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“Oh shit, oh fuck, oh my fucking god.”
Shane can’t stop the string of profanities from escaping past his lips, hushed yet urgent.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”
He feels his breath shorten as a panicked sob bursts from his chest.
No longer murmuring curse words, he instead begins to make a faint keening sound, rapidly losing the ability to generate words at all.
Shane turns away from the unforgivable mess he just made, running through the house to begin searching for a broom, a vacuum, even a freaking dust pan that would somehow assist him with cleaning up his transgression.
He’s halfway down the hallway, trying to locate a closet door that would possibly have cleaning supplies stashed away in it when he hears the front door open.
Shane stops in his tracks, bringing his hand up to his mouth, covering the frantic breaths and soft noises he can’t seem to control.
He looks around him for somewhere to disappear to, but isn’t far enough down the hallway to make it to a bedroom without creating a sound.
He hears the footsteps reverberate into the house, crossing the threshold between the outside world and inside, and his ears perk up in recognition at the sound of shoes and a jacket being removed.
Padded feet begin walking, and Shane can hear footsteps he would recognize even in a dream stepping further into the entryway, before pausing.
“Shane?”
He hears his name called out, but absolutely refuses to acknowledge it.
“Sweetheart, you here?”
Shane won’t be tricked into replying by the term of endearment.
“I see your shoes by the front door, moya lyubov. Where you hiding?”
Shane decides at this moment, it is worth the risk of running, and beelines it down the hallway. He stops in front of the first door he can find, which happens to be the guest bedroom. Shane will be lucky if he’s allowed to sleep on this bed, let alone the wishful comfort of a couch, once what he has done is revealed. He quickly opens the door and enters the room, trying to keep his steps as light as possible. He speeds his way over to the small walk-in closet in a few long steps and pulls it open, squeezing himself inside and closing the door where total darkness pours over him.
All he can do now is hope his hiding spot is sufficient.
Shane has always been a runner.
Once, when Shane was six and had just started hockey, he ran away from practice while everyone was distracted during a drink break because Liam, one of the largest kids on the team, had told him that the Zamboni was going to eat him unless he quit hockey. Shane was too young to realize it was because he was already, at six, a naturally talented hockey player and a child's jealousy is akin to a jagged knife. His Mom found him, frantic, hiding as far back as he could go under the bleachers, weeping into his too big practice jersey.
He ran away from another hockey practice when he was eleven because Felix told him he kept missing easy passes because he needed to open his eyes and stop squinting all the time. The tight feeling in his gut made him approach his coach with an hour and a half left of practice, citing a stomach ache, and with a disappointed look he told Shane to call his parents. Looking back, Shane thinks the fact that his face was pale and his skin was clammy helped his lie be a bit more believable. His Mom picked him up, concern evident on her face, but not asking anything besides if he was okay. Catching his mother's matching eyes in the rear view mirror, he couldn't bring himself to tell her what Felix had said. Shane went home and looked at himself in the mirror for hours, widening his eyes and trying to see what Felix did.
He ran away from his Grade 12 Prom before he even made it halfway through. The girl he went with kept trying to kiss him, and when he looked around at all the other boys that were kissing their dates, he wondered why it was so hard for him to want to kiss her back. She was nice, pretty, and so obviously interested in him, so he gave his date a single peck on the lips and immediately after told her he had to go to the bathroom. He ran out of the dance with a sick feeling in his gut and didn't tell his parents why he walked through the door a sweaty mess in his ill fitting tux, trying not to feel guilty for something he wasn't quite sure how to explain.
The last time he ran away, however, was the time that almost killed him. When he abandoned the love of his life on a couch because he wasn't ready to deal with the reality that was crashing down onto him, brutal and ugly no matter how much he wanted it. He hadn't dared to look back, knowing if he did he would have stayed. Staying, for the Shane at that point in time, would have been catastrophic. He would have made everything worse, and so he ran.
He is safe when he runs away, hidden and protected.
As he scoots further into the closet, he rationalizes that if he isn’t found, then he can’t be broken up with. He won’t be discarded, one decisive decision made based on the hassle of staying together with him as he is found to be more trouble than he’s worth.
Shane remembers the days when he was alone, surviving off of brief encounters and rapid connection.
He won’t survive if he’s turned away from the one person he craves more than hockey.
Right now, as he hides away in this small closet, he is still loved.
He hears his labored breathing resonating in the small space and brings his hands back up to his mouth to stifle his gasps. He squeezes his eyes shut for good measure, trying to make himself disappear.
Shane tries so hard to spare the love of his life from anything that attempts to hurt him, and he has just committed something horrible in their own home.
Shane feels a tear slide down his cheek at the reminder of what he had done.
It doesn’t matter that it was an accident, it doesn’t matter that he would have rather hurt himself than create the wreckage just a few rooms away, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.
None of that matters when he knows in his heart he will never be forgiven.
Shane finds that he has just enough space in the closet to crouch down, so he briskly makes himself into a human shaped ball on the floor. In his panic, he happens to knock his knee against the wooden door, freezing as the dull thud breaks through the silence of the space. He curls up even smaller, wishing and hoping and even praying that he wasn’t heard.
He must have been hidden away for only a few minutes, if that, before he hears a telltale creak of a floorboard that he knows is coming from the hallway directly outside the guest room.
Shane can’t remember if he closed the bedroom door after himself when he entered, but he remembers it was closed when he arrived and pushed his way through the doorway. If he closed it again, then that’s not as suspicious. If he forgot to close it and it is open right now, well, then Shane is fucked.
He doesn’t hear another noise for so long, he foolishly thinks about attempting to change his hiding spot. He’s so focused on trying to hype himself into this plan of action, that he misses the door handle slowly turning.
He has almost convinced himself to leave, when he is hit with a beam of light through the gap of the now open closet door.
His eyes widen, glistening wet and pupils shaking, as he tries to shove himself further back in the confined space.
There, staring directly at him through the slight crack in the door, is the towering form of Ilya Rozanov.
“What you doing, myshonok?”
Finally found, Shane can no longer keep his tears at bay, heaving sobs pouring from his chest as he attempts to speak.
“I-Ilya, I’m so-I’m so-”
“Hey whoa, Shane, what-” Ilya exclaims, obviously shocked to find him this distressed.
“I’m so sorry.” Shane cuts him off, getting his words out before his throat closes, not able to speak and attempt to breath at the same time.
Immediately, the door is wrenched entirely open and the hulking mass of Ilya enters his field of vision. Ilya is no longer standing, and has swiftly crouched down in front of him to be on his eye level. Ilya lifts his arms to reach out towards him, to gather him in his arms as he has done so many times before to provide comfort, but Shane just shakes his head, retreating further into the closet and pressing his palms into his eyes. He can feel them getting wet, his tears not stopping now that he is faced with Ilya, and a wave of remorse is stuck cycling through his body, making it harder and harder to draw a full breath in.
Shane knows he should go to Ilya, to soak up the touch freely being offered while he is still allowed to receive it, but the guilt he feels in every single one of his pores makes him reject the kindness the other man is extending.
Shane doesn’t deserve to be touched by Ilya right now. Probably not ever again.
Shane hears Ilya shift outside the door, arms dropping back towards his sides, and Shane knows he hasn’t left him alone. Can still hear him breathing steadily, can hear the swishing sound of his sweat pants against the floor as he adjusts to sit more comfortably.
Even when Ilya isn’t touching him, Shane still finds his presence alone reassuring and soon enough, his breathing has slowed down to match a tiny bit closer to the natural cadence of Ilya’s breaths.
In and out. In and out. Steady and sure.
Shane dares a peek at the other man, separating his fingers over one eye ever so slightly.
He quickly closes them again when he makes direct eye contact with Ilya.
He hears Ilya let out a huff of air, possibly out of frustration, more likely from fondness if Shane heard correctly.
Shane reminds himself that Ilya won’t have any fondness left for him once he tells him what happened.
“Moya lyubov.”
Shane twitches.
“Shane, look at me? Please?”
Shane figures that he at least owes Ilya the decency of meeting his gaze. He tries not to spiral again and slowly lowers his hands from his face, eyes still tightly closed.
“Very good, but want to see pretty eyes now, okay?”
Shane draws in a quick breath, before steeling himself and fluttering his eyes open.
He squints slightly at the brightness being let into the closet around the bulk of Ilya’s strong frame, surrounding him like a halo of all things good and lovely.
Tears that haven’t quite left his eyes bead up again in full force, but he doesn’t look away from Ilya.
“There. Perfect.” Ilya speaks softly, a small smile on his face.
“No.” Shane finds himself uttering.
“No?” Ilya parrots back, confusion in his eyes.
“I’m not perfect." Shane spits out, lip curling in disgust at himself before he continues, "Ilya, I-I fucked up so bad.” he admits, lower lip wobbling as he tries to keep eye contact with Ilya.
“Sweetheart, come here, let me hold you?” Ilya asks, opening his arms once again in an offering that Shane knows he hasn’t earned.
He feels himself moving anyway, his stiff knees cracking as he unfolds himself from the safety of his cocoon and lets himself begrudgingly enter the warm embrace of the man he loves with his entire being.
“There. Much better. Now, what so bad you need to hide from me, hm?” Ilya questions as he wraps his arms around Shane and repositions them on the floor so that Ilya’s back is leaning against the bed frame, with Shane nestled close under his chin.
“You’re going to hate me.” Shane whispers his fear out loud, feeling his breathing picking up again even from within the secure clasp of the arms around him.
“This will never happen, lyubimyy.”
“You don’t even know what I did!” Shane finds himself raising his voice, trying to goad Ilya into something he isn’t quite sure he actually wants to experience, but feeling bad enough about himself to want Ilya to yell at him right back.
“Okay, so tell me.” Ilya doesn’t take the bait, his voice remaining calm and steady.
Shane bites at his lip, at war with himself on how he should confess. Would it be better if he took Ilya to the scene of the crime and let it speak for him? Or should he just tell Ilya now while he is asking nicely, still caressing Shane like he cares about him.
Like he loves him.
Shane only stops eviscerating his bottom lip when he feels a gentle thumb release it from the greedy clutches of his teeth. The thumb swipes at the crease between his lip and chin, tilting his head up towards Ilya.
“Is okay, myshonok. Tell me what happened.”
Shane swallows thickly, and begins to talk.
***
“I was in the living room and decided I wanted to clean up a little bit before you got back. I-it’s not like it's crazy dirty or anything, but, well, I just thought it would be something nice I could do for you while you were out of the house. So we didn't have to worry about it later.”
Ilya nods along, not speaking yet in order to let Shane explain himself.
“And, um, I had just gotten to the bookshelf to begin dusting. I was dusting the shelves one by one, removing stuff as I went and then putting it all back before I started on the next shelf. I must not have been paying attention a-and the next thing I knew, something had fallen off. I-I only noticed after I heard the sound of it breaking apart on the floor.”
Ilya can tell that Shane’s nerves are fighting against him saying any more words.
“Shane, take a breath.”
Shane shakily lets out the breath he was holding, before dragging in fresh air.
“There. Good job. Now, tell me what broke.”
Shane remains quiet, drawing his bottom lip back between his teeth before he catches himself, switching his nervous energy to his hands, lacing his fingers together and rubbing them back and forth.
“Milyy, are just things. They can be, hmm, what is word…replaced, yes?” Ilya attempts to reassure him.
Instead, Shane lets out a wail so heartbreaking that it shocks Ilya to his core.
Shane is back to biting his lip to try to keep his cries at bay, shaking his head and wringing his hands together more vigorously.
Ilya is rubbing soothing patterns on his back, trying to think of anything he keeps on the bookshelf that could possibly garner this kind of reaction from his fiancé.
And then it suddenly hits him, like an arrow through his chest.
Among the books of little to no value and random nick knacks stored on the bookshelf, there also lies a music box he brought back from Russia the very last time he ever visited. It was handmade by his grandfather for his mother when she was a baby, then passed down to him. It’s one of the only things he treasures from his birthplace, except, of course, the necklace he wears everyday that was also his mothers.
He had hoped to pass down the music box to his and Shane’s own children, one day.
Ilya had even shared this thought with Shane one night when they were cuddling on the couch, basking in each other's presence and appreciating the moment of calm between them. In a moment of vulnerability, Ilya was talking about growing up in Russia, telling Shane about how it wasn’t all bad, and letting him know his childhood did have bursts of light that shone through the darkness.
Most of those stories, however, involved his mother.
His sweet mother, who tried so desperately to be good to him, to make sure he felt loved and only wanted the very best for him.
He remembers the first time his mother showed him the music box, twisting the key on the back and opening it gently to allow the precious swell of music to build, encompassing him in beauty and warmth while it played.
Ilya cherishes the memories of listening to the music box with his mother under the heavy fortress of his heart, buried deep enough where even his father couldn’t disturb them.
Ilya feels the tips of his fingers go numb.
He draws in a shaky breath, before loosening his hold on the man in his arms.
He ignores the whine that leaves Shane, standing up and beginning to make his way to the living room. He travels there on autopilot, not quite in full control of his body.
In his rush to locate Shane, he had completely bypassed the living room, traveling through the house quickly when he heard a small thud and knew which direction the smaller man had gone.
Ilya isn’t sure if he would have rather stumbled upon the music box before or after he found Shane hiding away in the closet.
As he turns the corner to enter the main living area, his eyes immediately lock onto the area of destruction.
The music box is gone from it's prized spot on the bookshelf, and his eyes follow the path it must have traveled in order to land so carelessly on the cold and hard floor.
Ilya feels his breath whoosh out of him all at once, not quite able to be replaced, as he takes a hesitant step closer to the bookshelf. Once he completes his first step, he cannot seem to stop, taking large strides the rest of the way before dropping solidly to his knees.
He knows he will have bruises in the morning, but right now his pain is not in his knees but in his chest, his heart feeling like it is being squeezed in a vice like grip.
He reaches shaking hands towards the ground, only stopping once he makes contact with a broken section of wood. He gently picks it up, bringing it towards him as he tries to force air back into his body.
There, on this small part of the music box, are the first three letters of his mother’s name, carefully chiseled out by the loving hands of his grandfather for a daughter that was gone from this world too soon.
Ilya feels the iron grip on his heart increase as tears well in his eyes, and he cannot stop the punched out noise that leaves his lips.
He brings his empty hand up to his eyes to wipe away some of the wetness, finding the task futile. He can’t seem to stop his tears from falling, just like his dear mother’s heirloom did.
Ilya somehow finds the strength to begin to fully assess the damage that has been done.
He looks down and it is much worse than he was hoping.
The music box is unsalvageable.
The curved wooden lid has completely unattached from the base, both fractured and splintered in multiple areas, broken fully apart. The small fragment of lid on the ground shows the remaining two letters of Ilya’s mothers name. He picks it up, and presses it against the bit of wood in his left hand, desperately wishing it would mend itself back together. The longer he stares at it, the edges seem to blend together and it takes the appearance of its former glory. The letters line up almost perfectly.
Irina.
Ilya swallows down the lump that tries to force its way past his lips from his throat as he stares at his mother’s name. He shakes his head to clear it, before gently placing the wooden pieces to the side, moving them out of the mess where his mother’s memory doesn’t fit.
He turns back to the carnage, taking it all in.
The metal hinges have been forced off the wood upon impact, along with tiny screws and gears, the little metal pins and springs scattered throughout the stretch of floor, all intermixed with parts of wood that he can never hope to replace.
Even the internal mechanism that produced such a beautiful song is damaged, totally separated in the fall.
He finds the metal cylinder and holds it delicately in his hands. He feels gingerly along the raised bumps and grooves, pretending that by doing so he is plucking the music directly into the air. He has the song memorized, and it’s almost like he can hear the distinct notes as he uses his fingernail to drag along the metal, soothing in its repetition.
He stops plucking.
All he hears is silence.
Silence, until a very cautious shuffle sounds from behind him.
Ilya doesn’t turn around right away, a sigh that he can’t quite keep inside escaping him, as he takes a moment to compose himself.
He sits, looking at the broken music box and all it embodies, before finding his voice.
Time to face the music.
“Come here.” He speaks softly, his vocal chords still tight with emotion and making him sound more gravelly than normal.
He listens closely for the first tentative step, waiting with tense shoulders, before he hears it and his shoulders lower in time with every step that draws the other man closer to him.
Shane appears in his peripheral vision, sitting immediately. Where normally he wouldn’t hesitate to join Ilya, always sliding in close together like he is practically attached to him, the space between them right now feels like a chasm.
He notices movement, and a quick glance to his right shows Shane with red fingers and knuckles after non stop friction from kneading nervous hands together.
He is still stuck in that repetitive motion, probably hoping to find comfort in it instead of pain from the irritation he is causing his skin.
Ilya finds himself moving, muscle memory kicking in, reaching across the gaping space between them and fitting his hand over Shane’s, stopping his anxious hands mid motion.
Shane makes a choked off sound, and this is what finally causes Ilya to raise his eyes, finally taking stock of the man next to him.
Shane is looking down, refusing to meet Ilya's eyes, and the most devastated expression is haunting his face. His eyes are dim, bloodshot and lined with tears, and his full bottom lip is sluggishly beading with blood from where Shane has bitten down too deep.
Ilya feels tears prick his own eyes at how upset Shane is, adding to the tears he sheds for his mother.
Ilya chooses to hold Shane's hands a little tighter, but he cannot find it in him to speak words that he knows will be necessary just yet.
As Ilya and Shane sit, surrounded by the broken pieces of a life he can never return to, Ilya begins to hum.
It starts off shaky and uncertain, missing a few notes, before his voice, while still quiet, grows stronger.
He can tell that Shane is listening, the hitch of breath when he initially started humming telling Ilya the sound took him by surprise. He squeezes hard where he is still holding Shane's hand, solidifying the contact there even further.
While his voice may have started off uncertain, it had nothing to do with not knowing the song. He would be able to hum this song in ten, twenty, even sixty years from now. Even if he develops dementia, he believes that this song is a part of his soul and he would sing it until his dying day.
The song he heard for the first time with his mother, played from a tiny music box for just the two of them.
He hums it now, in place of words he cannot yet find.
He hums it for himself, for Shane, and for his mother.
His Shane, who he knows will never forgive himself. Who has been greatly scarred by this misdeed that was born from an act of thoughtfulness, turning and twisting into something hideous.
Ilya likes to think that he will be able to forgive Shane enough for the both of them.
One day, he knows he will.
Right now, he will sit with Shane until he finishes his song, holding Shane's hand like his mother did for him when he would listen to the calming sounds of music in the safety of his mother's presence.
His mother and he would have to listen to the music box when they knew they were alone, only listening to it once a day, sometimes getting away with a second time if father was away on a longer trip and his brother was busy, but it was their little secret. A treasure just for them.
Where his house growing up was cold and hardened, however, the space he has built for himself and Shane is anything but. Love is apparent in every crack and crevice of the space they share, this place called home only feeling complete when Shane is there.
As Ilya approaches the end of the song, his humming clear and strong, he decides that he will not let his past dictate their future.
Ilya will share this song with Shane, will even teach it to him if he wants to learn.
As he hums out the final note, he lets it linger for a moment more before he stops, silence filling the area once more in an unsettling hush.
Ilya takes a steadying breath in, preparing to break the tumultuous silence…
"That was beautiful."
…and promptly releases it.
Shane, who has not yet been able to look at him, speaks first and breaks the veil of quietness. His voice is brittle and dull, but nevertheless Ilya is glad to hear it.
"Was the sound of the music box." Ilya offers his own voice up in exchange for Shane's bravery.
Shane nods his head as a sniffle echos through the room.
"Ilya, I need you to know…I am so sorry. I-I'm such an idiot, and I know how much that m-meant to you, oh my god, if you never forgive me I completely understand, and I just-I just-" Shane stops to take an almost painful sounding sharp gasp in, "Please don't leave me. Please, I'm so sorry." Shane blurts out in one breath, words practically running together in his haste to get them out.
Ilya is glad to have held onto Shane's hand, because even now Shane tries to bring his hands back together to rub scorching paths across them, raw and dry enough already without adding additional abrasions to it.
With his hand blocking the worst of Shane's attempts to self sooth, he draws his bottom lip back into his mouth, biting firmly.
Ilya cannot have that, either.
With his free hand, he pulls Shane's lip from his teeth, watching it turn white under the pressure of his teeth as it slides out.
Without thinking, Ilya bends closer and captures Shane's perfect lips in a tender kiss.
A small sound of uncertainty that Shane doesn't quite vocalize is the only noise made between them, with Ilya not adding any further pressure to their kiss from where he presses firmly against the other man.
Ilya remains where he is when he realizes Shane is finally looking at him, staring into his eyes from millimeters away, a tremendous concoction of thoughts and feelings swimming in the dark pools of his gorgeous brown eyes.
As Shane's eyes fill with confusion the longer Ilya kisses him, it only makes Ilya kiss him harder in response.
Ilya brings his hand up to gently cradle the side of Shane's face, his large palm covering Shane's ruddy cheek, slightly wet with remnants of tears that haven't completely dried out.
The touch of his hand is what finally breaks Shane, and a quick gasp in is all the access Ilya needs to tilt his head and pour everything he is feeling into Shane's mouth.
He pours his love, his heartbreak, his pain, his sadness, his adoration, his everything into the point of contact shared between the two men.
Ilya moves his head back an inch in order to lean in and press another kiss to Shane's lips, and then another, pulling his plump bottom lip into his mouth to lick the dried blood from his fragile skin in a show of forgiveness and devotion.
Some tension releases from Shane's body, shoulders dropping minutely as a sob briefly separates them, before Ilya presses in to capture his pouty lips again. He feels wetness spread under his thumb where he is gently stroking under Shane's eye, feeling the slightly puffy skin that has formed due to his tears.
Ilya pulls away for only a breath to speak, low and calm.
"Moya lyubov." He cannot help himself from placing another tender kiss against Shane's parted lips, before continuing, "Ya tebya obozhayu."
Ilya knows Shane does not understand, proven by the furrow of his brow and the quiver of his lips.
"Listen to me. Am I sad? Yes. Is this something I will be mad about for a while? Probably yes. Do I blame you? Little bit, yes." Ilya says truthfully, keeping his grounding touch on Shane's hands and cheek as Shane attempts to pull away, fresh tears springing to his eyes.
Ilya makes sure he stays right where he needs him.
"Listen, Shane. Look at me."
Shane does.
"This music box is something that reminds me of my mother. We listen to this music during the bad times, the hard times. It was for me and her. Now, she is gone. The music box is gone. But I am still here."
Ilya takes a steadying breath in, rubbing his thumb along Shane's soft cheek, tracing the freckles that are sprinkled across the middle of his face. Ilya allows the repetitive motion to offer him some sense of calm, as he goes on.
"This music box is part of me, yes, but it is not everything."
Ilya swallows back some of his emotions, wanting to clearly say his next words.
"Shane, ty dlya menya vsyo." Ilya declares, heat in his eyes and voice firm in his conviction.
Shane's mouth parts, but Ilya cuts him off.
"You know what I say?"
"No…" Shane whispers.
"I say, you are everything to me."
Ilya watches the words drift over Shane in real time as he processes their weight. A pink blush has spread to his cheeks, and Ilya has never been happier too see some color return to his face.
"You think because you accidentally break this music box, that means I stop loving you? That this means I want to leave you?" Ilya questions.
Ilya watches Shane closely, uncertainty still lurking in his eyes as he remains quiet.
"You are my heart, my home, my life. You are my entire world, sweetheart. This will take time to heal, but it will. It will heal, Shane." Ilya states as he watches the light slowly come back to Shane's eyes as he finally believes him.
Shane finally trusts that he will always be Ilya's choice.
Even when it's hard. Even when it hurts. Especially when their hearts are broken.
With that trust comes a broken cry as Shane falls into his arms, no longer holding back as he breaks down, knowing he and Ilya will survive this.
"I love you so much, Ilya. I'm so sorry, I love you, you are fucking everything to me, too." Shane mirrors his words, and they sound even sweeter on his tongue.
"I love you, milyy. Love you so much." Ilya says as he rocks Shane against his chest, back and forth, and he is slightly startled to realize he is rocking him to the beat of the music box, his strong arms acting as a metronome.
Ilya knows that he can find it in himself to eventually forgive Shane. They are stronger than their worst day, and they have had plenty of hardships over the years they have been together. Ilya loves Shane more than anything, and that is enough for him to be able to move past this heartbreak. One day, he will come to peace with the fact that the music box is forever a memory in his heart. Truly, Ilya will always wish that instead of listening to the music box, he was able to sit in his room and hum the song with his mother one more time, held in her loving arms.
As Ilya sits with Shane in his arms, he realizes that as long as he is able to sing, he can continue to share the song of his mother's love. Memories don't die as long as there is someone around to keep them alive.
Ilya decides he can do that.
For himself, for Shane, and for his beloved mother.
He presses a kiss to the top of Shane's head, takes a breath in, and sings.