No Feeling Is Final

each breath catches in the top of his chest, shallow, little gasps, and it's as if his bees have burrowed under his skin. he wets his bottom lip. it would be easy for him to close the distance. one, two, not even three steps and he would be nose to nose with him. there's not much between them in that respect, same height, same broad build. ilya wouldn't even stop him from snatching the jar back, he's almost certain.

this is a test, he thinks wildly.

"i won't tell if you don't." ilya's voice, low and silken, wraps around shane and raises the gooseflesh on his arms. the workshop has never felt smaller.

with deliberate slowness, ilya scoops two fingers of honey from the jar. golden and viscous, it clings to his fingers, dripping in quick sticky rivulets down the back of his hand to his wrist as he brings his fingers to his mouth. shane swallows. ilya's lips part and he moans as the honey hits his tongue.

it's too big a sound for the confines of the stuffy workshop. ilya's eyes close and shane can't look away from the slow slide of his fingers as they disappear between his lips.

"they were right," ilya moans, licking at his wrist and pinning shane with a look so heated he burns down to the soles of his feet. "is as good as they say. floral, yes?"

shane nods, breathless, locked on the wet sheen of ilya's impossibly red mouth. his cock twitches, hard now beneath his habit. ilya hums, licks at his fingers again, and pauses to savour the taste.

"your turn, pchelka."

ilya advances. shane is used to the swell of ilya pressing into his personal space by now. he loves to get close, close enough that they're almost chest to chest and more than enough for shane to see the shifting blue green of his eyes or to map out all his moles and freckles. but there's no teasing edge to his approach, his expression shuttered to a dark intensity that has his pulse jumping at the base of his throat.

he still smells bright from the outside, something fresh and sharp that mixes with the honeyed sweetness from the jar and something smokier that shane knows is all ilya. the yawning pit of hunger in him roars to life. as ilya comes to a stop in front of him, all shane wants to do is press his nose to the hollow under the hinge of his jaw, the base of his throat, hell, his armpit if it meant he would be full.

ilya dips his fingers back into the jar and brings up a smaller scoop this time. he twists his wrist to balance the gob so it doesn't drip and holds it just in front of shane's mouth. he would barely need to move to sneak a taste. the very tip of his tongue would reach.

shane presses his lips together. he barely manages to shake his head. he's not even sure it counts, a sharp, shuddering jerk from one side and then the other, but ilya's expression softens like he expected this. he twists his wrist to catch a drip before it lands down the front of shane's habit.

"careful," he says softly. "you don't want to create more laundry for your brothers."

shane drops his eyes from ilya's to his mouth to his fingers and back.

it occurs to shane that these are the same fingers that ilya had in his own mouth, that to taste the honey in this moment would, in some small way, be to taste ilya. he looks between the honey and ilya's lips which part once more into a grin. is shane so easily read? does he know what he's thinking? shane swallows. the wanting rises in him, as angry as the swarm as it presses up under his skin and stretches him to bursting. he has nowhere for it to go. there is no waiting hive to siphon this part of himself off to ease the strain and make more room. he must keep it. cull it.

ilya edges closer. his free hand skims the rough spun edges of his habit. it's a suggestion of touch and shane feels it like Ilya has placed his work rough hands directly on his skin all the same. "is no bad thing, sevochka," he says, voice low and as soft as the caress shane wants so badly. "you can blame me."

all the air whooshes out of him because of course he would offer himself up like that to give Shane an easy out.

"is okay," he continues, voice catching, and brings the honey coated tips of his fingers to rest against the soft seam of shane's mouth. shane quakes. the honey is warmed through from the heat of ilya's skin. shane's ears buzz. his fingers tingle. he wants.

he wants.

and he wants.

shane opens his mouth and sucks ilya's fingers down to the second knuckle.

the florals hit him first. it's the heady scent of the orchard, of a wildflower meadow, and it lingers at the back of his nose when the sweetness hits. he can't remember the last time he ate anything sweet. it's so sweet it catches him in the hinge of his jaw and his mouth floods with saliva. god, he wants more. he wants to pour the entire jar straight into his mouth.

no.

he wants ilya to feed it to him. fingerful by fingerful until it's gone and he's sick with it because just behind all that sweetness is the salt of ilya's skin and he might just want that more. a punched out noise works it's way out of him, muffled by ilya's fingers.

ilya presses down on his tongue and shane hollows his cheeks, working to get the last of the honey still left on his skin. ilya's eyes are blown, wide and dark, he stares at shane with parted lips.

"more?" he rasps even as he slides his fingers from shane's mouth to scoop more from the jar.

despite the frantic thrashing of his heart in his chest, shane doesn't dare move, ilya's own pulse jumps at the base of his throat, but it's as if they themselves are suspended in honey. every movement is molasses slow as ilya's fingers press into shane's mouth once more.

there's less than a hand's breadth between them and shane aches with the distance. all it would take is shane's hand on ilya's hip to pull them together. he could stack their legs, grind down ilya's thigh. anything if it meant he could feel some relief from the throbbing between his legs.

but he can't.

he won't.

ilya catches him behind his front teeth, his thumb digging into the soft underside of his jaw, and tugs a little like he wants to pull shane close but he slides his fingers free instead. shane stifles the whine that fights up his throat. he snuffles, pants, like some soft bellied animal denied a treat.

"oh, sevochka."

shane shivers at the name. not his name, not the name he wants to hear ilya sigh so sweetly, but it's all he'll ever have because that's the name he chose. there is so little of "shane" left. he chose the life of a worker drone and he is but one of many. ilya brushes the edge of his hand across shane's cheek and for the briefest second, he wishes he hadn't.