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“Can I ask you something?”
The question comes late into the night, the low light of the bedside table lamp washing Shane in shades of gold and orange where he lays on his stomach, forearms folded, cheek resting on his hands as Ilya observes him in quiet awe, supporting himself on an elbow, gently brushing his fingertips over the black hair—too light to be considered combing, just… caressing.
“Hm,” is all Ilya really manages at first, too tired and at peace to bother with a playful comeback. “I did say I would try to be honest,” he assures him, admiring the countless shades of brown hidden in the eyes observing him just as intently.
Eighteen year-old Ilya would lose his mind if he knew this is where he would end up; he would say it was stupid, but, no—even eighteen year-old Ilya would want this—he would just be terrified of it. Even more-so than this version of Ilya is.
“I’m uh…” Shane mumbles, a little bit sleepy, a little bit drained from his orgasm—a little bit embarrassed, judging by the darkening of his cheeks. Ilya waits. “Maybe I don’t want to know the answer to this, but you said, um…”
“Spit it out, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs—not an ounce of heat in the quiet of his voice; only love. The corners of Shane’s mouth twitch; Ilya can’t help but dip down to leave a quick, chase peck to his chin.
“You said you had this terrible problem,” he says—eyelashes fluttering as he looks down between them; Ilya doubts it’s on purpose, which just makes it that much more effective. “How long have you had that problem?”
“How long I haven’t been able to fuck people without you being in my head?”
“Don’t say that,” Shane tuts, still smiling as he gives Ilya’s chest a half-hearted push; Ilya abandons his hair to braid their fingers together with a squeeze—adding a kiss to his knuckles for good measure.
“Ah, but this is what you’re asking, yes?”
Shane sighs. Looks at him.
“Yes.”
The safe answer would be a year—two; reasonable, Ilya thinks. Alas…
“Honesty, yes?” he asks, to which he gets a slight, barely-there nod. Ilya swallows. Takes in the beautiful man in front of him. I love you’s have already been exchanged. Ilya met his parents today. They’re boyfriends. There’s no reason to hold back now. “I was with a girl just a few days after our first time. Didn’t fold her clothes,” he says, quickly—maybe too quickly, so he takes a breath. Gives his hand another squeeze. “I noticed she didn’t fold her clothes.”
“Really?” Shane asks—smile growing; all too similar to the way he had smiled their first day here, when he found out Ilya hasn’t been with anyone else since their last time. “I forgot I did that,” he says, then. “I was so nervous.”
“I know,” Ilya hums. “It was… unique?”
“Unique,” Shane repeats with a quiet click of his tongue. Wow. Genetic, Ilya’s mind supplies him with the memory of a dirty public bathroom.
“It was cute. You were very cute,” he says, their fingers remaining braided as Ilya brings them back over to his face, gently brushing a thumb over the slope of his nose.
“And… after that?” he asks, then.
“Always,” Ilya answers. Honesty.
“Always?”
“Always in my head. Some times more than others, but… yes, Hollander, always.” At that, Shane’s face falls—but not in a bad way, more-so with something soft. Then he shifts—starting to pick himself up, as if to lean in closer for a kiss. Ilya stops him, a gentle hand grasping his chin. “I lied,” he says. “Our promise. Honesty. I think I lied.” A faint line develops between Shane’s eyebrows. “Your mother asked if we had been in love since rookie season and we said no, but I lied,” he lets the words melt off his tongue and fall into the quiet, safe space separating them. “I didn’t know, I was too scared to think it, to believe it, but it’s true. For me. I think.” Honesty. The word echoes in his head again. “No, I don’t think. I know. It’s true. Is how you made me fall in love with you. Folding your clothes before sex.”
“Sounds boring,” Shane breathes, their noses brushing now, both pairs of eyes misty, the view blurry.
“Very boring. Very cute, but very boring,” Ilya nods, their smiles splitting wide at the same time—but right as Shane is about to go in, Ilya once again uses every ounce of strength in his soul to tighten his hand just a little bit, fingertips digging into his cheeks. “What about you?” He does his best to make it sound cocky—playful—but he’s not sure how well he manages to keep the trace of vulnerability out of his tone.
Shane makes a slight noise—a whine, really, albeit playful—of embarrassment, and then tries to drop his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck—but Ilya doesn’t let him, instead keeping him exactly where he is.
“Ah-ah. Tell me. I already know you had a crush on me the first time we talked, don’t worry.”
“I… I didn’t—“
“—you shook my hand twice.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did,” Ilya argues, cheeks aching with the width of his grin. “But that’s not when you loved me. When did you love me, Hollander?” he asks, letting the last few syllables grow sing-songy. “Hm?”
“Second time,” Shane breathes, so quietly Ilya might have missed it if they weren’t so close—eyes so glossy and earnest, so vulnerable they remind Ilya of a dirty bathroom in Vegas, oh so long ago. “I was spiraling. About to have a panic attack. You noticed. Caught it. Caught me. Even before that, you… you saw I was scared. I said I wasn’t. You knew I was, but you… you didn’t make fun of me for it, you just told me it was okay.”
“Of course it’s okay,” Ilya shrugs, to which he gets a slight exhale and a soft shake of Shane’s head.
“I loved you then.”
“So I win?”
“Isn’t the winner the one who made the other one fall in love first? That’s me.”
“No, the winner is the one who fell in love first,” Ilya argues.
“If I fell in love first, you would be arguing the other way.”
“Of course. So would you. Is what we do. Compete,” Ilya says—and then, smoothly and quickly, not giving Shane a chance to react, he uses his weight to roll them over, carding a second hand through his hair, combing it back towards the pillow as Shane looks up at him with a gaze so tender it nearly—nearly—makes Ilya want to shy away from it. “But I always win.”
“Not always.”
“Mostly.”
“Not mostly.”
“Sometimes win.”
“Sometimes,” Shane finally agrees. There’s silence, then. Breathing. Eyes wandering across each other’s faces—reveling in the view. “When you said my name,” Shane is the one to break the silence—voice somehow even more quiet than before. “That’s not when it happened, but that’s when I knew. Why I… ran.”
“I know,” Ilya breathes.
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” Ilya shakes his head. “Not anymore, no sorry’s about that. Is the past. And you already apologized.”
“I know, but—“
The conversation is forgotten the moment Ilya dives down, both of them humming into the open-mouthed kiss.
When they come up for air, Ilya thinks, distantly, maybe he’ll tell him about how he came up with the name Jane to begin with. How it was a cover for the time he accidentally said his name in bed—back when he wasn’t even saying it to him, back when he was supposed to be Hollander; how much it scared him to hear it coming out of his own mouth. Honesty, and all that.