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The first time Shane calls Ilya baby, he barely even thinks about it.
Shane was awake enough to feel that the heat of Ilya’s body was too far from his own, but not awake enough to do anything about it.
He was caught in the heavy cotton soft space between dreaming and consciousness, body pinned to the mattress with bone deep exhaustion (from his grueling schedule but from the hungry sex too, the starving way Ilya had pushed into his body for hours before they slept, Shane pulling and pulling and pulling him in, craving the ache of it).
His fingers fidgeted against dark sheets, toes twitched and his ribs pulsed with fatigue, the remaining weight of a heavy hit against the boards a few days ago.
The bloom of bruises were still an ugly black edged purple. Shane knew they’d be just a faint yellow green by the next time he shared a bed with Ilya again. The thought made him frown in his half sleeping state and he just ever so slightly pushed his thigh forward, and could feel the press of Ilya's calf against him now.
It felt like a luxury that he was sleeping in the same bed as Ilya at all. Their schedules since summer had been unforgiving, their time just short grasps between long stretches of opposite sides of the states. Time together had turned into texts and facetimes across competing time zones.
It was odd, really, the missing of it all when they had spent the better part of a decade doing this in pockets, stolen minutes, weeks without talking. (Shane had gotten so used to seeing Ilya as something he couldn’t want, but something he could have, if he played it right, hid behind sharp words, didn’t give himself away, didn’t think about what more than what they had could even be.)
But now the walls had caved in, and they were More and they were honest and Shane couldn’t put all the want back in, not now that it had spilled out into every part of him. He woke up played hockey, he wanted and wanted and wanted. He wanted Ilya all the time, and the worst part of it now was that he had him, had him to miss.
It had been a warm, pretty summer, fearful and then- new, and More, and real, and Ilya in his cottage, day in, day out, falling asleep and waking up together.
Learning that Ilya would only use spearmint toothpaste, craved oranges after sex and was on level twelve thousand one hundred and six of candy crush, had an allergy to dust, and had five different products for his hair.
Learning just how many times he could cum in one day (six) how Ilya looked sex exhausted (satiated, settled, like a cat showing off its kill, content), that head scratches put him to sleep in under five minutes, that he liked the taste of Russian vodka on Ilya's tongue.
They’d had years to make up for and they had- Shane had taught Ilya to fish, listened to his happy shout when he’d caught a small sunfish, orange belly and blue-green scales, bathed in Ilya’s honey warm peeling laughter when Shane had made him kiss it before he threw it back in the lake.
They’d eaten dinner with his parents, they’d had a sleepover on the dock on the hottest night of summer. They’d made smores (fucked by the fire, on the dock, in the grass of the yard, in the lake, the shower, the kitchen, up against the front door) had a foot race, (it was a tie. Shane would die on that hill) had bubble baths, worked out together, watched the sun rise and set, napped on the couch, made out for stretching hours and got wine drunk on the floor of the kitchen.
Most of all, they had talked. Talked and talked and talked, for hours late into the morning, deep into the evenings tucked into the thick cushions of the deep couch or while they ate dinner, doing the laundry, in the shower (Ilya's hands washing Shane’s hair), tired voiced and heavy eyed in hoodies and blankets sprawled in the yard watching the stars.
Shane didn’t know where to put all that- the everything that was Ilya, all this love. He’d never had it before someone so intensely gorgeous and private and his. It had simply spilled out of the boxes he had tried to fit it in (they never had enough room for it in the first place) and had taken a totally different shape.
It lived in his knuckles and spine and he thought his footsteps surely pulsed the lovelovelove his body was soaked in right through into the ground (he wouldn’t be surprised he thinks to look back and see Ilya’s name right there in the shape of his footsteps).
A whole afternoon, night and some of the morning- that's what they had now.
Shane would need to be gone by nine tomorrow morning, back to the hotel with a cover story to Hayden that he wouldn’t believe but wouldn’t push about either. They’d play Boston tomorrow afternoon and then fly out right after and Shane would endure the teasing from Hayden then about Boston girl if it meant he got Ilya now.
While it would never be enough time, it was the most they’d had since the cottage.
It's that thought that makes Shane start to mentally prepare himself to wake up a little better and reposition himself into Ilya’s arms, to feel the rise and fall of his chest and hear his soft exhales against his hair. To take while he still could.
Shane’s stomach ached then, for the heatloveweightsafe of Ilya.
Before he could move, he felt Ilya shift on the mattress beside him and was delighted for a bleary second, his sun was orbiting towards him, before he realized Ilya was moving away from him instead, climbing out of the bed all together.
Shane frowns and listens to the shuffle of Ilya’s footsteps, the instant worry that something was wrong with Ilya enough to make his stomach flip before he heard the click of the ensuite light. He exhales, appeased that Ilya wasn’t going far.
Shane sighs, nuzzles his cheek against his pillow and with a low grunt rolls himself onto his side, half into the heat Ilya’s body had left behind.
His hand smooths out flat on the sheets and he can smell Ilya, his shampoo and sweat.
He misses him sorely in that moment, his boy who is just a room over. It’s a pathetic pulsing thing under his ribs that feels like notimenotimenotimenotime.
Shane, like a little kid who has to share his favourite toy, gives into his longing in the dark of the room and pouts into his pillow. He wants Ilya back, wants him here, now, not even just a few steps away but instead buried under the hours they have left together, where no one is leaving, not yet.
Shane presses his face into Ilya’s pillow, a cheap replacement for the real thing, breathes in deep the scent of him and lets it settle him, He wonders if the peace he feels is what Ilya finds in nicotine. If it is he thinks, no wonder it's so hard for him to quit.
Shane ignores the way he will miss this bed.
Ignores that tomorrow he will be in a hotel room that doesn’t smell like either of them, Ilya back to just living in his phone.
He tunes out the thought completely and listens to the sound of Ilya peeing, flushing, then washing his hands, the click of the light back off. Then there's that heavy shuffle shuffle shuffle of his bare feet across the floor, back to Shane, back to their bed.
A high, wide wave of want washes up against Shane’s chest then, so intense and pulling, a full moon tide.
The weight of Ilya walking back to their bed so heavy that his whole body thrums with it, alive and shimmering, light spilling over water.
It's a heady joy knowing Ilya is crawling back under the sheets beside him (that someone like Ilya handsome, strong, accomplished, kind, funny, sexy anchors back to him, in the quiet of the night they find each other. Shane can’t believe it most of the time.)
His boyfriend, their bed, them, ShaneandIlya how it's been since the first time, since they were teenagers, a whole universe between them. The whole world between their mouths, hands, bodies. Nothing exists past where they end.
Ilya’s steps are slow and heavy and Shane wants him here, now, wants the warmth of his body, the line of his shoulders, Ilya pressed as close as he can get him.
With a slow inhale, he forces himself to blink his tired eyes half open, lidded as he watches the shape of Ilya in the moonlit room as he reaches the edge of the bed.
His figure is familiar tall and strong, skin starred by moles, smooth over firm muscle. Ilya’s hand reaches up and scratches at the strong plane of his abdomen and he lets out a tiny squeaking yawn.
Shane’s heart thumpsthumpsthumps. That's his boy, his everything.
Shane reaches a heavy arm up, hand out, and makes grabby fingers like the littlest of the Pike children does when asking for more. More, Shane thinks, he wants more more more.
He watches as Ilya doesn’t notice him in the dark. He lets out a small simper, half whine, too tired to open his mouth and ask- try and voice the need that had burned up and erupted through him in Ilya’s short absence. It would maybe embarrass him to try and explain the cloying insane need for him in that moment- to feel him, to know he knows him.
Shane wants the simple pleasure of reaching out for his man in the middle of the night and to have his hand touch Ilya’s skin and not just sheets, Ilya four hours and three weeks away.
Shane wants to want him, and to be able to have him.
(He wants to play pretend, that this home is here, that this bed is theirs every night and they have days, months, years to sleep in, to be with each other, a summer that never ends, a cottage they never have to leave. It's all so new, months into this, boyfriends, and Shane keeps waiting for it to wear off, for it to get less shiny, for him to want it less. He just wants it more and more and more. He craves this, them, who is he is with Ilya)
Ilya eyes him, a sleepy squint, hums in the back of his throat and is in the bed with a press of the mattress ,all long limbs and knees and elbows and then his Ilya is there, making another nonsense sound as he flops himself half onto Shane. His leg is tangled with Shane’s, palm loose on his shoulder, just a tangle of limbs, too tired to make proper work of it.
Shane sighs, some saccharine shine swimming inside him but he wants, he wants to cuddle properly, be encompassed, cosy, pressed tight together, wants to feel his own body move with each of Ilya's breaths, wants to be reminded of the way Ilya shapes him, how they move through the world together. He wants to hold and be held.
He wants Ilya for so long, without having him that it makes him starving and foolish, a vampire with blunt fangs still pressing for any drop of blood. Tonight, his teeth can sink in, take and he wants, wants to take.
Ilya knocks his head against Shane’s peck, presses his cold nose into the skin, crushing his nose into him and his curls brush Shane’s cheek. He is real, hands and ribs and clumsy and everything Shane never thought he could have.
Ilya smells like boy and body wash and just a little like sex, still, from when he’d fucked Shane until he was aching, was still aching where he’d pushed into him, left him pliant and happy curled under Ilya.
He smells a little like Shane.
“Come here baby”
Shane’s voice is rough with sleep, low and warm, half mushed together as he grabs at Ilya’s body, under his arms, pulling his boy up over onto him as he rolls onto his back.
His hand tangles in Ilya’s thick curls, flattened on one side where they had pressed into the pillow. He fusses with their bodies until Ilya is laid completely over top of him, his face fit into the curve of Shane’s neck, pressed close and warm.
The word feels right, at home on his tongue, come into me baby, find yourself comfy on my chest, fall asleep on me because it’s warmer here and you sleep better when you hear my heart beat and I'll play with your hair until you fall asleep (because your mother did it when you were young and I can love you like that too, forever and with my whole life devotional to your comfort) and I love you I love you I love you.
Ilya’s arms tighten around Shane, squeeze him carefully around his bruised ribs and he lets out a soft keening noise and his pretty cupid lips smudge a half formed kiss on Shane’s throat. His lips part slightly and he kisses again, wet warm and with a lazy suck that could be something if they were more awake. For now it's a promise, affection distilled down in exhaustion.
“Baby” Ilya echoes back to him
It's small sounding, maybe even a question.
Shane feels him say the word more than he hears it, mouthed right above his pulse point and his cheeks heat in the dark room, but he doesn’t feel embarrassment, or shame, he doesn't second guess the word. He couldn’t second guess this.
Shane hums in affirmation, a rumbled “mmhm” and nods smooths his hand up through Ilya’s thick curls, scratches once then twice, rubbing his scalp.
He feels Ilya shiver as his fingers catch the shell of his ear, tug before going back to his hair and feels the man press in harder to his chest, like there might be enough space to fit inside. Ilya’s toes brush his ankle over and over.
“My baby” Shane confirms, and then tilts his head to kiss kiss kiss at Ilya’s hairline, forehead as his hand soothes down through Ilya’s curls to the back of his neck, thumb massaging.
The affection is, not one he’s ever said before, felt before.
The man Ilya is, scary bared teeth, bark just as big as his bite, cocky and loud and the best in his sport, bigger than every room. Smart, bright and brash who had come barreling into Shane’s life as so much- so much that Shane wanted- shimmering and overwhelming and scary and out of reach even when he was right in front of him.
A fantasy, the real fucking thing he’d had in his bed since he was a teenager.
The (recent and since always) love of his life.
The man Ilya is sweet and funny and the heat, the centre, the core of it all.
Kind hands and eyes and the man who does puzzles with his father. Brave sweet Ilya who learnt love from his mother as a boy and never forgot it even when so many others tried to make him.
His Ilya who now uses the non scented laundry powder Shane always has, His Ilya who cried when they watched The Princess Bride, big fat wet tears clinging to his lashes shamelessly when Princess Buttercup Westley found each other again. His Ilya who is patient patient patient, who never lets Shane be an island.
Ilya who keeps Shane's secrets with him, sends him pictures of unlikely pairs of animals curled together, or kittens licking each other with the caption ‘us’, who asks for kisses in a soft sweet low voice and never would just let Shane win, but instead give him a good match every time.
Ilya who calls him pretty and beautiful and means it and fucks him filthy and rough and means it.
His Ilya, who fell into this big shiny love with him, quietly, slowly and unsure and full of hurt (hurting each other so much for so long), and wrapped himself around Shane in so many ways for so long, and still does now, his guard dog, his best friend his fucking baby.
Ilya makes a sound, shaky and warm and Shane feels the deep heavy breath he pulls in, the way it expands his chest, shoulders, ribs, how he holds his breath for a moment and then releases it, a warm brush from his nose that tickles Shane’s skin.
Shane feels Ilya fidgeting, the wriggles of his toes, the way he rubs his nose left to right left to right against the side of Shane’s neck, like he’s trying to find the places he touched Shane last, like he might have left grooves for himself to fit back into.
Shane loves him so much he feels it like this physical thing between them, a light that if they pulled back would shoot out, sunrise bright and blind both of them. For now it lives trapped between the heat of their chests, existing just for them, something only they can feel together.
“Sleep”
Shane mutters, his hand finds the back of Ilya's neck, his palm curves around it, thumb finds the steady pulse on the underside of Ilya’s jaw.
“Back to sleep” he kisses Ilya’s ear, his brow and tucks his face down into his hair.
Ilya nods, and Shane can feel the way he’s almost asleep already, heavy on Shane, breathing coming slow now, fidgets coming to a slow then stop.
When Ilya is asleep, deep drawing breaths that push his stomach against Shanes, Shane lets himself slip down then toward sleep too, and thinks of Ilya all the way down.