Archive of Our Own

The relentless fluorescent lights in the emergency department are starting to aggravate the migraine that had already been building behind Shane's left eye. It was hour eight of a twelve-hour day shift, and the constant chill of the hospital wrapped around him, pulling a rough shiver from his body. Winter in the Pitt always felt endless—the sun dipped below the horizon too early, filling the department with harsh, artificial light that left no room for shadowy corners.

There's a shift in the air next to him at the desk.

"Doing okay?" It was Robby. The husky voice of his old friend was unmistakable, and something seemed to loosen in Shane's shoulder at the familiar timbre. "That last one was rough."

Shane feels a deep sigh loosen from his chest as he digs his knuckle into his eye. "When is it not down here?"

He had spent the last hour coding a teenager who had been brutally jumped on the Red Line on his ride home from school. The blood that had flooded his chest cavity still felt hot between Shane's fingers.

"Fair. Living the dream, yeah?" Robby asks him sarcastically. He presses a hand between Shane's shoulder blades. "Take a breather. There's a six-year-old in North 2 just waiting on Pedes to bring her upstairs. Keep her company," he reaches around to the food cart and puts a PB&J on the counter, "and make sure she eats at least half of this. Her sugar was down when she came in."

"You don't need to baby me," Shane grits out, straightening his back until he's able to meet Robby's eyes. He knows he's being defensive, and even worse, he can't help himself.

"Wouldn't dream of it, and you know that," his friend tells him. "I know you way too well to ever think I could get away with it."

They had met forever ago in his very department, both matched to PTMC for their emergency medicine residencies back when they still used a whiteboard to track patients. Their eye bags were lighter then, not imprinted into their skin like bruises that refused to fade; brown hair had a little less silver then, too, but you could only work in a place like the Pitt for so long before going gray. It was an occupational hazard.

"Good," Shane tells him evenly. He's glad his voice sounds less shaky than it feels. "Has someone gotten the death kit for my teen yet?"

"Emma and Vivi are taking care of it."

"The pregnant woman with pre-eclampsia in Trauma 2?"

"Already up in the OR upstairs. They're going to have to deliver early, I think."

Robby starts to walk towards North 2, and Shane finds himself following. "She was the one who insisted on no prenatal care, right?"

"Don't even get me started."

They both absentmindedly reached out for hand sanitizer before entering the room. The cold of it did wonders to pull Shane's attention from the memory of the mess of his fingers bathed in scarlet with a heart wriggling in an open chest like a bag of worms.

Jesse quickly smiled over at them from the machines in the corner, "She's been dozing in and out since we did the tests earlier, but I think she's just tired. Pedes is taking a while."

"Thanks, Jesse. We got it from here."

The little girl is quietly observing them from the bed, a small stuffed dog tight at her side. Light blonde hair flares out on the pillow, and her bright blue eyes are bouncing back and forth between Shane and Robby. She looks so fragile in the wide bed frame, gauze slightly red from where it's wrapped around her calf.

Shane tucks the chart under his arm and pulls a stool to her bedside. "Hello."

"Hi," she mutters, pulling the dog tighter against her body. She obviously hasn't decided whether Shane is an enemy.

"My name is Shane, and this is Robby," he gestures to his friend behind him. "What's your name?"

"Anastasia." The word is quiet, shy. It's barely heard over the ambient buzz of the machines.

"Anastasia," he repeats. "That's a name for a princess." He can't help the smile that breaks his lips when she starts to get bashful. "Isn't it, Robby? You didn't tell me we had a princess visiting today."

"Well, I tried." He puts his stethoscope in his ears and raises it to her small chest. Shane watches his eyebrows furrow. "Crackles at the right base. What did Santos put in the chart?"

He flips it open, "Early stages of pneumonia. She was dropped off by her foster parents a few hours ago with a nasty cough and some bruising and scrapes around the lower left extremity. She's been given 325 milligrams of baby aspirin after complaining of a headache and has been running an IV of antibiotics for about two hours."

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" Robby asks as he hooks his stethoscope back around his neck.

Anastasia responds with a wet cough, "Hurts. I hungry."

"I think we can take care of that. My friend is going to sit with you for a while until someone brings you upstairs, okay?"

"Okey."

"Shane," he jerks his head towards the door. Both men let it close softly before calling over Santos, who seems to be knee-deep in her charting.

"Where are Anastasia's parents?"

"Foster parents," she corrects. "They couldn't leave fast enough. Told us to do whatever we could to get her better, and that was it." Santos let out a harsh sigh. "I pulled her records, and she's only been with them for a few months. Her parents died in January in a car accident."

"Poor thing," Shane says.

"Yeah. She doesn't speak a lot of English either; they had just moved from Russia when it happened."

"They didn't send her back?" Robby asked.

"No family that they could find, so far."

"Thanks, Trinity." Shane nods.

"No problem, boss. I've notified Kiara about this, so if you need information on Anastasia's home situation, she'll be the one to go to." Kiara was the resident social worker and also an absolute angel. If anyone were going to help Anastasia get a better placement, it would be her.

"Four hours left, Shane," Robby says, patting his shoulders. "Give her the sandwich, get her to talk a little bit or just watch over her while she naps. That's all I need for you to do, alright?"

"You'll call me if—"

"There's an incoming trauma, yes," Robby finishes for him. "A nurse from pedes should be down soon enough."

He can't lie and say that some tension doesn't bleed from his shoulders at the thought of resting for a minute. The familiar prickle of overstimulation has been running through his system for the last few hours.

"Alright."

Robby is already walking away when he throws a, "That was easier than I thought. You're losing your fight, brother."

"Fuck off," Shane scoffs under his breath, pushing back through the door to see Anastasia. He dims the lights before pulling the stool close to the bed. "Still hungry?"

"Da," she says softly, reaching for the sandwich that Shane was offering. He hands it over without another thought and frowns at how quickly she seems to dig in. Something isn't right here. "I'm sorry."

"Why would you be sorry?" Shane questions.

That stops her chewing almost instantly, and the stuffed dog at her side is clutched tightly against her side. The question was the wrong one, it seemed. Maybe she just didn't have the words to explain her situation, or maybe she didn't trust Shane enough to say anything. Either way, it only makes Shane more worried.

"You can keep eating," he says gently. "The sandwich was for you."

The right words this time, apparently. She scarfs it down without another blink, leaving peanut butter and jelly smeared all around her little mouth. It would be a funny sight if it weren't so worrying for Shane. He wipes everything away with a stray napkin from his pocket.

"Thank you." Tiny hands reach out to brush at the sensitive skin just under Shane's eyes. "You okay?"

Working in the emergency department was a lot of things. It was tiring, stressful, and every single thing in between. He experienced the worst day of people's lives every single day and was meant to be a functioning human at the end of it. This department had seen him through his first gray hair. It had seen him through a failed and drawn-out relationship with Rose. It had seen him through PittFest. Things happened here that he couldn't wish on his worst enemy. Moments like this one, though, were the reason he came back every day and pushed through the hours of chaos.

A beaten and bruised little girl, no doubt scared of her surroundings and the uncertainty of her own life, was asking Shane if he was alright. It's so innocent a question, and yet he feels the burn of tears at the back of his eyes, the hot sensation mingling with the already tight vice of an incoming migraine.

"I'm just fine," he tells her quietly. The lie falls easily from his mouth. It always does. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart."

She absentmindedly grabbed at his stethoscope, and he handed it over easily. "Where is mama and papa?"

He's not sure how to even approach answering such a complex question. "Well—"

"Privyet, Anastasia," a gentle tone says from behind him. Shane hadn't even registered the door opening, and when he turns around, he can't help the way his neck reels back. Shane had never seen this man before, and he knows that for a fact because he would've remembered him.

The mystery man was slightly taller than him and broad across the shoulders where cartoon-covered scrubs lay. They're tucked in to a trim waist with new-style joggers tied with a perfect black bow on the drawstring. His sneakers are the same pair Shane dons every day, just in a brighter neon shade. He looks young.

"My eyes are up here, doc," the voice tells him.

Shane's gaze snaps up to meet his face so quickly that he can almost hear the birds tweeting around his head. The heat at the back of his neck spreads across his face, and for once in his life, he's grateful for the perpetual chill of the hospital. It might be the only thing keeping him from tipping into heatstroke.

"Right," Shane says quickly, tongue feeling too big for his mouth. This was the hottest man he's ever seen, and he's sitting here, bruises under his eyes and hair slightly too long and scrubs that had definitely seen better days. A drunk threw up on him somewhere between his last code and now, and Whitaker had taken the last pair from the machine. He cannot possibly feel any uglier than he does right now. "That's uh— that's usually where they would be."

I think we all need to die, his mind deadpans.

"Medical school taught you that?" The nurse says lightly, holding on to each side of his pink stethoscope in a way that makes the veins in his forearms stand out. "Maybe I will enroll, doesn't seem too hard. You a fan?"

"Sorry?"

Of young, attractive men with sexy accents? Who isn't?

Ilya waves a hand over the design on his scrubs, "Of Snoopy?"

He forces his eyes to take in the design. It was Snoopy with sunglasses dotted with small bright yellow Woodstocks. It's so cute that Shane has to tuck a small smile away. "He's my favorite, actually. You?"

"More of a Woodstock man myself."

"Can't have one without the other," Shane says smoothly, leaning forward on the side rails of the bed. He doesn't miss the way Ilya's eyes track the movement, and he for sure doesn't miss the way his belly zings at the attention. It had been years since someone had really and truly caught his eye.

"Shane is doctor," Anastasia cuts in, thumb between her lips and eyes bouncing between the two.

"You are so smart, zaychik," Ilya tells her, crouching slightly lower to boop her on the nose. It's the first time Shane sees her beam and certainly the first time he hears her twinkling laugh. "Isn't she," Ilya narrows his eyes on the side of Shane's chest, "Dr. Hollander?"

This was going to be a problem. "Shane," he croaks out. "Just Shane is fine."

"Well, Just Shane," he smirks. "Can you fill me in? Upstairs only told me that they needed someone who spoke Russian."

"Six-year-old little girl showing signs of pneumonia in early stages," Shane sighs, rubbing his eyebrows. "Came in with her foster parents with some bruising and scrapes that had to be cleaned up. According to the resident on the case, she's from Russia and had moved here recently but unfortunately lost both her parents in an accident."

Ilya pulls up another stool to her bedside and gently brushes her hair away from her face. "Bednyazhka." His voice is soft, and Anastasia leans into the light touch, obviously comforted by the familiarity of her mother tongue. "Pochemu o tebe ne pozabotilis kak sleduyet?"

It feels like a private moment, but Shane watches nonetheless. Some people are made for things like this— the soothing words, the caregiving, the ability to make patients feel like they're the only ones in the room. In reality, this nurse probably has ten different kids he's looking after upstairs. Pedes always was busier than most other departments.

Blue eyes shift focus, "They're getting a room ready upstairs. Might still be a little while, though. Is it okay if I stay down here with her until it is ready?"

"Of course," Shane tells him. "She's stable for the moment and I just got her to eat a sandwich, so I'm sure she'll be getting sleepy in a minute."

"I could use some quiet," he says. A thin sheet is pulled higher across Anastasia's chest as her head lolls to one side. "My brain is too loud and being around screaming kids all day does not help."

"I get it." And he did. Shane pushes the image of the teen coding out of his mind with a small grimace. "It's been… a day."

A comfortable silence falls over them, the nurse softly humming a lullaby as he fixes her gown from where it gaps near her shoulder. The touch is so light that anyone would think the small girl is made of porcelain and not skin and bone.

"I don't think I caught your name," Shane says lowly. "Are you new?"

"Nurse Rozanov," the man says with a small smile. "But you can call me Ilya, I think."

Ilya Rozanov, Shane's mind puts together. He finds that he likes how it sounds when it echoes against his own mind. "Ilya," he nods.

"Shane," Ilya says back, an easy smirk on his face. "I used to work in the NICU at Presby, so new here, but I have been a nurse for five years. I transferred over when a spot opened up to work with my best friend."

"Maybe I've heard of them?"

"Svetlana Vetrova," Ilya tells him.

Shane knew her; it would be hard not to. Svetlana had been the nurse who was always sent down to collect any kids that needed to be transported up to pedes, and she had quickly become a department favorite. Trinity made it a point to flirt with her every time her stylish pink scrubs made their way through the sterile hallways, and Svetlana always made it a point to flirt back. If Shane had been a part of a few betting pools on whether that was going to happen or not, no one had to know.

"She's famous in here, you know," he chuckles. "I think our night shift attending has been trying to poach her."

"He can try. I'm starting to see why she likes it down here, though." He rests his forearms on the railing, laying his head on them to look up at Shane through his long lashes. Something swoops in the older man's belly. "You are always on the day shift?"

"I'm one of the attendings."

"Hm. Smart and good-looking." Ilya holds eye contact until Shane coughs and has to look away. It only emboldens him. "I like these things," he says, brushing a thumb over his own cheekbones. "Vesnushki. I do not know word in English."

"Freckles," Shane croaks.

"Freckles," Ilya repeats. "Cute."

Shane can feel his face flush and is immediately grateful for the room's dimmed light. Just outside, Princess and Perlah look on from the desk, whispering to each other quickly in Tagalog.

"Who is that?" Princess whispers fiercely. "I didn't know they made white boys that sexy anymore."

"He's the nurse I told you about! Remember? Hot, tall, ass that you could bounce a quarter off?" Perlah rushes out, counting on her fingers. "He's got an accent to boot. It almost pisses me off."

"If Shane won't…" Princess trails off, holding out her knuckles for her friend.

"Damn straight." Perlah laughs, returning the gesture. "Kinda looks like he's going to, though."

"We can't have shit in this house," Princess grumbles.

Back in the room, Shane wishes he could escape the focus of Ilya's gaze. "I'm old enough to be your father," he scoffs, plucking imaginary dust from the bed. "I haven't been called cute since I was in college."

Something slightly shameful pools in Ilya's belly at the words. He can see the flush on Shane's cheeks, the tips of his ears, his neck. Maybe he doesn't get flirted with, at least not this directly.

"You aren't though," Ilya tells him, tongue darting out to wet his lips quickly. "My father, that is."

"Thank fucking god for that," Shane mutters under his breath. Someone with worse hearing wouldn't have caught it. But Ilya is used to parsing things out of the overwhelming noise of children crying and laughing all day, so he could just about hear anything in such an already quiet room.

"Unless you're into that," Ilya throws out casually, leaning back on his stool and shrugging his shoulders like it was the easiest thing in the world. "No judgment from me. You look…what is word? Like you don't let yourself do anything you actually like to do?"

"Repressed?"

"Da!" Ilya snaps his fingers in the air at the recognition. "Repressed. That is what your entire," he waves his hand over Shane's body, "vibe gives off. Like you don't know how to have fun."

"I know how to have fun," Shane scoffs. "I've been having fun since before you were born."

"Hot."

"There's a child here!" He hisses, only slightly annoyed when Ilya answers with an eye roll. "Keep it appropriate!"

"She's sleeping and can barely understand English."

"Well—"

"If I am making you uncomfortable, I can stop," Ilya says earnestly. Eleven lines are forming between two straight brows, and Shane almost feels regretful that he's the cause of them. "As soon as they page me, I will go." He crosses two lines over his heart. "Promise."

"It's not that— I'm not uncomfortable," Shane tells him firmly. "None of this has made me uncomfortable, alright? You'd know if it did."

It was the opposite, actually. With every lingering glance and flirty word, Shane felt his insides light up like a Christmas tree. It had been a long time, probably too long, since he showed interest in someone and had it returned. There just wasn't enough time in the day, it seemed.

But here he was, a forty-nine year old man with about fuck all to show for it. He had a nice apartment in a good neighborhood, sure. He had a job that fulfilled him in ways nothing else had, definitely. He even had a handsome face, if what Rose had told him was to be believed. Their relationship had fizzled out once he realized he was gay, but Rose might have been the last person he felt something akin to love for, and that happened years ago. Somewhere along the way, maybe when his gray hairs started spreading out from his temples or his eye bags didn't get lighter after a full eight hours, Shane had lost the ability to see himself as desirable. And Ilya, well, Ilya was doing wonders for his self-esteem, even if his shyness couldn't bear to hear the words without flushing redder than the biohazard bin just behind his back.

"It's just been a while, is all," Shane admits, rubbing at the heated skin on the back of his neck. He can't help the way his eyes dart everywhere but Ilya's own. Eye contact wasn't always his strong suit when he was overwhelmed. "You're just very… direct."

And fucking hot, his mind reminds him.

"I am Russian. We don't hit the bush." He says it with such a straight face that Shane can't help the giddy sound that escapes his lips.

"Beat around the bush," Shane giggles, tension broken well and thoroughly. "It's beat around the bush, Ilya."

"English is stupid," he answers dismissively, already focused on the fact that he made Shane laugh. Something in his chest feels cracked open at the sight. The older man's eyes turned to small half moons when they scrunched closed, the already perfect smattering of freckles that sat high on his cheeks kissed by long, straight lashes. There were the beginnings of lines around his eyes and mouth, a sign of a life full of smiles and laughter. It makes Ilya want to be the reason for all of them. "You laugh at me because I don't know your weird language. Very mean. I will submit complaint to HR."

He can't even bring himself to pout, altogether too happy to be sitting opposite Shane. Time down here is limited, Ilya knows, but his brain is already plotting excuses to escape to the ground floor to see the older man.

"I needed that," Shane tells him, a few stray giggles coming through the words. "Especially after today."

"You lost a patient?" Ilya asks gently. The hospital could be beautiful and tragic all at the same time, but he's worked with enough doctors to recognize all the signs of losing a patient that shouldn't have ever ended up under the fluorescent lights in the first place.

"Am I that transparent?"

"Yes," Ilya teases. "I am observant. I'm sure you tricked everyone else, though."

"Doubt it. It feels like my mask is starting to slip." Shane runs a tired hand over his face. "To answer your question, yes. A teenage boy who got jumped on the Red Line."

"Fuck," Ilya sighed, mirroring Shane's movements. "Is always worse when it feels like someone died for no reason."

"That's life down here for you. The department that keeps on giving."

"You love it though, yes? Or else why would you stay?"

A complicated question with a complicated answer that leaves Shane feeling stripped bare in front of someone who is technically still a stranger. The room felt like a bubble, a zone safe from the bright halls and the sound of endless conversations merging into one loud noise.

Shane loved feeling useful; Shane loved knowing that people relied on him during the worst days of their lives. As fucked up as it was, there was nowhere he was more comfortable than a trauma room barking out directions to his nurses and residents while they try to save someone who might've been deemed not worth the effort. But the emergency department took as much as it gave. There's always an unshakeable fatigue that clings to his bones, regardless of the amount of sleep he gets. Even when he's lucky enough to, his dreams are plagued with the sounds of machines when someone goes into asystole and the gargling noises of lungs trying to breathe through blood. Seeing grief as often as they do leaches something from the soul; it's inevitable.

"I'm good at it," Shane says instead. He's not sure what he looks like from Ilya's eyes, but he knows he doesn't want it to be what he feels like. "I'm damn good at it, actually."

"What you are good at is not answering questions."

"Why did you choose pedes?" Shane deflects easily.

"I like children," Ilya says easily. "They like me. Is a win-win situation."

Ilya knows it's deeper than that, but Shane doesn't have to. Not so quickly, anyway.

"Dress code is more fun too," he smirks, pinching his scrubs with a finger. "I get to wear Snoopy and Woodstock and you get— how do you call this color?" He scrunches his nose. "Puke green?"

"Moss green," Shane corrects, rolling his eyes. "According to the Figs website, at least. The puke was an unfortunate accessory."

"My accessories are perfect just the way they are." He tugs on his pink stethoscope and beams, revealing a set of straight white teeth. The equipment catches on his shoulder, tugging it just so a small peek of a gold chain is revealed quickly. Shane wonders what's hanging on the end. "You are not allowed bright colors or what?"

"Pink isn't really my style."

"Is lie. Liar told you that," he pouts. "You would look good in any color, I think. Even moss." He shakes his head in feigned disgust. "Your cheeks turn pink when I talk, Doctor. I think it looks very pretty." The words are low, and they make Shane burn with embarrassment. "Is it something I said?"

And Shane really can't afford to fund being called Doctor sexy. Like at all. He's just about to open his mouth to say so when a loud beep cuts through the quiet. Ilya immediately reaches to his hip.

"Saved by the bell, Shane Hollander," he smirks, clipping the pager back to his side. "Her bed is ready upstairs, so we will give you your room back."

"Do you need the bed to transport?" He asks, glossing over their conversation and sliding into the mask he knows all too well. "We can spare some wheelchairs too, whatever works best."

"Is okay," Ilya tells him. "I will carry her." He scoots his stool closer to Anastasia's sleeping figure before softly shaking her shoulder. "Pora prosypat'sya, malysh."

"Papa?" Anastasia questions, eyes barely open and yet reaching out to Ilya's soft voice. The sight made something in Shane's chest clench. "Mne nekhoroso."

Ilya doesn't dare correct her. The little girl has already been through too much at her small age, and if she's reaching out for the comfort of her father, obviously not lucid enough to remember that he's gone, he'll gladly fill that role.

"Ya znayu. Poshli naverkh spat', da?"

He pulls her out of the bed as gently as he can, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. The stuffed dog almost slips to the floor before Shane catches it and gives it back to Ilya.

"She'll want this when she wakes up. I think she's quite attached to it."

"Thank you," Ilya nods. A beat of silence stretches between them as his fingers find the handle to the door. "You will be here for a few more hours, yes?"

"If it's you asking," Shane says. Ilya has been doing all the heavy lifting; it's only fair that he gets flirted with too. "Yes. I'll be here for a few more hours." It's worth it to see the smile the nurse tucks away.

"Good. I will come find you if anything changes?" The question is hopeful, and it makes Shane want to toe at the floor like a schoolgirl with a pathetic crush. "With Anastasia, I mean."

"Please do," he tells him. "Or, you know, if you need anything else at all, really. Even if you don't need anything, you can come hang out— well, not hang out, but Dana can always use a set of hands if you aren't busy! Not that I'm asking you to switch departments or to do extra work or anything—"

"You are puking words."

"Word vomit," Shane corrects, covering his face with his hands. "God, I feel like a fucking teenager."

"Is precious, don't worry," Ilya smiles, pushing through the door back into the fray. Their bubble has popped for the time being, and a quick prick of sadness settles over him at the thought. "Older you is better, I think. No one told me ED attending is a silver fox. You would have seen me sooner."

"I hate you."

"Liar."

____________________________________________

"I'm just telling you that nothing is going on," Robby tells him firmly. Night shift handoff has started, with all the day-shift nurses and doctors signing their patients over for continued care. "The nurses have been gossiping but really, it's not like that."

"Michael," he deadpans. Shane only ever brought out his friend's first name when he was calling him out on his bullshit. "You asked him to watch your house for three months. And then you come back from sabbatical and Santos tells me that Whitaker still isn't back in the apartment. Be honest."

"That doesn't mean—"

"Look, I'm not telling you not to do it." He puts his hand up like he's trying to calm a frantic animal. "I'm just saying that people talk and to be aware of it, alright?"

Robby looks put out, but he just nods curtly before signing a nearby chart, "Message received."

Shane leans in, "And maybe cool it with the marks. It looks like you mauled him."

He's never seen his friend blush before, not like this. It's enough to confirm the rumors are true and Robby quickly walks back into the fray, throwing one last middle finger up behind him.

By the time he makes it back to the top floor of the parking garage, Shane's dirty scrubs are shoved deep into his backpack and he's got his fleece jacket zipped up all the way to his chin. He had just enough energy to make it home.

Freezing air floods his lungs as he steps off the elevator and into the open-air lot and his breath stutters for just a second because of it. Canadian winters were a different thing altogether, but it never failed to shock Shane that Pittsburgh easily gave Ottawa a run for its money. Maybe it's just been a while since he's been back home. He makes a note to call his mother soon, then spots his SUV in the back corner of the lot. It sat mostly alone, only one car directly to its right, a smaller but well-kept sedan from the looks of it. One that currently seemed to have someone leaning against it, smoking a cigarette.

"It's a bad habit," he calls out as he approaches. Normally he wouldn't bother, but he's too tired to mask. His voice sounds slightly irritated as it carries the short distance. "You're standing upwind. Everyone is breathing that shit in."

"You are always so mean?"

Because of course it's Nurse Rozanov. Shane would probably be a little bit more embarrassed if his social battery wasn't completely drained.

"Depends," he says, eyes locked onto Ilya's pink lips that were starting to stretch into something that resembles a smile. "That a dealbreaker for you?"

"Opposite." He stubs out the cigarette on the floor before picking up the butt and putting it in his pocket. "Is sexy."

"You never found me."

"Ah, did you miss me, Doctor?"

Very much, actually. I've been looking for flashes of blue and yellow around every corner.

"I meant for Anastasia," Shane says instead, throwing his bag in his trunk easily. "You said you'd page me."

"You're breaking my heart," Ilya croons, slamming a hand against his chest like he's been shot. "I thought you would be my Snoopy, but maybe I am wrong. I am just lonely Woodstock with nowhere to fly, Hollander." He takes a step forward into Shane's space and pokes at his chest. "You did that."

"You might be skipping a few steps in our relationship, Rozanov." He likes the way the name feels as it rolls off his tongue. "What if I already have my own Woodstock?"

"You don't."

The certainty shocks a loud laugh out of Shane. Ilya looks like the cat that got the cream.

"And you would know that how? You writing a book or something?"

"When I went back upstairs to pedes, I asked around about the hot attending in the Pitt," Ilya says smoothly. "They told me about Robby and Abbot before they got to you, but I guess not everyone is perfect."

"You're telling me I'm everyone's third choice. Is that how they flirt back in Russia?" Shane steps forward, their toes barely a foot away from each other's. "Maybe something is getting lost in translation."

"The point is that you're my first choice."

"Lucky me."

Ilya tugs his beanie lower on his head and puffs out a breath, the fog quickly swept away by the breeze. "She is okay. The doctor is giving her some more antibiotics and I redressed the scratches on her leg."

"Did she tell you anything about her situation?"

"Not too much, but something is definitely not right. When the social worker talked to her, I translated and I am not sure she could understand what was going on."

Shane nods. "Probably still not all there because of the meds."

"The attending wants to keep her overnight; I think we will know more tomorrow."

It's as good as the news could've gotten. Optimism at this point would feel like a bit of a stretch; Shane knows the dangers of getting his hopes up too early all too well.

"Great. I don't want her to slip through the cracks. Too many kids do."

"Agreed. I know how she feels with being new to America. Everything is so… what is good word?"

"Overwhelming?"

"Yes, exactly. The language is different and there is no good Russian food anywhere and everyone is always yapping about Steelers or Penguins—"

"Sydney Crosby is the closest thing this city has to king," Shane interrupts. He gets a withering look from Ilya in response. "What? I like hockey. It's weirder that you live in Pittsburgh and you're from Russia and you don't."

"Not you too," the man groans. "That made you a little less hot, I think."

Shane had never been a particular fan of teasing—emotions were hard enough to navigate when people were being truthful, let alone when they had hidden feelings behind their words. There's not the familiar prick of annoyance with this, though, with Ilya. Ilya, who is big and broad, has a bright smile and an obvious passion for his work. Ilya, who seems to be genuinely interested in Shane even though there are so many factors that should be telling him not to be. Ilya, who is still standing out in the cold with him, without making a single complaint or moving to leave.

"I was just going to ask if you might be open to using some of my season tickets with me," Shane starts. "But if I'm not hot anymore…"

"Who said that? You have it on recording?" Ilya backtracks quickly. His hands come out of his pocket and he's gesturing around wildly, like he's really trying to sell the bit. It does nothing but charm Shane even more than he already was. "I love hockey! Is my favorite sport!"

Shane puts his hand out, failing to control the goofy smile on his face, "Give me your phone." Ilya hands it over without question, bouncing on his heels in anticipation. Shane's eyes catch on the movement. "These aren't the winning lottery numbers, you know."

"Not to you, maybe," he scoffs loudly. "Do you ever bother looking at yourself, Shane Hollander? No mirrors in your apartment?"

He had them, of course. That didn't change the fact that as the years went on, Shane looked at himself less and less. The lines on his face and the silver in his hair were consequences of twelve-hour shifts and stress, and while he's had his fair share of compliments, he's still not totally sure how he fits in with love and dating in his late forties.

Maybe you just need to get laid, his brain purred. Maybe you just need to have those hands around your dic—

"Here," he croaked, handing the phone back. "There's a game this weekend against Ottawa if you're interested."

"In you, yes," Ilya says, stepping so close to Shane that he can count the freckles on his cheeks. Electricity jolts down his spine when Shane takes a step back only for his body to press against his car. "Can I?"

There's an almost imperceptible nod from the older man whose eyes seem to be locked onto Ilya's lips. "Please."

Shane had kissed plenty of people in his years, but this felt different. There were fingers in his hair and a warm tongue swiping along his bottom lip, almost begging to be let in. His hands came to rest on the only bare skin his eyes could see, feeling the very slight stubble that was the consequence of a long shift. Shane idly plays with the short curls at the base of Ilya's neck, swallowing the groan that the younger man lets out at the touch.

"So pretty, doktor," Ilya purrs, taking Shane's lip in his teeth and letting it snap back. His thumbs brush the cluster of freckles that he had been thinking of all day, the skin warmer and darker from the bright flush of heat there. "I told you pink was your color."

"You're very sure of yourself," Shane gasps, head thunking back against the cold metal of his car. Ilya's lips are burning against his neck and Shane can't help the way his eyes scrunch closed against the pleasure of light nips of teeth. He can feel himself hardening under the attention and it makes him even more embarrassed.

"Yes," Ilya whispers against the shell of Shane's ear. "And I think you like it." He pushes them into a shadowy corner at the front of Shane's car where the floodlights of the garage can't reach. "You do, yes? Knowing anyone can come up here and watch you moaning like a slut just from some kissing?"

The words are landing with a force that Shane can't remember ever feeling before. It makes him panic and hard in equal measure, his head going slightly hazy at the commanding words. Being an attending means everyone is looking to him at any given moment with life-changing questions for 12 hours a day, every single day. Letting go of the reins makes something small and hidden inside him keen. It's almost humiliating how close Shane is, and yet he can't bring himself to care.

"Where do you live?" Shane asks quickly, pulling Ilya up from his neck. "I am not letting you fuck me in this dingy garage."

"Brookline," Ilya smirks, biting his lip to keep himself from beaming. "You are going to let me fuck you?"

"I'm in Squirrel Hill," Shane says instead. "No roommates and closer. Do you keep a change of clothes in your bag?"

"I work with kids vomiting and throwing things at me all day, of course I do."

"Good." He steps forward into Ilya's space, pushing until the younger man's back hits his own car. Blue eyes look at him with blown pupils, bouncing quickly between Shane's own brown ones and his kiss-bitten lips. It gives Shane just the smallest bit of ground to stand on. "Leave your car here overnight; my place only has one parking spot."

"Okay," Ilya says quickly. "Whatever you want is fine."

Interesting.

Shane cups Ilya's face with one hand, swiping a thumb over plump lips. The eagerness emboldens him, and his tongue becomes loose, unashamed. "What I want is for you to fuck me through my mattress." A sharp inhale cuts through Ilya's lungs at the words, and Shane can't help the way his mouth stretches into a shit-eating grin. "You think you can do that, baby?"

There's the tiniest nod, along with Ilya taking Shane's thumb into his mouth. Straight teeth nip at the tip of his thumb and both men can feel every ounce of blood rushing south. It's heady and unbearably hot; the cold feels more of an afterthought against their skin than anything.

Ilya pulls his mouth off with a sharp pop, before reaching into his own front seat for a duffel and tossing it into Shane's SUV. "I am not getting younger." He opens the passenger door and sits, buckling his seatbelt before looking up at Shane from under his long, light eyelashes. "And neither are you, doktor."

It's a reminder of their age difference, and more so, a reminder that Shane is embarrassingly hard at the thought of Ilya being twenty years younger than him and fucking him so hard that he'll be a bumbling mess by the end of it.

"Fuck you," Shane tosses back, ducking into the driver's seat and starting the car.

"Later."

The sound of the vents working overtime thankfully fills the silence as he pulls out of the garage and onto the streets of Pittsburgh. Ambient music, specifically his favorite satellite radio station that plays lo-fi music at this time of night, plays softly in the background as the lights pass them by. It's almost picturesque.

"How many times can you come?" Ilya blurts out, disturbing the peace. Shane's foot flutters on the brake and the younger man has to brace himself on the dashboard.

"Jesus Christ, can you not say those things while I'm driving?" He's thankful for the dark of the night; it's shading the blush that's coming back with a vengeance. "It's a safety hazard."

Some silence stretches before Ilya drums his fingers on his thigh, letting out a puff of air before asking, "So?"

"…I don't know. Twice, maybe?"

"You are so bad at this," Ilya laughs. He's secretly so charmed that his cheeks hurt from smiling. If he's not careful, Shane Hollander will be a problem for him in the future. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Wouldn't you just love to know," Shane mumbles under his breath.

The ride is short, even with the light traffic on 376. They're pulling into the small driveway of his townhouse before either of them realizes. Ilya looks up through the windshield and whistles, "I forget that attendings have a living wage. Maybe I chose the wrong profession."

"I got into college and med school on a scholarship," Shane says. He grabs Ilya's bag and his own from the trunk and pulls out his keys.

"Like I said, smart and sexy." He reaches for his duffel, "I can carry my bag."

Shane swings it just out of reach, totally ignoring the words. "The bathroom is upstairs, connected to the master. There's ginger ale and water in the fridge if you're thirsty and some snacks in the cabinets—"

"Ginger ale?" Ilya fake gags, "Do you have Coke? Vodka?"

"No and no. Sorry. I don't really drink," Shane tells him, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "I also don't really… do this kind of thing? I would've stocked up if I knew that this is where my night was going to lead."

Ilya smirks, "And where does your night usually take you, Shane? When you're not fucking men younger enough to be your son, I mean."

"God, don't say it like that! It makes me feel like I'm taking advantage of you or something…" He kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat. "This really isn't weird for you?"

"You act like you are a dirty old man or something," Ilya laughs. He nuzzles his nose into Shane's neck, peppering kisses on a sensitive spot just under his ear. "You are an adult, I am an adult. Is only an issue if you make it an issue, Shane."

"But this isn't like a thing for you?" He can feel himself starting to overthink. It's like his brain has gotten a second wind, and the spiral is just in view. "Because if it is—"

Ilya shuts him up with a soft kiss to his lips, one that quickly turns into something more hungry, more needy. Hands are grabbing at the backs of his thighs and before Shane can protest, he's swept up onto his counter like he weighs nothing. His stomach pools with dangerous want. Blessedly, his head goes a little quieter.

"I want to fuck you," Ilya says against his lips. "Do you want this? Or do you want to talk around it all night?"

"I want it," Shane breathes out, the sound almost too quiet for either to hear. "I want you."

"Louder," Ilya tells him, snaking a hand under the waistband of Shane's joggers. "Say it like you mean it and then maybe, just maybe, I will touch you here." He teasingly draws a feather-light outline of Shane's length with the very tip of his finger. It's so much and not nearly enough.

"I want you," Shane repeats louder, rolling his hips into the light touch desperately. "Shit, Ilya, I need you to touch me or else I'm going to lose my fucking mind."

"See how easy that was?" Ilya teases before licking back into Shane's mouth. "Here or the bed?"

"The bed," Shane tells him, hopping down from the counter and already jogging up the stairs. "My back isn't what it used to be."

Clothes are strewn down the stairs in their wake, and Shane can't even bring himself to care, not when big hands feel like they're everywhere and warm lips kiss trails up and down the newly revealed skin. They push through the door only for Ilya to laugh brightly, breaking the heated kiss.

"You think you have enough pillows?"

"Shut up," Shane grumbles, pulling his socks off and crossing the room to his hamper. "My interior designer said it made the bed look lived in."

"Opposite, I think. It makes you look like you live in an IKEA."

And well, that feels embarrassing enough that Shane doesn't feel childish in whipping every single said pillow right at Ilya's full head of curls.

"Nice quality, though," Ilya teases, annoyingly ducking out of the way. "Very soft. Feels like you spent a lot of money on them."

"You're doing a lot of talking for someone that said they were going to fuck me."

Ilya backs him up until the backs of his knees hit the soft duvet and Shane finds himself on his back. "You are very bossy. Is cute." He lets a hand trail up to the tops of Shane's cheekbones, "You are like small kitten when you get annoyed. These things," he smiles too sweetly, "these uh— what did you call them? Freckles? They make it so you don't look scary."

"I get them from my dad's side of the family," Shane says uselessly. He's not sure he's ever chatted so much during foreplay before, let alone laughed. It's making him realize he hasn't laughed at all in general recently; the feeling weighs down his chest ever so slightly. "Sorry, I'm not sure why that was relevant."

"See? Cute. All you are doing is proving me right."

Ilya tugs off his undershirt, leaving him in just plain dark briefs that stretch against the swell of thick thighs. There's a shiny gold crucifix that lies in the valley of his chest, glimmering brightly even in the soft, yellow light of the room. His skin is far too tanned for the middle of winter in Pittsburgh.

"Get those off," he says instead, jerking his head towards Ilya's underwear. Ilya does so without comment, stripping before throwing the clothes over his shoulder.

Ilya is big, thick. There's a neat patch of dark blonde hair at the base; Shane's mouth floods with saliva. He can't remember the last time he slept with a man— maybe at Abbot's bachelor party in Cancun all those years ago? Even then, the man was faceless in his memories, nothing more than an unimportant footnote in Shane's history. Maybe it was at that gay bar in Montreal that Rose dragged him to, but he's not really sure he would count a quick handjob in a dark bathroom as sleeping with someone. In hindsight, it was an experience that made him feel dirtier more than anything.

Most nights he didn't really need sex or the attention that came with it. And when he did, well, the purple dildo in his nightstand worked just fine to get him to where he needed to be.

Being gay was something that took time for him to come to terms with as a younger man, especially after growing up in locker rooms and on the ice. There was never a shortage of slurs thrown his way, at first mostly because he was the only Asian player on the ice, and when he got outed, it was because he was gay. It was a blessing in disguise, though— if that hadn't happened, then he'd have to worry about hiding who he was from everyone who knew him. He knows it would have never been worth it. Not in a million years.

"Don't worry, it will fit," Ilya says, smirking. His cocky attitude knocks Shane right out of his daze.

"I know it will," Shane scoffs, scooting back on the bed. "Are you going to prep me or do I have to do everything myself?" His eyes track the way Ilya's tongue flicks out to trace at his lower lips. He shimmies his underwear off before tossing them at Ilya's chest. "Well?"

"Ya tebya razorvu. Ty dazhe ne predstavlyayesh."

Ilya is on him before Shane can even think to reply. He's hungry, the pace of his kisses frantic like he's trying to take every second he can to indulge. Shane's eyes flutter closed as his breath becomes more labored, a small whine escaping his throat as plush lips wrap around his nipple. His fingers slide easily through soft, blond curls, keeping Ilya exactly where he wants him to be. His free hand blindly reaches into his nightstand for the small bottle that embarrassingly low.

"If you aren't inside me in the next few minutes, I'm going to fucking kill you," he gasps, body bowing to the light scrape of teeth on his chest. "Here."

Ilya shakes the bottle, "You have been busy?"

"God, shut up."

The sound of the cap popping open seems to echo through the room as Ilya drizzles it on the tips of his fingers, rubbing them together to warm the liquid. Lips are pressed against the shell of Shane's ear, "I like when you are a little mean." The words are combined with a gentle pressure at Shane's entrance. "Is sexy."

"You're kind of fucked up, you know that?" Shane chokes out, fingers gripping Ilya's biceps until he's sure marks would be left in their wake. He's too impatient to wait, rolling his hips down on the single digit. "Another one. Now."

"Your wish…"

The room feels like a sauna, hot and thick with the smell of skin filling the air. Sweat is starting to collect in a thin layer on Shane's heated skin, making the slide against their bodies absolutely slick. Another finger stretched inside him, the familiar ache panging through the muscles of his belly. He now very clearly remembers why sex with another real body was so much better than with silicone.

"You're so tight," Ilya tells him, wrapping his free hand loosely around Shane's cock. "Still okay?"

All he can do is nod against the pleasure sluicing down his spine and grip Ilya's curls even harder, bucking slightly when there's a wince below him. "Fuck, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—"

"Harder."

And maybe his ears are ringing too much because there's no way he was lucky enough to get himself in this situation— naked, on his back, with the hottest man he's ever seen in his life asking Shane to pull on his hair even harder than he already was. It's enough to make his mind swim, but he's nothing if not a quick study. Ilya asks him to pull harder, so he does; Shane doesn't miss the way a bead of precome leaks out of the younger man's head, and he doesn't miss the way his mouth salivates for it.

"I need you now, shit," he gasps, bearing down on the two fingers still inside him. It's not the most thorough prep he's ever had, but Shane finds that he could not possibly care less in the moment. His hand fumbles for a roll of condoms that had been sitting on his bedside table for what was probably just a tad too long and hands one over to the other man. Ilya opens his mouth, seemingly to protest, but Shane cuts him off, "Keep your promise, Ilya."

"Holy shit," Ilya breathes, eyes wide as he takes in the view under him. Shane's skin is tinged pink with blush, the freckles on his face that had enamored him from the first second trailed down his chest in lighter clusters, and they seemed to shimmer a little bit extra under the soft light of the bedroom. Hooded brown eyes gazed up at him, pupils almost consuming the color. Kiss-bitten lips puffed out whiny breaths as Ilya scissored his fingers inside Shane's entrance. He's by far the most beautiful person Ilya has ever laid eyes on, and the breath stutters in his chest for a second while his brain catches on to the realization. "Are you real, angel?"

"I know that one," Shane breathes, heart pounding against his ribcage. Pet names were never something he was interested in, not really. He'd been called more in the past few hours than he had in any other intimate setting before. "Find out."

As he pushed in slowly, Ilya crushed their lips together with a fervor that only a young man could have, swallowing the sharp breath that Shane exhaled at the intrusion. He can't remember ever being inside someone so tight, the pressure around his length dizzying and hot. "Perfect," he kissed into Shane's mouth. "So perfect for me, doktor. Do I feel as good to you as you do to me?"

"Yeah," Shane gasps. "I feel like I can feel you in here." He takes Ilya's free hand and places it at the base of his belly. "Holy shit, Ilya." His hips roll down to take the last inch into his body, punching out a groan from the younger man.

"Call me what you said earlier," Ilya begs, eyes scrunched closed against the pleasure of Shane's heat. His face is buried in the sweaty crook of Shane's neck, breathing in a smell that shouldn't be so clean and delicious after twelve hours in a hospital. "At our cars."

Shane thinks back and immediately remembers— he's not used to using sweet names with people, after all. It usually sounds too weird to him, but 'baby' had slid off his tongue with a smoothness that seemed to shock both of them. That doesn't mean he'll make it easy on the man, though.

"Tell me," he starts quietly, whispering the words into Ilya's ear. His hand anchors around his neck, and Shane feels the twitch inside him. "Ask like the big boy you are, and maybe I'll say it."

"Mean," Ilya tells him, nipping at his neck. There's a delicious smell radiating off of Shane's skin, something clean and woody and purely Shane. It makes Ilya's head a little bit airy. "Evil, even."

Shane clenches around his length and laughs openly at the way it makes Ilya's hips stutter forward. "I thought you liked that?"

"I do," Ilya whispers into his skin, pulling out before pushing back in in one smooth motion that makes Shane's mouth drop open with a silent sigh. "I do, I do, I do…"

The feeling of blunt nails digging into his skin almost hurts; Ilya's convinced that if he looked behind him now there would be bright red lines and small crescent moons in the wake of Shane's fingers. He's glad he'll take something from this experience when he goes, those little moons and the vision of Shane fighting the small punched-out breaths that keep escaping when Ilya pushes himself in.

Time blends into one big amorphous thing; neither knows when they started, only that the room is still dim and the windows are still dark, and their rhythm is faltering while the white-hot pleasure licks at the insides of their bellies. Shane is louder than Ilya would've expected, his voice high and reedy with ecstasy so powerful it had little tears pooling in the corners of his big, brown eyes.

"Tell me what you need, dorogoy." Ilya ducks quickly to press their lips together, swallowing down the keen that Shane lets out at the words. "Is it too much? How long has it been since you've let someone touch you?"

"Fuck," Shane answers, hands grasping any bit of Ilya his eyes can see. "Does it matter?" There are teeth at his neck that are pushing for him to speak the answer. "Too long; that's all you're going to get."

"A shame," Ilya tells him, licking over the bite. He's mesmerized at the way it's already blooming purple. He reaches between them, wrapping a loose hand around Shane's length. "You are hiding this beautiful cock under those ugly scrubs all day. It makes him sad," Ilya pouts, squeezing just enough to make Shane's eyes flutter, "makes me sad too."

"What would you have me wear at the hospital?" Shane groans.

"Nothing, obviously." He can feel his rhythm starting to get messy, the pleasure blinding in his belly. The vision of Shane below him, glistening with sweat and his lips bitten red, wasn't helping. "So everyone can see just how pretty you look with my bites on your skin." Nails rake through his hair, pulling hard after Ilya slams into the sensitive spot inside him. "Ah, you like that, yes? You want everyone to know that their boss could still pull?"

"Mhm," Shane hums, eyes scrunched shut. His ego feels inflated, and after years of what felt like nothing, he can't lie and say that it doesn't feel incredible to hear the words. "I'm so close, fuck. You feel so good," he pulls Ilya's ear to his lips, "baby."

The name hits Ilya like a bullet through his chest, hips stuttering inside Shane as he feels himself empty into the condom. He buries his face into the crook of Shane's neck, sinking his teeth in as he rides out his aftershocks. Shane is cooing in his ear.

"Oh, you weren't kidding, were you?" He starts, voice dripping in condescension. "That's all it took?" There's a pathetic sounding whimper that vibrates through his skin, one that makes him clench around the still hard length inside him. Ilya did say he liked him a little bit mean. Shane is starting to realize that he likes the way that power feels, likes the way it makes his head airy. "Kind of rude you didn't make me finish first."

Ilya took pride in being a generous lover, and he can't help but feel slightly embarrassed at the fact that he blew his load so early. He can't bring himself to pull back from the safety of Shane's neck. "I do not know what happened—"

"You're still hard," Shane cuts him off. He wraps his ankles around Ilya's hips, flipping them over seamlessly. The quick move makes a surprised breath puff out of Ilya's lips. The younger man's eyes are shut, eyebrows drawn together in overstimulation. "Youth is wasted on the young." He rolls his hips down slowly, hands squeezing at Ilya's pecs until his knuckles go white. "I don't want to stop, Ilya. I need this, shit, I need you."

"Shane, please."

"You told me you'd fuck me through my mattress and yet here I am, doing all the work," he pants. He's close; he can feel the flames licking at his insides, the heat of Ilya spearing him in two. Blond curls furl against the dark pillowcase, lips parted in pleasure, but eyes still closed. Shane forces himself to slow his rhythm to something torturous before roughly grabbing Ilya's jaw in his hand. "Look at me, Ilya." The younger man just shakes his head, holding back a groan as his hands grip the sheets. "Let me see your eyes, baby. I want you to watch me take everything from you."

Eyes fly open at the request, the blue standing out against the dim light of the bedroom. Shane's heart starts to beat a little bit harder against his ribs, and he feels himself set a blazing rhythm, gripping onto the headboard behind Ilya for leverage. "Good boy."

"Holy fuck," Ilya keens, hands flying to Shane's hips. "You will kill me, Shane. I will die here right in this bed, I think."

"Not before you finish what you started, you won't." He ducks quickly to lick filthily into Ilya's open mouth. Their tongues slide together deliciously, and Shane swallows down the moan that seems to come straight from Ilya's chest. "Touch me. I want your hands on me when I come."

There's a tight vice around his length almost before he can finish the sentence, and Shane feels absolutely drunk with the power of it all. The wave is cresting as Ilya spurs him on, the younger man's eyes not daring to close again for fear of missing the vision of Shane above him. There are smatterings of lighter freckles all the way down Shane's chest, ones that Ilya's eyes track down quickly before pulling the man closer to kiss messily at Shane's sweat-slicked skin.

It's the reverence in the action that is Shane's undoing in the end. The hand around him and the heat inside him surround every single one of his senses, making stars explode behind shut eyes. He paints Ilya's chest in white, and the sight makes something shameful curl in his chest as he pulls him in for another heated kiss. The younger man is still rolling his hips against Shane's prostate, milking him for everything that he has.

"Can you come for me, baby?" Shane gasps against his cheek. "Can you be a good boy and do that for me?"

"Blyad!" The syllable is harsh, as is the grip of fingers on Shane's hips. For the second time tonight, Ilya spills into the condom as his hips involuntarily twitch up into Shane's entrance. He rests his forehead against Shane's, breath heaving out from his lips. "Ty ne mozhesh' byt' nastoyashchim." The words come out quieter than he expected, barely audible over the sounds of Shane catching his breath. He feels himself slip out of the other man, and he quickly removes the condom and ties it off before tossing it into the small bin next to Shane's bed. They both flop against the bed, limbs feeling more like jelly than bone. Silence stretches for a minute, and then:

"I thought I was supposed to be the one to come twice tonight."

Ilya whips his head to the side, ready to defend himself when he catches a tired smile playing on Shane's lips. It makes something in his chest clench, and in this singular moment, Ilya knows that this can't be the last time he's in this bed. He won't let it be. "Yes, well. The night is still young. Unless you won't be able to get it up again, old man." He lets out a joyful laugh at the way Shane shoves at him. "You are old man, is the truth!"

"You seem to like it," Shane tells him. He turns over, grabbing some tissues before wiping Ilya down. "You seem to like it a lot, actually. Is there something you feel the need to tell me?" He presses a chaste kiss to Ilya's lips before throwing a leg over his thighs. He always was a little clingy after sex, and something settles when Ilya seems to lean into the pressure of his body.

"Nothing at all, I think."

"Okay, baby."

"I hate you."

"No, I don't think you do."

Ilya pulls the sheet over them, eyes drooping and limbs pleasantly heavy. "No, I really, really don't."