I started writing Tampa reunion post tuna meltdown and Rose Landry. Is this worth continuing? I am unsure.
Itâs surprisingly easy, natural even, to crawl into Rozanovâs lap. To cradle his blonde head between his palms and weave his fingers through Rozanovâs thick curls; to rub his thumb over Rozanovâs earlobe and gently rock them back and forth at the edge of the mattress.
The shape of Rozanov--Ilya, he reminds himself, Ilya--is solid beneath him, warm and sniffly, his face pressed into Shaneâs pec right by his armpit. There are tears soaking through the fabric of his nice, new shirt but Shane finds he doesnât mind. Doesnât mind even a little bit when Ilya breathes shakily and rubs his nose over the sleeve of Shaneâs shirt, probably leaving behind a trail of snot. In fact, something in him warms and unfurls and spreads all throughout his body at the action. At the vulnerability in it. He wants to tuck Ilya into his chest and keep him there. Maybe forever.
That particular thought makes Shaneâs stomach twist itself into an uncomfortable knot.
I would never be able to go back home again. Do you get that?
Shane pulls back, just a fraction, his palm still cupping the back of Ilyaâs head as he slides his thumb along Ilyaâs temple, catching stray tears on the pad then smudging them into Ilyaâs hairline. Not burying the evidence of Ilyaâs vulnerability but carefully, tenderly, tucking it somewhere safe. Between the press of their bodies.
Rozanov--Ilya--shudders through a snotty inhale then blinks up at Shane, his eyes wet and dark in the low lamplight. Involuntarily, like he just canât help himself--he canât, he really canât--Shaneâs forehead drops and then their noses are bumping together, breaths mingling in the space between them. The tip of his nose catches on the bump of Ilyaâs bridge--the bone broken and healed and broken again--before sliding down further, dragging over the curve of Ilyaâs cupidâs bow.
He closes his eyes. Ilya shifts and presses his lips to the corner of Shaneâs mouth and then just lingers there. Lingers, and lingers, and lingers. His nose tucking into Shaneâs cheek, fingers grasping at Shaneâs shirt. Somehow itâs the closest theyâve ever been.
âDo you feel better?â Shane breathes, and itâs muffled where his mouth is smeared against Ilyaâs damp cheek, but he knows Ilya hears it because he tenses and sucks in a ragged breath. His shoulders rolling back like heâs preparing to push away. Shane holds him tighter, clamps his thighs around Ilyaâs hips. He doesnât want him to pull away. âDonât,â Shane says and Ilya pauses, fingers flexing against Shaneâs hip. A nervous twitch perhaps.
âIâm not--â he starts and Shane shakes his head, dipping down and brushing their mouths together. He tastes tears on Rozanovâs lips and he licks away the salt.
âYou are,â Shane insists and finally settles when he feels Ilya relent, spine slumping as Shane slides his fingers through his hair. âStay,â he murmurs and Ilya shivers, tilting his head, mouth smudging against Shaneâs chin. Shane soothes his thumb in circles over Ilyaâs earlobe, something heâs seen Rozanov do a dozen times to himself before. The effect is immediate. Ilyaâs head tilts into the touch and his lashes flutter. âStay,â Shane repeats.
âIs my room,â Ilya retorts, tone bordering on bitchy. Shane huffs a laugh and pulls back to look down at Ilya again. Ilya is watching him warily, eyes darting around Shaneâs face like he doesnât quite trust anything heâs seeing. Like heâs the one thatâs asking stay and Shane is the one pulling away.
Shane thinks of Ilya asking him to stay in Boston. Lips pressed to the pinched corner of Shaneâs mouth as he whispered stay into the quiet afternoon. In the months since then he has wondered what would have happened if he had stayed.
Nothing about any of this has ever been simple. They both knew that. Any attempt at pretending otherwise was, as Shane had said, bullshit.
âYou are staring at me,â Ilya mumbles then. It sounds self-conscious in a way that Shane is unfamiliar with coming from Rozanovâs mouth. And he wants to say something witty or flirty or teasing in retort but he comes up short. He's too busy fixating on the shifting colours in Ilyaâs eyes, clearer to him now that he is sitting in his lap. Blue and green and hazel flicker behind the curtain of Ilyaâs thick lashes and Shane presses his thumbs to the apples of his cheeks. Shane is most certainly staring. Trying to figure Ilya out. âHollander.â
Shane. He thinks. Call me Shane.
Instead of replying to Ilya, he ducks his head and presses their brows together. Between them their breaths shudder and mingle. Ilyaâs breath smells like mint and cigarettes and Shane wants to want to reprimand him but instead finds heâs missed the smell.
When heâd been with Rose a few of her Hollywood friends would chain smoke after dinner. One in particular had smoked Ilyaâs brand of cigarettes -- Newports -- and Shane had shivered when the smoke had wafted over him outside the restaurant in the freezing Montreal air. Something within him had churned hot and nauseating at the sense memory. Almost like he could taste Rozanovâs lips on his -- taste his tongue licking into his mouth, hear himself complaining about Rozanovâs smoking, see Rozanov rolling his eyes in response. An attack on all his senses. His whole body overcome by Rozanov.
Maybe it wasnât that heâd missed the smell in general. But that heâd missed it on Ilya. The way the menthol scent mixed with Ilyaâs cologne. Bergamot and vetiver. Rich and masculine and warm. Beneath that the smell of Ilyaâs skin, his hair, the salt of his sweat. The sharp scent of peppermint on Ilyaâs breath, attempting to cover up the cigarettes.
Shane presses his mouth to Ilyaâs then and sighs, moans, gasps, as Ilyaâs tongue slips between his teeth. His fingers grasp, on instinct, tugging at Ilyaâs hair, trying to bring them closer together. Not that they possibly could be closer. Shane still heavy in Ilyaâs lap, pinning him at the edge of the mattress with his thighs. Ilya beneath him and gripping back, his fingers digging into Shaneâs flesh through the soft material of his shirt.
They kiss for a while like that. Gripping and grasping at each other. Mouths dragging, lingering. Each kiss getting deeper, hotter, wetter. Until Shaneâs jaw is aching and his head is spinning and his chest is shivering, desperate for a full gulp of air.
When they drag apart Shane is breathing heavily. Ilyaâs pupils are wide and black, almost entirely encompassing the blue of his irises. His breathing is unsteady too. Puffing over Shaneâs cheeks in damp gasps as he licks his bottom lip and nudges their noses together.
âHollander,â Ilya calls and Shane shakes his head.
âDonât,â he answers.
âDonât?â Ilya asks, head tilting, mouth smudging against the corner of Shaneâs lips.
âIlya,â Shane murmurs. And in those two short syllables he feels so hopelessly exposed.
I think I like you a bit too much.
Ilya is quiet for a beat. Then two. Shane doesnât dare look at him.
Then, he says, âShane.â
And Shane shivers. The sound of his name on Rozanovâs--Ilyaâs tongue rolls right through him. From the hairs on his scalp to the tips of his toes. He feels warmed by it. He feels overwhelmed by it. He wants to hear Ilya say it again. And again. And again.
So, he repeats, âIlya.â
âShane,â Ilya responds but the sound gets muffled by Shaneâs mouth, already pressing firm to Ilyaâs lips again.
