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“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”
- ༄ -
Nothing but the purr of the engine and smooth sax dilutes the all-encompassing quiet of the woods. His eyes open to a bleary Mercedes’ interior, retinas readjusting to the harsh white light peering in from the open windows. Epiphanies crash into him all at once–the unforgiving roughness wrapped around both wrists, damp silk between his teeth, an ache that drags slowly from his ribs to his thighs. He squirms, wrestling the rope keeping him restrained, but it doesn’t give. His grunts are entirely ignored in the backseat, as the driver taps their fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel. He tries again, really tries, using all he is to separate his hands, crossed at his back and surely red at the effort, but again it does not give. He lies horizontally against the leather, kicking wildly at the passenger door, then shoving his weight behind him.
“Sit still, please.” Dark eyes meet his in the rearview mirror, an easy brown he knows all too well. “It’s easier if you sit still, please.” It’s mild yet firm, and instantly recognizable.
“Shane,” he tries around the gag, but it stops at the first syllable.
“Soon there,” he reassures, “enjoy the ride.”
His tone is frustratingly disarming and unsettlingly unworried. Ilya wants to sit attentively, watching spruce pass them out the window, feel wind whip across his face in a way he hasn’t felt since childhood; he wants to comply, but he refuses to scratch the itch of surrender. He kicks at the panel until the soles of his Sambas dig into the ball of his feet, until a stripe of dull pain marks both, and he is in a genuine state of discomfort, snot running down his cupid's bow, damp fabric holding back his groans. He throws himself into the leather door, alternating between the left and right, until he’s certain his shoulders are blue under his sleeves. Tears form but don’t fall.
“Ilya.” His name cuts through the small, huffs and grunts he’s able to get out behind the gag. “I will hogtie you and hide you in the trunk.” Their eyes lock again in the reflection. “Sit still.”
His shoulders drop, and the itch, somewhere deep inside him, dies as he straightens his posture in commanded obedience.
“Good.”
Simple praise washes over him, and he sinks in it, letting all his inhibitions go limp against the wave of commendation.
- ༄ -
The cottage is not something lavish and devoid of personality, like every Hollander property. This home–mainly brick and mortar with exactly four windows, two on each side, a chimney, and a brown, scrappy fence enclosing it–was not impersonal. ‘Somewhere in Ottawa,’ he tries to recall, but his mind volleys between the same few panicked half-thoughts and consoling lies. The door he’s leaned against swings open without warning, and strong arms stabilize him.
“Tired?” Shane asks, manhandling his frame until his feet are dangling over the fertile lawn.
‘Tired?’ echoes past the swarm of strategies and bounces off his amygdala.
He just nods, unable to speak around the cloth.
“Okay,” Shane practically coos, and Ilya’s heart wobbles. He hooks his arm under his knees and centers his palm between his shoulder blades.
“Okay,” Ilya tries to repeat, but it dies in his throat.
Shane walks them to the porch, holding Ilya against him as he fumbles for his keys. Before he can turn the lock, a sharp pain springs in his shin, and the man against him sways and writhes wildly in front. Firm hands settle on Ilya’s hips and push him into the sturdy oak. His face makes contact first, then his temple and chest. Pain slams through his already exhausted figure, sending him sinking into the chipping paint.
“Just fucking…” Shane mutters as he twists the key, sending the other through the frame and falling face-first onto the splintering floor. He wiggles his body against the wood, flipping onto his back and sliding further into the cottage, until his shoulders bump the angles of a staircase. Shane, lit terrifyngly by the amber evening sun, releases his grip on the casing of the doorframe, stalking closer to him. He looks almost angelic except for a fog of delirium concentrated in his eyes, his freckles evident against tanned skin and strands of black falling carelessly above his brow, as Ilya crawls into the dark house. He forgets himself in those eyes.
“How many times–” he rips off his jacket “do I have to fucking say–” tears off his shoes “stop?!” he shouts, and the fact that no one could feel Shane’s anger vibrate the furniture or hear the soft pleas Ilya can’t manage out, is sobering. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out, “I’m sorry.”
Ilya doesn’t respond–doesn’t groan or nod or grunt at him. Shane plucks the fabric from his mouth, lets him argue or beg, but still, silence. Ilya’s eyes fix past his dark eyes and to the field surrounding the house.
‘Это последний раз, когда я вижу траву?’‘Is this the last time I see grass?’
‘Или машину?’‘Or a car?’
‘Последний раз, когда я делаю выбор?’‘The last time I choose?’
Yet he chooses silence, the absence of something.
“You will murder me?” he asks. It’s not a taunt this time.
“No.”
“Torture me?”
“Ilya.”
“I’m sorry,” he concedes quickly, flinching at his name.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” ‘No.’
“Breathe.” He moves to brush a fair curl out of his eyes, but Ilya jerks back, hitting his head on the wooden railing of the staircase. “Can you stop?” His tolerance is dwindling. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Ilya nods, but it’s stiff and unconvinced.
“I promise.”
Another nod, this one more believable.
“You’re hungry,” Shane asks, but it’s more of an observation.
“Yes.” Ilya tries words, but it breaks in all the wrong places, and he sounds like a little bitch, whimpering on his back for food.
“I brought a few things for us.” He glances to the door, still ajar, to the Mercedes, still unlocked and waiting on the dirt path. “I can untie you if you listen. But you have to listen, okay?
He nods again, afraid of another humbling voice crack.
Shane plucks a box cutter from his jeans and slices precariously through the twine.
‘Подумать только, этого было достаточно; все мои усилия были потеряны из-за ножа.’‘To think that’s all it took; all my effort, lost to a knife.’
Ilya sits at the table in the center of the room, his hands alternating between rubbing sore wrists, tracing the scratches of the wood, and propping up his chin as Shane hauls in groceries.
“That’s all.” He set down a white tote in front of him.
“How long are we staying?” his accent sounds thicker in his ears.
“As long as we want.”
We want.
He swallows hard, forcing down bile and unease.
“Want eggs?”
“Just toast, please.” He eyes the whole wheat bread peaking out of the green thank-you bag on the kitchen counter.
I don't want to throw up.
“But you said you were hungry,” Shane challenges.
“Eggs, then.”
- ༄ -
The eggs are fucking disgusting. They’re practically raw, and the yolk sticks to his gums no matter how much water he swishes.
“Thank you,” he whispers anyway.
“My pleasure.” Shane squeezes his thigh.
His mouth cottons instantaneously, and he can feel a tear crawl out of his right eye. He has never felt this flavour of fear with Shane–the kind of fear that settles low and lingers at the touch; the kind that causes you to gulp and gasp, unsure if your body needs more or less air; the kind that tells you something very bad is going to happen, and nothing you do will stop it, so you might as well give up. Yet the bitter dread is complemented–or offset–by the rush of thrill; a saccrhine anticipation that still floods his body when Shane touches him. Every slur, every accusation falls where Shane touches him. He sheds the armour his father has dented, and his brother has worn–every time. As the tear dries, spit fills his mouth again, and he is back at square one.
“Do you want a tour?”
Ilya glances up from his plate, meeting Shane’s still wild eyes, and decides that yes, a tour would be lovely.
The stairs creak beneath his feet. They creak again when Shane repeats his step, following behind him. But escape seems pointless in the middle of the wilderness, in an unfamiliar city, running from your long-term closeted fling who decided to make you their pet project for the summer; the absurdity is not lost on him.
The bedroom is just as eerily ordinary as the rest of the house–humble, mostly wood, and uniquely Shane in a way he can’t quite place. The flannel quilt lies neat and even across the mattress, exposing white cotton sheets where it’s folded. Ilya moves around the room, feigning comfortability, admiring the trinkets that line the shelves: a Russian nesting doll, ironic, an antique lighter engraved ‘D.H.’, a green shard–maybe seaglass, probably a beer bottle tumbled against the shore.
“Is nice,” he lies. It feels like home, despite its arcane nature.
“Do you want to kiss?” Shane suggests, inching closer.
“Uh,” Ilya considers it, “No. Tired.”
“You are?” he asks incredulously.
“No,” he sighs, “No, I do not want to kiss.”
“Why?” Shane pouts, insistent.
Ilya has to physically stop himself from laughing in the face of his former-lover-turned-kidnapper.
‘‘почему́,’ он спрашивает’
‘‘Why,’ he asks.’
“I don’t know,” he lies.
“You can tell me, Ilya,” Shane presses, “I’m not a little bitch.”
су́чку.Little bitch.
Childhood nickname.
“I don’t know,” it comes as a whisper this time.
“Well, I want you to kiss me.”
“Shane-,” he tries to protest, but it dies in Shane’s mouth. The kiss is punishing and less the movement of lips and more the clashing of teeth. Shane licks vigorously into his mouth like he’s fasted for this. It feels warm in a refreshing way, like how the heat of a bonfire feels before it swallows you whole.
Will Shane swallow me whole?
He pulls away, and the once subtle craze in his pupils is set deeper, and probably impossible to drive out now. Ilya lets out a steadying breath as Shane bites his bottom lip, looking up at him through hooded, hungry eyes.
“Going to shower now,” he pulls away, practically sprinting to the door in the top left corner of the room. He slams it once he’s hidden behind the oak, sinking to the tiled floor.
“Ilya?” a voice calls out.
“Yes?” he huffs out an exhausted breath.
“Can we shower together?”
“Am really stinky, Shane. Maybe tomorrow,” he falsely promises. By tomorrow, he’ll have woken up from this sick and unfortunate nightmare, somewhere in the Boston suburbs, vindicated.
“But I want to today.” The doorknob wiggles. “You locked me out?”
“I locked me in, Shane.” He prays that the more he says his name, the quicker the parasite will detach.
“I want to shower, Ilya.” The brass jiggles again. “Let me in.”
“I can’t.”
“Let me in, Ilya.” His voice punches.
“Shane, I–”
“Fucking let me in.” Something thuds against the door, rattling the hinges.
“Shane,” he takes a step back–tries to undo what he’s done.
“Let me in,” Shane sobs from the other side of the oak. “Letmeinletmeinletmein.” Each demand is met with a brutal shove directly into the panels.
“Shane, stop, just let me shower, please,” he begs, hot tears streaming down his face. The fear is fully bitter, and nothing thins the aftertaste.
“I’ll kill myself, Ilya, I’ll fucking do it.” He screams at the wood between them. “Let me in.” His scream is raspy yet bloody.
“Shane!” Ilya screams. “Какого хуя? Какого, блядь, хуя? Какого, нахуй, всего хуя?"What the fuck? What the actual fuck? What the absolute, total fuck?" He relents, opening the door.
Shane crowds his space immediately. “Don’t yell at me.”
“You just fucking told me you’re going to take your fucking life.” Ilya does not heed his warning.
Rough hands wrap around his throat, growing incrementally tighter by the second. It is clear now whether he needs to gulp or gasp; he tries for both and chokes on his saliva. Their eyes are locked, and beneath the anger and irrationality, there is nothing. There is no hope or redemption in this man; instead, ash behind his eyes.
“You don’t tell me ‘no’,” Shane grits out.
Everything is nostalgic about this house: the solemn emptiness, the wooden everything, the outright commands, the unspoken laws. Shane’s hand cinches the column of his neck, and Ilya is ten again, lying in his mother's battered arms, crying apologies because he told his father ‘no’ yet she suffered the consequence. What greater love would pay the price for his sins? Only now, there is no mother’s love to protect him. There is no forcefield of grace to defend him from Shane’s threatening gaze or rugged hands; there is no salvation within these walls.
Before black dots completely wipe his vision, Shane’s hand unclenches. Ilya crumbles to the floor, struggling for purchase against the white ceramic. He pulls his knees to his chest, and he rocks himself calm, staring past the door, past the brick, past the goddamn woods and to a future where he does not rock on a bathroom floor.
“Shane,” he heaves out, scratching at his neck, “я хочу свою мамаI want my mom..”
His finger crooks under his jaw, forcing his jaw tight. “Okay.”
The box cutter reveals itself.
“No.” He shakes his head furiously, tears splattering off his face.
“We’ll go to see her. I’ll meet her, we can talk, and then we can kiss again.”
“No.” His voice is rough around the word.
“I’ll be quick.” Shane grabs his wrist.
“No. No, Shane. No, I am telling you no, just listen,” He sobs.
“Stop! Stop it!” Shane lunges at him, holding the flat edge to his artery. “You want your mom? Have her, leave me, go to her!”
“I don’t want her, Shane,” he pleads for his life, and it relies on a lie, “Just you.”
Shane exhales, processing the words.
“Just me?”
“Only you,” he caresses his cheek with trembling fingers, brushing his thumb across his freckles in practiced admiration.
“Promise.”
“What?”
“Promise it’s only me.” The blade pressers firmer. “Til death.”
It’s a heavy ask; a promise he could’ve eventually satisfied with ease only time could bring. In another life, it is only Shane; he knows this. Maybe even in this fucked reality they’ll call ordinary, Shane will be the one, until death.
“I promise, Shanya. We will be together until death.”
“I love you, Ilya,” his voice quivers, and his grip on the handle loosens, lowering the weapon before fully collapsing into Ilya’s arms, sobbing his truth, “I’m so sorry. I am so fucking sorry. I don’t–” he inhales sharply, “I don't know what’s wrong with me. You deserve so much better, Ily, please.” He looks to the knife beside Ilya’s hip, looks to Ilya for salvation.
Ilya cups his face, holding him steady and staring into his ash-filled eyes, searching for an ember amongst the grey. Something flickers; something dying and surely unsalvageable. Every answer feels wrong; relieving Shane of this misery is wrong; staying on the bathroom floor, cowering in fear is wrong. He kisses Shane, and this, too, is wrong, but for a moment, it’s not. The dust hidden in dark brown has blown away, for half a second, they aren’t doomed. They aren’t destined to die in this old house, surrounded by random shit Shane should’ve thrown out years ago, red ruining the white.
But then it passes, as all things do, and they’re two boys, one of ash and one of dust, holding onto something meant to slip between fingers.
- ༄ -