Summary:

At first, he thinks he’s hallucinating Rozanov. The lethal half-cut of his gaze, the open collar of his shirt, the span of his hands moving up someone else’s waist. Shane’s always been a glutton for punishment.

But he blinks, or the lights keep blinking for him, won't fucking quit, and Rozanov is still there. Looking. An anchor. Shane stares back, can’t make himself stop.

The glass he’s holding slips out of his hand and shatters as he jolts forward. He's drowning in this sea of people but he thinks, maybe, Ilya is the only one that manages to hear.