Summary:

“Don’t go,” Ilya manages to choke out, burying his face under Shane’s chin and squeezing his eyes shut. He inhales sharply, pressing his nose deeper into Shane’s throat to breathe in his scent. Right now, it’s Ilya’s body soap, vanilla and spice, masked under salt and skin. He inhales it like it's his own personal supply of air, what he needs to extinguish the burning in his lungs. “Ilya,” Shane says, voice urgent, “you’re shaking, I—your breathing’s too fast—” He tries to pull back, needs to see Ilya’s face, needs to see what’s wrong, but Ilya just shakes his head and clings tighter. “Please don’t go, Shane,” Ilya whispers, pleading. I’m sorry, please don’t go, don’t go— OR: ilya and shane accidentally recreate the tuna-melt day, and ilya realizes just how much old wounds hurt.