Just push me underwater and we can both hope I drown.
(tw: depressed Shane, suicidal idealization, thoughts of sh, mention of the tuna melt, and my shitty English) Anyway please enjoy this courtesy of my very shitty headspace this morning.
Shane felt like he was underwater. Not like when you're at the beach and you're swimming with your friends and laughing, and one of them shoves you a little too hard and you slip.
No, it was nothing like that. It felt like the water was polluted, leaving him unable to see or think properly and someone was forcing his head underwater with the wish to watch the air leave Shane's lungs.
Ever since the tuna melt that was more often than not how he felt. The feeling only intensified after the radio silence from Ilya Rozanov.
Sitting in his hotel room in Boston alone was lonely, laying in bed and rotting into his mattress was lonely, but he didn't know what else to do. The uncomfortable itch underneath his skin made him want to scratch at his thighs until he drew blood, itch until he could fix everything, until he could fix how awful he was and serve as an act of penance.
Because God did he deserve it, he deserved some kind of punishment, whether divine or man made to make him better. To sink its claws into the creases and crevices of his (albeit very) empty brain, and tattoo itself there.
Shane sighed, sliding a hand further under his pillow. He was so tired, but no matter how much he tried he knew better than to expect a night of good dreams. In a bittersweet way they were, because they were all filled with Ilya Rozanov, cradling his face in his hands like he was precious and whispering that he loved him and other sweet nothings he would forget come morning. Then Shane would wake up, alone and preferring the idea that maybe next time he wouldn't wake up. But he did, because he always did.