like yes, he's freed from his family, but this is still subconsciously his paradigm for love.

Alright, what's the plan?

"ah, so you are arsonist," ilya says, swinging away from the dancing flames to grin at shane, who, predictably, scowls at him. "should i be worried? imagine the headlines! boston star center dies in mystery fire. would be scandalous."

shane's elbow finds ilya's ribs. they're sharp, sharper than they have any right to be, and he wonders how it's taken him 10 years to notice.

"fuck off, city boy." shane tries to keep his scowl in place. he tries, but it transforms to a crinkly eyed smile that catches ilya in the stomach.

but it's easy to fall into familiar habits. they tussle, breathless and buoyant, until shane pulls ilya to his chest and they settle. the fire licks into the darkness. it twists and undulates, and ilya loses himself in the white heat of its center.

"i never went camping," he says eventually as the cherry red glow of the logs shift to ash. "i wanted to but -" he makes a broad sweeping gesture with one hand "-my parents."

as if that explains anything at all.

he slides further down shane's chest and the steady ba thump ba thump of his heartbeat echoes in ilya's every pulse point. if it was possible to tether himself to it, he would.

shane is silent for a long moment, the sweep of his thumb along the bare strip of skin at ilya's waist sending goosebumps up his spine, but then:

"we can go." and he says it easily. he says it like the foundation of this thing they're building isn't fragile. "i know a place. it's - uh - i think you'd like it."

ilya swallows past a lump in his throat and hums. he swings his legs up onto the loveseat to settle his head fully in shane's lap.