Summary:

They sat in silence for a few seconds and watched the surf rolling in and out, in and out. Shane eased one knee up, resting his arm across it, watching Ilya out of the corner of his eye with infinite patience. “You wanna talk about it?” he asked, voice soft enough that the wind almost stole it. He did want to talk. His chest was full of words. Too full. But the idea of opening all that up? Of watching Shane recoil, or worse, watching him care? It was unbearable. The thought of being comforted by Shane, of feeling that warmth and knowing he couldn’t keep it, nearly crushed him. Ilya kept his eyes on the water, jaw tight. Shane reached out slowly and carefully and let the tip of one finger trace the outside of Ilya’s forearm. Just a whisper of contact. A question, not a demand. Ilya looked at him. Shane gave a small tilt of his hand, beckoning him closer. “Come here.” **** A deviation from the All-Star weekend in Tampa: Instead of finding Shane on the bench, it’s Ilya alone with his ghosts and falling apart in ways he never lets anyone see. Until Shane sits beside him. The tide is ceaseless and the night is heavy. Canon diverges; feelings don't.