Summary:

Warm hands suddenly encased his, pulling them away from his shirt collar and back down onto the table. Shane risked a glance at Ilya and saw only concern and confusion on his face, but he couldn’t keep looking at him directly, couldn’t look him in the eye. Couldn’t let Ilya see him lose it like this, in public, all because the shirt felt wrong. Because it felt too much like being five and ripping hand-knitted jumpers from his body because they hurt. Like needing seams in his socks to sit a certain way. Like a childhood spent tearfully pulling clothes off his body until his parents figured out what fabrics he could tolerate. It felt like being seven and unable to explain to teachers why the other children didn’t like him, why he hid under the tables when the classroom was too noisy.