Shotgun Smiles

"a cigarette? are you joking?" shane sits up incredulously, brow furrowed, "no, i like being in peak athletic form, thank you very much."

ilya rolls his eyes, reaching over to tap the tip of his cig against the ash tray at his bedside, "one cigarette is not going to do anything, hollander," he says matter-of-factly, "and i am also in peak athletic form by the way, if you had not noticed."

shane scoffs, "that's what you think. who knows what your performance would be like if you weren't inhaling those death sticks every hour of every day."

"is not that much."

"coulda fooled me."

ilya raises an eyebrow, "hollander, you're not actually mad about this are you? i will not force you to smoke a cigarette. you are fine."

"i know," shane grumbles, beginning to ease off the bed, eyes searching for his underwear discarded somewhere on the floor, "i just think you're being stupid, that's all."

"oh, that's all?" sardonic as always, ilya takes another puff, this time not bothering to exhale in the opposite direction. smoke trails past his lips and hovers over the center of the bed between the two of them.

shane stares. "seriously, what's the appeal? what was ever the appeal, before you started?"

ilya shrugs, lips downturned, "i don't know. is what everyone was doing. my friends, my brother. just seemed like normal thing."

"how old were you? when you had your first one?"

"twelve."

shane blinks. once, twice. his brow furrows even more, which ilya didn't think was possible. "you were twelve years old when you started smoking," he states.

another shrug, "was normal."

"that's crazy, rozanov," shane is staring at the cigarette now, and ilya sees something in his eyes that he can't place. he looks focused and yet far away, like he's trying to reconcile something in his mind.

"why? because i was having fun while you were watching mickey mouse?"

"because you- your body should not be in the condition it's in if it's been over ten years since you started. that doesn't make any sense. i don't think i've ever even heard you cough." shane seems to be spiraling a little, and ilya's not really sure why.

"why does it matter?" he asks with another shrug, "i am healthy, so no big deal."

"but it won't always be that way," shane is still halfway off the bed, one leg next to ilya's under the sheets while the other rests naked on the edge, like he's not sure if he wants to get up or stay seated, "it'll catch up to you eventually, it always does."

another shrug, "then i will quit."

"just like that? easy?"

"easy."

shane shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips, "you're unbelievable."

"thank you," ilya grins and taps the cig again, "and the offer still stands."

"...offer?"

"if you want to try, just ask."

shane breathes out through his nose, part laugh part huff, and finally pulls himself out of the bed. ilya watches, cigarette in hand, as shane nakedly crosses the room to pick up his briefs.

"no shower?" ilya asks; it's not a tease.

"nah, i promised hayden i'd get dinner with him and some of the guys at four," shane tugs his underwear on, "and if we get a shower i'm gonna end up blowing you." ilya doesn't think he'll ever be over the nonchalance of shane hollander saying things like blowing you in his bedroom at three o'clock on a weekday. he twitches under the sheets.

"are you sure? can be quick."

shane laughs, grin wide and beautiful as he reaches for his t-shirt, "we can not be quick. you know that." and the crazy thing is, ilya does know that. because this has been going on for so long now that they just know these things. shane just knows he'll want to take his time with ilya's cock, he knows he'll be on his knees in the shower until his skin gets wrinkly and uncomfortable, he knows ilya will want to return the favor as soon as he's done.

ilya sniffs, the scent of smoke beginning to permeate throughout the room. he watches shane tug on his sweatpants. "tell hayden i said hi."

shane rolls his eyes, walking back over to the bed to grab his phone from the other nightstand. he unlocks it and skims his notifications briefly before stuffing it in his pocket and turning his attention back to ilya.

"two weeks?" he asks, a confirmation.

"two weeks," ilya echoes back with a nod, "c'mere."

shane flushes a little, ilya's favorite thing, and then he's kneeling on the bed to press a soft kiss to ilya's lips, eyelashes fanning gorgeously over his freckled cheeks. ilya kisses back with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, fingers tightening on the cig so it doesn't drop.

"you taste like smoke," shane mumbles against ilya's lips, but he doesn't pull away. instead he deepens the kiss a little, hand coming up to cup ilya's face tenderly.

"you like it," ilya murmurs, slipping his tongue into shane's mouth. shane groans a little, breath shaky, pulls away to peer down at ilya hazily. ilya nudges his nose against shane's, chasing his lips, "admit it."

"mmm..." shane's response is soft, light, thumb stroking the apple of ilya's cheek as they continue to kiss unhurriedly, like suddenly they have all the time in the world. ilya brings his hand up, cigarette still burning between his fingers, and holds it in front of his face, in front of shane's.

"you want to taste it, hollander?" he asks, voice low and hushed, "i won't tell."

shane's eyes are lidded and droopy, gaze falling to the cigarette growing smaller the longer he dawdles. he does seem to be thinking about it, and ilya figures he'll make the decision for him before he chickens out.

"come here," he murmurs, bringing the cig to his lips and his other hand to the back of shane's head. he cradles it, fingers scratching through shane's dark hair as he takes a slow puff. he uses his pinkie finger to tap shane's bottom lip.

shane doesn't move away, doesn't say no. instead, he closes his eyes and ilya watches as he opens his mouth. just enough to kiss. just enough for ilya to lean in and softly press their lips together. for him to carefully blow the exhaled smoke into shane's mouth. shane's eyelashes flutter, nose crinkling a bit - but he doesn't cough. he breathes slowly, precisely, like he somehow knows exactly what to do, inhaling obediently, taking it all into his throat and his athletic lungs.

"good?" ilya murmurs when he pulls away, and shane slowly opens his eyes. he's going to that place again, ilya can tell. that place ilya takes him so often. soft. docile. pliant.

"mhm," shane nods, blinking slowly. he's looking at ilya's lips.

"let's shower," ilya says softly, reaching behind him to press the remainder of the cigarette into the ashtray, dropping it from his fingers. he turns back to shane and strokes his cheek gently, thumbing his freckles, "hm? don't go yet." he's not usually this needy. or this obvious. but shane needs him now, they both know it.

"okay," shane mumbles, and a small tendril of smoke slips past his lips alongside the word.

"fuck, i'm sorry," he whispered into the crook of her neck, voice flayed raw in embarrassment even as his choked orgasm still echoed through him.

rose lay still. it was not the first time a guy she's been with has shot off early but this might be the first time they’ve tensed up around her like they expect to be shot for the infraction. when shane drew back, his dark eyes were panicked, darting across her face and showing too much white. she felt his cock softening inside her, slipping free, just like last time.

before she could offer even a lukewarm, "it's fine," he was discarding the condom with a quick, "shit, rose. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. let me . . ." and shuffling down to busy his mouth between her thighs because he was a thoughtful, earnest guy and that was why she'd liked him so much in the first place. he sucked her clit, lapped at her with the flat of his tongue, one hand grasping her tit, and let her rock down onto two fingers until she came. it was a sudden, sharp, cresting thing that left her wound tighter than she was before. under her gasping, he was silent. after, he kissed the inside of her thigh and wouldn't look her in the eye.

rose watches the gentle sway of the cobweb. a good housekeeper wouldn't let a cobweb linger, let alone build into a dusty rope visible even in the dim light filtering in from the streetlights below. unless his housekeeper doesn't touch his bedroom. some people she knows don’t like strangers in such a personal space. she doesn't care. she doesn't have secrets. she hasn't had true privacy since . . . she actually can't remember. she booked her first commercial at six months old, a local tv ad for diapers, and hasn't stopped since. acting carved away any shame until she was an open book.

she lets her head loll to the side. the sheet has slipped and she can see the scar on his shoulder. when she asked after the first time they tried this and eased the tension with small talk, he said it was from a hazing that went sideways when he was in juniors. he was light on the details, said that he fell into a fence spike in a crush of teenage bodies in the dark. he laughed it off but his eyes got that far away look in them she isn’t convinced he knows he has, and changed the subject. anyway, she has three hockey obsessed brothers, she could fill in the blanks.

at seventeen, rose had several ill-advised hook-ups with one of her brother's teammates. she cringes at them now, considers them one of her worst performances, but for all his swagger, the boy hadn't been able to hide how fucking obsessed with her he was. he was all grabby hands and grinding hips, his spit slick mouth hot on her ear as he parroted stilted lines he'd memorised from the porn he liked to watch, but she'd thought he was sweet, had been flattered by the attention, and liked the feeling of being wanted.

however, seventeen is a fickle age to be. attention never lasts and before too long they both moved on, but that boy, without meaning to, gave rose the beginnings of a frame of reference for desire she still carries with her. she knows when someone wants her. she knows how to make herself wanted. she's trades in desire every time she sets up a self-tape.

rose looks at the short hairs on the back of shane's neck. his breathing is slower now, deeper. he's finally found sleep. good for him.

he's asleep.

and he doesn't want her.

these two thoughts rise up out of the fuzz in her brain, neutral statements that still sting. she thought maybe he was just shy, an introvert who knows how to turn it on when required, but she knows. she knows and the knowing doesn't even require her to go deep down because she's been in this position before. she sighs and turns back to the ceiling and the slow dancing cobweb.

he probably doesn't even realise he's doing it, she thinks.

he holds his breath before she kisses him, like he's a child that hasn't yet learned they need to lean into a body check. her first boyfriend did the same. the second and third hid it better but the second was grimacer, and the third leaned so heavily into macho bravado that it looped back to uncomfortable for both of them. they all tried to want her, or at least tried to want the idea of what she could be to them, but they were all looking for something she could never provide.

shane is doing the same and she wishes wildly for a moment that it would be different. heat rushes under her eyes once more and she stifles a hiccoughing breathe with the heel of her hand before scrubbing a palm over her face.

it's not your fault, rosie. i know you thought this time it would be different, but . . . but what?

she glances at the back of shane's head again. his hair is mussed against the pillow and she realises for the first time since she's known him, his shoulders have relaxed all the way. she's struck by just how vulnerable the curve where his neck meets his shoulder looks in the dim light. for a solid minute, rose lets herself look before reaching for her phone.

she types 'gay hockey players mlh' into her search bar despite the growing certainty of what the results will hold. op-eds asking if any player will dare to be the first to come out sit next to schedules for upcoming pride nights. rose lets her phone fall to her chest.

he holds his breath before she kisses him. she looks up at the cobweb. before she kisses him. has he ever kissed her? she isn't sure now. probably not.

he freezes sometimes too, like he's come to the end of a script and doesn't know how to improv. when it happened at the club, she thought it was because miles caught him off guard, but then, he darted off to the bathroom and she spotted all those boston players across the dancefloor.

when he didn’t come back, she found him sitting on the curb outside with a hand pressed to his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. she sat next to him, trailed a gentle hand down his back and he froze, just for a second, less than a second, before he smiled and that had been enough to chase away her worries because she didn’t want to consider a different truth.

“just needed some air, babe. beer went straight to my head after the game,” he said and pulled her close, pressed one big hand to the small of her back and she’d shivered like she was seventeen when his thumb brushed across the edge of her sequin dress.

she got butterflies when she asked him if he wanted to get out of there and he said yes. honest to god butterflies. it seems silly. especially now that she considers that his smile didn’t reach his eyes and she’s almost certain that what she thought was the reflection of the streetlights were actually tears.

rose checks the time. she needs to get back to her hotel for her pick up. the makeup team will tell her off for drinking and for not sleeping. they’ll rib her about how her hockey player boyfriend kept her up all night, and she’ll laugh and let them think what they want to think because what else is she supposed do?

she slides out of bed, careful not to jostle him, and slips into the ensuite. the shower is huge, big enough for two - not that rose would know. blisteringly hot water sprays from the showerhead as she stretches her palms out, one to the slick tile, the other to the glass. plenty of room for two sets of broad shoulders if that’s what he wanted.

shane touches her like he thinks she might break. he handles her by her edges like you would crystal and, at first, she thought it was thoughtful reverence. now, she sees it for what it is: white knuckled obligation.

rose retraces his path across her body and washes his touch down the drain.

he would keep doing this, she thinks as she dries off and pulls on the spare set of clothes he insisted she keep at his apartment. he would push through. hurt himself. hurt me.

she stands in front of the mirror and raises her chin to look herself in the eye. i am the path of least resistance and he would make himself miserable to follow it.

and she understands. she understands now just as well she understood the first, second, and third time she found herself here, but they both deserve better.

she slips from the bathroom back into the bedroom’s suffocating quiet and looks up at the dusty cobweb.

shane doesn’t let the housekeeper into his bedroom because he’s afraid they’ll find out his secret. he let rose in and she worked it out anyway. she pulls a tissue from the decorative box on the bedside table and steps up onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed. a neat pile of clothes is folded next to her foot. her dress lies forgotten on the stairs.

the cobweb drifts in a lazy circle and flutters away from her when she reaches for it. she rises up on her tip toes, wobbles, but stays steady. it gives her just enough extra reach to pluck it from the lampshade and fold it away in the tissue. with a sigh, she hops down and pockets it.

they aren’t so different. eyes have followed her since she was a child. there are expectations she must uphold. if rose were to put her trust in the wrong person they could take her career out at the knees without even trying that hard. some texts. some photos. she trades in desire, that much is true, but to want it? to take it? well, that was a step too far.

a rustle from the far side of the bed grabs her attention. he’s awake, half swallowed by pillows, panicked, hunted, eyes wide like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t. his voice shakes when he tries to offer her an explanation for the night before. the season. the stress. she tells him it’s fine and means it. the lump of tissue in her pocket burns like a brand against her leg. she kisses him gently on the mouth because that’s what girlfriends do and ignores the sharp clench of her stomach when he braces for impact.

rose stands.

rose smiles and rose leaves.

But again, we have not had the wake-up call associated with losing it all after the tuna meltdown and Shane dating Rose, and we have not had the catharsis of the All-Stars conversation. When Ilya’s dad dies they text a little more but that’s it. When Shane gets injured, Ilya is able to non-secretively visit him, and that really cements the public friendship narrative. Scott still comes out, but both of them are like, “Well, that’s none of my business.” Shane doesn’t invite him to the cottage for the summer.

Next season, they can actually be friendly in public. They play a game against each other and get nagged into going out with one of their teams. And some girl starts hitting on Shane like crazy, to the point where he feels like he has to leave with her or it would seem suspicious. (See, you’d think Ilya would be the one getting hit on here, but he has enough confidence in his own track record to just be like “not interested tonight, bye” and Shane does not.) Shane somehow ditches the girl after they leave and doesn’t actually hook up with her, but it creates some kind of logistical difficulty that keeps him from being able to hook up with Ilya that night. And Shane is like, okay, if being Ilya’s friend in public comes at the expense at whatever the fuck we’re doing in private, no thank you, this is the worst.

So then the next time they see each other, Shane is like … “I DON’T WANT TO BE FRIENDS.” And this is the part where the plot starts to fall apart for me a little bit and why I’d probably never try to write this, because I can’t decide if Ilya takes him at his literal word and this throws them into this AU’s version of the Rose relationship torment nexus situation, or if Shane manages to say “I mean … I don’t want to be just friends.” So after some unspecified amount of torture and miscommunication Shane says that, and Ilya says, “Yeah, okay,” and that’s how they finally get together. 

Shane’s mouth feels dry. He can’t stop staring back at Ilya.

Finally, pulling the key out of the ignition, Ilya tells him, “Wait in the car.”

Shane, inexplicably, feels bereft without Ilya’s eyes on him; like he’s pushed back under water after being able to come up for air. He lifts his fingers to his eyelashes, comforted by the way the little hairs catch against the groves of his fingertips.

His mind is sluggish, thoughts muddled, more so from anxiety and stress than from a real lack of sleep. His shift, if he’d been able to finish it, would’ve been over an hour ago. He’d be on his way home now, probably, get some dinner or breakfast or whatever, consider calling his parents and then distract himself by reading a book or attempting to fix his leaking faucet for the millionth time. Maybe he’d have managed it this time. Maybe he would’ve called his parents, after all.

Maybe he fell asleep during his shift and this is all a debilitating dream that his brain refuses to let him wake up from.

Shane chances a glance out the window and finds Ilya looking back at him as he stands by the register, paying for the gas. His focus shifts from Shane to the cashier, movements easy and unhurried, a friendly enough smile on his face.

Closing his eyes, Shane lets his head fall back against the headrest and breathes in deep through his nose. He remembers what his meditation app told him, the handful of times he’d tried it: don’t latch onto thoughts, let them pass you by, watch them go; it’s normal that you feel like grabbing onto one; if you feel like you’ve done that, take a deep breath and release the thought. So, he doesn’t think about what it means that he obediently stays in the car, that the thought of disregarding the order doesn’t even cross his mind, that he doesn’t consider mapping out an escape. There’s no point anyway. Ilya took the car keys with him, Shane’s phone is miles and miles away, abandoned in his patrol car, and there’s no place he could run to hide. He has no chance of success, so why try?

Don’t latch on. Let them pass. Breathe through it.

The door on the driver’s side squeaks. Ilya drops into the seat and the whole car shakes with it.

Whatever slim chance he’s had is gone now.

Don’t latch on. Let them pass. Breathe through it.

They don’t go far. Ilya rounds the corner of the station, out of sight of the security cameras.

“Get out,” Ilya tells him, not unkindly.

Biting cold fall air stings his face when Shane gets out. Briefly, his mind snags on the fact that his door isn’t even locked. A sense of relief floods him then at the sensation of stretching his legs, straightening his spine, breathing in fresh air, only now understanding that the car wasn’t just stuffy with the weird tension between them. His shoulders ache from how tense he’s held himself. It’s not new.

His breath dissipates in a foggy gust as he exhales.

Ilya slamming the trunk of the car shut brings Shane back to the present. There’s a brown bag in his hand. Shane eyes it warily.

“Relax,” Ilya says with a smirk, “is hair dye. I like my hoes blonde now.”

Shane bites back the first comment that rises up his throat. He can’t help the eye roll, though. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t have a type.”

Ilya’s eyes flash, with delight more than with danger, and he slowly walks up to him, pressing, pressing, and Shane doesn’t even realize he’s been giving ground until his back hits a cold wall with an audible thud.

Ilya hums. His nose is a hair-width away from Shane’s. “And is that the only wrong thing you know about me?”

Shane hates the way his breath hitches. Ilya’s smirk widens.

“It’s not wrong,” Shane argues back. It’s not. He’s spent a significant amount of time learning everything he could about Ilya off every scrap of information law enforcement had on him, and then several more years by getting to know him…more intimately.

He realizes Ilya’s crowded him against the restroom door when he reaches around to open it. Shane stumbles backwards and a strong, unreasonably warm hand catches him by the waist, stabilizing him.

“No? Мой любимый,” Ilya coos, and Shane flushes up to his ears, the nickname, coloured by the cadence of Ilya’s voice, how it sounds in Russian, hitting him so unexpectedly he gasps without meaning to. “You have always been a bad liar.”

Ilya keeps his hand on Shane’s waist, walking him into the restroom, close enough that Shane starts to feel the heat of his body through his clothes. He uses his other hand to carelessly pull the door closed behind them, locking it without even so much as a backward glance.

“Fooled you,” Shane shoots back and immediately clamps his mouth shut, biting at his tongue.

He feels a sick little thrill, a sort of vindication maybe, when Ilya’s breath catches.

There’s a hand around his throat between one blink of an eye and the next, and Ilya’s face is so close to his that his breath is ghosting across Shane’s skin. Heat slides down his vertebrae, syrupy, melting bones its wake. With enough pressure against Shane’s Adam’s apple to be more than just uncomfortable, Ilya walks him backwards again. The back of his head hits the wall so hard it hurts, knocking a grunt of pain from him.

Shane is sure his heart is pounding so loudly Ilya has to hear it, too. He’s breathless and not because Ilya is pressing at his wind pipe.

He needs to fucking get it together.

Without conscious thought, Shane finds himself wrapping his fingers around Ilya’s wrist. When he presses down over the tender skin right below the heel of his palm, Ilya’s pulse is beating a wild pace against his fingertips.

“No,” Ilya says, almost gently. Shane’s eyes flutter shut and Ilya presses at the hinges of his jaw, pulling Shane forward a bit before smacking his head back against the wall. “Eyes on me.”

Obediently, Shane blinks his eyes open. The cold at his back and the heat of Ilya’s body at his front make him shiver, charging up his nerves like an electrical storm.

Whisper-soft, Ilya says, “You almost killed me.”

The brown bag drops to the floor with a soft rustle as Ilya draws back a little. With his now free hand, he grabs Shane’s to guide it under his henley. His skin is warm against Shane’s, fingers nudging him to a spot between his ribs, until Shane feels raised skin under his fingertips.

This scar, he doesn’t know. Carefully, he traces it, its edges, its shape, before he lets his fingers skim over Ilya’s ribs, mapping where the new mark sits. White spots dance in his vision, head suddenly stuffed with cotton.

Ilya’s smile is as mean as it is mocking. Shane yanks his hand out from under Ilya’s grasp. He thinks he’s breathing, sucking in deep gulps of breath, maybe, but his lungs don’t seem to fill with air. The hand around his throat has gentled.

“Who?” He chokes out the word with effort.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ilya says. “They’re dead now.”

Shane nods slowly. He doesn’t look at the monster that lurks in the shadows of his mind, the one that is soothed by this knowledge. “Good.”

A smile with the hard edges of a smirk spreads over Ilya’s face. He moves his hand from Shane’s throat to grab his face. His thumb brushes across the line of his jaw. There’s a glint in his eyes that Shane has seen plenty of times before, and every time, it has kindled a hungry fire inside him.

Ilya lets go of him entirely. Shane tries not to sag against the wall. Jerking his chin at the paper bag now on the floor by Shane’s feet, Ilya takes a few steps back.

“Change,” he orders.

Shane stares at the bag for a moment while he carefully tries to gather himself. Only now does it occur to him that he’s still in his uniform; so distracted by the last few hours that he’s not even had the time to notice the discomfort of the fabric against his skin.

Small mercies.

He picks up the bag and pulls the first piece out, rubbing the hem of what he’s sure is a sweatshirt between his fingers. It’s soft and smooth against his skin, the kind of texture and fabric blend that dominate his own wardrobe. From the feel of it, it’s thick enough to keep him warm without making him overheat.

Shane closes his eyes on a soft inhale. He feels his jaw clench.

His eyes snap open when Ilya’s hand brushes his to take the bag from him. The once-over paired with raised eyebrows is enough to tell Shane what he means.

Shane doesn’t need to look at Ilya to know that he’s staring. It makes him feel like no time has passed between them at all. He can’t remember an instance when Ilya didn’t stare at him while he took his clothes off, even if it was a rushed and impatient strip—which, if he thinks about it, is how he shed his clothes most of the time when he was around Ilya.

Now, Shane focuses on undressing methodically to keep his mind from straying. He steps out of his boots first and makes a face at the icy cold floor against the soles of his feet. Shane drops the pants next, folds them and uses them as a barrier between the filthy, freezing floor and his feet. Through it all, he keeps his eyes fastidiously on his own hands.

He makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt, glad to finally rid himself of the stiff fabric, and shivers when the cold hits the naked skin of his arms.

There’s a sharp but soft inhale. Shane decidedly doesn’t look. Instead, he folds the shirt too, and then pulls his undershirt up and over his head: an extra layer between him and the chafing texture of his uniform.

Left with nothing else to do, Shane raises his gaze, only to find Ilya staring at his chest with an odd expression. Shane almost huffs, but then he remembers—

His hand flies up to curl around the ring resting on a chain over his heart. He’s gotten so used to it that sometimes he forgets it’s there. At this point it’s just as much a part of him as any of his limbs: a familiar weight around his neck, a comforting pressure against his breastbone, always close. Shane had fought with himself over it at first, but in the end the decision to carry a piece of Ilya—of them—around his neck was easy and made long before he became conscious of it.

Ilya drops the bag of clothes a second time. He crowds Shane up against the wall again. Shane barely feels the cold at all.

“Show me,” Ilya urges, eyes glued to where Shane’s fingers are still wrapped around the ring.

With a shudder, Shane lets go. Something in him roars at the look on Ilya’s face and the intensity of his eyes as he raises his own hand to the ring. Carefully, Ilya hooks his fingers under it, resting it on the pads of his fingers and looking at the ring as if he was appraising an especially invaluable piece of jewelry.

Shane’s heart hammers in his chest hard enough for Ilya to feel it against the backs of his fingers. Shane is sure of it.

Ilya lifts his eyes to Shane’s as he closes his fist around the ring. His lips are slightly parted and his breaths are coming hard, Shane can’t help but notice. His own breathing is shallow. Shane swallows, licks his lips; watches Ilya track the motion with his eyes.

Shane gasps when Ilya yanks him close by the chain around his neck.

Finally, finally, finally—Ilya’s mouth is on his.

As always with Ilya, Shane feels everything all at once: each touch to his skin, every slide of a palm running up his exposed body, every drag of Ilya’s tongue against his, the overwhelming pressure of their bodies colliding, the sting of fingers tangling in his hair, the firm but gentle press of fingers on his face, the feeling of solid muscle shifting under his hands. All of it buzzes through his nerves and bypasses whatever filter his brain usually applies, and floods him with each and every sensation, like an overcharge of his nervous system.

Until all Shane’s mind and body is left with is Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

Ilya uses his whole body to pin Shane to the wall. He licks into Shane’s mouth, once, twice, and Shane’s toes curl. There’s a hand on his face, tilting it just so, and another that’s smoothing up his side, squeezing at his chest, curling around his shoulder. A strange echo loops in his ears and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s their combined gasps and moans that reverberate around the restroom.

Shane runs his hands through Ilya’s hair, over his shoulders, his neck, his arms, grabbing at everything he gets between his fingers. He arches, just to feel Ilya use his weight to push him more firmly against the wall. Vaguely, Shane registers that Ilya lets go of his face to use both hands to run over his naked skin, skim his fingers along the waistline of his underwear, to reach around to grab at his ass.

One of Ilya’s thighs slots between Shane’s legs. A desperate groan crawls up Shane’s throat when hard muscle grinds against his straining dick. Ilya’s hard too, pushing his cock to Shane’s hip as if he’s looking for friction as well.

Shane’s lips are wet and tingling when Ilya draws back and moves on to his jaw, his neck. Every cell in his body is lit up, humming with a want so hungry it feels like a bottomless pit inside him, and each touch, each kiss, each press, each lick, everything Ilya gives him, feeds it and feeds it and feeds it. And Shane keeps wanting, all through Ilya licking and biting over his jaw, through the open-mouthed, wet kisses sucked along the line of his neck, through all the low hums and moans Ilya presses into his skin.

Shane fists a hand into the curls at the back of Ilya’s head and drags him up to kiss him again. He smiles when Ilya makes a noise between a growl and a moan that Shane licks out of his mouth. This kiss is hard and biting: filthier, hungrier, more urgent; mean, even.

It feels like a fight. It feels like an accusation.

It feels like a reconciliation, too; like an apology, maybe.

He feels like—It feels like—

Like a tilted picture frame on the wall, barely noticeable to anyone but him, and now he’s finally straightened it. Finally, it’s right again.

Ilya’s hand splays his hand out over the ring on his chest. Shane covers it with his own, tucks his fingers between Ilya’s palm and his sternum.

He turns his head into Ilya’s neck and latches onto his pulse point. It draws a low moan out of Ilya. Shane feels dizzy with it. Hand still fisted tightly in Ilya’s curls, Shane uses his grip to tilt his head, expose more of his neck, get better access. Against his tongue, Ilya’s pulse beats wildly, and Shane feels wild with it, too.

When he bites, Ilya almost flinches. Still so sensitive. Shane buries his own moan in Ilya’s neck. He slides his free hand down the slope of Ilya’s back and feels his fingers bump against something hard and smooth. His eyebrows furrow and—

Ilya’s hand on his chest pushes hard.

Shane blinks at him, panting, mind going a mile a minute with confusion. Ilya is holding him at arm’s length, panting too, with a strange expression on his face. He has his other arm behind his back and—

Oh.

“Ilya,” Shane says, swallowing. His breaths come harder now for a different reason. “Ilya, I wasn’t—”

In one fluid motion, Ilya steps away from him, taking the warmth of his hand with him, and pulls the gun from his waistband. Shane shudders, suddenly remembering the freezing cold surrounding them.

“Sure,” he says, clipped, as his face settles into hard lines.

“Ilya—”

Ilya almost sneers at him. He waves the gun. “Get dressed.”

Shane clenches his jaw, desperation tipping into frustration. As if he would’ve been in the wrong to try and go for the gun, fuck this guy. As if he hadn’t been kidnapped; as if he should just be the little lamb letting himself be led to the slaughter.

He exhales, hard, and Ilya raises his eyebrows at him, unimpressed.

“Fuck you.” He spits it, without meaning to, as he grabs the bag with clothes and starts pulling them on, feeling uncomfortably exposed now.

“You wish,” Ilya retorts, easily, effortlessly, in a tone that pushes all of Shane’s buttons at once.

Shane, like most of the time, doesn’t have a witty comeback. Maybe he should go for that gun.

He’s flushed with anger by the time he’s done dressing—even more annoyed by the fact that the clothes are comfortable—and stuffs his uniform into the bag when Ilya motions him to. Like he’s herding cattle.

Dick.

“Take off your watch,” Ilya orders. He sounds bored.

“It doesn’t have GPS,” Shane says, even as he’s undoing the clasp to slip the watch from his wrist. He holds it out to Ilya.

Ilya moves to grab it but lets it fall to the ground when Shane tries to drop it into his palm.

“How do you say,” Ilya starts. He stomps on it, once, and the sound of the watch breaking echoes around them. He looks at Shane, with something akin to…self-deprecation. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…?”

Shane’s stomach twists itself into a tight, tight knot, shame and anger weaving together into something ugly that makes him nauseous.

When Shane doesn’t argue, Ilya tips his head to the side, motioning to the door.

When they step outside, Ilya leads him back to the car with oddly gentle fingers at his elbow. A little tremor skitters through Shane.

As Ilya pulls the car back onto the road, he reaches out blindly, fingers dipping under the collar of Shane’s shirt until they hook around the chain. He pulls it out from under the fabric, ring resting openly against Shane’s chest.