Chapter Text
“Come on, Shane,” Hayden pleads. “You never come out. At this point, the guys think I’m making you up.”
Shane huffs a laugh as he glances up from his physiology textbook. Hayden isn’t literally on his knees begging, but it seems like he’s about five seconds away from doing so. Under other circumstances, Shane would shush Hayden for making a scene; but besides the two of them, the science library is silent, and probably entirely empty. Shane shakes his head ruefully, though he’s smiling.
“Making me up?” he says. “Why?”
“You know,” Hayden insists, “like a ‘camp girlfriend!’ You make someone up who’s conveniently away all the time so you never have to prove you’re not a virgin?” Shane grimaces. He’s been there. “That’s you for me, Shane! Except, well, not the virgin thing.”
“So, what, they think you don’t have any friends?”
“Maybe!” Hayden says, looking desperate. “Or, like, no friends outside of them. Come on, Shane! It’s all people in our cohort. They’re all normal dudes, and I swear you have shared interests!”
Somehow, Shane doubts that their shared interests in sports medicine will come up at a nightclub. Hayden has been begging him to go out to a club since they first met in undergrad, when Shane first moved to Montreal. Shane’s gone a few times, but he can count the number of times on one hand, and he never really likes it much. Mostly he nurses light drinks in the corner, watches Hayden fail to chat up girls, and makes awkward conversation with drunk classmates who feel bad for him. Admittedly, the physiology reading he’s doing is not particularly fun, but it is preferable to the club. Unfortunately, Hayden is looking particularly miserable today, a pitiable look in his eyes and his hands literally clasped together.
“Please,” says Hayden, really making a meal out of it. “I’ll owe you, dude—I’ll buy you dinner, I’ll help you study, I’ll do anything.”
“Do you really need me with you so bad?” Shane asks, genuinely curious. “I mean, how would I help?” Hayden glances over his shoulder at the empty library, then leans in conspiratorily.
“There’s, uh—a girl who’s coming along,” he mutters. “Her name’s Jacki. I’d kind of like someone in my corner tonight, man.”
“I don’t know how much help I’d be, Hay,” Shane says honestly. On a physical level, he’s aware that he’s an attractive guy—he’s tall, he works out, his face is pretty symmetrical—but that’s about where his appeal ends. He’s not very sociable, or smooth, and while people like him, Shane can’t realistically see anyone describing him as charming. Shane certainly hopes Hayden doesn’t want him to be a wingman.
“Just as emotional support!” Hayden clarifies, clearly anticipating Shane’s thoughts. “Nothing crazy. I just…if I strike out, I can at least drown my sorrows with a buddy.” And as uncomfortable as going out makes Shane, Hayden’s clearly genuinely nervous. He’s wringing his hands, and Shane can hear Hayden’s foot tapping quickly on the ground. Shane looks down at the textbook in front of him and sighs.
“Well,” he says, “I wasn’t getting much studying done anyway.”
“Fuck yes!” Hayden cries, then covers his mouth and looks around, abashed. Shane snorts.
“I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones here.”
“Thank god,” Hayden mutters, his eyes still wide. “The usual librarian already hates me. But, Shane—thank you, dude. You won’t regret it. I’ll send you the address—oh, and I think people were gonna pregame at JJ’s place? You don’t have to come to that, though. It’s more casual.”
“I’ll just meet you there,” says Shane, closing his textbook and picking up his laptop. “I have to shower and change, anyway.”
“Oh, shit, good point,” says Hayden, eyes wide. He looks down at what he’s wearing—a gray t-shirt with a faded McGill logo on it—and grimaces. Then he grimaces again at Shane’s navy quarter-zip. “Do we have club clothes, man?” Shane shrugs.
“I have a white t-shirt and a dark jacket,” he says. Hayden sighs.
“That’s good, but that means I have nothing to wear.” Hayden shakes his head. “Whatever, I’ll figure it out. Anyway, see you in, like, two hours?”
“Yep. See you, Hay.” Hayden grins.
“You’re a lifesaver, man,” he says, lifts his backpack over his shoulder, and practically skips out of the library. Shane chuckles to himself as he packs up the rest of his things.
It’s already dark outside when Shane emerges from the library, and pretty chilly as well. Shane’s apartment isn’t too far from campus, but with the October temperatures dropping, Shane’s wishing he didn’t have a ten-minute walk ahead of him. Still, he’s grateful for his place—he knows not every first-year master’s student is able to live off-campus. Shane never liked living in dorms, hated the communal bathrooms and the weirdly public nature of daily routine. Having his own apartment, despite the rent being what it is and the place itself not being very cushy, is a godsend.
As Shane walks past the quad, he nearly bumps into a taller guy with a huge hockey bag at his side. The guy mumbles a distracted apology, looking at his phone and continuing to power forward, and Shane feels a momentary flash of annoyance and nostalgia. He thought that could have been him, once—a varsity hockey player, if not pre-professional or a professional athlete. But it’s not. Shane’s turned the moment over in his head again and again—if he hadn’t been going so fast, if Anderson hadn’t checked him, if he hadn’t crashed into the boards so hard—but the reality is, Shane shattered his kneecap in high school, and never fully recovered. Sure, he can still play hockey, but nothing like what he used to do. The career he thought he might have had disappeared in an instant, and so did the thing he loved. He tried to join intramural clubs in college, and just…couldn’t. So he kept his distance, kept his head down, and studied hard.
Med school is fine, though, and Shane thinks he’ll probably like it as a sports medicine physician. It’s interesting, it keeps Shane involved with hockey, and if Shane can prevent any young kid from going through what he went through, that would make it worth it for him. Still, he wonders sometimes if his parents are disappointed at the chance he missed out on. But there’s no point in dwelling on it; in the end, no one is more disappointed in himself than he is. Not much to be done about it but keep going.
It’s why Shane is really grateful for people like Hayden. Hayden was on a similar path in hockey, but got too many concussions early on and was barred from playing by his doctors. Hayden’s taken the career change with more grace—at least, that’s how it seems to Shane—but it’s nice to hang out with someone who understands. It’s why Shane bothers to go to these nightclubs—he loves Hayden, and Hayden loves him, and they’d do a lot for each other. Even spend a vaguely miserable night in a club together.
Shane grimaces to himself at the thought of the evening he has to look forward to. He reaches the door of his apartment, unlocking the door and beginning the trek up the three flights of stairs. He really is grateful for the building, but there’s no denying that it’s a little dingy. The stairs are dimly lit with metal steps, and they look like the kind of place someone would get murdered in a TV show. The building trash doesn’t get taken out nearly as often as it should (Shane’s not sure whose job that is, but sometimes he’s tempted to do it himself just to avoid the smell) and the heating can be dodgy sometimes. Overall, though, it’s a pretty good place. Shane’s on the third floor, and unlocks the door to his empty apartment. That’s the other thing Shane really appreciates—even though it can be a little isolating sometimes, his apartment is all for him. No roommates, no one to observe or interrupt his rituals, just him and his space. Even if his space is a little sparsely decorated. Shane once took a girl back here for a rather unenthusiastic hookup, and he could tell that she was unimpressed. By a lot of things, actually, but his interior design was one of them. It’s just a studio, and a small one, furnished with a couch Shane found on the side of the road, a bed with neatly folded blankets, a TV and stand, a coffee table, and a poster for the Metros above Shane’s bed. It’s enough for him.
Not that he has much time to dwell on it, though. Two hours will pass pretty quickly, and when Shane’s phone dings with the address to the club, he sees that it’s not actually that close. He’ll have to take the bus for thirty minutes. Shane is sorely tempted to find a way to weasel out of this, but he mentally reprimands himself. He’s doing this for Hayden.
An hour and thirty minutes later, Shane is freshly showered, shaved, clothed, and fed. Granted, he’s been fed with some ramen that he bought a month ago, but it’s food, and Shane would like to have something in his stomach if he’s going to go clubbing. Shane doesn’t have a mirror in the apartment, so he goes into the bathroom quickly to examine his reflection. He looks presentable enough, he supposes; the jacket is bulky, but it’s cold outside, and he knows his shirt fits nicely. He can take it off in the club, if he needs to. Shane rakes his fingers through his hair briefly, but to no avail; he’s never known what to do with it, and he probably never will. This is probably as good as it will get.
Heading over now, he texts Hayden as he slips his shoes on. Hayden sends him back a series of exclamation points and goat emojis, which Shane chuckles at. For Hayden, he repeats mentally, and heads out into the cold.
***
“This is pretty nice, right?” Hayden says—or yells, really, over the thumping bass. The lights are flashing in some sort of roving pattern, irritating Shane’s eyes, and the drink in his hand is sweating all over his palm. People are chattering with each other, crowded at the tables next to Shane and Hayden’s, and the dance floor is shoulder-to-shoulder. Shane’s already run into some of the other guys in his program, one of whom thrust a drink in his hand and gave him a thumbs up. Shane thinks it was Carter, but it’s pretty dimly lit in here, and Shane needs his glasses more and more every year.
“Yeah,” Shane yells back. “It is nice.” Based on Hayden’s disappointed expression, he must have said it pretty unconvincingly.
“Thank you for coming out, man,” Hayden says, leaning in and speaking into Shane’s ear. “I really appreciate it. I know this isn’t your thing.” Shane shakes his head. He’s not here to make Hayden feel guilty.
“Don’t worry about me,” he replies, mustering up a smile. He surveys the crowd and says, “Where’s Jacki?” Hayden shushes him frantically.
“Dude,” he hisses, looking around with wide eyes. “Don’t say her name so loud!” Shane’s unsure how anyone, much less some random woman who doesn’t appear to be within five feet of him, could hear him saying her name. This must show on his face, because Hayden groans, embarrassed, before pulling him in close. “She’s definitely around,” Hayden mumbles. “I saw her before she went to get some drinks. If she comes over, just talk me up, alright? Say something impressive.”
“Like what?” Hayden shrugs, still squinting around the dance floor. “You got a B on your last orgo exam,” Shane suggests. “That’s a passing grade.” Hayden glares at him.
“Ha ha,” he says, and Shane grins. “I’m gonna get a drink. Jacki’s short and has brown hair!” That describes most women on planet Earth, but Shane tries to look as helpful and agreeable as possible as Hayden bravely ventures into the crowd. It’s a relief to have a task; even though Hayden probably didn’t intend for Shane to just stand still and look around, it’s technically what he asked of Shane, and Shane was probably going to do that anyway. Now he’s doing that, and helping out a friend. Sort of.
Shane sips his drink and looks around. He does try to meet people when he’s out like this; it just doesn’t usually work out. There are a few women who deliberately meet his eye every now and then, and they look…nice, Shane supposes, but not particularly interesting. He doesn’t really have it in him to go up to someone and try to force himself to be attracted, or whatever, so he settles in for a night of vaguely uncomfortable people-watching. Then he frowns.
There’s a man at the opposite wall who’s staring at him. At least, Shane thinks he’s staring at him. It’s hard to tell in these places, especially when people are just high sometimes. But if this guy is high, he must be really far gone; his gaze is piercing. He’s dressed kind of weirdly, too—he’s wearing a dark suit jacket and, as far as Shane can tell, nothing under it. That makes sense to Shane, the shirtlessness, but the blazer is throwing him for a loop. Shane’s no fashion expert, but he doesn’t think this club is that formal. Whatever this guy’s deal is sends an odd shiver down his spine. And he keeps looking at Shane; in fact, the more time passes, the more Shane feels sure he’s staring. Does he want something? He’s too far away for Shane to really read his expression. Shane squints, and is genuinely considering going over there. Hopefully Hayden wouldn’t be too mad—
“You okay?”
Shane turns. At his elbow is a young woman with light hair and a pretty, sleeveless dress on. She’s got wide blue eyes and a slightly concerned smile on her lips.
“Me?” says Shane, like an idiot. The girl laughs, which is kind.
“Yes, you,” she says. “You looked a little worried.”
“Oh, I—” Shane looks back, but the guy is gone. “Sorry,” he says, feeling weirded out. “I thought someone was looking at me. I think they were just high.” Then, with a start, he remembers his task. This woman’s hair isn’t…not brown. “Are you…Jacki?” Shane tries hesitantly. The girl gives him a bemused look.
“Rose,” she corrects, and holds out a hand to shake. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, not at all!” Shane says quickly, shaking her hand. “My friend is looking for a Jacki, but I’ve never seen her before. I’m supposed to talk him up to her.” Then Shane flushes. “Don’t tell him I told you.” The girl—Rose—laughs again.
“Well, I don’t know your friend, but I promise I won’t do that,” she says with a teasing smile.
“His name’s Hayden. And, uh, I’m Shane,” Shane says. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Shane,” Rose says, and it sounds genuine. “Are you from the area? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Yeah, I don’t go out much,” Shane says. “I go to McGill. Med school.” Rose raises her eyebrows.
“Holy shit,” she says, “I guess I wouldn’t go out much either, if I had the amount of work you do. That’s impressive!” Shane laughs and ducks his head.
“It’s what I want to do,” he says, lamely. Rose doesn’t seem bothered, though. “Do you, uh, go to school here?”
“Yeah,” says Rose, “but not med school. I’m in a graduate program for acting.” She says it as if it’s silly, which Shane frowns at.
“That’s really cool,” he says. Rose gives him a look, and he says, “No, really. I like that kind of stuff. I’m not good at it,” he admits, “but it’s really impressive. I love watching plays.” It’s true, too—Shane’s never been a terribly creative guy, and he probably doesn’t get the deeper meanings of plays, or whatever, but he does like going to see them. Thankfully, Rose seems convinced.
“Well, maybe you’ll have to come see me in something sometime,” she says, smiling. “Since we’re in the same city, and all.”
“Yeah, I’d love to,” says Shane. “Um, maybe I could get your number?” It feels easy to say; it’s never felt easy to say before. Rose’s face brightens, and she holds out her hand, presumably for Shane’s phone. Shane digs around in his pocket and hands it to her. Rose is entering her number when Shane suddenly gets a prickle on the back of his neck. He turns.
It’s the guy. He’s closer, now. Probably not intentionally—definitely not intentionally—but now he’s only five feet away. It’s the part of the night when people start really going at it, because he and some woman are grinding on each other while he bites her ear. Now that he’s closer, Shane can see he’s got curly hair cut closer to his head, shaped in some way that Shane can’t articulate. It looks good in a way that hair never does on Shane. Shane is thinking this, staring like a creep at two strangers getting it on, and that’s when the guy’s eyes flick up and meet his. All the breath is knocked out of Shane’s lungs. He watches as the guy’s tongue traces the curve of the girl’s ear.
“Ah,” says Rose with an amused tone, startling Shane back into reality. “DFMO.” Shane stares at her, feeling caught out.
“What?” he says eventually. Rose looks at him, a little confused.
“DFMO?” she repeats. “You know. Dance floor makeout.”
“Oh,” says Shane. He didn’t know. After a beat, he takes the phone from Rose and looks down. Rose has texted, “it’s shane!” from his phone, and has put her contact in as rose :). “Thanks,” says Shane belatedly, and when he looks up, Rose is giving him an oddly shrewd look. Shane hopes she doesn’t think he’s a creep, but he can’t think how to bring that up. “Uh,” he says, looking down at his own glass, which is at this point mostly empty. “Can I get you a drink?” After a moment, Rose smiles.
“Sure, Shane,” she says, and pats his arm. Shane expects the touch to linger, but it doesn’t at all—it somehow feels sisterly. He wonders if he’s done something wrong. “I’ll just take a vodka soda.”
“Sure thing,” Shane manages. “I’ll, uh, be back in a second.” With that, he turns and makes his way into the crowd. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he doesn’t understand why. He keeps thinking about the guy’s eyes, and the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks that guy must think he’s an absolute creep. Shane has to apologize. He has to find that guy and apologize.
Only, he bumps into Hayden instead. Hayden wheels around and grins broadly.
“Shane!” he cries, quite drunkenly. He’s got his arm around some woman; he squeezes her to his side and says, “This is Jacki.” Jacki beams, also quite drunk.
“Hi, Shane!” she says. “Hayden’s told me all about you.”
“Oh,” says Shane distractedly. He’s caught sight of the man again; now he’s leaning on the bar, shoulders up and chin in his palm. If Shane is reading things right, he’s observing Shane. The girl he was with is nowhere to be seen.
“Shane!” Hayden says, and leans in unsteadily. “That girl you were with is cute, right?” he whispers.
“Uh, yeah,” says Shane. Hayden and Jacki are the major obstacle between him and the bar, and he can’t figure out how to get through them without being rude. Then it occurs to him: “I’m actually buying her a drink.”
“Oh!” Hayden’s face brightens. “Yes, dude! Go get it! I’m so glad you’re hooking up with someone. Or whatever!” Hayden adds hastily. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m just happy for you!”
“Right,” says Shane. “Well, excuse me.”
“Oh. Yep,” says Hayden and moves aside. Shane swallows and makes his way through the last clump of people until he’s leaning against the bar. He stares at the bottles on the back wall, as if he’s actually going to order. Then, slowly, as casually as he can manage, he turns to look at the guy.
The guy is looking at him coolly. He’s got a heavy brow, shading his half-lidded eyes, and his hair is gelled, or permed, or something. This close, Shane can see the definition of his pecs peeking out from the vee of his blazer, which is pinned together by a gold chain. It’s not a gay thing, Shane thinks, to acknowledge that this guy’s attractive. And he is. He’s one of the most attractive people Shane’s ever seen.
“Fun night?” says the guy. His lips are—jesus. Shane would almost guess he got plastic surgery, except no one, to his knowledge, would get such a unique look if they were going to do filler. That dip in his lips—cupid’s bow, Shane thinks it’s called—is extremely pronounced. But more than anything, Shane is shocked by the guy’s accent. The man, apparently, is Russian.
“Yeah,” says Shane, when he’s gotten over his surprise. “Uh, you?” The guy tilts his head, purses his lips.
“Not yet,” he says. Shane feels a bolt of heat into his groin. Surely that’s not what that means—and if it is, surely it’s not directed at him. But Shane swallows all the same, feeling his heart pumping in his chest.
“You seemed like you were…” Shane nods a head over to the dance floor. “Enjoying yourself.” The man grins slowly, like a cat that got the cream.
“Yes,” he says. “But it was short. And I got distracted.” He’s referring, Shane realizes, to Shane watching them. A cold rush of horror floods Shane’s body.
“Oh,” he says, and looks down, shame prickling his skin. “Yeah, I—I shouldn’t have been—I don’t go out much. I think I was just surprised. But I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” When he looks back up, the man is still smiling. He leans in, across the corner of the bar, to put his lips next to Shane’s ear.
“Not a bad thing,” he murmurs. “Was very…flattering.” He leans back and smiles. Shane’s ears are roaring. He doesn’t have words; he has no idea what to say next. By some godsend, the bartender comes over at just that moment and puts a drink in front of the guy. The guy puts out a hand to stop the bartender. “You want something?” he says.
“Vodka soda,” says Shane fuzzily. The man nods at the bartender, who walks away. Shane says, “I can Venmo you—”
“On me,” says the man. Shane doesn’t understand what is happening. The man leans in again and says, “That woman. She is your girlfriend?”
“Huh?” says Shane. “Oh, uh. No. We just met.” The man nods.
“And the man?” Shane blanks for a moment. Then he realizes—
“Hayden?” A smile comes to his lips for a second, but the man looks dead serious. From the outside, they must look intimate, Shane realizes. He shakes his head. “No. He’s just a friend.” A thought occurs to him; “That woman…”
“No,” says the man. “Strangers. Like you and me.”
“Oh,” says Shane. He’s being flirted with, Shane realizes. This is what being flirted with feels like. And it’s not like Shane hasn’t been flirted with before, but this…Shane can see, suddenly, how this night could go. How this stranger might want it to go. Heat blooms in Shane’s chest as he stares.
Shane’s vodka soda is placed in front of the man. The man nods to the bartender and picks up the glass with his free hand before straightening up.
“My…” Shane trails off. The man smirks at him, then turns around and walks into the crowd. “Hey!” Shane stands up and follows after him, but the crowd is thick, and Shane has to fight through it, pushing past people and muttering apologies. When he finally gets through the knot of people, he catches a glimpse of the man’s well-tailored jacket disappearing into the accessible bathroom. “What the hell?” Shane lunges to hold the door open before it closes, slipping in behind the man.
“You made it,” says the stranger, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“You took my drink,” Shane shoots back, though it comes out more defensive than he intended. The smirk blooms into full force—god, he’s good-looking—and the man takes a sip of Shane’s vodka soda, raising his eyebrows. “That’s—that’s mine,” Shane manages, and reaches for it. The man ducks out of the way and Shane stumbles forward. Before he knows what’s happened, he’s being crowded into the back wall, the man grinning as he smoothly places Shane’s drink on the toilet.
“Not yours,” he murmurs, his face close to Shane’s. “I bought it, yes? So it’s mine.” He strokes a palm down Shane’s chest, pressing his thumb slightly into the meat of Shane’s pectoral. Shane can distantly feel the cold tile wall against the back of his head, can hear the music thumping faintly in the rest of the club. All he can really sense, though, is this man, whose eyes are resting heavily on Shane’s lips.
“I said I can pay,” Shane whispers finally. The man’s eyes flick up to Shane’s.
“Do you want to?” The question hangs in the air. Then, Shane answers, softly:
“No.” Something warm flickers in the man’s eyes, and his hand reaches up to grab Shane’s chin.
“Good,” he says. “Mine, then.” Then he pulls Shane’s face forward and meets him with a kiss.
It is, on a technical level, like any other makeout Shane’s had before. It’s wet, warm, and at times, there is tongue involved. But on every level besides technical, things are completely different. For one, warmth immediately rushes to Shane’s groin in a way that usually takes several minutes to occur. For another, there’s something hypnotic about the way this guy kisses, like Shane can’t get enough of it. Shane wonders if this stranger is just a really good kisser; then he wonders, not for the first time, if he is gay. Then all wonderings fly out the window as the man groans into his mouth and moves his hand farther back on Shane’s head, up into his hair, scratching at the base of Shane’s hairline. Shane literally gasps at that, and the next moan sounds a little smug as the man licks into his mouth. Shane’s hands are roving all over this guy’s back, trying to pull him closer, and when the man finally slots his leg between Shane’s, it’s exquisite torture.
“Holy shit,” Shane breathes, and the man grins before tracing his free hand down to Shane’s waistband. He looks up at Shane questioningly; Shane nods before he can even think about it. He probably looks like an idiot, but he can’t help it. He feels desperate. Shane hopes this doesn’t read on his face as the man deftly undoes his jeans before sticking a hand in Shane’s boxers. “Fuck,” Shane gasps, knocking his head against the wall and staring up at the ceiling. The guy takes this opportunity to lean in and mouth at Shane’s neck, which makes Shane groan further as the guy’s fingers stroke him at an awkward angle. It doesn’t matter at all, it feels so good, which is why Shane moans at the loss when the man’s fingers disappear. Then he feels a hot breath on his boxers and startles. “No!”
The man is on his knees; at some point, he’s opened his jacket, revealing his impressive abdomen. His hands are on either side of Shane’s groin, and he looks confused.
“You do not want?” he says. And Shane wants—oh, does he want. But he resists his baser urges and tugs the man up.
“It’s not safe,” he grits out, like an idiot, his cock rock hard at this point. “We—you don’t know what STIs I have.” At this, the man scrunches up his face. At first, Shane thinks it’s incredulity, but he quickly realizes it’s confusion.
“STIs?” the man repeats. Right. Shane doubts that’s a term they’re throwing around in Russian-to-English textbooks.
“Sexual diseases,” Shane clarifies. Now the man does give him an incredulous look.
“Do you have this?”
“Well, no,” Shane admits, feeling like an absolute wet blanket, “but you don’t know that I’m telling the truth. And I don’t know what you have, or what you’re lying about.” The man stares at him. “I’m a med student,” Shane says, his cheeks heating. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you do that.” The man huffs at this, then reaches up and grabs Shane’s face, wiggling it a little bit.
“So careful,” he says, the slightest of smiles on his lips, and Shane realizes the guy isn’t annoyed. Shane thinks, though he’s not positive, that the guy is amused. “Okay. No blowjobs.” Shane’s cheeks definitely redden at that, which the guy grins at. “My hand, instead,” says the guy, then spits into his palm before reaching into Shane’s boxers. A breath is punched out of Shane as his arousal returns in full force. Even when he was discussing the finer points of sexual safety, he doesn’t think he fully went soft. If he had, this guy’s hand certainly would have brought him back quick. This is easily the most reckless thing Shane has ever done, and despite that, he can barely consider it; all he can focus on is the feeling of this guy’s hand, tight and perfect and warm. Shane knows he’s letting out embarrassing noises, he knows it, but he can’t think at all. He can barely function. Then Shane realizes the guy is speaking.
“Yes, yes. Come for me,” he’s saying, in that heavy accent of his, the accent that Shane is forced to admit is really working on him. “Come for me, moya krasavitsa,” and apparently all it takes for Shane is a strange man saying something in Russian, because Shane spills all over his hand with a groan. “Good,” soothes the man, working Shane through his orgasm, “good, good. So good for me.”
“Holy shit,” Shane mumbles, blinking his eyes open. He hadn’t realized they were closed; looking at the man now, the only word Shane can think to describe his expression is hungry. “Do you want…” Shane says, and reaches for the man’s pants.
“Yes, yes,” he hisses as Shane unzips his pants and reaches into his boxers. He puts his hands on the opposite sides of Shane, caging him in as he groans. “Will not take long,” he says, sounding strained.
“Sorry,” Shane says, feeling bad; he doesn’t want to make this guy wait. But the guy shakes his head.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, and looks at Shane with eyes clouded by arousal. “You were very pretty.” And with that, it seems there is nothing else to be done but take the man’s cock into his hand and begin stroking it. Because all Shane wants to do is see that look grow deeper, more distracting. Gratifyingly, this begins to happen as Shane strokes him, the man groaning and thrusting into Shane’s fist. “Fuck,” he says, “oh, fuck, I am—” Then he’s coming onto Shane’s hand, and all Shane can think is that he wishes there were better lighting in this bathroom so he could get a better look. But the sounds, the sensation, the feel of him in Shane’s hands—that’s pretty good, too.
They just breathe together for a moment, their exhales loud in the bathroom. Then Shane, slightly nervous, laughs, and the other man does too, looking up with his eyes dancing before leaning in and pressing a kiss to Shane’s lips. It’s almost sweet, weirdly. Shane’s not big on hookups, but he didn’t think that they could feel so nice. Then the man pulls away and pats him on the shoulder, almost brotherly.
“It was a good time,” he says, still smiling. “A good fuck.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathes. He’s slightly disappointed that this guy doesn’t seem to be interested in this happening again, but that’s club hookups for you. The memory, and the satisfied look in the guy’s eyes, are enough to make up for it.
They both reclothe themselves in comfortable silence, the man handing over the toilet paper to clean Shane’s hand with a twinkle in his eye. When they’re both presentable again, the man’s eyes dart to the door.
“I will leave first,” he declares. “You, wait five minutes. Then you can go.” Shane nods; it seems pretty reasonable. The man studies Shane for a moment; then he’s leaning in and kissing Shane, one more time than Shane expected. “Very pretty,” he murmurs as they part. Shane’s lips tingle as the metal door of the bathroom creaks closed.
***
Ten minutes later, Shane is sitting on a random stool in the club, staring at nothing. Hayden is waving a hand in front of his face.
“Dude. Dude. Dude!”
“Huh?” Shane shakes his head slightly, tries to get a grip. “Sorry. Uh, spacing out. What’s up?”
“What’s up with you?” Hayden replies, throwing it back at him. Shane blinks and realizes Hayden sounds genuinely concerned. “Are you okay, man? Did you drink too much?”
“No, no, I…” I just got my world rocked by a man and complete stranger, and now I have no idea what to do with my life. “Just tired,” Shane lands on. “You know this isn’t really my scene.” Hayden’s brow furrows.
“You can go home if you want, dude,” Hayden says. “I was thinking about leaving soon, anyway. Jacki’s friend got sick and she had to leave with her. You’ve totally fulfilled friend duties for the night.” Shane nods. Hayden looks closely at him. Then he says, “Shane, stop me if I’m out of line, but is this about that girl?” Shane frowns. Then he remembers—what feels like a million years ago, he was talking to Rose. He was flirting with her.
“Oh, that’s just…” Shane doesn’t know what to say. He shakes his head. “I didn’t get her name,” he lies. “Or contact information. So nothing will come of it. It’s okay,” he adds when Hayden looks crestfallen. “It wasn’t that serious.”
“She might still be in the club, man,” Hayden says. “You could look for her. I could look, too! I owe you one.” Shane shakes his head again, preparing to make up some excuse, but then Hayden says, “Listen, dude, I’ve never seen you look so sad about a girl. Like, ever. If you ever want to see her again, I think you should kind of go for it.”
“I’ve been sad about girls before,” Shane says, but it feels wooden, fake. He hasn’t, really. He’s never been sad about it at all. Nothing has ever felt like what tonight felt like, and now it might be gone. Hayden must see the look on his face, because he grabs Shane’s shoulders and shakes him.
“Go find her!” he exclaims. “Be honest, say you really like her, and ask for her number. You really want to see her again, man. She’ll respect that.”
“I—” Shane almost wants to say no, to find another excuse. But then, one of the club doors opens, and as a crowd of people come in, he sees a figure in a black suit jacket slip out. Suddenly, Shane is standing, his heart pounding in his chest. “I have to go.” Hayden whoops as Shane pushes through the crowd, making his way towards the door.
“That’s my guy!” he cries. “Go get her, Shane!”
Shane pushes through the masses of people, each knot of partiers drunker and less willing to move than the last. He apologizes as much as he can, growing increasingly frustrated, and when he finally reaches the club door it feels like it’s been a full five minutes later. He bursts through the entranceway and out onto the street, searching around. Did he somehow miss him? The street looks almost deserted, except for a few people smoking by the wall. But down the sidewalk, Shane can hear it—Russian. Two voices, speaking in low, sharp tones. Him. Shane’s heart lifts, and he walks briskly down the block, rehearsing what he’s going to say in his head. I was wondering, if it’s not too much trouble, could I get your number—
“Stop.”
Shane freezes. For a second, he wonders if the man could hear him and didn’t want to be followed. But then Shane hears a short sentence in Russian; another man’s voice, lower and yet somehow more timid. Or, no, not timid—cowed. He sounds ashamed, Shane thinks. But it was definitely Shane’s guy, the guy he hooked up with, who said stop. Then the voice of Shane’s hookup comes again, in a low stream of Russian. It sends chills down Shane’s spine; the guy sounds angry. Not the kind of angry where you’re arguing and need to blow off steam, but the kind of angry where you might do something dangerous. Shane can’t see a thing, given that the two are around the corner; he has no idea what’s happening. He wishes that he knew even a little bit of Russian, but what they’re discussing is a mystery to him.
The conversation, which mostly consisted of Shane’s stranger chewing out some other person in sharply-uttered Russian, goes on for a few minutes. There’s a lot of the word “izvini,” which Shane makes a mental note to look up after. The last thing that happens is Shane’s stranger says something forceful, and seems to wait for some answer. The other man speaks in English.
“Yes, avtoritet,” he says. Then the sounds of boots hitting the sidewalk travel down the street, growing fainter and fainter. It is only when the sound is quite soft that Shane musters up the courage to peek around the corner.
The streetlights are spaced far apart, only lighting the street in splotches. Shane has to wait to see the two come into view, but when they do, Shane feels a strange bolt of fear. It’s him—his well-kept, curly hair, his broad shoulders and his nice jacket. He’s flanked by a taller, less fit man, and both are smoking, cigarette smoke curling above their heads. They stop, suddenly, a good ten feet down the street. Shane still ducks back behind the corner, his heart pounding. After a moment, he thinks he hears a car pull up. He turns to face the wall, his face cold and his mind whirling; all he knows is that every part of his body and mind is telling him not to let his face be visible from the street. In a few short moments, Shane glimpses a dark, expensive-looking car turn at the intersection and drive into the night.
When the car is sufficiently far away, Shane turns and stares off into the distance. The streetlights illuminate it, dimmer and dimmer, until it turns a corner and is gone.