Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane winces as he settles down onto the cold pavement. It’s mid-November, and autumn has really decided to out-autumn itself this year, because Shane could swear it wasn’t as freezing just mere days ago. The stone beneath him is unforgiving, leeching warmth from his body almost instantly. The bruise on his lip throbs, slow but no less heavy, each pulse echoing faintly in his skull. The drinks he had sit heavy in his stomach, sloshing about unpleasantly every time he shifts, nausea curling low at the back of his throat.

JJ and Hayden have been gone for hours now. Hayden had left with a little over tipsy Jackie who’d been not so discreetly grabbing at the man’s crotch. Shane remembers the way Jackie had laughed, loud and bright, completely unbothered by the stares. Hayden had sent the two an apologetic smile before he’d had hoisted his girlfriend over his shoulder, steady hands gripping her thighs as she whooped, and that had been the last Shane had seen him.

Then JJ, bubbly as ever, had forced Shane down to dance, and they had danced together for a bit. The bass had been too loud, the lights too sharp, but he’d tried to be a fun sport, letting JJ pull him along, making the other laugh when Shane nearly tripped over his own feet. It was fun until JJ had also gotten mixed up with this girl who had dragged the 6’7 man away. 

And Shane had been left stranded all alone. In a club, full of people he didn’t know. Sweaty, drunk and unhinged people, in a dark, claustrophobic box, with louder than necessary music.

He’d moved back to the bar, forced down a couple of drinks, and then…

Safe to say, he hadn’t lasted that long alone, and now he sitting outside a like a pathetic freak. 

He doesn’t even know why he agreed to come out tonight. He had felt bad for shutting out his friends for so long, for rejecting countless invitations to hang out, but really he was not in the headspace for people nowadays. When his friends had forced themselves into his apartment this afternoon, and very determinedly announced that Shane is going out with them tonight, no excuses reasonable enough to cancel, Shane had been left with no choice but to agree. He'd shot Noah a desperate look. But his boyfriend had shaken his head, encouraging him, arguing that  Shane needed socialisation, that it would much more fun than staying inside the apartment, and sent him away with a kiss to the forehead, telling him to let loose and have fun. Shane hadn't agreed at all, but he'd still left the house. 

And Shane had been more than right, because leave it to him to fail at a simple night out at the club. 

He knows he must look like a right mess. Tear tracks staining his face, the light makeup Jackie had insisted he’d put on sitting heavy on his face, unbearably itchy, pulling when he blinks, when he frowns. The mascara she’d put on him weighs his eyes down, forcing him to blink unnaturally often, lashes sticking, vision blurring. He knows the crying has only made it worse, dark tear-tracks streaking down his cheeks, foundation gone tacky and uneven. She’d also darkened his freckles with a brown liner first, tracing over them with a soft focus pen because she’d said they were “cute” and “needed emphasis,” then covered the rest of his skin with concealer that now feels thick and wrong. The freckles stand out darker beneath the smeared foundation, uneven and obvious.

He wants to scrub it off, claw at his skin until he feels like himself again.

His white shirt is stained with little flecks of blood, thin leather jacket half on, half off, slipping uselessly from one shoulder. His shivering body curls inward, broad shoulders rounding, arms tucked close in a pitiful attempt to preserve heat. Shane is built, muscle earned through routine and discipline. Although recently they weren't as defined as they had been, and right now sitting like this, hunched and small, he feel’s nothing but weak and overwhelmed. 

He doesn’t know what to do, what to think. He just wants to make it back to the security and warmth of his bed. He totally regrets leaving the house and wasting time on this stupid club. He came here for a distraction and 'fun', but ever since he’s left his apartment everything has hit him harder than ever, memories and regrets overflowing, piling over far fast for him to sort through. 

It’s unnerving. 

And all it’s doing is encouraging Shane to make some really stupid decisions. Decisions he would never make if he weren’t tipsy and a little less anxious than he is now. Or even anxious in the regular way he always is, at all times. Because this is different. This is sharp and buzzing, the kind that crawls under his skin and makes his thoughts spiral, harder to control. 

Well. It’s hard for Shane to control it himself. 

He’d know exactly what to do when you spiral like this. He knows how to hold, and handle you, control you. 

Better than anybody else. Better than Noah.

He swallows, hitching a breath at his own thoughts. 

Weirdly enough, despite the blur of his vision, the tremble in his fingers, Shane has no issues finding the contact number he should have deleted months ago. In a matter of seconds the contact is unblocked, and the boy doesn’t give himself time to rethink his decision before his trembling finger presses call.

The call goes through, and Shane doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that he hadn’t been blocked back. It rings nine times unanswered, and the dread starts to pool at the bottom of his stomach, heavy and sickening. The realisation that he shouldn’t have called.

Of course he won’t pick up you fool, why would he? You left him. You shouldn’t be calling him anyway. 

You should be calling Noah. 

Your boyfriend. 

Shane doesn’t know what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking, that’s the issue.

He immediately ends the call, a shaky sigh escaping his lips, dropping his phone onto his lap. His arms cradle his skull as he desperately tries to blink back his tears, the heels of his palms covering into his eyes, nails digging lightly into his scalp. He feels so utterly foolish. Heartbroken and foolish.

The ringing in his ears prevents him from noticing the ringing from his phone, and once he does notice his breath hitches, clumsy fingers grabbing his phone, eyes widening at the contact.

Ilya’s calling him back.

His tear ducts dry up instantly, shock snapping through him like static.

Why had he called back? Ilya had every reason not to. 

His eyes briefly flicker to the time on the top of the call. It’s nearly two am. Shane had always been the early riser. Always asleep by no layer than ten in order to match how early he’d get up in the morning. Ilya was the night owl, his typical bedtime past three in the morning, body built for the late hours and endless energy. So it’s not strange that he’s awake at this time.

What’s strange is that he’s calling Shane back.

He presses answer without thinking, breath taken away by the rough, sleep-roused voice that comes through. So he had been asleep. He’d been asleep, and woken up at the sound of Shane’s call, and instead of going back to sleep he’s called Shane back.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? 

"Hello”

Shane’s eyes sting with freshly brimmed tears, breath hitching, lip’s pursuing into a pouted-frown at the low timbre.

“Hello? Shane, are you there?”

He physically cannot fathom any strength to speak. His throat feels painfully dry, tongue heavy in his mouth. At his silence, Ilya sighs and the sound pierces straight through Shane’s chest. The bitter familiarity of audible disappointment buzzes in his ear.

“Shane, do you need something? If you don’t, I’m going to end the call.”

Shane sobs. 

It wasn’t meant to be heard, but Ilya hears it anyway, because Shane hears the ruffling of sheets, fabric shifting fast, urgent.

“Hello?!” He sounds fully cognisant now, “Shane are you alright?”

Shane just continues to cry, audibly, too numb to even consider how idiotic he is for wailing over the phone to his ex whilst sitting outside of a still open club.

You’re so pathetic. So, so pathetic.

“Shane talk to me. Please. Are you ok-”

Behind him something crashes onto the pavement, a giggle following after it. Shane flinches hard, shoulders jerking as his senses spike. He cranes his neck to see a pair leaning against each other, one a lot more drunk, trying to pick up the pieces of the glass she just dropped to the ground while the other pries her away. They stumble off, still laughing, obnoxiously loud in the quiet night air. 

“-llo!? Shane, answer me, please,” Ilya sounds frantic now, voice tight, and Shane blinks at the desperation threaded through it. “What was the sound? Where are you? Are you in danger?”

Why is Ilya so worried about him? 

“Shane,” he calls, softer this time, and Shane closes his eyes, throat tight at the realisation of how much he missed it when Ilya said his name like that.

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

“Please, you are worrying me, just say something!”

“I-I’m okay.” He finally manages. He sounds nasally, and stuffy, and it grates on his own ears, he can’t imagine how much more annoying it must be for Ilya to listen to “I’m sorry for calling you, and waking up you, you should-"

“Shane. Where are you?"

“At a club,” He sniffs.

Ilya silent for a moment, before his voice comes through again, deeper than before, obviously unhappy with the knowledge of Shane's location.

“Where? Which club? I will come get you,”

Shane blinks, startled, letting out a soft laugh in disbelief. “What no, there’s no need, I’m fine,”

Ilya sighs again, sharper. “I want to. I'll drop you to your apartment and leave you alone, I promise.”

Shane swallows, chest aching at the promise.

He doesn’t want Ilya to leave him alone.

“Shane, moya lyuobov, please-” He feel's the air leave his lungs at the familiar pet-name, "Tell me where you are, hmm? Is freezing outside. Better to go your apartment anyway. Much warmer.”

Utterly transfixed by Ilya’s voice, he nods, before realising Ilya can't see him and clears his throat. 

“Want to go home.” He mumbles softly. 

His head is aching. His body thrumming with fatigue and anxious energy he doesn’t know how to handle and manage. He really, really needs to take the make up off his face. He can feel the throb of the cut on his lower lip, dried blood crusted beneath his nose and smeared down onto his chest. He feels everything so vividly, so intensely, and the sensory part of his brain is set aflame with the need have his skin be rubbed raw and free from the events of tonight.

The pavement beneath him is brutally hard, cold seeping through his jeans. The chill crawls up his spine into his bones. His free palm presses against the concrete rough and gritty, and very very dirty. The different textures. The air that’s too sharp in his lugs. The streetlights that are too bright and simultaneously not bright enough. The background noises of the club and passing cars that Shane can feel deep in his lungs.

Everything is too loud, too much, and too wrong. 

He really wants to go home.

No, you want Ilya.

Because you know he’ll fix everything. 

He knows Ilya will lose his shit if he sees Shane like this. Bruised up, bleeding, hunched over, and cold. But for once, he can’t bring himself to care. Doesn’t resent the fact that Ilya’s going to come here and control everything, and take over for Shane’s head to breath. 

Everything’s piling on, crowding him until all he’s reduced to Is thinking about is getting to somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere that doesn’t hurt. 

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Il-

"Send me location. I’m getting into the car now.” Ilya’s voice comes through, interrupting his thoughts. 

Shane caves. Of course, he does. 

His finger's fumble, not very functional from the cold, the skin tinged an ugly blue at the tips. Once he sends it, he lets the other know. Ilya praises him for it, voice softening immediately, and Shane lets the man’s soothing timbre wash over him. It's insane, the power the other has over him. How even from afar, wounded and freezing, Ilya’s voice still has the power to put him at ease.

And all Shane can do is think.

How nobody ever has and ever will get to him like that. 

“Only ten minutes. I will drive fast. Stay on the line, okay?”

Shane hums, curling further into himself, arms wrapping tighter around himself. On the other side he can the dull sound of his car engine. 

It's so cold, Shane doesn't think he can escape the chill that’s that’s consumed him. 

Ilya would warm him up. 

He gulps, eyes clenching shut. He's already losing his mind, and it’s only been a matter of minutes since he’d contacted the man. He needs space, even if for a couple of minutes till Ilya gets here. Otherwise he’ll spiral himself into an unnecessary panic attack. 

"Gonna' close it,” He mumbles, teeth shattering.

"What no. Shane don’t end until I-"  

The call ends.

He knows the man must be fuming and all while panicked. He can picture it too easily, the sharp inhale, the clipped curse under his breath, the way Ilya’s grip on the steering wheel will tighten until his knuckles go white.

It almost makes Shane smile nostalgically. He’s always been outstandingly good at driving Ilya mad.

He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily, forcing himself to breathe through the cold, through the ache, through the buzzing hum of anticipation already curling low in his stomach. He needs to prepare himself. Needs to collect his thoughts and sort his shit straight before he sees Ilya.

He can’t fall back into old habits.

He can’t fall back into the man’s arms.

He was the one who called Ily, the one who reached out first, just like he was the one who ended it five months ago Now that he’s already crossed that line, already fucked up enough to make the call, he needs to make sure he doesn’t make it worse.

Shane’s moved on.

He has.

He’s in a bloody relationship now. 

And Ilya is just an ex. 

He swallows, forcing himself to believe it, steadying his breath as he prepares for what’s coming.

_______________

Ten minutes seem to go by a lot faster, and soon enough Ilya's Audi stops across the road. 

When he steps out of the car, Shane forgets how to breathe.

Even from this distance, Ilya is unmistakable, tall and broad, shoulders wide beneath his grey sweater set, a coat tucked under his arm. His blond, curly hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up slightly at the crown, and his blue eyes are sharp and frantic as they sweep the street, scanning, searching.

Looking for him.

Ilya crosses the empty road towards the club, eyes racking around until he spots Shane. Even though Shane can’t see very well, vision blurred, contacts long abandoned, glasses left at home, the shift in Ilya is obvious, because his shoulders loosen for half a second, before it sharpens as he strides over to where Shane is sat. 

Once he reaches Shane, he drops down immediately knees hitting the dirty sidewalk. 

Up close, he’s Overwhelming to look at. He’s so huge, body built like it was designed to take up every crevice of space left in Shane’s sanity. He’s also so, so warm, radiating heat without even touching Shane. 

Ilya’s eyes hover all over his face, consuming every detail with frightening intensity. Shane can see the moment his face darkens, when he spots the split lip, the dried blood, the smeared makeup, and the tear tracks.

It’s a look Shane’s familiar with. The primal, unhinged, and in every way unstoppable Ilya. Shane never really decided on whether it was a boon or a bane. Didn't have enough time to, he ran away before became something he had to truly acknowledge.

Contrasting with the clench of his jaw, the rigid line of shoulders, the dark scrunch of anger on his face, when Ilya brings his hand up to cup Shane’s cheek, thumb very lightly brushing against his injured bottom lip, the touch is as gentle as ever.

"Who did this to you?”

Shane swallows, heart soaring painfully at the touch. He was convinced he’d never warm up, the chill of tonight just too strong especially with how poorly he’d dressed himself. But the press of Ilya’s palm against his skin has his insides flaring to life. His own hands tremble uselessly in his lap, lips unconsciously protruding into a small pout as he leans just a fraction into the contact.

At the question, he shakes his head, shrugging weakly, but that only seems to upset Ilya even more. His brows draw together sharply, blue eyes tracking every micro-expression on Shane’s face, every twitch and flinch. He shifts even closer, invading Shane’s space, his other hand drops to Shane’s knee, so large and so warm, fingers brushing skin through the dramatically designed rips of his jeans. 

“Moya lyuobov, tell me. Was it that?" His eyes harden even more as he speaks, teeth gritted visibly. "Because if-”

Shane’s eyes nearly drop out of his head at the accusation, immediately understanding who Ilya is talking about. He shakes his head hard. “N-no. No it wasn't him. He's not even here.”

The other quietens, eyes calculatively examining Shane’s searching for the lie. The silence stretches on, until he nods, finally deeming Shane’s answer as honest. He exhales through his nose, his head flickers to the club doors behind Shane, gaze locking onto them.

"Still inside?”

Shane’s eyes avert to the ground in front of him, shoulder’s curling inward again. He’s such a shit liar, even more so with Ilya. He knows if he speaks he’ll be blatantly obvious. He also knows that being silent is just as obvious. 

“Shane?”

Shane still doesn’t look up.

Ilya scoffs, and without another word, he stands up, abruptly, and starts marching toward the entrance of the club, posture tight and purposeful, every step radiating his intent, and there’s nothing careful or gentle about him now. 

“W-wait,” Shane’s eyes widen, scrambling to get up, nearly toppling over as he forces himself up, body rigid and ungraceful after sitting in the cold air for so long. His bum aches in a numb, burning way, and his knees knock together as he rushes after Ilya, panic spiking hard and fast.

He grabs the man’s wrist, but it doesn’t do anything, Ilya just shakes the touch away. 

Ilya’s stronger than him on a usually day, built like a wall, but right now, when Shane’s shaking, exhausted and cold and a lot more weaker than before, the difference in their strength is humiliatingly worse. 

He tries again, rushing forward, attempting to step in front of him. In response, Ilya grabs his shoulder to push him away, rough and impatient, but before he can, Shane clutches at the material of his sweater, fisting it tight in his palm with all his strength as he attempts to still the raging man. 

"Ilya, please, wait, listen to me!”

Ilya scoffs, "Nothing you say, will stop me from killing the bastard who did this," His large hands come up to cup both of Shane’s wrists at once, lifting them away from his chest with casual ease."And since you’re hiding who-” 

His face twists as he looks down at Shane, “I will just fuck up every bastard, until I get the correct one.” The gleam in his eyes has Shane swallowing hard, mind racing at the abnormalities in them. he's certain that Ilya would in fact do exactly that, doesn’t matter how ridiculous it sounds, or how absurd the notion is, Ilya’s capable of it.

Deep down, however, a traitorous part of Shane sings. His gut warming at the sight of his ex, fuming and ready to beat up an entire club of people for him. 

Shane’s gut needs to shut the fuck up. 

"I-it wasn't a man,” He stammers, and Ilya immediately falters, grip loosening on Shane’s wrists. 

“It was a girl,” He admits, embarrassed, tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously. His stomach swoops when he notices Ilya’s eyes drop to the movement before he can stop himself.

"Why did a woman hit you?" Ilya has completely let go of him now, brow drawn in question. He look's unconvinced, clearly still suspecting that Shane’s lying. But Shane’s not that stupid, he knows there’s not much use in lying to Ilya. 

He shrugs, embarrassed at having to explain what he happened. He still does, for his sake and the entire clubs too.

"I-er," he laughs humourlessly, rubbing his hands together to preserve what little heat he has left. Now that Ilya’s not touching him, the cold rushes back tenfold. "This guy was grabbing at her, and she was pushing him away'n'stuff, and I really thought she was unhappy b-because she started shouting at him, so I interfered and pushed him away from her, but then she punched me and told me to stay away from her boyfriend, who was apparently checking me out…” His hands wave in the air uselessly, “hence their…er…arguing.”

When he finishes, his eyes drop to the ground, head bowed, teeth gnawing awkwardly at his lower lip on the uninjured side.

"The guy did not touch?" Shane shakes his head, eyes wide and honest, desperate for Ilya to calm down. "Nothing?" Ilya checks once more, and Shane just nods, accustomed to Ilya's insistence anyway. 

Ilya is silent for a couple of seconds, before he sighs, deep and heavy hand darting out to grab Shane’s chin, tilting his face up, nudging it up further when Shane avoids his eyes. 

"Wear this, you are freezing.”

Ilya lets go to pluck the heavy coat from where he’d tucked it under his arm, the fabric already warm from his body heat. He drapes it around Shane’s shoulders with a care, broad hands lingering longer than necessary as if anchoring him there. The coat nearly swallows Shane whole, oversized, dark, unmistakably something that Ilya would own and wear. The kind of coat Shane used to steal out of their shared closet all the time.

He’s still trembling, and Ilya notices. It’s a barely-there shiver that travels through his frame like static, teeth chattering softly despite the layers. Under the warm glow of the street lamp, his freckles peek through in places, darker where it had been exaggerated, lighter where product has rubbed away. He knows he looks as small as he feels in that moment, vulnerable and open.  

Ilya frowns, taking Shane’s hands and engulfing it between his own big, warm palms, calloused and steady, and raises it brings it up toward his mouth. He blows gently over Shane’s knuckles, breath warm and deliberate, all whilst rubbing his hands over the other’s Shane’s with soft, insistent strokes, creating friction and heat. 

The familiar motion tightens something ugly and aching in Shane’s throat. His lower lop wobbles traitorously and he blinks hard, but his eyes gloss over anyway, lashes clumping together was rhetorical moisture thickens around his eyes. He’s so so tired of tearing up, but for some reason everything tonight has him wanting to bawl. 

His brain feels loud, overloaded too many sensations stacked at once. He focuses on Ilya’s touch because thats familiar and predicable. And also because it makes him feel so, so safe. Doesn’t matter how much Shane’s tried to convince himself of the opposite in the last five months. Ilya’s touch is single-handedly the only thing grounds him.

"Come, let's take you home." Ilya whispers, after a moment, his voice is low and careful like it always was when Shane’s anxiety would take over him.

Shane shakes his head immediately, in a sharp, almost panicked way. His eyes lift hesitantly until it meets Ilya’s. His eyes are glassy, doe-wide, brown irises blown dark under the streetlight. They catch the motion when Ilya swallows, throat bobbing, as their eyes meet. 

Noah’s home. Go back to Noah.

“I don’t want to go home…” he sniffs, voice catching, lower lip trembling as he speaks, “…don’t want to be alone.

You wouldn’t be alone. Stop lying. He’s in your apartment waiting for you.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

Ilya eyes flare wide, pupils blown, chest rising with a breath that sounds almost pained. For a split second, the dangerous edge flickers, something feral and possessive, before it melts into something achingly tender, his brows furrowed.

“Then come with me. I will take care of you.”

He doesn’t ask why Shane is alone. Why his boyfriend isn’t waiting for him art Shane’s apartment. Why he wasn’t here tonight, wasn’t the one holding Shane’s hands. Why he wasn’t the one being called when things went wrong. Of course he doesn’t. Ilya hasn’t acknowledged Noah’s presence. Not properly. Shane’s confident Ilya’s convinced himself that Noah’s not actually real.  

He shakes his head, blinking his eyes furiously to get rid of the wetness. He should refuse. Stand his ground. Ilya really is no good for him. 

Liar. Liar. Liar.

“N-no,” He stammers, forcing the defiance out of him with everything he has.

Ilya is no good for you. You ran away yourself. Ilya was too much. Noah is the one for you. 

Remember? Remember? Remember?

Ilya has the gifted ability to turn Shane’s brain into mush whenever they're together, and Shane just knows anything further than this is going to get him into so much trouble. 

It’ll ruin everything. 

Ilya smiles at Shane’s rejection, white teeth glinting in the street light and it looks almost predatory. Then he laughs, a dry unamused laugh, but he’s still smiling.

He dips his head, closing the distance until their foreheads touch. His larger frame cages Shane in without effort, shoulders blocking out the cold, the noise, the rest of the world, their hands still joint between them. He tilts his head toward the side of Shane’s neck, lips hovering near his ear, breath warm against sensitive skin. Shane stills, muscles locked, wholly overwhelmed by the closeness. His brain screams, not sure if he should pull away or melt forward. He does neither.  

"Come on, Shane. You wasted enough time." Shane’s eyes harden, infuriated at the dig. 

“Wasting time?” He scoffs, leaning back just enough to look at him, “Yeah I did, when I was with you.” 

Ilya straightens instantly and Shane braces for the anger, for sharp words, for that cold detachment he remembers so well, when he’d push Ilya’s buttons to far, and Ilya would shut him up real quick.

Instead, Ilya grins, wide and crooked, and he looks wholly entertained by Shane’s comment. “Aha, okay.” He shrugs, casually  “So you chose to waste more time tonight? Again?” 

Shane stiffens. 

He clocked your shit, you stupid idiot. 

His brain scrambles for a response, thoughts colliding, rehearsed lines dissolving under pressure. Before he can speak, Ilya clicks his tongue, head tilting in mock consideration.

”I know why you called. You know why you called. You want to waste time out here in cold then…” He gestures vaguely to the empty space beside him, palms out in a ‘be my guest’ manner, as if offering Shane the illusion of choice. Then, large palms slam down onto Shane’s hips, firmly yanking him forward, and Shane follows. Easy as always. He doesn’t even know why he ever tried to pretend otherwise.

Their bodies press together fully now, chest to chest, Shane’s hands clutching at Ilya’s sweater useless. Heat leafs through the touch, and Shane’s so, so warm. He’s trembling again, but this time it’s for a completely different reason. Anticipation. Yearning. And relief. Deep relief that he’s finally touching Ilya again.

You’re disgusting. 

Noah is waiting at home for you, and you’re going to run back to him. 

The guilt is loud. The voice in his head even more so.

But the slow drag of Ilya’s lip against his ear is even deafening.

And soon, rather than the sirens in his head telling him every reason why this is a bad idea, Shane’s head is full with the catharsis that is Ilya’s touch.

Ilya presses his mouth softly to Shane’s pulse. Once. Twice.  The touch makes him gasp, nerves electrified, he gives in, completely melting against the other man, knees almost buckling as he lets go, letting Ilya hold his weight up just by his clutch on Shane’s hips. 

Ilya lifts his head, his blue eyes shinning, bright, alight with that unmistakable glee that he always gets when he realises he has Shane right where he wants him. Trapped and willing. The malleable puppy, that he knows exactly how to control.

"We can wait out here all night красавчик. But I know when you're fake acting ends, you'll follow me. Ты пойдёшь за мной, как всегда, покорно."

And really, who is Shane to argue against the truth. 

_____________

Shane writhes on the covers, caught between pushing back from the sensation, and flinching away from it being too much. His fingers clench tightly around the edge of the bed pillow he’s been drooling onto, knuckles white with the effort of holding himself still. His eyes are scrunched shut, lashes wet and breathing tearing out of him, in broken, sob-like gasps. 

Ilya soon adds another finger, mouth gently sucking at Shane's rim as he fingers him, deep and obscene. He crooks them just right, revelling in the way the other shakes under him, wracked with pleasure. Shane can feel the slow curl beginning in his gut, the pull tightening low and hot, a telltale sign that he won’t be able to stop himself from coming. He don’t want to thought.

Not yet at least. 

Not until he’s fucked.

Shane pants, breath hitching as he tries to lift his head from where he’d buried it in his arms, desperate to stifle the pathetic noises slipping out of him anyway.

“W-wait-” He stammers, voice breaking as he reaches a hand behind him, fingers trembling when they catch in the top of Ilya’s curls. He grips shakily, trying to pull the man’s mouth off him, but Ilya is relentless, and the resistance only seems to spur him on. His grip tightens, mouth working harder, messier, eating Shane out like he’s starving.

“Ilya, mngh-”

The pressure against his prostrate sharpens suddenly, the angle changing, making Shane cry out. Ilya laughs against the seam of Shane’s crack, the vibration sending another jolt through him, head lifting as he drags his tongue down in a languid line along the stretch lines etched into Shane’s skin, tracing it from where it starts until it reaches his hips.

“What is it, Moya lyuobov?” He presses a kiss into the middle of Shane’s lower back, right between his back dimples, lips lingering there before his teeth nip at the skin. At the same time, he curls his fingers again, pumping even harder, all at once.

“So good, you cannot speak hmm?” He croons, hand sliding down to run over Shane’s trembling thighs, feeling the way they twitch beneath his touch. Just by that alone, Ilya can tell Shane’s close, the hurried, short gasps and the way his legs can’t seem to stay still. 

“Maybe is good, hmm? You always speak too much, for no good reason.”

Shane shakes his head, keening when Ilya decides to pressure his prostrate particularly harsh once more. His other palm slithers down so that it curls under Shane’s lower belly, gripping strongly onto the stretched, sensitive skin around it. 

“W-wait, stop-” He huffs, breaking of into another helpless one whine, fist weakly thumping into the pillow he had been clutching onto, and Ilya, extremely endeared, hides his smile by biting into the flesh of his ass. He eventually gives in, slowing down and angling his fingers just enough to avoid Shane’s prostrate.

Shane cranes his neck, looking behind him, swallowing at the sight of Ilya between his legs. His eyes are blown wide, irises dark and dilated. The lower half of Ilya’s face is wet with spit and lube, shining under the light, curls damp and ruffled from being tugged on. Shane has to press his lips together to restrain himself from moaning at the sight.

“Don’t want to come like this.” He breathes out, voice whiny and laced with so much lust and want. Ilya tuts against his skin, pressing another kiss to his hip before suddenly yanking his fingers out of Shane all at once, making the other gasp sharply, body jolting at the sudden emptiness.

Ilya rises, hands firm on Shane’s hips as he turns him over until Shane is flat on his back. Shane parts his legs immediately, spreading himself open for Ilya top crawl over, and man does, pressing soft kisses over Shane’s thighs, his belly, across his chest as he moves up, mouth lingering everywhere, until he finally braces himself above Shane, both of his arms dig into the mattress beside Shane’s ears, caging him in.

Ilya sighs, blown away by the ethereal sight. Shane’s soft hair is messy from all the writhing, damp from his previous shower. The constellation of freckles across his cheeks and nose looks darker against flushed skin, like scattered blooms across a bed of pink. His pretty lips are still parted, still panting softly, pink and glistening.

Ilya leans down to tug the other into a kiss. It’s deep and filthy, tongues tangling, spit smearing all over as Shane chases his mouth whenever Ilya pulls back even slightly, clutching at Ilya’s shoulder to ground himself. 

Shane’s riding such a high. It feels like being submerged in something thick and warm, euphoria pressing in from all sides. Everything feels so vivid and visceral. Ilya’s hands, his mouth, the weight of him, the rough, low timber of his voice as he murmurs teasing words. He doesn’t want any of this to ever end. He wants Ilya to consume him whole, and to leave nothing untouched. Every bite and bruise stings in the most pleasant of ways, he can’t wait to feel it hours later when the bruises fully bloom. 

He can’t muster the clarity to acknowledge that Ilya is leaving visceral, unmistakable marks all over him. Marks he won’t be able to hide.

Or he does know, but simply doesn’t care. Not right now at least, he can't muster enough care for who will see them. About the consequence's, and what a mess he’ll be when he gains the clarity of his own actions.

All that concerns Shane right now is Ilya’s touch, Ilya’s voice, and the straining stretch of his skin against his cheeks and jawline as he grins down at Shane, loving every bit of how ruined the other is beneath him.

Shane is in his favourite place. The place only Ilya can take him too. Lost somewhere deep in his head where control slips away, completely, his thoughts laid bare and raw, mind humming with the freedom of it. The freedom of not having to watch what he says, what he does, how he says it or how he does it, of not having to decide anything. Ilya’s the one controlling everything, and all Shane needs to do is merely take it. He’s been deprived of this for months. Five months, to be exact, and every day without it this been agony.

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

“Fuck me,” He pants, eyes rolling to the back of his head as Ilya lowers himself fully on top of him, their cocks brushing together, both just as hard. Shane’s is flushed and aching, ready to burst from how long he’s even teased and edged. 

“Please, Ilya.” He whines.

Ilya lifts his head from where he’d been sucking a hickey onto his peck, eyes glinting as he takes in the pitiful whining. He brings one hand up to grip Shane’s jaw, the other following docile as veer as Ilya raises his head so that their eyes meet. 

“No.”

Shane is going to crash out.

He whines, legs kicking uselessly beneath Ilya, extremely childish. And if it where any other time, Shane would have been mortified by how desperate he sounds, how open and needy he’s being, but right now he’s too far gone to care. Too drunk on Ilya’s touch to process anything beyond the man on top of him.

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

“You will come with my mouth and fingers first,” Ilya says calmly, and when Shane whines again, his hand trails down from his jaw, fingers wrapping lightly around Shane’s throat. Shane gasps soundlessly, and it’s cut off when Ilya squeezes gently. His eyes roll to the back of his head, his heart slamming in his chest, before his body completely melts into the mattress, his hands falling limply against his Ilya’s shoulders. 

“After you come like this,” He speaks again, though the endorphin haze in Shane’s ears makes it slightly difficult to really understand what Ilya’s saying, “Maybe. Just maybe, I will fuck you.” he declares, and all Shane can do is nod, eyes fluttering shut blissfully when Ilya rumbles a pleased, “good boy.”

Ilya moves downward again, mouth leaving a trail of kisses, bites, and wet marks across Shane’s stomach, lingering a little to much on his lower belly before casual raising Shane’s hips, deliberately ignoring his cock, his hot breath blowing onto the boy’s hole, watching it pucker up shamelessly. 

Shane’s trembling with anticipation coiling tight in his belly, so, so eager for whatever Ilya’s going to do to him. He looks down to see Ilya settled between his legs, thighs framing his head. Shane draws his legs closer, locking his ankles behind Ilya’s neck. 

Ilya hums in approval, eyes flicking up briefly and with one last smirk, he descends, lapping at his exposed hole. Shane wails, tensing everywhere at once. He tugs hard on the pillow under his head.

The focused assault was overwhelming, Shane's gut warming immediately with the tell-tale signs, his hips move canting upwards, legs tightening and loosening around Ilya’s head as if unsure whether to push in or away from the touch. 

But his struggle only seemed to encourage Ilya, who adjusts his grip, fingers digging into the flesh of Shane’s hip so hard it’ll surely mark, stilling the movement. Groans streamed out of him as he makes long swipes with his tongue, again and again, finger soon joining the assault, poking and prodding at Shane’s prostrate until he breaks.

It only takes a matter of seconds. Shane locks up completely, legs clamping around Ilya so tightly it must be suffocating, back arching as his hands claw at the sheets. He comes with a guttural groan, body collapsing as soon as it passes, chest heaving. 

Warm slickness glistens across his chest, warm, wet and fresh. Ilya sits back, carefully lowering Shane’s legs. He takes in the sight for a moment, Shane sprawled out on his bed boneless, content, and completely fucked out. His own cock is red and angry, but he ignores it, leaning down to lick a thick stripe of Shane’s release into his mouth.

The other moans weakly, closing his eyes at the sight. Finding it so hot and so embarrassing at the same time, he lifts an arm, aiming to hide behind it, but Ilya slaps it away, crawling over him. 

They stare at each other, suspended in the moment, before Ilya leans down and kisses him again, slow and unhurried. Shane kisses back just as deeply, mouth opening without hesitation, uncaring of the taste of himself lingering on Ilya.

He reaches down, trying to get to Ilya’s cock, and the other laughs, grabbing his wrist softly, letting it rest between there chests. Shane rubs at the expanse of muscle instead, plain greed written in his movements, moving his palms up and down Ilya’s back muscles and neck. 

He stares up at Ilya confused at why he was stopped, and the other smiles at him, the look in his eyes are so deeply content and transfixed that it makes him swallow, throat tightening.

“You’re not tired?” Ilya checks. 

That makes his chest cave. 

He knows that if he says yes, everything would stop. Ilya would pull away without complaint, would clean him, tuck him in, ignore his sharp, angry cock and attend to Shane instead. 

The thought is too much, the care in his question so implicit in it tightening something painful and tender in Shane's chest. It's a string he doesn’t want to pull and think about. One he’s discarded in the back of his head months ago. 

So he shakes his head, honest and open, ignoring the heaviness in his chest.

“Won’t be too much if I fuck you, moya lyuobov?”

Shane shakes his head again, quicker this time, more eager, gut warming, despite just coming, instinctively at the mention of Ilya being inside him.

Ilya laughs fondly, head dropping so that his forehead rests against Shane’s. Shane whines, trying to shrug him off, but he’s biting his lips trying to hide his own grin at the intimacy of their moment. 

This feels so good. The teasing, their quiet voices as if the moment would be shattered if they spoke just a little higher. The warmth of their bodies being pressed together. The way it makes him feel so small, being held down, guided, and cared for. 

Shane missed this so much. He’s being in a constant state of loss for months. Five months without this.

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

“Never enough for you, hmm? Always want more,” Ilya murmurs, lips brushing along Shane’s jaw, then another to his cheek bone, letting it linger for a second longer, “Вечно такой ненасытный…”

Shane hums softly, eyes sliding shut as Ilya continues to speak in Russian, even when he can’t understand a single word of it, the cadence alone is enough, the sound washing over him, settling deep in his chest. 

“Мне это нравится. Я люблю это до безумия. Всё в тебе.”

He quickly moves to wrap himself up, hurried and eager, prying Shane’s legs open with his knee as soon as he's got the condom on, and Shane complies without thought, muscles loosening automatically, opening himself up. Ilya grips himself, guiding the tip toward Shane’s entrance, eyes locked onto the way Shane reacts, the shallow breathing the way his body betrays him, tightening instinctively even as he welcomes it.

No other words are spoken when he pushes in.

Shane muffles the moan that slips past his lips from the stretch, teeth digging into his bottom lip worsening the bruise on it. Ilya’s grip tightens onto Shane’s skin when he bottoms out, breathing heavy and laboured, trying to stay still, giving Shane time to adjust. Shane’s fingers dig into the sheets, body arching up into the weight pinning him down.

Ilya start’s rocking in slow gentle strokes, and it feels too good, makes him ache internally, in a way that borders on painful, but the pleasure spreading hot and heavy through his gut overtakes it.

As good as it feels, Shane wants to be properly fucked. The kind that rattles his skill and leaves him pliant and empty-headed, nothing left but sensation.

He’s not sure if he can get Ilya riled up to that level, considering the man is hard to anger easily, always having endless patience when it comes to Shane, and also with the fact that he’d seen Shane in such a vulnerable light hours ago, he’s most likely going to want to remain gentle. But even if he won’t go fully hardcore, Shane does want him to go a little faster. 

Turns out he doesn’t need to convince the other too much, because Ilya’s face reddens, biting his lips as he as he tries to control the slow pace he’d been going at, he'd been hard for so long, neglecting himself completely, so it's no doubt that he's eagle too move a little faster.

Shane knows he only needs little encouragement to get him to where both of them need to be. He reaches up, fingers curling into Ilya’s neck, pinkie making brushing alongst the shorter curls at the back of his neck, tugging him down into a desperate, messy kiss. 

When they break apart, both of them panting, Shane leans back slightly, lifting his eyes to meet Ilya’s blown-out gaze.

“Mhnnn. Faster, pease.”

Ilya obliges, and he’s is precise when he does it, holding all the right places as the pounding grows faster, the smacking sounds of flesh on flesh filling the room. Shane is shouting to the ceiling, barely coherent enough to thank the heavens Ilya’s house is more secluded than his apartment, neighbours acres away.

It doesn’t take long for either of them to get close, hands gripping tight at the other, mouths open against each other as they breathe and pant into each other.

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

He barely registers the moment he tips over the edge. 

It rushes through him in a blinding wave, leaving him shaking, overstimulated to the point where every touch feels amplified, raw. His legs tremble uncontrollably, hips jerking once before going slack. He’s breathing hard, chest fluttering unable to catch enough air, head tipped back uselessly against the mattress.

Somewhere above him, Ilya makes a low, strained sound, deep and uncontrolled, and then he stills immediately after, body falling completely onto Shane’s.

He gives them both a moment to breathe, letting Shane’s tremors ease, waiting for his own breathing to calm, before gently easing back, pulling out with care, one hand on Shane’s waist it the whole time, careful not to jostle him too much. 

Shane whimpers at the sudden absence, body twitching at the aftershocks. 

“It’s okay,” Ilya murmurs, voice low and close, threaded with warmth as he leans over him. His thumb brushes slow, soothing circles into Shane’s hips, palms flattening over his belly too rub at the skin soothingly. “Shh. You did good. So good for me.”

Shane doesn’t remember much after that.

He remembers hands cleaning him, hears himself whimpering faintly, feels himself being held against a warm chest. He slips under quickly, eyes closing the moment he’s laid down somewhere warm, breathing evening out.

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

_______________

Ilya’s pretty sure he’s lost an hour just by the feeling of Shane’s back beneath his fingers as he runs his hands up a down the man’s spine. Shane’s draped over him now, face-down, his head tucked into Ilya’s chest. One arm is pressed between them, trapped and warm, whilst the other rests near Ilya's ear, fingers slack, a thigh slung over Ilya’s torso. He watches Shane’s eyes move under his eyelids gently, rolling in nondescript scribbles against the thin layer of skin. Eyelashes strikingly black against his skin. His teeth peek out from between his slightly parted lips, duly stacked, forming neat, pristine rows, small puffs of air escaping as he sleeps. 

He’s so, so beautiful.

Ilya missed this sight so much. The real thing, the actual sight of Shane in his arms, resting, blissful and at peace. It eclipses every night Ilya spent staring at the ceiling, eyes closed, reconstructing Shane from memory. His smile, his frown, or the way his lips would twitch when he tried to suppress a grin after Ilya said something Shane thought was stupid but couldn’t help finding funny anyway. His eyes. God, his eyes. Soft, brown, doe eyes that always looked like they were taking in too much of the world at once. The faint constellations of freckles scattered across his skin, little stars that Ilya had mapped so many times they’d become his will to live.

It feels like it’s been an eternity since he’d gotten this. Ilya feels like he’s forgotten so much of Shane over the past five months. Even though he hasn’t. Not really. Not Ilya, who has spent the last five months remembering every mole, every blemish, every scar on Shane’s body with obsessive precision. Not Ilya, whose fingers would twitch absentmindedly at the smallest trigger, eyes glazing over as memories took over, an echo of a body that has not been there and has been unreachable for far too long.

Away. In another man’s arm.

Now he feels like he has to reacquaint himself with everything. Hands, eyes and mouth, breathing, taking and wholly consuming the person who is the centre of Ilya’s existence.

He’d been so clingy and so whiny, clutching at Ilya’s skin with weak, desperate hands, like he’d fall apart if Ilya separated from him, and the second Ilya had wrapped him up properly, pulled him close and pressed him to his chest, Shane had melted. He’d passed out almost immediately after Ilya tried to clean him up, shut down completely, muscles and mind finally compensating for what it had gone through. 

As Ilya’s fingers trace downward again, they repeatedly meet the small knobs of Shane’s spine. His forearms brush lightly against Shane’s ribs, the shape of him unfamiliar in a way that makes Ilya feel ugly, ugly, ugly. 

Shane has lost weight. A lot of weight.

Ilya had noticed it the moment he’d spotted him from afar, curled in on himself on the sidewalk. Even at a distance, Shane’s frame had looked smaller, folded into and evidently reduced. Up close, it was even more obvious, his cheeks have hollowed, the sharpness of his jaw is a lot more pronounced. His wrists had felt so fragile when Ilya grabbed them, bone too close to the surface, harsher and more prominent than they’d been before. When he’d lifted Shane into his arms and carried him to the car, the man had been featherlight.

He’d noticed it again when they were fucking. How much slimmer Shane’s thighs had gotten, and the way his waist cinched in too easily beneath Ilya’s hands. The absence of the muscle that used to be there in his arms, and the way his collarbones jutted, sharp and delicate.

Most concerningly, however, was that it obviously an unhealthy weight loss.

Ilya knows exactly what this is, had lived through it countless times, although never this bad because he’d always put a stop to it before it became too dangerous. This was the kind of spiral Shane falls into when things got out of control, when his thoughts narrow and narrow until the only thing he feels capable of controlling is his intake, or rather the lack of it.

Ilya knew that when the world felt too big and unpredictable for Shane, he’d only ever respond to it by shrinking himself down, and taking less space.

He’s always been an extremely, almost frighteningly, disciplined individual. Being a personal trainer, he’d had his routines locked in, diet plans, calorie tracking down to the smallest detail, working out regularly and diligently, even when it was obvious he didn’t want to, was too tired to. Always pushing himself to the extreme. Always telling himself he had to set an example, had to be the version of himself that was good enough for his clients, for what they would want to become. 

Ilya thought it was ridiculous, and stupid, and very unhealthy. He’d also always make it known that he thought it was ridiculous, stupid and very unhealthy. 

They would argue over it constantly. As they would with most things. 

Ilya would push at the topic, accuse and worry out loud. Shane would bristle, tell him to stop interfering, shut him out completely when it would get to much. Sometimes for hours and days, sometimes even weeks at a time. And Ilya, pathetic and desperate, would cave every time. Would crawl back just to see him again, to touch him, to make sure he was still breathing properly, promising to keep quiet.

Then he'd would explode again, and they’d argue again.

At some point, after Shane had finally been diagnosed with anxiety, after Ilya and Hayden had practically forced him to see a psychologist when things had gotten really bad, things had changed for the better. The medication they’d prescribed Shane had helped. He was a lot more looser, relaxed, and Shane had laughed a lot more, let things be and had just gone with the flow. He’d let Ilya drag him to greasy food spots, had let Ilya feed him dessert, had even ordered his own sometimes.

As their relationship deepened, Shane’s self-image had improved too. It had shown in his posture, in the ease of his smile, his eyes crinkling when he laughed at Ilya’s deadpan jokes instead of trying to hide it. Ilya had been over the moon to see him so mentally at peace with himself. 

He liked. No, Ilya loved Shane’s quirks, the way his mind worked, the way he processed the world, but only when it wasn’t hurting him.

He takes a mental note to message Hayden about this. To let the idiot know that clearly Shane’s spiralled again, and clearly Ilya’s the only one who’s noticed. He’s not surprised that Hayden hasn’t, he's not known to be the sharpest ever really. So, even as Shane’s self-proclaimed, one and only, best friend, he’s apparently not noticed just how bad things have gotten again.  

And then there’s the boyfriend.

He also needs to tell Hayden that the fucker he’d found for Shane…. Nark? Nico? Nolan? 

Noah.

Yes, Noah. 

He needs to tell Hayden that clearly this Noah guy isn’t really all that. Certainly not enough for his Shane. Not at all, matter-of-fact. If he’s been with Shane for three months now, and still hasn’t noticed how badly Shane’s treating himself and how much he’s spiralled, then he’s a useless, negligent excuse for a partner.

Ilya had noticed from the very start. From their first date. From the moment Shane had been painfully shy, stiff, awkward to the point of discomfort. From the way he’d hovered between liking Ilya and being unsure if he was allowed to.

Ilya had known from the start. From their very first date. From back when Shane had been extremely shy, stiff and crazy awkward. From when he looked like he hadn’t actually decided if he liked Ilya or not, and had only agreed because of Ilya’s insistent flirting at the gym, where they had first met.

Ilya had noticed everything about him. He had observed the way he’d swirled the pasta about on his plate for most of the night, the little barely there sips of his wine. How he’d only really eaten his starter. A plain greek salad, to which he’d pushed away the cheese and nibbled on the lettuce and tomato. He’d made it his mission that very night to see Shane eating. Actually eating, carefree and properly, and he had done so. 

Noah’s stupid, thoughtless inefficient ass has clearly undone it all. 

Or had Shane spiralled before that?

Was it Ilya that had caused this?

Their breakup?

The thought makes Ilya swallow, his hand stilling against Shane’s back. He looks down at Shane, chest stilling as he recalls the their breakup. Their actual breakup. Not the fake ones, Shane would throw out when he was overwhelmed, the ones Ilya would laugh and brush off because he knew Shane didn't mean it. 

Sometimes he’d say it out of anger. Sometimes as a foreplay. Sometimes because Ilya had made him so jealous he’d try to get back at the man with his worst fear. Sometimes he’d threaten to break up with Ilya because of how jealous Ilya was, how obsessive and crazy it was. 

He smiles to himself at the memory of one of their most dramatic fights and ‘break-ups’. The one time, early into their relationship where he had went to the gym Shane worked at, waiting for his session with the client to finish, to take Shane home so they could relax over the weekend they both had off. 

He remembered the client, an average-looking man, a lot shorter than Shane and Ilya himself were, and lot less buff too. He watched him grab Shanes bicep for balance, a little too often and for long intervals, a lot more excessive than necessary. He had forced himself to look away and collected his thoughts, aware that it was absurd to get angry over it. That it would be immature too.

But then the twink had wrapped an arm around Shane’s waist and kissed his cheek. Shane had recoiled immediately, completely thrown-off and the discomfort was all over his face. 

That had been all Ilya needed, and before he knew it, he was moving, storming inside the gym, enraged. He had all but delightedly closed his hand around the scuff of the short-freaks shirt, lifting his body weight with one arm and slamming him into the glass wall behind them.

The whole gym had stilled into silence and Shane’s shout was high, and panicked. He’d immediately cut himself in between, pushing a red-faced, fuming Ilya away before the gym security could move. Next thing he knew he was being dragged out of the exit by a shaking, embarrassed Shane, his grip on Ilya’s wrist iron-tight.

They argued the entire way home. They had argued all night until their throats were raw, emotions all over the place. It had only been four months into the relationship, barely anytime for Shane to get to understand just how high the levels of insane Ilya can get over him. 

Shane had told him it was over, and that Ilya had been way out of line, and…

Next thing they knew, Shane was ass up, face-down into the mattress for the rest of the evening. The next day to make it up to him, Ilya been extra sweet and attentive, had babied the hell out of him, cleaned Shane’s apartment up till it was spotless, and had made him healthy diet meals for all breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Shane had never brought it up again. And that was what most of their disagreements were, trivial and momentary. It was usually just a way for the two of them to blow off steam and unleash some of the shit they'd been keeping in. 

But the night they had actually broken up. That had been different. Shane had been extremely anxious in that way that would equally set Ilya’s nerves on edge. He had been jittery, sharp and all over the place. And Shane had also been very mean. Cruel in a way that Ilya had never thought Shane could be. The oddest thing was that it was a conscious effort. Ilya could tell that Shane was purposefully saying thing that would get Ilya riled up and upset. It was as of he was determined to get Ilya to kick him out that night.

To which Ilya had.

After spitting insults back and forth, both of them saying things too fast to take back and actually talk through, Ilya had eventually reached a point where it hurt too much to go on, where it hurt too much even look at the other.

So he had told Shane to get out. And Shane had.

Two weeks later, Hayden had come collected his stuff, and dropped off Ilya’s stuff in return, and that had been it. No message or explanations. Ilya had been blocked a couple of weeks later. 

Shane and Ilya had broken up. For real this time.

He has to close his eyes, chest sinking with the same dead weight it carried that first night alone. He clutches tighter onto the man in his arms, reaching to grab Shane’s resting hand by his ear, brining the palm closer, kissing every knuckle to ground himself to reality.

This serenity won’t last. He knows that with certainty. 

In a couple of hours, Shane will wake up. Midday-morning glow will wash over his skin, golden and he’ll be cruelly beautiful. He’ll blink, disoriented, will take a couple of second to remember everything, and then once he does he’ll immediately run. He knows Shane will freeze up, will probably panic himself into another anxiety attack after he realises that he’d just cheated on Noah with his ex. He knows that Shane is going to slap his hands away, will probably refuse to look at him let alone want Ilya anywhere near him, and he’ll very heartlessly call this a mistake, say that he was stupid for coming back to Ilya. For calling him in the first place. 

Despite it all, Ilya can’t help but worry for him. Really. He’s stressed for the fragile man in his arms. Worried for what Shane is going to do himself. 

He knows his priorities are skewed.

Knows he shouldn’t be this forgiving, this accommodating, this willing to let himself be used like some kind of service dog,  summoned when needed and casually dismissed when inconvenient without thought.

But for the life of him, Ilya cannot summon even a single ounce of distaste for Shane. Not for even the worst of his flaws. Not for the mess he’s capable of creating by running away instead of communicating.

To Ilya, even the ugliest, rawest parts of Shane are things worth protecting and valuing. He doesn’t care if he sounds stupid or absurd, he never declared himself as normal when it came to Shane anyway. He’s only ever disliked it when Shane’s flaws turn inward. When they harm Shane himself. Ilya doesn’t care if he gets caught in the crossfire, he’d gladly burn himself alive if it means that Shane stays warm. 

It’s almost funny really.

Shane always thinks that Ilya is the one in control. He strongly believes that Ilya leads, pushes and directs their relationship, that Shane just follows, that he complies because Ilya wills him too. But that couldn’t be any further from the truth. Ilya’s always been under Shane’ control. Willingly, of course.

He’s the dog with the loose leash. The leash he’s desperately trying to hold onto, a leash Shane had flippantly discarded months ago. He want’s to be under Shane’s whims and demands, and if that means being pushed away and pulled back, discarded and then summoned again… then so be it. 

Ilya’s happy to follow. He loves Shane in a way that prioritises feelings over morality, logic, or self-respect. He realised that about himself from the moment his eyes had locked with the man. It's something that comes easy to him.

He swallows back a sigh, eyes never leaving Shane’s face, eyes greedy as he takes everything in with the faint moonlight that seeps from the bedroom’s window. He guides Shane further up, so that he's draped more onto him, head resting on Ilya’s shoulder. Shane makes a small noise of disapproval at being moved, but then sighs, content. Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s back. Presses his lips into his hair, breathing in his scent, feeling like he’ll float ashore lost without it.

He’s terrified of whats to come when Shane wakes up in the morning. His eyes ache from being open too long, and his head throbs faintly with the remnants of the headache from being woken in the middle of the night, exhaustion presses down on him willing him to sleep. 

Yet he continues to stall, still trying to memorise the curve of Shane’s body against his. In their remaining, finite moments, before he loses his everything once again, Ilya digs, clawing for serenity that won’t remain once again.