Chapter Text
The room he wakes up is not his bedroom. It’s not his cottage either. Shane rubs his eyes. Fuck. Nothing looks familiar. How drunk did he get last night? Wait. He wasn’t out celebrating last night. He was home in Montreal. He was reading Isaac’s Storm before falling asleep and waking up here.
Where is here?
A really fucking small bed that he didn’t fit in. A bucket. A table with a cheese sandwich and a glass of water. A constant buzzing noise that made the hairs on Shane’s neck stand up. Shane couldn’t see the other side of the room.
Shane stood up and tried to move but couldn’t. He looked down and saw his legs were shackled. Shane looked around and saw a camera on the ceiling. Was someone watching him right now?
“Hey asshole! Let me out!” Shane yelled.
The buzzing sound got louder.
Fuck.
Shane pressed his hands to his ears and crawled back into the bed. He was suddenly groggy again, light headed. He closed his eyes.
Peeing in the bucket was humiliating. And he hated that it was so damn close to his food. He peeled off the cheese and just ate the bread and drank the water.
“I’m lactose intolerant.” He said to the camera. “Sorry.”
Sorry. He was saying sorry to whoever put him there for being unable to eat the meal. Shane was apologizing like the good Canadian boy he was raised to be.
“Fuck.” Shane said to himself. He laid back and counted the tiles of the ceiling.
Counting made Shane calm. It always had. He would breathe in one two three for five and out one two three four five whenever he had panic attacks. He had to look around him and find five things that were real to help ground himself. It would be difficult to do now. There was the bed. The bucket. The plate. The cup. The shackles? The chain?
“Fuck. Don’t freak out.” Shane whispered.
How long had he been where he was? Shane was sleeping most of the time. He was pretty sure that his water had something in it that would make his unconscious. But whoever he woke up he would have a clean bucket and now he had a roll of toilet paper. He was getting peanut butter sandwiches instead of cheese, so someone was watching through the camera.
Was he gone long enough for his parents to be looking for him? Would they even care to look for him? He was their disgraced son, after all.
Fuck. Shane didn’t need to think about them.
Of course his work would notice. Shane was replaceable, he knew that, but he was expected to show up and was most likely fired by now. How long had it been?
He looked around the room. There wasn’t anything that would give him any indication of where he was. All he could see was what was near him. The other side of the room was completely dark.
Shane spent the few waking hours he had exercising. Push ups, sits ups, limited yoga. He was always fit and fuck, he wasn’t going to waste away now. He had to maintain some type of strength if he came face to face with whoever put him here.
But who?
He was a fucking librarian. He ran community outreach programs for children that didn’t have access to books and school supplies and organized fund raisers and all that fun stuff. He held classes for senior citizens and taught that how to use today’s technologies. Everything he did revolved around teaching and providing services. And books.
He played Magic the Gathering. He ran a Dungeons and Dragons discord server. He painted model cars and put together Lego creations.
Who the hell would put him here?
Maybe it was a nightmare. A very realistic nightmare that happened to go on for weeks. Yeah, that makes total fucking sense, Shane.
After his seventh time eating a peanut butter sandwich, the lights were out. Shane woke in darkness. The buzzing was still there, but there was another noise.
Sobs.
“Hello?” Shane whispered out. “Is someone here?”
The sobs stopped. A sound of scrapping.
“Please. Is there someone in here with me?” Shane said a little louder.
“привет?” A man’s voice said. “Где я?”
“Oh thank fuck.” Shane breathed out. “Are you okay? Do you know where we are?” Shane said into the darkness.
“Я не говорю по-английски. Ah, no English.” The voice said.
Shane nodded then remembered be couldn’t be seen.
Why the fuck would Shane be in here with a Ukrainian or Russian or Polish or whatever the hell this guy was. Why would Shane be in here at all?
So far no one has tried to talk to him or touch him or anything. Someone just watched him. And now there was someone else in here? What if this was the guy that took him?
Shane suddenly started to hyperventilate. And it was if his abductor had heard his thoughts because the room suddenly lit up. Shane covered his eyes and peered through his finders.
His cell mate was hiding under the bed in the fetal position. Shane saw his face was all bloodied, way worse than when Shane was brought here. His blonde curls were stuck to his head. His eyes were darting around the room. This was not the person that abducted him.
“Hey man. You okay?” Shane asked. He crawled as far as his chain would reach.
“Держись от меня подальше!” The man screamed and pressed further against the wall.
“Okay. Okay.” Shane stopped. The man’s set up was similar to Shane’s. Small bed. Bucket. Sandwich and water. The room wasn’t as big as Shame originally thought it was.
Shane went back and sat on the bed. He wiggled his legs to show the man that he was a prisoner, too.
He pointed to his chest. “I’m Shane. My name is Shane.”
“Илья.” He pointed to his chest.
“Illeeyah.” Shane repeated.
“нет. Илья.” He said again.
“Eel-ya.” Shane said.
“да.” Ilya nodded.
“Ilya.” Shane said again and leaned his head back against wall.
Ilya crawled out from under the bed. His ankles were in chains. He stood and stared at Shane from across the room.
He was taller then Shane by a good four inches at least. Gorgeous face underneath the dried blood. Sharp jaw, thick neck, strong shoulders. Muscular, way bigger than Shane. He raised his hand and wiped his eyes. Ilya was terrified. Shane could see it in his face. The way his eyes couldn’t hold their focus on anything. Of course, he was probably drugged. He was a fucking huge guy and it looks like he put up a fight judging by how bloodied up his knuckles were. He fought back.
“Good for you.” Shane said. “I hope you knocked his fucking teeth out.”
Shane reached for his pathetic meal and ate and drank. He knew sleep would come soon. Ilya sat on his bed and did the same thing. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The silence spoke enough for both of them.
“I don’t know how long I have been here.” Shane said. “I don’t think anyone is looking for me either. I think that fucks me up more than not knowing why I’m here or who brought me here.” Shane sighed. “And I fucking stink. I haven’t had a shower in forever. I would kill for a bath.” He looked at the camera. “I want fucking shower!” He yelled.
“нет.” Ilya pointed to the camera.
Shane groaned. “There is someone watching us. They heard me say I was lactose intolerant and gave me a different food.” Shane looked at the camera. “I don’t know if I ever said thank you, so thank you.”
“ты глупый.” Ilya stood up and went to pee in his bucket. “дерьмо. Как нам выбраться отсюда?”
Shane turned to give him some privacy. Shitting and pissing was something they had to do but dammit it was humiliating. They both would face the wall when the other had to go.
They talked. Even though Shane didn’t understand Russian and Ilya didn’t know English and they were having entirely different conversations. It was nice to not be alone.
“Я скучаю по маме.” Ilya said as he laid back down. “Она мертва. Мой отец убил её, а я убил его. Я никогда никому об этом не рассказывал.”
Shane stared at the ceiling and counted the tiles again. How long was Shane going to be here? Why the fuck was this happening? There were no answers. Nobody else. Just this. This and the fucking buzzing.
“Мой брат — мудак. Я трахнул его жену.” Ilya laughed. “Он вырубался пьяным, а я потом её трахал.”
Shane grabbed his hair and pulled. He needed to get out of here. He needed a fucking shower. He was filthy. He wasn’t missed by anyone. He was replaceable at work. His parents didn’t talk to their gay son. They disowned him. Shane had nobody. And he was here and Ilya was here and why were they here?
Catch your breath.
Concentrate.
Breathe in one two three four five. Breathe out one two three four five.
Bed. Bucket. Peanut butter sandwich. Water. Ilya. Bed. Bucket. Peanut butter sandwich. Water. Ilya. Bed. Bucket. Peanut butter sandwich. Water. Ilya.
“Ты в порядке?” Ilya sat up. “У тебя паническая атака.” Ilya started to breathe with Shane. “Вдох.” Ilya held his breath. “Выдох.” Ilya slowly released it.
Shane copied him. Tears streaming down his face. Ilya climbed out of his bed and crawled as far as his chain would allow and reached his arm out towards Shane. Shane did the same and was able to grab Ilya’s hand and squeezed it. They held on to each other until they both fell asleep.
Something firm was pressed between Shane’s shoulder blades.
“What?” Shane tried to say but something pressed against his mouth.
He hurt. He felt like he was being torn apart. His face was pressed into the mattress, his body being pushed down in a fast rhythm.
No! Stop! Please stop! Shane couldn’t yell. He couldn’t speak. It hurt. It fucking hurt so bad.
Ilya.
Shane forced himself to open his eyes. He hoped Ilya wasn’t there. Ilya and his perfect curls and no English. Ilya who was his lifeline now in the horrible place.
But the other side of the room wasn’t empty. Ilya was curled on his bed, his left hand in bloodied bandages and held to his chest. His eyes were squeezed shut and he had his fright had pressed against his ear and the other shoved into the mattress. His mouth was moving.
Shane heard a grunt behind him. Something warm. Shane felt sick.
“Good boy.” A voice growled in his ear. “You did good not fighting me.” He patted Shane’s cheek.
Shane watched as the figure walked to Ilya’s side of the room with his pants around his mid thighs.
“Your turn, Russki.” The man slapped at Ilya’s face.
“Ilya, no.” Shane said. “Please! No!” He tried to move but his arms were fastened together. “Leave him alone! Don’t hurt him! Please!”
The man turned and Shane saw his face now. He saw the person who had held them here for days, week, months. He recognized that face. He had seen it many times on his television. Captain of the Montreal Metros: Cliff Marleau.