#sunwarmed ash

Shane’s words drop on him like a bucket of ice water. 

“Go?” Ilya is shattering inside. His heart feels strangled, his stomach kicked. What happened? What did I do wrong? I’m sorry Shane, please, please don’t leave. Maybe I shouldn't have asked him to stay? Maybe that's what ruined it all. 

“Yeah, I forgot about a team meeting.”

“You forgot team meeting?” Shane’s lie is obvious, which is all the more insulting. Did he break a rule? Did he misinterpret something? Everything?

“Yeah, I, I'm sorry.”

“Hollander...” Please don’t go.

“Thank you, for the tuna melt. But I- have to go.”

“Hollander,” Ilya repeats, just to really send it home. See, things are normal, you don't have to leave. Please don't leave me Shane. Not like this. We can go back. This doesn’t have to be serious. It can be casual. Enemies hate sex or whatever you’ve been calling it that’s clearly so much different than how I interpreted the events. 

“I’m sorry,”  Shane says again, “I can't do this.”

And then he leaves. 

Shane fucking leaves and he takes Ilya’s heart with him.

Ilya doesn't follow. In fact, he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch; eyes still locked on the hallway Shane left through. Like maybe, Shane will come to his senses halfway back to his hotel and come running back. Begging forgiveness. But that never happens. Not in the three hours Ilya sits there, catatonic. 

When he’s finally given up all hope of Sh- Hollander returning, he walks into his bedroom, pulls out the hollowed-out Bible that holds his emergency cigarettes and stuffs one in his mouth. 

He had cut down significantly since dating- hooking up with Hollander. But it wasn’t ‘serious.’ Just like he told Svetlana. And now that it's definitive he’s not coming back, Ilya doesn’t really see the need to not smoke them now. 

So he does. One after another. All the way down to the filter until he’s finished the pack. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, only that it’s evening now. The sun set a while ago. His stomach begs for food. His head, muscles, and body beg for water. Instead, he showers and brushes his teeth to get the thick layer of tar off and then passes out on his couch.

He doesn’t miss practice. Even if he woke up this morning feeling like he was hit and then repeatedly run over by a tank. If he misses practice, things will be worse for him. He may not have Shane anymore, but he still has hockey. At least for a little while. 

Two weeks later

Things have been up up up for the great Shane Hollander, hands twisted on every local news station with his newest lover, Rose Landry. Ilya feels sick every time he sees them together. It's not even just the jealousy of being picked over, but the fact that they can be out in ways he and Shane could never be. He could never hold Shane’s hand like that in public. Shane could barely handle him saying his first name in private…

Fuck.

He gets off the exercise bike in such a huff he stubs his toe. 

He has cigarettes and vodka for dinner again.

“Fuck!”

“Hey, are you alright?”

-

Three weeks of treating his body like shit is starting to catch up with him, and he’s not the only one who notices. 

“Mm. Course,” Ilya says, not even gracing his best friend of almost two decades with a glance.  

“Ilya.”

“What?”

“Пожалуйста, не лги мне.” (Please don’t lie to me.)

Ilya finally looks at her, just for a second. She’s always been too observant for her own good. 

“Tired,” he eventually yields, “And,” what’s an appropriate word? Hollow, empty, numb. “distracted.”

“Because of Jane?”

“No! Because I am lazy, mediocre player fucking it all up!”

“Who the fuck said that?”

Ilya shoots her a look. There are two people in his immediate circle who are constantly telling him that. She knows that. 

“It’s not true,” she insists.

Ilya shrugs. 

“Maybe it is.”

“Maybe, it's not.”

He wishes he could give her that. He really does… “Have you called him?”

“Who? Alexi?”

“Jane.”

His head snaps up from his phone, a sharp, painful anxiety building in his chest. How did she know? How long has she known? What does this mean? Will this change everything? He can’t lose her too. 

She only gives him one of his favorite knowing smiles and squeezes his hand reassuringly. 

Tears push their way down his face. He takes his hand back to wipe them. 

“…He doesn’t want to hear from me.” 

“How do you know?”

Ilya has to force down a hateful scoff. It will sound like he is mad at her, which he isn't. He just can’t afford a second anxiety attack this week. He’s still mentally recovering from the first. But he knows. Oh, he fucking knows. Every time he opens his phone, email, or fucking social media, he’s smacked with the reminder he will never be good enough. No one will ever want him. Everyone he loves will eventually leave him. 

He grabs his necklace subconsciously. He wishes he could talk to his mom. 

“Ilya-”

Today's the first day his cigarettes-and-vodka diet finally catches up with him. He's in so much pain that he’s physically unable to get out of bed. Every time he attempts to stand, he is brought to the floor by a dizzying nausea threatening to spill his guts. 

“Trust me,” he huffs, “I know.” 

-

He has to call in sick. He gets screamed at by his coach for a good half hour, but he knew that was going to happen anyway. 

He doesn't leave his bed. All week. He misses three practices altogether. His paycheck, personal stock, and ego take a massive hit. His father and brother haven't stopped calling to bitch him out. He wants to cry, but he can't spare the fluids. 

On day 9, the news must have broken containment because he’s staring at the first text he’s gotten from ‘Jane’ in weeks. 

[Are you okay?]

Ilya laughs hatefully at the text. Months have passed. Not one word. Not one text, email, call, or word through the grapevine. Ilya feels insulted that he bothered to text him now. 

He fires off a, 

[Fine.]

Before tossing his phone onto his bed and moving to the living room to sulk some more. 

Steve doesn't need to ask which ‘he’ he's referring to. 

“That’s a good thing, right?”

”Why though? He was there, he had me, us, moments from death, and then he just, disappears?”

“Billy,” Steve exhales, taking Billy’s hand, “Baby. I’ve lived through, well, one too many apocalypses now. The biggest take away I got from that, is if you don't spend time in the good moments, then every second of your life is filled with this shit. And I mean every moment. I think that's what he feeds on. Our insecurities, our vulnerabilities.”

“Hit the jackpot with us.”

“Shut up,” Steve laughs, crushing out the cigarette in favor of crawling over Billy, guiding him down until his back rests against the oversized couch. “Speaking of moments,” he flirts, “We don't have to pick up the party for another 30 minutes.”

“Oh yeah? What are we going to do with the other 29 minutes? Cuddle?”

“Fuck you!” Steve laughs, biting into Billy’s neck sharply until he whines. 

“Isn’t that what you were offering,” Billy pants, yanking Steve’s lips against his when his teeth finally released his neck. Billy pushes his tongue inside, claiming and hot and everything Steve is addicted to. 

“Yes, 100% yes,” Steve groans, finding Billy's hands and pushing them down, effectively pinning the other man under his own muscular weight. 

“Mmm,” Billy moans, rocking his hips up. “Something tells me you got a type Pretty Boy.”

“Oh yeah, what's that?”

“I don’t know, ask your dick.”

“Okay fine,” Steve chuckles, kissing up Billy's borrowed neck before biting hard again. “I love your muscles, what a shock to everyone. It's not like I told you that when we were watching Dirty-” but Billy interrupts him with his own biting kiss. 

“Too much talking, not enough fucking Harrington.”

“Mmm,” Steve groans, pushing his tongue into Billy's open mouth. “Take off your clothes.”

Billy doesn't need to be told twice. He bucks Steve up so he can yank off his shirt. 

While he does that Steve moves down, undoing Billy's jeans. Once his dick is free Steve is sucking it into his mouth. 

“Oh shit, fuck,” Billy pants, and Steve grins. He hasn't seen anything yet. 

Steve's hands find Billy's borrowed hipbones and grip hard, pinning him down onto the couch before taking the entirety of his dick into his throat.

“Ah! Steve,” Billy gasps, bucking his hips up, bottoming out. “Fuck.” 

Steve groans around his dick and Billy swoons. Steve smirks before repeating the motion, pulling out another gasping moan out of Billy. “Steve, Stevesteve,” Billy begs, hips desperately trying to fuck deeper into his mouth but unable to under the strength of Steve’s borrowed hands. 

Why is that so fucking hot? Steve doesn't think he's ever seen Billy so desperate. It really won't be long now. Steve knows that hitch in his own voice. 

“Fuck,” Billy sobs, “Steve. I'm-”

Billy’s gonna cum any second. He's trying to be considerate and warn Steve to pull off. Steve doesn't want considerate, he wants filthy. His motions double in speed, pulling a deliciously strangled sound from his boyfriend as cum finally floods his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Billy growls again, before yanking Steve off by his hair. 

Steve can't help but chuckle. He knows how sensitive he is after orgasm.

“So I guess it was good,” Steve laughs.

“Good? Holy- fuck Steve, you’re fucking amazing at that!”

“Duh,” Steve chuckles, flopping down next to Billy before snatching the cigarette pack off the coffee table. “How do you think I got the title of King?”

Billy's eyebrows scrunch together before his eyes blow wide in genuine surprise. And then he's laughing, harder and lighter than Steve’s ever heard before. 

They share the cigarette in a comfortable silence, sending each other playful looks. And then once it's finished, Billy is crawling over him, insisting, 

“Your turn.”

“Not gonna argue there.”

Billy snorts and then yanks down Steve’s sweats. 

Billy’s mouth is a velvet paradise, and that's confirmed by the feral sound currently tearing its way free of Steve’s chest. But it's not like he can help it. Not when Billy’s tongue and teeth are on the piercings; licking, biting, and pulling the way Billy knows his body likes. Fuckfuckfuck. “Biiilllyy.”

“Sensitive,” Billy smirks before going right back to messing with the curved bars. 

“Y-Yes asshole.”

“Asshole?” Billy teases, sucking the length back into his throat and humming. “I’m being so nice to you,”

“Fuck, Billy,” Steve groans, hand immediately going for his hair to hold him there. He is being nice, but he’s also being so cruel. Because Billy knows exactly what to do to keep himself on edge and its as hot as it is sexually frustrating. And maybe a little narcissistic, because he looks really good with Billy's dick in his mouth. Enough to have him begging out, “Please fuck me.”

Billy’s got a condom and lube before Steve can finish another thought. 

When Billy sits down on him, Steve nearly blacks out from the burst of sudden sensations. His borrowed cock pulses hard. His hand reaches out for Billy, needing to touch him to ground himself. 

Billy finds him too, pulling him impossibly closer. 

“You like that?”

Was Connor anticipating this scenario and left it out on purpose? Or did he really just get called away? It's not like Connor to run an errand without mentioning it first, but to be fair, Murphy’s nose has been engrossed in his sketchbook for the last, oh shit, 3 hours. Yeah, there's definitely a chance he said something and Murphy just tuned it out. But a part of him hopes that this is Connor's way of telling him they are the same. That he wants him too. So much so he can’t stop thinking about fucking him. Enough that he will risk fucking a Fleshlight with Murphy within earshot to get it. 

A shudder runs down his spine as a sick thought passes through his mind. His hands grab the Fleshlight before his good conscience can stop him. As he yanks down his pants just enough to expose his dick, his hand pushes the toy down to the base, imagining Connor’s tight throat, taking all of him down smoothly. 

“Fuck, oh shit!” His head falls back, his knees fold, and his free hand grips the mattress that catches him before he falls on his ass. “Fuck, Conn.”

As his hips fuck into the slick channel, he wonders when Connor bought this. The two were almost always together. And why did he leave it out if he was planning on keeping it a secret? He considers again the possibility that Connor wanted him to find it. But there's no way that could be the case. Right? Murphy’s the one with the fucked up, incestuous desires, not Connor. But then again, if Connor didn't want him to find it, he really should have hid it better! Or at all. It was literally just sitting there on top of the cover sheet on Connor’s bed. Murphy groans, pumping the fleshlight all the way down before dragging it back up slowly. “Fuck, fuck.”

Goddamn, Murphy would have lost his mind if he had caught Connor in the act. He doesn't think he’d be able to stop himself from sinking to his knees and sucking him down, proving why he’d always be superior to a toy.

And Connor would beg, groan out his name, ache for more, and Murph would give it to him. He will never deny Connor anything. “Connor,” he begs the air loudly. So so desperately close, just a little more- “Baby, please!” 

He's so lost in the fantasy that he never lets himself fully have, he doesn’t hear Connor arrive back at their apartment. 

Not until it's too late.