Archive of Our Own

Fresh off a morning ride, the sun already drying his water-soaked boardshorts and crystalising the salt in his curls, Ilya sees him for the first time. 

He’s cutting a clean line across the face of a wave, spray kicking up at his heels, moving with the water like was born in it, one with it. Like a dolphin’s smooth, shimmery back glinting under the surface and then bursting forth, somersaulting and arcing in the air before plunging back into the depths. He emerges from the whitewater, jet black hair plastered to his cheeks and down the back of his neck, rubbing the salt from his eyes. 

There’s a gracefulness in the way he handles the board, coupled with an underlying aggression that Ilya is more familiar with in his own style. It makes for something truly mesmerising. Like a knife taken religiously to a whetstone, he slices up the water effortlessly, makes a meal of it. Serves it up with enthusiasm that’s dripping, tangible even from far up on the sand dunes where Ilya sits, staring, starving. 

Ilya watches through lids squinted in the bright sunlight as the surfer wades through the froth and up onto the beach. He shakes the droplets from his strands, runs a hand through it to slick it back, then shucks off his wetsuit halfway, the arms dangling by his waist. Smooth, tanned skin – evidence of a lifetime spent in the sun, like Ilya – stretches over the hard muscles beneath. He’s lean in the way many surfers are, beautiful in the way that so many aren’t. Ilya isn’t, not really. Not like him.

After the first time, Ilya notices him nearly every day afterwards. If the forecast is good and the conditions are optimal, an old, beat-up sedan will pull into the dirt parking lot and he’ll appear, unracking his board from the roof and taking it over his knees to wax it before setting off across the sand to catch the swells. They see each other in passing, Ilya setting foot on the shore just as he pushes out from it, or vice versa. Other times, they sit astride their boards in the surf together, taking their places in a long line-up of people eagerly anticipating the next set of waves to roll in. 

“Sick hit on that barrel, by the way,” is the first thing he says to Ilya on one such occasion. 

“Yeah,” Ilya says, breathless, because it was. 

“Shane.” He offers his fist.

Ilya bumps it. “Ilya.” 

And then he’s off, paddling full force into the blue with a set brow and a twinkle in his eye. Ilya thinks he might be in love. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Ilya skates through the streets of his hometown with a drawstring bag slung over his shoulder and his surfboard under his arm. The asphalt beneath the wheels is warming in the early morning sun, the palm trees lining the streets swaying in the coastal breeze. Gulls circle above and caw in a messy melody that was, in a way, the background music to Ilya’s childhood summers. Hours spent making sandcastles and braiding his mothers’ sun-bleached hair under the umbrella, sand between his toes and under his fingernails. The beach at his fingertips, the world at his back and the vast, open sea winking under a brilliant horizon. There was – is – nothing better. 

The parking lot is empty save for the rust-red sedan with the missing hubcaps that he’s come to know quite well. Dirt and tiny rocks kick up at his ankles as he skids to a halt, kicking the board and catching it as he dismounts next to where he is standing, rummaging around in his trunk for something. Shorts dripping and making little divots in the dirt where the drops land, Ilya surmises he’s already finished his session. 

“How was dawn patrol?” 

Shane looks up, towel in hand, and scruffs it against the tangled mess of his hair. “Beauty. You missed some real bombs.” 

Sunlight dapples his skin and turns his deep brown eyes amber, a shot of whiskey that goes down smooth and blooms warmth in Ilya’s belly. 

“You visiting?” Ilya asks, absently picking at the dried wax on his surfboard.  

The town isn’t a tourist spot, rather a hidden gem with a tight-knit community of surfers that are lucky enough to have their bay kept mostly a secret, free from the crowds that flock to more well-known spots every summer and descend to the beach like ants to an ice cream melting on the pavement in the sun. That is to say, visitors aren’t common, but word spreads between a few in the know, and sometimes there’ll be a fresh face among the usual crowd. 

Intimately familiar with his town, even more so with the stretch of sand and craggy rocks and marram grass that lays on the cusp of it all and hugs the bay, nothing new gets past Ilya. There isn’t a single part of this place that doesn’t live within him, and likewise there isn’t a single part of the town that doesn’t hold memory of him either. The skin of his knees imprinted on the asphalt at the bottom of Main Street from where he fell off his bike aged twelve. His initials carved into the wooden slats at the back of his neighbour’s house, right next to his childhood crush’s, all wobbly and brimming with the uncertainty of young love. His pet fish, rescued from a rock pool at low tide, buried among the flowers in the garden of his childhood home. His mother’s ashes scattered atop the highest hill, her favourite lookout spot on clear days and warm nights when the stars were at their brightest. 

When Ilya dies and joins his mother in the great beyond, he’s certain their spirits will ride in on a great wave and wash up on these shores. It’s home, now and forever. Few are lucky enough to call it so, and while many don’t stay forever and may move on to far off places, their souls are tied here in the earth and the wind and the sea. 

Shane could fit in here, Ilya thinks. Score his initials in the trunk of some tree, stake his claim and lay roots. He certainly looks the part, all sun-kissed and loose-limbed, shark-tooth necklace and freckles that rival constellations. Pretty. 

“For the summer,” Shane says. “My parents just moved to town, and I’m back from college, so…” 

Temporary, transient. It’s a shame. 

“How do your parents like it here so far?”

Shane smiles. “They love it. They always talked about slowing down eventually, settling by the sea. Guess me going off to college was as good a reason as any. Have you always lived here?” 

“Always. No place like it.” Ilya emphasises with a gesture that says ‘look around’. The blue skies, even bluer waters, the lush green of the mountains: it speaks for itself. “If you need a guide, there’s nobody else that knows it better.” 

“That’d be great, actually,” Shane replies with a soft chuckle as he pats his shoulders and torso dry, rubbing at the burnt skin there and making it peel. “I could use a buddy.”

Ilya’s eyes draw up from his chest, catching his gaze with a grin. “Come by the beach bar later. The Dizzy Turtle. Me and my friends will be there, I’ll introduce you.” 

It could be the sunburn, but Ilya thinks his ears turn red. 

“Sounds good, see you then.” 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It’s a balmy evening, made even warmer by the heat of the tiki torches that line the bar patio, sitting skew-whiff in the sand. Their flames flicker and crackle softly, sparks flying in the gentle breeze that rolls in from offshore. The patio is aglow under their light, coupled with the fairy lights strewn haphazardly between the palms. 

Over the reggae music that floats through the speakers, the booming laugh of Ilya’s friend pulls Shane from his thoughts and back to the present. 

They’re crowded onto one of the few wooden benches out front, sinking the toes of their bare feet in the cooling sand. It’s cramped, everyone shoulder to shoulder, elbows knocking together, heads thrown back in laughter. Bood, the guy to Shane’s right and the one with the deep, belly laugh that rocks Shane’s body with the force of it, is the first person Ilya had introduced him to. 

“This old bastard is the reason why any of us know how to board in the first place,” Ilya had said, clapping him on the back with a huge smile. “He’s half-deaf with surfer's ear though, so if you’re going to talk shit make sure you’re on his left.” 

“Fuck you, Roz.” 

Shane likes Bood very much. He feels like pulling on a dryrobe after a bitterly cold winter morning in the water, warm and all-encompassing. Tanned skin weathered by years out in the elements, long hair knotted on the top of his head, an aquatic-themed tattoo sleeve snaking up his arm, over his shoulder and extending onto his back. 

Then, there’s Wyatt and Troy. Two sides of the same coin. Wyatt’s like a wave battling an onshore wind, choppy and frenetic, all energy and bright smiles, leg bouncing beneath the table. According to Ilya, his boarding style is much the same. He’s won his fair share of competitions with big air and big tricks under his belt, much the same as Bood, though he’s nowhere near the impressive medal collection that the veteran has accrued over the years. And if Wyatt’s a whitecap, all froth and fizz, Troy is like the unbroken wall of a barrel, glassy and smooth and steadfast. Quiet for the most part, a calming presence in the midst of so much chaotic energy. Both of them are fiercely loyal friends, according to Ilya, and both welcome Shane with open arms. 

“This guy,” Ilya says, throwing an arm around Wyatt’s neck in a headlock and making him squirm, “worked in Bood’s surf shop with Troy and me before he very rudely fucked off to college with these two and abandoned us.”

The other two that Ilya motions to are the girls sitting side by side at the end of the bench, their fingers entangled together and their gazes soft whenever they look at each other. Svetlana and Rose, girlfriends, both beautiful and hilariously funny. They’re home for the summer, like Shane, though they grew up here with Wyatt and the rest. Shane asks how they met. 

“My brothers used to surf with these boys,” Rose tells him, “and I had the pleasure of being dragged down to the beach every day after school because they refused to babysit me anywhere else while our parents were at work. One day, I’m sitting on the rocks and I see this one,” she nudges her elbow into Svetlana’s waist, “out on the waves, looking like a fucking goddess.” 

Svetlana rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling and obviously endeared. 

“So,” Rose continues, “I spend the next half hour working up the courage to talk to her, and I finally go over there with– Do you remember this, babe? I go over with my little bucket and spade, and I’m, like, fourteen, by the way. And I say, ‘hey, do you wanna build a sandcastle with me?’” 

Laughter fills the small spaces between them all, and Shane’s chuckling with them. Rose buries her head into Svetlana’s shoulder, blushing. 

“It was so cute,” Svetlana reassures her, patting her head. “And we made a great fucking castle.” 

“Too bad Roz stomped through it like a fucking elephant straight after,” Rose grumbles. 

They bicker and laugh and share stories, and the drinks flow, and the humid night air settles around Shane’s shoulders and relaxes them. He eases into the gaps of his new company with so much ease it’s almost like he’s known them for years. Part way through a sip of his third, or maybe the fourth, beer, Shane looks across the table at Ilya and finds he’s already looking back, the firelight twinkling in his eyes. There’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and Shane finds himself smiling back, something private just between the two of them. It could be the warmth in the air, or the drink in his belly, or the heat radiating off the tiki torches, but something in Ilya’s gaze makes his body feel like stepping into a sunbeam. 

“Come on, Shane, what about you?” Wyatt says, lifting his bottle and tipping the neck in his direction, “Newbie should share his story!”

Shane laughs awkwardly around the rim of his bottle, taking a swig before answering. “It’s not that interesting.” He recounts the story he’d told Ilya, of his parents moving to the coast as he’d set off for the city. 

“Roz told us, man. No city boy knows how to rip that good,” Bood says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Where’d you learn to surf?”

Something simmers in Shane’s stomach knowing that Ilya had sung his praises to his friends, had watched Shane on the water enough to know that he was good, enough to tell people about it. 

“In Japan. Grew up in Shizuoka, maybe ten minutes from the beach. I got lessons as soon as I could walk, basically. We moved when I was, like, twelve for my dad’s work.” 

“Fucking rough,” Wyatt whistles, “my parents couldn’t pry me away from here with a crowbar.” 

“You literally chose to go to college four hours away?” Troy remarks. 

“Also, he was twelve, Hazy,” Svetlana says.

Wyatt splutters something of a retort, going a little red at the ears. Shane laughs along with the rest. 

“I was as devastated as a twelve year old could be, yeah. I got over it pretty quick, though, new place and new sights, new friends, all of that,” Shane says, gesturing vaguely. “But I’ve missed it though. The indoor places don’t compare.”

Bood looks like he’s been shot. “You’re stronger than me, brother. Indoor surfing…” He shudders. 

They talk and laugh and drink into the night. Shane couldn’t have asked for a better start to his summer, surrounded by new friends and the prospect of three sun-soaked months spent in great company stretching out before him. Every so often, he feels a knee bump against his under the table, and sometimes it’s Bood, but sometimes it’s Ilya, who sits across from him with a lazy smile, curls ruffled in the breeze, tacky Hawaiian shirt falling open at the collar, and Shane has to suck in a breath like he’s coming up out the water for air. 

“How do you like them?” Ilya asks as they stroll along the beach, long after the bar has closed and the lights extinguished, leaving only the pale moonlight casting a glow over the sand. 

Shane looks to the group, some distance ahead. They’re in the middle of a piggyback race, Svetlana and Rose draped over the shoulders of Wyatt and Troy as they run across the beach, sand kicking up at their heels. Bood is trailing behind, cupping his hands to yell over their giggles about the importance of not falling over and eating shit. 

Drawing his eyes back to Ilya, Shane takes him in for a long moment. 

“This summer’s going to be interesting, I think,” he replies.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The following days and weeks are spent in a haze of blue skies and turquoise waters. Shane collapses into bed each night, limbs aching pleasantly, the salt crusted in his hair and behind his ears and beneath his fingernails washed away down the shower drain, skin glowing with the residual heat of the sun beating down on his shoulders. They surf until their legs hurt and their lungs ache, taking turns riding the currents and washing up in the foam with smiles on their faces. 

They take bikes up the nearby mountain trails, Troy lending Shane a dinged-up but perfectly functionable one from his collection, whipping through the trees together and hooting over the sounds of the birds that swoop in the canopy above. Through the treeline, Shane can see the ocean far below them, glinting in the sunlight, the waves forming broken white lines as they crash against the shore. One time, Ilya’s chain snaps and Shane offers to make the trek back down the mountain with him, bikes balanced across their shoulders as they descend along the rocky trail. They chat all the way, about surfing mostly, and by the time they’re back on flat ground, they’re both soaked through with sweat and Ilya suggests cooling off in the surf. 

The sunlight’s dipping below the horizon and turning the sky a brilliant tapestry of oranges and pinks by the time they wade back onto the sand, dripping and dazedly happy. Ilya walks Shane home, the two of them leaving wet footprints side by side on the asphalt, Shane pushing his bike along and enjoying the monotonous click click click of the gears. He falls asleep that night and dreams of sunlight filtering through leaves and a head of blonde curls submerging beneath a wave. 

They explore the rock pools and caves off the main stretch of the beach, bare feet hopping over the slimy rocks, seaweed and algae tickling their toes. Rose shows Shane how to spot the crabs and other critters that inhabit the crystalline pools, overturning rocks and pointing out each creature like his mother used to when he was a kid. The sun beats against their backs, turning them pink like the starfish that squirm beneath the light touch of their fingers, and they take turns re-applying their sunscreen after a few hours in the midday heat. Shane draws a smiley face on Bood’s back, and in return he gets a crudely-drawn penis that’s hastily scrubbed away and melted into his skin. 

They pocket seashells, Shane picking out the ones that he thinks will make a good necklace, Wyatt picking out the ones with the prettiest colours and most interesting patterns. Troy finds a perfect porcelain corkscrew, plucking it from the sand and then dropping it just as quickly with a poorly-suppressed scream when the spindly leg of a crab pokes out from its opening. The group collapses with laughter, tears in their eyes, and poor Troy can’t escape the incessant teasing for the rest of the day. 

On a weekend where the temps are soaring and the winds have died down to a stillness that’s almost suffocating, they forego the beach and its lack of waves for Wyatt’s parents’ house, the barbecue fired up and sizzling under the scorching rays. It’s a beautiful house, a Spanish-style bungalow with a dreamy backyard and a pergola dripping in wisteria, shading the patio from the brunt of the sunlight. They lounge on cushy garden chairs and hammocks, cracking open cans of beer and serving icy cocktails from a huge pitcher as Bood tends to the various meats and vegetables that sear and pop on the grill. Wyatt’s family dog, a loveable golden lab that reminds Shane of Wyatt himself in many ways, makes the rounds and soaks up the attention, butting knees with his big head and lolling out his tongue happily when it’s returned with pets. 

It’s the best few weeks of Shane’s life, in many ways. The days blur together, a kaleidoscope of colour and warmth and happy memories, and each day brings another hue. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Ilya wakes up each day with a sense of vigor that he hasn’t felt in years. Sure, summers in the town are always his favourite time of year and with the longer, warmer days and the balmy, clear nights, it’s always something he looks forward to. Days spent on the sand or in the water, if not behind the worn, flaking counter of the surf shop. 

But this summer has one thing that all the previous summers were lacking: Shane. Shane and his earnest curiosity to learn everything there is to know about life here, about Ilya and his friends. Shane and his ability to shred a wave in ways that Ilya has never seen before, dropping in on him with a cheeky grin over his shoulder and giving a swift jerk of his board that showers Ilya in salty spray. Shane and his charming smile; not the small, reserved one that only teases the corners of his mouth, but the one that makes his top lip disappear and reveals his pointy incisors that make him look like a scrappy puppy. 

Ilya’s watching him out of the corner of his eye, face lit up orange from the glow of the firepit they’d all messily assembled a couple hours earlier as the sky darkened and faded to a deep blue. He’s grinning that same, wide grin now at Wyatt, who’s in the middle of one of his strange stories. From this position, Ilya can see the length of his eyelashes, casting shadows on his freckled cheeks from how long they are. 

The past few weeks, something has been stirring in Ilya’s chest. Like the beginnings of a swell, rolling in from far out at sea, not yet breaking but inevitable nonetheless. The only difference being that swells originate from far off storms, miles away, their effect only noticeable once already on top of you. The feeling in Ilya’s chest doesn’t come from some unknowable force a great distance away, but rather mere metres. And he’s sat to Ilya’s left, laughing and joking and turning that stirring into something more. 

Ilya brings a hand up to fiddle with the string that sits around his neck, adorned with tiny scallop and cowrie shells. A gift from Shane, his way of saying thank you for welcoming him into town, into the arms of his friends. He’d been almost shy giving it to Ilya, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly as he’d over-explained the reasoning behind it, and Ilya had had to shut him up with a sincere ‘thank you, Shane’. He’d gone home that night, the necklace weighing heavy around his neck, hot on his skin, and the image of the ruddy pink that stained Shane’s cheeks a pretty shade of bashful.

He pulls another drink from the cooler dug into the sand bank, offering another round to everyone. They share out the beers, cans hissing as they crack them open, cheersing across the flames that lick up into the night sky. It’s a perfect evening, as have been most evenings lately. They’d spent all day in the surf, only emerging when their fingers had turned to shrivelled prunes and their stomachs growled, mouthfuls of briny seawater not sufficing to quell their hunger. Only when their bodies had grown tired and the daylight began to slip away had they piled back onto the beach, wrapped in towels, skin burnt and flaky from the sun and salt. They had fetched driftwood and handfuls of dry grass as kindling, Ilya bringing the cooler and the lighter, and they’d all gathered round to watch the day sink away beneath the endless horizon. 

Bliss.

Ilya leans back on his free hand, the fire warming his shins from where he’s got his feet planted in the sand, knees bent. Shane copies the motion, lounging back and getting comfortable on a threadbare beach towel.

“Does it not taste like McDonalds fries?” Wyatt is saying, looking around the firepit for approval and being met with a mixture of disgust, amusement and pure bewilderment. 

“Dude, I am not licking the salt off my skin, you fucking weirdo,” Troy says, nose wrinkling. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never done this, seriously. I used to do it all the time as a kid.”

Bood snorts. “You always were a little freak, Hazy.” 

Shane tips his head back in another laugh, along with everyone minus Wyatt who is busy lapping at the crease of his elbow and making Troy gag. The sound of it, of Shane’s laugh, reminds Ilya of the wind chimes that his mother had strung up on the deck of his childhood home, swaying in the wind and creating a sweet melody that drifted through the patio doors and swirled around Ilya as he ate his sugary cornflakes. It makes his heart squeeze. 

Beneath the starlight, beneath the glow of the moon bouncing off the black water of the ocean, shrouded in the long shadows cast by the bonfire, Ilya slides his hand over in the sand and finds Shane’s fingers. He links them together, feeling the warm, calloused skin and tracing it with his thumb. Around them, the voices of his friends carry up into the air and mingle with the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. A light wind blows and carries with it the sharp tang of the ocean, the woody smoke of the fire, and the faintest hint of Shane’s sunscreen mixed with his natural musk. 

He doesn’t look at Ilya, but his fingers squeeze back in reply. 

It’s late, past midnight, when they all pile into Ilya’s living room. They’re a little tipsy and a lot tired, but they somehow manage to throw blankets over the sofa and pillows onto the floor and gather together, bodies outstretched in every direction and limbs overlapping. It’s reminiscent of a gaggle of kittens, huddled up together and sleeping in positions of varying degrees of awkwardness, splayed out or scrunched up. But it works, and with the curtains drawn and the slow tick of the wall clock filling the silence along with their slowing breaths, it’s cosy. 

Ilya takes the floor by the side of the couch, and as he’s getting comfy he sees Shane peek his head over the cushion and down at him. They share a sleepy smile. Shane adjusts and flops an arm over the sofa, his hand dangling down by Ilya’s shoulder. 

The room falls quiet in the wake of everyone drifting off, faint snores emanating from Bood’s general direction. Ilya stares up at the ceiling, willing sleep to come but instead finding his eyes tracing the ceiling, following the moonlight as it seeps through the curtains and mottles the paint. The feeling of fingers ghosting across the skin of his shoulder seeps into his consciousness a while later. 

He lets Shane draw patterns into his skin, hesitant touches that make his breath hitch, raising goosebumps in their wake, travelling up and down the line of his shoulder and sometimes towards the crook of his neck. Neither speak, nor make to move any further, but Ilya knows that Shane is just as awake as he is in the darkness. 

After a long while, his fingers slow to a stop. Ilya hears the rustle of fabric just before Shane’s eyes meet his. Looking up at him, his ruffled hair and the freckles that dust his cheeks still visible in the low light, Ilya feels like he’s staring straight down a tube, water rushing in his ears as he chases the small opening at the end of it.

He leans up and presses their lips together. It’s a tender, closed-mouth kiss, their chapped lips meeting for the barest of moments. Ilya pulls away first, only slightly, eyes searching the depths of Shane’s for any uncertainty. He finds none. Shane is the one to lean in this time, slotting their mouths back together and making Ilya’s stomach flutter. He presses his tongue to Shane’s bottom lip softly, and Shane parts them to allow Ilya inside, deepening the kiss. Their breath comes shallowly in the quiet, mingling with the gentle sound of their lips and tongues meeting. They make out for a long time, until they’re dizzy and breathless and their lips are swollen.

When they finally pull apart, Ilya collapses back into his pillow, the world recentering itself beneath him. Shane’s hand finds its way back down to him, this time brushing the backs of his fingers against the smooth plane of Ilya’s cheek, back and forth, back and forth. Ilya turns his head and leaves the faintest of kisses against Shane’s knuckles. He falls asleep with the warmth of the summer sun pooling in his belly and bathing his heart in its glow. 

Breakfast the following morning is a haphazard affair. Ilya’s rickety wooden dining table is laden with plates of buttered toast and fruits hastily cut up courtesy of Svetlana and Rose, a carafe of orange juice, a pot of black coffee, a half-opened tub of yoghurt. Bood is at the stovetop, eggs and bacon sizzling away in one pan and pancakes made from out-of-date pancake mix found at the back of Ilya’s cupboard in another. Wyatt is doing his best to flip them, though after the second one falls to the floor with an unceremonious splat, Bood hands him a spatula in an attempt to salvage the rest of the mixture. 

Ilya comes downstairs from his shower and is greeted by the scene, the tiny kitchen abuzz with activity and conversation. Music’s playing, low and crackly, through the portable radio on the countertop. Shane is sandwiched between Rose and Svetlana at the table, whilst Bood and Wyatt come around to serve out portions of greasy bacon and eggs and pancakes dripping in syrup. 

“Glad you decided to join us,” Bood quips, “don’t worry about helping or nothin’.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya chuckles, chair scraping against the tiles as he drags it out and takes his place at the table, opposite Shane. 

“Have you seen Roz cook? Probably for the best,” Troy says from his left, earning Ilya’s heel to his shin. 

They eat with the light spilling in from between the curtains and the heady scent of coffee and grease and maple all mixing into one. The gulls outside screech and call to one another, call to Ilya like they’re beckoning him down to the beach. Unfortunately, he’s bound by other commitments today. Commitments in the form of the four walls of the surf shop, perched atop a stool behind the counter that may as well be the bars of a prison cell for all he cares. He loves the job, really. Just not as much as he loves the sea. 

For now, he enjoys the present. Pours himself another glass of OJ, knocks it back with a mouthful of sweet, sticky pancake. Listens to Bood and Wyatt share chirps across the table, to Svetlana passionately describing her anime addiction to Shane and Rose. Ilya tries to pay attention to what Troy is saying in his ear, something about brands of board wax, but is altogether occupied with the feeling of Shane’s bare foot stroking up his leg beneath the table. 

They part ways not long after breakfast, dishes piled high in the sink that Ilya knows he’ll put off doing later, pillows and blankets still scattered about his living room. He tries not to stare at Shane’s lips as he says goodbye, though with the look that Shane gives him, he knows he’s been caught. He spends the day behind the counter reminiscing about the way Shane had kissed him, cracked lips and tongue, salt and sweet. Lost in thought, he misses the balled-up receipt that Troy launches at him, bouncing off his temple and onto the floor. 

“C’mon, brother, lighten up. You’ll get back out there tomorrow.” 

Little does Troy know that Ilya’s heart sings for something more than just the surf now. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

A month passes like that. Their tans deepen and their hair lightens (although Shane’s mostly stays the same jet black as it always has), and the days slip away in a lazy routine of beach, boarding, biking, and the rest. 

It’s late afternoon one day, when the girls have grown tired of the boys and the waves and have retreated to the dunes to spread their towels and tan, that Ilya wipes out and surfaces in the whitewater with a bloody nose. It’s a gruesome scene, only because the blood mixing in with the water makes it look ten times worse than it is.

He wades up onto the beach, pinching his nose in one hand and hugging his board to his side in the other, grinning like a madman. 

“Bad fucking luck, Rozy!” Bood hollers. 

It’ll definitely leave a black eye, the bridge of his nose stinging from the impact of the board slamming into his face as he tumbled into the waves. He collapses down to the sand next to Rose and Svetlana, rummaging in the cooler for a pack to ice his face with. 

“Who’re you trying to impress, huh?” Rose comments, smiling behind her shades. 

“If you find that impressive I can see why you thought Sveta was good at surf–” Ilya’s cut off by Svetlana whacking him on the arm. 

It won’t be long before the ice melts in the heat, but for the time being Ilya sits back and enjoys the refreshing cool against his skin, water droplets rolling down his face and neck, pooling with the sweat in his clavicles. He uses some of the moisture to wipe away the blood that’s drying on his upper lip, his nose no longer streaming with it. Eventually, the rest of the boys join them.

“Pass us an icey, Roz, would ya?” Wyatt says, gesturing to the cooler.

Ilya leans over and deposits his ice pack back inside, now squidgy and melted, and brings his hand back out with a selection of ice pops in it. 

“Take your pick,” he says, offering them out.

They each take one, Ilya opting for the pineapple flavour. Shane considers, then goes for grape. 

The conversation turns mostly to the waves, recapping their morning and the aerials they’d hit before Ilya had biffed it. It quickly dissolves into bickering, mostly between Bood and Wyatt over which pro can pull off the best tricks. Losing interest, Ilya’s gaze wanders over to Shane. He seems to be enjoying the conversation, though decidedly not participating. Instead, his focus seems to be on the ice pop between his lips, and suddenly that’s all Ilya can focus on, too.  

Shane’s in the middle of hollowing his cheeks and sucking on it when his eyes flick up to Ilya. This would be the time for Ilya to look away, embarrassed to be caught staring, pretend like he wasn’t watching the way the ice pop moved in and out of Shane’s pretty pink lips. That doesn’t happen. Instead, Shane’s brow quirks inquisitively. Then, he pulls the icey from his lips in one long, slow motion, releasing it with an audible pop. 

Ilya swallows, hard. His friends' voices continue around them, though their words are muffled and of little importance, anyway. Especially when Shane is staring at Ilya with round, innocent eyes, licking and sucking his ice pop with all the casualness in the word and wholly unbefitting of such a pornographic sight. Ilya can feel his own ice pop melting and trickling down over his fingers, making them sticky. He doesn’t care. 

Nobody seems to have noticed, which is a blessing. Because Ilya isn’t so sure how obvious the growing bulge in his swim shorts is, and he’d rather not have to explain that he got a boner watching Shane eat an icey. It’s over all too quick and not soon enough when Shane bites off the last piece above the stick and crunches the ice between his teeth with a small smile, the tips of his ears red. 

“Do we still have that volleyball net in the hut?” 

“Oh, yeah, I think so? Hey, Roz, you mind grabbing it? And the ball. You have the key, right?” 

Ilya rips his eyes away from Shane to look at Bood, the one who’s speaking to him. Right. 

“Uh, yeah. Sure, I’ll go.”

“I’ll come help,” Shane pipes up, and Ilya has to take a very deep breath. 

Bood reaches up and pats Shane’s ass playfully, making him jump. “Atta boy!”

They dust the sand from their shorts and Ilya sets off across the beach first, face hot despite the lingering chill of the ice pack on his skin. It’s a short distance to the colourful huts that line the concrete facade of the promenade, pastel paint peeling off the wooden slats, each with a little sign out front that displays a number designating their ownership. 

Ilya clears his throat. “We share one between the six of us. Keep all our extra gear here, makes it easier.”

Shane hums in interest.  

The key scrapes in the lock, all rusty from salt water and years of use, but the padlock eventually pops off and Ilya tosses it to the side. The hut’s big enough for the two of them to enter, the door latching shut behind them and enclosing them in the vaguely musty space, a little light filtering in from the tiny glass porthole on the door. 

Shane’s eyes are skirting around the small room, flitting over the various boards propped up against the walls, a couple of bikes, lawn chairs and a fold-up table, an umbrella. 

“So where’s this net?” 

Ilya’s not thinking about the net. Not right now. Shane’s lips are still moist from the icey, glistening in the low light. His hair is still a little damp from the seawater, mussed and falling into his eyes, and there’s tiny droplets clinging to his bare chest. The bleached-white shark teeth on his necklace are contrasting beautifully with the deep tan he’s sporting, and his shorts are riding low enough for Ilya to see his tanline, how his dark happy trail stands out against the pale sliver of skin just above his groin. 

Ilya licks his lips and swallows around the lump in his throat, pineapple and salt mingling on his tongue. When he doesn’t reply, Shane’s gaze comes to settle on him and he must see something in Ilya’s expression that causes his jaw to twitch and his breath to catch. 

They cross the small space between each other slowly, then crash together all at once. Their lips meet, and Shane hiccups around an exhale that gets lost between Ilya’s lips. If their first kiss was tender, this one is anything but, bruising and desperate. Shane’s hands tangle in Ilya’s hair, tugging a little when they encounter how windswept and crisp his curls are, and Ilya finds his waist, his fingers pressing into the muscles of Shane’s lower back. 

Ilya walks him backwards towards the wall until he’s pressed up against it, their bodies slotting together, skin on skin aside from the flimsy fabric of their shorts rucking up against one another. They’re both breathing heavily, stuttered gasps and cut-off moans filling the quiet of the hut as their tongues curl together. Ilya’s teeth graze Shane’s bottom lip and he sees his eyebrows pull together and jaw slacken slightly, and Ilya wonders if that’s how he looks when he orgasms. 

The thought makes his dick twitch and thicken against Shane’s hip. He can feel Shane’s own length plumping up through his shorts, their bodies rocking together as they make out. The thin layers of polyester and nylon between them isn’t doing much to conceal how aroused they both are. Ilya breaks the kiss to mouth down Shane’s jaw, his neck. He tastes like sweat and ocean and sunscreen, and it makes Ilya feel slightly drunk, almost hungry. 

“You were doing it on purpose, weren’t you?” he breathes into the space beneath Shane’s ear, licking a spot there that has the other jerking. He feels Shane swallow beneath his lips. 

“Do– Doing what?”

Ilya sighs blissfully at the feeling of Shane running his big, calloused hands over his shoulders and down his back. He straightens up into his eyeline, pressing their sweaty foreheads together so he can see the way Shane’s pupils are blown wide and how Ilya’s saliva clings to his lips now instead of the ice pop. 

“Looking at me and sucking on it like that,” Ilya purrs, his hands on Shane’s hips tugging him closer and drawing out a small moan from him. 

Shane tries to chase his lips instead of answering, but Ilya denies him, leaning back and looking down at him through hooded eyes, a smirk threatening the corners of his mouth. The way Shane looks up at him, dark eyes glinting and almost pleading… Ilya’s cock is fully hard. And Shane’s is too. 

“Like how?” Shane asks, as if he doesn’t know.

Ilya slides to his knees. “Like this.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of Shane’s shorts, and Shane’s eyes shutter. He bites back a moan as Ilya’s fingers brush against the warmth of his skin, and he can’t help lift his hips up away from the wall, offering himself up for Ilya to take. 

The shorts rustle faintly as they slide over the thickness of his thighs, his muscles ripped and taut from years on the board, hitting the floor and being kicked away without a thought. A flood of saliva rushes into Ilya’s mouth when he’s presented with Shane’s length, thick and bobbing in front of his face, head just as pretty pink as his lips and glistening just the same. 

He exhales giddily, and Shane twitches at the feeling of his breath. When Ilya looks up, he’s looking down at him with a mixture of surprise, lust and maybe a little bit of… embarrassment? He’s flushed, that much Ilya can see, from the tips of his ears all the way down his smooth, tanned neck to his chest. If there weren’t so much blood rushing to his very erect cock, Ilya thinks he’d be blushing all over, even turning the pale stretch of skin from his hips to his mid-thighs pink. 

“Don’t get shy on me now,” Ilya teases, running his hands up and down Shane’s legs and trying very hard to resist flicking his tongue out and lapping at his tip. 

“They’re gonna come looking for us,” Shane says, teeth snagging his bottom lip and nibbling at it. He makes no move to pull away though, and judging by the way his dick flexes when Ilya’s eyes dart down to it and back up, he doesn’t want to. 

“This won’t take long.” 

Shane lets out the most beautiful sound when Ilya grabs him at the base and swirls his tongue over the length of him. A breathy moan, something close to a whine. It hits Ilya right in the gut and has his stomach muscles clenching wonderfully. He licks up and down Shane’s cock, getting him wet and messy, tasting him. He tastes just as good as he smells, musky from the surf and hours in the sun, and Ilya doesn’t mind at all. It’s raw and masculine and so, so hot. 

He feels Shane’s fingers burying themselves into his hair, putting up quite a valiant effort not to pull on it, though by the way they twitch and flex Ilya can tell he wants to. He spares a quick look up and finds Shane’s eyebrows pulled together in the same way as before, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, and he grins. He’s enjoying himself. Good. 

Ilya sucks him off thinking of Shane’s lips around the ice pop, dipping his head and taking him halfway in, then pulling out, tongue pressed to the underside. He doesn’t take him all the way, just goes deep enough to have his lips meet his fingers where they’re wrapped around his girth, teasing. Occasionally, he takes him out completely and just uses his tongue, dragging it all over, swirling it, flicking it over Shane’s slit in a way that has him swearing softly. He makes sure to look up for that part, revelling in the way that Shane meets his stare for a moment before groaning in pleasure, eyelids slipping closed again when he becomes overwhelmed with the sight. The noises that fall from his lips are glorious, and Ilya uses them to spur himself on, ignoring his own aching dick for the sole purpose of pulling Shane over the edge. 

His free hand kneads the soft flesh of Shane’s ass, using it for leverage to tug his hips forward. Eventually, he starts to feel the muscles there tensing and releasing rhythmically in time with the clench of his stomach, and Ilya knows he’s close. He slides his hand down, over the swell of Shane’s ass and down his hamstring, palm meeting the back of his knee. He pulls on Shane’s leg, nearly sending him off balance, but Shane rights himself just in time for Ilya to hook his knee over his shoulder. At the same time, Ilya takes him to the back of his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane keens. 

He comes, heel digging into the space between Ilya’s shoulder blades, legs quaking. His orgasm crashes over him like a wave, and Ilya rides straight through it, swallowing every last drop of his tangy release. Shane quivers in the aftershocks, over the crest and now bathing in the shallows, little ripples that push him back up to shore. 

Ilya eventually pulls off with a pop, mimicking Shane’s earlier action with the icey. Shane shivers, stumbling a little as he brings his leg down from Ilya’s shoulder. He stays slumped against the wall for a moment, chest rising and falling heavily as he regards Ilya through heavy eyes. 

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs. 

“Mm,” Ilya hums, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and chin, moist with spit. He gets to his feet with a grin. “Good?”

Shane pulls him in for another kiss, his tongue swiping into Ilya’s mouth like he wants to taste himself there. Ilya groans, all too aware how hard he is, and he’s grateful that his shorts are waterproof because he’s definitely leaking into them. 

“How long does it take for two guys to get a ball and a net?” Shane laughs breathlessly as he pulls back, retrieving his shorts and wriggling them on.  

“Not this long, probably.” 

“What about…?” Shane trails off, glancing down to Ilya’s crotch. 

“Next time.”

Ilya does his best to breathe and settle his dick down while they rummage through the mess and grab the net and its poles, plus the blow-up beach ball. He takes an extra few seconds after Shane slips out, steadying his heart and trying to ignore how the remnants of Shane’s come sits on his tastebuds. Half-hard will have to suffice, so he locks up the beach hut with fingers trembling from adrenaline and pure giddiness.

“Took you fuckin’ long enough!” Troy hollers as they return, their toes sinking into the warm sand as they tread across the dunes. Ilya watches in amusement as Shane’s legs wobble slightly.

“When we said go to the hut, we meant the one in this country,” Rose quips. 

“Fuck off,” Ilya retorts, smirking, “we were talking.” 

“You can talk and move your ass,” Svetlana says, smacking Ilya’s butt as he walks past, “at the same time.” 

“Ungrateful fuckers, all of you.”

Ilya makes sure to win the game of volleyball, not that anyone is really keeping score. Had he lost, the satisfaction of seeing Shane’s blush every time they meet eyes would have been enough of a win in itself. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

A storm rolls in mid-way through the summer with a vengeance. They’ve been far too lucky with the weather so far and are overdue. The sky darkens from grey to black with heavy clouds, weighed down until they can bear it no longer and burst all at once, showering the town with sheets of rain that lash against windows and beat against rooftops. Powerful gusts from far out at sea arrive on the shores and spare no mercy, buffeting the treetops and sending leaves and branches scattering into the streets, catching in gutters and drains. 

It’s far from unusual, an expected part of the season just as natural as the tide. Life carries on as normal for the most part, though the ocean is too choppy to surf and hiking in this weather would be pretty miserable, so things move indoors. 

Ilya’s sprawled out on Troy’s sofa, the noise of gunfire and explosions on the television almost drowning out the noise of the rain pelting down outside. Big, fat droplets bounce off the patio stones and turn them almost mirror-like, the cloudy sky reflected back on them. The plants in Troy’s garden are gleaming, green and lush and most certainly grateful for the well-needed drink. 

“Spawn-camping, mother-fucking, cock-sucking asshole!” 

Ilya laughs as Troy slams his controller down on the sofa and it bounces off the cushion and clatters to the floor. 

“No way he got you again,” Ilya says, eyes still fixed on the screen where his character is crouching behind a concrete blockade, peeking out and unleashing a spray of bullets as he smashes the buttons. 

“Find JohnCenasLeftTesticle and kill him,” Troy grumbles, “and then teabag his dead body.” 

Ilya does as instructed, stealing the guy’s gun for good measure. 

They throw in the towel once the round’s over, having already played for going on three hours. Troy throws a couple of pizzas in the oven and turns the TV over to re-runs, something to drone on in the background as they eat, pizzas warming their laps as they sit opposite each other on the couch. They chat about nothing and everything, a busted old fan oscillating in the corner and whirring away, chasing off the muggy heat. Despite the storm, it’s still seasonably warm and their clothes stick uncomfortably in the humidity. 

“I’m kinda jealous of Wyatt and the girls sometimes, you know?” Troy says. 

“Why?” Ilya asks around a mouthful of stuffed crust. 

“Going off to college, all that. I know I chose to stay, and I like the shop, but it’d feel good to go somewhere different for a while.” 

Ilya chews thoughtfully. 

“I mean,” Troy continues, “you know what I’m saying. You’ve been here just as long as I have, you haven’t thought about leaving once?” 

“Yeah,” Ilya says after a while. “I’ve thought about it, sure. But I don’t think I could. It’s… home.” 

He fiddles with the cross around his neck, laying beneath the string of seashells. The town isn’t just home, it’s the place where his childhood house stands, the home he’d grown up in with his mother. The place where his childhood pets are buried out in somebody’s backyard, the place where his mother’s ashes are scattered. He’d taken his first steps on the driveway outside his neighbour’s house, rode his first wave on these shores, kissed his first love over the booth table of the Surf ‘n Turf restaurant. Well, first childhood love. Ilya’s not sure he’s ever felt real love. 

He’d had his first fight with his mother in the parking lot of the town’s grocery store when he was fourteen and had stayed out far beyond his curfew, loitering around with Troy and Wyatt and some other friends from school, smoking cigarettes and drinking a bottle of white rum they’d persuaded someone’s older sister to buy them. Ilya remembers, even now, how the headlights of her car had swung into the empty lot and caught them all in their dazzling beams, like helpless deer in the path of an oncoming semi. She’d stepped out in a flurry of wild blonde hair and swishing skirts, her sandals smacking against the tarmac as she stomped over to Ilya, his friends already high-tailing in the opposite direction. 

The smack around his head had been expected, and it had rung in his ears for days after. He’d shouted, she’d shouted louder, and they both drove home in silence. The following morning, she’d sat with him as he vomited over the toilet, smoothing his hair off his forehead and rubbing his back. Afterwards, they went out for pancakes. 

How could he ever leave all that behind? So many memories, so many pieces of him scattered throughout this town. 

“Don’t you wanna explore the world more? Get out there?” Troy pushes, flicking crumbs from his fingers. “I hear Europe’s nice.”

Ilya smiles. “A vacation couldn’t hurt.” 

“We should go to Amsterdam, smoke weed in some coffeeshop somewhere, it’d be sick.” 

“Can’t we do that now?” 

“Legally,” Troy says. “Get high, walk around the Red Light District.” He waggles his eyebrows. 

Ilya scoffs, setting his empty plate down on the floor. Weed and coffee sounds much more appealing than walking through streets lined with scantily-clad people in windows like cattle thrust up for auction. “I thought you were dating some chick, what happened to that, huh?” 

“We broke up, man, I swear I told you.” 

He may have, though Ilya can name a number of reasons why he may have been distracted. One beginning with ‘S’ and ending with ‘hane’. He doesn’t admit that, though. 

“Well, plenty more mermaids in the sea, or whatever the fuck,” he says, waving a hand noncommittally. “Don’t need to go to Amsterdam for that.” 

Troy sits up, pizza crusts falling into his lap and over the sofa cushions. “See, man, this is the issue. How’re we ‘sposed to meet anyone if we’re always stuck in the same place, huh?”

The thought hadn’t really occurred to Ilya until his friends left for college the year prior. Until that point, he’d been perfectly happy with the couple of short flings he’d had, mostly just enjoying the company of his friends and the familiar embrace of the waves. It only really became a talking point when Wyatt had spent way too long speculating about how many girls he’d hook up with in his first year. And they’d all grown tired of that conversation rather quickly. 

Anyway, Svetlana and Rose had found each other in this town. Ilya says as much. 

“Okay, one example. High school sweethearts. You got anyone from high school on your radar, Roz?” When Ilya doesn’t answer, he continues. “Exactly. You already know everyone here, and we hardly ever get new blood coming around.”

Ilya knows, very well, the exception to that. 

And Troy realises it too a second later, because he says, “Other than Shane, I guess. But that’s fucking rare, dude.” 

Rare indeed. Like hanging a perfect ten, or looking down in the middle of cruising a wave to find a dolphin riding alongside his board, Shane’s appearance in Ilya’s life had been exhilarating. New faces aren’t uncommon, but new blood, the kind that lingers for longer than a session or two in the surf, that’s unique. Something to be noticed, and Ilya couldn’t help but notice Shane. Notice and… want. More than anything he’s wanted in a long time. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The bell over the door of the shop jingles, hinges creaking as someone pushes inside. Ilya looks up from the shelf he’s stocking with aloe and burn balm. 

“Sorry, we’re closed.” 

Shane jumps, twisting around to see Ilya smirking in the middle of the aisle. “Fuck! Don’t do that.” His body relaxes and a smile stretches across his face. “And you’re not even closed, asshole.” 

Ilya shrugs. “Fine, we’ll open just for you, I guess.” 

Shane rolls his eyes and starts browsing the shelves aimlessly, picking up boxes of wax and putting them back, spinning the sunglass stand, admiring the postcards on display. He’s stalling, Ilya knows, but he kind of wants to see how long they can both pretend that he isn’t. So, Ilya goes back to stocking the shelf, watching Shane out the corner of his eye with a smile. 

“Storm last week was pretty crazy, huh?” 

He can’t help it. He laughs. 

“What?” Shane asks indignantly, his voice breaking a little and making Ilya snicker even harder. 

“You wanna talk about the weather?” 

Ilya pauses to fix him with a look over the top of the shelf. The tips of Shane’s ears are red. It’s so fucking cute that his teeth hurt. 

“Come on,” he says, abandoning the aloe and walking off towards the back of the shop, hearing the slap of Shane’s flipflops across the floor and knowing that he’s following. So much for pretending.

The storeroom is cramped and quiet, so the sound of Ilya shoving Shane up against the door and kissing him makes a good amount of noise. Their hands scrabble at each other’s waists, hips, hair, wandering all over and getting a feel anywhere and everywhere. They laugh, breathless, into each other’s mouths, both taking turns to slip their tongue between the other’s lips as they make out, messy and hot and playful. 

It’s a good thing neither Bood nor Troy are on shift today, because the sounds slipping under the door and into the shop would definitely raise suspicion. 

“Shit, Ilya,” Shane moans, as Ilya’s tongue laves over the pulse point on his throat, sucking and nipping at his skin. Ilya’s got his hand up under his jaw, pushing his head back for more access. 

“Missed you,” Ilya mumbles into his neck. 

“Me too– fuck – that’s why I came. Wanted to ask you something.”

Ilya pulls back and licks his lips free of saliva. There’s definitely going to be a little bruise beneath Shane’s ear later, but he doesn’t feel too sorry about it. 

“Ask me what?” 

Shane wriggles under Ilya’s hands skimming up and down his waist and dipping down the small of his back to grab his ass.

“I wanna pay you back. For last week,” he says, looking a little bashful. 

Ilya plays coy, tapping his chin with his index finger and pouting his lips. “Hmm… last week…” 

He lets out a little surprised puff when Shane shoves him gently. “If it wasn’t that memorable, I guess never mind, then…” he says, making to slide out of Ilya’s grip. 

“No, no, okay,” Ilya nearly whines, grabbing at his waist and holding him in place. Shane smirks, knowing he’s got what he wanted. “Fuck, yes, please pay me back.” 

“Careful, I’d almost think you’re begging.”

Ilya grumbles, leaning in to press a hot kiss to Shane’s jaw that has him shutting up. “Come over tonight?” 

A time is set, and after a lot more kissing and fooling around, Shane’s leaving the way he came in. After, Ilya catches sight of himself in the mirror of the sunglass rack, smiling like an idiot. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It’s another humid night, the doors to Ilya’s tiny balcony swung wide open and letting the warm air circulate through his apartment. The breeze smells like salt and the sweet florals of the hibiscus bushes. There’s just enough room on the balcony for two beanbags, which is currently where Ilya and Shane are slumped, nursing beers and stargazing. 

“Big Dipper, right?” Shane says, head tilted up and arm outstretched, index finger tracing a line of stars above them. 

“Yeah,” Ilya replies. “You can actually see all of Ursa Major, right there. It’s clear tonight.” 

Shane’s eyebrows crease. “Ursa Major?” 

“The Big Dipper’s just a part of Ursa Major, it makes up the back legs of the bear,” he explains, then continues when Shane’s confusion doesn’t clear, “Ursa Major means Great Bear. You can kind of see it, there.” Ilya leans closer to Shane so that when he traces the constellation, he can do so from Shane’s perspective, pointing out the faint twinkling lights. 

“Oh,” Shane breathes, “yeah, I can see it.” 

Ilya sits back, pleased with himself. He takes another sip of beer. 

“How d’you know so much about stars and shit anyway?” Shane asks, tilting his head to look over. His eyes twinkle in the light spilling out from Ilya’s living room. 

There’s a twinge in Ilya’s chest. “My mom used to love it. We’d sit on the beach or up on the hill at night and she’d point them all out to me. I used to say that she was the Great Bear, actually,” he says, the memory making him smile around the glass bottle at his lips. “She always reminded me of one. So fierce and protective of me.” 

“Yeah, bears are pretty fuckin’ scary.” 

“She wasn’t scary. She was the sweetest woman you’d ever meet, so long as you didn’t get on her bad side,” Ilya chuckles. 

“Is she…?” Shane trails off. 

“Dead? Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” 

They sit in the quiet for a while, Shane’s hand finding Ilya’s across the gap between them and linking their fingers. His thumb rubs circles over Ilya’s knuckles, and Ilya turns their hands over to draw patterns on Shane’s palm. Off in the trees, a bird calls and sets off a chorus of birdsong, all hooting and chattering to each other in the canopy. 

“I gotta piss,” Shane says, empty beer bottle at his feet as he heaves himself up and out of the bean bag and disappears into Ilya’s apartment to find the bathroom. 

Ilya collects their bottles and deposits them in the sink inside, leaving the balcony doors open to let the air in, ruffling the curtains as it does. 

By the time Shane comes back, Ilya’s on the sofa with a ratty old blanket strewn over his shoulders, the TV on low and playing a movie. He pats the couch next to him, and Shane plops down in the space that he makes under his arm, throwing the blanket around both of them. 

For a long while, they simply cuddle. Ilya can feel the soft rise and fall of Shane’s shoulders, the warm weight of his arm that’s slung across Ilya’s hips, his head resting on Ilya’s chest. Unable to help himself, Ilya cards his fingers through the lengths of Shane’s hair, for once silky and free of tangles from the wind and surf. As he does so, Shane hums contentedly, a gentle noise in the back of his throat. 

It doesn’t take long for things to turn into more. Shane’s head nuzzles closer, and as it does his lips find Ilya’s neck, pressing firm kisses along the column of his throat. Ilya’s eyes flutter shut. Shane moves lower, lips leading him south to the hollow of Ilya’s throat, over the top of his T-shirt to mouth at his chest, his tongue and teeth finding one of Ilya’s nipples and grazing it ever so slightly in a way that makes him hiss. He continues down, body adjusting against the sofa as he does so, turning over to his stomach so that his mouth can reach Ilya’s stomach. His fingers find the hem of Ilya’s shirt and he moves it out the way so that he can get to his skin, and Ilya moans softly when his lips come into contact. 

Ilya lets him mouth there for a while, stroking his hair and delighting in the breathy noises he’s making, his dick swelling with each flicker of Shane’s tongue on his skin. When he ends up moving even further and pressing the full length of his tongue over the bulge in Ilya’s shorts, Ilya groans and lets his head loll against the back of the couch. 

“Feels good,” he sighs.

“Haven’t started yet,” Shane mumbles, and Ilya’s caught between a chuckle and a moan at the feeling of his voice vibrating directly against his dick. 

He pulls Shane’s head up by the hair to kiss him sloppily. It makes him gasp a little at the tugging on his scalp, but it dissolves into a whimper when Ilya licks into his mouth. Ilya’s other hand moves down to yank his own shorts off, shoving them to his knees and kicking them off the rest of the way. 

He grabs his cock and pumps, once, groaning into Shane’s mouth at the friction. Shane looks down and his eyes go a little wide at the sight, his mouth falling open slightly. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

He scooches back down the couch, knees pressed into the cushions, until his mouth is hovering over Ilya’s cockhead. Ilya releases himself and lets Shane take over. The rough palm of his hand encircles Ilya’s length and gives it a few cursory strokes, teasing out a bead of pre-come and then smearing it over his slit with his thumb.

“Mm, shit,” Ilya hisses, cock twitching as heat floods his stomach and into the base. 

Shane doesn’t waste time teasing like Ilya had in the beach hut, instead giving just one, long lick to the underside and curling his tongue beneath the frenulum before opening his jaw and sucking Ilya all the way down. 

Ilya nearly arches off the couch, eyes rolling back in his head as he fists a hand in the back of Shane’s shirt. 

“Oh my– mm,” he cuts himself off with a deep moan when Shane swallows around him, his tongue and cheeks flexing around his cock, the silky smoothness of his mouth like fucking up into velvet.

Shane makes the best of the awkward angle, bobbing his head up and down over Ilya’s lap as much as he can, but after a moment he pulls off and rolls his neck. 

“Lay that way,” he says, gesturing to the end of the couch and shuffling out the way to make room. Ilya is more than happy to oblige, letting the blanket fall off his shoulders as he turns so that his head can rest against the arm of the sofa and his legs can stretch out across its length, with Shane coming to settle between them.

“Better?” Ilya asks, now very much enjoying the view of Shane between his legs, elbows braced against Ilya’s thighs and his ass up in the air. 

In lieu of a reply, Shane just takes his cock back in his hand and wraps his lips back around him, sinking down over every inch. 

Ilya’s received blowjobs before, but they all pale in comparison to the way Shane sucks dick. Eager, almost desperate, needy for it. It’s not just sucking cock for him, it’s a challenge, like flying down the face of a fifteen-footer and trying not to go ass over head into the water. And Shane sucks dick like he surfs: like a pro. 

 “So fucking good, Shane,” he groans, lets him know. He deserves to know. 

Shane moans around him, pace increasing. Ilya feels his other hand come up between his thighs and take his balls into his palm, rolling them around, squeezing them just enough to have Ilya’s vision going fuzzy at the edges. He does his best to look down, to keep his eyes fixed on Shane, because this view is one that he never wants to forget. Swollen lips working over his cock, long eyelashes quivering against his cheeks, spit spilling out the corners of his mouth. 

It’s when he sees Shane’s hips rocking against the sofa, realising that he’s rubbing himself off on the cushions and getting off on sucking his cock, that Ilya comes. The air punches its way out of his gut and comes out of his mouth in a garbled sound, his fingers twitching in Shane’s hair as he unloads in his mouth. It must catch Shane off guard, because while he does his best to swallow, Ilya feels a hot dribble of come escape Shane’s lips and drip down his cock and over his balls. 

“Sorry, fuck,” he pants, “holy shit.” He drags his knuckles against Shane’s cheeks, which are still hollowed and vacuum sealed around his now sensitive dick. “Are you okay?” 

Shane swallows once more before he pulls off, giving one last lick to Ilya’s slit and making him convulse. “M’okay,” he says, voice thick. He’s smiling, looking at Ilya with a blissed-out expression, and that’s enough reassurance. 

Ilya takes a moment to recover, heartbeat thumping against his ribs. Shane runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his face, his hairline damp from exertion. 

“C’mere.” Ilya motions to him, beckons him up onto his lap where his cock is now softening. “Shorts off.”

Shane complies without a word, though the command makes the redness in his already-flushed cheeks darken a little. He shucks his pants all the way off, then climbs up over Ilya’s shins and takes a seat on the tops of his thighs. In the low light of the TV and the lamp in the corner of Ilya’s living room, his naked body glows. The sheen of sweat on his skin makes it even more so, the lines of his stomach and his chest, his arms, his thighs, his cock… all more pronounced and beautiful. 

Ilya cups a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him forward into a lazy kiss, Shane’s hand coming to his chest to support himself from falling onto him fully. His body is still thrumming in the comedown from his orgasm, and the feeling of Shane’s body pressed up against him would almost be enough to get him going again if his refractory period allowed it. He breaks the kiss, just for a second, to reach his other hand up and spit into his palm. Shane’s eyes darken at the sight, then flutter shut when Ilya takes his cock in his hand and starts to work his fist over his length. 

They make out as Ilya jerks him off, the kiss getting more and more erratic as Shane loses himself, hips rutting up and fucking himself into the wet heat of Ilya’s hand, until they’re no longer really kissing but more just panting into each other’s mouths. 

“Gonna come for me?” Ilya purrs against Shane’s lips.

“Yes, shit, fuck, yes,” Shane whines, spilling over Ilya’s fingers with a shudder. Ilya works him through it, using the slickness of his come as more lubrication, and the movement of his fist makes it splatter onto his chest, some of it landing on his throat. Shane hums and whimpers against Ilya’s temple where he’s slumped over, riding out his orgasm until he’s spent and can’t hold himself up any longer. 

They lay there for a while, sweat and come cooling between them, breath intermingling. Eventually, Ilya manages to get his hand out from underneath Shane’s body to locate the blanket, wiping the remains of come over it without caring too much. Throwing it over them both, he settles back into the couch and adjusts under Shane’s weight, wrapping his arms around his waist. 

By the sound of Shane’s breathing, he’s already knocked out. Ilya, blissfully content and basking in his warmth, follows shortly after. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“So, what’s going on with you two?” 

The question comes from Svetlana, joint poised between her two fingers daintily, the smoking end pointed between Shane and Ilya. 

Sun beating down, wind rolling in from the hillsides and down towards the beach, spotless blue skies: the day is perfect. Svetlana’s camper van is parked up at the edge of the dirt lot above the beach, side door all the way open to let the breeze in. Shane, Ilya and Rose are sitting on the edge of the bed inside the van, legs hanging out the door and swinging their feet. The rest are lounging in fold out chairs around a little plastic table from the van, playing cards scattered on top along with cans of soda, a grinder, rolling papers and remnants of green. 

The rack on the roof of the camper is laden with their boards, wax and water droplets drying in the heat. The morning session had been a great one, party waves galore and a few funny wipeouts. They’d been planning dinner this evening, maybe a few drinks at The Dizzy Turtle, when Svetlana had piped up all of a sudden. 

Bood shoos away a gull that comes pecking around for food, then takes the joint from Svetlana. “Yeah, something you wanna share with the group, huh?”

“Wait, did I miss something?” Wyatt butts in. “What’s going on?”  

Ilya laughs and goes to retort, but Shane beats him to it. 

“What is this, the joint of 21 fucking questions?” 

That sets off a ripple of laughter, Bood coughing on his toke and nearly dropping the joint on its way to Wyatt’s fingers. Ilya throws an arm around Shane’s bare shoulders, grinning ear to ear because he can’t quite believe how comfortable the other has become in his friends’ company, slotting in amongst them like he’s filling a space that was always there for him. 

“Yeah, fuck, what’s with the third degree?” he jibes. His fingers absently run circles around the curve of Shane’s shoulder, not really thinking about it. 

“We’re just saying,” Rose pipes up, taking her turn with the joint and blowing smoke out of her nose, “that we’ve noticed some things. Sveta and I have noticed.” 

Troy splutters indignantly. “Uh, fucking, hello? Was I not the one who brought this up, like, weeks ago?” 

Ilya glances down at Shane, gauging his expression, which he finds to be one of shy amusement. The apples of his cheeks, right beneath the densest smattering of his freckles, are tinged red from the UV rays, but it could also be a little of something else, too. Shane relaxes under his touch, thighs bumping together on the bed and little tingles coursing through Ilya’s skin at the contact. 

“Oh my god, look, it’s so obvious,” Svetlana says, throwing her hands up in exasperation and motioning in their direction. 

Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s just the culmination of a perfect day in perfect company, but Ilya’s heart is thrumming in his chest and near fit to burst, and when Shane meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow as if to say, ‘Are we so obvious?’, Ilya can’t help it. He pulls Shane to his chest and plants a fat kiss on the crown of his head.

“Fine, fuck, happy now?” he says, unable to stop grinning. 

Shane shoves him a little and wriggles free of his grip, but he’s grinning just as big. He interlocks his fingers with Ilya’s, palms pressed together on the cotton sheet beneath them. 

There’s a chorus of aww’s, some genuine and some sarcastic, and then, of course, a whole lot of teasing and just as many questions. Ilya keeps Shane’s hand firmly pressed against his throughout it all, even when his palms start to get clammy, even when his fingers start to ache, even when they eventually start to pack up for the day and head off to shower and get ready for dinner. They do, at some point, have to separate. Much to Ilya’s annoyance. 

But under the dinner table, over the bar, across the bench, walking home, falling through Ilya’s front door, stumbling into bed – Ilya’s fingers find Shane’s at every possible moment. They fall asleep together that night in Ilya’s bed, Ilya’s hand covering Shane’s covering his heart. And when they wake, Ilya reaches across the sheets and finds his fingers again. And again. And again. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Two months, measured in empty bottles of sunscreen and beer, chunks of worn-down board wax, tan lines and freckles. In two months, Shane has had the summer he’s dreamt of since he was a kid staring out a plane window, watching the crystal waters and white sands of his home country disappear beneath the clouds. 

Much like the summers of his childhood, when the world was shrunk down to the distance between his doorstep and the beach, and time was just something people passed, not fretted over or watched like a hawk, these summer days have felt much the same – elongated, weightless, endless. As if contained in a bubble of sunny skies and warm nights that will never pop. It will, of course, he knows. Reality always sneaks up eventually, unannounced and unwelcome. Though, for now, it remains a distant worry. A clap of thunder, a flash of lightning far out at sea. The waters are still and the sky is clear. 

He has his parents to thank, he supposes, for the unexpected gift that came out of their move. His parents who, for the past two months, have seen mere glimpses of him, like a ghost haunting their new home rather than a son home from college. They don’t seem to mind too much, though, thankfully. They’re just pleased he has friends. A new crowd to run with rather than skirt on the edges of, like he did as a kid. Even before he moved countries and had to learn a whole new language and start at a new school and make new acquaintances, Shane had struggled with the whole ‘friends’ thing. Whatever the opposite of a social butterfly is, that had been Shane for most of his younger years. 

His parents sometimes see him over breakfast, if he isn’t waking up in Ilya’s apartment or on the floor of whoever’s house they’d all piled into the night before. One time, he’d even woken up on the beach after a particularly long night at the beach bar, water lapping at his ankles as the tide came in and the pale yellow morning light seeping through the clouds and stinging his eyes. Still, his parents are more than happy to see him in passing. They ask how his day was, how the surf is. Sometimes, they’ll fill him in on their own friends back home.

“You remember Hayden, don’t you sweetie?” Yuna asks. 

Shane hums and nods around a mouthful of granola. 

“His mom tells me he made his college hockey team. He might even go pro. You two used to be so close, it’s a shame you didn’t stay in touch.”

They ask about Shane’s new friends, and Shane fills them in on everything. Nearly everything. He conveniently leaves out the parts about his and Ilya’s… friendship. One morning, he feels eyes on his neck over the breakfast bar from where his father has obviously spotted the now-yellowing hickey that Ilya left on his neck. Mercifully, he says nothing. Shane’s grateful, now more than ever, that his father is a man of few words, much like Shane himself in many ways.

Though, in saying that, over the summer Shane has found himself coming out of his shell. It’s as if he’s been an oyster his whole life, closed up tight and unyielding, though under enough pressure and prying, he may open up. But now, in the company of Ilya and his friends, Shane’s discovered the ability to relax, let loose, and in turn has been opening up more and more without even realising it. A shining bright pearl at his centre, now gleaming in the light of day. A pearl 19 years in the making. Definitely worth the wait. 

And wait he has. Though Shane’s not even sure what it is, exactly, that he’s been waiting for. But since that first night at The Dizzy Turtle, with the light of the tiki torches reflecting back in Ilya’s eyes and setting them all aglow, his dumb Hawaiian shirt flapping in the breeze, Shane’s been sure that he’s found it. Whatever it is. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Clear the splash zone!” 

…is all the warning they get before Wyatt cannonballs into the pool and sends an almighty spray of water all over the sun loungers. 

“I just got fucking dry, Hazy!” Rose takes off her sunnies and blinks water out of her lashes. 

Bood’s house is far nicer than the cramped little apartment Shane had imagined him having, based on his experience of Ilya’s place. Which leaves him wondering why the hell they don’t hang out here more, out on his back deck with a pretty sweet swimming pool at the end of it. Though, given the way Wyatt is currently splashing around like an over-excited dog in a paddling pool, Shane imagines it’s probably best in measured doses. 

The afternoon is spent drinking and enjoying Bood’s eclectic playlist thumping out the speakers of his DJ set, one he’d bought years ago during a phase. They alternate between lounging around and bouncing a ball back and forth in the pool, which Svetlana very kindly tosses back to them every time it goes wide. She refuses to get in the water because the chemicals in the chlorine dry out her hair, or so she says. 

As the sun dips below the trees and the air starts to cool, they take the party inside. 

They’re sitting around Bood’s coffee table, empty takeout boxes scattered across the floor and quite a few too many drinks deep, when someone suggests a game of spin the bottle. 

“With a twist, though, I’m not kissing any of you for free like that.” 

So, they huddle in. Ilya scoots up next to Shane, their arms brushing together as Ilya’s hand trails down and finds Shane’s fingers, taking them in his and rubbing his thumb along the backs of Shane’s knuckles. Shane looks up at him through slightly glassy eyes and smiles, unable to help himself. Ilya smiles right back, though there’s something else in his expression that follows, something a little more intense and… hungry, perhaps.

“Alright,” Troy says, “host gets the honours first.” 

Bood groans, but leans forward and spins the empty Corona anyway. It completes a few rotations before wobbling to a stop, pointed right at Ilya. 

“Oh, fuckin’ brilliant,” he sighs. 

Ilya smirks and puckers his lips. “C’mere sexy.” 

“Gimme the damn question.” 

The twist of the game, Shane had found out, is that whoever spins the bottle has to answer a question truthfully or kiss the person it lands on. 

Rose clears her throat, grinning. “Who’s the last person you slept in the same bed with?” 

“Oh, easy,” Bood snorts, “Troy.” 

Wyatt groans. “Aw, c’mon, Rose! You think Bood’s got some side piece he’s banging or something? His dick hasn’t seen anything other than the inside of his fist for like ten years.” 

“You’re assuming they slept in the same bed platonically,” Ilya chimes in. 

“Had to turn him down, he was so devastated,” Troy says. 

“Fuck off.”

The bottle spins again, and Svetlana’s turn lands on Ilya, so Wyatt pipes up this time. 

“Alright, last person you thought of while you masturbated that isn’t Rose, go!” 

Shane claps a hand over his mouth as he grins, the other guys following with whistles of disbelief and hoots of laughter. Svetlana’s mouth drops open and her face goes red.

“Oh my fucking god, no, I can’t say that!” she squeals.

Rose raises her eyebrows at her. “Seriously?”

Svetlana leans over the table and pecks Ilya on the lips, light and fast, before hiding her face in her hands to avoid looking at Rose. 

“Christ, Hazy, you’re putting people in the doghouse tonight,” Bood laughs.

Troy ends up kissing Wyatt to avoid answering what his weirdest kink is, and Rose’s turn conveniently lands on Svetlana, who she kisses without even waiting for the question, clearly having forgiven her already. Ilya’s lands on Bood, who he jokes about kissing but then answers that he has, in fact, jerked off at work, which earns him a round of disgusted noises that he just grins proudly at. 

“Nature calls, I answer.” 

“Pretty sure that’s for when you need to piss, Roz,” Wyatt sighs. 

Then, it’s Shane’s turn. 

The bottle makes three lazy turns before slowly inching to a stop, the neck pointing very obviously and very deliberately right in the middle of Ilya’s chest. Shane feels his cheeks warm. 

“Well, well, well,” Svetlana sings. 

Ilya looks between the bottle and Shane, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

“So, Shane,” Troy says pointedly whilst pretending to look thoughtful. “How about you tell me… what time you woke up this morning?” 

Shane huffs out a laugh. It’s the easiest question in the world, and Troy knows it, knows what he’s doing. ‘Ten thirty, give or take’, he could say and be done with it. Pass his turn over to the next person and keep the game going. Anyone else would. But he’s not anyone else, and the bottle isn’t pointing at just anyone, either. 

He twists around, hand finding the front of Ilya’s T-shirt, and pulls him down into a kiss. 

The group cheers, and Ilya flips them off with one hand while the other comes to cup the back of Shane’s neck. He just about gets his tongue in Shane’s mouth before everyone is protesting. 

“Alright, alright, that’s enough!” Wyatt complains.

“Do not make me regret giving you two a room,” Bood groans.

“Is it wrong if I thought it was kind of hot?” says Rose. 

Potential regrets notwithstanding, Bood gives the two of them one of the guest bedrooms on the first floor. Svetlana and Rose get the other, so Troy and Wyatt make themselves comfortable in the living room, and Bood disappears up to his own room when the night starts to wind down. 

They strip down to their boxers and lay side by side in the quiet, enjoying the peace of each other’s company for a while. Shane’s on his stomach, head pillowed on his forearms. Ilya’s on his back, skimming his fingers up and down the deep hollow of Shane’s spine. 

A pleasant buzz still lingers between Ilya’s ears, tipsy from the drinks and the feeling of Shane’s lips on his at the coffee table. When he’d pulled away, cheeks ruddy, Ilya had seen stars in his eyes. Far brighter and captivating than any constellation he could pick out in the night sky. In the deep, dark expanse of Shane’s irises, Ilya had seen a whole universe. 

Next to him, the pillows rustle as Shane adjusts to come lay on his chest, the warmth of his cheek seeping into Ilya’s skin. He fiddles with the necklace sitting in the hollow of Ilya’s throat, the one he’d made, and the shells jostle together with a soft, pleasant sound that reminds Ilya of the ocean at low tide. From this angle, Ilya can see the full pout of Shane’s mouth, the fullness of his bottom lip that’s a deep pink and so tempting. He wants to kiss him again, properly this time, away from his friends so that he can take his time, savour every curve of his mouth, the way he tastes. He swallows, greedily. 

He runs a knuckle under the strong line of Shane’s jaw, the tiniest prickle of stubble brushing against his skin, then hooks the finger under his chin and tilts his head up, leaning down to meet him in the middle. 

The kiss deepens straight away, their lips dragging against each other in slow, languid motions. Ilya curls his tongue into Shane’s mouth and chases more of that taste he’s been craving, settling on his tastebuds and driving him wild with desire. Shane crawls up his chest and swings a leg over Ilya’s hips to straddle him, their mouths never once coming apart, and Ilya responds by grabbing a hold of his waist. His body, firm and solid on Ilya’s, makes his head spin. 

Shane sucks on Ilya’s bottom lip, rolls his tongue over it and into Ilya’s mouth, and Ilya can feel the desperation bubbling up in him steadily, like a cresting wave threatening to come crashing down all at once and submerge them both. His hands are curling into Ilya’s hair and tugging him impossibly closer, hips rocking in Ilya’s lap and coaxing his cock to full hardness, Ilya panting into his mouth as he does so. 

Ilya’s hands slip to the meat of Shane’s hips and ass, indulging in the feeling of his fingers sinking into the soft flesh and finding the hard muscle beneath it. He slides his palms up, over his abs, then makes a wide arc over the swell of his chest, thumbing at his nipples. Shane moans. Hot and heavy into Ilya’s mouth, and Ilya sucks the noise straight from his tongue. 

The kiss is broken at last when Shane whines again, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s and screwing his eyes up tight as Ilya continues brushing his thumbs over the hardened buds. His hips jerk weakly and then speed up, and Ilya can see the swollen length of his cock in his boxers, a dark wet patch staining the front of the fabric. 

Ilya looks up at him in awe. “You like that?” 

“S– sensitive,” Shane moans, voice breaking on the word as Ilya pinches a nipple between his fingers. 

Ilya lets up and instead cups the back of his neck, angling him aside so that he can lick a long stripe up Shane’s throat. He follows it up with a line of kisses, lazy and lingering on the parts of Shane’s neck that make him shiver. 

Nudging Shane’s hip, he gets him to turn over so that he has free reign and easy access to resume kissing down his neck, mouthing over his collarbones and all the way to the tips of his shoulders, over his chest until he reaches his nipples. He sucks one between his lips, flicking over it with the tip of his tongue. Shane stutters over a moan, his back arching. His fingernails dig into the muscles of Ilya’s shoulders and back, and Ilya groans at the sweet sting it leaves behind. It will probably leave marks, perfect little crescents and red welts that everyone will see tomorrow at the beach. He revels in the idea. 

Shane’s hips rock upwards, and Ilya feels his cock press against his stomach, the fabric of his boxers cool and wet with how much he’s leaking. 

He shuffles lower, kissing all the way down Shane’s stomach and nuzzling into the hair beneath his bellybutton. He licks and nips at his hipbones. Kisses the insides of his thighs. Shane is practically quivering when Ilya finally gets to his bulge, gasping when Ilya mouths and sucks him through the material. His bottom lip gets clamped between his teeth to stop himself from making too much noise, but his muscles are straining and his hips are twitching involuntarily, and Ilya can’t help but feel a little guilty.

Shane doesn’t even open his mouth to beg, to plead Ilya for more, to speed up. Just allows Ilya to have his way with him while he tries his best not to fall apart. And the thought of that makes Ilya’s cock throb between his legs. 

Shane’s boxers come off very quickly after that, discarded somewhere on the floor. Ilya pulls his leg up, hoisting Shane’s knee onto his shoulder so that he has better access to flatten his tongue to the base of his cock, sliding it down over his balls and between his cheeks. The second Ilya’s tongue circles his rim, Shane is swearing a litany of pretty curse words. His hole clenches and his cock jumps, dribbling pre-come all over his stomach. 

Ilya massages his balls as he works him open on his tongue, relishing the sounds that spill from Shane’s pretty lips and get caught in his fist as he tries to subdue them. When his asshole is slick and dripping with Ilya’s spit, he accepts two fingers easily alongside Ilya’s tongue, whimpering and mewling as Ilya thrusts them into him shallowly. 

Ilya only stops and pulls away when Shane’s hand flies down and squeezes the base of his cock, hard. 

“Close?”

“Yes, fuck,” he says, breathless. 

Ilya drags the back of his hand across his chin. “Can I fuck you?”

Shane whines. “Please.” 

With a shudder of pleasure at Shane’s sheer neediness, Ilya spits into his palm and slicks himself up. He settles between Shane’s thighs and guides his cock, steadily, into the tight warmth of Shane’s body. He can’t help but groan, a deep and guttural sound, head lolling back at just how deliciously good Shane feels. It’s been a long time since he felt the squeeze of something around his dick that wasn’t his own fist, and it takes everything he has not to come when Shane clenches around him. 

They take it slow, stopping every time Shane winces a little, Ilya just rocking into him shallowly as he adjusts to the stretch. It continues like that until Ilya’s buried all the way in, his balls resting against the swell of Shane’s ass. He leans forward, careful not to jostle too much, bringing his hands either side of Shane’s head and bending down to kiss him sloppily. A reward for taking it so well. So perfectly. 

His thrusts start gentle, soon speeding up when Shane urges him on, his knees coming up and his hands wrapping around Ilya’s neck. In no time, the room is filled with hushed panting and the slap of skin on skin. 

Ilya feels drunk. Looking at Shane, the way the moonlight spills in from the window and glows across his tanned body, the way his cock bounces and slaps against his stomach with every thrust. The way his eyelashes flutter and his eyes roll back in his head every time Ilya grazes a spot inside of him that sets him alight. It’s art, as beautiful as any sunset or sunrise that Ilya’s ever seen. 

“M’gonna come,” Shane mewls, his hand pumping over himself between their bodies. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Ilya watches, mesmerised, as he comes, dribbling from the tip at first and then shooting in ropes all over his chest, his swollen nipples. Heat floods into the base of Ilya’s cock and he falls forward on his elbows, jackhammering into Shane as he rides out his orgasm, pressing messy kisses to his forehead. His skin is damp and salty with sweat, and Ilya can’t help but flick his tongue out and taste it, sea foam and starlight intermingling in his mind as his own climax crashes over him. 

He shudders, spilling deep inside Shane with a moan, fucking his come into him with the last of his strength. He’s lightheaded, skin blazing. His arms nearly give out as he gradually comes down, Shane’s fingertips brushing up and down his back and making him shiver in the aftershocks. 

“Holy fuck,” he rasps. 

Shane tilts his head on the pillows and kisses the inside of Ilya’s wrist. Right over his thrumming pulse, his heartbeat galloping to the rhythm of ShaneShaneShaneShane. Ilya’s heart lurches into his throat. 

In the residual heat of the room, thick with sweat and sex and balmy sea air, they cuddle up under the blankets, legs tangled. Shane is back to resting on Ilya’s chest, ear pressed over his heart which has now settled into a steady beat, and Ilya is tracing the thick line of the scar on his shoulder. 

“How’d you get this?” he asks. 

“I fell off my board as a kid,” Shane says, quietly. “Missed my duck dive and got swept up, rag dolled under the surface for a good while. Got scraped up bad on some coral. I bled so much, the surf was so red and gnarly looking.”

Ilya hisses at the phantom pain that twinges in his own shoulder at the thought. 

“I was under for a good minute, didn’t know up from down. I nearly drowned. By the time someone got me up and back to shore, my mom thought I was dead. She nearly made me quit then and there.” 

Ilya chuckles at that, but his fingers tighten around the swell of Shane’s bicep almost instinctively. There’s an odd feeling in his stomach at the image of Shane, pallid and bloodied, laid out on the sand and struggling to draw air into his lungs. Something bitter and uncomfortable twists in his gut and wedges there, making the need to pull Shane closer even stronger. It’s strange. 

“Every time I got back on the board after that, she’d be worried sick,” Shane continues, voice thick and sounding drowsy now. “But she came around eventually when she saw how much I loved it. I think she was proud that I didn’t let it hold me back, you know?” 

Like a poison-tipped arrow, the words spear Ilya straight through his ribs and into his heart, sending a familiar ache through him. It isn’t Shane’s fault; an archer he certainly is not. But, still, thoughts of his own mother come anyway, following the ache as they always do. His mother who had been the one to encourage him back out onto the waves with every fall, every setback. When Ilya had come to her with tears in his eyes, streaking down his cheeks and mingling with the salty seawater, she’d dry them with the hem of her skirt and kiss the tip of his nose and send him back out again. 

It had been a long time since he’d had the reassuring touch and soothing words of his mother to keep him going. Since she passed, it’s been the mere memory of her that keeps Ilya battling swell after swell, pulling himself up from murky depths until his head is breaking free of the surface tension and gasping for breath. He clings on, carries on, for her sake. Hard as it may be. 

“Your mom would be proud of you, too, I think.” 

Shane mumbles the words into Ilya’s chest just before he succumbs to sleep. 

It’s for the best, perhaps, that he isn’t awake to witness the soft hiccup that catches in Ilya’s throat, the way his eyes prickle and blur with unshed tears. A deep inhale, a shaky exhale, then a featherlight kiss pressed to the crown of Shane’s head. Ilya keeps his nose buried in Shane’s hair, breathing him in. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

The words are spoken against Shane’s scalp, but Ilya’s also looking to the heavens as they pass his lips. Thank you, mama. For bringing him to me. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

A few days later, Ilya packs his drawstring bag and meets Shane at a trailhead just at the edge of town. He kicks his skateboard up as he rolls around the corner, a crooked smile already growing on his face as he sees Shane waiting for him at the marker. He’s glowing in the afternoon sun, even more so when he spots Ilya and his face lights up.  

They hike up together, backs of their hands and fingers brushing as they walk, their breath coming in shorter puffs as their legs work to push them up the steeper sections. It’s cooler under the tree canopy, at least, until they reach the summit and the treeline thins out, revealing the flat terrain at the edge of the cliff. From the top, they have a stunning view of the craggy rocks and the ocean below. 

Shane spreads a couple of towels on the sparse grass, and Ilya empties out the contents of his bag on them, between their outstretched legs. A couple beers, kept cold by the ice pack that’s now mostly melted at the bottom, some sandwiches, a couple of tangerines he’d plucked out of the fruit bowl before he left. A simple lunch for two. 

They eat and talk while the breeze whips up off the cliffside and dries the sweat from their foreheads, the sun warming their skin. When their sandwiches are finished, Ilya peels both tangerines and feeds Shane a slice, his thumb pushing the segment between his lips and lingering there. The kiss that follows is sweet and citrusy. 

“I can’t believe it’s nearly September,” Shane muses, picking out grains of sand from the hairs on his bare legs. 

“Yeah, but it feels like this summer’s lasted forever,” Ilya says. 

“In a good way, though, right?”

Ilya turns to him and smiles. “Obviously.” 

“What’s gonna happen, after?” Shane asks, the question nearly lost in the wind with how softly he says it. 

The remains of the sandwich in Ilya’s stomach turns sour, lodged somewhere beneath his ribs and weighing heavy there. “You go back to college, don’t you?” 

Shane fidgets on the towel, fingers skimming along its surface and picking off stray bits of debris. He squints into the sun, eyes looking out to the long, unbroken line between the sea and sky. 

“Yeah. I mean, what happens… with us?” 

Ilya swallows, but the lump in his oesophagus stays put. His insides turn cold, despite the pleasant temperature of the air. It’s a loaded question, demanding an answer that Ilya hasn’t wanted to consider even in the quiet moments of solace in his apartment bedroom, staring up at the grey ceiling and the slow rotations of the fan, trying to block out the inevitable thoughts of what next? 

The summer has felt like a pocket in time just for the two of them, the elongated moment inside the glassy wall of a barrel where the seconds seem to slow and you can’t tell if you’ll make it out the other side or if the weight of the ocean will come down on your shoulders and take you under. Ilya knows they’re hurtling towards one of two possible outcomes, but for now he just wishes he could stay in the blissful in-between a little longer. 

There’s still another few weeks where they can pretend they aren’t about to be swallowed up and spat back out. The when and what if can come later, can’t it? 

“You leave, I stay. What else is there to say?” Ilya says with a shrug, wondering if the calculated coolness of his words reveals any hint of the way his chest cracks open and spills his heart into his lap. 

Shane doesn’t respond. His eyes stay fixed on the undulating movement of the ocean beneath them, its surface a mixture of deep blues and oranges in the sinking sunlight. The silence stretches on for a long time, broken only by the rustling of the palm leaves and the broken calls of seagulls circling the rocks below. The air suddenly feels cooler, and Ilya shivers. 

“I thought maybe we…” Shane begins, then trails off. “Never mind.” 

He brushes non-existent dirt from his shorts and stands up, his eyes fixed anywhere but Ilya. Still, Ilya catches the hard set of his brow, the clench of his jaw, the red rims of his eyelids that sparkle with wetness. Words dry up in his throat. 

“I should go. Dinner with my parents that I forgot about.” 

Ilya’s tongue feels like a dead weight in his mouth, hardened like a dried-up chunk of wax. His cracked lips press together in a stiff line. He nods.  

Shane sighs. “See you.” 

He disappears into the treeline and takes the sun with him. In the waning light, Ilya can only stare out at the sky and watch the wobbly edges of the flaming orb dip beyond the horizon and wink out. Extinguished. The only evidence that it existed remains in the pink-tipped clouds and the rapidly-evaporating warmth on his skin. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

He doesn’t see Shane for a long time after that. 

His texts go unanswered, and the urge to call on him at home is overpowered by the fear of seeing the red, glassiness of his eyes that has plagued Ilya’s nightmares ever since. 

He doesn’t come by the surf shop, doesn’t join them down on the beach and in the waves, doesn’t appear for drinks at the bar or a late-night barbecue at Wyatt’s. 

It’s like he’s amputated himself from Ilya in advance of their impending goodbyes, and now all Ilya is left with is a bloody, mangled stump that aches with the phantom pain of Shane in every step. 

His friends have noticed, of course they have. 

“You okay?” Svetlana asks him, bumping his shoulder with hers where they sit side-by-side on the rocks. 

The others are taking turns leaping off the weathered outcropping that juts out over the water, splashing down into the sea with loud jeers and laughter that echoes in Ilya’s ears. He doesn’t join in. 

His eyes refocus and he turns to Svetlana with a tight smile. “Yeah, thanks.” 

After several no-shows, they’d asked about Shane’s whereabouts. Ilya had told them he was sick, come down with some stomach bug that’s keeping him in bed. It was a poor excuse, though they’d believed it for some time. It was becoming less convincing with each passing day, however, Ilya becoming more and more withdrawn and sullen. 

“Whatever it is,” Svetlana says, pulling his hand into hers and pressing a kiss to the backs of his knuckles, “don’t let it pass.”

Ilya wonders if it’s already too late. He hasn’t seen Shane in nearly two weeks, and he knows his friends aren’t far off the start of their own semesters, due to leave by the end of the week to make the trip back to campus. 

He lays in bed at night with the ghost of Shane’s breath on his neck and the phantom warmth of his body at his side, the faint memory of tangerine and sunscreen on his lips. His stomach twists and wrenches, guilt tearing up his insides and making him choke on it. He replays their last conversation over and over in his head, a bystander to his own stupidity, his inability to utter a single word in the face of Shane’s hurt. It would have been very simple.

I like you. I want to be with you, whatever that looks like. Stay, please. 

Ilya isn’t religious, despite the crucifix he wears. It’s the last piece of his mother, the part of her that can’t be found in the breeze or the sunset or the stars. So, when he prays, he prays to her and her alone. 

You brought him to me, mama. If he’s meant to be mine, bring him back. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

When Ilya can’t sleep, tossing and turning into the early hours of the morning, he finds himself on the beach. The sand is still cool beneath his toes, the shore shrouded in low-lying mist that hasn’t yet been burnt off by the sun. The tight hug of his wetsuit staves off the initial shock of the cold water that laps around his ankles and up his legs as he wades out into the depths. The water is calm, for now, but it’s not necessarily the waves that he’s craving. 

He’s about halfway out when he sees him. 

A little beyond the reef, silhouetted against the grey clouds. He sits astride his board, bobbing in the peaceful waters, back turned. Ilya’s heart seizes. 

Paddling out the rest of the way, Ilya feels his heart thumping against the fiberglass of his board. He sidles up next to him, coming to a stop at his side. 

Shane doesn’t say anything, and suddenly Ilya can’t quite find the words either. 

It’s just the two of them and the quiet expanse of the sea under the great, wide sky. 

Ilya skims his leg against Shane’s beneath the surface, and when he doesn’t pull back, Ilya lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shane’s shoulders loosen ever so slightly, free of a weight that Ilya should never have made him carry in the first place.

“Found you.”

“So you were looking for me.” 

Relief comes like salve to a wound. It stings at first, then settles into something close to peace. 

“I freaked out,” Ilya says, plainly. 

“Yeah, you did.” 

He turns to look at Shane, takes in his profile lit up in the dull morning light. “I’m sorry.”

Shane’s lips form something of a bittersweet smile. “It’s okay,” he says, but the forgiveness only makes the guilt in Ilya’s stomach churn. 

“I don’t want you to think that this summer wasn’t… special to me. It was.” 

At that, Shane finally looks up to meet his eyes. The dark of his irises is sparkling, and for a moment Ilya’s chest tightens with dread at the possibility of seeing them filled with tears again. But instead, Shane smiles; an earnest, hopeful thing that is so tender that Ilya would rather lay down and die than see it ever removed from his face. 

“Really?” Shane asks.

“Really.” 

“...Me too.”  

Despite the bitter chill of morning air, Ilya suddenly feels so very warm. 

Later, when they’re back up on the beach, wetsuits hanging around their waists and hair windswept and dishevelled from a few hours spent in the water, Ilya says:

“I like you, Shane.” 

Shane, laying next to him in the sand, rolls over and on top of him, capturing his lips in a salty kiss. Ilya’s hands cup his face, thread into his hair. He’ll never get enough of this, not in a million summers, a million lifetimes. They pull apart after a long moment, breathing raggedly.  

“I like you too,” Shane says, cheeks flushed and grinning bright enough to blind. 

“Maybe I’ll visit you, when you’re back at college,” Ilya smirks, running his hands up and down the strong muscles of Shane’s bare arms. 

Shane rolls his eyes. “You couldn’t stand being anywhere that isn’t in a five mile radius of the ocean for longer than, like, ten minutes,” he scoffs. 

Ilya leans up and nips at his earlobe, licks the salt from his neck. “I could, for you. Maybe.” 

They laugh and kiss and roll around in the sand, wrestling until Ilya’s got Shane’s wrists pinned beneath his hands, their chests heaving, Ilya’s seashell necklace dangling between them, their lips mere centimetres apart. 

“How long did you say the semester was again?” 

“Two hundred and eighty one days,” Shane breathes against his lips. 

281 days until the summer, 281 days until Shane is his again for three whole sun-kissed months. 

Ilya’s nineteen, which means he’s lived roughly 7000 days on this earth without Shane by his side. 7000 days of the sun rising and setting, the tides coming and going, the world spinning on its axis without Shane filling the void in his chest and patching up the parts of him that he’d left open and weeping all this time. 

What is 281 in the face of 7000? 

So Ilya kisses him, slow and lazy as the sun rises, because they have all the time in the world. Another year, another summer. 

Together.