i want to build you a boat

shane’s stomach drops. he pulls away, looking for his shirt. the millisecond he manages to spare on noticing ilya’s face devastates him, but he doesn’t have time he has to move he needs to get out. through the itch at the back of his tongue, he scrambles off ilya’s lap, mumbling something about having to go, and bolts to the bedroom where his stuff is.

he’s crouched at his duffel bag, rifling through the pocket where his epipen lives—it has to be in that pocket, it’s never been anywhere else he’s never put it anywhere else—and his throat is starting to close as ilya finally catches up to him, and he’s saying something that shane can’t understand because where the fuck is his epipen oh god it’s getting hard to breathe fuck where is it—

his pinky finger brushes the hard plastic of the case, which he whips open to dump the auto-injector out into his right hand. he pops the safety cap off and swings down to stab himself in the thigh.

he’s still too panicked to take a full breath, but at least he’s not actively dying. he looks up at ilya to ask him to call an ambulance, but before the word “can” fully leaves his mouth, he stops at the look on ilya’s face. in one word: terrified. in two: terrified, devastated.

“i’ll be okay,” shane says. “i just need you to call an ambulance.” at the refreshed panic in ilya’s wide eyes, he repeats, “i’ll be okay. it’s just—the first thing they teach you when you get diagnosed with a life-threatening allergy, you always call an ambulance after using an epipen.” ilya doesn’t relax, but he manages to pull himself together enough to nod and pull his phone out of his pocket to dial 911.

they wait in the kitchen until they hear sirens.

“do you want—”

“could you—” they speak at the same time.

“sorry. you first,” shane says, ever canadian even when he just almost died.

ilya waves, head jerking in a single nod.

“okay. um. i know this is probably weird to ask, and you can totally say no and i won’t be mad or anyth—”

“hollander.”

“will you ride to the hospital with me? please?” shane rushes out, the request sounding like one single word.

“i…”

shane shakes his head a little. “seriously, it’s okay, you don’t have to come. it was stupid of me to ask, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to make y—”

“shane. is okay. i will come to hospital with you. you should not go alone.”

shane nods once, and when the medics knock on the door, ilya is there to let them in.

Shane stops breathing. His skin goes hot, then cold, prickling, his hair standing on end. There's no way. He must have heard it wrong, there was no way-

"Now why are you limp dick losers talking about my best girl?"

Shane has to shut his eyes. This is not happening, surely. Ilya Rozanov is not swaggering up to the next table, calling Shane his - his -

"Ayyye, Cap. We were just talking about our top fucks."

"Ah, I see. You all had nothing to offer so you had to talk about my conquests, I understand."

Boos briefly follow.

"No but seriously, Cap. Yours has gotta be Jane, right?"

Rozanov hums, slow, indulgent, like he's savouring something. "Mmmh yes. My Jane."

Some catcalls follow, lurid. Shane's pulse is in his throat, thumping thumping thumping. He stares out into the throng of writhing bodies on the dancefloor, unblinking.

"Yeah okay so you love banging this chick, but that still doesn't answer the question: what was your best fuck with her."

Rozanov's laughter is rolling, incredulous. "This I cannot answer - no, no it is true!" He adds when he's met with crows of denial, "My Jane, she is always surprising me. She is crazy for my cock. You would not understand what this is like, for a girl to want your dick so bad she is biting your belt buckle."

It's like getting shoved in the solar plexus, hard. Boston's jeering rises but it doesn't dim the memory - they hadn't seen each other in weeks, and it was coming off of summer besides, and Shane had felt like he was on fire, like he'd die if he didn't get Rozanov's cock inside him now now right fucking now, and in his desperate rush, mouthing his way across denim, over Rozanov's zipper, he'd clipped his teeth against -

"I call bull. No way she's that easy for it."

"Oh, but she is," Rozanov's voice is inescapable, like he's whispering straight into Shane's ear, "I go to eat her out and I can already work three fingers inside - she opened herself up for me in the shower because she needs it so bad."

That's not fair, Shane thinks dizzily over Boston's whooping, that wasn't the same night as the belt thing.

Ilya is still talking, rapturous now:

"- but it does not matter if she does not open herself up before I get there because the way this girl gets wet for me? Oh my god, she is like - like faucet, just dripping, always, making a mess in her little panties -"

And suddenly Shane is standing, uncaring if the movement is obvious through the dim lights of the club. He's weaving, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Jesus, people probably think he's wasted what with the way he's walking, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything apart from getting behind a locked stall door right fucking now.

When the lock clicks shut, Shane is scrambling for his pants. He's so hard he's throbbing, hot to touch. And he's - he's dripping, all down his shaft, down to his fucking balls, making a mess of his -

Panties, Shane hears in Rozanov's indolent drawl, and he puts his fist in his mouth and bites down, hard.

It's enough to muffle his noises, if not the shwick shwick shwick of his hand jacking his cock.

It's enough so that he doesn't miss the door handle of the bathroom turning.

Shane's hand doesn't (can't) stop working, neck arching as it flies over his dick, but he's not worried, not really.