Summary:

Ilya's hand continues its path up and down Shane's back, and Shane thinks again about how love is sometimes just this: a palm on the spine, moving in circles, waiting for you to come back to yourself. There is no promise of saving you—Ilya cannot save him, they both know this and are alright with it in their own ways—but there is a vow of staying, lingering in order to witness. Touching the bruise so that its pain triggers the memory that you are allowed to be touched. Outside, the snow continues its work of erasure. Inside, Shane's breathing begins to even out, every limb recalling how to be a man at rest rather than an animal fawning and freezing. The trembling subsides, wave by wave, as if Ilya's hand is smoothing it out of him. "Sleep, зайчик," Ilya says softly, his free hand coming to rest in Shane's hair. "I have you." This is not true, Shane thinks, and it is also the only true thing. ⋆ recovery, shane learns, is not a straight line. to begin to understand something, you must first name it.