Tired. Gay. Emo.

shane is perhaps hyperaware of cliff marleau’s presence tonight, but only in the way that ilya hasn’t gotten to see him in such a long time. it’s a reunion of sorts. so vibes are up. his husband’s happy and that makes shane happy, his slightly swimming brain latching onto the endorphins that spike around marleau like they’re his own.

it’s why his body reacts the way it does when one moment, things are footloose and fancy free, and then the next, there’s this solid, hulking weight settling behind him, not touching but unmistakably there. it’s marleau’s deep voice. marleau’s woodsy cologne. marleau’s heat, hovering just shy of shane’s back as he leans over his shoulder to shout something at ilya.

it’s loud as fuck in here, the bass sitting low in shane’s chest, so he really does mean shout. but ilya leans in a bit to catch his words. seamlessly. they’ve done this so many times, shane assumes, finding each other in clubs after inevitably splitting up. and that’s fine. that’s good. ilya’s laughing and he’s happy and that makes shane happy. and then the crowd moves.

it’s light - a ripple effect as a group of girls make their way through the sea of bodies - but it’s just enough, that adrenaline spiking with a top-off of sweet endorphins as suddenly, marleau’s body sinks in to press all along shane’s back.

it’s nothing. an accident. and yet shane’s heart suddenly bunny-kicks in his chest, the light squeeze of him caught between ilya and marleau’s chests sending a pulse of satisfied heat through his core. because neither of them are moving away. there’s a natural sway to them that comes from being in a crowd of bodies, but the extra space must’ve never freed up behind marleau after the girls passed. and all of the sudden shane’s brain and dick register that he’s stuck. that he’s squished, by firm muscles, from all sides.

he’s been in this position before. on a dance floor like this. rose kissing him, miles’s lips not so secretly brushing against the back of his neck. it’s not a new position, but tonight is nothing like that. right now, there’s nothing remotely sexual even happening. it’s just ilya talking to his friend. just having a moment. casual and circumstantial and yet shane’s skin is on fire. his muscles are screaming with relief, the beautiful satisfaction of the deep pressure surrounding him making his brain swim down deep.

ilya shouts something back to marleau with a devastatingly handsome smile. it gets both hands reaching over shane’s shoulders to give ilya’s a friendly rub and it’s too loud to catch. all shane knows is they’re both laughing now. they’re like boys again - a revisit to their clubrat days and they’re just as smooth and sexy but they’re mature now. stable. and shane is ilya’s, those big hands on his hips now that marleau’s snug against his back. there’s no room to actually dance and shane’s finding he couldn’t be happier about that, pulse thick and thundering in his ears as another wave presses in, marleau’s touch dropping back to clamp over shane’s deltoids as he’s forced to press forward again - so fucking tightly into him this time that shane stumbles that last half a step into ilya’s chest and fuck.

shane’s eyes flutter closed. hands fall to clutch into the back of ilya’s tank top. his dick jumps in his jeans as the heady pressure squeezing around him tightens. neither of the men seem to care that marleau’s all up on shane and maybe that’s normal. maybe that’s just the way the club scene is. you get cozy and flush against your best friend’s partner and no one bats an eye because it doesn’t mean anything. it’s just a spacing issue.

maybe shane’s the freak.

because he’s trying not to, but he can feel himself getting hard. he can hear all that teasing that poured from his husband’s lips after he admitted to hypothetically wanting this around that fire pit. the pressure. the trap. with this man specifically.

marleau leans his head back for a second and his warm breath fans against the nape of shane’s neck and suddenly, like a demon has possessed him, it’s taking everything in shane’s power not to back his ass up into marleau’s lap. to grind against him a little. just to see. god, he’s drunk. he needs ilya to take him home and fuck him. he needs to stay right here and live out his days crushed between these two sweaty bodies, their colognes mixing into this insane aroma that gets in shane’s head and makes him wanna do something crazy.

he just needs to recenter. steady his pulse. enjoy the pressure without equating it to something filthy, like he can usually do so well, but for some reason is struggling hard as hell with right now.

shane rests his chin over ilya’s shoulder with a hum. closes his eyes. remembers himself and where he is and opens them back up, making eye contact with a twink who’s watching him with what can only be described as biblical proportions of envy.

they need to leave. before shane does something stupid. before he ruins a friendship that’s been in the works for over a decade because he’s drunk and horny and can’t control himself.

shane lifts his head to brush his lips against ilya’s ear, but before he can ask, something happens behind them. whatever it is, it’s got marleau’s lap pressing up flush against his ass and god, it sends this buzzy pleasure through him so, so deeply and the noise escapes shane before he can reel it in. before he can act like he’s normal and not very obviously so fucking turned on between them.

he can feel ilya’s chest rumble. hear the smirk that’s dancing across his lips as he noses his way over to shane’s ear instead.