heart rots from the sight, shriveling up into something hopeless inside his chest. He needs to help Shane, but— but fucking how? Ilya doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to do.
"He has done nothing to you." Ilya says, using every atom of energy he has inside himself to keep his voice steady. Shane's life is on the line— not that it has really, truly hit Ilya. The adrenaline running through his blood makes him feel so out of it and somehow also the most rigid he's ever been in his life. It's the only thing keeping him standing. Still, one wrong move, and this whole thing will go infinitely worse than awry.
"He's a fucking cheater." Ash says, Shane's chest rising and falling in ways that are clearly restricting his air intake. Ilya wants to shrivel you at the sight of it— the sight of his beautiful, innocent Shane, scared stiff, horror-struck and seeping red.
"He is human." Ilya says, his eyes welling up with tears he doesn't bother to try and hide. He needs Shane. He can't lose him. Not like this— not ever. "And you are hurting him."
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Ash asks. Ilya can't take his eyes off the blade and how close it is to Shane's throat. The steadiness of Ash's hand— one wrong move that could mean the difference between life and death for Shane. "He's not yours to do whatever you want with. He's fucking mine. He does not belong to you. Got it?" He exclaims.
"He does not belong to anyone. He is his own." Ilya says, scowling, knowing he could rip Ash apart if only he could get him between his teeth first.
"No he's not." Ash laughs, as if something about all this is genuinely comical. "He doesn't deserve to be. He doesn't deserve anything. He can't be trusted, clearly. That's why he doesn't leave without me knowing."
Ilya feels light headed. He feels dizzy, like he’s fighting the urge to genuinely pass out. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he is trying to stave off the realization that he is a factor in whether or not Shane might take a fatal injury. Nothing feels real, but it is— very much so.
Ilya had only gotten merely a glimpse of it— of their "relationship", not that it could truly be called that— but this? Ilya wasn't nearly prepared for finding out just how deep Shane's abuse truly goes. Ilya has a bad feeling that what Ash is admitting isn't even the half of it.
Ash lets go of Shane, who had stopped struggling long ago. Ilya wanted to tell him— don't give up, not yet, please, please keep fighting—
"Tell him, Shane." Ash says to him, Shane avoiding his gaze like the plague. "Tell this— this fucking piece of shit who you belong to."
Shane's lip quivers, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
"It h— hurts, Ash." Shane whispers, surprisingly steady, clearly attempting to either placate him or bring him back down to earth. "P— please stop this. I— I won't leave again, I—"
Ash shushes him, touching the blade to Shane's esophagus. He goes scarily still, scarily silent. Ilya mentally scrambles for an in— for a window he can jump through to get Ash off him. It's coming, he knows it. It has to be. Shane is not going to fucking die today.
"Quiet, my love." Ash says, as if he actually cared, as if Shane was looking for his comfort and not at risk of accidentally getting his throat cut open if he moves the wrong way. "I know you won't."
"The fuck does this mean?" Ilya asks, clenching his fists because he can't move, not yet.
"It means he's not fucking going anywhere," Ash says darkly, looking down at Shane, "Are you, sunshine?"
"N— no." Shane scrambles. "I won't. I won't, I promise—"
Ash hums. "Tell him how you really feel." He tells Shane, who is shaking violently under Ash's body.
Ilya clenches his jaw. Shane, between cries stutters, "I— I don't—"
"Tell him," Ash goes, perpetually keeping the knife at Shane's throat "Tell him the truth. Tell him how much you hate him. Tell him you're mine. Say it, my love."
Ash pushes the blade closer till it's touching Shane's skin. Ilya feels like he could crumble to the ground at any second, falling apart like the debris of this massive destruction that is helplessly out of his control.
Shane squeezes his eyes shut. "I— I hate h— him—"
Ash forces Shane's face to the side. "Look at him." He says. "Tell him."
"I hate you!" Shane's wails alone have Ilya's chest burning like a scolding build up of lava. But Shane's words don't affect him— he can't let his words affect him. Anyone would say what they're told to with a knife to their throat.
"Tell him to leave."
"L— leave." Shane says. He's too quiet. It reminds Ilya of that first day he served them in the diner.
"Like you fucking mean it."
"Fucking go, Ilya." Shane says, and it's convincing— Ilya wonders if he really does want him to. Either way, it's not happening. "Get out."
"No." Ilya says, feeling on the verge of his own madness. He's had enough of this. "I'm not going. Now get the fuck off of him."
"Do you want him to die?" Ash asks. "Is that what you want, Ilya?"
Ilya scowls.
"Because I'll fucking do it." He says.
The look in his eyes tells Ilya that maybe he's genuinely being serious. Ilya has to shove down the terror twisting up his insides so he can find confidence to override it. He needed to get control of this situation, and fast.
"You wouldn't." Ilya says, calling his bluff. It's the most dangerous gamble he has taken in his entire life. "I thought you love him? How will he be yours if he is dead?"
Ash only glares, so Ilya continues.
"What, you have nothing?" Ilya asks. Shane looks like he's on the verge of passing out. "You are pathetic, small man. Shane does not deserve this— he does not deserve anything you did to him. You don't love him. You never did. This is not how you treat person you ’love’."
"Bullshit." Ash shoots. "I do love him— everything I have ever done was in his favor. But you're fucking ungrateful, aren't you?" He asks Shane, who still hasn't stopped crying, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
"Shut the fuck up!" Ilya growls. He squares his shoulders, standing to his full height. "You listen to me now. Yes?"
Ilya takes one step forward, and Shane gasps. It's such a minuscule thing, but Ilya catches it when Ash's demeanor falters, even if for a second. It's enough for Ilya to count himself intimidating, as he takes another step forward. Ash leans down more towards Shane, but Ilya is not fooled. His arm— the blade, had stayed in the same spot.
"Don't— don’t move." Ash says. Unfortunately, he no longer is in control here.
Something comes over Ilya that is so strong, so adrenaline inducing that he can't put a singular name to it. It's like he suddenly becomes someone else entirely— something that could not be more unlike his child or teenage self, who let his father decide everything that went and left him with bruises on floors with no second thought, telling him that if he spoke of what actually happened to his Mama he would see no tomorrow—
Ilya takes another step, and Ash pulls the knife away from Shane and points it out towards Ilya.
Shane, because he is strong and amazing and everything he is told he isn’t, takes the opportunity for what it was, a window— a weakness— and quickly manages to slip one arm out from under Ash's leg. In one swift motion, with tears and blood all down his lovely cheeks, Shane punches Ash's jaw, hard. For just a moment, Ilya’s heart swells impossibly. He is so proud.
As Ash takes the impact, recoiling with a pained growl, Ilya takes the chance, lunging forward and tackling the man off of Shane.
The knife falls from Ash's grip as he's slammed to the floor, Ilya straddling him. Ash puts up a good fight, but Ilya works out almost every day, ultimately overpowering him. At this point Ilya's vision starts to vignette, honing in only on Ash and the bottomless, raging hot wrath he feels towards him.
Ilya doesn't hesitate to pull back a fist and punch Ash in the face. He pulls back again, and again, and again, until the man is pleading for mercy. Ilya thinks of Shane begging for mercy underneath Ash, and thinks of how many other countless times he probably has behind the closed doors of this apartment, desperately fighting for himself. He thinks about how there probably wasn't a single time where Ash listened to Shane, and instead inflicted even more pain on him.
So Ilya, now given the chance, just can't help but do the same to him.
Ilya loses himself for a long moment as he lands another punch, knocking the guy out cold, breathing hard as if he had just sprinted a mile. The only thing that starts to ground him is the pain of his knuckles, and the adrenaline in his body that starts to taper off as his brain takes in the fact that there is no more threat. He is safe. Shane is safe—
Shane.
Ilya, coming back to himself, looks to the side and sees Shane there hyperventilating, crouched down and pushing himself into the side of the bed. He has his arms outstretched and is holding the knife in front of him, clutched in an undying grip of his hands. He has it pointed towards Ash's unconscious body on the floor, Shane's eyes teary and wide and scared, so, so scared, as if Ash would shoot up from the floor at any second to attack him again. As if he still had a reason to need to be ready to defend himself.
Ilya had immobilized the danger, yes, but clearly Shane didn't see it that way. Maybe he wasn't all there— Ilya couldn't blame him one bit. He looked a little out of it, now that Ilya has a better look at him. Shane, his Shane, with blood and tears smeared all over his face, a bruise forming over his left cheek bone, and blood on his fist just like Ilya’s, is still silently facing a peril that Ilya can't see.
"Shane—" Ilya goes.
Shane flinches but he doesn't look away from Ash. His continued terror might as well have been a stab of the knife right into Ilya’s middle.
Ilya gets off Ash and kneels beside Shane, trying to get on his level. He keeps a good amount of distance, not too close but not too far. He does have a weapon in his hand, after all. Not that Ilya is afraid or worries Shane would hurt him, because he doesn't. He just wants to be safe, he wants to make sure Shane is safe, and he can't do that when he has a blade in his hands for no more reason.
"Shane..." Ilya says softly, eyes flitting between his face and the knife, crusting with Shane's blood. It makes Ilya's stomach turn. "Shanya, can you look at me?" Ilya asks.
He sees Shane's jaw clench, his throat working as he swallows, trying to catch his breath.
"Breathe, Shanya, please." Ilya all but begs. "It is me, Ilya. Is okay now. Everything is okay. You are safe, yes? Please, look at me."
After a long moment, Shane's breath stutters one last time on an inhale. He blinks deeply as if he had truly just suddenly come back to himself after being mentally somewhere far, far way. Maybe he has. Ilya can't blame Shane for disassociating to any capacity. Especially when he knows exactly what it's like for hiding away in your mind to be the only coping mechanism you have.
And, to be fair, he very well could have lost his life less five minutes ago.
So Shane doesn't look at him, and he doesn't lower the knife, but he does force himself to suck in a deep breath of air like Ilya asked him to. At least he knew Shane was somewhat there.
"Good, yes," Ilya praises him, "Now, I need you to give me the knife, okay?"
For a long moment, Shane doesn't move. Ilya waits patiently for his words to reach Shane.
"He can not hurt you. Not anymore." Ilya says, slowly reaching out. "We need to leave, Shanya. So we are safe, yes?"
"S— safe?" Shane whispers, his red, watery eyes flitting to Ilya.
"Yes," Ilya nods, reaching. "Safe."
Carefully, Ilya removes the knife from Shane's undying grip, rubbing at his knuckles softly as he does so, comforting him as he whispers, it's okay, is okay, you're okay.
He lets Ilya take then knife. He moves it away from them both, before carefully taking Shane's face in his hands.
"Oh, lyubov'," Ilya frowns, his heart only continuing to break for what seems like the millionth time in the past hour. He feels like ten years have been taken off his life. Shane feels the same— Ilya can see it in those gorgeous, coffee-brown eyes he adores so much. "You are still bleeding."
"I— I'm fine…" Shane says, his voice completely monotone.
"Okay," Ilya hushes him, only smearing the blood when he tries to wipe it away. Blood is nothing like tears— they must be handled differently. "Okay."
Maybe he's a little out of it, too.
From where Ilya stood a little further back when he first entered the room, the two clean, straight cuts sliced across Shane's cheek looked a bit more superficial than they do up close. Where Ilya sits in front of Shane, he realizes they are much deeper than he realized— he feels stupid, like he should've realized because of how much blood there was.
The wounds were terrible. Violent. Purposeful. It leaves Ilya with an excruciating wrenching of his gut to see Shane— who, deep down, he can no longer hide that he loves so dearly— so torn to shreds. He could tell Shane was feeling the great pain of it, as well as from the black eye he was slowly developing.
Ilya wished so, so hard that he could kiss Shane's injuries better, the ones he had outside and the ones he kept hidden inside. But here, there would be no bandaids. These injuries needed real medical attention, and Ilya needed to find a way to try and stop the bleeding, at least for now.
"Is still very bad, Shane." Ilya breathes quietly, Shane avoiding his gaze. "You— you will need stitches, probably. You are bleeding a lot, Shanya."
Shane says nothing. It's as if he doesn't want to help himself.
Ilya reasons that his energy is completely drained. But that's okay— Ilya doesn't mind. He can summon up enough strength to keep them both standing for a while longer.
"You have— ah, fuck— bandage box thing? The box? With cross on it?" Ilya asks, praying that Shane understands him. He fucking hates English. It's a stupid, complicated language.
Shane scoffs, and Ilya thinks he senses a pinch of amusement in it. Ilya takes it as a good sign. "First-aid kit." Shane corrects him, even now, even when his tone falls flat. Ilya is so, so grateful. "It's in the bathroom, I think. The one out there."
"Okay." Ilya says, knowing he won't leave Shane here, not with Ash in the room to any capacity. "Come, I will help you."
Ilya has no trouble getting Shane's right arm around his shoulders, putting his left around Shane's slim body, carefully standing them both up. Shane leans on him for support, probably mostly from exhaustion while Ilya whispers small assurances to him, praising him, just because he can. Ilya tells Shane to focus on him as they pass Ash's still body before yanking open the bedroom door, closing it behind them and finding the bathroom.
He goes to open the door, figuring he can just sit Shane on the toilet and try to patch him up enough for now until they can get actual medical help. Ilya figures they should call the police, so he'll get on that immediately after.
"I will just try to make the blood stop, and then we get you real help, da?" Ilya explains, keeping his voice as steady as he can.
But when they reach the bathroom, and Ilya pushes the door open with one hand, Shane suddenly plants his feet.
Ilya can feel exactly when Shane's entire body goes absolutely stiff, and he starts to shake again. It makes Ilya's heart jump, his brain screaming, threat, there is a threat—
"W— wait." Shane says, shaking his head, trying to pull back from Ilya's touch. "I can't— I don't want to—"
Ilya scans the area, looking for whatever Shane is worrying about, ready to fight his way through it if he has to. But, as Ilya holds him close, he doesn't see anything.
"Shane, I have to bandage you, is okay—"
"No." Shane says, adamant. "Don't— I don't want to. Please. I— I'll be good. I promise. I'm sorry."
Ilya frowns, confused. He looks at Shane, then the bathroom. The bathroom is what's scaring him.
Sorrow radiates throughout Ilya's chest, spidering out from his heart. I'll be good, I promise.
"What do you mean?" Ilya asks quietly, carefully. "Shane, you are so, so good for me, always. What is wrong?"
Shane shakes his head again, trying to pull away. "I don't want to— to go." He says, his voice suddenly going very, very small. "Please don't— don't lock— don't leave me here, please—"
It's like a punch to the gut, like all the air had been squeezed from Ilya’s lungs. Ilya wants to let his knees buckle and fall to the floor like they beg to, but he doesn't. He has to be strong. He has to keep Shane on his feet, walking, taking, alive.
"Shanya— no." Ilya nearly wines, his heart pulsing with pain. "No, I would never do this. It— I just need to clean your face, Shane."
"I don't—" Shane stutters, and Ilya is horrified to see the tears welling in his eyes again, "Ilya—"
Okay, no. Not happening.
"Alright, okay, Shanya, okay—" Ilya pulls him in, holding him tight in his arms when he starts to cry. Fuck. "Let's— we will go to couch, yes? You do not have to go there. I will not make you if you do not want to. Da? Yes?”
Shane nods, his eyes averted. "Sorry," He apologizes— always apologizing, "I'm— sorry."
"No, dorogoy, please do not say sorry." Ilya says, trying to wipe his tears, but he's ducking his head as if he's shameful. "Come on, we will go to couch."
He leads Shane into the living room and sits him down. Ilya is two seconds away from taking off his shirt to stop the bleeding at this point. It's clotting now, sure, but the cuts are deep. They need to be covered.
Ilya hands Shane his phone.
"I have very important thing you need to do, Shane. Can you do this for me?" Shane still looks like he's disassociated from everything. Ilya squeezes his hand to help him listen. "I need you to call police for me."
"W— what?" Shane blanches. "I— I can't— he— he'll—"
"He will go to jail, Shane." Ilya says, trying desperately to get his words through to Shane. "He will go to jail, and he will never hurt you ever again. You do not have to say anything. Just call number, tell them you are hurt. That is it. I will talk, you do not have to."
Shane swallows, looking incredibly hesitant. His eyes dart toward the hallway, where the bedroom door is closed. They should hurry, probably, just in case Ash wakes up.
"Shane." Ilya urges, pressing the phone into his hand. Maybe he'll do it if it means helping Ilya instead. "I can not do it myself. I have to get aid kit. Will you help me?"
Shane clenches his jaw. The look in his eyes wavers with an exhausted devastation.
"Okay." Shane finally agrees, and Ilya's shoulder muscles loosen, even if just the slightest bit.
"Good, Shane." Ilya says softly, kissing him on the forehead, Shane's messy face flushing. "I will be back. Stay here."
Ilya gets up, hurriedly going back to the bathroom, trying not to let his thoughts get ahead of him— he has a task to accomplish. It will take two seconds. Shane is not far away from him.
Turning the knob, Ilya tries really, really hard not to dwell on the fact that the bathroom has a lock on the outside, and not the inside.
The anger that swells up within him is enough to make Ilya want to go back into that bedroom and shake Ash awake, just so he can feel Ilya's fist rain down on him all over again. For hours.
He doesn't have to go in far, really, to open the cupboard beneath the sink and find the familiar red box. Quickly, he grabs it and makes his way back to the living room, afraid to leave Shane alone again. Shane is still there, trembling, sitting on the couch with Ilya's phone to his ear.
Ilya never wants to leave Shane alone ever again.
"No." Shane says into the phone, looking at Ilya when he comes back into the room.
"Okay." Shane says, as Ilya kneels in front of him. "He— he’s here now."
Ilya opens the container, and finds it's nearly empty of supplies. Of course it is.
He really, really feels the sudden need to lie down and cry himself to sleep.
All that’s left is some gauze, which has to be good enough.
"They said they will be here soon." Shane says, sniffling, "But I have to stay on the phone."
"Okay." Ilya says softly. He takes some of the gauze and lifts it to Shane's face, moving slowly so as not to scare him. He wipes at the dried blood, at Shane's tears, careful to not press too hard on his bruised cheek. Shane hisses when Ilya dabs over the cuts. "Sorry, dorogoy. Sorry.”
Shane shakes his head, keeping the phone to his ear.
When Ilya deems his job well enough done, he holds another piece of gauze to Shane's cheek. He winces at the feeling, but they both know it's for the best.
"They are asking questions." Shane says, his tone drained of energy. Ilya takes the phone.
"Hello?"
Ilya takes Shane outside when the operator tells him to leave the premise, and wait for the police and ambulance on the sidewalk. Shane starts to shiver, so Ilya pulls him in to hold him close, rubbing at one of his arms. Ilya knows he will have a lot of explaining to do, no matter how down to the bone depleted he is. It's fine— his Shanya really needs medical attention, and, no matter what, Ilya isn't leaving until he sees the motherfucker still inside that apartment walking out of it in handcuffs.